by F. M. Parker
CHAPTER 31
Patrick lay on the deck of the schooner with his head spinning and muscles trembling from his struggle to climb aboard. He was too weak to rise. But he was alive! He had beaten the sea and his chances for survival had increased immensely. He felt no desire to move and so rested basking and reveling upon the hard wooden deck as if it was made of down.
After a handful of minutes, his strength returned enough to allow him to rise to his knees and look about the ship. It was deserted forward. He turned to the stern and again saw no one. He could see past the two deckhouses and the aft mast to the helm wheel that was lashed in place with lengths of line. Everything was shipshape; the deck clean from being worked with holystone and all cordage flaked out in neat coils on the deck. The lowered mainsail was neatly furled and tied to its boom. The rents and tears in the foresails and jib had been patched with workmanlike skill.
The schooner was a ghost ship steering itself across the sea. What had happened to her crew? He looked for the ship’s boats and saw there were five resting in davits, three on the starboard side and two on the port. A davit on the port side hung empty. Had the ship’s crew taken to the sea in the missing boat? No, that couldn’t have been because there wouldn’t have been space in one boat for the size of crew that must have been aboard.
He climbed to his feet and stood swaying with weakness. Crew or no crew, there should be food and water aboard. With thirst and hunger gnawing at him, he moved toward the aft deckhouse, the smaller of the two, and the one most likely to hold the galley.
His eyes caught movement and locked on it. A man wrapped in a robe of sealskins was rising to a sitting position on top of the hatch of the mid-ship cargo hold. The man cast a searching look aft, then quickly twisted and looked forward.
The man’s eyes fell upon Patrick and a startled expression washed over his face. He flung aside the sealskin robe to expose a large caliber, three-barrel duck-foot pistol in his right hand. Two Navy Colts revolver were stuck under his belt. He jerked it free with his left hand.
He sprang to his feet, cocking both guns as he moved. He raised the weapons and pointed both at Patrick with rock solid aim.
“Who the hell are you,” exclaimed the man. “Better yet, where in the hell did you come from?” He was tall and broad shouldered. His hair was red and his full beard was a tangled bonfire. Hard blue eyes glared out from under his thick, red eyebrows. Patrick guessed him to be in his fifties, however with his hairy face and its exposure to the harshness of sun and wind and salt water, it was impossible to know his age within ten years. One thing for certain, he had the look of a tough seaman.
“I came from there,” Patrick said and thrust a hand at the broad sea. “I just climbed aboard. I called but nobody answered. I mean no harm.” He didn’t like the pistols aimed at him. The duck-foot pistol with its three barrels fanning out at a few degrees from each other, all of which could be fired at one time, was a fearsome weapon.
“No harm, eh,” the seaman said. He studied Patrick’s haggard, weather beaten face pinched with cold, and the eyes sunk deeply in their sockets. He knew first hand the signs of hunger and thirst.
“How did you get so far from land? The nearest would be New Zealand and that’s hundreds of miles to the north?” The man lowered his weapons to point at the deck.
“Sails and oars brought me. The boat is astern there not far off. I had to let it go so that I could catch a rope and climb on board.”
The seaman went to the side of the ship and looked astern. “So I see. Not much of a boat for the open sea.” He turned back.
“It did me well enough,” Patrick said. “You’re an American?”
“You got it right. Name’s Tom Griffith and the captain and owner of this good ship Huntress.”
“Where’s your crew?”
“They’re below. Are you Marine or convict?” His sight swept down Patrick’s emaciated, bony body and the stained red Marine’s uniform. He saw no weapons. “A British Marine, eh?” Then his attention focused on Patrick’s shoes. “Maybe not.”
Patrick knew the man had noticed his convict’s shoes, crudely made of thick leather to withstand hard wear. Marines wore tall, black boots. The man must have been to Sydney, or Melbourne at some time and had observed the dress of Marines and convicts.
Patrick considered lying and telling the man that he was a Marine and his name was Harry Sullivan, the name on the papers in the wallet in his pocket, and bluff it through no matter what suspicions the captain might have. Then he decided against the lie.
“Convict,” Patrick said.
“I guessed as much. What’s your name?”
“Patrick Scanlan.”
“What’d you do to get shipped to Australia?”
“I put my pistols in rich men’s faces and relieved them of their money and jewels. I did that for a spell, but then stopped and swore never to ride the highway again to rob. Not long afterwards, some thief-takers tried to collect the bounty on me. They shot my horse out from under me and tried to kill me. For that I sent two of them to hell.”
“That got you a life sentence. Right?”
Patrick nodded. “I’ve spent four years of it. Two on Van Diemen’s Land.”
“I’ve heard about Van Diemen’s Land. And nothing good that’s for certain. How did you come about the Marine uniform?”
“He got between me and the sea.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No. Just knocked his head on the ground to put him to sleep until I could get away. I took his wallet and uniform in payment for all the times the Marines used the cat on me.”
Griffith looked past Patrick and stared out across the cold sea. Under the brim of his cap, his weathered brow was deeply creased as he wrestled with some inner thoughts. He holstered the Colt and ran his fingers down through his long, red beard, combing it again and again.
