Jack Harvey's Adventures: or, The Rival Campers Among the Oyster Pirates

“Reckon I have,” said Captain Bill; “and he’s been squealing like a baby. Just like those chaps as are always trapping other chaps; once they get it, themselves, they go all to pieces. You met Tom Noyes, then, all right? I sent word down by him. I thought I’d get Artie.”

“Yes, and I’ve got another one, too,” said Haley. “He’s stowed in for’ard; I haven’t got a good look at him yet. Caught him trying to rob the men in the forecastle; he’d sneaked out from shore. I reckon he won’t be any great hand at the dredges, but I’ll make him work his passage, all right. Bill, you’ve done me more good catching that little crimp, Artie Jenkins, than it would to find a brand new reef that no dredger had ever touched before. Get ’em to fetch him aboard.”

Jim Adams escorting him, with a big, black hand at the scruff of his collar, and Sam Black walking alongside, grinning at the success of his part of the plot – admonishing the youth as to what would befall him should he utter a cry – there appeared Artie Jenkins, his knees wabbling under him, the drops of perspiration standing out on his forehead. They marched him down into the cabin, where, a moment later, descended Captain Hamilton Haley. The other bug-eye cast off, and the two vessels resumed their course down the river at full speed.

Hamilton Haley, standing with arms akimbo, his great round head thrust forward, his gray eyes twinkling with a cruel light, surveyed the young man before him, much as a spider might eye a fly that had become entangled in its web. A look of intense satisfaction overspread his face.

“Well,” he said, hoarsely, “thought you’d come aboard, did you, Artie?”

Artie Jenkins, the heart all taken out of him, trembling and weak-kneed, essayed a feeble smile, which made his sallow face take on a more unprepossessing expression than ever.

“I say, Haley,” he said in a shaking voice, “this is a beastly joke you and Bill are playing – a joke I don’t like. It’s got on my nerves. You wouldn’t lug me off down the bay – you know you wouldn’t, Haley. ’Twouldn’t be the square thing. Nobody ever did a trick like that. Come on, old man, say you’re going to put me off down below. I’ll stand for the joke all right. Just say it’s a joke, will you?”

The tears were rolling down Artie Jenkins’s cheeks, and he was begging like a child. Hamilton Haley eyed him with a contempt that could not be expressed in words. But there was no suggestion of relenting in his gaze.

“Of course it’s a joke, Artie,” he said, sneeringly. “It’s a joke, all right, and it’s what I call a downright good one. Ha! ha! A joke, eh? Well, if it isn’t a joke, I’d like to know what they call one.” Then his voice grew louder and more threatening as he continued. “It’s a joke like some of those jokes you’ve been a-playing on Bill and me for the last eight years.”

Haley clenched his fist and shook it at the cowering youth. “That’s the sort of a joke it is,” he continued; “it’s like them ere jokes of yours as have been costing me and Bill ten dollars apiece. Good, able-bodied, rugged men for dredging that we’ve paid for in honest, hard-earned money – and what have they turned out to be when we gets ’em down the bay? A lot of counter-jumpers and boys that get sick on us with a week’s work at the winders. That’s what!

“Now you get up and quit snivelling and go for’ard; and don’t you make any fuss, or you’ll never get back to Baltimore, as sure as my name’s Haley. Here, Jim, show him where he’ll bunk.”

Jim Adams, seizing the shrinking form of Artie Jenkins by the convenient collar, dragged him forth from the cabin. True to his method, Jim Adams assumed his customary mock politeness.

“Be jes’ so kind as to walk for’ard, Mister Jenkins,” he said, and turned the young man toward the forecastle. A recklessness, inspired by desperation, seized upon Artie Jenkins. He wrenched violently at the hand that held him, and for a moment freed himself.

“I won’t go down into that dirty forecastle,” he cried. “You can’t make me.”

Jim Adams’s bony hand again grasped him and spun him around till his head swam. At the same time, a short piece of rope swung by the mate sang in the air, and Artie Jenkins felt the sharp sting of it across his shoulders. A series of blows followed, mingled with the scoffing words of the mate.

