Wolves of the Sea - Randall Parrish
"Ahoy, mate," he said pleasantly, endeavoring to speak low, the effort
resembling the growl of a bear. "How do you feel--pretty sore?"
"Ache from head to foot," I answered, immediately feeling his
friendliness. "But no harm done."
"I saw part of it. The damn black brute kicked savagely enough, but at
that you're lucky; it's the Spanish style to use a knife. I've seen
that cock slash a man into ribbons for nothing at all--just to show he
was bad. Haines tells me your name is Gates, and that you are
English."
"That's right; I shipped first out of Bristol."
"So did I, mate--twenty years ago though, and I never went back since.
My name is Tom Watkins. Let's shake; there is quite a sprinkling of us
Britishers aboard, and we ought to hang together."
He put out a big, hairy fist, and I gripped it heartily, decidedly
liking the man as his eyes frankly met mine. He appeared honest and
square, a fine type of the English seaman.
"Tom Watkins, you said. May I ask if you were out on the bow-sprit
along with Haines last night?"
"Just afore the long-boat come in? Yes, we were there."
"Well, I was down below, hanging to the cable, and overheard you two
talking together. Somehow, Watkins, you do not seem to me to fit in
exactly with this gang of pirates; you don't look to be that sort. How
long have you been with them?"
He glanced about warily, lowering his voice until it became a hoarse
whisper.
"Three years, mate, and most of that time has been hell. I haven't
even been ashore, but once, and that was on an island. These fellows
don't put any trust in my kind, nor give them any chance to cut and
run. Once in awhile a lad does get away, but most of them are caught;
and those that are sure get their punishment. They never try it again.
I've seen them staked out on the sand, and left to die; that ain't no
nice thing to remember."
"But how did you come into it?" "Like most of the rest. I was second
mate of the _Ranger_, a Glasgow brig. We loaded with sugar at
Martinique, for London. These fellows overhauled us at daybreak about
a hundred miles off the east end of Cuba. They had a swift schooner,
and five guns, one a Long Tom. All we had to fight them with was about
fifteen men, and two brass carronades. Our skipper was Scotch, and he
put up some fight, but it wasn't any use. There was only three of us
left alive when the pirates came aboard. One of these died two days
later, and another was washed overboard and drowned down in the Gulf.
I am all that is left of the _Ranger_."
"You saved your life by taking on?"
"Sanchez had the two of us, who were able to stand, back in his cabin.
He put it to us straight. He said it was up to us whether we signed
up, or walked the plank; and he didn't appear to care a damn which we
chose. The cold-blooded devil meant it too, for he was raging mad at
getting only five hundred pounds off the brig. Well, Jack and I looked
at each other--and then we signed."
"And you say others of this crew have been obtained in the same
manner?" I questioned, deeply interested, and perceiving in this a ray
of hope.
"Not exactly--no, I wouldn't precisely say that. It's true, perhaps,
that most of the Britishers were forced to join in about the same way
I was, and there may be a Scandinavian, or two, with a few Dutch, to
be counted in that list; but the most of these cusses are pirates from
choice. It's their trade, and they like it. Sanchez only aims to keep
hold of a few good men, because he has got to have sailors; but most
of his crew are nothing but plain cut-throats."
"Where does he find them?"
"Where? Why the West Indies are full of such devils; been breeding
them down there for two hundred years---Indians and half-breeds,
niggers, Creoles, Portuguese, Spanish, and every damned mongrel you
ever heard of. Sanchez himself is half French. The hell-hound who
kicked you is a Portugee, and LeVere is more nigger than anything
else. I'll bet there is a hundred rats on board this _Namur_ right now
who'd cut your throat for a sovereign, and never so much as think of
it again."
"A hundred? Is there that many aboard?"
"A hundred an' thirty all told. Most o' 'em bunk amidships. They're
not sailormen, but just cut-throats, an' sea wolves. Yer ought ter see
'em swarm out on deck, like hungry rats, when thar's a fight comin'.
It's all they're good fer."
"Watkins," I said soberly, after a pause during which he spat on the
dirty deck to thus better express his feelings "do you mean to say
that in three years you've had no chance to escape? No opportunity to
get away?"
"Not a chance, mate; no more will you. The only place I've put foot
ashore has been Porto Grande, where we run in to refit. That's a worse
hell than the ship itself."
"But Haines goes ashore; he was with Manuel's boat yesterday."
The big fellow laughed grimly.
