Jack Buntline

Chapter Nine

Jack and his companion found the brig was in search of a spot further to the south where good water could be got. Having visited it, Jack and Sambo were able to pilot her there, and thus at once obtained favour with their captain. They had not been many days on board before Jack became suspicious of the character of the Sea Hawk, such was the name of the brig. “Don’t ask questions,” was the only answer he got when he inquired under what flag she sailed. He found that she was neither English nor American; still she was strongly armed, and from the bandages which decked the heads and arms of several of the crew, and the marks of shot in her hull and rigging, it was evident she had only lately been engaged. The people also were of all nations and colours, and dressed in every variety of costume. Watching his opportunity he mentioned his doubts to Sambo. The black shook his head. “Berry bad, me fear,” he replied. “This brig one big pirate – nothin’ else.” Jack had once seen some pirates hanging in chains, and had a wholesome fear of their character. He was therefore not a little anxious to get out of their company. He, however, said nothing, and went about his duty cheerfully.

In spite of the lawless manners of the crew, there was strict discipline maintained on board, and a sharp look out kept. From their conversation, Jack guessed that they were on the watch for some of the homeward-bound Spanish ships from Peru or Mexico, supposed to be freighted with gold and other valuable commodities. No one was more constantly on the alert than the captain. Every one paid him the greatest respect. Jack at first could not tell why. His outward appearance had nothing about it of the ferocious pirate. Captain John was a little man, somewhat sunburnt and wizened, and no beauty certainly, but with usually a calm, rather benignant expression of countenance, and a gentle soft voice. If, however, any thing went wrong or in any way displeased him, his eye kindled up, and his voice gave out a note between the roar of a lion and the croak of a raven, and on these occasions Jack always felt inclined to get away from him as far as he could.

Several weeks passed away and no prize had been made. A thick fog had hung over the sea since daybreak, shrouding every thing near or far from sight. A breeze springing up soon after noon, the fog lifted, when away dead to leeward a ship was descried, her maintop just appearing above the horizon. Instantly all sail was made in chase. No one doubted but that at length a prize long waited for was to be theirs. They rapidly overhauled the stranger, who, apparently unsuspicious of danger, was holding her course to the northward. As the Sea Hawk neared her, she seemed to be a large ship, her build, her paint and rigging shewing her to be a merchantman. At the same time, as a Spanish ship of her size would certainly carry guns, and as her crew might possibly fight them to defend their freight, the pirates went to their quarters to be prepared for the strife. However, when the brig drew still nearer she seemed in no way inclined to begin the combat. This made the pirates fancy that she would not fight at all, and that they would obtain an easy victory. “We must not let one of the people escape to bear witness against us,” said the mild-looking Captain John as he eyed the stranger. Sad was the fate awaiting all on board the merchantman. Nearer and nearer drew the two vessels. So completely did the pirate brig outsail the other that the Sea Hawk might be likened to a spider with a fly in his toils.

The brig, hoisting her accursed black flag, sure harbinger of death and destruction, was about to pour in her broadside, when an exclamation escaped the pirate captain. Large folds of canvas were drawn up from the ship’s sides, down came tumbling sundry other bits from aloft, the muzzles of twenty guns looked grinning out of her ports, up went the glorious British ensign at her peak, and at the same moment the frigate, for such she was, sent forth a terrific shower of round shot and langrage, which made the pirate brig tremble to her keel, and struck down many a fierce desperado never to rise again.

The pirate captain now seemed in his element, though he must have known his case to be desperate. Ordering his man to fire high, wishing to disable his opponent, he braced up his yards in the hopes of getting off to windward; but the hitherto slow sailing frigate showed that she had a quick pair of heels of her own, and was immediately after him. Jack was endeavouring to get away, that he might not fire on his countrymen; but the pirates drove him back to his gun, with the threat of shooting him if he attempted to desert them again. Sambo, on account of his general intelligence, had been made captain of his gun, and he seemed to be as eager in working it as any one else; but he gave Jack a hint that no one on board the frigate would be the worse for any shot he fired. Now began a scene of the most terrific carnage. The pirates fought like demons; but were struck down by numbers at a time, till the deck became a complete shambles. Still Jack and Sambo were unhurt. Some of the pirates gave signs of a desire to haul down their flag; but their captain shot a man who was attempting the operation, and that made the others desist. At length Captain John received a wound and fell to the deck, and the crew rushing aft struck to the frigate. After giving them a couple of extra broadsides – for pirates are seldom treated with courtesy – the victor sent his boats, well armed, to take possession. No further opposition was made, though the little captain, as he lay writhing on the deck, urged his crew to heave cold shot into the boats as they came alongside. The British seamen climbed up the sides with their cutlasses in their teeth, and took possession of their prize.