“Won’t you please ’blige me by stepping down into that fo’castle, Mister Jenkins?” he said. “I’s sorry to trouble you, but I wish you’d jes’ step down to ’blige me.”

Artie Jenkins, under the merciless lash of the mate, lost little time in obeying. Cringing and crying, he darted down into the dark, damp forecastle and stowed himself away in the first available bunk. The taunting words of the mate sounded in his ears for a moment: “Thank you, Mister Jenkins; I’m much ’bliged to you, sah. You saves me the trouble of using force to carry out the orders of Cap’n Haley, sah.”

The bug-eye, Brandt, with its companion craft, skimmed down the Patuxent like a bird. Captain Haley, with a huge satisfaction in his heart, turned into his own bunk, leaving the wheel to Jim Adams, and slept the sleep of the just. The night had been satisfactory. Life was not all one disappointment. He could sleep well.

The bug-eye, with its trim lines, its picturesque rake of masts, its sails filled with the smart breeze that made the vessel heel gracefully, and the now waning moonlight casting a faint gleam on its sails, made a pretty picture as it glided down the river. One standing on the Drum Point shore, as the vessel went by in the early hour before dawn, would have admired the sight. Jim Adams hummed a jolly rag-time tune as the Brandt passed out by the lighthouse, into the open bay, and headed for Tangier Sound.

Some time later, a shaft of sunlight streaming down the companion-way awoke Henry Burns. Once asleep, he had slept soundly, the blow he had received having only stunned him and done him no great harm. The bug-eye was pitching in a heavy chop-sea, and a youth in the bunk near him was groaning; but Henry Burns, accustomed at home to bay sailing, felt no ill effects from the thrashing of the boat.

For a moment he wondered what was the matter with the old Warren farmhouse. Then the memory of the events of the night came back in a flash. Henry Burns sprang up and darted out on deck. It was all too true. He was a prisoner aboard the bug-eye; they were leaving Drum Point far astern.

Henry Burns shrugged his shoulders and seated himself on the forecastle hatch. He was in for it – whatever might happen – and it was not in his make-up to worry over what he could not help.

A step on the deck, as a man emerged from the cabin, caused him to look up. The figure that his eyes rested upon gave him a start of surprise. Where had he seen the man before? Then he remembered. It was the man whom Young Joe had butted in the stomach in darting out of the Warren door – the Captain Haley, of whom he had an unpleasant recollection. Henry Burns gave a low whistle of evident concern.

Seeing the boy sitting, watching him, Hamilton Haley strode forward. When he had approached near, he, too, stopped and eyed him with surprise. Then his face darkened.

“Well, I’m jiggered!” he exclaimed. “It’s you, is it, Young Impertinence? What sent you sneaking aboard here in the night? Confound you, if I’d a-known it was you, I’d just have chucked your overboard neck and crop.”

For once, Hamilton Haley seemed perplexed. Here was someone he evidently didn’t want. He glanced back toward the harbour, as if estimating how far they had come from land. Then he shook his head. To Henry Burns’s surprise, Captain Haley turned abruptly, without another word, and went back to the wheel, where Jim Adams was seated, yawning.

The two men talked together, earnestly. It was clear Haley did not wholly favour the idea of carrying off a boy from the Patuxent harbour, from people that would make trouble. It was risky business; there was bound to be trouble. Jim Adams seemed not to encourage it, either; but the bug-eye was miles out from the river now, and the breeze was favourable. After further conversation with the mate, Haley went forward again.

“See here, youngster,” he said, “I’m a man as does an honest business of dredging, and I don’t kidnap boys for the work. But here you are, come aboard, and it ain’t my fault. You know that for yourself. Hang me, if I didn’t take you for one of them little rats as steal stuff when they gets a chance. I’d have chucked you overboard quick, if I’d a known it was you – what were you doing out here, anyway? That’s what I’d like to know.”

