Kitabı oku: «True To His Colors», sayfa 17
CHAPTER XVIII
CONCLUSION
It took them the best part of the next day to run to their destination, and the whole of the following one to find and buoy the channel, which changed more or less with every storm that swept the coast. Marcy thought it a foolhardy piece of business to depend upon that treacherous inlet for a way of escape in case the schooner was discovered and pursued by a ship of war, and told Captain Beardsley so; but the latter simply smiled, referred Marcy to the work he had done that day, and reminded him that there were eight feet of water in the deepest part of the channel, and that the privateer, fully loaded, drew but little more than six.
"There aint a sea-going vessel in the Yankee navy that can run on six foot of water, and I know it," chuckled Beardsley. "If one of 'em gets after us we'll skim through easy as falling off a log, but she'll stick, 'specially if she runs 'cording to them buoys you set out." This was the "work" to which the captain referred. At that time the rule was for all ship-masters to leave black buoys to starboard and the red ones to port; or, to put it in English, they were to pass to the left of the black buoys, and to the right of red ones, or run the risk of getting aground and losing their insurance, in case their ships went to pieces. But Marcy, acting under the orders of Captain Beardsley (who, now that he was fairly afloat, began to show that he was much more of a sailor than the folks around home thought he was), had changed this order of things by anchoring the red buoys on the right of the channel going out, and the black ones on the left. Of course it was necessary for the pilot to bear this in mind if he were called upon to take the privateer through there in a hurry, or on a dark night when the wind was blowing strongly. To a landsman this may seem like a very small thing, but it was enough to insure the destruction of any vessel whose commander was so daring as to try to follow in Captain Beardsley's lead. More than that, Crooked Inlet was not marked upon any government chart. The Atlantic Ocean had opened it since the last survey was made.
All things being in readiness for the cruise, the Osprey ran through the inlet on the morning of the third day out from Newbern, and spread her wings to swoop down upon the first unsuspecting merchantman which happened to be holding along the coast inside of Diamond Shoals. Now the crosstrees were manned for the first time, a small pull taken at the sheets fore and aft, and with a fine breeze over her quarter the schooner ran off to the southeast toward the fair-weather highway leading from the West Indies to Northern ports. Then the young pilot, who had given up his place at the wheel, had leisure to look about him and make a mental estimate of the crew. If there was a native American among them he could not find him. He guessed right when he told himself that they must have belonged to foreign vessels in port when President Lincoln's proclamation was issued, and that Beardsley's agent had induced them to join the Confederacy by offering higher wages than they were receiving, and making extravagant promises of a wild, free, easy life aboard the privateer, and unlimited dollars to spend in the way of prize money. But as far as Marcy could see they were good sailors, and Captain Beardsley and his mates enforced discipline from the first.
The young pilot was surprised at the ease with which the master of the schooner threw off his 'longshore manners and assumed the habit and language of a seafaring man. He had been a trader in a small way ever since Marcy could remember, and he said himself that the longest voyage he ever made was from some port in Cuba to New York. He had a way of going and coming at very irregular intervals. Sometimes his schooner would lie idle for months, and Beardsley would work among his negroes with so much industry and perseverance, that the planters around him would come to think he had given up the sea for good; but all on a sudden he would disappear as if by magic, and it would be a long time before any one could find out where he was or what he had been doing; and they were obliged to take his word for that. Marcy Gray was not the only one who thought that the term "smuggler" would come nearer to describing his vocation than the word "trader." But in spite of his erratic movements and long intervals of rest on shore, Captain Beardsley was a fair navigator and knew how to handle his schooner. He knew also, and quickly assumed, the dignity befitting his station, kept his quarter-deck sacred to himself, and, except when they were on duty, never permitted his crew to come aft the foremast This made a gulf between him and Marcy, but the latter did not mind that. He was content to be considered one of the crew.
Seventy hours passed, and the only thing the lookouts saw during that time to indicate that they were not alone on the ocean, was a thin cloud of smoke in the horizon, which might come from the chimneys of a peaceful passenger vessel, or from those of a cruiser on the watch for just such crafts as the Osprey was; and so Captain Beardsley prudently came about and sailed leisurely back toward the point from whence he started. This move was just what brought her first prize into the clutches of the Osprey.
