Transcriber's Notes:
Blank pages have been eliminated.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the original.
A few typographical errors have been corrected.
The cover page was created by the transcriber and can be considered public domain.

My mother broke down and cried. Page 19.

CAPTAIN JOHN CRANE
1800-1815

BY

THOMAS W. KNOX

AUTHOR OF "A CLOSE SHAVE," "THE TALKING HANDKERCHIEF," "THE LOST ARMY," "DECISIVE BATTLES SINCE WATERLOO," "THE BOY TRAVELLERS" (15 VOLUMES), "THE YOUNG NIMRODS" (3 VOLUMES), ETC., ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
THE MERRIAM COMPANY
67 FIFTH AVENUE

Copyright, 1895,

By The Merriam Company.

Typography by C. J. Peters & Son,
Boston, U.S.A.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

CAPTAIN JOHN CRANE.

CHAPTER I.

WHO AND WHAT I AM.—MY EARLY LIFE.—LEAVING HOME, AND WHY I LEFT IT.

I am a modest, bashful sort of man, though I say it myself, and have been a sailor for a goodly number of years. Perhaps on board a ship I am not so bashful, and especially when in command of her. I don't feel altogether at home on shore, although I've given up the sea, and propose to spend the rest of my life on land. I was born on the 25th of November, 1783, the day of the evacuation of the city of New York by the British, at the end of the Revolutionary War.

It is proper to say that my arrival into the United States (and the world) on that day attracted much less attention throughout the country than did the departure of our enemies, but there's nothing surprising in that. I suppose you might have found, a few years ago, a good many people throughout these United States who were born on the same day as George Washington; but they haven't attracted any attention, while he has filled the eyes of the world. At any rate, he filled the stomachs of the British with all the fighting they wanted when they came here to subjugate the colonies.

My name is John Crane, or, rather, Captain Crane, at your service. I am, or rather was, a sea-captain, and for a pretty fair time too. People keep on calling me "Captain," although I've given up sea life and settled down on shore. But that's the way of things generally; which, after all, isn't so bad. If a man has done something and won a handle to his name, I think it is fair to let him keep it, and so I never correct folks when they call me Captain Crane. But when I sign a paper of any sort, no matter whether it's a letter to anybody or a legal document, I always write "John Crane," and nothing more. I never stick Captain on in front of it, as some do that I know.

Since I settled down on land I've told a good many of my experiences to neighbors and friends, and they've urged me to write a book. I've hesitated a good while about it,—there's where my bashfulness comes in,—but, after all, I don't see why I shouldn't do as others have done. There's many a book on sea life by men who have never been on blue water a tenth part as much as I've been there.

I can't spell very well, that was always a weak point with me; but I'll leave it to the printer to correct my spelling, and also my grammar, if I slip up in it. I never had a chance for much schooling; I had a little of the three R's, Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithmetic, but precious little it was.

I was born among the hills of New Hampshire, in the township of Pembroke, about fifty miles from Portsmouth, a seaport of that State, and sixty or seventy miles from Boston.

As my birth occurred on what we may consider the last day of the War for Independence, I can't be supposed to remember anything about it of my own knowledge, but my earliest recollections are very much concerned with it. It was the great topic of conversation among the people in the region where I lived. My father, and nearly every other man in the neighborhood, had fought in the Continental Army, and they were very fond of "fighting their battles o'er again" in front of their firesides. My father was a soldier from the beginning of the war until 1777, when he was badly wounded and came home. It was late in 1778 when he recovered, but he wasn't able to go back to the army again. So he married, and you'll know about his family farther on.

My early life was one of hardship. My parents had a small farm which we cultivated,—father and mother, and three brothers of us,—with our own hands. In fact, we could not well do otherwise, as we were too poor to hire any help. When he was twenty-one years old, James, my eldest brother, left home, went to a neighboring town, where he hired out with a farmer, and in less than a year was married to the farmer's daughter. Luckily for him, his wife's father had a good-sized farm, and she was an only child. So it happened that the newly married pair settled down on the farm to take care of the old folks; and in due time, when they were gathered to their fathers, my brother and his wife fell into possession of the farm and the property connected with it.

My second brother followed the example of the first, except that he did not marry a farm along with his girl. I was seventeen years old at the time he became engaged. Months, yes, I may say years, before this event, I had thought and dreamed about going to sea. Neither of my brothers cared for it, but I believe I was a born sailor if there ever was one. I longed to look upon the ocean and sail upon it, and felt that I would gladly pass the whole of my life on the waters. I read all that I could find about it; but I'm sorry to say that books were scarce in our neighborhood, and opportunities for reading were very small. I was greatly impressed by various passages in the Bible referring to the sea, especially the one in the Psalms which reads,—

"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep."

So, when the family was talking about my second brother's future prospects, I suggested that it was time for me to be doing something, and if father and mother consented, I would go to sea. There was some objection at first; but finally it was agreed and settled upon that my second brother should bring his bride to the house, and the twain would live there and care for the old folks, just as my elder brother and his wife were caring for her parents, while I would go to sea.

Then the question arose, "Should I go from Portsmouth or from Boston?" It was finally decided that as Boston was the larger place, and had a greater amount of shipping than Portsmouth, I had better go to Boston, and sail from there.

It was along in winter when this decision was reached. My departure was deferred until spring, not that there was very much for me to do at home in that season of the year, but because the traveling would be very bad when the roads were covered with snow and the weather cold.

As the time approached for me to leave home I began to feel reluctant at going away. One day I was talking with David Taylor, one of my friends and schoolmates, at least he was my schoolmate for eight or ten weeks every year, and about my own age.

When I told him I was going to sea he jumped at the idea, and said he would like to go too; like myself, he had thought and dreamed about the ocean, and nothing would suit him better than sailing over it. He said he would speak to his father that very evening, and try and get his consent. The Taylor family was situated very much like mine, and I thought it quite likely that David would have no difficulty in obtaining the paternal permission.

The next morning, when we met at school, David shook his head, and said,—

"I'm afraid I can't go with you, John. I spoke to father last night, and what do you think he said?"

"From the way you talk, David," said I, "I suppose he wouldn't listen to your going to sea."

"Yes, that's it exactly. He said I had better stay at home, and if there wasn't room for me on the farm I could hire out among the neighbors. 'There's Major M'Clary,' said he, 'who has a big farm, and hires half a dozen hands most of the time, and a dozen of them in haying-time. You can hire out with him, I know. I fought under him at Bunker Hill, and I know he'd be willing to help along a son of mine.'"

"Well," I answered, "what did you say to that?"

"I told him I didn't want to hire out as a farm hand, and possibly be a hired man all my life. I'd rather go away and try to do something in the world, and I believed there was a chance for me if I'd only try it."

"We didn't have a very long talk about it," continued David; "but at the end of what we had to say father remarked that he would think it over, and perhaps would see Mr. Crane and talk with him about it."

"That's all right, David," I said, "that's all right. If Mr. Taylor has consented to think it over and talk with my father, I'm pretty sure that you'll go with me in the spring. I haven't seen much of the world, and don't know many folks in it; but when a man is willing to consider a thing, and talk about it with somebody else who has already considered it, it shows that he's a reasonable being, and I feel sure my father will make Mr. Taylor understand that it will be better for you to go out into the world than stay here at home. There are already too many mouths to feed in your family, and you'll have to go away from home very soon, anyway."

