The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  “Sure?” asked Bob skeptically. His father laughed.

  “Why, until late years they used to shoot them down at the city of Singapore itself! I’ll take a trip in first, to make sure it’ll be all right for you to come along, and while I’m gone you can take care of the yacht. Then we’ll make up a grand hunting party, and everybody will get a tiger, eh?”

  “Bully!” exclaimed Mart eagerly, and departed to his wireless with a sheaf of messages to be sent off via Honolulu. Having sent them and arranged for answers to be sent at two o’clock that afternoon, he rejoined Bob and went down to mess.

  That afternoon they gained their last sight of land for many days, as the Seamew entered the Kamukahi Channel, passing between the green-clad hills of Niihau and Kauai, and then struck out on her straight course for the southernmost of the Philippines, with nearly five thousand miles of sea before her and seventeen days of journeying, if all went well.

  For two days all went well, indeed, and then came on what Liverpool Peters described as a moderate gale, but which seemed like a hurricane to Mart. They had had fine weather so far, and Mart had long ago dismissed all thoughts of seasickness, but now he gave up completely. Bob had long since been seasoned, of course, and poor Mart suffered alone for three terrible days.

  On the third day he felt sure that he was dying, but when Bob came down to the stateroom and grinningly offered him a big chunk of raw fat pork, Mart forgot his symptoms suddenly. Flinging himself out, he caught his tormentor and bore him to the floor. Bob rose with a bleeding nose, wiped the pork from his face, and fled; and Mart found that he had recovered his health suddenly. After a good meal he was himself again, and the two boys were too firm in friendship to be shaken by a good-humored “scrap” of such a nature.

  Then ensued such days as Mart Judson had never dreamed of, when they got into the doldrums, the powerful engines of the yacht forcing her ahead at a steady fifteen knots through calm and glassy waters. The sun was tremendously hot, of course, but the yacht’s motion created a perpetual breeze, while her awnings kept the bridge and lower decks cool.

  They were far out of the course of steamers, and saw no craft of any kind, save fleets of “Portuguese men-o’-war,” as Joe Swanson and the others called the jellyfish squadrons. Indeed, there was no lack of sea life all about them. Mart ate fried flying-fish for the first time in his life, and one day the Kanakas on watch set up a yell of “Shark! Him shark!”

  All hands rushed out on deck for the fun. Getting in the extreme stern, Mart and Bob thrilled at sight of the dorsal fin cutting the water twenty feet astern, while the shark could plainly be seen gobbling the refuse which the cook had just flung out from the galley. His long, dirty-white body was anything but pleasant, and when he turned over to catch a morsel and his V-shaped mouth became evident, Mart felt a repulsion that was little short of fear.

  The whole crew came aft in high glee, while “Liverpool” Peters, the second officer, bore an immense hook made fast to a line. Having baited the hook with a lump of pork, he flung it over the rail; the boys craned forward eagerly, and an instant later they saw the floating pork vanish in the maw of the shark.

  “Pull!” yelled Peters, and the men made fast to the line. Then ensued an hour of the wildest excitement, for the shark fought gamely, but he could not bite through the big steel shank of the hook, and was finally drawn alongside. Peters finished him with a revolver bullet, and the Kanakas dined on roast shark that night.

  More than once after that they caught sharks, as well as several of the pilot fish which were continually leaping beneath the bows of the yacht, while the boys managed to get good sport with smaller fish. Best of all, however, was the shooting at porpoises.

  Every morning Captain Hollinger would fetch his rifles up to the chart house, and the boys would join him. There, sitting in their deck chairs beneath the awnings, they would load up the rifles and sit watching.

  Suddenly, leaping out of the sea abruptly, perhaps half a mile off and perhaps fifty feet away, something would break the water. Up would shoot the great dark body, the whole fish darting clear in the air to fall back with hardly a splash, in a graceful curve. When he first saw the sight, Mart could hardly contain himself; the thrill of seeing that great body swirl up into the air in plain sight was wonderful. Over and over again it would be repeated, as the huge fish circled the vessel; then it would vanish as suddenly and mysteriously as it had come.

  “But s’pose we wounded ’em?” asked Bob hesitatingly the first morning.