Chapter Ten

Some dozen men only of the pirates remained unhurt. They, with Jack and Sambo, were forthwith transferred to the frigate and placed in irons below. “I’m no pirate,” said Jack to the men who were handcuffing him. “Oh, no,” they answered with a laugh; “you looks like a lamb, and that ’ere craft there with the black flag flying is just an honest trader.” Poor fellow, he was begrimed with powder and smoke and blood, and looked very unattractive. He felt very wretched, for he saw no means of proving that he was innocent. His only comfort was that Sambo was near him. They could thus carry on a conversation in an undertone. Sambo had been so knocked about the world, and had been in so many strange positions, that he was not easily cast down. “Neber mind, Jack – something save us dis time too – we trust in God.”

The Lion frigate, which had captured the pirate, had been dispatched from the West India squadron expressly to look for him, and now shaped a course for Jamaica with her prize. From what Jack heard from the pirates and from the crew of the frigate, he had no doubt that all of them would be hung, as a warning to other evildoers. Uncomfortable as he was, he was in no hurry to have the voyage over. He did not like the prospect at its termination. He tried in vain to get the ear of some of the officers of the ship that he might tell his tale. There was no chaplain, or he would have spoken to him.

At length the frigate reached Jamaica, and Jack and his companions were transferred to the prison on shore. They were there constantly visited by a minister of the gospel, and Jack seized an early opportunity of telling him how he had come to be on board the pirate brig. The clergyman listened attentively to his tale, and cross-questioned both him and Sambo on the subject. He often spoke to them, losing no opportunity of turning their minds to eternal things. Still they were left in doubt whether or not he believed their story.

The day of the trial arrived; Jack and Sambo and the other prisoners were brought into the court of justice. The evidence against them was so clear that their counsel had little to plead in their defence. Jack simply repeated his story, describing how he and others, escaping from the burning Indiaman, had been picked up by the whaler, and afterwards wrecked on the coast of South America.

“I can corroborate one part of the story,” said a gentleman, rising in the court, “I was on board the Indiaman, and remember that young seaman and the black, who both at different times performed some service for me.”

“I felt sure, also, that they were innocent,” added the chaplain of the prison; “they were the only two of all the pirate crew who from the first knelt in prayer, and were resigned to the will of God, acknowledging his justice and goodness.”

“There’s no doubt about their innocence,” exclaimed a sunburnt, broad-shouldered man from the crowd, whom Jack recognised as his friend Mr Collins. “I was second officer of the Indiaman,” he continued; “I was wrecked in the whaler, carried off by the Indians, and have only just escaped from them, and found my way here.”

Still as Jack and Sambo had been found on board a pirate, and the frigate wanted hands, though their lives were spared, it was on condition that they should enter on board her. Three days afterwards the survivors of the pirate crew were seen swinging on gibbets, – a punishment they richly deserved.

This event having taken place, the Lion frigate put to sea. Jack soon found himself rated as an able seaman, and well able was he to do his duty, to hand and reef and steer with any man in the ship. No one would have recognised in the active, well-built, intelligent, sunburnt seaman the poor little spirit-cowed workhouse lad, who a few years before had left the shores of England.

After serving for some months on board the frigate, Sambo was raised to the dignity of ship’s cook, his chief qualification being his power of enduring heat. For a better reason Jack was made captain of the mizen-top, whence he might hopefully aspire to become captain of the maintop. War, which had only lately been concluded by a peace, again broke out, and the frigate was sent to cruise in search of an enemy. Jack’s heart beat high at the thought of meeting one. The last time he had stood at his gun in action, its muzzle was turned against the very ship on board which he now served, and he longed to show how he could fight in a rightful cause.