"Bill rather likes the job, an' they know it. He's a boatswain, an'
gets a big share of the swag. He's the only Britisher aboard who
wouldn't cut and run in a minute; besides he's got a girl at Porto
Grande."
"And that fellow Anderson who was with Estada?"
"The lowest kind of a Swede cur--he'll do more dirt than a Portugee. I
know what yer thinkin' 'bout. I had them notions too when I fu'st come
aboard--gettin' all the decent sort tergether, and takin' the vessel.
'Twon't work; thar ain't 'nough who wud risk it, and if thar wus, yer
couldn't get 'em tergether. Sanchez is too damn smart fer thet. Every
damn rat is a spy. I ain't hed no such talk as this afore in six
months, Gates; the last time cost me twenty lashes at the mast-butt."
"Is there any chance of our being overheard now?"
"No; these near bunks are all empty, an' the damn noise drowns our
voices. What'd yer have in your mind, mate?"
"Only this, Watkins. I've got to do something, and believe I can trust
you. You are a square English seaman, probably the only one aboard I
can repose confidence in. I don't blame you for sticking, for I
suppose likely I'd do the same if I was in your case. But I
ain't--it's not my life I'm thinking about, but that of a woman."
He stared at me across the narrow space separating our bunks, the
shadows from the swinging lantern giving his features a strange
expression.
"A woman! Hell, lad; not the one brought aboard last night?"
"Exactly; now listen--I'm going to tell you my story, and ask your
help. Do you know what Estada went after in the long-boat?"
"Well, there's been plenty o' talk. The cook brought us some stories
he heard aft, an' we knew we wus driftin' along the coast, waitin' fer
Sanchez ter cum back. I suppose he'd got onto some English gold--in
that chest they slung aboard, wasn't it?"
"Yes; that was the main object. My name is not Gates, at all, and I am
not the man Mendez brought aboard drunk, and who was thrown over the
rail by LeVere. That fellow was drowned."
"Well, by God!"
"I am Geoffry Carlyle, an English skipper. There has been a revolution
in England, in which I became involved. When the attempt failed, I was
taken prisoner and deported to America for twenty years servitude. I
came over with a bunch of others on the same ship with Sanchez."
"The _Romping Betsy_?"
"Yes. There was a rich planter, and his niece also aboard. He was
coming home with a chest of money--fifty thousand pounds--realized
from a big sale of tobacco in London, and the young woman was
returning from attending school in England. Sanchez was aboard to gain
possession of both."
Watkins nodded, too deeply interested in the narrative to interrupt.
"He pretended to be of the Spanish nobility, an ex-naval officer, and
tried all the way over to make love to this Dorothy Fairfax. He got
along all right with the uncle, and was invited to visit him, but the
girl was not so easy. He must have had it all planned out how he was
to get the gold, Fairfax carried--that was what the _Namur_ was
waiting for--and when he found that the young woman could not be won
by fair means, he decided to take her by force."
"It's not the first time for the black-hearted devil. But how did you
happen to come along?"
"Fairfax bought me to run his sloop. Perhaps it was the girl who won
him over. Anyhow this arrangement angered Sanchez, and we had words.
You know the rest, or, at least, the main facts. Sanchez and the boat
crew held rendezvous at the first landing up the Bay. It was
prearranged, but it was my fortune to meet the Captain alone on shore
in the dark, where we fought."
"It was you then who drove the knife in? God!" excitedly, "but I would
give ten years for such a chance. Ay, and, they say, you came within
an eighth of an inch of sending him to hell."
"I knew not where I struck; 'twas a death struggle in the dark. I
thought him dead when I left him, and ran to warn the others. But for
this I was too late. The moment I set foot on the sloop's deck it was
to close in battle with the big negro."
"Cochose? He saw you then?"
"No, only as a shape. He can have no better memory of me, than I of
him. We fought as demons, until his giant strength forced me over the
rail. He has no knowledge that I ever rose again."
"And then--what?"
"Oblivion; nothing. Only what I saw in the return of the boat tells me
what followed. I came back to consciousness in a small dory, afloat on
the Bay, with but one thought in my mind--to save the girl. How? It
was too late to return, even had I known the way; but I could come
here, to this ship. So here I came."
"But how, in advance of those in the long-boat?"
"By cutting across the point; the coast to the north is a wide circle.
Besides the discovery of Sanchez sorely wounded left the others
without a leader. Fairfax and his niece together with the treasure,
were in Travers' house, at top of the bluff. They had to carry out an
attack there, which probably meant more fighting. What really happened
there, of course, I do not know."
