The Boy Scouts for Uncle Sam. Goldfrap John Henry
fortune a chain, rusty, but still strong seemingly, depended from the bows of the old craft. This withstood a test, and, led by Ensign Hargreaves, the boys clambered on deck. Quartermaster Tarbox and the four sailors who had manned the oars were left in the boat.
The boys' hearts beat a little faster as they stood on the forecastle of the abandoned Good Hope. Nor was this caused by the exertion of the climb altogether. There was something uncanny in standing upon that long-untrodden deck, while right below the break in the forecastle the bell kept up its doomsday-like tolling.
The ensign's first task was to make fast a lanyard to the clapper of the dismal thing, and thereafter their nerves felt steadier. With the dying out of the clamor of the bell, a death-like hush fell over the abandoned ship. Only the rippling complaint of the water as she rolled to and fro broke the stillness. The boys actually found themselves talking in whispers under the spell that hung above the decks of the ill-fated Good Hope.
"Let us explore that deck house first," said Ensign Hargreaves, and, followed by the boys, he started for the small structure which stood just aft of the wreck of the foremast.
Little dreaming of the surprise that awaited them within, the boys followed, on tip-toe with curiosity and excitement.
CHAPTER IV.
A MYSTERY OF THE SEA
The door of the deck house was closed. But the ensign opened it without difficulty, and with the boys pressing close on his heels he entered the place.
Hardly had he done so before he fell back with a sharp exclamation. The next instant the boys echoed his interjection with a tone in which horror mingled with surprise. Seated at a table in the cabin was what at first appeared to be a man. But a second glance showed that, in reality, the figure was a grim skeleton upheld by its posture and still bearing mildewed and mouldy sea clothes.
"What a dreadful sight!" cried Rob, shivering, although the day was hot.
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed the naval officer. "He must have perished just as he sat. See, there is a paper under his hand, and there lies the pen with which he had been writing."
He stepped forward to make a further examination, and the boys, mastering their instinctive dread of the uncanny scene, also approached the table.
The writing beneath the dead man's hand was on a fragment of paper, yellowed with age and covered with scrawlings grown brown from the same cause. Mastering his repugnance, the ensign took the paper from under the skeleton's fingers that still rested upon it.
"What is it?" demanded Rob.
"Look at it for yourself," returned the officer after scrutinizing the document.
Thus addressed, Rob took the mouldy screed while his chums looked over his shoulder curiously.
"Why, it's nothing but a mass of figures," he exclaimed.
"That is certainly so. Some sort of cipher, I suppose," struck in Merritt.
"That's what it is, I imagine," agreed the ensign; "but see this cross marked in red ink in the midst of the figures! What can that be intended for?"
"If you don't mind, I'll try to figure this out sometime," said Rob. "I'm rather fond of working cryptograms and such things. It will serve to pass the time, too, when we reach the Island."
"That is perfectly agreeable to me," returned the officer. "If you can make anything of it, it may serve to solve the mystery of this ship. For that a mystery there is about the whole thing, I feel certain."
"It does seem uncanny, somehow," agreed Rob; "the posture of this man, this strange writing! I wonder how he died?"
"Impossible to say," rejoined the officer; "but let us investigate further. We may make some more discoveries."
"I hope we don't make any more finds of this character," rejoined Rob with deep feeling.
Reverently and quietly they made their way out of the presence of the dead mariner.
Their next objective point was the poop of the vessel, where a high, old-fashioned quarter-deck upreared itself above the main deck. Port holes looked out from this, and the party of explorers rightly judged that here had been the living-quarters of the ship's officers. A door of heavily carved mahogany gave access to the space below the lofty poop-deck. Pressing through this, they found themselves in a dark, dingy-looking cuddy. The cushions of the lockers, which ranged along each side, were green with mould and in the air hung the odor of decay.
A skylight above gave light to this chamber, and at its sides four doors, two to a side, opened off.
"Those doors must lead to the staterooms of the former officers," declared the ensign, and a tour of inspection of the rooms was begun at once. In the first three, after a thorough ransacking nothing more interesting was to be found than some old sea chests, containing garments and nautical instruments of antique pattern. In the last, however, which bore traces of having been better furnished than the others, there hung a crudely painted picture of a grizzled-looking seaman, on whose breast hung conspicuously a gold image of a whale. Apparently this was some sort of an emblem. But to Rob the portrait presented a clew.
"Why, that same emblem hung on the uniform of the dead man in the deckhouse!" he exclaimed.
"So it did," cried the ensign. "Boys, from the looks of it, this was the cabin of the master of the ship, and yonder body, it is my firm belief, is his."
But Merritt had stumbled upon another discovery. This was nothing more than a large book, bound in leather. But to the ensign it seemed to be apparently a highly important find.
"It's the ship's log-book," he exclaimed, pointing to the embossed words on the cover. "Now perhaps we may light on a partial solution of this mystery."
He opened the book at the first page, and learned from the crabbed writing with which it was covered, that the Good Hope, Ezekial T. Daniels, master, had set sail from New Bedford for the South Pacific whaling ground in April, 1879.
"Gracious, that was about thirty-three years ago," stammered Merritt.
"I have heard of derelicts that drifted longer than that," said the naval officer calmly.
He began turning over the leaves of the log book. It was an epic of the sea. Every incident that had befallen the Good Hope on her long voyage was faithfully set down. He skimmed through the records, reading the most interesting bits of information out aloud for the benefit of his youthful companions.
From the log book it was learned that the Good Hope had met with indifferent luck on her long three years' cruise, but had suddenly run into a most extraordinary bit of good fortune.
"Listen to this, boys," exclaimed the ensign with what, for one of his self-contained nature, was strong excitement, "it reads like a bit of wild romance."
Without further preface he began reading:
"'May, 1883 – This day encountered the strangest thing in all my experience. As set down, we have drifted into the Antarctic ice pack. This day sighted a berg within which was a dark, shadowy object. On going in the ship boats to investigate we saw to our amazement that the said object was a ship. The ice surrounding it was thin, mostly having melted.
"'From what I knew of such craft I decided, incredible as the idea might seem, that the craft within the berg was a long frozen up Viking ship. Not knowing just what her recovery might mean, I undertook to blast her free of her prison. We had plenty of dynamite on board for the very purpose of ice-blasting. By three of this p. m. we had the ship blasted open. I and my officers at once entered the hole the explosive had made in the craft's side. We expected to find strange things, but none of us was prepared for what followed. The hold of the imprisoned ship was full of ivory.
"'My first officer, William Clydesdale, an Englishman, and a college man before strong drink ruined him, pronounced the ivory to be that of the tusks of the extinct mammoths which scientists say formerly inhabited these regions.'"
"Phew! This is romance with a vengeance!" exclaimed Rob.
"Did they get the ivory?" asked the practical Paul Perkins.
"Yes,"