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The Ocean Cat's Paw: The Story of a Strange Cruise, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 12. Private Ears |
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_ CHAPTER TWELVE. PRIVATE EARS The schooner was run safely into port, but just before she cleared the harbour mouth, down came a tremendous squall of wind as if from round the corner of some impossible solid cloud behind which an ambush of the storm had been lying in wait for the brave little vessel. Down it came all at once, just when least expected, and in a few seconds as it struck the little vessel, rushing, in spite of the small amount of canvas spread, rapidly for the shelter, every one on deck snatched at the nearest object to which he could cling. The schooner bravely resisted for a while, careening over and then rising again, and then down she went with her masts almost flat upon the foam, and then lying over more and more as Rodd clung hard with one hand and involuntarily stretched out the other to his uncle as if to say good-bye. For he felt certain as the water came surging over the leeward rail that the next minute their voyage would be ended, and the Maid of Salcombe be going down. It was one horror of breathlessness in the shrieking wind, while the storm-driven spray cut and lashed and flogged at the crew. "It's all over," gasped the boy, in his excitement, though somehow even then there was no feeling of fear. Another minute as she still dashed on, plunging through the waves, the vessel began to right again, the masts rising more and more towards the perpendicular, and the water that seemed to have been scooped up in the hollows of the well-reefed sails came streaming back in showers upon the deck. Another minute and Rodd began to get his breath again, panting hard and feeling as if some great hand had been grasping him by the throat and had at last released its hold, while as the schooner now skimmed on, every furlong taking her more into shelter, the squall had passed over them and went sweeping along far away over the town ahead, and the boy felt a strong grip upon his arm. Rodd turned sharply, to face Cross the sailor, who held on to him with his left while he used his right hand to clear his eyes from the spray. "All right," he said, with his lips close to the boy's ear, so as to make himself heard, while Rodd winced, for as the man leaned towards him he poured something less than a pint of salt water from off his tightly-tied-on oilskin sou'-wester right into his eyes. Rodd nodded without attempting to speak, and the sailor laughed. There was something so genial and content in the man's looks, that it sent a thrill of satisfaction through the boy's breast, telling as it did that they were out of danger, while, as they rapidly glided on, the shrieking of the wind through the rigging grew less and less and the motion of the schooner more and more steady as the harbour was gained. "Say, my lad," said Cross, "I thought we was going to make our first dive after specimens, and the _Saucy Sally_ seemed to be holding her breath as she stuck her nose down into it and then jibbed and threw herself over sideways as if she knowed there wasn't depth enough of water for the job." "Hah!" gasped Rodd hoarsely, for he had been taking in spray as well as wind, and he had now nearly recovered the power of breathing easily and well. "Why, Joe, I thought we were sinking." "Nay, my lad; not us! The _Sally_ was too well battened down, and couldn't have sunk; but I was getting a bit anxious when it looked as if we was going to miss the harbour mouth and go floating in ashore lying down as if we had all gone to sleep." "Yes, it was horrible," said Rodd, with a sigh of relief. "But what would have happened if we had missed the mouth and gone ashore?" "Why, what does happen, my lad, when a ship does that? Bumps, and a sale arterwards of new-wrecked timber on the beach. But here we are all right, and instead of being ashamed of ourselves we can look the mounseers full in the face and tell 'em that if they can manage a better bit of seamanship than the skipper, they had better go and show us how." Joe Cross said no more, for Captain Chubb was roaring orders through a speaking trumpet, the last bit of canvas was lowered down, and before long the schooner was safely moored in the outer harbour as far away as she could safely get from the vessels that had taken refuge before them, some of them grinding together and damaging their paint and wood, in spite of their busy crews hard at work with fenders and striving to get into safer quarters, notwithstanding the efforts of the heavy gusts which came bearing down from time to time. The nearest vessel was a handsome-looking brig which they had passed as they glided in, noting that she was moored head to wind to a heavy buoy. As they passed her to run nearer into shelter Rodd had noticed the name upon her stern, the _Jeanne d'Arc_, which suggested immediately the patriotic Maid of Orleans. He had forgotten it the next moment, the name being merged with the thought that while the schooner had had so narrow an escape of ending her voyage, the brig had been lying snugly moored to the buoy. But now as they glided on it became evident that the brig had broken adrift, for all at once, as she lay rolling and jerking at her mooring cable, the distance between her bows and the huge ringed cask seemed to have grown greater, and from where Rodd stood he could see the glistening tarpaulins of her crew as they hurried forward in a cluster, and Captain