"It can be easily imagined," said Watkins soberly. "Estada has no
mercy; he is a born devil. I have seen him kill just for the pleasure
of it. With Sanchez to avenge he would be an unleashed demon. But it
is not the fate of those men to consider now; it is what will befall
this girl prisoner. You have no plan?"
"None; to become a member of the crew was my only thought. But I must
act, if at all, before the Captain recovers. He would recognize me at
sight. You will aid, advise me?"
The sailor sat silent; the former expression of humor in his face
vanished.
"That is easier to ask, than answer, mate," he admitted finally. "I am
an English seaman, and will do my duty, but, so far as I can see,
there is no plan we can make. It is God who will save the girl, if she
is to be saved. He may use us to that end, but it is wholly beyond our
power to accomplish it alone. The only thing I can do is to sound out
the men aboard, and learn just what we can expect of them if any
opportunity to act comes. There are not more than a dozen at most to
be relied upon."
"And my part?"
"Do nothing at present. Play your part, and keep quiet. If you can let
her know of your presence aboard without discovery it might be
best--for if she saw you suddenly, unprepared, she might say or do
something to betray you. There are other reasons why it may be best
for her to know she is not entirely deserted."
He leaned over, motioning me toward him, until his lips were at my
ear.
"It may not prove as hopeless as it appears now," he whispered
confidentially. "I helped carry Sanchez to his stateroom, and washed
and dressed his wound. There is no surgeon aboard, but I have some
skill in such matters. He has a bad cut, and is very weak from loss of
blood. The question of our success hinges on Pedro Estada."
"What he will do, you mean?"
"Yes; this is a chance which I happen to know he has long been waiting
for. The only question is, has he the nerve to act. I doubt if he has
alone, but LeVere is with him, and that half-breed would cut the
throat of his best friend. You understand?--the death of Sanchez would
make Estada chief. The two men hate each other--why not? There was a
plan before which failed; this time it may not fail."
"But," I interposed, "in that case what would the crew do?"
"Accept Estada, no doubt; at least the cut-throats would be with him,
for he is of their sort. All they care for is blood and booty. But
Sanchez's death would save you from discovery, and," his voice still
lower, so that I barely distinguished the words, "in the confusion
aboard, if we were ready, the _Namur_ might be so disabled as to
compel them to run her ashore for repairs. That would give you a
chance. If once we reach Porto Grande there is no hope."
A marling-spike pounded on the scuttle, and Haines' voice roared down.
"Port watch! Hustle out bullies!"
CHAPTER XIII
I ACCEPT A PROPOSAL
I went on deck with the watch, and mingled with them forward. No one
in authority took any particular notice of me, and I was permitted to
take hold with the others at the various tasks. A Portuguese boatswain
asked me who I was, and later reported my presence to LeVere, who had
charge of the deck, but the only result was my being set at polishing
the gun mounted on the forecastle. The mulatto did not come forward,
and I rejoiced at having my status aboard so easily settled, and being
permitted to remain in the same watch with Watkins.
It was a dull gray morning, the gloominess of the overhanging clouds
reflected in the water. Men on lookout were stationed in the fore-top
and on the heads, yet the sharpest eyes could scarcely see beyond a
half mile in any direction. The sea came at us in great ocean swells,
but the stout bark fought a passage through them, shivering with each
blow, yet driven forward on her course by half-reefed sails, standing
hard as boards in the sweep of the steady gale. Two men struggled at
the wheel, and there were times when LeVere paused in his promenade
from rail to rail to give them a helping hand. His anxiety was
evidenced by his hailing the mast-head every few moments, only to
receive each time the same response. The mist failed to lift, but
seemed to shut us in more closely with every hour, the wind growing
continually more boisterous, but LeVere held on grimly. I was kept at
the guns during the entire time of our watch. Besides the Long Tom
forward, a vicious piece, two swivel guns were on each side,
completely concealed by the thick bulwarks, and to be fired through
ports, so ingeniously closed as to be imperceptible a few yards away.
All these pieces of ordnance were kept covered by tarpaulin so that at
a little distance the _Namur of Rotterdam_ appeared like a peaceful
Dutch trader.
