Commodore Junk

He laid his load tenderly down upon the sand, in the shadiest spot, and then, stripping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves over his muscle-knotted arms, he began to scrape the sand away rapidly, and soon made a long, narrow trench, though it was not easy work, for the soft, fine, dry sand flowed slowly, as if it were a liquid, back into the trench.

“That will do,” said Jack, suddenly rising from where he had been kneeling by Abel’s side.

Bart ceased his task without another word, and at a sign from his companion reverently went to the foot of the canvas-covered figure, while Jack went to the head, and they lifted it into the shallow trench.

“And never said so much as a prayer over it!” muttered Bart to himself, as he rapidly scooped back the sand with his hands, till the lower part of his old mate’s body was covered, leaving the head instinctively to the last.

He was then about to heap the sand over gravewise, but Jack stopped him, and, taking a piece of wreck wood, drew it along the place so as to leave the sand level.

“What are you going to do?” he said, sternly, as Bart drew his knife.

“Cut a hay and a dee on that there tree,” said the man, shortly.

“No.”

“Not cut his letters there?” cried Bart, in a wondering tone.

“No, man, no. Do you suppose I am going to leave him here?”

Bart closed his knife with a click, and screwed up his face.

“You’re captain,” he said, quietly; “what next?”

“Back to the boat.”

Bart obeyed without another word, and as they walked down over the hot sand, it was to pass several of the land-crabs, which rolled their eyes and leered at them in a goblin way till the boat was launched, the sail hoisted, and they coasted the side of the island to get round to its back, and make sure that the schooner had not cast anchor off this – one of the rendezvous for boats which had missed the schooner after being sent away upon some expedition.

But their sail availed them nothing. The schooner was not off the island, and Bart looked at his companion for orders.

“It would take three days to reach the shelter,” he said at last.

“With this wind – yes,” replied Bart. “No food, no water. Shall us get some nuts?”

There was no reply. Jack sat with his arms resting upon his knees, holding the tiller and gazing right before him, seeing nothing, but trying to pierce the future.

“A-wondering what to do next,” muttered Bart, watching his companion furtively. “If the poor thing could see the old cottage now, and the bay, and a decent lugger lying off the point with her sails shivering, would it still be no?”

“Still be no,” he said to himself softly; “and yet I wouldn’t ask to be different to what I am.”

“Mazzard has taken command, Bart,” said Jack at last, “and we must make a fresh start, my lad.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Bart, sharply.

“We must get sufficient provisions somehow, and run across to the shelter. If the schooner is not there we must wait till she comes in.”

“And you won’t give up without a struggle?”

“Give up?”

“Hurrah!” cried Bart, joyously. “Let’s run up the Usa river to one of the Indian places, and get some food and nuts, and then be off. Hard down!”

Instead of obeying and changing the boat’s direction, Jack suddenly pointed right away into the distance.

“What’s that?”

Bart stood up and sheltered his eyes with his hand, so as to get a good view of a triangular piece of sail glistening white in the sunshine, far away, about the horizon line.

“There ain’t another vessel with a raking sail like that!” he cried. “I shaped that sail. Why, it is she!”

“Yes,” said Jack, after a long look across the dazzling blue sea, “it’s the schooner, Bart; and she’s coming here.”

The boat danced over the sparkling waves, and three hours after she was alongside the schooner, which was hove to – the wind being contrary – as soon as the boat was descried by those on board. Dinny was the foremost in the group waiting to lower down the falls, and in a few minutes the boat hung from the davits, and Jack gave a sharp look round as he stepped upon the deck.

“Why was the schooner not waiting?”

“Faix, the captain gave orders for sail to be made,” said Dinny, in a meaning tone; “and away we wint.”

“The captain!” said Jack, with a angry look in his eyes. “Where is the captain, then?”

“Sure,” cried Dinny, as a murmur ran through the group gathered on the deck; “sure, he’s in his cabin, having a slape.”

“It’s all over, Bart, my lad,” said Jack, bitterly. “What will you do – stop and serve under Captain Mazzard, or shall we go?”

“Do!” cried Bart, angrily, as he turned toward the men, who seemed to be divided into two parties. “Look here; I can’t parley; but is it going to be fair-play or no?”

“Yes!” rose with a shout; but it was met by a menacing growl; and one man ran to the cabin, to return directly, half dragging, half leading Mazzard, who stared round wildly in a drink-stupefied manner, and faltered out, as if in answer to a question —

“No more, now! Who’s altered her course?”

