Barney Blake, the Boy Privateer; or, The Cruise of the Queer Fish

by Herrick Johnstone

  Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

  +-------------------------------------------------+|Transcriber's note: || ||Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. || |+-------------------------------------------------+

  BEADLE'S HALF DIME Library

  Entered as Second Class Matter at the New York, N. Y., Post Office.

  Copyrighted 1897, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. February 9, 1897.

  No. 1020. $2.50 a Year. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS.Price, 5 cents. Vol. XL.

  No. 92 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK.

  BARNEY BLAKE, THE BOY PRIVATEER;

  Or, The Cruise of the Queer Fish. BY HERRICK JOHNSTONE

  WITH A LUSTY CHEER THEY BID GOOD-BY TO THE SHIP.]

  Barney Blake, the Boy Privateer;

  OR,

  THE CRUISE of the QUEER FISH.

  BY HERRICK JOHNSTONE.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE SHIP AND HER CREW.

  It was upon a bright morning of the month of May, 1813, as I, a sailorjust paid off from my last ship, was wandering along the wharves ofBoston, that I was hailed by an old messmate, named Tony Trybrace.

  "Ship ahoy!" cried Tony.

  "The Barney Blake," I responded. "Out of employment, with compass gone,and nothing to steer by."

  "What!" cried Tony, giving me his flipper. "Do you want a ship? Astrange wish to go unsatisfied in these times."

  "Yes," I hesitatingly rejoined, "but, you see, I've never been in thenavy--always sailed in a merchantman--and--"

  "Nonsense!" cried Tony. "That kind of blarney won't do for these times.I shipped the other day on as cracky a craft as ever kicked the spraybehind her. Come and join us."

  "What! on a man-o'-war?"

  "Better than that. On a bold privateer! Look out there to windward,"said Tony, directing my attention with his pointing hand, "and tell mewhat you think of her. That's her, the brigantine, with her r'yals halffurled."

  The vessel indicated to me by my friend did not go back on his off-handdescription of her.

  "She's a splendid ship!" I exclaimed. "What name does she go by?"

  "The Queer Fish," was the reply. "She has sixguns--eighteen-pounders--three on each side--with the prettiestthirty-pound brass swivel at her starn, this side of Davy Jones. Shestarts to-morrow for a year's cruise. Will you go?"

  "Yes."

  "Spoken like a Yankee tar. Come."

  A boat of the privateer was in waiting, and in a few moments we were init.

  Scarcely had we pulled half way before a funny looking old fellow,squint-eyed, red-whiskered, and enormously wide-mouthed, whom theycalled Old Nick--a Norwegian by birth, was detected by the second mateattempting to take a pull at a green bottle, which he slyly whisked fromthe inside breast pocket of his pea-jacket. He was rowing at the time,and it required much sleight of hand to disengage one of his hands forthe purpose in view. Nevertheless, he succeeded, took a long pull at thebottle, thinking no one saw him, corked it up again, and was about toreturn it to his pocket, when, at a wink from the second mate, TonyTrybrace, accidentally on purpose, skipped the plunge of his oar andbrought it up against the old fellow with such a jostle that overboardflew the bottle, where it bobbed about.

  Every one who saw the trick burst into fits of laughter. For a momentOld Nick seemed undetermined what course to pursue. Then naturevindicated her sway. He dropped his oar, rose in his seat, and plungedoverboard after the green bottle and its precious contents!

  He made straight for the bottle, recovered it, took a long pull at itwhile he trod water, returned it to his bosom, and made a back track tothe yawl.

  "You'll git up early in de morgen to rob ein Deitcher of his schnapps,"he growled, as he clambered over the gunwale.

  So, with many a laugh and jeer at the old fellow's expense, we pulledthe balance of the way without further incident, and were soon upon thedeck of the Queer Fish Privateer.

  I was pleased with her more than ever upon a closer acquaintance.Everything was trim and tidy. Her decks were almost spotless, andnothing could exceed the beauty of her long bright swivel. She waspolished up like a looking-glass, and I longed to hear her speak, withan iron pill in her throat.