There was a brass carronade at the stern in plain view, and so mounted
as to be swung inboard in case of necessity. Its ugly muzzle could
thus rake the deck fore and aft, but the presence of such a piece
would create no suspicion in those days when every ship was armed for
defense, and consequently no effort was made for its concealment. I
was busily at work on this bit of ordnance, when Estada came on deck
for a moment. After staring aloft, and about the horizon into the
impenetrable mist, he joined LeVere at the port rail in a short
earnest conversation. As the two worthies parted the fellow chanced to
observe me. I caught the quick look of recognition in his eyes, but
bent to my work as though indifferent to his presence, yet failed to
escape easily.
"You must be a pretty tough bird, Gates," he said roughly, "or I would
have killed you last night--I had the mind too."
Something about his voice and manner led me to feel that, in spite of
his roughness, he was not in bad humor.
"That would have been a mistake, sir," I answered, straightening up,
rag in hand, "for it would have cost you a good seaman."
"Hoila! they are easily picked up; one, more or less, counts for
little in these seas."
He looked at me searchingly, for the first time perhaps, actually
noting my features. In spite of my dirty, disheveled appearance and
the bruises disfiguring my face, this scrutiny must have aroused his
curiosity.
"Why do you say that, my man?" he questioned sharply. "You were before
the mast and drifted aboard here because you were drunk--isn't that
true?"
"Partially, yes. It was drink that put me before the mast." I
explained, rejoicing in his mood, and suddenly hoping such a statement
might help my status aboard. "Three years ago I was skipper on my own
vessel. It was Rum ruined me."
"Saint Christopher! Do you mean to say you can read charts, and take
observations?"
I smiled, encouraged by his surprise, and the change in his tone.
"Yes, sir; I saw ten years' service as mate."
"What was your last ship?"
"The _Bombay Castle_, London to Hong Kong; I wrecked her off Cape
Mendez in a fog. I was drunk below, and it cost me my ticket."
"You know West Indian waters?"
"Slightly; I made two voyages to Panama, and one to Havana."
"And speak Spanish?"
"A little bit, sir, as you see; I learn languages easily."
He stared straight into my face, but, without uttering another word,
turned on his heel and went below. Whether, or not, I had made an
impression on the fellow I did not know. His face was a mask perfectly
concealing his thought. That he had appeared interested enough to
question me had in it a measure of encouragement. He would surely
remember, and sometime he might have occasion to make use of me. At
least I would no longer remain in his mind as a mere foremast hand to
be kicked about, and spoken to like a dog. I went back to my polishing
of brass in a more cheerful mood--perhaps this would prove the first
step leading to my greater future liberty on the _Namur_. I had
finished my labor on the carronade, and was fastening down securely
the tarpaulin, when a thin, stoop-shouldered fellow, with a hang-dog
face crept up the ladder to the poop, and shuffled over to where
LeVere was gazing out over the rail, oblivious to his approach.
"Mister LeVere, sir," he spoke apologetically, his voice no more than
a wisp of sound.
The mulatto wheeled about startled.
"Oh, it's you! Well, what is it, Gunsaules?"
"Senor Estada, sir; he wishes to see a sailor named Gates in the
cabin."
"Who? Gates? Oh, yes, the new man." He swept his eyes about, until he
saw me. "Gates is your name, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Follow the steward below; Senor Estada wishes to see you--go just as
you are."
"Very good, sir--is this the steward?"
The fellow led the way, amusing me by the peculiar manner in which
his long legs clung to the ladder, and then wobbled about on the
rolling deck until he attained the protection of the companion-way. A
half dozen broad, uncarpeted steps led down into the after cabin,
which was plain and practically without furniture, except for a bare
table suspended from the upper beams and a few chairs securely resting
in chocks. The deck was bare, but had been thoroughly scrubbed, the
water not entirely dried, and forward there was a rack of small arms,
the polished steel shining in the gray light of the transom overhead.
The Dutch character of the bark was very apparent here, in the
excessively heavy deck beams, and the general gloom of the interior,
finished off in dark wood and ornamented with carved paneling. Filled
with wonderment as to why I had been sent for, I halted at the foot of
the steps gazing about the dreary interior, surprised at its positive
dinginess. There were evidently six staterooms opening on the main
cabin, and these must be little more than boxes to judge from the
breadth of the vessel. What was farther aft I could not determine
because of a lack of light, but as no stern ports were visible, it was
to be assumed that this gave space for two more larger staterooms
directly astern--occupied probably by the Captain and his first
officer. There was no one in the main cabin, although a cat lay asleep
on one of the chairs, and after a moment's hesitancy, I followed the
beckoning steward, who rapped with his knuckles on one of the side
doors. Estada's voice answered.
"Who is it?"
