The Boy Pilot of the Lakes: or, Nat Morton's Perils

"I am glad I got out."

"I don't suppose you feel much like taking a lesson in navigation?"

"Oh, I'm always ready for that," was the answer. "I'm all right now. My head has stopped aching."

"Then come into the pilot-house with me, and I will explain a few more things to you. I think you have a natural talent for this sort of life, and I like to show to boys, who appreciate it, the different things there are to learn. For there are a good many of them, and it's going to take you a long time."

Nat had no false notions about learning to be a pilot. He knew it would take him several years to be a capable one, but he determined to get a good ground work or the higher branches of it, and so he listened carefully to all that Mr. Weatherby told him.

He learned how to read the compass and how to give the proper signals to the engineer.

For a number of days he spent several hours out of the twenty-four in the pilot-house with Mr. Weatherby. He got an understanding of the charts of the lake, of the various signals used by other ships, to indicate the course they were on, and he learned to know the meaning of the shore signal lights, and the location of the lighthouses that marked the dangerous rocks and shoals.

"You're doing very well," Mr. Weatherby said to him one day. "Much better than I expected. Some time I'll let you try your hand at steering a bit."

"Oh, that will be fine!" exclaimed Nat, but he little knew what was going to result from it.

CHAPTER IX

A NARROW ESCAPE

Though he was much interested in beginning on his long-cherished plan of becoming a pilot, Nat did not lose sight of the fact that there was some mystery concerning his father, in which the mate had a part. He had not given up his belief that Mr. Bumstead had Mr. Morton's wallet, in spite of the mate's denials. But Nat saw no way by which he could get at the bottom of the matter.

"I guess I'll just have to wait until chance puts something in my way," he said to himself. "At the same time I've got to be on the watch against him. I believe he, or some one of his cronies, pushed that bale on me. I don't suppose it would have killed me if it had fallen flat on me, instead of only partly, but it looks as if he wanted to drive me off of this ship. But I'll not go! I'll stay and see what comes of it."

The freighter was on quite a long voyage this trip. After calling at the last port on Lake Michigan it was to go through the Straits of Mackinaw into Lake Huron. There, Mr. Weatherby told Nat, it would not be such easy navigation, as there were many islands, for which a pilot had to watch, day and night. Some were not indicated by lights, and only a knowledge of the lake would enable the steersman to guide a ship away from them, after dark, or during a fog.

"Do you think I'll ever be able to do it?" asked the boy.

"Some time, but I shouldn't attempt it right away," replied the pilot with a smile.

Remembering the promise he had made to Nat, the pilot one day called the boy into the little house where the wheel was, and said:

"Now, Nat, I'm going to give you a chance to appreciate what it means to steer a big vessel. I'll tell you just what to do, and I think you can do it. We have a clear course ahead of us, the lake is calm, and I guess you can handle the wheel all right. You know about the compass, so I don't have to tell you. Now take your place here, and grasp the spokes of the wheel lightly but firmly. Stand with your feet well apart, and brace yourself, for sometimes there will come a big wave that may shift the rudder and throw you off your balance."

The pilot-house of the Jessie Drew was like the pilot-houses on most other steamers. The front was mainly windows, and the center space was taken up with a big wheel, which served to shift the rudder from side to side. So large was the wheel, in order to provide sufficient leverage, that part of it was down in a sort of pit, while the steersman stood on a platform, which brought his head about on a level with the top spokes. On some of the lake steamers there was steam steering gear, and of course a much smaller wheel was used, as it merely served as a throttle to a steam-engine, which did all the hard work.

Nat was delighted with his chance. With shining eyes he grasped the spokes, and gently revolved the wheel a short distance.

"That'll do," spoke Mr. Weatherby. "She's shifted enough."

Nat noticed that, as he turned the wheel, the vessel changed her course slightly, so readily did she answer the helm. It was a wonderful thing, he thought, that he, a mere lad, could, by a slight motion of his hands, cause a mighty ship to move about as he pleased.

"It's easier than I thought it was," he remarked to his friend the pilot.

"You think so now," answered Mr. Weatherby, "but wait until you have to handle a boat in a storm. Then the waves bang the rudder about so that the wheel whirls around, and almost lifts you off your feet. More than once it's gotten away from me, though, when there's a bad storm, I have some one to help me put her over and hold her steady. I like steam steering gear best, for it's so easy, but it's likely to get out of order at a critical moment, and, before you can rig up the hand gear, the boat has gone on the rocks."

