Chips Ghost

Chip’s Ghost

By A. Hyatt Verrill

From Sea Stories Magazine, 1924 January 20. Digital capture by Philip Bolton Jr., Betty Paulos and Doug Frizzle 2009, December.

This is the story of the happenings aboard a whale ship as related by one of the mates to some old cronies who were gathered together and were swapping yarns, inexplicable happenings, and superstitions.

Old Captain Daniel Taber, of the Helena, was one of the hardest skippers that ever sailed out of New Bedford. On his last trip he goes further than he has ever gone before, and starts shooting at his crew on the least provocation. The climax is reached when the carpenter, “Chips,” while repairing a boat skid slips and, in trying to recover his balance, drops his hammer and it falls through the cabin skylight and lands alongside the Old Man’s head as he is sitting in his cabin reading the Bible.

The captain comes on deck and shoots him in cold blood, and then refuses to give him a regular burial. What follows makes this a thoroughly interesting yarn, and verifies Captain Lampson’s statement that what he related was gospel truth.

The grizzled, weather beaten old seamen, gathered in the snug “Whaleman’s Club” in that once greatest of whaling ports, New Bedford, were swapping yarns. They had told of thrilling adventures, incredible escapes, heart stirring battles with whales, of shipwreck, mutinies and cannibals. Gradually the talk turned to mysterious happenings at sea, to inexplicable occurrences and to superstition and the supernatural.

“Did any of ye ever see a ghost?” queried Cap’n Lampson as he rammed his pipe full of tobacco and struck a match.

One after the other the circle of old whalemen shook their heads.

“Well, I did,” asserted Lampson peering from beneath his heavy brows at his companions as if challenging them to contradict him.

“I ain’t never told it before,” muttered Lampson, after a moment’s thoughtful silence. “But it’s gospel truth for all that.”

“Hey, sheet home and square away,” burst out nervous little Lemuel Potter. “Stop fillin’ an’ backin’ and get on yer course and let’s have the yarn. Course it’s true—don’t none of us doubt it.” He winked slyly at the others.

“It happened when I was second mate of the old Helena,” began Lampson. “Long about twenty-five years ago, yep, just about—’96 ‘twas—Cap’n Dan’l Taber, skipper. Toughest old cuss whatever went after sparm, he was—Hellfire Taber they used to call him. By Judas, if he’d been the Dan’l what went into the lions’ den ‘twould have been all up with them critters. Regular brute he was—born fighter and oughter been a pirate ‘stead of a whaleman.”

“Um, um, I knowed him,” commented Cap’n Josiah as Lampson touched another match to his pipe. “Lost at sea I recollect. Went crazy or somethin’.”

Yep, that’s part of this here yarn,” assented Lampson. “Well, as I was sayin’ Taber was skipper and the first mate was a chap named Dickson. Come for Si’sconsett and same sort of breed as the Old Man. Tough! Say, you could have heaved a iron at him and his hide would have turned the point, I’ll bet! ‘Course I ain’t sayin’ as greenies

Can be treated like a Sunday School class and officers has got to beat sense into their everlastin’ thick skulls with a handspike or a ropes’ end now and again. But there ain’t no use beatin’ ‘em up if they ain’t got the sense to learn and some on ‘em can’t never learn the difference ‘twixt a main yard and a cuttin’ stage. And there ain’t a mite of use cripplin’ ‘em so they can’t work or killin’ of ‘em. I don’t allow I’m so everlastin’ soft or tender hearted, but by glory, what I seen aboard the old Helena fair made me sick. First days breakin’ in we had three of the greenies lyin’ with broken legs or arms, and second day, when one of ‘em couldn’t get aloft beyond the main yard, the mate grabbed up a marlin spike and started after him. Old Dan’el was watching. ‘Here, Mr. Dickson,’says he. ‘Don’t bother goin’ aloft. I’ll bring him down as long’s he don’t want to go up.’ Sayin’ which he pulls out a revolver and plugs away. Second shot the chap lets out a scream and comes droppin’ down. Shot him like he was a buzzard roostin’ there. ‘Toss him over the side,’ orders the Old Man pocketin’ his gun and turns away.

“And the old rascal pretended to be plumb religious too. Deacon of the church he were and read the Bible every day and was always quotin’ Scripture. An’ superstitious! Godfrey’s boots, he was fuller of superstitions than a shad is of bones! Howsomever, we had pretty fair luck, cruisin’ round the Caribbean, and gradually we worked down to the south Atlantic grounds. But ‘twan’t a happy ship, I tell ye.

“Course there wasn’t nothin’ done, though the hands hated the skipper and mate like poisen, and if they’d been real seamen they’d have mutinied inside three weeks. But the Old Man and Dickson had ‘em cowed. After they’d been beat up an’ had bones broken and two more had got bullets through ‘em—though they weren’t killed—they done what they was told on the jump.

“’But the Old Man had overdid it.”

“S’long’s the mates and boat steerers and other officers hang together and don’t chum with the greenies too much there ain’t no danger of trouble, but ‘ceptin the mate there weren’t a man jack aboard the Helena what wasn’t sore against the skipper and the mate. As a result, all hands for’ard was hand in glove and thicker’n molasses.

“Yep, I didn’t have no use for them two either, and the hands knowed it. ‘Course I had to follow orders and all that, but when it come to dirty, bloody, no sense brutality I left it to them as hatched it. Had a good many words with Cap’n Dan’el over it too, but he seen he couldn’t scare me and he needed me and at last he give it up.

“Then off Noronha we begun to have bad luck. Couldn’t raise a whale, no wind, and just rolled and wallowed along fit to slat the sticks out of her for three mortal weeks. Seems like the calm and no whales made the Old Man worse. He used to pace the after deck with his head down and just his singlet and drawers on talkin’ to himself and glowering like a mad bull for hours at a time. Then he’d set down below porin’ over his Bible and mutterin’ to himself.

“Least little thing’d drive him into a tantrum and he seemed to take unholy joy makin’ the hands work. Yes, sir, there, with never a breath of wind, he’d have ‘em ordered aloft to shorten sail, then, soon’s ever that was done, he’d roar out to put on every stitch the old bark’d carry.

“I tell ye it was fair hell aboard the Helena and the whole of us would have gone mad if the wind hadn’t have come up and two days later we took a eighty barrel bull. We kept getting’ more as we worked south and stood over to the east’ard. The, one day, the Old Man was down below readin’ his Bible when Dickson orders Chips to come aft and do a bit of work on the spare boat skids. He was workin’ away when somehow he slips a and catchin’ hisself up he drops his hammer and it goes kerplump through the skylight and lands within a inch of the Old Man’s head.

“The next minute he comes racin’ up the companion. ‘Damn ye,’ he yells, catchin’ sight of Chips just stoopin’ over the skylight to see where his hammer’d gone. “Ye will try to murder me! Take that, ye blankety blank son of Satan!’ With that he whips out his gun and afore Chips knows what’s up he plugs him.

“Chips let’s out a yell, claps his hand to his chest and lurches for’ard. Afore he’d taken three steps the skipper blazes away again and Chips jerks up and pitches down on his face abaft the mainmast. The Old Man shoves his revolver back in his pocket. ‘Mr. Lampson,’ says he, a nasty twisted smile on his face. ‘Have that carrion pitched over the rail and clean up the muss on the deck.’

“Well, sir, I was just about ready to tell the old murderer just what I thought of him. It was cold blooded murder—nothin’ less and I could see the hands for’ard edging toward the spades and irons by the bench and lookin’ everlastin’ ugly, ‘cause Chips was a prime fav’rite and they’d seen the whole bloody rumpus. But I managed to hold myself. Howsomever, I was sick of him and his ways. ‘You’re not meanin’, sir,’ I says, ‘that he’ll not be given burial?’

“The skipper swung round and I thought for a spell he was goin’ to plug me next. ‘Burial!’ he snorted. ‘Wastin’ Christian burial on a sneakin,’ underhanded, murderin’ dog like him. Obey my orders, Mr. Lampson or, by the eternal, you’ll follow him!’

“By that time I was het up and didn’t give a cuss what happened. I laughed,” Ye may be able to shoot down your men—even your carpenter—Cap’n Taber,’ says I, ‘But you’ll find it a different matter if you try it on your mates. If you don’t want to give proper burial to Chips it’s on your conscience, not mine. But, mark me, you’ll be damned sorry for it before this cruise is done.’

“I thought he was goin’ to shoot for sure. He half pulled his gun, his lips drew back over his yellow teeth and he crouched for’ard.

“Just then Dickson stepped over, ‘No use startin’ a row ‘twixt officers,’ he says ‘’specially over a bit of worthless carrion like that,’ he nodded towards Chips still lyin’ there with a widenin’ stain of blood around him. ‘Maybe, if ye think so much of proper obsequies over the body ye can ‘tend to it yourself.’

“’I will,’ says I, ‘I expect Chips’ soul’ll rest easier than if his murderer said prayers over him.’

“By glory, you should have seen the look the skipper gave me at that. He was so crazy mad he couldn’t even speak. Just gulped and ground his teeth and got purple and reached for his gun. But the mate said somethin’ and began talkin’ and I turned and went for’ward.

“I called to a couple of hands to pick up Chips’ body. Told the sailmaker—who was also cooper—to sew him up and ordered the blacksmith to knock a few links off an old chain to put at his feet.

“It was too late to get Chips sewed and bury him that night so the hands takes him for’ard and I tells ‘em the skipper won’t read the service, but I’ll attend to it first thing the next morning.

“Yes, sir,’ says the cooper, a dried up little old Irishman named Tiernan, “We heard the talk, Misther Lampson and the boys is wid yez, sir. B gorra ‘tis a murtherin’ haythen, is the Ould Man. And by the same token the mate is worse. Thank yez, sir, for seein’ as poor Chips has dacent burial, sir’”

“Well, next mornin’ along about six bells, I went for’ard and seen Chips’ body neat sewed in a bit of old canvas ready for the service. The Old Man wouldn’t back the yards and I didn’t ask him. I called the men and they lifted Chips onto a hatch cover and with bare hands carried him over to the rail. I read the service, lifted my hand, and as the hatchcover was tipped Chips dropped with a splash into the sea. He sunk kind of slow and, the bark bein’ under way, he went slippin’ aft, sinkin’ all the time and in the clear water you could see him like a light blurr of green gettin’ smaller and fainter, sort of as if he hated for to take that long v’yage of Lord knows how many thousand fathoms down to Davy Jones.