"Gunsaules, Senor; I have with me the sailor." "Open the door, and
let him in; I would see him here. Come inside, Gates." His eyes
surveyed us both in the narrow opening. "That will be all Juan; no one
is to be admitted until I tell you--and, 'twill be well for you to
remain by the stairs on guard, you understand?"
"Si, Senor."
"Another thing," sternly, "don't let me catch you listening outside
the door; if I do God have mercy on you."
"Si, Senor."
I stepped inside, doubtful enough of what all this might mean, yet
quite prepared to accept of any chance it might offer. Gunsaules
closed the door softly, but I had already visioned the apartment in
all its details. It was small, and nearly square, a swinging lantern
in the center, a single bunk on one side, and a small table on the
other, screwed to the wall, and covered with charts and various
papers. A few books were upon a shelf above this, and a sea chest was
shoved under the bunk. Some oilskins, together with a suit of clothes
dangled from wooden pins, while the only other furniture consisted of
a straight-backed chair, and a four-legged stool. The round port stood
partly open, and through it I could see the gray expanse of water.
All these I perceived at a glance, but the instant the door closed
behind me my entire attention concentrated on Estada. He sat upright
in the chair gazing straight at me, his own face clearly revealed in
the light from the open port. It seemed to me I was looking at the man
for the first time, and it was not a pleasant picture. His face was
swarthy, long and thin, with hard, set lips under a long, intensely
black moustache, his cheeks strangely crisscrossed by lines. The nose
was large, distinctively Roman, yielding him a hawklike appearance,
but it was his eyes which fascinated me. They were dark, and deeply
set, absolute wells of cruelty. I had never before seen such eyes in
the face of a human being; they were beastly, devilish; I could feel
my blood chill as I looked into their depths, yet I held myself erect,
and waited for the man to speak. It seemed a long delay, yet doubtless
was scarcely more than a moment. Then his lips curled in what was
meant to be a smile, and he waved his hand.
"Sit down on the stool, Gates. Have you any knowledge of Portuguese?"
"None whatever, sir."
"Nor do I English; so we shall have to rely on the language of Spain."
"I am hardly expert in that" I explained. "But if you do not talk too
fast, I can manage fairly well."
"I shall speak simply. Wait a moment."
He arose, stepped quietly to the door, and glanced out, returning
apparently satisfied.
"I don't trust that damned steward," he said, "nor, as a matter of
fact, anyone else wholly." He paused, and stared at me; then added:
"I've never had any faith in your race, Gates, but am inclined to use
you."
"I do not know any special reason why you should sir."
"No more do I. Every Englishman I ever knew was a liar, and a sneaking
poltroon. I was brought up to hate the race, and always have. I can't
say that I like you any better than the others. By God! I don't, for
the matter of that. But just now you can be useful to me if you are
of that mind. This is a business proposition, and it makes no odds if
we hate each other, so the end is gained. How does that sound?"
I shifted my position so as to gain a clearer view of his face. I was
still wholly at sea as to what the fellow was driving at--yet,
evidently enough he was in earnest. It was my part to find out.
"Not altogether bad," I admitted. "I have been in some games of chance
before."
"I thought as much," eagerly, "and money has the same chink however it
be earned. You could use some?"
"If I had any to use; after a sailor has been drunk there is not apt
to be much left in his pockets."
He reached across into the upper bunk, and brought forth a bottle and
glass, placing these upon the table at his elbow.
"Have a drink first," he said, pouring it out. "It will stiffen your
nerve."
"Thanks, no, Senor. I have nerve enough and once I start that sort of
thing there is no stopping. Take it yourself and then tell me what is
in the wind."
"I will, Gates," affecting cordiality, although I somehow felt that my
refusal to imbibe had aroused a faint suspicion in his mind. "But I
would rather you would show yourself a good fellow. I like to see a
man take his liquor and hold it."
He sat down the emptied glass, and straightened back in the chair, his
eyes searching as ever.
"The fact is," he began doubtfully, "what you just said to me on deck
chanced to be of interest. You were not boasting?"
"I answered your questions truthfully, if that is what you mean."
"You are a navigator?"
"I was in command of ships for four years, Senor; naturally I know
navigation."
"Do you mind if I test you?"
"Not in the least; although it will have to be in English; as I do not
know the Spanish sea terms."
"Let that go then; I will soon learn if you have lied, and that will
be a sorry day for you. I'll tell you, Gates, how matters stand
aboard, and why I have need of your skill. Then you may take your
choice--the forecastle, or the cabin?"