"I hope we don't get wrecked on the rocks," said Nat, as, following the directions he had received, he shifted the wheel slightly to keep the vessel on her proper course.

"Well, we'll be approaching a dangerous passage in a few hours," replied the pilot. "There are a number of rocks in it, but I think I'll be able to get clear of 'em. I always have, but this time we'll arrive there after dark, and I like daylight best when I have to go through there."

"Do you want to take the wheel now?" asked the boy, as he saw that Mr. Weatherby was peering anxiously ahead.

"No, you may keep it a while longer. I just wanted to get sight of a spar buoy about here. There it is. When you come up this route you want to get the red and black buoy in line with that point, and then go to starboard two points, so."

As he spoke Mr. Weatherby helped Nat put the wheel over. The big freighter began slowly to turn, and soon was moving around a point of land that jutted far out into the lake.

Nat remained in the pilot-house more than an hour, and, in that time, he learned many valuable points. At the suggestion of his friend he jotted them down in a note-book, so he might go over them again at his leisure, and fix them firmly in his mind.

As the afternoon wore on, and dusk approached, a fog began to settle over the lake. Nat, who had been engaged with the work in the purser's office, had occasion to take a message to the pilot, and he found his friend anxiously looking out of the big windows in front of the pilot-house, while Andrew Simmon, the assistant, was handling the big wheel.

"I don't like it, Andy; I don't like it a bit," Mr. Weatherby was saying. "It's going to be a nasty, thick night, and just as we're beginning that risky passage. I've almost a notion to ask the captain to lay-to until morning. There's good holding ground here."

"Oh, I guess we can make it," replied Andrew confidently. "We've done it before, in a fog."

"Yes, I know we have, but I always have a feeling of dread. Somehow, now, I feel unusually nervous about it."

"You aren't losing your nerve, are you?" the young helper asked his chief.

"No – but – well, I don't like it, that's all."

"Shall I ask the captain to anchor?"

"No, he's anxious to keep on. We'll try it, Andy, but we'll both stay in the pilot-house until we're well past the dangerous point, that one where the rocks stick out."

"But there's a lighthouse there, Mr. Weatherby."

"I know there is, but if this fog keeps on getting thicker, the light will do us very little good."

Nat listened anxiously to the conversation. This was a part of the responsibilities of piloting that had not occurred to him. More than on a captain, the safety of a vessel rests on a pilot, when one is in charge. And it is no small matter to feel that one can, by a slight shift of his hand, send a gallant craft to her destruction, or guide her to safety.

As night came on the fog grew thicker. Mr. Weatherby and his helper did not leave the pilot-house, but had their meals sent to them. Captain Marshall was in frequent consultation with them, and the speed of the vessel was cut down almost one-half as they approached the danger point.

From Mr. Dunn, Nat learned when they were in the unsafe passage, for the purser had been over that route many times.

"We must be close to the point now," said Mr. Dunn, as he and Nat stood at the rail, trying to peer through the fog. "We'll see the lighthouse soon. Yes, there it is," and he pointed to where a light dimly flashed, amid the white curtain of dampness that wrapped the freighter.

They could hear the lookout, stationed in the bow, call the position of the light. The course was shifted, the great boat turning slowly.

Suddenly there was a frightened cry from the lookout.

"Rocks! Rocks ahead!" he yelled. "Port! Port your helm or we'll be upon 'em in another minute!"

The ship quivered as the great rudder was shifted to swing her about. Down in the engine-room there was a crash of gongs as the pilot gave the signals to stop and reverse.

Would the ship be turned in time? Could her headway be checked? Had the lookout cried his warning quickly enough?

These questions were in every anxious heart aboard the Jessie Drew. A shudder seemed to run through the ship. Nat peered ahead, and held his breath, as if that would lighten the weight that was rushing upon the dangerous rocks.

But skill and prompt action told. Slowly the freighter swept to one side, and as at slackened speed she glided past the danger point, Nat and Mr. Dunn, from their position near the rail, could have tossed a biscuit on the rocks, so narrow was the space that separated the ship from them.