He had not long to wait. The frigate, having the island of Barbadoes some fifty leagues or so to the westward, caught sight of a stranger, her topsails just showing above the horizon to the eastward. Sail was made in chase, and as they rose her courses, she was pronounced to be an enemy’s cruiser of about equal force. The private signals were unanswered, and as soon as the ships got within range of each other’s guns the action commenced. As the wind was from the westward, the British frigate had the weather-gauge, – an advantage she kept, – and so well were her guns served, that it was soon evident the enemy were getting the worst of it. Still the enemy fought well, and many of the Lion’s crew lost the number of their mess. At length it was resolved to close, and carry her by boarding, for the night coming on it was feared she might escape in the dark. Jack buckled on his cutlass with no little glee, and, following the first lieutenant, as the ships’ sides touched each other, was one of the first on board the enemy. The decks were slippery with blood; oaths, and cries, and shrieks, and groans, and clashing of steel, and flashing and rattling of pistols, resounded on every side, interrupted by loud roars, as both ships continued to work their heavy guns as they could be brought to bear. Numbers were falling on both sides; but the intrepid courage of the English bore down all opposition, and the enemy being driven below or overboard at last cried out for quarter. It was granted, and their flag being hauled down, the well-won prize was taken possession of.

A violent south-westerly gale springing up soon afterwards, the frigate and her prize were driven so far to the north-east that the captain ordered a course to be shaped for England. There, in seven weeks or so, they arrived, and the ship being shortly afterwards paid off, Jack found himself in possession of no small amount of prize money.

Chapter Eleven

Jack knew less of the world, if possible, than most of his shipmates, and not being much wiser, his wealth very rapidly disappeared. How it went he could scarcely tell. He had just enough left to pay for an outfit, when he found himself pressed on board the Tribune sloop of war, fitting out for the East Indies. This time, greatly to his sorrow, he was parted from Sambo, who had got his old rating as cook on board a large frigate. Away sailed the Tribune for the lands of pearls and pagodas, diamonds and marble temples, elephants and ivory palaces, scorching suns and wealth unbounded; but what cared Jack whether he went to the tropics or the poles, provided he had a stout ship under his foot and trusty companions by his side.

India was reached, and over those bright calm seas the frigate glided, visiting many a port, where many a strange scene was beheld, and where communication was opened with many strange people. The Tribune was continuing her voyage towards the rising sun – shortening each day in her progress – when, as she was sailing by some spice-bearing isle, a soft breeze wafting the sweet odours of many a fragrant flower from off the land, a change came over the smiling face of the blue deep, – sudden – terrific – like the work of magic. A loud, tremendous roar was heard, with a milling, hurtling, crashing sound. The tall palm-trees bent low before the blast, torn up by the roots, with roofs of houses, entire cottages, and whole crops, the produce of rich lands and days of wearying toil: they were swept like chaff before it. All hands were called, quick aloft they flew to shorten sail, tacks, sheets, and halliards quickly were let go. The topsail yards were speedily lowered, but the gale was down upon them before the sails could be handed. Wildly they fluttered, bursting all restraint, and then flew in tattered shreds from the bolt-ropes. Not a sail remained entire. Fluttering wildly in the gale the strips of canvas twisted and turned, flapping loudly, driving the hardy seamen from the yards, till it had formed thick, folds and knots which no human power could untie. Not till then could it be cut from the yards. On, on flew the ship, what could stop her now? The fierce typhoon howled and whistled through the rigging. A yard parted; away it was carried; two brave men were on it. Both together were hurled into the seething, hissing, foaming water, through which the ship was madly rushing. Could any human aid avail them? Alas! the cry was heard of a strong swimmer in his agony. He turned his longing eyes towards the ship fast leaving him, as still with giant strength he struggled on, cleaving the yielding waters with his brawny arms, his head lifted above the white foam thrown from her eddying wake, in the vain hope – he knows it vain – to overtake her. Yet he had never given in throughout his life’s combat with the world, and would not now till remorseless death had claimed him as his own. His shipmates grazed astern with aching eyes, till his head alone was dimly seen in the far distance amid the snow-white track the ship had left behind.