Patrick watched the man and remained silent and motionless. He knew his fate was being decided behind that stern seaman’s face. In his weakened condition, he would be no match in a fight with the man, even if he could get past the pistols in his hand.
“I consider your crimes of robbery and killing the thief-takers serious,” Griffith said. “By right, I should clap you in irons and turn you over to the first British vessel I encounter. Still you stole from the rich and the thief-takers were killed to save your own life. In addition you’ve come aboard my ship during unusual circumstances that leads me to take another course. So why don’t you and I agree that the four years you spent in the Crown’s penal colony are payment in full for all you misdeeds. What do you say to that?”
“I think it’s a fine idea,” Patrick said with relief.
“You say you have papers saying you’re a Marine?”
“Yes sir.”
“What his name?”
“Harry Sullivan.”
“Well that’s who you are to me. Don’t say anything different to the crew. Let them see your uniform and make their own judgment about you being that Marine. Are you agreeable?”
“Yes, sir. From now on I’m Harry Sullivan.” There had to be a catch and it was something about the absence of the crew.
“Looks to me like you need men to sail your ship.” Patrick waved a hand around at the empty deck.
“Right, a whole crew. But just now I’d be glad to have one man that I could trust. If I take you on as a crewman, will you take orders without questioning them?”
“Yes, sir.” Patrick answered.
“No matter what they might be?” The man’s voice was hard.
“Yes, sir.” Patrick wandered what he had just agreed to. Whatever it was he had no choice but to accept.
Patrick’s brain and body were on the verge of collapse. Against all his determination to look strong, he swayed on his feet. To keep from falling, he hastily reached out and caught hold of one of the stays that angled down from the foremast to the deck.
“You look like you could use some rest,” said the captain.<
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“And food and water and a week’s sleep,” Patrick added.
“All right. What we got to say to each other can wait for a little bit. Come with me and we’ll get you fed.”
The captain led to the galley, with Patrick stumbling along beside him. The thought of something to eat was glorious.
At the entrance to the galley, the captain pointed with his pistol and said, “You’ll find hardtack, some dried seal meat, and water to wash it down with in there. Go get what you want and then come back out here to eat it.”
Patrick went first for the water, filling a large tin cup from the spigot of the wooden water barrel, kept from freezing by the constant motion of the ship. He drank swiftly, shivering violently as the cold water struck his gut. God, how delicious it was. He gathered a handful of hardtack and another of seal meat and left the galley. He immediately filled his mouth with the meat and began chewing.
Back on the deck, the captain led the way to the hatch cover where he had lain. From that position nearly all of the deck was visible.
“Sit and eat,” the captain said.
Patrick dropped down on the hatch cover and continued to eat. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop shivering. The damp, frigid wind seemed to blow right through him.
“You’re not going to be of any use to me shaking like that,” the captain said. “Put that fur robe around you.”
“Thanks, captain” Patrick said through chattering teeth. He pulled the sealskin robe up over his shoulders and in tightly around his waist. “I’m glad you were in these water.”
“Maybe lucky for you, but not for me. I should be a thousand miles northeast of here. But I’ve had trouble.”
“What happened?” Patrick asked with his mouth full of food. Now he would learn the unusual circumstances the captain had mentioned.
“Mutiny,” Griffith growled.
CHAPTER 32
“Some of the crewmen mutinied and killed my mate,” Griffith said. “They’re going to die for that,” he added in a vengeful voice.
Patrick glanced about the deck. He saw no sign of a fight, no blood on the deck, no weapons except those held by the captain.
Griffith noted Patrick’s inspection of the ship. “I see you want to know the whole story. Well four days ago we had no wind and were lying dead in the water and had been for two days before that. I came on deck late at night, and in the dark no one saw me. I overheard Walloghan, the bo’s’n, plotting the mutiny with Travers and Greenfield who were on deck watch. Those three and some others, I don’t know how many, planned to take over the ship during the first watch.
“I got my duck-foot pistol and Colts from my cabin and waited my chance. I knew Walloghan and the seamen would use the forward hatch to go below since it was closest to the foc’s’le and crew’s quarters. So when Walloghan left topside and went to the foc’s’le, I slipped up on Greenfield who was near the helm and cracked his head with a belaying pen and dumped him down the aft hatch. I chained it shut, and did the same to the hatch over the cargo hold. Then I knocked out Travers, who was on lookout in the bow, and threw him down the forward hatch and chained it fast. Now I had the entire crew locked up below.
“That’s when they killed Campbell, the first mate. He was caught below decks when I chained the hatches down. Wallogahn threatened to cut his throat if I didn’t let him and the others out. Of course, I couldn’t do that for then they would’ve taken the ship and killed me as well as the first mate. The bastard Walloghan did what he said he would and cut Campbell’s throat.
“So you see the die is cast for them. They must take the ship or they’ll hang when I get them to California. I’ve been standing guard day and night, sleeping on top of the cargo hatch and watching forward and aft to make certain they didn’t break out from below.”