Then I told David some of the things I had read about the sea and a sailor's life. I told him particularly of the prize money that was obtained whenever a ship-of-war captured an enemy's vessel. Then I spoke of the wages that sailors obtained, especially after they got to be mates and captains; in fact, I dwelt a good deal more on the captain's wages than I did on those of the mariner before the mast. I had already said the same things to my father and mother, and that was one of the reasons why they consented to my going to sea. My mother, bless her loving heart! believed that her son would come home a captain before the end of the year.

Ambitious as I was, I could not take her rosy view of the case, but I did not undeceive her. My father was less sanguine; but of course he was proud of his son, and believed I would succeed. A mother's love and hopes are always far greater than a father's, but in saying this I do not mean to cast any aspersion upon the head of our family. He was affectionate to us all; and though he was severe at times, he was always kind and just.

Well, it was not long before Mr. Taylor and his wife came to our house and spent an evening. I was sent on a visit at Mr. Taylor's in order to have me out of the way during the conference, and my brother Charles went to call on the girl to whom he was engaged.

The evening was an anxious one for both David and myself, and the time passed slowly. We tried to lay plans and talk of our future, but it was very difficult to do this when we did not know whether David would be permitted to accompany me or not. I went home at half-past eight o'clock, the time agreed upon, and met David's father and mother about half-way between our two houses.

I stopped and talked with them a moment, said that I had had a pleasant visit at their house, and they in return said they had passed an agreeable evening at my home. I hoped they would tell me what decision had been reached, but they said not a word on the subject that was uppermost in my heart. I had half a mind to ask them, but concluded that it would be impertinent for me to do so. So I bade them good-night, and proceeded on my way.

When I reached home my mother had gone to bed, and my father was just going. With some hesitation I asked if it had been determined whether David would go to sea or not.

"No," was the reply, "it hasn't yet been decided positively, as Mr. Taylor said he must sleep on it. He would never decide anything of such importance without sleeping on it at least one night."

"Do you think he will consent?" I asked.

"I hardly know what to say on that point," replied my father; "but I think he will say yes when the time comes to decide. He is just as sorry to have David go away from home as we are to have you go; but he realizes that his farm is small, like ours, there are several mouths to feed, and times are very hard. I think you may take it for granted that David will go to sea with you, but don't be too certain about it."

With that my father bade me good-night, and I went away to my bed in the garret. We boys slept up under the roof, for the reason that there was no other convenient place for us to sleep in. The roof was so low that we had to stoop, except directly under the ridge-pole, in order to avoid hitting our heads. The place was hot in summer, but cool enough in winter, as there were plenty of cracks to let in the air and cold. In the place where I lay the roof was not more than two feet above me; and many a night, when rain was falling, I have been lulled to sleep by the pattering of the drops on the roof.

I did not see David the next day, as for some reason or other he did not come to school. The second morning afterwards he was there bright and early; and before he spoke I could see by the luster of his eye, and the pleased expression on his face, that the decision had been reached, and was in favor of what he wanted to do. As he rushed toward me he said,—

"What do you suppose father told me this morning?"

"I don't suppose anything about it," said I; "I know that he gave his permission for you to go to sea with me."

"Yes, that's it exactly," he replied; "but how did you find it out?"

"A little bird from the sky told me," I answered evasively; "never mind how I found it out; I'll tell you sometime."

In the five or ten minutes that passed before the teacher arrived and school was called to order, we talked as rapidly as our tongues would permit. We had a great deal to say, and we said it quickly. It was the same at the noon recess, when we strolled off together and indulged in that boyish occupation of building castles in the air. In imagination we went to sea together, as boys do in the story books; we did our duty faithfully and zealously, and were rewarded by rapid promotion. In less than three years we were both captains of ships, and regretted that the United States did not possess a powerful navy, so that we might both reach the grade of commodore or admiral before we had attained the age of twenty-five. At least, that was David's view of the matter; but I suggested to him that I never read of an admiral under fifty or sixty years at least. This cooled his ardor somewhat, but by no means discouraged him.

The winter wore on, and spring arrived in due time. Meanwhile, the traveling outfits for David and myself were prepared. In our township there were two or three women whose husbands were killed during the Revolution, and who supported themselves by making clothing for men and boys in cases where the garments could not be made by their wives or mothers. Usually my mother made the clothing for my father and the boys, and an economical method was pursued, a suit of clothes doing duty through the whole masculine part of the family.

Father would have a new suit of homespun, and when it became a little shabby it was made over for my brother James. After him it was made over for my second brother Charles, and after Charles for myself. Being the youngest, I was permitted to wear the suit out, and it was a pretty bad looking lot of garments by the time I was through with it. Sometimes I had a suit that had been made for Charles, but never do I remember having a brand new one.

As I was going away from home it was deemed important that I should have a specially good suit. Consequently, Mrs. Green was called in to construct it, and I was very proud of the garments when they were finished. It was the best suit of clothes I had ever possessed, and I wore them to church every Sunday after their completion until my departure. Extra stockings and an extra shirt completed my wardrobe; and these, with the new suit of clothes, made a fairly good bundle, which I was to carry on my shoulder. The last suit which brother Charles had discarded was made over for me to wear on my journey, so that when I was ready to leave home I presented quite a respectable appearance.

When the time came for us to start it was a great pain for me to say good-by to parents and brothers. I was anxious enough to go, and my young head and heart were full of ambition and of high hopes for the future. But at the same time I realized that I might be going away never to return; and, though none of us said so, I'm sure that the same thought was in every mind.

My mother broke down and cried when I kissed her farewell; my father made a great effort to preserve his composure, but I could see the tears standing in his eyes as he shook my hand and gave me his blessing with a choked voice. I learned afterward that when I stepped out of the door he yielded to his sorrow, as my mother had already done, and sank speechless and almost fainting into a chair. It was practically the same at David's house; yes, there was more grief there than at my own home, as David had two sisters, while I had none. The girls were very fond of their brother, and when the time came for him to bid them good-by they were so heart-broken that they were unable to speak.

I am not ashamed to say that I cried, and bitterly too, when I left my father's house. I said so to David before the day was out, and he frankly acknowledged that he had cried too when he left home.

Mr. Taylor's house was nearer to Boston than was my father's; and so it was agreed that David would watch for me on the morning when we were to start, and come out and join me as I passed. You may wonder why I did not go into the house to say good-by to the Taylor family. The fact is, I foresaw that I might not be wanted there at that moment, and so I called at David's house the evening before, partly to arrange our plans, but more especially to say good-by to the Taylors. You already understand that I was much attached to David, and I will add that I was especially fond of his eldest sister, who was a year younger than himself. To say good-by to her was no small effort for me, and I felt that it would be better for us to make our adieus in the evening, rather than in the morning, when the whole household would be plunged in grief at David's departure.

CHAPTER II.

WALKING TO BOSTON.—SUSPECTED TO BE RUNAWAYS.—FIND A SHIP AND SIGN ARTICLES.

We had a good sixty miles to walk, yes, sixty-five of them, from our homes to Boston. There was a stage coach which ran daily each way, but it was five miles from our house to the nearest point of the turnpike road, on which the stage traveled. We were too poor to afford such a magnificent conveyance, and therefore had arranged to walk the entire distance. In addition to our bundles or packs which I had already described, David having an outfit exactly like mine, we had provisions enough, as we hoped, to last until we reached Boston, and a cash capital of a little over five dollars each. We were strong lads, and capable of a great deal of exertion, and we figured out that we would walk the distance in two days, begging the privilege of sleeping in a barn during the intervening night. I left home immediately after breakfast, which was served an hour earlier than usual, in order to give me a good start. It was the same at David's house, and it was not yet seven o'clock before we were on the road.