“The wind was mighty light—we weren’t makin’ over three or four knots—and it kept fallin’ till we was just makin’ steerage way. Long about eight bells it was nigh dead calm and was gettin’ foggy. You know what a south Atlantic fog is. Not one of them thick greasy fogs like we have up north or on the banks, but a wispy sort of thing, driftin’ along like smoke. One minute you could see a couple of miles clear as is, next minute all shut off to starboard and clear to port. Then ‘tother way about. First you could see the mastheads sharp against the smoky lookin’ sky and by the time you’d winked twice the riggin’ faded away at the topmast caps. Worst sort of fog for navigatin’ if there was ships about. But of course down there, with the whole ocean clear, there weren’t no danger. Only trouble was there weren’t much chance of raisin’ a whale. All the afternoon we was driftin’ about in it, sometimes fillin’ an’ drawin’ ahead a few knots, then sails slattin’ and just rollin’. The sun went down in a bank of murk and the moon give a sort of ghostly look to the sea. One minute hid back a mass of fog and balcker’n Jonah’s pocket, the next shinin’ through and makin’ it light as day with the clouds of fog white, like driftin’ snow.

“I was standin’ at the port rail aft by the mizzen riggin’, the mate was below and Cap’n Dan’el was pacin’ the deck to starboard.

“Suddenly I heard him let out a sort of gasp and wheelin around I seen him lookin’ aft with his head sort of bent forward starin’.

“Next minute he goes runnin’ aft reachin’ for his hip pocket. Wonderin’ what in thunderation was up I walked aft too. The Old Man was ahead of me and as he reached the taffrail he ripped out a string of cuss words. ‘Damn ye!’ he yelled. ‘Keep off! Get back where ye belong. Take that, damn ye!’

“With that he let drive and then I sees, Bobbin’ up and down in the wake, and sort of twistin’ an’ twirlin’, was a sort of gray-white thing, shapeless but sort of humanlike at that. Soon’s I seen it I knowed what ‘twas. It was Chips! Yes, sir, either the chain had bust through that rotten old canvas and let him bob up or there wasn’t weight enough to keep him down or somethin’. Anyhow he’d floated up, and getting’ in a current or maybe drawn along by the suction of the wake, there he be astern of us like he was follerin’ the old Helena. The first shot the skipper let drive splashed into the water alongside Chips, but the next took him fair. Seemed like to me there was a queer sort of sound—bit like a groan—when the shot hit, but the Old Man kept blazin’ away.

“At the first shot the man at the wheel had looked back and when he see what ‘twas he let out a awful screech and dropped the wheel and started for’ard.

“’Twixt grabbin’ the wheel and yellin’ for the blasted idiot to come back, I had enough to do without watchin’ that corpse, though I heard the skipper poppin’ away.

“The feller came slinkin’ back whiter’n a sheet and without lookin’ aft took the wheel and when I look back Chips had disappeared and the Old Man was standin’ with his empty gun lookin’ dazed and his red face the color of putty. A wisp of fog had drifted past the stern and shut out everything more’n a biscuit toss away and of course I couldn’t say as Chips has sunk or was just hidden by the fog. At the sound of the shootin’ Dickson had come rushin’ up on deck and had pulled his gun and was askin’ the skipper what was up.

“The Old Man began to cuss excited. ‘That there blankety blank son of a wharf rat,’ he says. ‘Follerin’ us along and tryin’ to board us. By the eternal, I settled him though.’

“Dickson gave a short, hard laugh. ‘Better come below and have a shot of rum. Cap’n,’ he says. ‘Guess Chips won’t trouble you none. I’ve seen corpses do the same thing before now. ‘Tain’t nothin’to fret over.

“As they passed me by I could see the Old Man was shakin’ and his mouth was tight shut, but he went below with Dickson. Then the cooper came aft with a parcel of the hands and wanted to know what the shootin’ was about.

“When I told ‘em they looked scairt an’ gathered together in a bunch and looked nervously to starboard an’ port as if expectin’ to see Chips bobbin’ up again.

“The cooper shook his head serious. ‘Shure, sir, ‘tis bad business that do be,’ he said solemnly. ‘Poor ould Chips is onaisy an’ll be hangin’ ‘round afther us and bad luck he’ll be bringin’. Praise be ‘tis not afther anny av us uor yez he do be afther, Mr. Lampson.”

“Go for’ard,” I said, ‘and stop talkin’ that rot. Didn’t you never know of a body floatin’ up before? There ain’t nothin’ supernatural about it. We ain’t made a dozen knots since we dripped him over this mornin’ and there’s currents here’bouts runnin’ faster than we’ve been sailin’.”

“They didn’t say nothin’ and went for’ard. At four bells the skipper came on deck again and I went below to get some tobaccer. Just as I was startin’ out of my berth I heard a scream from the deck that sent shivers down my back. Mut’ny,’ I thought, an’ grabbin’ a gun I went up the companion in two jumps. Just before I reached the deck I heard the skipper yellin’ in a sort of choked, gurglin’ voice, “Do—do ye see him?’ he said. Then I heard the hand at the wheel.

“No, sir, I don’t see nothin’,” said he, kind of puzzled like. What ‘twas he didn’t see I didn’t know, but next minute I was on deck and, by Judas, I seen, and I tell you I felt like a bucket of water’d been splashed over me.

“Alongside the gangway, one leg over the rail like he was just comin’ aboard was Chips! His clothes were drippin’, there was a big red splotch over the front of his shirt and his face was sort of sickly green, like a shark’s belly. By glory, my knees was shakin’, Icould feel my jaw saggin’ and my throat felt stranglin’. Then I heard a sort of groan from the skipper and a curse. I wheeled around. He was standin’ holdin’ to the mizzen riggin’ with one hand, the other pointin’ at Chips and his face the color of old canvas. ‘My God!’ he sort of moaned. ‘He’s come back!’ Then he lets got the backstay, jumped for’ard, whipped out his gun and fires and falls flat on the deck.

“I jumped to him and gave a frightened glance to where Chips’ ghost had been. He was just steppin’ onto the deck and seemed sort of fadin’ out in a wisp of fog. The next minute he was gone. I turned the skipper over just as Dickson come on deck. “Here, look after the Old Man,” says I, and ran for’ard. I’d been mortal scared, but I’d got my sense back by now. ‘Where’d he go?’ I yelled as a bunch of the men came out of the fog lookin’ scared.

“Where’d who go?” asked a boat steerer. “What’s the shootin’, Mr. Lampson?”

“Chips,” I says.

“’Chips?’” answered the boat steerer, lookin’ like he thought I was crazy, “Chips?” Why ye buried him yerself this morning,” says he.

“’Aye an’ he just come aboard,’ I said. “Skipper and me seen him and cap’n fired at him.”

“The hands looked about, frightened. They hadn’t seen him, that was sure, and I run for’ard and downthe fo’c’s’le. He wasn’t there, but of course I knowed he wasn’t. Hadn’t I seen him plump into the sea all sewed up myself and hadn’t I seen him bobbin’ about in the wake with the skipper pluggin’ his corpse? By Godfrey, I begun to feel queer. You see I hadn’t never taken no stock in ghosts and spirits and such things, but I’d seed one now. I could feel my hair bristlin’ on the back of my neck and cold chills goin’ over me.

“I came on deck slow and walked mighty cautiously over to where I’d seen Chips. Just ‘longside the rail where’d he sat was a pool of water and ‘twas stained red!

“Well, ye can bet no one turned in that night aboard the old bark. Mate had got the skipper down to his berth and the Old Man was babblin’ of Chips and ghosts and eternal damnation and what all—gone clean off his head. Dickson was tryin’ to argue with him. Tellin’ him he just had a halluc’nation or somethin’.

“’Take a man and search the ship,’ he says to me. ‘Go through her from fore peak to lazarette an’find the damned scoundrel what’s tryin’ to play ghost.’

“I knew t’wan’t a mite of use, but I called the cooper and a boat steerer and started. When over the bark from truck to ballast and from stem to stern, but of course nary a sign of anything.

“The hands were all talkin’, mutterin’ and hangin’ about together, lookin’ scared half to death. “’Tain’t surprisin’, said the boat steerer. “Chips was murdered and of course he couldn’t rest easy. Like as not he just want to have a word with the skipper.’

“The cooper sat over the rail. ‘Shure Oi tould yez he was afther the ship,’ he said. ‘Soon’s ever he come up astarn Oi knowed ‘twould be boardin’ av us he’d be afther doin’.

“Well, after a bit, the skipper went to sleep and with mornin’ it all seemed like we’d been dreamin’. The fog lifted, a good breeze came up and nothin’ happened that day. The night was clear and bright moonlight and every time I looked towards the gangway I felt myself tremblin’. But Chips didn’t come aboard again and nothin’ happened that night. Next day the cap’n come on deck. Lookin’ kind of drawed and old, but seemin’ all right, but I caught him lookin’ furtive at the gangway a couple of times and he kept mumblin’ to himself. By and by he went below and began writin’ in his journal.

“About four bells in the afternoon we raised a whale and lowered two boats. Me and Dickson sent in and got two irons into him. He was about a seventy barrel bull—stowed seventy-four barrels I recollect—and by the time we got him under the cuttin’ stage it was black dark, the night bein’ cloudy and the moon risin’ late.

“Cause all hands fell to, cuttin’ and boilin’ with the bug light glimmerin’, and gutterin’. We’d got in the junk and sperm’cetti and were gettin’ on right well when there was an all-fired yell and the hands in the blubber room came pilin’ on deck.

“’Chips!’ yelled one of ‘em. ‘His ghost’s down below!’

“I give one jump and went down. But nothin’ was there. Not a sign of Chips’ ghost. I was just about leavin’ when I heard an awful screech on deck and as my head comes above the hatch coamin’ there was a shot and I wheeled around and, by Judas, I most tumbled back to the blubber room again. Standin’ by the for’mast and sort of red in the glare of the bug light was Chips, and slumped down on the deck, yellin’ and moanin’ like he’d gone plumb crazy was the cap’n.