Land had been out of sight for almost two days. In her eagerness to catch something the schooner had gone far beyond the highway toward which she had first shaped her course, but this retrograde movement brought her back to it. On the morning of the third day the thrilling cry "Sail ho!" came from aloft, and in an instant the deck was in commotion, the man at the wheel so far forgetting himself as to allow the privateer to swing into the wind with all her canvas flapping.
"Keep her steady, there," shouted the captain angrily. "Where away?" he continued, hailing the crosstrees.
"Broad on the weather beam. Topsail schooner, and standing straight across our course."
The captain seized a glass and hastened aloft to take a look at the stranger, while those on deck crowded to the rail and strained their eyes for a glimpse of the sail, which had not yet showed her top-hamper above the horizon. No change was made in the course of the privateer, and neither was anything done toward casting loose the guns. There would be time enough for that when the captain had made up his mind what he was going to do. He sat on the crosstrees beside the lookout for an hour without saying a word. By that time the sail was visible from the deck. To quote from one of the crew she was coming up at a hand gallop. Then Captain Beardsley was satisfied to come down and take charge of the deck.
"She's ours," Marcy heard him say to the two mates. "I would not sell my chances of making a rich haul for any reasonable sum of money. If I know anything about vessels, she is a Cuban trader bound to New York. Ease the Osprey up a bit. Don't crowd her so heavy, and the chase will pass by within half a mile of us. But we mustn't let her get by, for she is a trotter, and every inch of her muslin is drawing beautifully."
While the second mate set about obeying the last order, the captain addressed some others to the first officer, and in a remarkably brief time, considering their short experience on board the privateer, her crew had cast loose the bow gun and trained it over the port side, the magazine and shell-rooms had been opened and lighted, and Tierney, who acted in the double capacity of captain of the bow gun and drill-master to the crews of both, had driven home a five-second shrapnel.
"All ready forward, sir," said he.
"Throw that piece of canvas back over the gun to hide it," commanded
Captain Beardsley. "Send all the men below that are not needed on deck.
Gray, go aft and stand by to run up the Yankee flag when I tell you."
The topsail schooner could be plainly seen now, and Marcy was sailor enough to note that if her captain did not suspect there was something wrong, he acted like it. This could hardly be wondered at, for taking into consideration the "natty" appearance of the privateer, the lubberly way in which she was sailed, standing so far off wind when she ought to have been close to it if she were sailing her course, was enough to excite anybody's suspicions. Two of her officers were in the rigging, and Captain Beardsley, who was mentally calculating her chances for running by his own vessel in case she made the attempt, took his glass from his eye long enough to remark:
"They don't quite like our looks, do they? That proves that they are from some near port, and heard something about privateers before they sailed. I heard that parties in New Orleans had steamers afloat a week ago. Marcy, show them the Yankee flag and see if that won't quiet their feelings."
"If that isn't stealing the livery of Heaven to serve the Evil One in I don't want a cent," said Marcy, to himself, as with an "Aye, aye, sir," he obeyed the order that was intended to lure the stranger to her destruction. At the same moment her own colors, the Stars and Stripes, were run up to the peak.
But the sight of the friendly flag did not seem to allay the suspicions of those on board the topsail schooner. To the great surprise of those who were watching her, her bow began to swing slowly around, her sails trembled in the air for a minute or two and then moved over to the other side, her yard was braced forward, the sheets hauled taut, and she was off on the other tack with a big bone in her teeth. By this move she hoped to pass so far astern of the suspicious-looking craft in front of her, as to be beyond range of the light guns her captain had reason to believe were concealed under those piles of canvas which looked so innocent at a distance. It was beautifully and quickly done; but who ever saw a Yankee skipper who did not know how to handle his ship, or who would give her up to an enemy if he saw the slightest chance to escape with her? The Confederate Admiral Semmes had more than one chase after a plucky Yankee captain, who was resolved that he would not come to if he could help it, and he often goes out of his way to pay deserved tribute to the skill and courage of Northern sailors.
"That's his best sailing-point, and he's got a breeze that don't reach us," Captain Beardsley almost howled, stamping about the deck and shaking his fist at the flying schooner. "Where are you, Tierney? Fire that gun at him. Pitch the ball into him the first time without stopping to send it across his bows. Do something, or he'll get away from us."