“Who was it fell?” was asked from the quarter deck.

“Jack Buntline,” many a voice replied. “Alas, ’twas poor Jack Buntline.”

“But two men were carried away with the broken yard,” exclaimed the officer of the watch; “I saw them fall.”

A voice, faint and struggling for utterance, at that moment was heard from alongside. A rope from aloft was trailing overboard, and at the end a human form was clinging. Numbers hurried to assist their shipmate. “Be careful now, my men, or he also will be carried away,” cried the officers. A rope with a bight was hove to him, but the struggling sailor durst not attempt to clutch it, lest on quitting one he might miss the other, and be borne, like his comrade, far away astern. Oh, not another instant could he cling on. If help cannot be sent him he too certainly must let go. Another rope was hove. This time more successfully, the bight fell over his shoulder. He passed an arm through it. “Now haul away,” was the cry. He was hoisted half fainting on the deck. The surgeon was ready to attend him. “Who is it?” was asked. “Jack Buntline,” was the answer.

Once again Jack Buntline was preserved from sudden death, and what death more dreadful than to feel the life blood flowing freely through the veins, with youth, and strength, and many a fancied joy in prospect, friends looking on, eager to save yet powerless, and to be left alone on the cheerless boundless ocean, the stout ship flying fast and far away, and unable to return till long, long after the strongest swimmer must have sunk in the cold grasp of death. Jack knew and acknowledged with a grateful heart the arm which saved him. Away, away flew the ship. The sky overhead a clear deep-dazzling blue, not a cloud but that wind must have blown it from the atmosphere; the sea beneath was one mass of seething, hissing, foaming, madly-leaping waves; not upward, but rushing in frantic haste one over the other, the spray, like thickest snow drifts, following fast astern, torn, as it seemed, from the summit of the seas. Royal masts, and topgallant masts and yards had from the first been struck, top masts were housed, – still frantically onward flew the ship, scudding under bare poles.

“What sea room has she?” was asked with many an anxious look into each others’ eyes.

“Not much on either hand – isles and reefs and rocks on every side abound,” was the whispered answer.

The typhoon howled louder than before. Land could be seen blue and distinct broad on the starboard beam, but though a sheltering port is there, the ship cannot be steered to reach it, but must run on, whatever may be the dangers ahead.

On, on she went: night was approaching. A startling cry was heard, “breakers on the starboard bow – breakers on the port bow – breakers ahead – breakers abeam.” High over the hidden rocks the wild sea leaps. The stoutest ship which ever floated on old ocean, if once amid them but for a moment, would be shattered into a thousand fragments; and not for an instant could a human being struggle among those roaring waters and live. All on board know this. Where can they look for safety? Can they alter their course and beat the frigate out of that dangerous bay of rocks? Impossible! Not a yard of canvas can be stretched to meet that terrific gale. On they must steer; neither on one hand nor the other did an opening appear by which they might escape. The faces of even the bravest of that hardy crew were blanched with dread, as calm and collected they stood contemplating their approaching doom. There were lookouts ahead, – lookouts on the fore-yard-arms with straining eager eyes, endeavouring to find, even against hope itself, some passage among the reefs through which the ship might run.

There was a shout. At one spot, a little on the starboard bow, there appeared to be a break in the line of dancing foam. It was scarcely perceptible among the thickening gloom dealing over the ocean. The helm was put to port. With voice and hand the helmsman was directed how to steer. The frigate rushed towards the spot. In an instant more her fate would be sealed. The breaking waters, in cataracts of foam, leaped up on either side, but on she rushed without impediment. Still all knew that ere another instant the fatal crash may sound, and then masts, spars, and rigging will all come hurtling down; the deck on which they now scarcely stand, the oaken timbers and the stoutest planking will all be wrenched asunder, and wildly tossed amid their mangled bodies, till cast on some lone, far-off shore, or till the sea itself is summoned to give up its dead.