CHAPTER X

SAM SHAW APPEARS

The vessel had not come to a stop, before orders were hurriedly given to let go the anchor. The narrow escape had decided Captain Marshall that it would not be safe to proceed, and, as there was good holding ground not far from the rocks, he determined to lay-to until the fog lifted.

From the pilot-house came the captain, Mr. Weatherby, and Andy Simmon. The pilot was very much excited.

"Those were false lights, or else something is out of order with the machinery," he exclaimed. "The light on the point flashes once every five seconds. The next light, beyond the point, flashes once every fifteen seconds. This light flashed once every fifteen seconds, for Andy and I both kept count."

"That's right," said the assistant.

"And I calculated by that," went on the pilot, "that we were beyond the point, for I couldn't see anything but the light, and I had to go by that. I was on the right course, if that light was the one beyond the point, but naturally on the wrong one if that was the point light."

"And it was the point light," said the captain solemnly.

"It was, Mr. Marshall, and only for the lookout we would now be on the rocks."

"I can't blame you for the narrow escape we had," went on the commander. "Still – "

"Of course you can't blame me!" exclaimed the pilot, as though provoked that any such suspicion should rest on him. "I was steering right, according to the lights. There is something wrong with them. The lights were false. Whether they have been deliberately changed, or whether the machinery is at fault is something that will have to be found out. It isn't safe to proceed until morning."

"And that will delay me several hours," grumbled Mr. Marshall.

"I can't help that. I'll not take the responsibility of piloting the boat in this thick fog, when I can't depend on the lights."

"No, of course not," was the answer. "We'll have to remain here, that's all. Have the fog-horn sounded regularly, Mr. Bumstead," the captain added to the mate; and all through the night, at ten-second intervals, the great siren fog-whistle of the boat blew its melancholy blast. Nat found it impossible to sleep much with that noise over his head, but toward morning the fog lifted somewhat, and he got into a doze, for the whistle stopped.

Mr. Weatherby went ashore in the morning to make inquiries regarding the false lights. He learned that the machinery in the point lighthouse had become deranged, so that the wrong signal was shown. It had been repaired as soon as possible, and was now all right. But as the fog was gone and it was daylight, the ship could proceed safely without depending on lighthouses. Nat was up early, and had a good view of the point and rocks that had so nearly caused the destruction of the Jessie Drew.

Three days later, having made a stop at Cheboygan to take on some freight, the big ship was on Lake Huron. This was farther than Nat had ever been before, and he was much interested in the sight of a new body of water, though at first it did not seem much different from Lake Michigan.

They steamed ahead, making only moderate speed, for the freighter was not a swift boat, and on the evening of the next day they ran into Thunder Bay and docked at Alpena.

"Plenty of work ahead for you and me," said Mr. Dunn to Nat that night.

"How's that?"

"Well, we've got to break out a large part of the cargo and take on almost as much again. We'll be busy checking up lists and making out way-bills. You want to be careful not to make a mistake, as that mate will have his eye on you. It's easy to see he doesn't like you."

"And I don't like him," retorted Nat.

"I don't blame you. Still, do your best when he's around. I know you always do, though. Well, I'm going to get to bed early, as we'll have our hands full in the morning."

Nat also sought his bunk about nine o'clock, and it seemed he had hardly been asleep at all when six bells struck, and he had to get up.

That day was indeed a busy one, and Nat was glad when noon came and he could stop for dinner. He ate a hearty meal, and was taking a rest on deck, for the 'longshoremen and freight handlers would not resume their labors until one o'clock, when he saw coming up the gangplank a boy about his own age. The lad had red hair and rather an unpleasant face, with a bold, hard look about the eyes.

"Hey, kid!" the youth exclaimed on catching sight of Nat, "tell me where Mr. Bumstead hangs out. I want to see him quick. Understand?"

"I understand you well enough," replied Nat, who resented the unpleasant way in which the question was put. "You speak loud enough. I know what you mean. Mr. Bumstead is at dinner, and I don't believe he'd like to be disturbed."

"Oh, that's all right. He'll see me. He expects me. Now you show me where he is, or I'll report you."

"You will, eh?" asked Nat. "Well, I'm not in the habit of showing strangers about the ship. It's against orders. You can't go below until you get permission from the captain, mate or second mate."