Chubb bellowed an order from where he stood astern, to his men. "Aren't coming aboard of us, are they?" thought Rodd, as, heard above the wind during a comparative lull, Captain Chubb was roaring out fresh orders to his crew; for he had fully grasped the danger, and the men were ready to slip their cable moorings and glide farther in under bare poles. But fortunately this fresh disaster did not come to pass, for as the brig bore down upon them there was a rush and splash from her bows, an anchor went down, checking her progress a little, then a little more, as she still came on nearer as if to come crash into the schooner's bows, and Captain Chubb raised his speaking trumpet to his lips to bid his men let go, prior to ordering them to stand by ready to lower their own anchor in turn when at a safe distance, when the brig's progress received a sudden check, her anchor held, and she was brought up short not many yards away. "Smart," said Captain Chubb, "for a mounseer;" and he looked at Rodd as he spoke, before tucking his speaking trumpet under his arm and then giving himself a shake like a huge yellow Newfoundland dog to get rid of the superabundant moisture. "Well, squire," he continued, as he came close up, "what should you do next?" Rodd looked at him as if puzzled by the question. Then putting his hands to his mouth he shouted back-- "I should get farther into the harbour, in case that brig broke away again." "Of course you would," said the captain, with a grim smile. "Now, don't you pretend again that you aren't a sailor, because that was spoken like a good first mate. But we will wait for a lull before we let go, for I don't want to lose no tackle. But the gale aren't over yet." "But we are safe, captain?" said the boy. "Yes," grunted the captain. "Better off than them yonder," and he pointed to a good-sized vessel which had been running for the harbour, but in vain, for she had been carried on too far and was swept away, to take the shore a mile distant. The lull foretold by Captain Chubb enabled him to slip from his moorings and get the schooner into a sheltered position which he deemed sufficiently snug and far enough away from the brig, whose captain did not manifest any intention of coming farther in. As they were parting company Rodd was standing right forward close to Cross, who stood spelling out the name of the brig they were leaving behind. "_Jenny de Arc_" he grunted to Rodd. "That's a rum name for a smart brig like that. Wonder what she is. I never see'd Jenny spelt like that afore. That's the French way of doing it, I suppose." Rodd took upon himself to explain whose name the brig bore, and the sailor gave vent to a musical growl. "Shouldn't have knowed it," he said; "but as I was a-saying, I wonder what she is. Looks to me like what they calls a private ear." "Why, that's a man-of-war, isn't it, Joe?" "Well, a kind of a sort of one, you know, sir. One of them as goes off in war times to hark in private for any bit of news about well-laden merchantmen, and then goes off to capture them." "But what makes you think that, Joe?" asked Rodd. "Why, look at her rig, sir. See what a heap of sail she could carry. I don't hold with a brig for fast-sailing, but look at the length of them two masts, and see how she's pierced for guns. She has shut up shop snug enough on account of the storm, but I'll wager she could run out some bulldogs--I mean, French poodles--as could bark if she liked. Then there's a big long gun amidships." "I didn't see it," said Rodd. "Maybe not, my lad, but I did." "Well, but a merchantman might carry guns to defend herself, Joe." "Ay, she might, sir; but she wouldn't, unless she was going on a job like ours and wanted to scare off savages; and that aren't likely, for I should say we are the only vessel afloat as is going on such a fishing expedition as ours. And then look at her crew." "What about her crew?" said Rodd. "It seemed to be a very good one so far as I could see." "A deal too good, sir. Who ever saw a merchantman with such a crew as that? Didn't you see how smart they were in obeying orders and getting down that anchor?" "Why, no smarter than our crew," said Rodd rather indignantly. "Smarter than our crew, Mr Rodd, sir! I should think not!" cried the sailor. "Why, they are French! Still it was very tidy for them. I should like to know, though, what they are. I do believe I'm right, and that she is a private ear. Not been watching us, has she? Seems rather queer." "Why should she be watching us?" "Why should a private ear be watching any smart schooner, except to make a prize of her?" "Oh, but that's in time of war," cried Rodd. "Ay, sir, but your private ears aren't very particular about that. This is near enough to war time still, and if I was our skipper I should keep a good sharp eye on that craft. But he knows pretty well what he's about. His head is screwed on the right way. But I say, Mr Rodd, how should you like a bit of the real thing, same as we used to have when I was in a King's ship?" "What, a naval action?" "Oh, you may call it that, sir, if you like. I mean a bit of real French and English, and see which is best man." "Oh, nonsense! That's all over now, Joe." "I don't know so much about that, sir." "But we are in a friendly port, Joe, and no French ship would dare attack one of ours." "No, sir, I know they daren't do it," said the man stubbornly; "but if they could catch us asleep they might have a try. But there, don't you be uncomfortable. There's too much of the weasel about our skipper, and he'll be too wide awake to let any Frenchman