“I made a jump for Chips or whoever ‘t was, tripped over a tackle and went down. But I never took my eyes off him and I seen him just fade away into the blackness like he’d done afore. It wasn’t no use of course, I might have known you couldn’t catch a ghost and the skipper’d ought to known he couldn’t shoot a spirit. Well, ye can bet there weren’t no more cuttin’ in or boilin’ that night.

“Dickson cussed and threatened and I did my best, but there was open, mutiny though the hands didn’t try violence. But they wouldn’t work; nary one of ‘em, and I couldn’t much blame ‘em. All that mortal night we stood around, the men whisperin’ and’ keepin’ close together, me and Dickson on the quarterdeck—and by glory for once I was glad of his comp’ny and felt mighty friendly to him and the skipper ravin’ like a madman down below.

“Seemed like mornin’ would never come, but at last it did and with daylight the men fell to again. Cut the whale adrift about two bells in the afternoon and squared away under all plain sail. Dickson and me was on deck and we hadn’t heard nothin’ from the cap’n’s berth for some time.

“Reckon he’s sleepin’,” said the mate. “Mebbe he’ll wake up all right. What do ye think ‘bout the whole consarned business anyhow, Mr. Lampson?”

I shook my head. ‘I never had no faith in ghosts,’ I says. ‘And I’ve always laughed at superstitions. But blow me, if I don’t believe now. Did you see it?”

“Not the first time,” he said. “But I seen it last night.”

“Well, what do ye think?” I asked.

“Dickson looked about as if half expectin’ to see Chips sneakin’ up. “Twixt me and you,” he said, low and quiet, “I think Chips come back to haunt the Old Man. I’ve been a tough man in my day,” he goes on after a bit. “But I never killed no man in cold blood. I can stand for knockin’ ‘em about and I’d never stop at shootin’ in case of mutiny, but as for murder—no, sir, I ain’t for it.”

“Well,” says I, “mebbe Chips just wanted to haunt the skipper and that’s why he ain’t showed up to you, but I was pretty friendly with him and the hands, and he ought to be grateful to me for givin’ him Christian burial and so I don’t see why he’s scarin’ the liver and lights out of me and his mates for’ard.”

“’Mebbe he knowed ye didn’t believe in spirits,’ said Dickson, ‘and wanted to convince ye. But I’ll tell ye one thing,’ he says. ‘It’s been a lesson to me. By cripes, seein’ him standin’ there in the dark with the bloody shirt was enough to turn a man’s hair white.’

“Don’t think there’s anything funny about it, do ye?” I asked, though I knows as well as I want to there ain’t.

“I thought so at first,” he says, “when cap’n told me about it. But we searched the ship twice an’ there ain’t any place a body could hide away an’ not one of the hands missin’ when he came last night. An’, hell, I couldn’t be mistook about Chips.”

“Me neither,” says I. “An’ I seen him sewed up and slipped over—to say nothin’ about him being killed in the beginnin’.”

“Ain’t no doubt of it,” says the mate. “’Sides, didn’t the skipper plug three bullets into him when he was floatin’ along in the wake? No, sir, it’s Chips’ ghost all right an’ I wish to blazes I was ashore an’ out of it.

Before I could say anythin’ more there was a yell from below, then a shot.

“He’s come again!” stammered Dickson. For a minute we just stood starin’ at each other an’ then down we goes—but not lively, I tell ye.

We seed a little wisp of smoke driftin’ from Cap’n Dan’el’s berth an’ steps along mighty slow an’ shakin’, not knowin’ when Chips might show up. But when we got to the skipper’s berth an’ looked in we forgot all about the ghost. He was lyin’ there, his head lollin’ off his bunk, his eyes open an’ starin’ an’ dead as a door nail. His pistol was still in his hand an’ one side of head black with powder where he put the gun an’ blowed out his brains.

“Must have seed Chips again,” whispered Dickson. “An’ couldn’t stand it.”

“Well, sir, we couldn’t get the cooper to touch him. Said he’d be shot before he’d put palm an’ needle to sewin’ up the skipper an’ him refusin’ to give Chips decent burial. An’ all hands was with him. In the end Dickson an’ me did it and, by glory, we had to carry him up and slip him over ourselves too!

“Seemed somehow, after the cap’n’d gone, like a sort of load was lifted from the ship. The men weren’t surly and our luck changed too. We took three sparms a runnin’ and stowed over two hundred barrel or ile an’ye’d oughta have seed the way Dickson changed.

“He was skipper now, an’, by Godfrey, he went out of his way to treat the hands right. An’ seemed like poor old Chips must have been satisfied too. Mebbe he just wanted Cap’n Dan’el’s spirit to keep him company down to Davy Jones or somethin’. Anyhow he didn’t board us again an’ bimeby we begun to get over bein’ scairt for fear he would, an’ four days after we buried the Old Man we sighted St. Helena an’ put in for water and veg’tables.”

“H’m,” muttered old Cap’n Josiah, as Lampson finished speaking and knocked the ashes from his pipe. “Didn’t never see no more of the ghost, eh?”

Cap’n Lampson chuckled. “Yep,” he replied, a twinkle in his keen eyes. “I did, an’ by Judas, it scairt me a dern sight worser’n the first time I seen it. I was ashore an’ dropped into a grog shop for a sip an’ when I looked up, by glory, there was Chips’ ghost a-lookin’ at me solemn like. I was all aback, gapin’ like a fish outa water. I hadn’t done nothin’ to Chips and’ yet there he be a ha’ntin’ me.

“Well, sir, fact was, Chips hadn’t been killed after all. Got a flesh would ‘crost his chest an’ lay on the deck playin’ possum so’s the skipper wouldn’t shoot again. That’s when the idea came to him an’ he and his mates cooked up the scheme for givin’ the skipper a proper fright. Cooper sewed up a lot of old canvas and ropes an’ Chips hid out in a empty cask what the cooper fixed up an’ stowed ‘long of the full ones in the ‘tween decks. ‘Tween times he eat an’ slept in the fo’c’s’le. The dummy, floatin’ along astarn, was just chance—dumb luck—but it helped. An’ seein’ as how Chips was logged as dead an’ skipped ship to St. Helena I didn’t see no cause for changin’ the log. ‘Specially seein’ what a heap of good the ghost’d done Dickson. Yes, sir, last time I seen Chips’ ghost it was in that there grog shop an’ drunker’n a sojer. I’ll bet ye I’m the only man whatever seen a drunk ghost.”

A. Hyatt Verrill and Sea Stories Magazine

A. Hyatt Verrill and Sea Stories Magazine (1923-1928)

A. Hyatt Verrill (1874-1954) began writing articles in magazines about 1896. Born in New Haven and with his father working in sea research studies, it is natural that he eventually wrote many ‘sea stories’. AHV was a prolific author, penning over 110 books and we have located another 110 articles in various periodicals over his lifetime.
Links in these pages go to most of his books and articles. The research on his life and work was started about five years ago. Now, the major missing documentation to his life work is down to one dozen submissions.
Each missing story, or collection, has some attribution that makes it unique to Verrill’s lifetime. So it is with these nautical tales from Sea Stories Magazine.

Sea Stories Magazine, a Street & Smith publication, appears to have been sold from 1922 to 1927, as a twice monthly publication at first. It was a pulp, made from inferior paper that deteriorates quickly. The online library catalogue, WorldCat, lists only four libraries worldwide with any copies of the magazine. Of course, photocopying of these magazines is out of the question at this time. Sea Stories magazine had limited artwork. Almost every story begins with a simple line sketch with the title. The magazine covers were significantly better paper and the artwork was very well done in colour. The magazine was priced at single copies for a quarter with a yearly subscription at $2.00. At one time the magazine appeared twice a month, later once a month.
We have been fortunate to find a library graduate student, Philip Bolton Jr. who was interested in a project to capture the adventures by Verrill as published in Sea Stories Magazine. The archival copies are bound series; Philip often had to resort to holding the book open with one hand while photographing with the other. The Camera was a Sanyo HD1 which has great resolution. Even at that, there was no way that my OCR converter could deal with the bent and bowed text that resulted from the pages being photographed, not scanned flat. Connections Clubhouse has provided a service typing the Verrill manuscripts.
One of these stories, ‘And a Little Child Shall Lead Them’ is the first story that I have located with mention of Nova Scotia. This story written during prohibition, is about rum running and includes many geographic references including Pictou and New Brunswick.
Although we know when these stories were published, we can only guess when they were written. They appeared during a time when Verrill resided in NYC. After most of his ‘jungle visits’ Verrill would return and live at a seedy hotel next to the National Museum of Natural History. The hotel was notorious as a residence for mobsters; now it is an upscale condominium, sharing its original name the Endicott.

And a Little Child Shall Lead Them

This is the first story from Verrill that I have found that mentions Nova Scotia where we live.

Verrill's 'Sea Stories' were published in the 1920s, when Verrill lived in The Endicott Hotel in NYC, a notorious home to mobsters. The hotel became a upscale condominium in the 1990s.

And a Little Child Shall Lead Them

By A. Hyatt Verrill

From Sea Stories Magazine, 1923 April. Digital capture by Philip Bolton Jr., Betty Paulos and Doug Frizzle 2009, December.

The motives that prompt sailormen to engage in the illegal business of smuggling forbidden liquors into the United States are the same as the motives for all other smuggling. Men in all ages have been tempted by easily-attained riches to break the customs laws and sumptuary laws, and, it must be said, have been hindered little by conscience, though they might strictly and willingly follow the laws dealing with other crimes—the crimes specifically named in the Decalogue. One is inclined to think that all possible emotions and situations in smuggling have been written about in the centuries that writers have been dealing with the subject. Yet here is a story with a new situation. It seems unlike any “rum-running” story we have ever read.

“So that’s the graft, eh?” rumbled Captain Carmichael as he straightened up in his chair and gazed from under bushy brows at the overdressed, florid-faced man across the little table. “Want me to run a cargo of booze and risk my ship and the calaboose or a fine for me and me men for five thousand while you set back safe and sound and pocket the profits. No, mister, nothing doing.”

“Got cold feet or too law-abiding?” sneered the other.

