While he lay upon the rail listening, he was thinking rapidly. There were few men who would swim out in the bay at night, and there was none who would swim out there without some sinister object. He thought of the dockmaster and his talk of revenge, but he knew the dockmaster was not a diver. There could be only one or two men on the Florida Reefs for wrecking, and these men were among the crew of theSea-Horse, the sloop in which he had been mate for the past season. Then he remembered a phantom-like shadow which had drifted past in the earlier hours of the evening, and he was satisfied he knew his man.It was the captain of the wrecking-sloop, and his object was plain to the diver. It was an old game, a game he had indulged in many times himself in the days gone by. He knew the long, desperate swims through the dangerous waters of West Indian and Florida reefs; the fierce struggle alongside to hold the body silent in a tideway while with hook and bar the wrecker worked at the oakum in the seams just a strake or two below the water-line; then the inrushing flood and settling ship, and daylight finding a panic-stricken captain and mutinous and half-dead crew with swollen arms and aching backs from a night's hopeless work at the pump-brakes. He could picture the approaching wrecking-sloop, with her apparently amazed crew and the vulture-like descent upon the soon-abandoned vessel whose only damage was really the working out of several pounds of oakum from seams which were manifestly improperly calked. Then the investigation and salvage, for even when the marks showed plain of either bar or hook, there was never the slightest evidence against the wrecker.
Bahama Bill knew the game well, and he smiled a little as he listened. Then he took off his cap with the gold braid and laid it upon the deck, and leaned far out over the side. Suddenly, through the darkness, he made out a face looking up at him from the water. There was nothing said. He recognized the captain of theSea-Horse, and he knew him to be a man who seldom wasted words. There was only the long, hard scrutiny, the study of man's mind by man; each trying to fathom the other's thought, for the sudden resolve which always comes quickly to men of action.
While they gazed, a sudden noise from aft attracted attention. It was the surly mutterings of the drunken yacht-captain, who had come on deck for a breath of air. The sight of him annoyed the second mate. It caused a revulsion of feeling within him he could not understand. The responsibility of his position became apparent for the first time. Among his kind the rigid law of superiority and control had always obtained while afloat. Ashore it was different. There restraint was cast to the winds, and he had often been one of the wildest and most dangerous men in the seamen's resorts between Key West and Panama. Here the sight of the drunken captain made him quiet and thoughtful. Whatever relations he had intended should exist between himself and the wrecker, it was now plain to him that he was an officer holding a responsible position. It came to him suddenly at the sight of the incapable commander. He would maintain his dignity and responsibility.
This feeling was upon him before he was half aware of it, and he turned again to the man overside.
"Get away quick," he said, in a low tone.
The wrecker knew his meaning, and his resolve was taken. He would follow the game out. He had swum a full half-mile, and the stake he was playing for was high.
"It's a half share if you keep your mouth shut," said the wrecker. "I thought you had some sense."
"De dock-marshal tol' yo' I was heah," said Bill, "but he forgot to tell yo' I ain't de mate o' deSea-Horse. Yo' clean side-stepped dat."
"If anything happens to me, the boys know you are aboard. Your friend the dockmaster saw to that. They burnt a nigger to the stake last week," said the wrecker, meaningly.
"Yo' better go ashore, Cap'n. I ain't de mate o' deSea-Horse." His tone was low and measured, and it left no further room for argument.
The tipsy yacht-master had gone below again, gurgling the words of a ribald song. He had seen nothing. The deck was deserted by all save the second mate.
"Swim out," said Bill, decisively.
"Well, I'll rest a minute first," said the wrecker. He made his way forward and climbed upon the bobstay, the second mate going on the forecastle to watch him. The man on the lookout had not come from below yet, and the wrecker noticed it. He was furious at his former mate, and his hand felt instinctively for the knife in his belt. The Conch dared not hurt him, for the crew of theSea-Horsewould surely make him pay the penalty if he did. A call to the men aboard would put an end to wrecking operations, but the giant disdained any help. He would settle the matter quietly, as was best, and the men of the wrecking-sloop would have no real cause for revenge. The second mate had no desire to make unnecessary troublefor himself. He would have to return some day for the reckoning.
The legs of the wrecker shone white below his trunks, and were in sharp contrast against the black water in which they were half submerged. The man was thinking quickly, and waiting a few seconds before making the desperate attack with his knife. Once rid of the mate, all would be clear for action. Haskins knew his man and suspected something, but he sat silent upon the knightheads and waited.
Suddenly he saw a long flaming streak in the water. The man on the bobstay swore furiously. There was a great splash, a hoarse cry, and the second mate was forward alone.
It was all so sudden, he had hardly time to realize its meaning. Then, as the man who had gone below rushed up, he seized his sheathed knife and plunged into the blackness ahead. A thrashing of the water to starboard located the wrecker, who had been seized by a dog-shark and was cutting and struggling wildly for liberty. His white legs, lying motionless and half submerged, had tempted the fish to strike. In motion and under water, the danger had been slight. Now the scavenger, who was about five feet long, had seized hold, and with its natural bulldog tenacity was pulling the wrecker steadily seaward in spite of his struggles. He had used his knife freely, for the fish made no attempt to draw him under. The small shark of the reef, for some reason, fights upon the surface, sinking onlyafter all resistance is over. It was to this peculiarity that the wrecker owed his life.
The big mate, Haskins, knew what had happened. He knew also the chances, and he drove ahead through the black water, leaving a flaming wake behind. The man on lookout, thinking the black giant had gone mad, dived below with the news that he had plunged overboard and committed suicide. At first, Haskins could only make out a slight disturbance in the water, which was rapidly moving toward the entrance. Then, as his eyes, long used to sea-water, made out the dark lump which was his former captain's head, he half rose from the sea and with tremendous overhand strokes fairly lifted himself forward, his knife grasped with point in front. In a few moments he was up with the fracas. The wrecker saw him coming, and called out. He seized him, and then all three went below the surface with the force of the fish's tug.
Reaching along the wrecker's leg, Haskins drove his knife with force just behind the shark's jaw-socket. The blow abated the scavenger's zeal, and they arose to the surface. A second lunge and the fish let go and disappeared. Then the wrecker's body relaxed, and Haskins was swimming upon the quiet surface of the bay, holding the sinking head above water.
Far away, the dark outlines of Virginia Key showed, a low black lump on the horizon. Beyond it, the dull snore of the surf came over the water. A good hundred yards against the tide, the anchor-light of the yacht shone. It would be almost impossible to dragthe insensible man to her, even should he dare. There was only one way out of the scrape, and Haskins with resolute mind saw it and began the struggle at once. He headed for the mouth of the river, where he knew theSea-Horselay waiting, just behind the point.
On through the blackness he swam. The first mile seemed endless, and still the lifeless form of the wrecker dragged helplessly in his wake. Another, and his teeth were shut like a vise and his breath was panting loudly over the quiet water. He turned the point, and saw the loom of theSea-Horseas she rose at anchor beyond the shadow of the trees upon the banks.