  “Nonsense!” laughed the captain, taking a quick shot at one of the flashing bodies a hundred yards away. “In the first place, you’re not likely to score a hit, Bob. In the next place, these are little twenty-two caliber bullets; unless it happened to penetrate a vital part, one of these little pellets won’t bother a ten or fifteen-foot porpoise. It might sting him a little, if it penetrated his hide, but that’s all. It’ll give you the best kind of shooting practice, too.”

  Reassured by this speech, the two boys pitched in. There was no lack of ammunition aboard the Seamew, and there seemed to be no lack of porpoises anxious to serve as moving targets. And, indeed, Mart soon found that he need spend no worry over leaving wounded fish to flounder out their lives.

  So rapidly did he have to shoot, so quickly did he have to meet the unexpected risings of the porpoises, that it was several days before he could begin to come anywhere near the mark. Bob did better, having had more practice in shooting, and the captain proved himself a past master. But at no time did any thought of cruelty occur to either of the boys again, since it proved to be exactly as Captain Hollinger had said, and they saw no sign of dead or wounded fish in their wake.

  “I wouldn’t mind shooting a shark,” declared Mart one morning to his chum. “Do you s’pose one of these rifles would kill one?”

  “What—twenty-twos? Not much!” and Bob laughed scornfully. “They can stand an awful lot o’ bullets, Mart. I tell you—next time you sight a shark after us, I’ll get a couple o’ dad’s thirty-thirty rifles and we’ll have some real shooting.”

  Two days after this, indeed, a shark was attracted under their counter, and each boy got a shot at him. What effect the bullets had, they never knew, for the shark turned and disappeared rapidly. Mart had missed, not allowing for refraction, while Bob’s shot had gone true, but they had learned their lesson. The next time a shark showed up, they hooked him first, then began target-practice with the heavy rifles.

  The shark, while having comparative freedom of action, was forced to follow the ship, and the two boys pumped bullet after bullet, while the crew cheered or mocked their efforts in impartial criticism. Mart was amazed to find that after scoring twenty or thirty hits, the shark still plunged and leaped as strongly as ever, although a red trail was seeping out into the water behind him. Finally Captain Hollinger took a hand in the game and with three well-placed bullets killed the shark.

  “That’s enough for me,” declared Mart disgustedly putting down his rifle. “It doesn’t give the brute a fair show and it’s too much like butchery. I’m satisfied.”

  “Here too,” nodded Bob, disdaining his father’s laughter. “I guess I’ll stick to the twenty-twos and porpoises. Too much blood in sharks.”

  So that, after this, there was no more shooting at sharks. And for that matter, something occurred the very next day that served to take the boys’ minds off sharks for some time to come.

  Up until now there had been no trouble whatever aboard the Seamew. The crew were paid good wages, and their food was far superior to that of the ordinary forecastle galley. The engine-room crew was composed of two Scotch engineers and a gang of Kanakas, and the brown-skinned sailors were all willing and cheerful workers.

  The second mate, however, did not get on well with the men who had been shipped by old Jerry Smith. Peters was an excellent seaman, and was far easier on the men than was the first mate, Swanson. Yet Swanson was obeyed with great alacrity, probably because he did not hesitate
to bully the men, while Peters had some difficulty in making the men adopt what he considered their proper attitude. With Captain Hollinger there was of course no trouble whatever.

  The day after they had shot the shark, the boys were waiting for mess-call, and were looking over some magazines in the library saloon. Suddenly they heard voices in altercation on the deck, and the tramp of feet, while the angry tones of Peters rose deep and vehement.

  “Something wrong!” exclaimed Mart, springing to the companionway.

  “Hold on,” cried Bob hastily, joining him. “Don’t get mixed up in any row, Mart.”

  “No danger,” chuckled the other. “Hello! By golly, Liverpool’s mad for fair!”

  And so he was. Looking out the door of the companionway on to the starboard deck-alley of the yacht, they saw that the awnings were up and the decks were being holystoned. Outside the door stood a bucket of water, a big holystone beside it, while the one-eyed seaman Birch was just rising to his feet from the deck. Peters was standing over him, his face dark.