We got along all right for ten or twelve miles, meeting perhaps a dozen people in wagons or on foot, and just stopping long enough to "pass the time of day." Our first adventure was with a man in a wagon and accompanied by a boy of about our age. The man spoke to us rather gruffly, asked who we were, and where we were going.

We told him our names and our fathers' names, where we lived, and the rest that the reader knows.

"I don't think you're telling the truth," said the man.

"We have told you the exact truth," I answered, "and my friend David will say the same thing."

"Of course he would do so," was the answer, "but that won't make it true. I believe you're a pair of runaway apprentices, and I'm going to arrest you!"

"We are nothing of the sort," I answered, "we have never been apprenticed to anybody, and we're not running away."

"We'll see about that," was his reply, "get into the hind part of my wagon, and come back to the village."

David and I exchanged glances momentarily, and each shook his head. David said, in a low whisper, "We won't go. It will lose us too much time."

Thereupon I spoke up and answered, "We don't want to ride in your wagon back to the village or anywhere else, and we won't do it. We will keep on our road, and if you choose to bring the sheriff to arrest us you may do so. We warn you beforehand, that we shall demand that our expenses shall be paid if you find out that we have told the truth."

"Get into the wagon, I say. Do as I tell you!"

David was about to speak up, when I shook my head and warned him to be silent. I briefly replied, "Good-day, sir," David doing the same, and we proceeded on our journey.

The man called after us two or three times. In fact, he got down from his wagon, throwing the reins into the hands of the boy that accompanied him. We quickened our pace, and I suppose he realized that he would have a very difficult task to coerce two able-bodied youths of seventeen into entering his wagon against their wills. At all events, he did not follow us, and, looking over my shoulder, I saw him remount his wagon-seat and proceed on his way.

Perhaps I ought to explain that it was the custom of that time to apprentice, or bind out, boys to learn trades. According to law and practice, a boy was bound to serve his master for seven years, in return for learning the trade and being fed and clothed during the time of his apprenticeship. Sometimes the apprentice received wages for his services during the last year, or the last two or three years, of his time; and sometimes a premium was paid by the apprentice or on his behalf. A good deal depended on the character of the trade in which he was engaged, and also upon the excess or scarcity of boys wishing to learn trades.

The man who stopped us was fairly justified in suspecting that we were runaway apprentices, as it was in no ways unusual for boys who had been bound out and thought that they were badly treated, to run away from their masters. Usually they went in pairs, and they also directed their steps to the nearest important seaport, for the double reason that they could more easily avoid recapture, and at the same time find employment of some sort. The great majority of the boys of that time had, like David and myself, a longing for the sea, and it was quite natural for any one meeting us on the road to conclude that we were what the man supposed us to be when he endeavored to stop us.

We kept steadily on our way and met with no further trouble. When we judged, by the position of the sun and also by the distance we had traveled that it was past the hour of noon, we sat down by the bank of a brook at the roadside, opened our packs, and took out our dinner. We had ravenous appetites from our long walk, and the cold meat and bread which had been prepared for us was quickly eaten. We washed it down with water from the brook, and after resting for perhaps half an hour, went on.

About sunset we reached a good-looking house on the right-hand side of the road, and perhaps a hundred yards away from it. Somewhat timidly we approached, going around to the side door, and not venturing to make our call at the front one. A stern-looking man came out, and before we spoke he eyed us with apparent suspicion. Evidently he was like the man on the road and took us for runaway apprentices; at all events his manner had very little welcome in it and I thought it best to explain at once who we were.

"We are the sons of Samuel Crane and William Taylor of Pembroke," I said. "We are on our way to Boston, with our fathers' consent, to go to sea, and we ask the privilege of sleeping in your barn to-night if you have no objection. If you want us to do any work to pay for our lodging, we are ready to do it, or we will pay in money if you insist."

The idea of paying for sleeping in a barn seemed to hit him on the funny side, as the sternness of his features relaxed, and a smile played about them. In reply to my statement and request he said,—

"Looks to me very much as though you youngsters were running away from your masters. Are you telling me the truth?"

"Yes, sir," I replied; "we are telling you the exact truth. We have no papers about us to prove who we are, but we give you our words that we are not runaways at all, but just what we claim to be."

"Let me see what you have in that bundle," said the man. "I want to be sure you haven't taken anything that doesn't belong to you."

I felt a flush of anger as he made this suggestion, and was about to reply rather tartly to the intimation that we might have stolen something. But the consciousness of my innocence of any wrong-doing, and, furthermore, the knowledge that the contents of our packs would prove it, restrained me. I said not a word, but undid my bundle and spread the contents before his eyes.

He gave a rapid glance at the articles displayed, and said in a sort of undertone, "New clothes, new stockings, new shirt; nothing else; all right." Then addressing himself to us directly, he said,—

"Boys, I believe just what you've told me. No runaway apprentice carries a pack like that. You are welcome to sleep in my barn; no, you sha'n't do that, you shall sleep in the house! You're hungry, and will want some supper; come right in."

"Thank you, sir," I said; "our mothers put up something for us to eat, enough to last us to Boston, provided we are economical. So we can eat our supper out here under the trees, and will sleep wherever you tell us to."

"Oh, nonsense, boys, come into the house and eat supper here. Save your provisions for to-morrow, and then you can eat just as hearty a dinner as you want to on the road without fear of starvation."

We thanked him and accepted his invitation. We had a good supper, and after it sat and talked with the farmer perhaps for an hour or more, told him our plans, and all about ourselves and families. The farmer and his wife were very kind to us; they told us they had two children, a boy about our age, and a girl two or three years younger. Both of them were away on a visit to some relatives in a neighboring town, and I fancied that the farmer and his wife were rather glad of their absence, lest we might have aroused in their boy a desire to follow our example.

We found that we had walked a little more than half the entire distance from our homes to Boston; if we traveled at the same rate we would reach Boston at sunset of the next day. As we were leaving the house of our hospitable friend in the morning, after a good breakfast, for which and the supper and lodging he would take no compensation, he suggested to us that we had better stop outside of Boston three or four miles, so as to enter the city in the morning.

"Your best way of going into Boston is through Charlestown," he said. "When you get about three miles this side of Boston look out for a red house on the left of the road, with a clump of trees around it, and ask if that is where Mr. Johnson lives. Tell him you spent the night with me, my name is Samuel Bickford, and I recommended you to him. He may have the same suspicion of you as I had, and you can satisfy him just as you satisfied me as to your character, and you can convince him that you passed the night at my house by describing the place and the folks in it."

We thanked him very kindly for his advice, and promised that if it ever came in our way we would certainly make a return for his hospitality. I little thought at that time that the opportunity would ever arrive, and certainly I did not, in my wildest dreams, imagine the way in which it would come about.

As I look back now to our reception at this house, I take great credit to David and myself that we made such a favorable impression on our host.

It was then about seventeen years since the close of the Revolutionary War, and during all this time the country had been overrun by idle fellows who served in the army, and after the disbandment of the troops took to a wandering, and, in many cases, a dissolute, life. They tramped along the principal highways, and, in fact, over pretty nearly all the roads of New England. They begged their food and lodging, though more frequently they stole the lodging outright, as they slept in barns without troubling themselves to ask the privilege of doing so.

As the years rolled on their number decreased, but at the time of which I write they were quite numerous, and in winter filled the jails and poor-houses to over-flowing. Like ourselves, they had an aversion to winter travel, but started out in the spring. You will remember that we left home in the spring, and consequently were beginning our journeys at the same time as these tramping idlers began theirs.