Suddenly a man hailed in a low tone. The mate made no answer, but headed for the bobstays and grasped them. Then he rested. Half an hour later, the captain of the wrecker came to in his bunk and viewed his bandaged leg. A lamp burned dimly in the cabin, and he made out the form of the black mate lying in a bunk, snoring loudly. Several of the crew were sitting around waiting until he could give the details of the affair, and now they crowded forward. The plot was a failure owing to Haskins. He told of the huge mate's interference and of the stroke of the dog-shark. Then they burst forth with imprecations so loud that Haskins awoke. Knives glinted in the dim light and a half-dozen sinister faces formed a crescent above him, but he was very tired. He gazed for nearly a minute through half-closed lids at the threatening men. He thought he heard the captain calling weakly for the men to let him alone. What he haddone for him was not entirely lost. Then he gave a snort of contempt and turned his back to them and slept.
Even the boldest held back. The conscious power of the man and his disdain for them all were too much even for the most desperate. They drew away sullenly and listened to their captain, and then as his words, whispered low, began to have effect, they left the cuddy. Silently they hoisted the mainsail and carefully drew in fathom after fathom of the cable. The jib was hoisted and theSea-Horsestood out and passed like a dark shadow from the harbour. As the sun rose and gave colour to the sea, the deep blue of the wind-broken surface told of the Gulf Stream. The land had disappeared astern.
In the early morning, the yacht-master put sail on theCalibanand stood out for New York. He had a full crew lacking a second mate, and they carried the story North how they had shipped a black giant who had gone mad during the night and plunged to his death over the knightheads.
IV
Barnegat Macreary
"Putthat fellow in the lee rigging and let him chuck the lead awhile," said Captain Sanders. "Sink me, but he is a queer one. Where did ye say he hailed from?"
"Hey, Peter, where did yo' hatch?" asked the big black mate in a voice deep and loud enough to be heard half a mile. The man he addressed was standing near the mast explaining to the wrecking crew gathered about him how he had once been quartermaster in a man-of-war. He looked aft at the hail.
"I'm from the Berhammers," said he.
"Born there?" asked the captain.
"No, I live on the Great Berhammer—I'm a sailor man, sir."
"Put him in the lee rigging an' let him sound across the Bank. If he knows half as much as he says he does, he'll see us across all right enough. It's getting mighty shoal now. Look at that nigger head pokin' up yander." And he pointed to a piece of coral that came within a few feet of the surface of the clear blue water. The bottom was plainly visible two fathomsbelow and the wrecking sloop,Sea-Horse, needed at least one to go clear with the rise and fall of the sea.
"Git to lor'ard there, quartermaster, an' heave the lead," bawled the mate, looking the man squarely in the eyes.
"But I shipped as a sailor——"
"Git thar quick an' sudden," roared the black giant, rising from the cuddy hatch coaming. He had heard the loud tone of the man forward telling his latest yarn.
A look of amazement and concern came over the face of the man from "Berhammer," but he hesitated no longer. Seizing the lead which lay always ready in a tub of line near the windlass, he made the lee side and hove it far ahead.
TheSea-Horsewas passing over the Great Bahama Bank near its extreme northern end, and at a part where even the mate had never been. She had stopped off the island a few hours before to take on the stranger for pilot and continue her way to a wreck reported on the eastern edge of the shoal water.
"Plenty o' water here," he yelled, as the lead-line came perpendicular.
"How much?" asked Sanders.
The man hove again.
"Not much water here," he cried, as the line suddenly stopped running out.
The mate started forward, looking over the side.
"Not much water here," called the man again.
There was a sudden jar, followed by a grinding, grating sound from below.
"Deedn't I tole yo' so," sang the fellow in an even tone, heaving the lead again as though nothing had happened. A sounding slap from the big mate's hand finished proceedings in the rigging, and a volley of oaths from Sanders, coupled with orders to get a kedge anchor out to windward, put new life in the scene upon the sloop's deck.
Macreary, still smarting from the big black mate's blow upon his stern-sheets, fell to with the rest, and by dint of much heaving upon a new hawser bent to an anchor carried well to windward, theSea-Horsewas finally hove off the bank. They were materially helped in this by the gentle heave of the swell, which lifted the wrecking sloop easily and dropped her with a crash at each sea.
When she floated there were several very discontented men aboard who looked as though they would make it squally weather for the pilot before they reached the wreck on the Bank.
The wreck of theRamidor, a small Brazilian bark bound for Rio, lay upon the edge of the Bahama Bank in about a fathom of water. She had been driven there in a heavy gale from the eastward and had gone in upon the shoal about a quarter of a mile, lying upon her bilge where the sea in calm weather just broke clear of her, the wash of foam striking against her high black sides and spurting skywards. In a heavy sea, the break was far to windward of her, and inconsequence she was in no immediate danger of going to pieces with the smash. She had been sighted by several wreckers, and theSea-HorseandBuccaneerwere on their way to her, each hurrying with all speed to claim the salvage. TheBuccaneerwas at work on the Caicos Bank, and theSea-Horseat Cape Florida when the news reached them. The former manned by English negroes and navigated by a long, lean Yankee skipper, had stood to the eastward and northward, coming in sight of the wreck about the time theSea-Horse, picking her way across the shoals, raised the slanting topmasts of theRamidorbeyond a dry coral bank which forced her to make a long détour to the southward. She had taken on the pilot to save time and cut across the shoal places as close as possible, and he had run them ashore most ignominiously when within ten miles of their destination.
Macreary finished coiling down the hawser after the kedge was hoisted aboard, and then he joined the rest who sat upon the hatch. He was much abashed at heart, but tried not to show it, swaggering with a careless air among the men who glared at him.
"Blamed fine quartermaster you make," snarled one; "must have been on one o' them ten-foot sand barges wot takes offal to sea an' dumps it. I once knowed a fellar like you wot was quartermaster o' one."
"Capting, too, hey?" growled a Swede. "Crew were a yaller dawg?"
"Where did yo' learn pilotin'?" asked a Conch,grinning and spitting as close to the pilot's toes as he could without hitting them.
"I'm learning it now," said Macreary, cheerfully, sitting down and gazing over the sea to where the tiny speck of the bark's topmast showed above the horizon. He was not going to show how absurd and mean he felt to that crowd, so he sat and gazed apparently calm and unruffled, without a sign of the burning shame which seemed to stifle him.