Tierney and his crew, who had scattered themselves over the deck in obedience to an order from the mate, were on hand almost before the angry skipper had ceased talking. The captain of the gun knew that the schooner was far beyond the reach of the short-time projectile he had in his piece, but that did not prevent him from obeying orders. The canvas covering was torn off and cast aside, the gun trained, and the lock-string pulled. The privateer trembled all over with the force of the concussion; the howitzer bounded from its place and recoiled as far as its breeching would permit it to go, and the shrapnel went shrieking on its way. But it did not go more than a quarter of the distance that intervened between the two vessels before it exploded. However, it showed the crew of the fleeing schooner that her enemy was fully armed, and it enabled Tierney to load his gun with a shell provided with a longer fuse.
"Send home another one that will go farther before it busts," shouted Captain Beardsley. "And while you're doing it, we'll see if we can't come around on the other tack about as quick as she did."
Remember that the two vessels, pursuer and pursued, had not yet passed. They were sailing diagonally toward each other at the first, and that was the relative position they held when the privateer came about and stood off on the other tack. If Captain Beardsley had understood his business he might have had the after-gun cast loose and loaded with a fifteen-second shell, and fired it at the chase as the stern of the Osprey swung around. Marcy thought this could have been done, but of course he said nothing. His sympathies were entirely with the captain who had determined to make a race of it.
"I do hope he'll get away," thought the boy, looking first at the canvas of his own vessel to see how it was drawing, and then at the topsail schooner which was making such gallant efforts to escape. "Suppose the captain owns that craft, and that it is everything he has in the world to depend on for a living for his family? It will be just awful to take it away from him. Why don't Uncle Sam send some cruisers down here?"
While Marcy stood on the quarter-deck meditating, Tierney was working on the forecastle, and now he called out:
"All ready for'ard, sir."
"Let her have it!" cried the captain; and then, seeing that Marcy Gray was still holding fast to the halliards that kept the starry flag at the peak, he shouted: "Why don't you haul that thing down and run aloft the Stars and Bars? Are you asleep?"
"No, sir," replied the boy. "Waiting for orders, sir."
"Down with it then, and put our own flag up there," commanded the captain. "Fire, Tierney!"
The howitzer once more belched forth a cloud of flame and smoke, and Marcy stood on tiptoe and held his breath in suspense while he waited for the result. He felt the cold chills creep along his spine when, after an interval that seemed very short for the distance the shot had to travel, he saw it strike the water in line with the schooner and explode a second later almost at her side. There was no mistake about it this time. A fifteen-second fuse was long enough, and the next shot, with a single half-degree more of elevation, would surely strike her. Her skipper saw it, and rather than allow his vessel to be shot to pieces and his men killed before his eyes, he spilled his sails and gave up the contest.
"Come on deck, you lubbers below, and cheer our first prize," shouted the mate, who was almost beside himself with joy and excitement. "There she is, laying to and waiting for you to go and take possession," he went on, as the crew tumbled up the ladder. "Count your prize-money up on your fingers and then give a cheer."
This was an insulting way to treat men who had done all that brave men could do to elude their enemy, and surrendered at last because they had no means of defending themselves, and Marcy was glad to notice that Tierney saw it, and did not join in the cheers that followed. Perhaps the man had a better heart than Marcy had given him credit for.
"Where's that boat's crew?" inquired the captain, meaning the men who had been drilled in lowering the yawl and pulling off to imaginary prizes. "Here's the keys to the cabin, Marcy. Unlock the door and give every man who comes to you a saber, revolver, and a box of cartridges. And you," he added, turning to the first mate as Marcy took the keys and hastened below, "tumble ten men besides the boat's crew into the yawl, go off to the prize, and send the master and his papers on board of us. Put all the schooner's company, except the mates, in double irons, and stow them away somewhere under guard. Then keep your weather eye on me and follow in my wake when I fill away for Newbern. That's the way we'll manage things as often as we take a prize."
While these orders were being obeyed the Osprey was sailing steadily toward her prize; and by the time the men had been selected and the small arms distributed, she had come as close to her as Captain Beardsley thought it safe to venture. Having performed his duty, Marcy returned to the deck just in time to see the prize crew climbing upon her deck. A quarter of an hour later the boat came back, bringing a strange man who certainly took matters very coolly, seeing that he had lost his vessel and a valuable cargo.