They pretended to be seeking work, but were careful never to find it. In summer they wanted a job at shoveling snow, and in winter professed to be hay-makers. People living along the highways had suffered much from the beggary and depredation of this class of individuals, and consequently it is more the wonder that our host so readily accepted our story and gave us the hospitality of his house. It must have been that the frank and honest faces of David and myself served as our passports on that occasion.

We found Mr. Johnson's house without difficulty, were received at first in the same suspicious manner as on the night before, and afterwards with the same open-handed hospitality. In the morning we walked rapidly into Boston, and, not knowing where to go, headed straight for the water-front and the ships that lay there.

As we crossed the bridge from Charlestown to Boston, our curiosity was roused at the sight of the vessels anchored in the harbor or lying at the piers. We had never before seen a ship; the largest floating craft of any kind that had ever greeted our eyes were the row-boats on the Merrimac River, and the cargo-boats that plied occasionally between the falls along that stream. Neither kind of craft was numerous, and all were the merest pigmies compared with the vessels we saw after we reached Boston.

As we stood looking at a ship at the head of one of the wharves, a man came up and spoke to us. He asked who we were, and where we had come from; to both of which questions we promptly replied. Then he said,—

"I suppose you've come to Boston to find a ship, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir." I answered; "that's what we've come for. Can you tell us of a ship that is going to sea right away?"

"Yes, I can," he answered; "this ship right here, the Washington, is going to sail just as soon as she can get a crew. How old are you?"

We told our ages, and added that we knew nothing about ships at all, but thought we could learn.

"Oh, you'll learn quick enough," he answered, "there's no fear of that. I'll go aboard with you, and see if the captain will take you along. Come ahead, boys, this way, come along."

He started in the direction of the ship, which was tied up to the wharf, and we followed. He led us up the gang-plank, and very quickly we found ourselves standing on the deck of what seemed to us a colossal craft.

"Stay here a minute," said our new-found friend, "while I find the captain;" and away he went in search of that individual.

Very soon he returned and took us aft to the captain's room. The captain questioned us very sharply, and he did not impress either of us favorably. After a good many questions he seemed satisfied, and said he would take us as green hands. Then he called the mate of the ship to accompany us to the shipping office, where we "signed articles," and then went with the mate to the ship again.

The man who had first accosted us disappeared when he introduced us to the captain, and we did not see him again until he came on board with a sailor who was considerably under the influence of liquor. The man proved to be a runner for the ship, or rather for the shipping office that had undertaken to supply the Washington with a crew. Two likely lads like ourselves were prizes for him, but he did not consider it worth his while to say so.

The mate showed us where we were to sleep, and small as had been the garrets in which we slept at home, they were palatial compared with our new quarters. We were in the forward part of the vessel, and each of us had a narrow bunk that was built up against the sides. There was just room enough in each bunk to lie there comfortably; turning over was a matter of difficulty, and David said that the best way to turn over was to turn out and then get in the other way.

Then the mate went with us to a shop not far away, where we were rigged out with sailors' suits, which he said would be charged against us on the ship's books. "Anything you want," said he, "on the voyage, you will get out of the slop-chest, and be charged with it in the same way."

The clothing we had taken off was made into bundles, and then we started with the mate back to the ship again. On our journey from the ship to the shop we followed him; but on the return he kept us in front, and so near that he could grasp either of our collars at the same time. He had been quite good-natured and pleasant spoken, but now that we had been shipped and were dressed as sailors, he was very gruff, and ordered, rather than requested us. When we got on board the ship he was all right again.

I didn't understand it then, but did afterward. You see that, the moment we got into those new clothes, we were in possession of ship's property, and if we had run away there would have been a loss of the value of the goods. It was the mate's duty to see that we didn't run away, and he carried it out fully.

When we got on board we were set at work clearing up things about the ship. Her deck was covered with lumber, and, though her hold was nearly full of cargo, packages, barrels, and boxes continued to arrive at frequent intervals. As fast as they came they were lowered into the hold, and before sunset the space below was crowded to its full capacity, and the hatches were put on. In our work we had nothing to do with the cargo, but were put in charge of a good-natured sailor named Bill Haines, who was to show us how to perform our duties. We got along with him very well, but when night came we were heartily tired, and after a supper of stewed beef and potatoes, with dry biscuit, we went to our bunks and slept soundly. No, I can't say that we slept soundly, but we would have done so had we not been disturbed repeatedly during the night by the arrival of other members of the crew, the majority of them in a condition of greater or less intoxication.

Then, too, the place was badly ventilated, and the air was very foul. I compared it with our garrets at home, with thin cracks that allowed the wind to blow in upon us, and the comparison was not at all in favor of the ship. I had a headache in the morning, and so had David; but a few whiffs of the air on deck made us all right again.

CHAPTER III.

DEPARTURE FROM BOSTON.—OUT AT SEA.—WHAT HAPPENED TO ME.—MEETING A STRANGER.

In the morning the last of the crew came on board, or rather were brought there, as the most of them were so intoxicated that they were unable to walk. I told David I didn't want to go to sea with such men as that, and he agreed with me. He suggested that we had better go and speak to the captain before the ship got away from the dock, and ask him to let us go ashore and stay there.

Our conversation was overheard by Bill Haines, who laughed heartily at the proposal to see the captain and be let off from going to sea. When his laugh was ended, a serious look came over his face, and he said,—

"Now, my lads, you'll be making fools of yourselves. You've signed articles for the voyage, and the captain wouldn't dream of letting you off. Besides, those drunken fellows that you've just seen hauled on board will be all right by to-morrow. They've been having a bit of a spree, and that's all there is about it. When the rum gets out of them they'll be good enough sailors, you may be sure."

"But I don't want to go to sea with them," I said. "They'll be getting this way every day; and I don't care to live among such men."

"You're a green 'un, and no mistake," said Haines. "They won't be getting this way at all while they're at sea; the captain wouldn't let 'em. They can't get a drop of grog except when it's served out, and there isn't enough of it served at one time for a man to get drunk on. You're all right, lads; wait and see how it comes out."

Just then we were joined by another sailor, Joe Herne, with whom we had already made some acquaintance. Joe and Bill were great friends, and both David and I took a liking to the two men. They were bluff, hearty, good-natured fellows, who had fought on a ship-of-war during the Revolution, and since the declaration of peace had sailed in the merchant marine. They could read and write, but their education did not go much farther than that. Of the two I fancied Haines rather than Herne; David took to Herne more than to Haines, and in this way each of us found a friend from the very first day of our voyage.

With so many of the crew intoxicated to a degree of helplessness, the ship was decidedly short-handed; and when the pilot came on board he brought with him six or eight men, who were to help work the ship into the lower bay. Several boxes and barrels were brought down to the dock at the last moment and rolled on board; and the last thing that was brought was a bag of letters, which I carried to the captain's room. Then the lines were cast off, and the ship was slowly hauled into the water, beyond the wharf where we had been tied up. It was just the top of the tide when we left the wharf, and as we reached the middle of the stream the ebb set in. I didn't know then what was meant by ebb and flood; I had read about them in some of the books, but the definitions were not clear to me. I spoke to Haines on the subject, and he explained the terms to me; you may be sure that I thanked him very earnestly for the information.

With the falling tide we drifted down the harbor and into the lower bay, a slight wind from the north-west favoring our movements. We went slowly, and it was pretty late in the afternoon before we reached the point where the pilot had decided upon anchoring for the night. We dropped anchor; and then a boat came alongside to take away the men who had come on board with the pilot to assist in working the Washington to where she lay.