He was now silent and thinking. There was a short cut along a narrow and tortuous channel which would let the vessel out to sea close to the point of the dry coral bank, or end of Cay. He thought he might know it, although he had only been through twice before. The wreck lay only a few miles beyond, and even now the white glint of the rival wrecker's sails showed plainly that he would board the prize first and claim the salvage. But the memory of the big black mate's hand was too strong upon him, and he kept silent. TheSea-Horsewas working up behind the reef and it was noticeable how smooth and sheltered the sea was in its lee. It would make a fine harbour for a vessel caught working upon the wreck in a heavy easterly, if she could navigate the channel. But the master of theSea-Horseknew nothing of the channel, and he would have sooner thrown the pilot overboard than trusted him again. He stood out behind the Cay and made a good offing, reaching well off into the open ocean in spite of the fact that he would have ten miles further to go.
But Macreary sat silent and watched the horizon where the black speck rose. He was not thinking about the wreck. To him it was nothing whether a Conch or two should make a little money from the disaster of a sailor. His thoughts were back with the strange men he had left upon the Cay of the Great Bahama, the little band led by the tall and muscular Jones, leader of the Sanctified people who sought refuge from the strife of the world upon the sun-beaten reefs of the Bahama Bank.
Jones had taught him to read. Jones had read to him from the Book of all Books, the relic of an ancient literature, revised, rewritten and put together in somewhat disconnected pieces, the Bible of the most enlightened people upon the face of the world. And in it he had heard the words of wisdom as set down by men who had gone before, men who had lived their lives and who had learned from experience. And the philosophy of these men he believed was true, for they had lived their lives out and had left behind them the results of years of life. It was not the one tale of a single man, which must necessarily be narrow and worthless, but it was the gatherings of the teachings of many who had been in positions to learn. Yes, what Jones had read him was the philosophy of ages. And Jones had read to him, "Hide not thy light under a bushel," and he had told him that it meant to use what talents he possessed, to try to do what he thought he was able to—and not hang back. He felt abashed and ashamed beyond expression at his failure, for hehad believed he was a fit pilot over the Bank. He founded his belief upon the fact that he had gone fishing many times in a small skiff in the vicinity of the island and had twice gone southward along the edge of the Bank; he had noticed many times how the water shoaled from the deep ocean to the white water of the coral reef. It was hard to account for his failure, he thought, with men aboard who must have seen the bottom as plainly as he, himself, could—and then the big black man's mortifying stroke——
The vessels stood toward the wreck under the impetus of the easterly breeze, theBuccaneer, a point free, raced up and let go her anchor close under the bark's lee in just enough water to float. Then her skipper putting forth in a small boat boarded theRamidorjust as theSea-Horsecame through the breakers on the edge of the Bank. She cleared the bottom by a few inches, although the wash of the sea swept her decks and drenched the men standing by to take in the mainsail and let go the hook. Sanders ran her well in behind the wreck and rounded to, scraping up the sand with the keel, and anchored behind theBuccaneer. It was close work and a heavy sea would drop both vessels heavily upon the reef. They must make good use of the smooth water, and Sanders hailed his lucky rival to get what he could.
"See ye got a wrack there," said he, calling to the long Yankee skipper, who smiled at him from the bark's quarter-deck.
"Talk like ye never see it afore. Wonder ye didn'tnotice it bein' as ye were headin' this way. Strange how these Dagoes pile up thar ships," answered the skipper of theBuccaneer.
"Don't suppose ye want to whack up, hey? An' have us turn to an' help with the cargo?"
The long skipper squirted a stream of tobacco juice over the side in derision.
"I reckon ye think we're out here fer our health, hey?" he roared. "What d'ye think we're doin' around here anyways? I want to let ye know right sudden that this wrack is mine—ye keep off. Ye know what will happen if there's any monkey business. I won't stand any foolishness."
"'Twouldn't do fo' toe nab him, hey?" asked the black mate of theSea-Horse, turning to his captain. "We kin take him, sho', an' make a divide with it. We got here about the same time he did."
"I'm afeard we better not," said Sanders. "Too many witnesses—they'll swear they got here first—I've a notion to pitch that pilot overboard."
The beaten sloop lay all that day off the wreck, her crew fuming and her captain and mate trying to devise some means to get a hold upon the bark. At dark Sanders rowed over to theBuccaneerand tried every means from bluff to bribery to get in a claim, but theBuccaneer'screw held out solidly. Finally they compromised matters by signing on as labourers at a dollar and a half per day to help theBuccaneer'screw to work the wreck. It was the best they could do forthe present and they went sullenly to work with the hope something would turn up to favour them.
Two days passed and the bright summer weather held. The sea was smooth as glass and the wreckers lay in safety. Far away to the northward the glint of the dry coral bank showed at low water. Nothing else broke the eternal blue line of the horizon.
Macreary was not turned to with the rest but kept aboard theSea-Horseas ship-keeper. He helped cook the meals and was kept busy with cleaning. As he was alone a good deal, he spent much time in gazing over the sea, figuring on the channel which led five or six miles to the northward to the deep water behind the dry bank. If they had only let him try it, he might have worked them through in time. It was crooked, worse than a letter S to sail through, but the bark was worth several thousand dollars to the salvors—and he had lost. He would have been well paid if they had made her in time.
The crew of theSea-Horsetook some pains to tell the wreckers how it was the fault of their pilot that they lost. The Conchs laughed at him in derision whenever they boarded the sloop at meal times, and he was so much set upon by both crews that he begged Sanders to put him aboard the first vessel sighted. The third day two more wrecking vessels came upon the scene, but as the bark was now pretty well stripped, the salvors would have none of them. One of the strangers stood away, but the other came to anchor,leaving her mainsail up ready to go at a moment's notice.
"Hey, don't ye want a pilot?" asked the long skipper of theBuccaneer, calling to the stranger. His hail was the cause of much amusement to the two working crews. They stopped and looked over at the little vessel, whose three men sat in a row upon her rail watching the wreck.
"We've the best pilot on the bank," said Sanders, trying to hide his sarcasm by a frown. "We thought maybe as ye ware goin' on ye might want him."
"I reckon I'll take him," said one of the three. "I ain't goin' no farther'n th' Bahama, an' ef he don't mind he can take us across the Bank."
"Git him," said Sanders, "there he is," and he pointed to theSea-Horsewhere Macreary sat fishing. Then all hands had a good laugh and went on with their work, hiding their amusement from the strangers. It would be a good joke. They would have the pleasure of seeing the vessel piled up before she drew out of sight.
The three men on the new arrival were in no hurry. They fished a little while and finally one of them rowed across the twenty fathoms of intervening water to Macreary, who had heard the conversation and was ready. As he dropped into the small boat he looked to the southward and noticed a heavy bank of cloud rising. He said nothing until aboard the sloop and then asked to look at the glass. It was falling rapidly.
"There'll be a bit o' dirty weather comin'," he said, as he came on deck and joined the fishermen.
"Is there air harbour round erbouts?" asked Captain James, baiting his hook. He was in no hurry to get under way.
"There's good water behind that cay up yander," said Macreary.
"How fer?"
"'Bout five mile."
"All right, we'll start just afore dark—kin make it in thirty or fo'ty minutes with a breeze, hey?"