  “Don’t go to sleep, there,” commanded the mate sharply. “If I catch you again with a pipe alight aft of the fo’c’sle, you’ll get worse than that. Move lively!”

  Birch wiped his cheek, where the second officer’s fist had evidently landed, his one eye flamed angrily and his hand dropped to his sheath knife.

  “Blast you!” he muttered thickly. “I’ll have the law on you—”

  Without a word Peters’ fist shot out, caught the evil-faced seaman full on the jaw, and Birch went back with a crash. Peters looked calmly at him as he rose.

  “Say ‘sir’ when you talk to an officer, an’ no back talk either,” ordered the mate. “And you get gay with that knife again, Birch, and I’ll give you what-for! Now move lively with that work, you lazy dog.”

  Birch stooped over his holystone, and Peters turned to go forward again. As he did so, Birch straightened up suddenly. Gazing malevolently at the broad back of the retreating mate, the one-eyed seaman whipped out his sheath knife, a wild spasm of fury contracting his wrinkled face.

  Instinctively Mart took a step forward, but Bob caught his arm and held him back with a muttered word. Before Birch could move, a shadow fell across the deck and old Jerry Smith came padding along in his bare feet, his white hair flying in the wind. He caught Birch’s arm, and for a second the two men stared into each other’s faces. And when Mart saw the features of old Jerry, he did not wonder that Birch paused, for the quartermaster’s face was absolutely livid with mingled fear and anger, while his blue eyes shone out clear and baleful.

  “You fool!” muttered Jerry, as Peters disappeared forward. “You fool!”

  “Mebbe I’m a fool an’ mebbe I ain’t,” responded Birch sullenly. “But I’m goin’ to git that bucko mate yet, Shark Smith!”

  “Stow your jaw and get to work!” snapped Jerry, and passed on like a shadow.

  Mart drew back and looked at his chum. Bob’s face was white.

  “That’s no way to treat men,” exclaimed Mart softly. “If I was Birch—”

  “Oh, shucks—what’s the matter with you?” Bob’s eyes blazed excitedly. “That’s nothin’—you’ve got to handle sailors like that. But did you hear what he said to Jerry? Called him ‘Shark Smith’—and Jerry heard him make threats and said nothing!”

  “It’s funny discipline,” admitted Mart slowly. “But a quartermaster ain’t an officer, remember. And I don’t blame Birch for being mad.”

  So the incident passed, for indeed it was a mere incident in the sea-routine. Officers are quick to exact instant obedience, and the least show of rebellion or “back talk” is answered with a blow. But even so, the evil face of the one-eyed seaman flitted through Mart’s dreams for many a night thereafter, although Birch seemed doubly respectful toward the second mate, as indeed did all the crew.

  CHAPTER VII

  “WHERE’S PETERS?”

  The Seamew had passed through Balabac Strait and was standing out into the reef-strewn South China Sea, on the last leg of her course, when it happened.

  That afternoon the diving suits and pumps had been broken out and put in order, after which the grinning Kanakas and Jerry Smith had given Mart and Bob some practical lessons in dressing up in the cumbersome water-tight outfit, and in working the pumps. In the evening they had sat up late with Captain Hollinger, talking rifles and ammunition, and they were weary enough to sleep soundly.

  Mart’s porthole was open that night, as usual. He woke up suddenly to find the setting moon streaming in across his face, and got up to hang a towel across the open port, in order not to exclude the fresh air. As he did so, he heard the ship’s bell forward strike eight bells, and knew that it was midnight.

  There came a faint pad of bare feet forward—the watches being changed. Then, as he stood for a moment gazing out at the moonlit sea, he heard the deep voice of the second mate, Liverpool Peters, who had apparently just taken charge of the deck.

  “All right, Mr. Swanson. I’ll keep a sharp eye on that chart. Sou’-sou’-east by a half east it is.”

  Mart went sleepily back to bed and thought no more of it. He knew that they were in dangerous waters, but the yacht had a splendid outfit of charts and there was no danger for her among the coral reefs. He was wakened at dawn, however, to find Bob pounding on his door.

  “Hey, Mart!” came the voice of his chum excitedly. “Tumble out here.”