It was much quieter that night on board the ship than on the previous one; the intoxicated men were proving the truth of Haine's prediction, as the next morning saw them all sobered up, though some were in a condition which Herne described as "very shaky." All were able to work, however, and were set about their duties, supervised by the first and second mates, so that there was no danger of the rust accumulating in their joints.

Some of the sailors had brought their chests with them; others had come with bundles of varied size; and others had nothing except the clothing in which they stood. To these last, the mate served out shirts, trousers, and jackets, from the slop-chest, and the garments thus obtained were charged to the account of the man who received them. You may be sure that the prices were high enough, as it was not the intention of the owners of the ship to lose money in any transactions with the crew. I suspected as much at the time; since I became mate and captain I have learned all about it.

It was a dead calm all through the forenoon, and the pilot went anxiously about the ship, hoping, whistling, praying, and swearing, for a wind. He obtained what he wanted after a time, but whether his prayers or his oaths brought it, "deponent sayeth not."

The wind came from the westward, and was favorable to our getting to sea. When the first puffs of the breeze ruffled the water, the anchor was lifted, and the sails were unfurled. Slowly the ship started from where she had been lying, and as the breeze increased her sails filled out, and in less than half an hour from the time the anchor left the muddy bed where it had rested for the night, we were going ahead at a fairly good speed.

Just outside of Cape Cod the ship backed her sails and hove-to long enough to let the pilot and his men descend into a boat that came alongside. I confess to a momentary longing to jump into the boat and go ashore with them. My sea life thus far had not been what my fancy painted it, and I feared that the reality, as time went on, would be altogether unlike what I had seen in my dreams. I think, too, that David had the same thought in his mind; but both of us had the good sense to keep our thoughts to ourselves and make no attempt to go ashore. I remembered what Haines had told me the day before, and did not make any exposition of my ignorance of marine ways.

When the pilot had been dropped we squared away, and were speedily plowing again through the water. When David and I signed articles we did not know where we were bound; we were going to sea, that was all. It did not occur to me to ask about our destination until we had left the dock and were directing our course towards the lower bay. Haines told me that we were bound on a voyage up the Mediterranean; we should go first to Gibraltar, from Gibraltar to Barcelona, and thence perhaps to Marseilles. As he phrased it, we were going to "Gibraltar and a market;" that is, Gibraltar was our first destination, and then we would go wherever our cargo could be sold and a return one bought to the best advantage.

The wind freshened, and gradually went around into the south-east. The sea was smooth enough at the time we dropped the pilot, but very soon it became rough, and I found the motion too much for me. The fact is, I was having an attack of sea-sickness, and David was undergoing the same experience. Haines noticed our condition, and kindly suggested to the mate that the youngsters had better be sent below. The mate took a good look at us, smiled for an instant, and then said,—

"Bear a hand there, kids, and go below; you'll appear best alone. Go below, both of you."

I would have preferred to remain on deck, but the orders were imperative, and besides I was rapidly getting into a condition in which I would be unable to stand. So we disappeared and lay down in our bunks. David pitched headforemost into his sleeping-place as the ship gave a lurch. Under ordinary circumstances I should have laughed at the sight, but at that moment I was in no laughing mood. The bunks in the forecastle, the low deck over our heads, and the swinging lantern were moving in a variety of directions. Everything whirled, including my head, and so rapidly that I thought it a good plan to stand still where I was, and, when my bunk came around, jump into it and be safe.

I jumped, but did so at the wrong time, and came down with a sprawl. My success was greater at the next effort, and I landed in the berth.

When I got myself stretched out I was as helpless as any of the drunken men had been the day before, and I wondered if it were not the case that they had been sea-sick in anticipation of going to sea, just as one loses his appetite at the expectation of something unpleasant.

As for appetite, I had absolutely none. I should have refused the finest viands from a king's kitchen, and even the very thought of eating seemed to add to my illness. Joe Herne came to see if we wanted anything, but there was nothing we cared for; and we made the same answer to Bill when he came in during the next watch to look after us. David whispered to me that he wished himself back at home, and I acknowledged to precisely the same desire. "It's a pity," said David, "that the man who thought we were runaway apprentices did not arrest us, and supply us with masters who would keep us on land."

I would willingly have been apprenticed to a cobbler or a traveling tinker rather than be in the predicament where I then found myself.

But there's no cloud without a silver lining, and no night that is not followed by day. For about forty hours, it must have been fully that, we lay in our bunks without eating a morsel. By and by our appetites returned, and David said to our friend Bill that he thought he could eat a little gruel.

"Gruel, you greenhorn," said Haines, "you'll get no gruel here. What you'll get is scouse and dundy funk, and prog of that sort. Gruel ain't a forecastle dish, anyhow. D'yer think you could manage a bit o' salt horse?"

"Salt horse," said David, "no, I don't want to eat any kind of horse-meat, salt or fresh. Do we really have to eat horse on this ship?"

Haines laughed, and said,—

"No, my lad; you don't have to eat horse-meat, though the stuff they give us might just as well be out of a horse as from an ox. Salt horse is the name they give to the beef they salt down for sailors' use. It ain't the choicest kind of chicken cutlet in the world, by no means. Anything's good enough for a sailor, and they give us the meat of bulls and worked out oxen cut up and packed in brine and kept till it's as hard as a handspike. That's salt horse.

"We had scouse to-day for dinner," continued Haines, "and I'll go and see if I can't get you some. I told the cook that you two greenhorns might be getting alongside of your appetites, and if so you'd want something to eat."

Bill went away, leaving David and myself wondering what scouse could be. In a little while he returned with a dish of meat, stewed with potatoes and pieces of bread. Then we knew what scouse was. Later on in our voyage, when the potatoes gave out, we had it of stewed meat and bread only.

We ate some of the stew, and drank a pot of coffee which Bill brought along at the same time as the scouse. Then Bill left us and we settled down to sleep.

We slept better than at any time since we came on board, and felt much refreshed when we waked. We also felt hungry, which Joe Herne remarked was a very good sign, and went off to the cook's galley to see what he could get for us. He brought a good-sized piece of the so-called salt horse, and divided it between us. We ate this, along with some bread, and then concluded to get up.

"Stay where you are, my lads, stay where you are," said Joe in a fatherly sort of way; "if you go on deck now you'll run the risk of being set to work, and you're not quite ready for it. To-morrow you'll be all right, and can do your share. Take it easy to-day, and keep quiet."

Very soon I realized the force of his advice, as I found on trying to stand up that I was decidedly weak. We spent the rest of that day and all of the night in our bunks, but the next morning we went out to breakfast when our watches were called, and did our share of eating. From that time forward we had our sea-legs on, as Bill Haines expressed it, and our appetites were like those of young tigers. Sea-sickness had no further terrors for either David or myself.

Perhaps I ought to explain that the crew of a ship is divided into "watches;" that is, they are separated into two lots, or divisions, one of them known as the larboard, and the other as the starboard watch. The larboard watch is on duty with the first mate, and the starboard with the second mate. I am speaking now of a good-sized craft. There's many a vessel that has no second or third officer, simply a captain and mate. The captain and mate stand watch and watch, and the crew is so small that when changes are made in the positions of the sails, or anything else out of the ordinary routine takes place, all hands are called. The day and night are divided into watches of four hours each, except the period from four to eight o'clock in the afternoon, which is divided into two "dog-watches," of two hours each. The object of the dog-watch is to prevent the same men being always on duty at the same hours.