There was a few moments’ silence, during which the self-elected captain stared about him, and tried to comprehend what was going on, for he had just been roused suddenly from a rum-engendered sleep, and seemed like one in a dream.

“What, isn’t annybody going to spake?” cried Dinny; “thin I will. Who althered the ship’s course! Why, I did. D’yer think I was going to stand by and see a messmate left in the lurch? Look here, my lads; I am not going to make a spache, but the captain’s dead, and you’ve got to choose a new one.”

“Hurrah for Dinny Kelly; he’s the man!” shouted one of the sailors.

“If I didn’t know ye can’t help it, Sam Marlow, I’d say don’t be a fool!” cried Dinny, scornfully. “Now, do I look like a captain! Bad luck to ye for an omadhaun. I’m a foighting man, and not a sailor at all; but ye’ve got to choose bechuckst two. Who is it to be – Black Mazzard there, or the old captain’s brave little brother, Master Jack here, the best sailor, steersman, and bravest little chap that ever stepped on a plank? What do you say, Dick?”

“Three cheers for Captain Jack!” cried Dick Dullock.

“Nay, nay, Commodore Junk!” cried Dinny; “that name’s a power, me boys. Now, then, who among ye says it isn’t to be the captain’s brother?”

“I do!” cried Mazzard, who was growing sobered by the excitement of the scene. “I do. I’m captain of the schooner now; and if any man dares – ”

He dragged a pistol from his belt and cocked it.

“Do you hear?” cried Mazzard again. “I’m captain now, and if any man dares to say I’m not, let him – Well, no, I won’t give him time to say his prayers!”

He stared round the ring of people, of which he now formed the centre, the pistol barrel pointing all round, as if its holder were in search of a mark.

Just then Bart stepped forward, but Jack drew him aside.

“No; let me speak,” he said.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, my whipper-snapper!” cried Mazzard, scornfully. “There, we had enough of your little baby of a brother, and he’s dead; so now, if you want to keep your skin whole, go back to your place, and if you behave yourself I’ll make you my cabin-boy.”

Jack continued to advance, looking round at the crew, who, some fifty strong, had now hurried upon deck.

“D’yer hear?” roared Mazzard, who seemed brutally sober now. “Go back, or – ”

He took aim at Jack with the pistol, and a murmur ran round the crew once more – a murmur which was turned to a shout of applause, for, gazing full at the drink inflamed countenance before him, Jack stepped right up to Mazzard and seized the pistol, which exploded in the air.

The next moment it was wrenched out of the ruffian’s hand, and sent flying over the side, to fall with a splash in the sea.

“Look here, my lads,” cried Jack, turning his back to Mazzard, and ignoring the threatening gesture he made with a knife; “look here, my lads; it is not for any man to say he will be your captain. My brave brother is dead – ”

“God rest him!” cried Dinny.

“And it is for you to choose someone in his place. Do you select Black Mazzard?”

“No,” roared Dinny, “the divil a bit! Three cheers, me boys, for the bowld little Commodore Junk!”

The crew burst into a roar, even those who had favoured Mazzard being carried away.

“A lad who was niver afraid of anny man’s pishtle,” cried Dinny, leaping on a cask and waving his cap.

“Hurrah!” shouted the men, enthusiastically.

“A lad who has only wan failing in him.”

“Hurrah!” came in chorus, and a voice cried: “What’s that, Dinny?”

“Faix, his mother made a mistake and let him be born out of Oireland.”

There was another roar, and the crew pressed round Jack, whose face flushed as he hold up his hand.

“Stop a minute, my lads!” he cried. “Don’t decide in haste, for I shall be a hard officer.”

“And a brave one,” shouted Dinny.

“Hurrah!”

“Am I to understand,” continued Jack, “that you select me for your captain?”

“Yes, yes,” came in a roar.

“Then I have a request to make,” cried Jack; “and that is, that you support and obey my first lieutenant.”

“Hurrah for owld Bart Wrigley!” roared Dinny.

“No, no; stop!” cried Jack. “I choose my own lieutenant. Mazzard, will you serve under me faithfully as a man?”

Black Mazzard stood scowling for a few moments, and then held out his hand.

“I will,” he said. “There’s no jealousy in me.”

“Hurrah!” shouted the crew again; and directly after the new captain gave orders for the schooner’s head to be laid for Sandy Key, towards which she was soon tacking to and fro.

Chapter Eighteen

A Horrible Task

Two days elapsed before the schooner was again well under the lee of Sandy Key, and preparations were made to land as soon as it grew dusk.