  Tony Trybrace had told nothing but the truth, when he had said that thepeople of the privateer were the jolliest afloat. They were a comicalset from Captain Joker down to Peter Pun, the cabin-boy. Tony was theboatswain, and, as soon as we were aboard, he escorted me down to thecabin, to see the captain and sign the ship's papers.

  I shall never forget the impression created upon me by my firstintroduction to the captain. I thought him the funniest-looking littleman I had ever seen. He was a dried-up, weazen-faced, bald-headed littlefellow, of fifty or thereabouts, with a red, gin-loving nose, twinklinggray eyes, so small that they were usually almost out of sight, and theexpression of his mouth was so intensely humorous, that his lips alwaysseemed to be fighting back a burst of laughter. To add to this, he wasevery inch a seaman, with the freshness of the ocean breathing fromevery pore of his wiry frame, and every seam of his weather-beaten facegiving evidence of stormy service in sun and clime.

  By a great effort, Captain Joker put on a severe expression ofcountenance as I entered, eyed me with those quick professional eyes ofhis, and emptied, at a draught, the tumbler of old Santa Cruz whichstood at his side on the cabin-table.

  Upon Tony's saying that I wished to ship on the Queer Fish, the captain,by a still greater effort, put on a still severer expression, and beganto catechize me, while a wink from Tony told me which way the land lay.

  "Where do you hail from?" demanded the captain pompously.

  "From Salem, sir."

  CAPTAIN. (_With a sly twinkle in his eyes, in spite of himself._) Whatare the chief staples of Salem?

  I. Shoemakers, old maids and sharks' teeth.

  CAPTAIN. What is your name?

  I. Barney Blake, sir.

  CAPTAIN. Who was your mother?

  I. Never had any.

  CAPTAIN. (_With his eyes twinkling more than ever._) Who are you the sonof?

  I. I'm the son of a sea-cook, was weaned on salt water, reared onsea-biscuit, and am thirsty for prize-money.

  "You'll do!" cried the captain, shaking with merriment like a bowl ofbonnyclabber, and striking the table with his fat fist. "Boatswain,enter him on the books as Barney Blake, son of a sea-cook; give him acutlass and two pistols, and make him stand around. Avast, youvagabonds, and look sharp, or I'll be down on you with a cat andspread-eagle!"

  The laughter of the captain, as we left him, was anything but inaccordance with this monstrous threat.

  "Good for you!" whispered Tony, encouragingly, as we ascended thecompanion-ladder.

  He then brought me forward and introduced me to the entire forecastle.His words, upon this occasion, were somewhat characteristic, and herethey are:

  "Look yer', messmates, this 'ere cove is a perticklar chum o' mine. I'veknow'd him fer ten year--ran away from school with him, fell in lovewith the same gal, and cruised with him on the Constitution for threeyear. All I got ter say is, treat him well, or some o' yer'll git a eyeso black yer own mother won't know yer, unless she's a black woman witha sore head: for he's as lively on his pins as a four-year-oldcater-mountain, plucky as a Mexican gamecock, and the sweep of his fistis like the flounder of a ground-shark's fluke. Messmates, t
his 'ere isBarney Blake, Son of a Sea-Cook."

  Although I could not consistently indorse this opinion of my abilities,the gusto with which it was received by my future messmates rendered itpoor policy to deny it, so I went forward, and a general handshake wasthe result.

  How shall I describe the crew of the Queer Fish? They numbered onehundred and twenty-five men, all told, and were as motley a set as wereever grouped together under hatches.

  The majority were American-born, but there were four Hollanders, twoEnglishmen, six Frenchmen, two Malays, one Norwegian (Old Nick) and halfa score of Irishmen. Each one was a character, but to describe eachseparately, and do him justice, would alone require a thousand pages; soI must be content with sketching the few who most prominently figured inthe scenes I am about to narrate.