David was put into the larboard watch, while I was assigned to the starboard; Bill was in the watch with me, and Joe Herne was in David's. At first David and I were sorry that we had not been put together, but we very soon realized that it was an advantage for us to be separated. We could see quite enough of each other daily, especially in the dog-watches, and we were likely to learn more about the sea and its ways, separated as we were, than if we had been put together. Each of us had a staunch friend in his own watch, Haines in mine, as I before stated, and Herne in David's. They were our warm and sincere friends from the start, and, live as long as I may, I shall never forget them.

When we went on deck, after our recovery from sea-sickness, I looked around me and scanned the entire horizon. Nothing but water was in sight; no land, no sail, not even the tiniest island to break the monotony of the view. Sea and sky comprised everything in the range of our vision. Our footing was somewhat unsteady, as there was quite a sea on, which had been raised by the steady wind which was then about due south.

"We're at sea, sure enough," remarked David, "and what a pretty color the water is!"

"You've not seen the prettiest of it yet by a long shot," said Haines; "wait till we get into blue water, where it's a mile or two to the bottom."

"Isn't this blue water we're in now?" queried David.

"No," was the reply, "we're not off soundings yet, though we probably shall be before the day is over. When we get off soundings we'll be in what the sailors call blue water; on soundings we call it green water. Look at the waves where they're breaking, and in the wake behind us, and you'll see that the water has a greenish color. Later on we won't see so much of that; the green will disappear and blue will take its place."

We were much interested in this bit of information, and in many other things which were told to us by our friends. On the whole we had quite a good lesson in sea-life during the morning, as we were informed what our duties were in our watches on deck, and afterwards learned the meaning of a watch below.

While we were talking there was a cry from the mast-head of "Sail ho!"

"Where away?" called the mate, who was then in charge of the deck.

"Two points on the weather bow!" was the reply.

The captain was below at the time, and the mate sent word to him immediately. In three minutes he was on deck with his glass, but the stranger was too far away to be made out. We held our course for an hour or more, and by the end of that time the sail was clearly discernible from the deck.

The captain scanned her eagerly, and after a careful survey ordered a change of course, so that we should avoid meeting the stranger.

CHAPTER IV.

OVERHAULED BY A BRITISH WAR-SHIP.—SEARCH FOR DESERTERS.—THE CAPTAIN PLAYS A YANKEE TRICK.

On the courses which the two vessels had been running we would have crossed each other's track very nearly together, and it was evidently our captain's intention to avoid doing so. That the stranger wished to meet us was evident, as she changed her course to pursue us very soon after our helm was put over. Our captain remarked to the mate that he thought from her rig that the other ship was a man-of-war, probably British, but she displayed no colors, and even had her flag been flying we were too far off to make it out.

I asked Haines why it was that we were steering away from the stranger. "Even if she is a British man-of-war," I said, "why should we wish to avoid her? We are at peace with England, and have been since the Revolution, and she certainly wouldn't harm us now, anyhow."

"Don't be so sure of that, sonny," Haines replied; "she could and probably would harm us a good deal."

The officer walked slowly along in front of them. Page 53.

"I wish you'd explain to me how she could do so, as she certainly would have no right to capture us on the high seas now. We are on a peaceful voyage, and our respective countries are not at war."

"You don't seem to understand sea things very well yet," Haines answered. "You don't know how the British ships-of-war have been treating American merchantmen ever since the Revolution."

"How is that?" I asked.

"Well, they treat us very much as if we had no rights whatever," was the reply. "Great Britain claims that when a man is once a subject of that country he is always a subject, and if the government wants him for any purpose it has a right to take him wherever he can be found."

"Oh, I see," said I; "if there are any Englishmen on board the Washington, and a British man-of-war wants them, her captain has a right to take them."

"Yes, that's it exactly. It's what the English call the Right of Search. If we sailed on so that we should be in range of that British ship, supposing she is a British one and a man-of-war, and she happened to be short-handed in her crew, she would stop us and send a boat on board to search for British deserters. Any man in our crew who was suspected of being British would be liable to be carried away to serve on the king's ship.

"And the beggars are not at all particular about it, either," he continued; "they'll pick out men who were born in America, and perhaps have never been to sea before in all their lives, and say they recognize them as British deserters. They might pick out you and your mate David and carry you off in spite of all your protests. They've done it many a time, and as our captain doesn't want to lose any of his crew, he's trying to avoid that fellow by steering away.

"There are hundreds of Americans serving to-day in the king's ships," said Haines, "who were impressed and carried away without the least reason or excuse, except that the British captain who overhauled them wanted more men and was determined to have them.

"I'll tell you more about this matter some other time," said Haines, as he turned and walked away from me.

While the conversation was going on, and it was much longer than I have given it here, I had paid no attention to the other ship. As soon as Haines left me I looked over the rail and saw that our pursuer was coming nearer to us. She was a fast sailer, and besides she had the weather gauge of the Washington, and that was a considerable advantage.

She continued to gain, though we spread every sail and did our best to get away. When she was within about two miles of us she fired a gun as a signal to us to heave to.

We paid no attention to her signal, but continued on our way with every inch of canvas spread that could draw.

A stern chase is a long chase; all day long we ran and they ran after us. It was pretty well along in the afternoon when the stranger fired her gun, and both ships were doing their best, the one to escape, and the other to overhaul.

It was a little before sunset when the British vessel, for she had hung out her colors and revealed her nationality, had reached a point within shooting distance. She fired another gun with a blank cartridge, to which we paid no attention, as before.

Then she fired a gun which had a shot in it, and the shot whistled past us, a little high in the air, but barely missing our sails. Our captain, who had been pacing the deck furiously, gave the order to heave to; he realized that his pursuer would endeavor to sink the Washington unless we complied with her very emphatic request to stop.

The stranger came up and hove to within little more than a hundred yards of us. Then she hailed us, saying,—

"What ship is that?"

Our captain answered that it was the Washington, of and from Boston, and bound to Gibraltar and a market. Haying given this answer he asked,—

"What ship is that?"

To this the stranger made no reply other than to say, "I'll send a boat on board!"

A boat containing an officer and four men came alongside the Washington, and the officer quickly ascended to the deck by means of the rope which had been lowered for him.

"What do you mean by running away from us?" was his first question as his feet touched the deck.

"I ran away because I didn't want to meet you," our captain replied; "that's all there is about it."

"Keep a civil tongue in your cheek," said the British officer, "or you'll be sorry you didn't."

"Perfectly civil," replied our captain; "you asked a plain question, and I answered it, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," said the officer; "but be careful about the rest of your answers. Call all hands, and let me see your crew!"

I believe, from the appearance of our captain's face, that if he had not realized the consequence of such an act, he would have seized the nearest handspike and laid the Britisher flat on the deck. His color came and went, and it seemed to me that for fully a minute he stood perfectly still, and made no reply. At the end of a long pause he nodded to the mate, and said, "Call all hands."

The mate passed the order to Haines, who went to the forecastle gangway, and yelled down into the interior of the ship, "All hands ahoy!" The performance was a useless one, as everybody was on deck at the time, all having become excited over the presence of the British war-ship, and knowing perfectly well there was no way of escaping inspection.

I said everybody was on deck, but in that I was mistaken, though I did not notice it at the moment. One of our sailors had disappeared, but our captain seemed to be as ignorant of the fact as I was, as he told the officer the crew was all before him, and he could look them over.