Carmichael’s eyes flashed, his lips set in a hard line and one huge fist clenched as he half rose. Then he settled back. “Cold feet, hell!” he burst out. “No one never said Jerry Carmichael got cold feet yet without being derned sorry he spoke; and as for the law—any fool law like this dry business was made to be broke. No, mister, game ain’t worth the candle, that’s all.”

“Maybe we might sweeten the kitty a bit if that’s all,” suggested the other man. “Would ten grand tempt you?”

For a space the bull-necked, deep-chested seaman studied his companion thoughtfully. Then: “Say,” he ejaculated, “you fellows make me tired. You think you’re some pumpkins, but you don’t know no more about running in contraband than a suckling babe. You’re a bunch of pikers and dumb fools besides.

“You send a schooner down to load hootch in the Bahamas and you know blamed well Nassau’s full of spies and every keg and case you put aboard’s checked off, and then the craft sails north with faked papers and sneaks up the coast and lays to twelve or fifteen mile off shore, just advertising she’s crooked, and then a towboat or a launch goes off making enough racket to wake old Davy Jones and you get chased and catched or have a gun fight or maybe land a few hundred cases and clean up a few thousand and call it business.

“No, mister, my motter’s ‘a thing what’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well’ and you might’s well die for a sheep as a lamb. The fine ain’t no bigger if you bring in a thousand cases than if you bring in one, and big deals are what pays.”

The other snorted. “If you’re such a wise guy why don’t you do it?” he demanded. “Reckon from what I’ve heard of you you’ve had some experience running contraband before now. It would pay you a lot better than running that old schooner of yours with cargoes of lumber and coal.”

“Why don’t I!” retorted the skipper. “’Cause I ain’t got capital to swing it. Booze costs money—even where it’s made—but, by glory, if I had the backing I could bring in the Ella May full to the hatches and land it in broad daylight on a New York dock with the customs watching of me!”

The florid-faced man shot a keen, searching glance at the rugged, heavy-jawed captain and intense interest showed in every feature. “Look here,” he exclaimed, lowering his voice and casting a swift, furtive glance about the dingy water-front café. “Maybe we can do business after all, cap. Tell me the lay and if it listens good the money’s easy.”

Carmichael laughed derisively. “Think I was born yesterday, eh?” he jeered. Then, before the other could reply, he continued: “Guess ‘twon’t do no harm though. You couldn’t do it without me and”—he leaned forward and his teeth snapped together—“if you try any monkey business with Jerry Carmichael you’ll wish to the Lord you was safe in jail.”

For the next ten minutes the seaman spoke earnestly in hoarse whispers, and as he talked the other’s eyes sparkled, a knowing grin spread over his coarse features and he nodded approvingly from time to time.

“Damned if I don’t think you can put it over!” he cried enthusiastically as Carmichael finished. “But it’s going to cost a pile of money.”

“’Course ‘tis,” agreed the captain. “Didn’t I tell you that’s why I couldn’t swing it—and needs organization, too. You’ve got both and I’ve got the ship and the know how. Make it a fifty-fifty deal and I’ll put it through and no risk to you, either. All you got to do is hire a office like I said; hang out your sign—West Indian Trading Company, or any such name—‘tend to the cables and papers and dig up the cash. Leave the rest to me.”

For a time the other remained silent, thinking deeply, going over the captain’s plan in detail in his mind, trying to discover some fault, some flaw, some remote contingency that might lead to discovery and disaster. But he could find none. The scheme was so open, so frank, that he could see no possible cause for suspicion and, if it worked—as he felt it must—it would mean a fortune and the biggest cargo of liquor ever smuggled into the United States. And there was no reason why it should not be repeated indefinitely.

The possibilities were staggering. He and his friends would literally be the kings of the bootleggers and could force out all competition. But why had no one ever thought of it before? There were plenty of unprincipled ship masters and owners fully as smart and as scheming as the Nova Scotia man before him, and this thought made him cautious.

“Why hasn’t some one else tried it?” he demanded.

“Hell, how do you know they ain’t?” retorted the captain. “But there ain’t none of them done it big or you’d ‘a’ heard of it, I guess. Maybe they’ve thought of it but didn’t have the cash, like as I didn’t, and then again, maybe they ain’t. Why don’t you ask why some one didn’t think of steamboats aside from Fulton, or half a dozen fellows think of electric lights? Mister, some one’s got to be the first to think up something new.”

“H’m, that’s so,” admitted the other, “and the first one’s the guy that makes the cleanup. Sure about that place where you can transship?”

“Do you think I’m crazy or just drunk?” snorted the other. “Course I’m sure. Not sighted once a century by no ships. Why it ain’t even down on most maps.”

“Well, I can’t see any chance for a slip,” admitted the florid-faced man at last. “How long will it take to get it here?”

Carmichael pondered, wrinkled his heavy brows and drew a stubby pencil and a crumpled paper from his pocket and figured for a few moments.

“Allowing three days for you to get that office and things fixed up and get them cables off and allowing three weeks to get the orders filled and delivered, and two weeks to me to load, I’d ought to be steering north’ard course in about six weeks. With fair weather I’d make Sandy Hook inside two months from the time I clear from New York.”

“Good enough!” exclaimed his companion, “I’m with you, Carmichael. How soon can you clear?”

“I got an offer of cargo now,” replied the skipper. “I can close to-day and have it under hatches in forty-eight hours.”

“Fine! And how much ready cash’ll you want to handle your end of it?”

“Just about the figure you named a spell back for risking my ship and my reputation to run in a measly lot of booze from Nassau,” chuckled Carmichael.

The other laughed and slapped the big seaman on the back. “Does seem kind of a joke, don’t it?” he exclaimed. “Just chicken feed alongside what we’ll be putting in our jeans a couple o’ months from now.”

Captain Carmichael was as good as his word. Two days after the conversation in the café, his schooner was dropping down the harbor in tow of a fussy tug. In his pocket he carried an official-looking document wherein was set forth the fact that the “schooner Ella May, British, Pictou, N.S., Jerry Carmichael, master,” had been chartered by the Antillean Trading and Development Company for the South American and West Indian trade, “said charter to enter into effect from the date upon which the present cargo was discharged and the said schooner ready for sea at the port of St. John, New Brunswick.” And with this was a second paper whereby Captain Jerry Carmichael, master and owner of the schooner Ella May, was duly appointed as agent of the Antillean Trading and Development Company with powers to transact the company’s business that were very broad indeed.

Carmichael grinned as he thought of this. “They’re a bunch of crooks,” he soliloquized, “but dumb fools when it comes to maritime matters. Maybe there’s honor among thieves and maybe there ain’t, and I ain’t taking no chances. Long’s they play straight, fine and dandy, but I got ‘em on the hip. Charterers are responsible for their agents’ acts, by Judas, and let ‘em try any monkeyshines and there’s one agent as’ll make ‘em sweat blood.”

And in the meantime, back in New York, the florid-faced man and his fellows had been far from idle. Upon the glass of a door leading to sumptuous offices in a down-town skyscraper, was the gilt legend: “Antillean Trading and Development Company,” and within, the florid-faced, overdressed individual sat at a masive desk surrounded by all the accepted accessories of a shipping and commission business.

Upon the walls were pictures of steamships and sailing vessels, photographs of picturesque South American and West Indian ports, a huge map of the Caribbean and even a number of curios. A bookcase was filled with consular and trade reports, government bulletins, a Lloyds’ Registry and various publications dealing with shipping and the export and import business.

There were stenographers and assistants; typewriters clicked incessantly and cables were sent and received with amazing prodigality. And the contents of these were beyond question. One of the first had been to a British house, ordering a large consignment of choice liquors to be shipped at once in bond to a consignee in Trinidad, others had ordered similar shipments to Barbados and other British colonies in the West Indies, but there was nothing to excite the least suspicion in these. The West Indians as all know, are a thirsty lot; liquors form a bulk of the shipments from England to many of the islands, and the Antillean Trading Company advertised on its stationery that it acted as agents and commission merchants with representatives in England and various Caribbean ports. Moreover, there had been various cables and letters dealing with totally different matters.

Requests had been received for quotations on sugar, cocoa, cabinet woods and balsa. Whole shipments of general merchandise, of motor cars and of machinery, had been arranged for by the company with various steamship lines plying between New York and Antillean ports. Evidently the company was well supplied with funds and was doing a good business, for it paid cash for all transactions, it had hired dock and warehouse space and its mail was voluminous. The keenest investigator could not have picked a flaw or have found the most remote reason for suspicion in the activities of the new firm and—as a matter of fact, no one tried.

In due time the Ella May docked at St. John, discharged her cargo and paid off her crew. Carmichael wired to New York for orders, received instructions to secure a cargo of lumber if possible, and if not to proceed in ballast, and to sail for Maracaibo where he would receive further orders and cargo. He at once left by steamer for Pictou, returned two days later with a crew and mates from his home town and managed to secure a cargo of lumber for Barbados.

Without unusual incident the Ella May came to anchor off Bridgetown and Carmichael went ashore. He found, as he expected, a cable awaiting him stating that a consignment of liquor was due to arrive in bond and instructing him to see that it was released and shipped to a certain consignee in another island. Jerry thereupon made his way through the glaring white streets, dodging the rattling mule drays with their loads of sugar, the sweating negroes, rushing blindly about with their cumbersome hand carts the innumerable flivvers and all the multitudinous forms of vehicles which go to make up the congested traffic of Bridgetown’s business center, and at last reached a narrow lane and climbed a flight of rickety wooden stairs to a dingy office.

“Well, I’ll be blowed if ‘tain’t Jerry Carmichael in the flesh!” cried the thin, lantern-jawed individual in white drill who had sprung up from a Berbice chair at the captain’s entrance. “What’s on your mind, old shipmate?”

For a space the two talked in subdued tones, for walls are thin in Barbados and voices carry far. Then the white-clad party clapped his hands, a turbaned colored girl appeared and a curt order was given. “I’ve got just the craft,” announced the lanky man. “Give me the order and I’ll see it’s carried out, Jerry. Depend on me. Fifty pounds should do it.”

The girl returned, bringing tall glasses filled with the island’s national drink—the green swizzle—and again shuffled from the room.

As the two sipped the iced beverages they discussed business, shipping, the sugar crop, everything but the matter in hand, until Carmichael rose to go and handed the other a written order within which was folded four hundred dollars.