Henry Burns thought quickly. To say that he had come to look for Jack Harvey would be to reveal the fact that he was aware of Haley’s character; that he was a witness who would appear against Haley when the time came; that his very existence was a danger and a menace to Haley, who was now bound for the wilderness of the Eastern shore.

“I was just looking around,” he said.

“You’re a little, meddlesome fool!” cried Haley. “I don’t want you here, confound you! But you’re here. You came aboard, yourself. I didn’t carry you off. You’ve got to stay now. I won’t turn back, if I go to jail for it. But I tell you what I will do; I’ll fetch you back the first time I come. You’ll fare no worse than the rest of the crew. But you’ll work your passage, mind you. This is no free lodging house. Go on and get something to eat.”

“Better set me back,” said Henry Burns, calmly.

“No, I’m busted if I will!” cried Haley. “You’ll go the trip now, though if I hadn’t cut your skiff loose I’d set you adrift in it. It’s your own fault.”

Henry Burns saw it was useless to argue. He went aft, as indicated by Haley, and ate his breakfast. It was sorry stuff, but he was hungry and he ate what was set before him.

Henry Burns was not a youth to remain inactive, although carried off against his will. Having finished breakfast, he went on deck and walked forward, to where Jim Adams was at work with a piece of rigging, attempting, at the same time, to explain to two sailors what he was doing.

“You unlay that strand,” he was saying, “and you lead him back, so fashion. Then you picks up that ere strand, and you lays him up in the place where t’other strand came from. See?”

The two men looked on, blankly. It was evident the process was blind to them.

“Why, hello, sonny,” remarked Jim Adams, as Henry Burns came up. The mulatto, tireless and hardened to the life, after three hours’ sleep on relief from the wheel, happened to be in a good humour. He continued, “Reckon you’s the new boarder at our hotel, eh? Ha! ha! Specs you never saw nothin’ like that befo’?” He held up the work he was doing.

“Oh, yes,” replied Henry Burns, “you’re putting a long splice in that halyard so it will reeve through that block. You’ve parted your throat halyard.”

Jim Adams dropped his work, put both hands on his knees and stared at Henry Burns, while a broad grin overspread his face.

“Sho now,” he exclaimed, “I jes’ wonder what Boss Haley he’ll say when he finds he’s got another cap’n aboard here. I guess you’ll get my job pretty quick an’ I won’t be first mate no mo’. Where you larn all that, sonny?”

Henry Burns smiled. “I picked it up, yachting,” he said.

“That’s a smart little kid,” said the mulatto. “Reckon you might go and finish up that splice, eh?” He held up the rope, half skeptically, to Henry Burns. The youth took it, seated himself on the deck, removed a pair of heavy gloves he wore, and took up the splicing where Jim Adams had left off. He found it hard work, in the chilling winter air, and his hands were nearly numbed before he had finished. But he beat them against his body until they tingled, went on with the work, divided his strands neatly at the finish, cut the ends and handed back the piece of rigging, neatly spliced.

Jim Adams burst into a roar of laughter.

“That sho’ is the funniest thing I ever saw,” he said. “Why, youse nothin’ but a little kid.”

Henry Burns had at least found some favour in the mate’s eyes. Some time later, he was accosted by one of the men that had been standing by.

“I wish you’d show me some of those tricks,” said the fellow. “I’m having it pretty rough aboard here. I can’t understand when that mate shows us a thing. He does it so quick, you can’t see how it’s done; and then he curses us for not understanding. Maybe if I learned a few things like that, I’d get treated better.”

Henry Burns looked at the speaker, and found him a young man of about twenty years, thick set, a good-natured expression, somewhat dulled and set by rough usage at Haley’s and the mate’s hands.

“My name’s Wallace Brooks,” continued the young man. “I got carried off, too, from Baltimore. I can stand the winter out, I guess, because I’m tough; but it’s the hardest work I ever did.”

“I’ll show you anything I know,” replied Henry Burns, “and I’ll be glad to do it. I guess I’ll need a friend to stand by me. I don’t know how I’ll last at this sort of work.”