"I can't, eh? Guess you don't know who I am," replied the red-haired youth with an ugly leer.

"No, and I don't care," retorted Nat, for his life about the docks had made him rather fearless.

"Well, I'll make you care – you'll see! Now, are you going to show me where I can find Mr. Bumstead? If you don't I'll make trouble for you."

"Look here!" exclaimed Nat, striding over to the stranger. "Don't talk to me like that. I'm not afraid of you, whoever you are. I'll not show you to Mr. Bumstead's cabin, as it is against the rules. You can't go below, either, unless the second mate, who's in charge of the deck now, says you can. He's over there, and you can ask him if you want to. Now, don't you say anything more to me or I'll punch your face!"

Nat was no milksop. He had often fought with the lads on the dock on less provocation than this, and, for the time being, he forgot he was on a ship.

"What's the row?" asked the second mate, who, hearing the sound of high voices, approached to see what the trouble was.

"Oh, here's a fresh fellow who wants to see Mr. Bumstead," replied Nat.

"He can't until after grub hour," said the second mate shortly. "What's your business, young man? Tell it, or go ashore."

"I want to see Mr. Bumstead," replied the red-haired lad more humbly than he had yet spoken, for the second mate was a stalwart man.

"What for?"

"Well, he expects me."

"Who are you?"

"I'm his nephew, Sam Shaw, and I'm going to make the rest of the trip with him. He invited me, and I'm going to be a passenger."

"Oh, so you're his nephew, eh?" asked the second mate.

"That's what I am, and when I tell him how that fellow treated me he'll make it hot for him," boasted Sam Shaw. "Now will you show me where Mr. Bumstead's cabin is?" he asked of Nat insolently.

"No," replied our hero. "You can ask one of the stewards. I'll have nothing to do with you," for Sam's threat to tell his uncle had roused all the spirit that Nat possessed.

"There's your uncle now," said the second mate as Mr. Bumstead came up the companionway.

"Hello, Uncle Joe!" called Sam; and as he went forward to meet his relative Nat went below. In spite of his bold words he was not a little worried lest Sam Shaw had come to supplant him in his position aboard the freighter.

CHAPTER XI

CAPTAIN MARSHALL IS ANGRY

News circulates quickly on a ship, and it was not long ere Nat heard from some of the crew that the mate's nephew had come aboard to finish out the voyage with his uncle. Sam Shaw was installed in a small stateroom near the mate's, and when the Jessie Drew resumed her way that afternoon the red-haired youth stood about with a supercilious air, watching Nat and the others at work.

"Is that all you've got to do?" asked Mr. Dunn, the purser, of Sam, as he saw the youth standing idly at the rail, when every one else was busy.

"Sure," replied Sam, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. "I'm a passenger, I am. I'm making this voyage for my health. Maybe after a while I'll be an assistant to you."

"Not if I know it," murmured Mr. Dunn. "I like Nat, and I hope I can keep him. He's doing good work."

He passed on, for he had considerable to do on account of taking on a new cargo, while Nat, too, was kept busy.

"This just suits me," said Sam Shaw to himself as he leaned over the rail and looked down into the blue waters of the lake. "I'm glad Uncle Joe sent for me to join him. He said in his letter there might be a chance for me, after all, to get a place in the purser's office. I thought by that he must mean that Nat Morton was out, but he isn't. However, I'll leave it to Uncle Joe. He generally manages to get his own way. I guess I'll take that fellow Nat down a few pegs before I get through with him."

Sam had received a letter at his home in Chicago from his uncle, the mate, telling him to meet the Jessie Drew at Alpena. Sam had done so, as we have seen, and was now established aboard the vessel. But he was a little puzzled as to his uncle's plans.

Mr. Bumstead had said nothing further about providing a place for his nephew where the lad might earn money, and this was what Sam wanted more than anything else. He wanted an opening where there was not much work, and he thought Nat's position just about filled the bill. He did not know how hard our hero labored.

"Wait until I get in the purser's office," he mused as he puffed at his cigarette. "I'll soon learn all there is to know, and then I'll have my uncle see the captain and have me made purser. I don't like Mr. Dunn. When I get his job I'll take things easy, and have a couple of assistants to do the work. Maybe I'll let Nat be second assistant," he went on. "Won't I make him stand around, though!"