catch him asleep." "Ah, you are thinking a lot of nonsense, Joe," said Rodd. "The war is all at an end, and Napoleon Bonaparte shut up in prison at Saint Helena. There'll be no more fighting now." "Well, sir, I suppose you are right," said the man, with something like a sigh; "but you see, like some of my mates, I have seen a bit of sarvice in a King's ship, and we have got our guns on board, and we have just now been lying alongside--I should say bow and stern--of a Frenchman so as we could slew round and rake her; and it sets a man thinking. But there, I suppose you are right, and there will be no fighting for us this voyage." "Of course there won't be. We are friends now with France." "Yes, sir, and the French pretends to be friends with us; but all the same if I was the skipper I should double my night watch and be well on the look-out for squalls.--Ay, ay, sir!" Joe Cross answered a hail from the skipper, and was directly after busy at work helping his mates to make all snug aloft, for the wind had sunk now into a pleasant soft gale which seemed to suggest fine weather; but Captain Chubb shook his head and frowned very severely as he looked out to windward. "Nay, my lad," he said, "we have made our start and got as far as here, but it don't seem to me like getting away just yet, for there's a lot of weather hanging about somewhere, and as we are in no hurry and are snug in port, I am not going to run the risk of losing any of my tackle while the wind is shifting about like this. If I was you I should go in for a general dry up, and maybe you and your uncle, if the rain holds off, would like to go and have a look round the town." The skipper moved away, and Rodd went to the side to have another look at the French brig, and then, not satisfied, he went below to fetch the small spy-glass, finding his uncle busy re-arranging some of his apparatus in the laboratory, and as he did not seem to be required, the boy took the small telescope from where it hung and made his way back again on deck, where he focussed the glass and began to scan the brig, scrutinising her rig and everything that he could command, from trucks to deck, making out the long gun covered by a great tarpaulin, and then bringing the glass to bear upon such of the crew as came within his scope. And as he watched the well-built, smartly-rigged vessel with such knowledge as he had acquired during his life at the great English port, he made out, though fairly distant now, that there seemed to be something in Joe Cross's remarks, so that when he closed his glass to go down below, he began to dwell on the possibility of the smart brig being indeed a privateer, and this set him thinking of how horrible it would be if she did turn inimical and make an attempt at what would have been quite an act of piracy if she had followed the Maid of Salcombe out to sea and seized her as a prize. "Why, it would break uncle's heart, after all his preparations for the expedition," mused the boy; "and besides it would be so treacherous. But Captain Chubb would not give up, I am sure. I never thought of it before, but he must have thought a good deal more about an accident such as this happening when he was taking such pains to drill and train the men. What did he say--that as we were going along a coast where the people were very savage and spent most of their time in war and fighting, we ought to be prepared for danger, in case we were attacked. Was he thinking of the French as well as the savages when he said this? Perhaps so. If one of his men thought so, why shouldn't he? Well, I will ask him first time I get him alone. Hullo! What are they doing there? Somebody going ashore from the brig." Rodd could see with the naked eye the lowering down of a ship's boat over the brig's side, and that made him quickly focus his glass again, and while he was busy scanning the boat as it kissed the water and the oars fell over the side, Joe Cross came up behind him and made him start. "Well, sir," he said, "what do you make of her now?" "Nothing, Joe," said the boy, "only that it seems a very nice brig." "Very, sir, and well-manned. Look at that." "What?" asked the boy. "That there boat they've lowered down, and how she's manned. She's no merchantman. Look at the way they are rowing. Why, they're like men-of-war's men, every one. I don't like the looks of she, and if the old skipper don't get overhauling her with them there eyes of his I'm a Dutchman; and that's what I ain't." "Ah, you make mountains of molehills, Joe," said Rodd. "Maybe, sir; maybe. But I suppose it's all a matter of eddication and training to keep watch. There, you see, it's always have your eyes open, night or day. For a man as goes to sea on board a man-of-war, meaning a King's ship, has to see enemies wherever they are and wherever they aren't, for even if there bean't none, a chap has to feel that there might be, and if he's let anything slip without seeing on it, why, woe betide him! There y'are, sir! Look at that there boat. You have hung about Plymouth town and seen things enough there to know as that there aren't a merchant brig." "Well, she doesn't look like a merchant's shore boat, certainly," said Rodd, with his eyes still glued to the end of the telescope. "Right, sir," cried Joe Cross. "Well, then, sir, as she aren't a merchant brig's boat, and the brig herself aren't a man-of-war, perhaps you will tell me what she is? You can't, sir?" "No, Joe." "No more can I, sir; but if we keeps our eyes open I dare say we shall see." _ |
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