The men were lined up against the weather rail, and the officer walked slowly along in front of them, scanning each face very closely. When he came to Haines, he asked his name and where he came from.

"My name's Bill Haines," was the answer, "and I come from Salem, in Massachusetts."

"Oh, Salem," said the officer, "Salem; were you born there?"

"Yes, sir; I was born in Salem, and if you've ever been there, and know anything about it, I'll tell you all the streets in the city."

"I've never been there, and don't want to go," the officer replied; "you're a British deserter, and you come from Devonshire!"

"That's a lie!" said Bill; "I never saw Devonshire, or any other shire of England, in my life!"

"Be careful how you talk to a British officer! Be careful!"

"When a British officer, or any other man, tells me something about myself wot ain't true, I've a right to say so, haven't I?"

"You've a right to use a civil tongue, and you'll use it before I get through with you."

"I was born in Salem, and here's the papers to show I'm an American." With that Bill drew from a pocket inside his shirt his American protection papers, made out in regular form and shape, so that there was no denying his nationality. The officer took the papers in his hand, scanned them quickly, and then, dropping them on the deck, not condescending to return them to their owner, he proceeded to the next man.

He asked almost exactly the same questions that he had in Haines's case, and received practically the same replies, though they were less independent in their character. When he came to me, I answered his questions promptly, told where I was born, how old I was; in fact, informed him of all he wished to know. He seemed to hesitate over my case, as to whether he should take me along or not, but evidently concluded that there was not the least shadow of a reason which he could allege for believing that I was of British birth, and, furthermore, my youth was such that it would have been almost ludicrous to claim me as a deserter.

David was standing next to me and of course his answers were almost identical with mine. To make assurance doubly sure, the officer required David to step out of earshot of me, and answer certain questions which he asked about the distance between our houses, the number and names of the members of our families, and little matters of that sort. Then he sent David back to his place in the line and called me out to answer the same questions. The similarity of our replies satisfied him of the truth of our stories and we were not further molested.

It took him perhaps half an hour to get through with the examination of the crew. He found two men who admitted that they were of British birth, but had lived a good while in America and had protection papers, showing that they had been duly naturalized and were citizens of the United States. They denied emphatically that they had ever served in the British navy, but he paid no attention to their denials and ordered them down into his boat. He evidently wanted to take along our friend Joe Herne, and doubtless would have done so if Joe had not been armed with his protection papers in the same way that Haines was.

Then he called up one of his men from the boat and said he would search the ship to see if anybody had hidden away. Accompanied by the sailor he went through the forecastle, and afterwards through the quarters of the captain and mates. The captain appeared to be mollified somewhat during the search, and thankful that he was losing only two men. While the search was going on in the cabin he asked the officer to take a glass of rum.

It was rather derogatory to the British dignity for an officer of a king's ship to drink with an American merchant captain, and our skipper appeared to recognize the fact. Placing the bottle and a single glass on the table, he briefly said, "Help yourself," and then stepped respectfully aside.

The officer smacked his lips over the glass of rum, and then poured out a second one, the sailor whom he had brought on board standing respectfully behind him. Neither of them noticed that the captain had left the cabin and gone on deck, or if they did observe it they suspected nothing. The officer found the rum of excellent quality, and it did not take long for his brain to become considerably muddled. Meantime something he little dreamed of was going on outside the cabin.

A signal of recall had been hoisted on the British ship, from which we had drifted somewhat, so that the distance was twice as great as when the officer came on board. Somehow our captain did not observe the signal of recall; neither did the mate nor anyone else.

I asked Haines what the signal was, and he replied in a low voice,

"Shut your mouth, you young idiot! Don't ask no questions; don't you see the old man's looking the other way?"

I turned my eyes in the direction of the captain, and found that his gaze was directed as far as possible from the British ship. He was doing nothing in particular, and I thought he might be looking out to see if any other ship was happening along from that quarter of the ocean.

Ten or fifteen minutes passed away in this manner, and then a gun was fired from the man-of-war.

The firing of the gun compelled our captain to look in the direction whence the sound came, and after looking a moment toward the other vessel, he proceeded slowly toward the cabin, where he had left the officer and the bottle of rum enjoying each other's society. He told the officer about the signal of the gun-fire, and the latter thanked him in a voice that was decidedly husky.

The condition of the sailor who accompanied the officer below showed that he had been treated to a drink or two; the kindly nature of the officer had been awakened by the rum that he had imbibed, and he wished all around him to be happy. It's very easy to be generous with what belongs to somebody else. When the officer and his man came on deck, the former was very effusive in his thanks to our captain for his hospitality. Thereupon the captain asked that he would let the two alleged deserters come aboard the ship a moment to get their dunnage.

"Oh, certainly," said the officer, who was in a condition to consent to anything. He turned to the sailor and told him to order the men up.

The sailor obeyed his instructions, and in a moment the men were on deck and told to go below and get their dunnage. Then the officer went over the side and descended into his boat, followed by the sailor.

By this time night had begun to spread over the ocean, and the darkness was such that it half obscured the outline of the British ship. When the officer and sailor had reached the boat, our captain gave an order in a low voice to the mate to brace around the yards and square away. "And don't make any fuss about it, either," he added; "be as quiet as you can."

Every man went to his post, and almost in less time than it takes me to tell it, the yards were braced around, the sails were filling, and the ship was hauling away from her disagreeable neighbor. The Britishers in the boat alongside discovered what we were about, and the officer yelled out,—

"What are you doing there? Heave-to, or I'll sink you!"

"Heave-to yourself, soon's you like!" replied our captain; and then, leaning over the side, he added, "you'd better cast off and go home to your mother!"

The language that his Majesty's officer used in reply I will not repeat. It was more forcible than elegant, and if oaths could have sunk the Washington she would soon have been at the bottom of the sea. After a few minutes' practice with his lungs in this way, the officer came to his senses and cast off. There was no danger that he would not reach his ship safely, as there was no heavy sea running, and she had several lights visible, in addition to the fact that the darkness was not yet such as to hide her from sight.

Of course our maneuver was discovered, but not until a few minutes after we made it. Those few minutes were precious, as they enabled us to increase materially the distance between the ships, and it lessened in the same degree the chances of being hit by the shots which they now sent after us. We paid no attention to the firing, but spread every stitch of canvas to enable us to get away. In half an hour the other vessel was completely out of sight by reason of the darkness; and we argued that when we were unable to make her out she could not see us.

We took a course midway between the one on which we were sailing when we espied the stranger, and the one to which we changed; by that means we hoped to throw her quite off our track. Not a light was allowed anywhere, not even in the binnacle, the steering being done mainly by the stars. Three or four times during the night the captain darkened the ports, and made a small light in his cabin, to look at the compass which hung over the dinner-table and make sure that we were running on the proper course.

We looked around very anxiously in the morning, and were gratified to discover that our late acquaintance had disappeared somewhere beyond the horizon. She was out of sight, but not out of mind; in fact, she was the sole topic of conversation, and we all fell to wondering what she would do with us if she should overhaul us again.

"One thing her skipper would do," said Haines, "he'd keel-haul our captain for getting his officer drunk."

"Ay, that he would," said Herne, "and I don't envy the position of that officer when he got back to his ship, and had to acknowledge that he was the victim of a Yankee trick."

"Another thing he'd do," said one of the sailors, "he'd take off about two-thirds of the Washington's crew, and leave us so short-handed that we'd have a hard time getting to port."

"'Twas a lucky go," said another, "that them two fellers wot he picked out as deserters come back to get their dunnage."