"I reckon," said Macreary, looking anxiously at the weather to the southward. Then they hauled up fish for a couple of hours until the sunshine turned a brassy colour and finally died away as the cloud bank covered the western sky.
The men aboard the bark began to get nervous. Sanders went aboard theSea-Horsewith his mate and they hoisted the mainsail close reefed, making ready to get to sea in case of trouble. The skipper of theBuccaneerfinally knocked off also, and soon the clanking of windlasses broke the silence of the tropical evening. They were getting ready to get away at the first shift to the eastward, for the sea would break heavily where they lay in a strong wind. There was much to carry away, but they would take no chances. The most valuable part of the wreck's belongings were already on deck waiting to be transferred to theBuccaneer, and she would lie by with a man aboard the bark to watch and take charge.
"I wouldn't be surprised if it blowed," said Captain James of the little sloopSeabird. "I reckon we'll stop fishin' an' pull out afore it's too hot. I wouldn't keer to be the man left in thet bark, hey?"
"If they abandon her, it's fair play all over agin to the first man what gets aboard," said one of his men. "I don't believe the wessel is badly hurt, anyways."
The heavy bank of cloud rose rapidly. A flash of lightning lit the gloom of the evening and the edge of the pall swept past overhead. It was travelling rapidly. To the southward the growing darkness seemed to melt into the blackness above like a smooth black wall of mist. A murmur of unrest came over the sea, a weird far-reaching cry vibrating through the quiet atmosphere, rising and falling like the distant voices of a vast host.
Sanders, who had signed on his men as helpers, could gain nothing by staying. He had signed away his future rights, therefore he lost no time in getting up his anchor and standing out to sea with his canvas shortened for trouble and everything being made snug.
TheBuccaneercrew were struggling with as much gear as they could carry to get it aboard their ship before the sea began to make if it blew. All hands were overside hurrying the work, and even the two men who were to remain aboard to take charge were helping and had left the bark's deck when a line of white showed to the southward upon the black sea. There was a puff of wind, cool and whirling as though it had dropped from some great height in the realmsof snow. The surface of the heaving swell ruffled, a blinding flash of fire followed by a crash; then a few moments of silence broken gradually by a deep-toned roar growing louder and louder. The line of white bore down upon the vessels, and as it came the darkness grew blacker. There was a fierce rush of wind, and with a burst as though fired from a gun, the blast of the squall struck the vessels and bore them prone with its sweep.
TheBuccaneer'smainsail tore to bits as she lay upon her beam ends, her anchor parted, and in a moment she was going out to sea, every man aboard of her struggling with the flying strips of canvas. The wind had come from the southward and with just enough slant to allow her to clear the shoal water and make the open ocean. Macreary, with nothing to do but watch the coming squall, let go the halliards of theSeabird'ssail, and her crew had managed to get a line around it before the weight of the wind struck. The captain reached the wheel and managed to pay her off somehow, dragging the anchor which had been hove short as though it were a bit of iron hanging to the line. Then handing the spokes to his pilot, he pointed to the northward, where the dry bank of the cay had just disappeared in the storm.
"Git in—behind—harbour," he bawled, and as the words came brokenly above the roar, Macreary knew he meant to run the crooked channel for harbour behind the reef.
The two men hove up the anchor while theSeabirdtore along ten knots with nothing save her mast to pull with the wind. Macreary swung her first this way and then that, blindly, stupidly, and unreasoning, but with rising hopes as the wind beat down the sea into an almost level plain of water white as milk. He held her north by west, making as much westing as he could, blindly hoping to make enough inside the reef to clear the end of the bank and gain the shelter beyond. All was blackness ahead and there was no way of telling when he reached the dry bank; no way of telling when he should round her to and drop both anchors with every fathom bent on to hold them, but he kept on.
"Hide not thy light under a bushel," came the words of the tall preacher! They seemed to flit before his half-blinded vision. He who must make a living at something would do it at what he thought he could do best. He must surely know more about those waters than the Conchs who lived to the southward, for he had fished upon them for two years. His ideas about piloting were vague and absurd, but he did not know it. It seemed to him that all he must do was to show the way the best he could, and it was not in keeping with the teachings to hold back. It would be more immodest to feign ignorance of the banks than to admit a knowledge of them. He had known people who were so backward that they always waited to be sought out by others and pressed to do things, which by all nature they should have offered to do at once. To him these people were truly immodest and their veryquietness seemed to savour of a tremendous egotism. They seemed so satisfied and complacent in their knowledge, so superior that unless they were flattered by being sought out and offered a handsome reward, they would rather carry their wisdom to the grave than offer it. It was "hiding a light under a bushel," in the sense the tall man of the Sanctified Band of pilgrims taught it.
The wind drove the little vessel wildly before it. The sea began to make astern, and as he turned his face to look backward a spurt of spray and foam half-choked him. The roar of the gale grew louder. The captain's voice came brokenly to him through the gloom, and he saw him standing close to the companion hatch gazing ahead and holding on with both hands, his face thrust forward and his sou'wester pushed back as though to aid him to see some mark to steer by to safety.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes flew by. If they missed the shelter of the reef and the deep water behind it, they would certainly pile up on the shoals beyond, where the sea would fall with tremendous violence in less than an hour. Already the lift astern was growing quicker and the white plain of water was rolling up into a dangerous sea. He swung the little vessel hard to port, thinking to find better water, and as he did so she took the ground heavily, throwing her captain with force against the coamings.
"Keep her off—breakers—windward," came the cry as from a great distance.
He rolled the wheel up mechanically and she was tearing away again into the darkness, going clear as though she had touched soft mud instead of hard coral rock.
A burst of wind tore over them with a droning roar. The little vessel lay down to the pressure. Then gathering herself upon a sea she rushed ahead.
The blackness grew thicker. Macreary could hardly see the loom of the mast forward. Then a flickering flare of lightning lit the storm and right ahead showed a strip of dry yellow sand. It was a mile off yet, but they were going fast. Macreary hove the wheel to port and kept it there until the little ship buried her starboard deck-strake in the foam.
"Will—make—" came the voice of the captain.
Macreary did not know whether she would or not, but he would try to, and setting his teeth hard he gave up all thought of answer. The minutes flew by. He knew they were going fast. They would go a mile in five minutes even with the lessened headway of the reaching vessel. How could he guess the time in that awful turmoil of roaring wind and sea? He waited and waited. She must be nearly there. The strain was getting awful. Would he go past? He must be up with the point now—but no, he would hold her a minute longer. It must be made or lost in one throw of that wheel, and to lose it meant death to all hands. The blackness ahead was solid. No eye could penetrate it ten feet. Oh, for another flash of lightning!
"Will she—" came the voice of the captain, questioning, querulous, borne back the few intervening feet through the flying atmosphere. He did not know and it angered him to have such a question asked.
How could he tell?
