FullReads

“So, you’ve sobered up, have you?” he said. “Got the whisky out o’ you?”

“Wasn’t whisky, Sir,” answered Rogers, recognizing an officer. “I was doped and shanghaied, even though willing to ship. I’m an able seaman, Sir.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Fifteen years at sea, Sir, though the last ten ashore. I’m a bit tender; but I know my work.”

“How about the other two? Are they sailors?”

“I don’t think they are, Sir,” answered Rogers, with a slight grin. “They were with me when I was doped; but I don’t know much about them.”

“Go aft and take the wheel. There’s a farmer there that can’t steer. Let’s see what you can do. I’ll tend to your friends.”

Rogers went to the wheel, received the spokes and the course from the rather distressed incumbent, and, even though the ship was riding along before a stiff quartering breeze and following sea, steered a course good enough to win silence from the skipper–another big, bearded man–when he next looked into the binnacle. Silence, on such occasions, is a compliment.

The cold, fresh breeze soon cleared Rogers’s head of its aches and throbs, and he took stock of the ship and her people. She seemed to be about twelve hundred tons’ register, with no skysails, stunsails, or other kites to make work for her crew, an easy ship, as far as wind and weather were concerned. Rogers counted her crew–sixteen men scattered about the decks and rigging, lashing casks, stowing lines and fenders, and securing chafing gear aloft. The big man that had spoken to him was undoubtedly the first mate, as was evidenced by his louder voice. The second mate, a short, broad, square-jawed man with a smooth face, spoke little to the men, but struck them often. Rogers saw three floored before six bells. As for the crew, they were of all nations and types, and by these signs he knew that she was an American ship; but nothing yet of her name or destination. Astern was a blue spot on the horizon which he recognized as the Highlands of Navesink, and scattered about at various distances were out- and in-bound craft, sail and steam. But none was within hailing range.

Just before noon he saw two men thrown out of the forecastle by the huge first mate, and in spite of their canvas rags he recognized his two enemies. Involuntarily Rogers smiled; but the smile left his face when he saw that they were showing fight, and that in the fight they were being sadly bested by the mate, aided by his confrere, the second officer. Yet they fought as they could, and as the whirl of battle drifted aft Rogers could hear their voices.

“I want to see the Captain!” they each declared explosively, whenever a moment’s respite enabled them to speak, and in time the reiterated demand bore results. The Captain himself appeared, watched the conflict for a moment, then roared out:

“Mr. Billings, that’ll do! Send those men up here, and let’s see what they want.”

The two mates stood back, and the disfigured Sheriff of Maricopa and the almost unrecognizable mounted policeman climbed the poop steps and faced the Captain in the weather alley. They were game–still full of fight, and in no way abashed by the autocrat of the ship.

“You the Captain o’ this boat?” demanded Quincy, his eyes flaming green from the rage in his soul. “If you are, put me ashore, or I’ll make you sweat!”

“Steady as you go,” answered the Captain, quietly. “I’m too big a man to sweat. It’s dangerous to make me sweat. What’s on your mind?”

“Put us ashore!” yelled Benson, insanely. “Those fellows that hammered us just now said we shipped in this boat. We did not. We were drugged and abducted.”

“Whew!” whistled the big skipper, turning his back on them for the moment. Then he turned back and said, “What d’you want?”

“To go ashore and take our prisoner with us. We’ll settle between ourselves as to which one gets him.”