There’ll be more coming your way if you handle this right,” commented Carmichael. “And if you don’t there’s plenty who can.”

But Baxton had no intention of failing. Armed with his documentary proof that he was the accredited local representative of the Antillean Company, he visited the port officialdom, secured the necessary orders for the release of two hundred cases of the best Scotch, and before sundown had it safely aboard a St.Lucia sloop and with a native crew of two disreputable looking gigantic blacks was sailing southwestward bound ostensibly for St. Vincent. Well out of sight of land, however, the sloop’s course was changed, sail was shortened and the little craft cruised aimlessly about the Caribbean until three lofty white sails appeared above the eastern rim of the sea, and with a curling white wave about her shearing bows the Ella May came plunging toward the waiting sloop.

Swiftly the cargo was transferred, the two vessels parted company and a few days later once more met off Martinique. This time choice wines, liqueurs and champagne changed hands. Off the Grenadines, case after case of Haig and Haig and other British brands were whipped up from the bobbing sloop to the three-master.

North of the frowning Venezuelan coast, still more was transferred from the sloop slipping out through the Bocas from Trinidad, and at Curacao, Holland gin varied the assortment of liquid wealth accumulating in the capacious hold of the Ella May. Then the sloop headed northward once more and the schooner surged west before the sweeping trade wind for Maracaibo.

All her papers were in perfect order, a cable was waiting for the skipper with instructions to load a small shipment of sugar and a few thousand billets of balsa wood, and to proceed to Rio de la Hacha for additional balsa.

When at last she headed northeast from the Colombian coast she was full, the sugar serving admirably for ballast and light, cork-like balsa filling the hold to the hatches and overflowing in generous deck load.

Well out of sight of the steamer lanes she held her course, and four days later the lookout in the crosstrees made out a low-lying smudge of land upon the horizon off the starboard bow.

In the lee of the lonely forsaken islet, the almost unknown bit of land scarcely a mile in circumference, rising barely a dozen feet above the waves and over one hundred miles from any land, the Ella May dropped anchor.

It was an ideal spot for Carmichael’s purpose, a seagirt no-man’s land whose ownership was claimed by Britain, France, and Holland, but not worth squabbling over; the abode of countless thousands of sea birds from which it had received the name of Aves Island, and so far from the beaten track of steam or sail that, as Jerry had assured his florid-faced companion in New York, it was not sighted once in a century.

And here on this God-forsaken bit of guano-covered rock the crew of the Ella May labored like demons at a strange occupation while, from dawn until dark, the staccato exhaust of a gasoline motor frightened the screaming sea birds from their nests. Although balsa is the lightest of woods, handling ten-foot billets for hour after hour is hot, heavy, back-breaking work. But Jerry had chosen his crew from among those he knew and could rely on, the reward in store was great, there was no complaint and at the close of ten days of unremitting toil the Ella May’s sails were hoisted, her anchor rose slowly to the catheads and she headed for the Windward Passage and distant New York.

Upon the rapidly fading islet a smoldering pile of ashes was all that remained of innumerable cases that once had contained the choicest liquors of Europe, while hidden from chance prying eyes, buried in a cavern of the rocks, were strange things to be found upon a schooner or a desert island—four powerful, expensive things of steel and gears and motors, power-driven boring machines with four-inch augers.

Two months to the day from the time the Ella May had set sail for St. John, she was nosing her way up Ambrose Channel, to be moored, eventually, beside the Antillean Trading company’s wharf on the East River.

Without delay hatches were lifted, the deck load of bales was rapidly discharged and up from the hold was swung log after log of the light, soft wood consigned to a manufacturer of life belts through the Antillean Trading company as agent for the consignee.

Each straight log was neatly marked at the end with a red circle and a cross, as called for on the invoices and manifest, and as hundreds of the billets were piled in orderly stacks inside the dock shed, Jerry and his friends were in high spirits.

There had been the usual search of the schooner for contraband, but nothing was found, not even a flask among the possessions of the crew, and not a paper among the mass of documents tracing the schooner’s movements since she had cleared from New York showed that even a case of liquor had been on board.

Everything had gone smoothly every detail had worked out exactly as Carmichael had planned, and when the stevedores knocked off work and the big doors of the dock were drawn to for the night the captain and florid-faced partner felt that riches were within their grasp and that they were absolutely safe.

“You’re a wonder, captain,” declared Jerry’s companion admiringly as, seated in his luxurious car they were whirled uptown to celebrate their success by a dinner tendered Carmichael by the “company.” “Did you have any trouble?”

“Not a mite,” replied the skipper. “Everything went fine as silk and smooth as oil. By glory, didn’t I tell you I’d do it? But say, wouldn’t them customs chaps get the jolt of their lives if they knew what was going on under their noses?”

“You said it,” chuckled the other. “Do you think there’s any chance they might get wise? There’s a hundred grand for each of us in this and I get nervous as a cat thinking of what might happen.”

“Not a chance,” Carmichael assured him. “Just forget all that.”

Upon the wharf, old Tom, the watchman, surveyed the great tiers of logs speculatively. They had awakened memories of the past. It was from just such a schooner as the Ella May that they had been discharging logs—rosewood from west Africa—when one of the billets had slipped and crushed his leg, ending his sailor days forever and compelling him to stump about on a timber leg for the rest of his days.

That was twenty-odd years ago, he remembered, with a vague sort of surprise that the years had fled so rapidly, and they surely had treated him square, he thought. Yes, given him the job as watchman for life; not much pay in it, but better than nothing, by gum! Yes, sir, didn’t know what would have become of Hetty and little Bobbie after Jack was lost when his ship was torpedoed if he hadn’t had this job. But how about it when he died?

He was getting old—couldn’t last much longer—but perhaps he’d hold out until Bobbie was big enough to work. Fine little kiddie, Bobbie, bound he was going to be a sailor, too—just like his dad and his gran’ther. And what was that the little rascal had asked him? By gum, yes, that was it, he’d almost forgotten it—a boat. “Make me a boat, gran’ther,” he’d pleaded, “a boat just like the one daddy was in.”

The old fellow chuckled. Fine way to pass the long night—whittling out a boat for Bobbie—and patiently he commenced searching about for a bit of clear pine from which to carve the hull of the toy. Bits of oak there were—old hatch wedges and skids, broken fir and spruce scantlings, odds and ends of a dozen different varieties of wood, but not a block of pine to be found.

Vaguely he remembered having seen just such a piece as he wanted somewhere, and, striving to focus his thoughts, to remember where it had been, he unconsciously poked at one of the balsa logs with his wooden leg. To his amazement, it moved easily and, his curiosity aroused, he stooped, grasped one end of the billet and exclaimed in surprise. “I’ll be blowed! Don’t weigh scarcely nothin’. Why in blazes couldn’t it ha’ been a log like that that tumbled down atop o’ me? Wonder what dumb kind o’ wood ‘tis annyhow.”

Curious to learn more of the strange light wood, the old fellow drew out his pocket knife and tried its edge on the log. It cut like cheese and his eyes lit up. If only he had a bit of that wood it would be just the thing.

Possibly, he thought, there might be a piece splintered or chipped from a log, and with his flash light he sought diligently but to no avail. Too dumb bad, so his thought ran, he just wanted one bit of the stuff to make that toy boat so Bobbie wouldn’t be disappointed and here were hundreds of the logs with hundreds more still on the schooner. Surely the owner could spare a little piece; he couldn’t grudge the kiddie that. But no, that wouldn’t be right—to cut a piece from a log for the boat.

He was there to protect property, not to make use of it, and slowly, with disappointment in his old eyes, he closed the knife, slipped it in his pocket and stumped with bent head to the little cubby-hole with its broken-down chair. But his mind kept turning to Bobbie and his boat, to the light, soft wood which would be just the perfect material for the toy, to the fact that there were hundreds of logs and all he wished was a few inches from one.

Of course he couldn’t help himself. Why hadn’t he remembered Bobbie’s boat sooner, before the schooner’s captain left, so he could have asked permission? Then he glanced up and temptation stared him in the face. Hanging upon the wall was an old saw, one some careless had left behind and that had been kept awaiting a claimant, and hardly knowing what he was doing, the old man rose, grasped the saw and with his inner consciousness telling him not to and his love for his grandchild urging him on, he walked slowly toward the pile of logs. He’d tell the captain or the agent in the morning, he declared to himself, would explain why he needed the bit of wood. Would offer to pay for it out of his scanty wages if necessary.

Thus salving his conscience, he selected a smooth, straight log, gauged the length he would need for the boat and drew the saw across the wood. It bit in easily—it was almost like sawing tallow—and in no time it had sunk to the depth of an inch. Then, with an odd rasping, grating noise it slid uselessly across some hard material.

“Shucks!” exclaimed the old man. “Derned stuff’s got a hard heart after all. Just soft outside. Reckon I’ll have to split off-a piece of it. Mebbe it’s thick enough. Withdrawing the saw, the watchman opened the heavy blade of knife, inserted the point at the bottom of the scarf made by the saw and, using his knife chisellike, he endeavored to split off the soft wood. For a few moments the balsa refused to split, the blade merely digging into the wood, and then, as he exerted more strength, the wood suddenly gave, a section split off and hung dangling by a few fibers and the old man stood gazing, speechless, dumfounded, at what he saw. Resting within a hollow in the log was a dark brown bottle!

“Wall, I’ll be blowed!” ejaculated the watchman when at last he recovered his voice. “What the—” Cautiously he had lifted the bottle. No second glance was needed to tell what it contained—and as he did so his mouth gaped and he stared with unbelieving eyes. Beyond the first bottle, separated by a wad of straw, was a second. The next moment the old fellow was all alert, the boat for Bobbie was forgotten and with shaking fingers he pulled the straw out, extracted the second bottle and found more straw and another bottle beyond.

“I swan!” he cried. “The derned log’s full o’ booze. By Godfrey, darned if I ain’t run onto somethin’!”

Carefully placing the bottles on the floor, he seized his saw and, utterly regardless of the right or wrong of his act, attacked another log. In a moment he knew. Once more the saw had grated upon the glass within and old Tom almost collapsed upon the dock.