He was panting with exertion and smothered with drift and spray. Suddenly he hove the wheel to starboard. The little vessel leaped forward, straightened out before the gale, then rounded with her head to the eastward. It was done anyhow. If they were clear, all right. If they had missed, they would strike within five minutes.
"Get—anchors—all cable," came the voice of the captain.
Macreary could see nothing forward, but he knew the men were doing what they could to obey. Minutes passed, the vessel rose and fell, but she had not struck yet. He held the wheel, and closed his eyes. The sea seemed smoother. Ahead it was evidently smoother still. The great lift of the outside sea was growing less and less. Five minutes more and theSeabirdwas in another foam-covered plain of water which had no rolling sea.
"Go," came a cry. It was echoed by a faint shriek somewhere. A shaking of the vessel followed as the chain ran out. Suddenly she brought up and swung right into the eye of the storm, the rush of wind striking Macreary in the face and forcing his sou'wester back upon his head. There was a quick but light riseand fall as theSeabirdheaded the sea, and Macreary lashed the wheel fast in the beckets.
A form brushed against him and the captain yelled in his face: "She's holdin'—both anchors with forty fathoms—can't get loose unless it blows the water off the earth," and then he pushed the hatch-slide and went below.
In a few minutes all hands were in the little cabin and a light was struck. It showed four men with streaming oilskins and soaking faces, whose expressions still bore marks of extreme anxiety. Three of them looked at each other and then cast glances at Macreary.
"That was a pretty good job, pilot," said Captain James. "We had a close call there once—suppose you got mixed with the steering gear, hey?"
Macreary said nothing. He was like a man who had suddenly awakened from a horrible nightmare.
"Well, you won't lose nothin' by this trip," went on the captain; "them fellows will be blown off fifty miles before morning—and there ain't a soul aboard the bark—she's ourn, and that's a fact."
V
At the End of the Reef
Thelight-keeper at Fowey Rocks had been given a new assistant, and the new man was Bahama Bill, the giant wrecker and mate of a sponging sloop. He was a negro Conch, so-called on account of the diet upon which many of the native Bankers were supposed to live, the Conch proving an easy and nourishing meal for the lazy and incompetent reefer. But the name soon applied to all alike, and the Conch, instead of becoming a word of opprobrium, stood for all men who made the Reef or Great Bahama Bank their home.
William Haskins, otherwise known as Bahama Bill, was a Fortune Islander, and his acceptance of the keeper's position was but temporary, taking the place of the assistant who was absent on his quarterly leave. The head keeper, an old man, seldom left the light.
It was summer-time and the air was warm with the tropical heat of the coast. The distance from the land kept the lighthouse cooler than ordinary, but the hot Stream flowing past at a temperature of eighty-three degrees gave no cooling effect. The days ofthe assistant's absence dragged slowly along, the old keeper tending the light with his usual care. Then came a season of frightful humidity and glaring sunshine, lasting many days, the mercury standing always at ninety-five or more.
Bahama Bill spent the warm weather loafing about the town of Miami, and as he was in no hurry to go back to the light, he took pains to spend what money he possessed in whatever finery he thought befitted his magnificent personal appearance best. Standing several inches over six feet and being enormously solid and broad in proportion, he was an object of admiration to the many black men who loafed along the Florida shore. With the Seminoles he had nothing whatever to do, for these Indians showed their distaste for negroes so plainly that it was with difficulty trouble was avoided whenever the men of the Glades came to town to trade their deerskins for ammunition. Bahama Bill stuck to his class until it was past the time for him to return to the light, and then started off, rigged out clean and shipshape in a small boat.
The old keeper of the Fowey Rocks lighthouse came out upon the gallery to take the morning air. The sun was shining and the warm wind from the Gulf Stream blew lazily through the doorway into the lantern-room. The blue sea sparkled in the sunshine, and the long, easy roll of the swell told of calm weather offshore. It was a perfect day, a day of peace and quiet, upon the end of the great Florida Reef, whichstretched away for miles to the southward. Eastward nothing rose above the blue rim which compassed all. To the northward the low line of hummocks showed where Virginia Key and Key Biscayne rose above the water some ten miles distant. To the westward the little lump of Soldier Key showed where there might be a solitary human within a dozen miles. And all about the blue sea sparkled in the bright light, taking on the varicoloured hues found above the coral banks. Near the lighthouse, in three feet of water, the coral showed distinctly even from the height of the tower. Old man Enau gazed down at it, watching the bright green tinge melt to deeper colour until, in three fathoms, the pure limpid blue of the great stream flowed past uncoloured and undefiled. Fish were swimming around the iron piles of the lighthouse; great big bonito, sinuous barracuda, and now and then a shark would drift up to the iron pillars and bask a moment in the shade of the tall structure which rose above the coral bank to the height of a hundred feet and more, standing like a huge long-legged spider upon its iron feet in the shallow water.
The quiet of the morning was oppressive to the keeper. Not a sound rose from the reef save the low roll of the sea as it broke upon the edge of the bank, not the cry of a single sea-bird to break the great stillness and beautiful quiet of the day. The old man had been in the light for three years. To him the world was that eternal sea bounded by the blue rim and spotted in one or two places by the distant Keys.Whatever he had seen of human life he left behind him when he took the position as keeper. He had tried to forget. And now, as the years passed, his memories were fading. The human struggle was over. The thought of what he had seen and done was dimmed in the glare of the tropic sunshine, and the shadow of his past had faded to nothing.
He had a fine old face. Rugged and burned from the weather on the reef, his features still bore traces of culture. His nose was straight and small, and his eyes were bright and blue, the deep blue of the surrounding sea, which had kept him apart from his fellow men so long.
He leaned out over the rail and looked down. The heat and stillness oppressed him, and as he gazed below at the white and green formations he seemed to see again the inside of a court-room. The quiet and heat were there, and the stillness was strained and intense, as he waited for the word which meant his ruin. The faces of the jury who were trying a murder case were before him, the man on the right looking hard at him, and the foreman bowing his head gravely in that moment of utter silence before he spoke the words which meant his end. It had been a peculiar case, a case of great brutality and cruelty, apparently, from the evidence produced. He, the master of a large square-rigged ship, had been accused of a horrible crime, and the evidence of two witnesses was there to prove it. He remembered the man whose evidence was the strongest against him, a sailor whomhe had befriended, and he could see the look of pious resignation upon the fellow's face. He also remembered the furtive gleam that came now and again from the corner of his eye as he sat near the witness-box and waited his turn to tell of the horror.