"Yes, and they'd never come back if it hadn't been that the officer had lost his head with the captain's rum-bottle. They ought to take that rum-bottle and tie it all around with ribbons, and set it up as an idol to worship, just as the heathen do."

"Oh, nonsense, you can't expect good Americans to act like heathen! It would have been a clear case of impressment if those men had been taken on board the British ship, and the officer knew it just as well as the men knew it themselves."

Various other comments were made which I do not remember at this moment. After a while the conversation turned to Joe Waller, the man who disappeared at the time the crew was mustered. Nobody knew exactly what became of him, and every one was careful to make no surmise as to his probable nationality. It was pretty generally believed that he was British born, and had served on a king's ship. The captain probably had an inkling of the matter, and told Waller where he could hide.

There was a linen-locker opening out of the captain's cabin, and the top of it was finished so as to afford sufficient space for a small man to climb up there, and stow himself away against the deck. Nobody would ever think of looking there for a man, and it is just possible that the place was originally designed for purposes of concealment. 'Twas lucky for Joe that he was small, or he never could have got in there.

Waller came up as usual with his watch, and went on duty. Two or three of us asked him where he was when the British officer came aboard; at every question he assumed a wild appearance, and said he had been taken up in the air by the Flying Dutchman, carried to the North Pole, and then to the South Pole, and then back again to the Washington. The Dutchman held him by the scruff of the neck all the time, and he felt rather stiff and uncomfortable. The fact is, he was cramped so in the linen-locker that it's no wonder he didn't have the use of his joints for a day or so. After he had quizzed a few of us that way with his yarn about the Flying Dutchman, we quit talking with him on the subject. He was scared, and no mistake, and certainly he had good reason to be.

Haines suggested that he hoped my shipmate, Waller, was the only one on board to make any acquaintance with the Flying Dutchman. I had seen mention of this individual in some of the books I had read, but no explanation as to who he was; so I asked Haines about him.

"Does he have wings to fly with?" I inquired, "or does he float about the sky on a machine of some sort? Perhaps he isn't a man, but just the ghost of one."

CHAPTER V.

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN AND HIS HISTORY.—MEETING A SHIP WITH A STARVING CREW.—RELIEF AND SAILING IN COMPANY.

"As to the Flying Dutchman," said Haines, "there's a good many stories about him, and I don't know which is the true one. The one that's oftenest told about him is that a Dutch captain, who wasn't a Christian or anything else that's respectable, tried to get around Cape Horn with a heavy gale blowing right in his teeth. He swore by all the bad words he knew that he would do it; and as the gale grew worse and his crew was frightened, he laughed at them as he drank his beer and smoked his pipe. They got up a mutiny, and tried to make him run into port somewhere; and he threw overboard every man who had joined in it.

"They do say," said Haines, almost in a whisper, "that the Holy Ghost came down on the ship, and this Dutchman fired at it with his pistol! Of course he didn't hurt the Holy Ghost at all; but the bullet went through his own hand, and paralyzed his arm. He cursed God, and was then condemned to navigate the seas forever, without putting into port, having nothing but gall to drink and red-hot iron to eat, and to be standing watch all the time."

The sight that met his eyes was a terrible one. Page 70.

"That's pretty tough, seems to me," I remarked. "Did he really have to do it all?"

"They do say," continued Haines, "that he's been doing it ever since, and that's more'n two hundred years ago. It's a misfortune to see his ship,—an awful misfortune! They say it's worse than to see the Devil to meet the Phantom Ship that the Flying Dutchman sails on. It always wants to speak to any vessel that comes within hailing distance, and always wants to send letters by her; but every ship that takes letters from her is sure to be lost."

"Well, then, if I was captain of a ship," said I, "and met the Flying Dutchman, I wouldn't take any of his letters for him."

"No more would I," said Haines; "but, what's more, when you see the Phantom Ship, even though you don't speak her or take letters from her, you are liable to have white squalls and hurricanes, waterspouts and tornadoes. He has a crew that are just as bad scoundrels as himself. They are thieves, cowards, murderers, and all such sort of fellows; and they have to do just as he does, stay on watch all the time, and eat and drink stuff that a Christian wouldn't and couldn't touch."

"Did you ever see the Flying Dutchman's ship?" I asked.

"N-o," said Haines, drawling out the word; "I've never seen the Phantom Ship myself, but I've a good many friends what has seen it. You're not likely to see him round these here latitudes; it's always away off somewhere, generally down by the Cape of Good Hope, and between that and Cape Horn. The Phantom Ship is always sailing with a fair wind and everything spread, and she looks like the great big ghost that she is. 'Tisn't such a very large ship, the kind of craft the Dutchmen used to have two or three hundred years ago; and the men that navigate her seem to know their business.

"There's another phantom ship a good deal older and bigger than the Flying Dutchman; so big is she that the ship I've been telling you about wouldn't make a yawl for her. The French sailors call her the Lightning Chaser; and she's so big that it takes her a year to make a tack. Once, when she was bound north, she got stuck in the Straits of Dover; but her captain smeared the port side of the ship with soap, and she crept through; but the soap scraped off against the British cliffs, and that's what makes 'em so white. When she got into the Baltic, the sea was too narrow, and they had to lighten her. The ballast that she threw over made the island of"—

A cry of "Sail ho!" from the mast-head attracted the attention of everybody, and made a sudden end to the story of the Flying Dutchman.

I forgot to say that when we found in the morning that the man-of-war was quite out of sight we changed our course back to the proper one; that is, the one on which we were running when we sighted that unwelcome stranger. The new sail was reported dead ahead: there was a bare possibility that it might be the one whose acquaintance we made the day before, and I heard the captain say to the mate that we'd better change our course and avoid her; but no orders were given to do so. The captain and mate went out of earshot of the men, and so I can't tell what they talked about. They kept looking every little while, or rather the captain did, at the sail which we were steadily nearing. It was evident that she was not running in the same direction that we were, or we would not have overhauled her so rapidly.

We had the weather-gauge of her, though, just as the Britisher had the weather-gauge of us the day before. Consequently, if we did not like her looks on getting nearer, it was quite easy for us to get out of her way. It was my watch on deck at the time, and when I could do so I took a squint at the ship, and wondered why the captain did not turn away and leave her to herself.

On and on we went; and after a time Haines said to me,——

"I don't believe that's any man-of-war at all!"

"Why so?" I asked.

"Why, don't you see?" said he, "a man-of-war always looks a great deal more trim and neat than a merchantman: they've plenty of men on board to do all the work they want, and more too; and sometimes the officers sits up nights to study up things to keep the men busy. The captain has made out long ago that she ain't no man-of-war; for I can see it with my naked eye. Her sails are all hanging lopsided like, and I'll bet from the looks of her she's mighty short-handed in crew. Our captain's running to speak to her; or, at all events, he's running near enough for it."

The wheel had been put over a point or two and the yards braced around, so that we were headed directly for the stranger. All the sailors on the Washington were studying her, and wondering what she could be, and she was guessed to be anything and everything that ever sailed the seas. One of the men even guessed that she was an Indiaman, bound home from round the Cape of Good Hope. I had seen pictures of Indiamen and she certainly wasn't anything of that kind. Then she was thought to be an English or French trader to the West Indies, and one of our men thought she was a Spanish craft from some Spanish port to Mexico. The suggestion that she was an Indiaman was laughed at, as she was quite out of the course of vessels from the Cape of Good Hope for England, and at that time we had practically no ships sailing between American ports and the East Indies.