  Mart growled out an unintelligible reply, but Bob resumed his pounding, so the wireless operator reflected that there must be “something doing.” Hastily flinging on his clothes, he opened the door and gained the deck.

  “Well, what’s up, Holly? Why, it’s hardly dawn yet!”

  “Shut up an’ come along to the bridge!” exclaimed Bob. “Dad’s up there—Joe Swanson came an’ roused him up just now. That’s what woke me up.”

  “Well, what’s the matter?” demanded Mart vigorously. “We ain’t struck a reef, have we?”

  “I’m not quite sure myself, Mart. Swanson said something about Liverpool, so mebbe he’s had another scrap. I heard dad tell him to call all hands, then he was out on deck like a house afire, and I came after you.”

  “Much obliged, old scout,” chattered Mart, for the dawn was cold. While they talked, they had been hastening forward, and now they scrambled hastily up to the bridge deck, where they found everyone but the engine-room crew assembled. Jerry Smith was at the wheel, and he wagged his head solemnly at the boys, but they were too excited to notice him.

  Pushing through the crowd, they entered the chart house. Captain Hollinger was seated at the table, but merely glanced at them with a nod. Swanson and the old rheumatic seaman Borden stood before him.

  “Yes, sir,” the mate was saying, and Mart noticed that his burly, rugged face looked queer. “He was all right at eight bells, sir. Borden was at the wheel when the port watch came up, an’ Liverpool put Birch there in his place.”

  “All right, Borden,” returned the captain quietly. “You may go. Tell Birch to step in here.”

  The boys glanced at each other, pale-faced. Each was exceedingly anxious to know what had happened, but at sight of Captain Hollinger’s tight-lipped mouth and drawn face, they dared ask no questions.

  The one-eyed Birch came in, ducking his head respectfully.

  “When did you last see Mr. Peters, Birch?” asked the captain.

  “At six bells, Cap’n. Mr. Peters said he was goin’ below for a drink, but he didn’t come to the bridge again, sir.”

  “You heard nothing suspicious?”

  “Nothin’, sir.”

  “Who else was on the bridge?”

  “The quartermaster, sir.”

  “Send him in here. You may go.”

  Birch left. The two boys again met each other’s eyes, hardly able to believe what they had heard. Then old Jerry shuffled in.

  “Quartermaster, did Birch leave the wheel about six bells?”

  “No, sir—he wasn’t off the bridge at all,
sir.”

  “Hm!” Captain Hollinger leaned forward, fixing his eyes on the old seaman. “Look here, Jerry. What do you think happened to Mr. Peters? Did he meet with foul play?”

  Jerry hesitated, glancing at the open door. Swanson moved forward and closed it.

  “No, sir, I don’t think as he did,” returned Jerry slowly. “The men didn’t like him, Mr. Hollinger; I will say they fair hated him, but not so bad as that, sir. Take Birch there—he’s threatened Mr. Peters’ life before now, sir, but that’s no more’n fo’c’sle talk, sir, as you know very well. No, sir, I think that Mr. Peters went below to get a drink, as Birch said, and in some way fell overboard. Me and Birch was on the bridge, and the rest in the port watch are Kanakas.”

  There ensued a brisk discussion, in the course of which the horrified boys learned that some time during the night the second mate had vanished. The ship had been searched, but he was not aboard her, nor had there been any sign of struggle. Remembering the scene which they had witnessed between Peters and Birch, Mart immediately suspected the one-eyed seaman, while Swanson openly announced his belief that the second officer had met with foul play; but in no long time all such thoughts were sent flying, when the engine-room crew came up for questioning.

  Two of the Kanaka stokers, both of them simple, frank-faced fellows who were above all suspicion, stated that they had come up on deck for a breath of air shortly after six bells and had seen Peters standing by the stern rail, looking down at the swirling waters as they rose from the churn of the propeller. Having no business in that part of the ship, they had gone forward again.

  “I think there’s no doubt of it,” exclaimed the captain at last, even Swanson nodding gloomily. “Poor Peters must have either committed suicide, or else he fell overboard. Stand by for another hour, Mr. Swanson, then put the ship on her course again.”