Why was it? Was it the heat that brought back those scenes which were fading, or was it the ominous silence of the torrid sunshine upon the reef? The lines in the face of the old man grew rigid and drawn, and he gazed stolidly into the blue water until the coral banks took on new shapes. He saw a ship's deck with the long plank strakes stretching hundreds of feet fore and aft; the low white deck-house, with the galley smoke-pipe stretching across it and the boats upon the strong-backs or booms atop of it; the solid coamings of the hatchways, with the battened hatches as strong as the sides of the vessel itself; the high topgallant-rail which shut off the view to windward, and the rows of belaying-pins stuck beneath with the neatly coiled braces upon them; the high head of the topgallant-forecastle and the long jibboom pointing out over the sea; and, above all, the long, tapering spars lifting upward into the blue above, with the white canvas bellying in the breath of the trade-wind. It was all plain before him again. Then it changed—the pampero off the River Plate, the great hurricane sea which swept the ship and smashed her up, leaving her a wreck, leaking and settling, six hundred miles from shore. The fracas was there before him—the men struggling, trying to save her, until,tired out with exertion and suffering, the man with the furtive eyes had refused to do duty and managed to get the rest to back him.
Then the days following, full of desperate endeavour: the fellow who refused duty shirking and endangering the lives of all; the measures he took, hanging the man by the hands and flogging him until he fell in a faint; how he staggered to his feet and looked at the master—one long look full of a purpose implacable, unrelenting, and then the quiet manner he had when he obeyed. He had picked the fellow up starving upon the streets, an outcast from some country and of a social sphere above his own, taking him aboard his ship and providing food and clothing with a fair wage—and this had been the outcome.
They had left her in the one remaining boat two days after, crowding the craft almost to the gunwales; but the sea was now smooth and the wind gone, leaving a quiet strangely like that of the beautiful day about him. The row westward over that oily, heaving ocean, day after day, day after day!
One by one they had dropped off, overboard, to float astern, and all the time therip,rip,ripof a triangular fin above a great shadow below the surface.
He had done what he could, taking no more of the meagre food than the rest. Then the last days—four of them left, the men who witnessed against him and another, a stout fellow who had kept up better than the rest. How he had discovered that the fellow had stolen the scant store of food steadily and dividedit with the man he had flogged. How, when they had taken all, they had set upon him, and he had killed the stout thief and wounded the other. There was nothing left to eat,—absolutely nothing for five days,—and they had—ugh!—it was too horrible; and upon the seventh day they had been picked up with the evidences of the horror too plain for their rescuers to make a mistake in the matter, even without the two men, who openly accused him of the whole wrong—accused him of not only killing his men, but—ugh!
The trial had lasted a week and the evidence was most horrible. The jury had convicted him upon that of the fellow who sat there with a pious look and furtive glance; the other fellow had merely corroborated his story, and, as it was two against him, his own tale was not believed. He had received a life sentence for the crime, for he had admitted killing the stout man who had stolen the last of the food. He explained that it was his duty as captain to protect his life from their combined assault. The jury had not believed him, for the man who was against him was ready to show the falsity of his tale; he had been sentenced for life. He had served seven years and had escaped by cutting the bars of his cell and gaining a vessel which was wrecked on the coast of Africa letting him get ashore unmolested. After drifting about for a time he had come back to America and taken the position as keeper in the tower, where his past wasnot open to inspection, for no one knew him or whence he came.
The sunshine was as quiet as before, but the blue Gulf Stream showed a darkening far away on the horizon, where a breeze ruffled the surface. He turned and gazed over the sea toward Florida, and a tiny black speck showed upon the waters of the reef. It looked like a small boat coming out through the Hawk's Channel, and he looked at it steadily for a long time, trying to see if it might be Haskins, the assistant keeper, returning.
The sunshine was very hot on this side of the tower, and it dazzled him for a little while as he gazed over the sparkling sea. The speck drew nearer, and he saw that it was a boat. It came very slowly, sailing with the light air, the bit of white canvas looking no larger than a handkerchief in the distance. Soon the figure of a man could be seen lying easily in the stern-sheets of the craft, and the old keeper saw that the man's legs were bare and brown. Then the tiny shallop took more definite form and showed to be a canoe, its occupant an Indian from the Everglades, coming out to fish upon the reef.
Indians seldom came so far away from land, and as the craft drew nearer and nearer Enau watched it carefully. The Seminoles were friendly. They were an unconquered tribe of Indians who had managed to evade all efforts made by the United States to subdue them. They had retired into the fastnesses of the great swamps, where no white soldier could pursuewith any hope to capture, and after years of peace had come to the coast again with the understanding that they should not be molested. The old man had heard of them from Haskins, the assistant, and he had once or twice seen canoes skirting the edge of the great bay in the distance, but he had never seen an Indian close enough to recognize him. The canoe had now come within half a mile of the tower, and was still heading straight for it.
The breeze died away again and the sun shone straight down with an intense heat. The tower cast no shadow either to east or west, and the ship's clock in the kitchen struck off eight bells. Enau mopped his streaming forehead and was about to turn into the galley to get a drink of water. The heat made him reel with dizziness, but the man in the boat made a movement, and he held his gaze fixed upon him. The canoe was coming close to the tower, and it was evident that the Indian would land there if the keeper allowed him. There was no way of getting up to the light except by way of the long iron ladder which reached from the gallery to the sea, a hundred feet below. It was an easy path to dispute with any number of men, especially as they must come through the heavy trap-door in the gallery at the top. There was no way of getting up over the outside, unless one could climb the long, smooth iron rods for a great distance and then reach out under the sill to get a hand-grip upon the edge of the floor and swing out over the gulf below. It would be a mere finger-gripat most, and a tap upon the bare knuckles would send the fellow to his death below. A good sailor might climb the smooth iron rods with great difficulty, but no one could climb up a hundred feet and swing out on that finger-tip hold with the hope of climbing to the rail above. The trap-door worked with a five-hundred pound weight, and if any one tried to come up the thin iron ladder the keeper could simply lower the door and the stout three-inch planks would drop easily into place at will. Enau studied it all out while he gazed below, and it amused him to think what a surprised Indian it would be when he climbed up there to find the door drop fast in his face. No; the keeper was as much his own master in regard to human visitors as though he were a resident of some other planet. A thousand men could not approach him if he did not wish it. He could be all alone for an indefinite time, for he had provisions for half a year and water enough for a lifetime.
While he gazed at the approaching boat the man in her looked up. It was but a glance, a mere look at the head upon the rail above. Enau gasped. That one glance upward was enough for him. The fellow was not an Indian, after all. The sun-tanned face, burned to a dark mahogany colour, belonged to one he had not forgotten. That glance, furtive, half-shrinking, animal-like, without the movement of a single feature, belonged to—yes, there was no mistake. It was Robledo, the sailor who had witnessedagainst him, the survivor of the horror, the man who had compassed his ruin.
