Martin Rattler

The Voyage, a Pirate, Chase, Wreck, and Escape

Time reconciles a man to almost anything. In the course of time Martin Rattler became reconciled to his fate, and went about the ordinary duties of a cabin-boy on board the Firefly just as if he had been appointed to that office in the ordinary way,—with the consent of the owners and by the advice of his friends. The captain, Skinflint by name, and as surly an old fellow as ever walked a quarter-deck, agreed to pay him wages, “if he behaved well.” The steward, under whose immediate authority he was placed, turned out to be a hearty, good-natured young fellow, and was very kind to him. But Martin’s great friend was Barney O’Flannagan, the cook, with whom he spent many an hour in the night watches, talking over plans, and prospects, and retrospects, and foreign lands.

As Martin had no clothes except those on his back, which fortunately happened to be new and good, Barney gave him a couple of blue-striped shirts, and made him a jacket, pantaloons, and slippers of canvass; and, what was of much greater importance, taught him how to make and mend the same for himself.

“Ye see, Martin, lad,” he said, while thus employed one day, many weeks after leaving port, “it’s a great thing, intirely, to be able to help yerself. For my part I niver travel without my work-box in my pocket.”

“Your work-box!” said Martin, laughing.

“Jist so. An’ it consists of wan sailmaker’s needle, a ball o’ twine, and a clasp-knife. Set me down with these before a roll o’ canvass and I’ll make ye a’most anything.”

“You seem to have a turn for everything, Barney,” said Martin. “How came you to be a cook?”

“That’s more nor I can tell ye, lad. As far as I remimber, I began with murphies, when I was two foot high, in my father’s cabin in ould Ireland. But that was on my own account intirely, and not as a purfession; and a sorrowful time I had of it too, for I was for iver burnin’ my fingers promiskiously, and fallin’ into the fire ivery day more or less—”

“Stand by to hoist top-gallant-sails,” shouted the captain. “How’s her head?”

“South and by east sir,” answered the man at the wheel.

“Keep her away two points. Look alive lads. Hand me the glass, Martin.”

The ship was close hauled when these abrupt orders were given, battling in the teeth of a stiff breeze, off the coast of South America. About this time, several piratical vessels had succeeded in cutting off a number of merchantmen near the coast of Brazil. They had not only taken the valuable parts of their cargoes, but had murdered the crews under circumstances of great cruelty; and ships trading to these regions were, consequently, exceedingly careful to avoid all suspicious craft as much as possible. It was, therefore, with some anxiety that the men watched the captain’s face as he examined the strange sail through the telescope.

“A Spanish schooner,” muttered the captain, as he shut up the glass with a bang. “I won’t trust her. Up with the royals and rig out stun’-sails, Mr Wilson, (to the mate). Let her fall away, keep her head nor’-west, d’you hear?”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Let go the lee braces and square the yards. Look sharp, now, lads. If that blackguard gets hold of us ye’ll have to walk the plank, every man of ye.”

In a few minutes the ship’s course was completely altered; a cloud of canvass spread out from the yards, and the Firefly bounded on her course like a fresh race-horse. But it soon became evident that the heavy barque was no match for the schooner, which crowded sail and bore down at a rate that bade fair to overhaul them in a few hours. The chase continued till evening, when suddenly the look-out at the mast-head shouted, “Land, ho!”

“Where away?” cried the captain.

“Right ahead,” sang out the man.

“I’ll run her ashore sooner than be taken,” muttered the captain, with an angry scowl at the schooner, which was now almost within range on the weather quarter, with the dreaded black flag flying at her peak. In a few minutes breakers were descried ahead.

“D’ye see anything like a passage?” shouted the captain.

“Yes, sir; two points on the weather bow.”

At this moment a white cloud burst from the schooner’s bow, and a shot, evidently from a heavy gun, came ricochetting over the sea. It was well aimed, for it cut right through the barque’s main-mast, just below the yard, and brought the main-top-mast, with all the yards, sails, and gearing above it, down upon the deck. The weight of the wreck, also, carried away the fore-top-mast and, in a single instant, the Firefly was completely disabled.

“Lower away the boats,” cried the captain; “look alive, now; we’ll give them the slip yet. It’ll be dark in two minutes.”

The captain was right. In tropical regions there is little or no twilight. Night succeeds day almost instantaneously. Before the boats were lowered, and the men embarked, it was becoming quite dark. The schooner observed the movement however, and, as she did not dare to venture through the reef in the dark, her boats were also lowered and the chase was recommenced.

The reef was passed in safety, and now a hard struggle took place, for the shore was still far-distant. As it chanced to be cloudy weather the darkness became intense, and progress could only be guessed at by the sound of the oars; but these soon told too plainly that the boats of the schooner were overtaking those of the barque.

“Pull with a will, lads,” cried the captain; “we can’t be more than half a mile from shore; give way, my hearties.”

“Surely, captain, we can fight them, we’ve most of us got pistols and cutlasses,” said one of the men in a sulky tone.