It was overwhelming, incredible. If every log contained liquor there were thousands of bottles—tens of thousands of dollars’ worth—secreted in the balsa. It was too stupendous for the old fellow to grasp. Here, right under the eyes of the customs, boldly discharged in broad daylight on a wharf, were barrels of the finest liquors. What was he to do? Should he call the police? No, that would never do, he decided. They might hold him for a witness, might charge him with cutting the logs in the first place—he had heard bad tales of the police framing innocent men, of their standing in with the bootleggers—and he must do nothing that would take him from Hetty and Bobbie.

Perhaps he should notify the government agents. But who were they, where were they to be found? No, there was but one man he could trust, kindly Captain Carey, the manager of the dock company, the man who had given him his job; his boss.

But how could he reach him? It was nearly midnight; the captain would be at home, and it would be too risky to tell him of discovery over the telephone. And perhaps Captain Carey wouldn’t believe him, would laugh at him. Well, he’d first be sure there was more of the stuff, and rising, he moved to the pile of logs and selecting them at random sawed into them.

Yes, there was no doubt of it, every one was loaded with liquor and now he saw how it had been done. Each log had been bored, the bottles packed inside and the hole plugged, and the plug concealed by the painted red circle—the consignee’s mark on the end. Clever! The old man chuckled to himself at the very cleverness of it, but he had no sympathy with bootleggers.

Years ago drink had been his curse; it had nearly cost him his life, and he had vowed never to touch it again. But now, suddenly, with all this vast store of liquor within reach, with the excitement and nerve tension he was under, an almost irresistible temptation came over him to taste the fiery stuff once more. And with this long-forgotten desire came another thought. What business was it of his anyway?

If the customs men could be fooled let them be fooled. He could say nothing, could hide the bottles from the log he had split, could toss the log into the river and later dispose of the stuff of what to him, would be a small fortune. But the next instant he had hurled this half-formed thought from him. It had been bad enough to try to take that bit of wood for Bobbie’s boat, even though it had led to such startling results.

And at thought of the boy and his mother the temptation to taste the liquor was also crushed from his mind. How would he feel to go reeling home, his breath heavy with the fumes of whisky to face Hetty and Bobbie? It was unthinkable and with his lips set in a straight, hard line and with trembling hands he gathered up the bottles, carried them to his cubby hole and carefully secreted them.

But there was still that log with the gaping hole and the remaining bottles. He must get rid of that, for he had decided that he must wait for morning and then notify Captain Carey personally, and he knew that with that telltale log the secret would be out as soon as the stevedores arrived. The others, those with only the saw marks might escape notice—he could roll them over so the marks were hidden—but the other must be destroyed. So working carefully, he managed to extract the six remaining bottles from the log, half dragged and half rolled it to the end of the dock and dumped it into the stream. To hide the liquor was not hard—no one ever bothered about his tiny “office” as he called it—and thus having settled definitely on his plans, he seated himself comfortably and, almost unwittingly, started whittling the form of a tiny hull from a bit of balsa wood.

Captain Carey had not finished dressing when old Tom rang his bell the following morning. Never had the old watchman called at the house before, never had he deviated one jot from the routine of his work and instantly, when the watchman was announced, the dock manager knew something amazing must have occurred. Slipping on a dressing gown he hurried down, and as the watchman unfolded his tale the other could scarcely believe his ears. But there was no time for comment or for questions as to details. No sooner had the watchman given the gist of the tale than Captain Carey rushed to the phone and in ten minutes was back.

“It’s up to Uncle Sam, now,” he announced. “Now, tell me the whole yarn again, Tom.”

Once more the old sailor related his story, not sparing himself, going into the most minute details, baring his thoughts and temptations.

“And I reckon you’ll not be wantin’ me down on that job no more, Cap’n Carey,” he ventured. “I done wrong, cap’n, to take that there bit o’ wood, but somehow I jus’ couldn’t help it, I was that sot on makin’ a boat for the boy.”

“What did you do with it?” demanded Captain Carey with an odd note in his voice.

Old Tom fished the half-finished toy from his pocket.

“H’m,” muttered the other as he turned the bit of balsa in his hands and gazed at it unseeingly. “Tom,” he said at last, “I suppose that, technically, you’re a thief and I don’t want you back on that dock. You’re going to be up to my office from now on with just three times the wages you’ve been getting.”

“By— Say, ye don’t mean that—honest to goodness—do ye?” cried the old man, hardly able to believe his ears.

“Absolutely,” declared Captain Carey smiling. “And a pension when you’re ready to quit. But I want you to do me a favor, too, Tom. I want you to take this bit of wood home, make the boat just as if you were making it for Bobbie and then give it to me. And I want you to take this and buy the best boat you can find in the city for the kid, and, if there’s any change left, use it for Hetty and yourself.”

As Captain Carey spoke, he handed the half-finished boat to the old man and with it a little wad of crisp new bills.

“But—but—by gum!” stammered the old fellow as his eyes grew moist. “I—I—“ He was interrupted by the telephone and the other springing up to answer.

“It’s all right, Tom,” he announced as he returned. “Got ‘em all; rounded up the whole gang. Do you know, Tom you’ve done a devilish lot more for me than you think. If some one else had found that booze I might have been in mighty bad. I rented the dock to that Antillean bunch and I’d have had blamed hard work to prove I didn’t know. Somehow it seems to me there’s more than just luck or chance in what you did—sort of Providence-like—and all because of that kiddie.

“Aye, cap’n,” muttered the old sailor as his gnarled fingers almost reverently caressed the bit of balsa wood. “Aye, by gum, a little child shall lead them.”

The End

The Mutiny of the Athol

The Mutiny of the Athol
By A. Hyatt Verrill
From ‘Sea Stories Magazine’ 1924 January. Digital conversion by Philip Bolton Jr., Betty Paulos and Doug Frizzle, 2009 December.

The life on a whaler is a series of feverish activities, working day and night after the whale has been caught, followed by spells of leisure cruising around awaiting the word “There she blows.” During the period of stripping the carcass, bailing the precious spermacetti from the case, mincing, boiling down, and filling the casks, the hands and brains of all aboard are too fully occupied to give even a thought to anything but their labors.
But when there is nothing to occupy one's mind and little more for the hands, the mischief makers, who are usually found on every ship, then get to work and stir up trouble.
The author has woven an interesting yarn about conditions similar to the above aboard the whaling bark Athol.


THE whaling bark Athol, sixteen months out of New Bedford, rolled lazily to the long swells of the South Pacific, her dingy brown sails slatting against the smoke-grimed spars at each leeward lurch. High upon her to'gallant crosstrees, the lookouts perched, scanning the vast rim of the ocean for telltale sprays from spouting whales and swung in wide arcs against the cloudless sky at every roll.
In the shadow of the spare boats on their cradle over the after deck, the captain and two mates sat, playing cards on the cabin skylight; the Portuguese helmsman dozed at the wheel, and the crew, seated about the decks, barelegged and with hairy chests exposed by open shirts, whiled away the time by carving odd curios from bits of bone and whales' teeth. In the doorway of the galley the negro cook crooned a plantation melody as he pared potatoes. Peace and calm brooded over the ship. There was no hint of trouble in the air. The men had been willing, content and obedient, the food was no worse than usual. In the hold were tiers of filled casks. The officers were neither brutal nor overbearing, and Christmas was but five days off. Already, in anticipation of the day, the "makings” of plum duff, puddings, pies and other delicacies had been broken out from the cabin stores, and a keg of rum and a barrel of Madeira were stowed in the cabin ready to be broached.
But among the riff-raff crew, drawn as whalemen always are, from slums and gutters, were all the elements of crime, all the fuel for tragedy which might flame up at the least provocation. And, as usual, there were malcontents, natural born trouble makers, men ever ready to break out against authority if they dared. In a secluded spot in the shade of the foresail sat two men earnestly talking in lowered tones. One was a large, burly ruffian with beetling brows, low forehead, piglike eyes and brutal, protruding jaw; the other a small, shifty-eyed, furtive fellow with lank, pale hair, sharp features and a ratlike face.
“It’s a bloomin’ shame, I says,” muttered Carmody, the big man; “here we be, workin’ like dogs, chasin’ whales an’ b’ilin’ ‘em down, sleepin’ in a pigsty of a fo’c’s’le an’ eatin’ wormy biscuit an’ rotten horse, an’ for what? Fer a measly lay o’ one bar’l o’ ‘ile outer every hund’ed an’ fifty! What we got comin’ to us now, I asks ye, Slim? Three bar’ls o’ ‘ile – sev’nty-five dollar – fer sixteen months o’ slavin’ an’ sweatin’. How’d they git the ‘ile if ‘twan’t fer us, I’d like to know? They orders us ‘round an’ makes us call ‘em ‘Mister’ an’ gits ten times our lays o’ ‘ile.”
“Sure,” agreed Slim; “but jes’ the same, it weren’t for the officers where’d we be? Think ye could handle a boat an’ strike a whale or nav’gate, do you? Course we couldn’t. Not that I ain’t sayin’ it’s not fair play fer us to get a rotten little lay like we does, but we knowed that when we signed on, ‘Sides, what yer goin’ to do about it?”
“Aw, what ye givin’ us?” growled Carmody. “Course we knowed it, but did we know we was goin’ to be robbed ev’ry time we drawed a chaw o’ baccy or a rotten dungaree out o’ the slop chest? Did we know we was goin’ to be stripped clean of advance money and what’s comin’ to us from the v’yage afore we come aboard? Ye bet we didn’t. What’s I goin’ fer to do ‘bout it? Aw, ye’re too cowardly fer me to tell ye. But there’s another thing I ain’t told ye yet. Did ye know the Old Man had ten thousan’ dollars in gold in his locker? Course ye didn’t. Nice crib to crack, eh? I thought that’d make yer eyes pop open. Say, look here. Do ye think ye could just kinder size up the boys, Slim? Just hint ‘bout that there gold an’ see how they talk.”
“How’d you know about the coin?” asked Slim suspiciously.
“How’d I know?” replied Carmody. “Steward told me. He heard the Old Man tellin’ the chief mate ‘bout it.”
“Aint aimin’ to start a mutiny, are ye?” demanded the other. “I’m agin’ that. Murder ain’t in my line.”
“Who said anythin’ ‘bout murder?” asked Carmody angrily. “A feller kin git hold o’ a bit o’ cash without murderin’, can’t he? Listen, ol’ man, here’s my idee.”
Bending close, the big fellow whispered earnestly into his companion’s ear. Suddenly, however, the cry “She blo-ows!” floated down from the lookout, and instantly all the men were on their feet, and there was bustle and rush everywhere as the crew peered anxiously ahead and waited for the orders to lower away.
To the skipper’s shout of “Where away?” came the answering call, “Two points on the lee bow, ‘bout two mile off.”
Then, as the whale spouted once more, the order was given to man and lower the boats, and a moment later the two tiny craft went tearing through the sea in the direction of the whale. For a time the two conspirators were separated. Carmody being bow oar in the chief mate’s boat while Slim was after oar in the boat steered by the second mate.