It was a soft, calm evening, and the sea looked solemn and desolate as the sun went down in a bank of clouds. A good look-out had been kept, but there was no sign of sail upon the wide spread sea, while the solemnity of the hour seemed to have influenced the men, who had gathered some inkling of their commander’s intentions.

“Whisht! Don’t talk about it,” said Dinny to one questioner. “Sure, it’s a whim of the skipper’s, and if he likes to take his brother and bury him a bit more dacently at the shelter, who has a better right?”

“Are you going?”

“And is it me? They wouldn’t ask me.”

Just at the same time a conversation was going on in the fore-part of the vessel, where the captain had been standing for some time with Bart.

“Nay, nay, my lad,” the latter whispered; “not this time.”

“Have you got all ready?”

“Ay. Just as you said.”

“Then, an hour after sundown, we’ll go.”

Bart tightened up his lips and looked more obstinate than he had ever before looked in his life.

“What is it?” said the captain, sharply.

“I was a-thinking,” said Bart, shortly.

“Well – of what?”

“I was a-thinking that you’ve just been made captain, and that the crew’s with you, and that you’re going to chuck it away.”

“What do you mean, Bart?”

“I mean captain, as so sure as you give the lieutenant another chance he’ll take it, and the lads, like Dinny and Dick, mayn’t have the chance to get Mazzard drunk and come to your help.”

“You do nothing but doubt your officer,” said the captain, angrily.

“More do you,” retorted Bart.

The captain started, and then turned angrily away; but Bart followed him.

“You’re skipper, and I’ll do aught you like; but so sure as you leave this here ship there’ll be a row, and you won’t be able to go again, for you won’t come back.”

The captain took a turn up and down, and then stopped opposite Bart.

“I’ll take your advice, Bart,” he said, “though it goes very much against the grain. Take Dinny with you, and do this for me as if I were helping you all the time.”

“Ay; you may trust me.”

“I do trust you, Bart, heartily. Remember this: Abel and I were always together as children and companions; to the last I loved my brother, Bart.”

Bart listened to the simply-uttered words, to which their tone and the solemn time gave a peculiar pathos; and for a few moments there was silence.

“I know,” he said, softly. “And in my rough way I loved Abel Dell as a brother. Don’t you think because I say nought that I don’t feel it.”

“I know you too well, Bart. Go and do this for me; I will stay aboard. I’m captain now, since fate so wills it, and the men shall find that I am their head.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Bart, raising his hand, but dropping it again and drawing back. “That’s how I like to hear you speak, captain. Trust me, it shall be done.”

An hour later the men stood aloof as Bart and Dinny lowered a long deal case into the boat and, as soon as the rope was cast off, hoisted the little sail and ran for the sandy cove where the boat had landed before.

They were provided with a lantern, and this they kept shrouded in a boat-cloak originally the property of the Spanish captain of a vessel that had been taken.

The precaution was needless, for nothing was within sight; and they landed and drew up the boat upon the sand, where the phosphorescent water rippled softly, and then the long chest was lifted out, and Bart bore it toward the cocoa-nut grove.

“Well,” said Dinny, following close behind, “I did say that I wouldn’t do such work as this; but it’s for the captain, and maybe some day I shall be wanting such a job done for me.”

Bart set down the case and Dinny the lantern beneath the cocoa-nut trees close by the levelled patch of shore; and then, with the dull light shining through the horn panes upon the sand, the two men stood in the midst of the faint halo listening to the soft whispering of the tide among the shingle, and the more distant boom of the surf.

“It’s an unked job,” said Bart at last. “But, poor lad, it’s the skipper’s wish. A lovely spot for a man to be put to rest.”

Dinny did not speak for a few moments. Then with an effort —

“Let’s get it done, me lad. I niver belaved in annything worse than the good people, and the phooka, and the banshee, of coorse; but it makes a man’s flesh seem to crape over his bones to come body-snatching, as ye may call it, on a dark night like this.”

They both stood hesitating and shrinking from their task for a few minutes longer, and then Bart stooped down and began to sweep back the sand.

“It’s laid light over him, Dinny, my lad,” he said. “Just sweep it away, and we can lift him into his coffin.”

“But – ”

“He’s wrapped in a canvas for his winding sheet, lad. Sweep away the sand there from his feet.”

Dinny bent down and was in the act of scooping away the dry sand when he uttered a yell and darted away, followed by Bart, who was somewhat unnerved by his weird task, and who did not recover himself till they reached the boat.

“Here, what is it?” cried Bart, recovering himself, and grasping Dinny by the arm, feeling indignant now at his own cowardice. “Are you afraid of a dead man?”