"Captain," said he, as he clambered over the Osprey's rail, "I don't understand the situation at all, for all your mate would say to me was that my ship was a prize to the Confederate privateer Osprey."
"What else did you want him to say?" asked Captain Beardsley, with a smile that must have made the merchant skipper angry. "That's the whole thing in a nutshell. Where are your papers? See that flag up there? That's the one I sail under. You must have heard that there were such fellows as me afloat, or you wouldn't have shied off as you did."
"Your appearance was all right, but I didn't like the way you acted," replied the skipper. "Yes, I have heard that there are some gentlemen of your sort roaming around the Gulf."
"Your schooner is the Mary Hollins, bound from Havana to Boston with an assorted cargo," said Captain Beardsley. "There is no attempt made to 'cover' either?"
"No, sir; it is an American vessel and her cargo is consigned to an American house," answered the skipper, who knew it would be useless to deny it with the plain facts staring Captain Beardsley in the face. "But, captain, I protest against your putting my men in irons. They are not felons, to be treated that way."
"Can't help it," said Beardsley shortly. "Can't you see for yourself that I have a small crew, and that I must take measures to prevent your men from recapturing the prize? I'll let 'em out as soon as we get through Hatteras."
The master of the privateer exchanged a few words with his second mate, and in a minute or two more the Osprey came about and pointed her nose toward Newbern, the Mary Hollins following in her wake. The crew stepped around with unwonted alacrity, and tugged at the sheets as energetically as though the prize dollars the agent had promised them were fastened to the other end. Everybody was happy except Marcy Gray and the unfortunate skipper of the Mary Hollins. He took his capture very philosophically, but Marcy was sure he did some deep and earnest thinking while he stood on the privateer's quarterdeck, pulling his whiskers, and looking back at the vessel he had lost. Marcy almost wished that he could change places with him so that he could enter the navy as soon as he was released, and assist in sweeping the sea of such crafts as the Osprey. He dared not speak to him, for that would excite suspicion, and the prisoner, who looked at Marcy now and then, probably thought the boy as good a rebel as there was on board.
The low sand dunes about Hatteras Inlet, as well as the unfinished walls of the forts that were to defend it, came up out of the sea shortly after daylight the next morning, and at one o'clock the Osprey and her prize sailed through, loudly cheered by the working parties ashore. The prisoner now reminded Captain Beardsley of the promise he had made regarding the crew of the Mary Hollins, but Beardsley got out of it by saying that he had no way of signaling to the prize, and could not think of waiting for her to come alongside so that he could hail her. The truth was Captain Beardsley believed that the Yankees would fight if they were given half a chance. The sound upon which the vessels were now sailing was a pretty large body of water, Newborn was still many miles away, and if the Hollins's men were freed from their irons, they might recapture their vessel and elude the Osprey during the night that was coming. Beardsley kept them in durance until he reached port, and then released them to be jeered and hooted by the crowd that followed them from the wharf to the jail in which they were confined.
The reception that was extended to himself and his men was of different character. They were cheered to the echo, and as many as could get upon the decks of the Osprey and her prize, insisted on shaking them by the hand and telling them what brave fellows they were, and how much they had done for the glorious cause of Southern independence. Beardsley's agent was on hand, of course, and when he had seen the Mary Hollins turned over to the collector of the port, he insisted that the Ospreys hould run out again at once and make another haul, before the seizure of the Hollins became known at the North; but, to Marcy Gray's intense delight, Beardsley refused to budge.
"Not much I won't go outside again and leave you land-sharks to handle my prize and the money she'll sell for," he declared, with so much emphasis that the agent did not think it best to urge him further. "Me and my men have got the biggest interest in the Mary Hollins, and right here we stay till the legality of the capture has been settled, the vessel and cargo sold, and the dollars that belong to us are planked down in our two hands."
"Then I may go home?" said Marcy, as soon as he saw a good chance to ask the question.
"Course. Go by first train if you want to."
That was enough for the boy, who was disgusted with life on board a privateer. He hastened below, and in less than twenty minutes presented himself in Beardsley's cabin with his "grip" in one hand and a paper in the other.
"That's a leave of absence," said Marcy, placing the paper before the captain. "I don't suppose it is drawn up in proper form, but it will serve to show the people at home that I am there with your permission. I'd be glad if you would sign it."