Each crew striving their utmost to outdistance its rival, the men bent to their long ash oars, fairly lifting the speedy whaleboats through the water, while in the sterns stood the mates, straining at the huge steering oars and urging their men to still greater efforts to win the honor of getting first irons into the whale.
Gradually the second mate’s crew drew ahead, until, when within a few hundred yards of the whale, his boat was half a length in advance. Then, as the men decreased their efforts and the boats crept cautiously near the great creature lazily rolling on the surface, the harpooners silently drew in their oars, lifted their irons, braced their legs in the knee chocks, and grasping the heavy weapons in both hands, stood ready to hurl them into the whale as soon as he was within striking distance.
Nearer and nearer they crept. At last the second mate’s boat was within a score of feet of the bit of black skin showing above the sea, and with set jaws and knotted muscles the harpooner raised his iron and with all his strength darted it at the giant monster. Scarcely had the point buried itself in the whale’s side when the chief mate’s boat was also fast. At the double swing of pain the whale raised high it flukes—throwing a deluge of water into the boats, and sounded, while the officers dropped their steering oars and leaped forward, the harpooners hurrying aft to seize the big oars and become boatsteerers.
Like streams of light the lines whirred from the boats, smoking through chocks, and leaping like living, writhing serpents from the tubs, as fathom after fathom was drawn into the depths by the diving whale.
Down, down he went, striving to rid himself of those stinging barbs, seeking safety at the bottom of the sea. One hundred fathoms of the stout hemp ran out. With lifted hatchets the mates crouched, ready to sever the lines and save the boats should the monster sound beyond the limits of the ropes. Then came the cry, “Haul slack!” and frantically the men labored, drawing in the lines which had slackened as the whale ceased his mad plunge. But long before the slack had been hauled and coiled the frenzied creature broke from the surface beside the boats. Throwing his stupendous head high in air and bringing it down in terrific trip-hammer blows with a noise like thunder, snapping and thrusting with his huge many-toothed lower jaw, thrashing to right and left with his twenty-foot flukes, the monster sperm whale churned the sea into foam in his madness.
Tossed on the heaving waves created by the creature’s struggles, half swamped by the water thrown into the boats from his lashing tail, the men alternately backed water, swung to left or right, drew closer, paid out line or hauled in slack, alert and ready for any move the quarry might make. Narrowly escaping death from the descending head, avoiding the shearing jaws by inches, saving themselves from the flailing flukes as by a miracle, they hung grimly on, until, anxious to get another iron into the whale, the second mate’s boat approached too near and the next instant was tossed a dozen feet in the air by a mighty blow of the whale’s flukes.
With their craft smashed to matchwood and one of their number instantly killed, the men of the stove boat struggled in the churning water, clinging to bits of wreckage and oars, until, at the risk of boat and lives, their comrades worked their craft near and rescued their half-drowned shipmates.
Hardly had this been done when, abandoning his tactics, the whale leaped into the air and with a mad, blind rush tore straight ahead, striving to escape from this tormentors. With line straight and taut as a bar of steel, the boat followed in his wake, a small mountain of foam about its bows, the boat steerer straining every muscle to keep the craft on its course, the men crouching low and frantically bailing out the water that poured in torrents over the gunwhales. Then, turning as on a pivot, the whale milled—swimming with express-train speed in circles—careening the boat perilously, dragging it in dizzy zigzags, spinning it like a top, but all in vain. Filled with the excitement of the chase, glorifying the deadly menace that beset them; thinking only of victory, the men waited, confident of the outcome of the battle, knowing that if the iron did not draw, if the line stood the strain, that in the end they would conquer.
Gradually the whale’s struggles grew less, his dashes became shorter, he swam more slowly and at last, exhausted, he rested motionless upon the surface of the sea. Instantly oars were slipped into rowlocks, and silently as ghosts the men worked their craft toward the tired whale. Now came the most dangerous part of the chase, the actual killing, the time of the death stroke with the lance. Carefully slipping the sheath from the keen-bladed weapon, the mate braced himself from the bow, both hands firmly gripping the lance haft, jaws set, teeth gritted, muscles tensed. Twenty, ten, six feet separated the mountain of flesh, bone and blubber from the frail craft. And then, just as the boat seemed about to bump into the whale’s side, the mate gathering all his strength for the effort, lurched forward and drove the lance deep into the creature’s vitals.
The next moment the stricken monster was transformed into a writhing, leaping, plunging demon of titanic fury. Heaving and tossing in the maelstrom, facing sure and swift death every instant, fighting for their lives, the whalemen, by marvels of skill and superhuman efforts, held their place, knowing no fear, oblivious to danger. Their slogan was, “A dead whale or a stove boat,” and presently a crimsoned spray rose from the creature’s blow-hole, the immense body rolled on one side, a flipper waved aimlessly in air and from the triumphant men rose the glad shout: “Fin up!” The battle was over, the whale dead.
But the whalemen’s labors and most dangerous work were not yet over, and as they toiled getting the fluke chain about the creature’s small end and towing him to the bark, Carmody and Slim had no chance to talk or even think of their plot, and for many hours thereafter, as the blanket piece was stripped from the carcass, as the creaking tackles were menaced and the dripping strips of blubber were hoisted in, as the precious spermacetti was bailed from the case and the crew toiled ceaselessly at mincing, boiling and filling the casks, hands and brains were too fully occupied to give even a thought to anything but their labors. But at last the final piece of blubber had been stripped from the whale, minced and boiled; the try-works fires had died down; the carcass, with its attendant swarms of sea birds and scavenger sharks was cast adrift; the decks were swabbed and cleaned; the men threw themselves down to a well-earned rest, and with eighty odd barrels of oil added to her cargo the Athol’s yards were squared and she wallowed on her course.
Well pleased with his luck, satisfied with the way his men had worked, and with visions of being homeward bound with a full ship, the captain decided to make a real holiday of Christmas, and accordingly headed for a nearby island that afforded a safe anchorage.
By mid-afternoon on the day before Christmas the cry of “Land ho!” rang out from the lookout, and rapidly the faint smudge of haze upon the horizon developed into a green-clad island, its crescent beach rimmed with waving palms and with turquoise water breaking in snowy foam upon the coral sand. Half a mile off the beach the Athol’s anchor splashed into the crystal-clear water, and with brailed and clewed sails the bark swung to her moorings off the tropic isle.
Upon the shore a crowd of naked savages watched curiously as the vessel came to anchor, and presently a fleet of swift canoes came speeding and bobbing toward the bark, their jabbering occupants holding up bunches of bananas, green coconuts, squealing pigs and other island produce. The natives had always been friendly, and the captain had no fears of them. As they swarmed over the ship’s side and gathered about, the skipper welcomed them, accepted their gifts and in return presented them with trinkets, cloth, tobacco and biscuits. Soon they were mingling freely with the crew, and preparations were made for a jollification, to include tests of strength and skill, games and general skylarking.
With the natives as an audience, the men boxed, ran, jumped, danced and wrestled in the best of spirits. Watching the fun, good-naturedly chaffing the losers and applauding the winners the officers stood near, until the burly Carmody, having worsted all competitors banteringly challenged any one to throw him in a wrestling match.
“Come on, any o’ ye,” he shouted. “There ain’t no line drawn to-day. All’s equals now. Where’s that there husky mate?”
“All right, Carmody,” cried the mate. “I’ll take you on. Think you’re champion of the ship, do you?”
Kicking off his shoes and stripping to the waist, the mate leaped to the deck and grappled with the man. With huge knotted muscles, straining, panting and chests heaving, the two men struggled and strained. Both giants in strength, hard as nails, accustomed for years to hard knocks, heavy toil and rough life, the pair were equally matched; but while the mate took it good naturedly and as a mere test of strength and skill, Carmody—surly, resentful and ugly—looked upon the struggle as a means of venting his hatred and injuring his opponent. His overpowering desire to play foul, however, defeated his own ends and made him careless, and presently skillfully shifting his grip, the mate threw his opponent heavily to the deck.
For an instant the sailor lay motionless and partly stunned, while roars of laughter and applause rose from men and savages alike. Thinking the fellow might be injured, the mate stepped forward to aid his enemy, only to be met with an oath as Carmody leaped to his feet.
“Damn ye!” he cried. “I’ll get ye fer this! Think ye can do me an’ git away with it, do ye? Jes’ wait an’ see!”
The mate flushed and his fists clenched angrily. “Lucky for you it’s a holiday,” he flashed back. “But let it go. I’m not holding any hard feelings. Forget it, Carmody. I threw you fair enough and you know it.”
Donning his shoes and clothes, the mate resumed his place beside the captain, while the fuming Carmody pushed his way among the crew and stood talking vehemently with his cronies.
The incident was presently forgotten as, tired by their skylarking, the men lowered the boats and pulled ashore, where, until evening, they frolicked on the sand, bathed in the tepid water, and made merry, as the natives pranced about in a weird dance to the music of tom-toms.
The captain, knowing the dire results that might follow, had given strict orders that no liquor should be served to men or natives, but surreptitiously a keg of gin had been smuggled ashore, and though there was not enough to produce intoxication among crew or natives, the taste of the liquor whetted their appetite for more and soon trouble began to brew.
The crew, excited by drink, took unwonted liberties with the natives and their belongings. The savages naturally resented this, and several were severely pummeled by the whalemen. This, however, was not at all to Carmody’s liking. He had no mind to incur the enmity of the islanders; it interfered with his plans, and being a recognized leader and feared by his fellows, he soon had matters smoothed out and peace once more established.
“Cut it out!” he commanded. “The first thing ye know the bloomin’ niggers will be stickin’ ye or shootin’ p’izened arrers into ye. They’re ten to one. What are ye aimin’ at? Want to be sarved up for their Christmas dinner, do ye?”
Thus, with common sense and a few blows, he restored order, and finally, approaching the chief, who spoke a queer “pidgin” English, he drew him to one side and talked earnestly to him.