Enau drew his breath quickly and stood up straight. The place seemed to swing about in the sunshine, the tower to rock like a ship in a seaway. Then he peered over again just as the craft came alongside one of the iron pillars. He did not show his face,—just his eyes,—for fear the fellow might recognize him and not come up the ladder. He would have the trap-door ready for him, for it would never do to let that human devil know he was upon the light. Yes; perhaps he would let him come up, inside the gallery, but never go back. The sea would tell no tales. There would be no marks of a struggle, no evidence of a fight—a quick crack upon the head, and over the side, down a hundred feet to the waters of the reef, where the sharks lay waiting. That would be all. He could do it easily. But, then, the fellow might be missed, after all. Some one might know he had gone out to the light, and then there would be the investigation. That was what he did not want. There must be no inquiries, no questions asked him about his past. He was an old man now, and the memory of his terrible wrongs was fading. Let them die out. He would let the enemy go as he came. The fellow could not know he was in the tower, and there was no possibility of his recognizing him, as he had not shown his whole face over the rail. Even if he had, the hair and the beard of three years' growth would hide anything of Captain William Jacobs that still existed in him.No; he would let no one come up that ladder. He would live the rest of his life in peace and quiet. He loved the bright sunshine and the beautiful sea, and he could be satisfied where he was. His wife and daughter he had long given up. They had bade him farewell at the end of that trial, holding away from him, yet with tears streaming down their faces in the agony and horror of it all. He must be alone. There must be no one to tell him about them.
He looked down again, and saw the man below drawing on his trousers preparatory to climbing the ladder. Enau could see into the bottom of the boat beneath, and he noticed a harpoon used for spearing crawfish. Would the fellow take it with him? If so, it would be well not to let him come too near, for it could be thrown and might be dangerous. The man gave no hail, but turned his smooth-shaved face upward and began to mount the ladder, Enau went to the trap-door and loosed the weight softly. It creaked upon its hinges and settled slowly down until only a crack remained. Here he stopped it, with the bolts in readiness to shoot if necessary. He would watch the fellow and see if he showed signs of recognition. Ten years was a long time; the end of the Florida Reef was many thousand miles from where he had last seen him.
The man climbed slowly up the iron ladder, stopping now and then to look seaward. The current had swept his canoe to the northward of the lighthouse, where it trailed at the end of a long line. There wasnow nothing under him but the blue water. When he reached the first platform he climbed on to it and rested. It was very hot, and the climb made his mahogany-coloured face darker than before. His hair was freshly parted, and looked as though it had been oiled or moistened. His coat he had left in his boat below, and his shirt was open at the neck, showing the strong, corded muscles of his throat and chest. His hands were brown and powerful, and the keeper noticed how his fingers closed with a light but certain grip upon the irons of the ladder.
In a moment he came on again, and when within a few feet of the door he looked upward and hailed. At that instant the old man closed the door and shot the bolts. He was now cut off as completely as though he had gone to the moon. The heat and excitement made his head whirl. He staggered away from the closed door and went back to the gallery. The sunshine danced upon the sea and all was quiet. Then he peered over the rail. A string of muttered curses floated up to him and a drunken voice called him many foul names, but he only smiled and stood gazing out to sea. He could not see the man below now, for the fellow was too high up under the platform, and he made his way to the kitchen and from there higher up into the lantern, where the man's voice could not be heard distinctly.
Hours passed, and the sunshine began to slant sharply. The tower cast a long shadow to the eastward, but the canoe was still swinging to her painter,and the voice of the fellow below was still heard calling forth curses upon him. The keeper was evidently not recognized, for he heard the name "Enau" repeated over and over again, and this was his name as light-keeper—Robert Enau, head keeper of the Fowey Rocks lighthouse. If the fellow had recognized him he would have called him Jacobs, and then he would have tried to kill him. It grew dark, but he forgot to light his lantern, his whole mind taken with the one thought of how to get rid of his visitor. If the lantern was not lighted, the fellow might think that there was no one in the tower, after all, and would go away. The idea flashed through his brain for an instant, and then he centred his thoughts again on the fellow below and forgot the darkness and quiet of the tropic night. Suddenly he thought of the fellow's boat. If he could endanger it, the man might leave. He seized a heavy piece of iron and dropped it at the dark shadow floating at the end of the line. A dull crash told of the accuracy of his aim. Then the shadow faded out, and he knew the boat had sunk. There was no sound from the man upon the ladder below. Evidently he had gone down to the first landing and gone to sleep or was waiting, not knowing the damage done his craft. He could now neither go away nor come up, and the idea worried the keeper greatly. He was very dizzy with the heat and excitement, and his thoughts went again and again over the scenes of that last voyage and the trial following. In the gray of the early morning he was still sitting inthe lantern, gazing out to sea, waiting for the sun to rise and show him his enemy below. The day dawned beautiful and clear, and the quiet heat continued. In a little while a noise upon the ladder attracted the old man's attention. He listened. What was the fellow saying?
"For God's sake let me up!"
Not he. No! Had the fellow shown him any mercy when he was at the end of his liberty? Why should he show him any now? All he wanted was for him to go away and let him be. He did not want to see the man. Go away!
The pitiless sunshine streamed through the iron piling and upon the man. His boat was gone. It had sunk during the night from the weight Enau had thrown into it, and the current had torn it loose. There was no way for the man to get off the light without swimming. He must stay or die. He might cling for a long time to the iron ladder and rest upon the landing, but he could not swim ten miles in that current with sharks abounding.
The day passed slowly, and the man upon the ladder raved and swore, begged and cajoled, but Enau was silent and implacable. He went back into the lantern, taking some bread with him. He was not hungry, but the heat made his head swim, and he must eat something. The day drew to a close and silence reigned below. The man had given up talking. Enau lay prone upon his stomach and peeped over the edge of the platform. He could see the man crouching uponthe landing, lashed fast, to keep from falling, by a line made of his clothes. Darkness came and the heat abated a little, but no wind ruffled the surface of the Gulf Stream.
With a heavy bar in his hand the keeper sat and waited for any signs of fingers showing upon the edge of the platform. He would not let the fellow up—no, not for anything. If he died there, it was not his fault. He did not want him to come out to the light. He would not have him know that he, Captain Jacobs, was keeper.
The lantern remained unlighted. Now Enau was afraid to leave the platform an instant, for fear the fellow, desperate from his position, would climb over and kill him. He sat there during the hours of darkness and waited.
About three in the morning Enau saw two eyes staring at him. They were far away in the Hawk's Channel, but as the moments flew by they drew nearer. Soon a great shadow loomed up through the night, coming straight for the lighthouse. Then there was a sudden crash close aboard, the rattle and banging of ship's gear, followed by hoarse cries and curses. Enau went inside to the trap-door in the gallery, and sat there watching the bolts until daylight.
In the early morning there was a great noise below. Men shouted and called him by name, but he refused to answer. He peered over the edge of the platform and he no sooner had done so than a perfect storm of voices greeted him. Two ship's boats were tiedto the piling of the tower, and many men were crowding up the ladder. More were upon the deck of the vessel, which had rammed her nose high and dry upon the reef close to the light. They were coming to take possession of the tower by force, and he saw that he must now be interviewed, perhaps taken away bodily, for the fellow on the ladder had joined the rest, and they were calling to him to open that door.