Who, at such a moment, can freely draw a breath? Yet the crash came not. The ship flew plunging on; reef after reef, covered with foaming waves, was passed in safety. What hand, with mercy in its palm, came down to guide that ship? No human knowledge or experience availed the captain or his officers: no chart could help them: in an unknown sea they scudded on. Did any of them believe that chance or Fate stood near the helm and conned the ship? Did any of them dare in that awful moment to pray to chance, or fate, or fortune to preserve them, and steer them clear of all dangers? If any did – and surely many of the bravest lifted up the voice of prayer – it was to Him who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all things in them, and governs them with wisdom infinite.

It was no deceptive passage the frigate had entered. It widened as she advanced, the water becoming smoother; but still before her lay stretched out the moonlit ocean; the stars, also, glittering with an almost dazzling brilliancy in heaven’s dark blue arch. The channel was passed through, but still who could tell the numberless dangers which might yet remain to be encountered. Before another watch was set, “breakers ahead – breakers abeam!” was once more echoed along the decks.

“Then, to my mind, our sand has pretty well run, and we and our brave old ship are doomed,” exclaimed Ned Faintheart, putting his hands in his pockets, with a deep sigh.

“Doomed by whom?” cried Jack. “I tell you what, mate, I haven’t forgotten, and I hope I never may, the saying of an old friend, a black, as good a foul as ever lived, when we both lay expecting little better than a felon’s death, though undeserved, at the hands of our fellow men, ‘Never mind, Jack, something save us this time, too. We trust in God.’”

The breakers roared as loudly as before over the coral reefs, but, still unharmed, the British frigate flew quickly by them. A graze almost from the outer point of the rugged surface of a reef might hurl her to destruction; but neither coral reef, nor rock, nor sandbank stopped her course. Day came at last, and what a wide expanse of troubled waters broke upon the sight of the weary seamen! No one had that night turned in; all kept the deck, steady at their stations, ready to do what men might do to save the ship or their lives; at all events to obey their officers to the last. When the sun with an ensanguined glow shot upward from the ocean, his beams glanced on a dark object which lay ahead. The lookouts soon proclaimed it to be a dismasted ship. As on they rushed in their still headlong course, not only did they see that she was dismasted but was keel upward, the seas constantly breaking over. A turn to starboard of the helm carried the frigate clear, but how their hearts wrung with sorrow and regret – alas! unavailing – when they saw clinging to the keel some eight or more of their fellow creatures. Some, apparently, could scarcely move, their fast waning strength barely enabling them to hold on; but others wildly waved their hats and caps, shouting, though their voices could not be heard, for help. Utterly impossible would it have been to lower a boat. Again the poor wretches shouted in chorus and held out their hands imploringly as the frigate drove onward by them. On, on she went. Many a heart, like Jack Buntline’s, bled for them, and he and others kept their eyes on them; and there they clung and knelt along the keel, holding out their hands till the frigate sailed far beyond their sight. Still on the frigate flew, yet through every danger they passed unharmed. “Messmates,” said Jack, “God has been with us. God dwells on the deep. God is everywhere.”

The typhoon’s fury ceased, and at length in a quiet harbour the frigate rode at anchor. Some, who during the gale had stood with blanched cheek and silent tongue, now began to talk as loud as ever and to boast what they would have done; how they would have swum on shore if the ship had struck some island coast, and how they would have lived a life of ease and indolence among the harmless natives. Among the loudest of the talkers was a man named Richard Random. He was bold, and often seemed to be among the bravest, but in the night just passed scarcely a man appeared to be more unnerved. Religion was his scorn, while the holy name of God he never uttered but to blaspheme. Now, pretending to forget all his late fears, he began openly to deny the existence of a God. Jack urged him to beware lest vengeance should overtake him before long. He laughed all such warnings to scorn. He was a bold, strong swimmer, no man in the ship could compete with him. He boasted that he could swim for many hours, that he feared neither sharks nor any other monsters of the deep. Why then should he be afraid of what spirits of evil or angels of vengeance could do to him? He defied them. He was not afraid of man, angel, or devil. To men of sense, the wickedness he spoke might have done no harm, but there were many youths on board who listened with admiration to whatever Random said. To the ears of such his words were rankest poison. Foolish as himself, they thought his folly wisdom. He was a bully, too, and brawler, and often had he caused a quarrel when a soothing word would have brought peace about. To give him but his due, he was a most pestiferous and dangerous fellow among a crew.