“I calculate you’re a seal hunter. Do you have enough skins to make a mutiny worthwhile?”
“I’ve had the best voyage that ever was made by a seal hunter,” the captain replied and fixing Patrick with a wary, measuring eye. “In two years we’ve filled the cargo hold with thirteen thousand and four hundred and twelve prime sealskins.”
“I’ve heard most ships go north to hunt,” Patrick said.
“The northern herds used to be the best. But they’ve been hunted too much and the seals are widely scattered and difficult to find so I came down to hunt the southern herds. We left Cape Horn and sailed due south. The best place we found was around the Aurora Islands where time and again we found Countess Seals carpeting the sea by the hundreds. Thickest I’ve ever seen them before. Mighty pretty sight to see them in tens and larger groups stretched full length on the water and many times sleeping. We hunted other places with uncharted coasts that don’t show on maps. The sailing was mighty hazardous with icebergs, fog, snow and terrible gales. Each time we found a herd, I put every last boat into the water. A boat crew is made up of a hunter with his rifle and shotgun, and a boat puller and a steerer. Most of the seals were shot with shotguns up close so that they wouldn’t sink before the boats could get to them. The hunting was so good that the boats would return two and three times a day loaded with dead seals. The sharks stayed around the ship like hogs around a trough waiting for us to throw the carcasses overboard.”
Patrick saw Griffith wanted to talk and seemed for the time being to have forgotten the mutineers locked up in the holds of the ship. This was all right with Patrick who continued to eat the hardtack and seal meat that proved a fine fare after weeks of starvation.
Griffith talked on. “The skins will fetch a fortune in San Francisco. If I can get them there. By killing me, the mutineers get the furs and the ship too. That kind of money divided among the mutineers would make every one of them feel rich.”
“I see their side of it,” Patrick said. “But just the two of us can’t sail the ship to California.”
“That’s damn certain. First off, we’ve almost no food up here. Second, without a crew to handle sail, the first bad storm we ran into would most likely sink us.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“I’ve got one all right. But it depends on you signing on and helping me.”
Patrick hid his pleasure at the chance to go to San Francisco. He had heard grand stories about the city and the rivers of the inland mountains full of gold. In San Francisco he would simply be one of many men and have little worry that the long arm of the British law would track him down and take him prisoner. Patrick would stand with Griffith against the mutineers.
“I could use some money to get started in San Francisco.”
“You help me to do whatever is necessary to teach those mutinous bastards who is captain and help me get the ship to Frisco, and I’ll give you a thousand dollars plus a crewman’s pay for the time it takes to get there.”
“I agree.” The thousand dollars was a bonus. The real payment for what was to come was the captain’s willingness to forget that Patrick was an escaped convict. That meant freedom.
“What’s your plan?”
“We’ll need to kill three, better yet four of them to show who is master of the Huntress,” Griffith said fiercely.
“Kill four?” Patrick was shocked by the thought of setting out to deliberately kill.
“Well hell yes. That should get us control over the others?”
“Isn’t there some other way?”
“Like what. Even if we could somehow get them to surrender, the two of us can’t handle prisoners. What we need is a crew.”
Patrick knew the captain was correct. “Why not just kill the ringleader?”
The captain thoughtfully pulled at his beard. “All right, we’ll kill Walloghan. That satisfy you?”
“If he’s the leader.” By the law of the sea, the penalty for mutiny was death by hanging. And what else but the death of one of the crew would cow the others into submission? “How many of the others might be innocent of trying to take the ship,”
“Several I’m sure. There’s Spencer the cook, a C
hinaman, and a young son of a friend of mine. And there’re others that can be trusted and we’ll sort them out at the right time. But all that can wait until we deal with Walloghan. After he’s dead the rest of the crew should be ready to sail the ship. While underway, you and I’ll stand alternate watches with one of us always awake and ready for trouble. We’ll have the guns and should be able to keep control of the crew.”
“How many in the crew?”
“Twenty-four now. We lost four since we left San Francisco. One man died while hunting on the ice. Fell through a thin spot and never came up. Then we lost one boat and its crew. They didn’t return at the end of the day. We looked for them for three days but couldn’t find any trace.
“Now the crew doesn’t know you’re on board and will think they’re up against just me. That’s to our advantage. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll open the forward hatch and call for a talk with Walloghan. When he comes to the bottom of the ladder, I’ll shoot the hell out of him. The rest will see that I mean business and they’ll be ready to come up and be good lads and take our orders.”
“There might be innocent men in the line of fire of that duck-foot pistol.”
“Then they’ll be standing in the wrong place and I can’t help that.” The captain shot a savage look at Patrick and continued to speak. “Now we got to handle this right and not let them come out alive until they agree to our terms. If they overpower us, we’re dead men. Maybe you won’t have to do any shooting. But if something goes wrong, you’d better be ready to back me all the way. Are you game?”
“I’m with you like I said. Let’s get it over with while I can still stand on my feet.”
Griffith handed Patrick one of his Colts. “I reckon that since you were a highwayman, you know how to use one of these.”