“Fight them!” cried the captain, “they’re four times our number, and every man armed to the teeth. If ye don’t fancy walking the plank or dancing on nothing at the yardarm, ye’d better pull away and hold your jaw.”

By this time they could just see the schooner’s boats in the dim light, about half-musket range astern.

“Back you’ oars,” shouted a stern voice in broken English, “or I blow you out de watter in one oder moment—black-yards!”

This order was enforced by a musket shot which whizzed over the boat within an inch of the captain’s head. The men ceased rowing and the boats of the pirate ranged close up.

“Now then, Martin,” whispered Barney O’Flannagan, who sat at the bow oar, “I’m goin’ to swim ashore; jist you slip arter me as quiet as ye can.”

“But the sharks!” suggested Martin.

“Bad luck to them,” said Barney as he slipped over the side, “they’re welcome to me. I’ll take my chance. They’ll find me mortial tough, anyhow. Come along, lad, look sharp!”

Without a moment’s hesitation Martin slid over the gunwale into the sea, and, just as the pirate boats grappled with those of the barque, he and Barney found themselves gliding as silently as otters towards the shore. So quietly had the manoeuvre been accomplished, that the men in their own boat were ignorant of their absence. In a few minutes they were beyond the chance of detection.

“Keep close to me, lad,” whispered the Irishman. “If we separate in the darkness we’ll niver foregather again. Catch hould o’ my shoulder if ye get blowed, and splutter as much as ye like. They can’t hear us now, and it’ll help to frighten the sharks.”

“All right,” replied Martin; “I can swim like a cork in such warm water as this. Just go a little slower and I’ll do famously.”

Thus encouraging each other, and keeping close together, lest they should get separated in the thick darkness of the night, the two friends struck out bravely for the shore.

Chapter Seven

Martin and Barney get lost in a Great Forest, where they see Strange and Terrible Things

On gaining the beach, the first thing that Barney did, after shaking himself like a huge Newfoundland dog, was to ascertain that his pistol and cutlass were safe; for, although the former could be of no use in its present condition, still, as he sagaciously remarked, “it was a good thing to have, for they might chance to git powder wan day or other, and the flint would make fire, anyhow.” Fortunately the weather was extremely warm; so they were enabled to take off and wring their clothes without much inconvenience, except that in a short time a few adventurous mosquitoes—probably sea-faring ones—came down out of the woods and attacked their bare bodies so vigorously that they were fain to hurry on their clothes again before they were quite dry.

The clouds began to clear away soon after they landed, and the brilliant light of the southern constellations revealed to them dimly the appearance of the coast. It was a low sandy beach skirting the sea and extending back for about a quarter of a mile in the form of a grassy plain, dotted here and there with scrubby under-wood. Beyond this was a dark line of forest. The light was not sufficient to enable them to ascertain the appearance of the interior. Barney and Martin now cast about in their minds how they were to spend the night.

“Ye see,” said the Irishman, “it’s of no use goin’ to look for houses, because there’s maybe none at all on this coast; an’ there’s no sayin’ but we may fall in with savages—for them parts swarms with them; so we’d better go into the woods an’—”

Barney was interrupted here by a low howl, which proceeded from the woods referred to, and was most unlike any cry they had ever heard before.

“Och but I’ll think better of it. P’raps it’ll be as well not to go into the woods, but to camp where we are.”

“I think so too,” said Martin, searching about for small twigs and drift-wood with which to make a fire. “There is no saying what sort of wild beasts may be in the forest, so we had better wait till daylight.”

A fire was quickly lighted by means of the pistol-flint and a little dry grass, which, when well bruised and put into the pan, caught a spark after one or two attempts, and was soon blown into a flame. But no wood large enough to keep the fire burning for any length of time could be found; so Barney said he would go up to the forest and fetch some. “I’ll lave my shoes and socks, Martin, to dry at the fire. See ye don’t let them burn.”

Traversing the meadow with hasty strides, the bold sailor quickly reached the edge of the forest where he began to lop off several dead branches from the trees with his cutlass. While thus engaged, the howl which had formerly startled him was repeated. “Av I only knowed what ye was,” muttered Barney in a serious tone, “it would be some sort o’ comfort.”

A loud cry of a different kind here interrupted his soliloquy, and soon after the first cry was repeated louder than before.

Clenching his teeth and knitting his brows the perplexed Irishman resumed his work with a desperate resolve not to be again interrupted. But he had miscalculated the strength of his nerves. Albeit as brave a man as ever stepped, when his enemy was before him, Barney was, nevertheless, strongly imbued with superstitious feelings; and the conflict between his physical courage and his mental cowardice produced a species of wild exasperation, which, he often asserted, was very hard to bear. Scarcely had he resumed his work when a bat of enormous size brushed past his nose so noiselessly that it seemed more like a phantom than a reality. Barney had never seen anything of the sort before, and a cold perspiration broke out upon him, when he fancied it might be a ghost. Again the bat swept past close to his eyes.