The Wind-Jammers. T. Jenkins Hains
was a good swimmer, and made some headway until I butted hard into a floating object I failed to see in the darkness and nearly stove in my skull. I reached wildly upward, and my hands clutched the combings of a hatchway.
Then I recovered myself and drew my tired body clear of the sea. I had a float that would keep me from sinking as long as I had strength to stay upon it.
The Yarmouth bore down on me, and I cried out. She altered her course a point or two, but did not stop, and in a moment she was gliding away into the darkness, leaving me alone on the hatchway.
I could hear the rush of the water under her bluff bows, and the cries of the men on deck calling out orders. Then she faded away into the night.
In a little while I heard a cry from the dark water near me, and soon I made out a man’s head close to the hatch. I called to him, and reached out and pulled him up on the float, for he was too weak to help himself.
He raised his face as it came close to mine, and I recognized my brother-in-law, Mr. Robinson.
He was very feeble, and I soon saw that he was badly hurt, but he said not a word and lay there on his back, quietly gazing up at the stars.
I could see his features with that look of profound thought expressed upon them as in the days we worked in the ship-yard together.
My only feeling towards him was one of awe. No idea of killing him entered my head, though I could easily have disposed of him in his present weak state, so there I sat gazing at him, and he took no more notice of me than if I was part of the floating hatchway.
In a little while I made out another dark object in the water near us, and presently a voice hailed me. I answered, and soon afterwards a piece of spar supporting three men came alongside the hatch.
They were all Robinson’s followers. Taking some of the rigging that trailed from the spar, they lashed it to the hatch, and the two pieces together made a serviceable raft.
Then all drew themselves clear of the water and lay prone on the float to rest.
It was an awful night we spent on that bit of wood washed by the waves, but when morning dawned the breeze fell away entirely, so the sea no longer broke over us.
The sun rose and shone hot on a glassy ocean, and not a sail was in sight.
There is little use in describing the four days of suffering spent on that float. Robinson was horribly burned and badly cut by a blow from a cutlass. His left arm was shattered from the shot I fired at him, and he was otherwise used up from the minor blows he had received in his fierce rush. But he lived long enough to prevent his ruffian crew from killing me. I was bound by a solemn oath to say nothing of the affair as I had seen it, so that if we were the sole survivors—which we were not certain of being at that time—there could be no evidence to implicate my shipmates.
Robinson must have known that he was fatally hurt, and that is the reason he made them spare my life. Whatever I told would not harm him; and, besides, I really think he turned to the memory of my sister during those last hours.
He died very shortly after the Yarmouth picked us up, and the British officers and men buried him with some ceremony; especially respectful were they when they were told that he was our executive officer.
There was some truth in this grim falsehood, although not of the kind suspected.
He was sewn carefully in canvas the day after we were rescued, and had a twelve-pound shot lashed to his feet. The burial service was read by the ship’s chaplain in much the same tone I had heard Robinson quote from the Scriptures in my father’s house.
All the officers uncovered as he was dropped over the side, and the silence that followed the splash of his body into the sea was the most impressive I have ever observed to fall on so large a body of men.
Had they known the truth about this villain, it is doubtful if they would have shown him so much honor and respect; but then the truth is often hard to secure, and also often undesirable when attained.
Peggy mourned her husband a year or more, but after her boy began to occupy her attention she brightened up and married Mr. Rhett, who was ever faithful to her.
I kept my oath because I took it. The three surviving ruffians had joined the British navy and no retribution could be meted out to them; and as for my sister, she always held her husband’s memory sacred, and only harm could come to her and her son through knowledge of the truth about him.
Captain Vincent of the Yarmouth may have thought it strange a frigate like the Randolph should have met such a sudden end, but it was always understood that she must have blown up from the effects of the shot from his bow-chasers. Some of these did hull her, and it was the most reasonable way to understand the matter.
Now, when all are gone, there can be no harm in telling what I know of that affair.
TIMBER NOGGINS
MR. ROPESEND, the senior member of the firm of Snatchblock, Tackle & Co., sat in his office and drew forth his pocket-knife. Upon the desk before him lay a small wooden box which contained a patent taffrail log. After some deliberation he opened his knife and began to pry off the lid of the box, whistling softly as he did so. In doing this he awakened a strange-looking animal which lay at his feet. But the animal, which Mr. Ropesend called a “daschund,” after raising its long body upon four twisted and double-jointed legs until its belly barely cleared the floor, appeared overcome by the effort and flopped down again with its head towards its master and its hind legs trailing out behind on the floor.
Mr. Ropesend carefully removed the lid of the box and with considerable anxiety removed the instrument. Then he laid it carefully upon the table, while Gaff, his pet, looked lazily up with one eye, and then, not caring for logs, slowly closed it again.
Presently Mr. Ropesend appeared to have developed an idea. He rang the bell. A boy appeared almost instantly at the door leading into the main office.
“Tell Mr. Tackle to step here a moment, please,” said Mr. Ropesend in a soothing tone.
The boy vanished, and in a few minutes a man with red whiskers trimmed “dishonestly”—with bare chin—made his appearance.
“Good-morning, Mr. Tackle; here’s the patent log for Captain Green. What do you think of it?”
“H’m. Yes. H’m-m. I see. I don’t know as I’m any particular judge of logs, although I’ve been in this shipping house for twenty years. But it appears to me to be a very fine instrument. Very fine indeed, sir. Sort of screw-propeller that end affair, ain’t it?”
“That’s it, of course,” said Mr. Ropesend in a tone bordering on contemptuous; “sort of a fin-screw with long pitch. It says in order to regulate it you simply have to adjust the timber noggins. I should suppose a man who has been in a shipping house as long as you have would know all about a plain taffrail log and be able to regulate it so as to use it, if necessary.”
“Ah, yes, I see,” said Mr. Tackle instantly, without appearing to hear the last part of the senior’s remarks. “Eggzackly. Regulated by timber noggins, of course. I didn’t notice it, but any one might know it couldn’t be regulated without timber noggins. Let me see it closer. That new cord gave it a strange look.”
“I’m glad you like it and understand all about it,” said Mr. Ropesend in a tone of decision, “for I’m very busy, and you can just take it into your office and explain it to Captain Green when he comes for it. He will be here presently.”
So saying the senior quickly replaced the instrument in the box and had it in the astonished Tackle’s hands before he could get out an H’m-m. Then he commenced writing rapidly upon some important-looking papers before him, giving Mr. Tackle to understand that the incident had closed.