His words evidently met with the chief’s approval, for the savage grinned and nodded, showing his gleaming, sharp-pointed teeth, and soon after the men tumbled into their boats and rowed back to the bark.
Knowing nothing of the trouble which had taken place ashore, the officers sat smoking on the after deck, chatting about people at home and of Christmas cheer. But they were not long to remain in ignorance. From the dark shadows a figure stole toward them and, touching his cap, spoke to the captain in hushed tones.
“The devil you say, Slim!” exclaimed the skipper. “So the swabs took gin ashore, did they? And you men know about gold, eh? I reckon ‘tis a pretty big temptation, but I guess they’re not such a bad lot. I’m sorry about that liquor and the natives, though. Thank ye, Slim.”
As the informer slunk away the captain turned to the mates. “I guess we’d better stow that gold somewhere else,” he remarked. “You never can tell what may happen. And you fellows had better shove pistols in your pockets. I don’t think there’s any danger, but it’s just as well to be ready. If ‘twasn’t Christmas to-morrow, I’d get out of here an’ not take any chances. I don’t trust the natives—they’re all right as long as sober, but once get ‘em started on drink and they’re fiends.”
But all was quiet ashore; there were no signs or sounds to indicate that the natives were not peaceably inclined, and so, having hidden the gold coin where they were sure none of the crew could find it, the other officers turned in, leaving the second mate on watch.
Listening for any suspicious sound, glancing frequently ashore and watching the deserted decks to detect any skulking figures or unusual movements, the second mate paced the deck, his thoughts on far-away New Bedford, but his senses alert and watchful, for he was fully alive to the dangers implied by Slim’s warning. Throughout the long hours of his lonely watch, however, nothing unusual happened, and waking the chief mate he threw himself upon his bunk and was soon sleeping soundly.
He was aroused by a piercing scream, the sound of rushing feet, the sharp reports of a pistol and the thud of a falling body on the deck above the cabin. As he leaped from his bunk and seized his revolver he noticed that it was broad daylight; then, springing to his door, he dashed out of the cabin and up the stairs.
Upon the deck lay the bodies of two of the men. Gathered in a knot and armed with lances, belaying pins, blubber spades and axes were the crew, obviously in mutiny, while facing them, with pistols in hands, stood the captain and chief mate.
Cowed for the moment by the deaths of their comrades the mutineers stood irresolute, for none wanted to be the next to fall. Then, his big bulk looming above his comrades, Carmody waved a boat spade threateningly. “Throw them guns overboard!” he shouted with an oath. “’Taint no use. We’re five to one an’ we’ll git ye. We ain’t aimin’ to kill ye, but we’re goin’ to have that gold if we have to murder ye to do it.”
A shot from the mate’s pistol was the only answer. At the report Carmody’s weapon fell clattering to the deck, and with a curse of pain and rage he staggered against the mast, half blinded by the blood streaming from a deep furrow cut by the bullet across his forehead. Maddened at the sight and forgetting all fear, the men leaped forward, but at the ragged volley from the officers’ pistols they again fell back, leaving three of their number sprawled upon the deck.
Seizing a whale spade from one of the fallen men, Carmody hurled it at the captain. Still dazed by his wound, his aim was far from true and the keen-edged weapon buried itself harmlessly in the woodwork. Even before it struck, the big mutineer fell lifeless, shot by the second mate, and, demoralized by the fall of their leader, the crew drew slowly back.
At this instant, and without the least warning, wild yells arose on every side, and naked savages poured over the bulwarks. Rushing to the rack of whale spades, the natives seized the terrible weapons and, like fiends incarnate, dashed at the three officers, who, amazed at the sudden and unexpected onslaught, were totally unprepared. Not until they saw the mutineers joining the savages did the three men realize that their own crew was being aided by the natives, and that, thus greatly outnumbered, their own case was hopeless.
Their only chance was to retreat and barricade themselves in the cabin. But it was already too late. Even as they turned, a hideously painted savage leaped forward with blood-curdling yell, and with a single blow of a spade almost beheaded the unfortunate captain. Wresting the weapon away, the second mate lunged with it at the native burying the spade in his breast. Then, as the yelling murderous mob stumbled over the bodies of the captain and their dead fellow, the two surviving officers dashed down the companionway.
There was no time to shut and bolt doors, for close on their heels came the savages and the mutineers. Rushing through the cabin, the mates found the lower decks almost deserted, the crowd being now on the after deck and in the cabin. Bounding across the deck, while lances and hurtling spades whizzed by them, the two men gained the open blubber hatch, and without hesitation plunged into it. Scarcely had they disappeared in the black hole when their enemies swarmed about the opening and the mates, feeling their end was near, cocked pistol, determined to sell their lives dearly.
The mutineers and their savage allies, however, had no mind to descend into the darkness where an invisible foe lay waiting with firearms, and after a short conference, the hatch cover was drawn shut and the imprisoned men heard the sounds of hammering as the hatch was battened down.
Shut in the foul, black hold, surrounded by cargo and stores, without food or water, and with a mob of blood-excited savages and murderous mutineers on deck, the officers’ case seemed hopeless indeed. But they were Yankee whaleman, brave, resourceful and indomitable, and instantly they set to work on hastily formed plans. Feeling their way among the stowed casks and supplies, they slowly worked their way aft toward the door which they knew communicated with the captain’s storeroom under the cabin. Here was food and drink, and from it they might be able to gain the decks unseen and escape under cover of night. The men, they felt sure, would soon drink themselves into a stupor, as would the natives, and there was a possibility that all would leave the bark and go ashore, when, if luck favored the prisoners, it might be possible to swim to the boats and get safely away.
To be sure, there was but one chance in a million of success; but they had spent their lives taking chances and one more or less was of no moment when life itself was at stake.
Suddenly the chief mate uttered an exclamation and drew sharply back. His outstretched hand had touched a human face! Instantly he reached for his revolver, but before he could draw it a few hurried words reassured him.
“It’s me, sir—Slim!” said a whining voice. “Don’t be skeered. We ain’t no mutineers. There’s just me an’ Pete an’ Portugese Joe an’ Chips. We ain’t takin’ part in no mut’ny. We just sneaked in here soon’s trouble started an’ are hidin’ till it’s over.”
Relieved and encouraged at finding four men yet faithful, the two mates rapidly outlined their scheme for escape. All agreed that it held a chance of success, and once more the men crept aft.
Suddenly from overhead came the sounds of loud voices, the rush of feet, savage yells and the uproar of battle. Beneath the decks the noises were muffled, but all knew what it meant. The mutineers and savages were fighting among themselves! A quarrel had arisen over something or other and the imprisoned men had no doubt of the result. Greatly outnumbered and out-classed in fighting ability, the mutineers would be vanquished and cut down without mercy, while such of them as were wounded or taken alive would, in all probability, be butchered to provide a cannibal feast.
But such thoughts held little consolation for the men in the dismal ‘tween decks. Although their original enemies might be destroyed, there were still more dangerous foes to reckon with. Beyond a doubt the natives would fire the ship, when the fugitives would either be smoked out and killed or would perish in the flames, unless, by nothing less than miracle, they managed to steal out as the cannibals feasted and drank and succeeded in reaching the boats and getting away unseen.
Gradually the sounds of fighting decreased, and by the time the men had reached the bulkhead at the end of the ‘tween decks only an occasional scream or a savage yell told of some poor fellow being put to death.
Entering the storeroom, the mate cautiously struck a match, and at the sight which met his eyes a sudden wild idea flashed through his brain.
Before him was a black keg boldly marked, “Gunpowder.”
There followed a hasty consultation, and a few moments later, the hatch to the room was cautiously lifted and the men set about carrying out their hazardous plan. Climbing to the cabin table, Slim and his three companions, armed with muskets and pistols from the stores, commenced firing at the savages who were gathered in the ship’s waist about a broached cask of rum. Utterly surprised at this unexpected attack—for they had completely forgotten the mates—the natives yelled in fright and scattered, seeking hiding places behind masts and hatches. Meanwhile, as the four men kept the savages at bay, the mates hurriedly dragged out two kegs of powder, placed them halfway up the companionway, and laying a thick train of powder, called to the others. All then hurried to the mates’ room and awaited results. As they had foreseen, the cannibals, at the cessation of the firing, decided that the men’s ammunition was exhausted, and with savage screams dashed for the companionway.
As the first pair of naked brown legs appeared in the opening, the mate touched the match to the powder train. There was a spiteful hiss, a flare and then a tremendous, deafening explosion. Stunned and shaken, the six men were hurled flat upon the cabin floor, the door was wrenched from its hinges and the ship rocked at her moorings. Regaining their feet and plunging through the reeking, choking fumes, the six men—yelling wildly and firing as they ran—rushed at the terror-stricken cannibals.
Thunderstruck at the sudden apparition of the shouting men, and with their superstitious minds filled with deadly fear at the inexplicable explosion, the savages threw down their weapons, and leaping over the rails, plunged into the sea and swam frantically for shore.
Upon the decks were strewn nearly a score of mangled bodies, mute testimonials to the fatal toll of exploding powder and leaden bullets. But the six victorious men gave no heed to these or to the corpses of the mutineers lying everywhere upon the bloody deck. At any moment the savages might rally, and overcoming their terror, return in force. There was no time to be lost. With two men to help him, the second mate rushed forward and slipped the cable, while Slim and the others busied themselves unfurling the great sails. Tailing onto the braces, the men, with Herculean efforts, swung the yards and slowly the bark headed for the open sea.
By sundown the ill-omened island was a mere cloud upon the horizon, the decks had been swabbed and cleaned, and under easy canvas the Athol swept steadily on before the trade wind. Then, with nothing but the calm surface of the vast Pacific in sight, and the sun sinking in glory in the west the ship was hove to and the six men, forgetting all differences of rank and station, seated themselves at their long-deferred Christmas meal.

The End