  I have already mentioned Tony Trybrace and Old Nick, as well as thesecond mate, whose name was Pat Pickle, at least, so-called--a capitalfellow as ever spoke through a trumpet, and brave as steel. Next inimportance to these worthies was, perhaps, Dicky Drake, the butt of thewhole crew. He was a green chap from somewhere down in Pennsylvania--hadnever been to sea before, except as a cod-fisher--and was the subject ofa great number of practical jokes some of which will be duly recorded.

  Probably the next worthy to be considered was our cook, a gigantic negrofrom the Virginia swamps, who went by the name of Snollygoster. I verilybelieve he was seven feet high, if an inch, and was possessed of themost prodigious strength.

  I never saw the celebrated Milo of old. He must have been considerablein his way; but all I have got to say is that I would pit Snollygosteragainst him any day in the week and have no fear of my money. I haveseen him raise a barrel of Santa Cruz and drink from the bunghole aseasy as a common mortal would lift a box of cheese, and he was said tohave felled an ox by a single blow of his fist. He was as good-humored afellow as ever lived, and stood any amount of practical joking. Thequeerest inconsistency in his character was his peaceable disposition.Although no one could accuse him of downright cowardice, he was as timidas a hare and would go a long way out of his way to avoid a fight. But,if this was shown in his intercourse with men, it did not appear, itseems, in any other description of danger. He was the merriest man onboard the ship in a tempest, and one of the Malays who had shipped withhim in the Indian Ocean, swore that he had no more fear of sharks thanof so many flying fish.

  There was another queer fellow by the name of Roderick Prinn, who hailedfrom Southampton. There was nothing very funny about him, either. He hada sad, puritanical aspect, never drank, smoked or even chewed, and hadvery little to say. The most singular thing was his extraordinaryattachment to another of the crew. This was a boy, and a very prettylittle fellow to boot, named Willie Warner. They had both shipped atPhiladelphia, and there was a thread of mystery between them, which wasquite incomprehensible. They would associate together almost entirely,and would frequently converse together in the low tones of a languagewhich no one else could understand. Nevertheless, they did their workwell, and, although they were considerably reserved with the rest of thecrew, they were generally so kindly and agreeable in what they _had_ tosay, that no one could find fault.

  Then there was an old salt, just such another as Old Nick, who was fullof an innumerable quantity of stories. I don't know what his real namewas, but we called him Bluefish, and he liked the name. The amount of_yarn_ that was wound round somewhere inside that old fellow's jaw wassomewhat marvelous. He was a regular old spool, and had only to open hismouth to let out the longest and wildest lies on record, this or theother side of the Equator. Many a night, I can tell you, did we sit,gaping, round that old man of the sea, when the gale was blowing throughthe rigging a boreal tune, and all was snug below, to listen to hiswild, weird, and, sometimes, humorous tales. Perhaps the reader willhave one or two of them before we get through--who knows?

  Well, I must let up on these descriptions, or our story will goa-begging.

  I must say a few words about our first mate, and then I shall be allready for the story, with royals spread, rigging taut, and everythingtrim to scud before the wind.

  There wasn't anything funny about our first mate. He was, on the whole,an ugly, ill-natured dog, and thoroughly hated by every one on the ship,except the captain, who generally stuck to him through thick and thin.He was a Scotchman--one of your low-browed, lantern-jawed, gaunt-boned,mean-livered Scotchmen--a regular Sawney all over, from the top of hisred head to the sole of his bunioned feet. He had a voice like a crackedbugle and a heart as hard as the hardest flint on Ben Inverness, withnever anything pleasant to say or do. We detested him, and only waitedour chance to play a joke upon him.

  That will suffice for the men. As for the ship, she was as stanch andpretty a craft as ever plowed the blue waters, was built at Portland,masted at Bangor, and rigged at Boston, with an armament the best thatmoney could procure. She was also a very swift sailer, and we calculatedto play hob with John Bull's East Indiamen and whalers before we gotthrough with the cruise.