“No; but he isn’t dead!” panted Dinny.

“What?”

“As soon as I touched him I felt him move!”

“Dinny, you’re a fool!” cried Bart, in an exasperated tone of voice. “I wish he was alive, poor lad!”

“I tell you,” cried Dinny, catching his arm, “he moved in his grave – I felt it plain!”

“Come back!” said Bart, fiercely.

“Divil a bit!”

“Come back!”

“Divil a bit, I say!”

“You coward!” cried Bart. “Am I to go and do it alone?”

“No, no, Bart, me lad, don’t thry it. There’s something quare about the owld business.”

“Yes,” said Bart, savagely. “You turned coward and upset me. I don’t know whether I’m most ashamed of you or of myself.”

He walked straight back toward where the soft yellow light of the lantern could be seen under the trees, leaving Dinny staring, trembling, and scratching his head.

“He’s gone and left me alone,” muttered Dinny. “Sure, and is it a Kelly as is a coward? If it was to face a man – or two men – or tin men – I’d do it if I had me shtick. But a dead body as begins to move in its grave as soon as ye thry to lift it out, and says quite plain, wid a kick of its legs, ‘Lave me alone, ye spalpeen!’ why, it’s too much for a boy.”

“Are you coming, Dinny?” cried Bart, as he approached the lantern.

“Bedad, and he’ll think me a coward if I don’t go,” said Dinny, panting. “Sure, and what are ye thrimbling about? D’ye call yourselves legs, and go shakking undher a boy like that? Faix, I’m ashamed of ye! Go along, do; and it isn’t me that’s freckened, but me legs!”

He mastered his dread and ran swiftly after Bart, who had once more reached the sandy trench.

“I thought you’d come, Dinny,” said Bart. “You’re not the lad to leave a mate in the lurch.”

“Thrue for ye, me boy; but are we to tak’ him back in the boat?”

“Yes, it’s the captain’s orders.”

“Howly Pater, but it’s dreadful work!” said Dinny.

“Then let’s get it done,” said Bart, stolidly; and he drew off the lid of the rough case. “Come, lad, let’s lift the poor fellow quickly into his coffin and act like men.”

“But didn’t ye fale him move, Bart, lad?” whispered Dinny.

“No. What foolery!” growled Bart. “Fancy!”

“Divil a bit, sor! I just touched him,” whispered Dinny; “and he worked his toes about, and thin give quite a kick.”

“Bah!” ejaculated Bart.

“Bedad, but he did!” whispered Dinny. “Wait a minute. The poor boy don’t like it, perhaps. If we only had Father McFadden here!”

“What are you going to do?”

“Shpake to him,” said Dinny, trembling; “and the blessed saints stand bechuckst me and harm!” he muttered, fervently. “Abel, me lad – captin, don’t ye want to go?”

There was a dead silence.

“Shpake to us, me lad, and say no if you don’t; and we’ll respect your wishes.”

The silence that followed Dinny’s address to the dead was broken by an impatient ejaculation from Bart.

“Come on!” he said. “Do you take me for a fool? Lift, man, or I’ll do it myself!”

Thus adjured, Dinny went once more to the foot of the shallow trench, and stooped down.

“Now, then, together!” said Bart. “The dead can’t hurt the quick.”

Dinny thrust his hands down in the sand on either side of the rolled-up canvas, made as if to lift, and then, as his hands met, he uttered another yell and fell upon his knees.

Bart started away as well, and stood in the dim light, trembling.

“There! Didn’t you fale him move?” whispered Dinny, who was shaking violently. “Captin darlin’, we were only obeying ordhers. Sure, and we wouldn’t disthurb ye for all the world if ye didn’t want to come. Don’t be angry wid us – it was ordhers, ye know; and av coorse ye know what ordhers is.”

“Did – did you feel it too, Dinny?” said Bart, hoarsely.

“Did I fale it! Sure, and he worked his toes again, and then give a bigger kick than ever!”

“Dinny,” cried Bart, passionately, “the poor fellow has been buried alive!”

“Buried aloive!” said Dinny.

“Yes; he has come to. Quick, uncover him!”

“Buried aloive! And it isn’t a did man kicking again’ being disthurbed in his grave!” cried Dinny, changing his tone and springing up. “Howly Pater! why didn’t ye say so before? Here, have him out at wanst! – the poor boy will be smothered wid the sand! Quick, me boy! quick!”