The captain did so without a word of objection, gave Marcy a few messages to be delivered to his friends in and around Nashville, and promised to look out for his share of the prize money.
"You can keep it, if you can bring yourself to touch it," thought the boy, as he walked ashore, after shouting good-by to the crew, and bent his steps toward the nearest telegraph office. "It would burn my hands."
He sent a dispatch to his mother requesting that Morris might be sent to meet him at the depot at a certain time, and to allay any fears that might be awakened in her mind by his sudden return to Newbern, he announced that the privateer had just brought a valuable prize into port. Those few words sent the dispatch through without a cent's worth of expense to himself.
"So you are one of those gallant fellows, are you?" said the operator. "Well, I'll send it off and call it square. You deserve a world of credit."
"I can't for the life of me see where an armed vessel wins credit in capturing one that is entirely without means of defense," replied Marcy, who had heard so much of this sort of talk since he reached Newbern that he was tired of it.
"But that isn't the point," said the operator. "See what a blow you have struck at the enemy's commerce. Keep it up long enough and you will drive his hated old rag from the sea."
Marcy had another ride with Morris, who was at the depot waiting for him when his train came in, and reached home at last to receive a tearful welcome from his mother.
"You don't gush over me at all," said he, as she threw her arms about his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. "Don't you know that I have roamed the high sea, smelled powder, and helped capture a Yankee vessel? It's the most despicable business in the world," he added, as he led his mother into the house out of earshot of all the servants. And then he told her how the capture had been effected, and explained why Beardsley would not immediately put to sea to try his luck again. He said, with a long-drawn sigh, that he was glad to get home, and hoped from the bottom of his heart that the Osprey might sink at her wharf before he was ordered to report aboard of her again. As for the prize-money, he supposed he would have to take it or set Beardsley's tongue in motion; but he would put it carefully away, and send it to the master of the Hollins if he ever had the chance.
"You don't feel at all as your Cousin Rodney does," said his mother, when he ceased speaking. "A long letter from him addressed to you came during your absence, and I took the liberty to read it. Yes, he enlisted almost as soon as he reached home, and is going with his company to Missouri, where he hopes to join Dick Graham, who belongs to the state troops under General Price."
"They have both lived up to their principles, but how have I lived up to mine?" said Marcy, taking the letter from his mother's hand. "I told them I should be true to my colors, no matter what happened, and how have I held to my resolution? I can't tell them just how I am situated, for suppose the letter should miscarry and fall into the hands of some fellow like Captain Beardsley? This is a nice way to live."
Rodney wrote as if he were full of enthusiasm, and gave a complete history of his movements since the day on which he bade his cousin good-by in Barrington. There was one short paragraph in his letter which will serve as a very good introduction to the second volume of this series of books, and we produce it entire. It ran as follows:
"It wouldn't be safe for you to come to this country, old fellow, and talk as you did while we were at school. You would be mobbed in spite of all I could do to prevent it. I hope you haven't got into any trouble by trying to be true to your colors since you have been in North Carolina. I can talk as I please here, and you know I please to denounce everything except secession and independence. I belong to an independent company of cavalry. The colonel commanding the regiment we wanted to join didn't think he had any authority to accept us unless we would give up our independent organization, and as we were resolved we wouldn't do that, we began to think we would be obliged to fight on our own hook; but just in the nick of time we learned that the troops serving in Missouri, under Price and McCulloch, were mostly partisans, and that either of those commanders would be glad to accept us. So there is where we are going as soon as we can get transportation, and who knows but I may see our old friend Dick Graham? Shall I tell him 'Hello!' for you? We furnish our own horses, the government allowing us sixty cents a day for the use of them. If they die or are killed in action, we are to get another mount from the enemy. Come and join us, Marcy. Throw your Union sentiments to the winds – you'll have to sooner or later – take sides with the friends of your state, swear allegiance to the flag of the Confederacy and battle for the right. Come and join my company and we'll have some high old times running the Yankees out of Missouri."
But the sequel proved that the despised Yankees could not be so easily driven; on the contrary they drove the rebels. Marcy's cousin manfully bore a soldier's part in some of the hardest battles that were fought in Missouri; and just what he did, and whether or not he enjoyed the "high old times" that came rather sooner than he expected, shall be told in the succeeding volume of this series which will be entitled, "RODNEY, THE PARTISAN."