The day passed without a disturbance. The men of the four-masted schooner upon the reef spent their time rigging gear to heave the vessel off, and the man had joined them. At dark Enau, seeing that no one was upon the ironwork, lighted the lantern and then came back to his post at the trap-door, holding his club in readiness to prevent any trespassing. He sat there hour after hour, but there was no sign of an attack from below.
About midnight there was a slight noise upon the platform of the gallery near the rail. The old man noticed it, but waited. Then some one rapped sharply upon the door at his feet, and he stood ready for the attack. Then all was quiet as before.
The heat was intense inside the gallery, and Enau mopped his forehead again and again. The whole lighthouse seemed to stagger, and the room went round and round. He was dizzy and failed to see the fingers which grasped the edge of the outside platform, or the form that swung out over the gulf below. A man drew himself up until his head was level with the floor. Then he put one foot up on the landing.He could not get back. It was a sheer hundred feet and over to the sea below, and the water was only three or four feet deep over the coral. He must gain the platform or go down to his death. Gradually he drew his weight upon the landing, clutching the rail with powerful fingers. Then he quickly stood upright and sprang over. He was in the light.
Enau saw him instantly and sprang at him. It was the same hated face, the furtive eyes he had reason to hate with all his soul. They clinched, and then began a struggle for life. And while they struggled the old man's mind could no longer hold his pent-up despair. He called out upon the scoundrel who had ruined him:
"You villain! you have pursued me for revenge—I'll give you all you want," he cried. "I know you; don't think I'll let you go." And, snarling like a wild beast, he strove with enormous power to crush the other against the rail, and so over into the sea. But the younger man was powerful. His strong fingers clutched at the old keeper's throat and closed upon it.
"I know you—I know you—I know your look—you pious-faced scoundrel!" gasped the old man. Then they fought on in silence. Suddenly those below heard a heavy fall. There was a moment's pause.
The room seemed to reel about the old keeper. He struggled wildly in that frightful grip. His breath came in bits of gasps and finally stopped under the awful pressure of those fingers. The scenes of his earlier life flitted through his mind. He saw the life-boat again riding the oily sea in the South Atlantic; the starving men, their strained faces pinched and lined, their eager eyes staring about the eternal horizon for a sight of a sail; the last few days and the last survivors, the man with that look he would never forget—stars shot through his brain and fire flared before his vision. Then came blackness—a blank.
Those below, hearing the sounds of struggle dying away, called loudly to be let in. The man released his hold of the keeper's throat and shot back the bolts in the trap-door, letting a crowd of seamen come streaming into the light.
"Get some water, quick!" called Haskins, standing back and panting after the struggle. He was nearly exhausted, but still kept his gaze fixed upon the fallen old man.
"It's a touch of the sun," said the captain of the wrecked vessel, bending over the old keeper. "We must get him cooled off and ice to his head. Quick, John! jump aboard and tell the doctor to get a lump of ice and bring it here—git!"
"It's pretty bad; I've shuah been hanging on to the irons for two days, and you lose your ship, on account of a poor devil giving way under that sun; but it can't be helped. No, suh, it can't be helped," said Bahama Bill.
"If you hadn't shaved, fixed up and changed yourself so, and had come back in your own boat, he might have recognized you in time," said the captain; "but of course you didn't know."
"I think I done all I could sah," said Bill, thinking of his climb over that outer rail.
"Yes, yes; I don't mean to find fault," said the captain; "but I lose my ship by it."
VI
The Sanctified Man
WhenMr. Leonard Holbrook bought the fine yawlDartmoor, he did so with the clear understanding that his wife would accompany him on a voyage through the inland waters of the eastern coast of the States to Florida. The vessel was something over sixty feet on the water-line and fitted up with as much magnificence as a small craft of that size could well be. She had many trophies in solid silver, won in many hard-fought races, which adorned her cabin, and when Mrs. Holbrook beheld her interior she capitulated.
Mrs. Holbrook belonged to what was termed an "exclusive set." She went to church more than once a week, and the pastor of the million-dollar edifice in New York had much to thank her for.
"A poor person might be pious, but—ugh," he explained with a shrug to the sexton one evening, and he made it his duty to keep alive the fires of reverence which had been installed at an early age within Mrs. Holbrook's gentle breast.
It was with many misgivings that she finally became willing to trust herself upon theDartmoor, for although she had faith in abundance, it was of the usual feminine variety which is best nurtured under pleasantly artificial conditions. The dangers of the sea, however, were shown to be very small indeed upon a fine craft, especially within the confines of the sounds, and she had sailed as far down the coast as Beaufort. Here it was decided to remain for a few days and enjoy the rural life of the tar-heel, and while Holbrook fished and hunted every minute of the too short days, Mrs. Holbrook passed the time aboard in pious and profound repose. It was delightful to be able to read the texts under the bright blue sky while sitting alone upon the quarter-deck without being interrupted by talk of guns and fishing lines. Then the small but cleanly kirk upon the shell-road could be visited daily, and the good old man who attended to the religious affairs of the fishing village was more than willing to be honoured by so distinguished a visitor. Yachts were like manna, only they did not drop from the sky, but were not the less appreciated for that fact.
The fourth morning theDartmoorbroke out her blue pennant on the starboard spreader, showing that Holbrook had gone away for a day's sport. John Bunyan came down to the dock and stepped aboard. Jubiter John he was called among the pilots of the Core Bank, for he had lived at the inlet just above the beginning of the Florida Reef. He sidled aft and met the quartermaster, who stopped him, but as he was known as a good pilot and had brought the vessel in behind the "bulkhead" safely, he was allowedcertain privileges. The master came forth to meet him.
"Mornin', Cap'n," said John, slouching up and pulling forth a rank mullet roe from his pocket and nibbling the end.
The master acknowledged the salutation with a grunt.
"Youse don't take no passengers on a yacht, hey?" he ventured.
"No," said the skipper, decisively, with the vision of the possible passenger before him.
"Youse ain't allowed to, hey?"
"Exactly," said the Captain.
"It's too bad!" exclaimed John.
"Yes, it is," answered the Captain, heartily, his face expressing nothing of the sorrow he might have felt at the limitations of his license.
There was a moment's silence during which the Captain looked aft at the reclining form of Mrs. Holbrook. She sat reading in the shade of the after awning with a rug over her feet to keep off the chill of the autumn air.
"Did youse ever hear of the sanctified people?" asked Jubiter John, presently.
The Captain had not.
"Well, they live down near the Jubiter Inlet where I used to run. There's one o' the fellers ashore here now an' he wants to go back home. It would be a mighty big accommodation if youse could take himwith youse—don't youse think it could be done, hey? He'd pay a little."
"How much?" asked the Captain, slightly interested.
"Well, I can't say in money, but then his services air wuth somethin'. He's an all round able man, an' he'll say the prayers fer yer."
"I see," said the Captain, with a grunt.
"There's nothin' doin'?"