He dashed at the trench again, and Bart seized the head, both lifting together; and then, as the sand streamed away from the canvas cover in which the remains of poor Abel had been wrapped, they both uttered a hoarse cry of horror and stood holding up their ghastly burden as if in a nightmare, terror paralysing them. For they felt that the long wrapper was alive; and from out of holes eaten in it, and dimly-seen in the lantern’s yellow light, dozens of the loathsome land-crabs scuffled quickly out, to keep falling with a heavy pat upon the sand and crawl away; while as their shells rattled and scratched and their claws clinked together, the burden grew rapidly lighter, the movement gradually ceased, and the two men stood at last, icily cold, but with the sweat streaming from them, holding up the old sail containing nothing but the skeleton of the poor fellow they sought.

“Oh, murther!” gasped Dinny at last. “Bart, lad, think o’ that!”

Bart uttered a sound that was more like a groan than an ejaculation; but neither of them moved for some moments.

“What’ll we do now?” said Dinny at last.

Bart did not speak, but he made a movement side wise, which his companion unconsciously imitated, and together they reverently laid the grisly remains in the case, which Bart covered, and then screwed down the lid, for he had come prepared.

“What’ll the captain say?” whispered Dinny, as he held the lantern up for Bart to see the holes made ready for the screws.

Bart turned upon him fiercely.

“Don’t say a word of it to him,” he said harshly. “Poor lad, it would break his heart.”

“Not tell him?”

“Dinny, lad, you’ll keep your tongue about this night’s work?”

“Not tell the boys?”

“Not tell a soul,” said Bart. “We’re friends, and it’s our secret, lad. You’ll hold your tongue?”

“Howlt my whisht? Yes,” said Dinny, “I will. Bart, lad, d’ye feel freckened now?”

“No.”

“Nor I, nayther. It was the thought that there was something else that freckened me. Phew, lad! it’s very hot.”

He wiped the great drops of sweat from his brow, and then, as Bart ended his task —

“Ye were scared, though, Bart,” he said.

“Yes, I never felt so scared in my life.”

“I shake hands, thin, lad, on that. Thin I needn’t fale ashamed o’ running away. Faix, but it’s an ugly job! Oh! the divils. Sure, and whin I die I won’t be buried here.”

Dinny’s observations were cut short by Bart placing the lantern on the deal case; and then together the two men bore their eerie load down to the boat and laid it across the bows, the lantern being hidden once more beneath the folds of the great cloak with which the rough coffin was solemnly draped.

“You’ll be silent, Dinny,” said Bart.

“Niver fear, my lad,” said the Irishman.

Then the boat was run out as far as they could wade, the sail hoisted, and long before dawn they reached the schooner, over whose side hung a signal light.

As they reached the vessel, the captain’s face appeared in the glow shed by the light. The coffin was lifted on board, and then down into the captain’s cabin, after which the schooner’s wide wings were spread, and she was speeding on over the calm waters to the shelter, far away, that formed the buccaneers’ retreat and impregnable home, while Commodore Junk went down to his cabin, to kneel by the coffin side, and pray for strength to complete his vengeance against the world and those who had robbed him of the only one he loved.

Chapter Nineteen

The Pest of the West

The merchants of Bristol sent in a petition to His Majesty the King, saying that the trade of the port was being ruined, that their ships were taken, that the supplies of sugar and tobacco must run short, and that, while the ladies would suffer as to their coffee, there would soon be no snuff ground up for the titillation of the noses of the king’s liege subjects.

Always the same story – Commodore Junk, in command of a long, low, fast-sailing schooner, was here, there, and everywhere. This sugar and coffee-laden ship was plundered and burnt off Kingston port, so near that the glow of the fire was seen. That brig, full of choice mahogany logs, was taken near Belize. A fine Bristol bark, just out of the great port of South Carolina, full of the choicest tobacco-leaf, was taken the next week. And so on, and so on. Ships from Caracas, from the Spanish, French, and Dutch settlements, heavily-laden, or from England outward bound, were seized. All was fish that came to the pirate’s net, and if the vessels were foreign, so much the worse for them, the buccaneer captain dealing out his favours with fairly balanced hand till the shores of the great gulf and the islands that formed the eastern barrier rang with the news of his deeds.

Government heard what was said, and replied that five years before they had sent out a ship to capture Commodore Junk, that there was a severe engagement, and the captain was taken and hung, and afterwards gibbeted off the port where his deeds obtained most fame.

To which the Bristol merchants replied in a further petition that though it was as the Government stated, Commodore Junk’s body had been taken down from the gibbet soon after it was hung up, that he had come to life again, and that his deeds were now ten times worse than before.