These thoughts were very pleasant to Sam Shaw. At heart he was a mean youth, and he was lazy and inefficient, faults to which his uncle was, unfortunately, blind. Mr. Bumstead thought Sam was a very fine boy.

In one of his trips about the deck, attending to his duties, Nat had to pass close to Sam. He saw the red-haired lad smoking a cigarette, and, knowing it was against the rules of the ship to smoke in that part of it where Sam was, he said:

"You'd better throw that overboard before the captain sees you."

"Throw what overboard?" asked Sam in surly tones.

"That cigarette. It's against the rules to smoke 'em here."

"What do I care?" retorted Sam. "My uncle is the mate."

"That won't make any difference if Captain Marshall sees you."

"I'm not afraid of him. My uncle owns part of the ship. He could be captain if he wanted to. I'll smoke wherever I please. Have one yourself?" he added in a burst of generosity, for since he had had his idea of becoming purser and having Nat for an assistant, Sam felt in a little more tolerant mood toward our hero.

"No, thanks, I don't smoke."

"Afraid of being sick, I s'pose."

"No, it isn't that."

"Afraid the captain will see you and punish you, then?"

"Well, that's part of it. I used to smoke when I was about the docks, but I found it didn't agree with me, so I gave it up. I like a cigarette, but I believe they're bad for one's health. Besides, if I did smoke, I wouldn't do it here. It's against the rules, I tell you, and you'd better stop."

"Well, I'm not going to, and you can go and tell Captain Marshall if you want to."

"I don't do things like that," replied Nat quietly, though he felt like punching Sam for his sneering tone. "But I'm advising you for your own good."

He turned away, and as he did so his coat, with an outside pocket showing conveniently open, was close to Sam's hand. Then a daring and mean scheme came into the mind of the red-haired youth.

"If I get into trouble, I'll make trouble for him, too," he thought, and with a quick motion he dropped into Nat's pocket a partly-filled box of cigarettes. "If he squeals on me I'll have something to tell on him," he continued.

Hardly had he done this than he was startled by an angry voice exclaiming:

"Throw that cigarette overboard! How dare you smoke on this deck? Don't you know it's against the rules? Go below at once and I'll attend to your case!"

Sam started guiltily, and turned to behold Captain Marshall glaring at him and at the lighted cigarette which the youth still held between his fingers. Nat, who had passed on only a few steps, turned likewise. One look at the commander's face told him Captain Marshall was very angry indeed.

"I told you that you'd better stop," Nat whispered to Sam.

"Aw, dry up!" was the ungracious retort. "I guess I can look out for myself."

"Look here," went on the captain, striding up to Sam, "didn't you know it was against the rules to smoke up here? I don't like cigarettes in any part of the ship, least of all up on this deck. Didn't your uncle tell you about it?"

"No – no, sir," replied Sam, who, in spite of his bravado, was startled by the angry manner of the commander.

"And didn't any one tell you that it was forbidden here? Didn't you tell him?" he asked, turning to Nat. "You've been here long enough to know that rule."

"I did know it, sir," replied Nat respectfully, "and I told – "

"He didn't tell me!" burst out Sam quickly. "He didn't say anything about it. In fact, Captain Marshall, he asked me to smoke here. He gave me the cigarette!"

"What!" exclaimed Nat, astonished beyond measure. "I never – "

"Yes, you did!" went on Sam quickly. "You gave me a cigarette out of a box you had in your pocket, I – I thought it was all right to smoke when he gave it to me."

"Is this true?" demanded the captain sternly.

"No, sir!" exclaimed Nat. "I haven't any cigarettes, and if I had I wouldn't give him any. I haven't smoked in over a year."

"He says you have a box in your pocket now," continued Captain Marshall, remembering his suspicions about the fire in the hold.

"He's telling an untruth," replied Nat quietly. "I don't carry cigarettes about with me. You can – "

"Then what's this?" asked the commander suddenly, as he stepped toward Nat, and plunging his hand in the lad's pocket he pulled out the box of cigarettes. The captain had seen a suspicious-looking bulge, and had acted on what he considered his rights as a commander of a vessel in searching one of his crew.

"Why – why – " stammered Nat. "I didn't know – "