The Last Cruise of the Spitfire: or, Luke Foster's Strange Voyage

This question astonished me in more ways than one. First, because I had not signed papers with any one, and second, because Lowell was the name of one of the men I had overheard talking in the lumber shed in the morning. Was it possible I had been kidnapped upon the same ship the two had been discussing?

"I don't know what you mean," I replied. "I don't know Lowell, and never signed any papers."

"Nonsense. Lowell!"

"Aye, aye, sir!"

And the same man I had seen upon the dock in Brooklyn came forward.

"Isn't this Luke Foster that signed with you yesterday?"

"Aye, captain."

I was more astonished than ever. How had they come to know my name!

"So you see there is no mistake," went on the captain, turning to me. "Now I want you to go forward with Lowell. He'll show you the ropes. Come, step lively. We allow no skulking on board the Spitfire. You've signed articles, and you've got to abide by the deed."

"I didn't sign any articles, and if he says so he lies!" I burst out in deep anger at the way I was being treated. "It is true my name is Luke Foster, but how you came by it I don't know."

"Well, you're on the book, and that's all there is to it. Perhaps you were drunk when you signed, but I have nothing to do with that."

"I don't drink," I replied, and such was and is a fact. "This is all a put-up job."

"Hold your tongue!" cried the captain. "Hold your tongue, or I'll crack your head open with a marlinspike! I don't allow any one to talk back to me. Lowell, take him forward."

"Come along," said the sailor. "If the old man gets his dander up it will be all day with you," he added in a whisper.

For a moment I stood irresolute. I had a momentary idea of jumping overboard and swimming for liberty. But land could be seen fully a good half-mile away, and no vessels of consequence were near, so I was forced to give such a course up.

I walked forward, but my mind was in a whirl. Never before had I been so completely taken in. Surely this was escaping from the law with a vengeance!

"Who owns this boat?" I asked, as we reached the forecastle.

"Captain Hannock. She's just as good a two-masted schooner as sails, is the Spitfire; so you have no reason to complain."

"Where are we bound?"

"On an eight months' cruise, up the Down East coast, and then to England."

An eight months' cruise! What a time to stay on shipboard! But perhaps I might escape before the end of the period.

"What's the first landing?"

"New Bedford."

That was not so bad. If I could leave the vessel at that place I could easily find my way up to Boston, and a sojourn in that city would just suit me. All trace of my going there would be lost, and it was not likely that my uncle would look for me so far from New York.

"Here's your bunk, and here's some old clothes to put on," went on Lowell, as he pointed the things out. "You had better save your good clothes for shore. Knocking around the ship will wear them out in no time."

"What am I to do on board?" I asked, as I surveyed the greasy shirt and trousers with some dismay.

"Learn to do your duty as a foremast hand. If you obey orders and don't kick up any muss you'll have a first-class time of it," was his reply.

I was somewhat doubtful of the truth of this statement, but as nothing was to be gained by refuting it, I bit my lips and said nothing.

"You can take your time about changing your clothes," went on Lowell. "There ain't much to do at present. When it storms is the time all hands work lively, for their own sake as much as for the sake of any one else. When you're in working rig come to the bow, and I'll give you a pointer or two about how to tackle things."

With these words the boatswain – for such Lowell was – left me to myself.

CHAPTER VIII

PHIL JONES

I found the forecastle of the Spitfire a dark and rather unwholesome place. The ventilation was bad, and the smell of tar and oakum was so strong that for a moment I had to turn away to catch my breath.

Luckily my bunk was close to the doorway, so I had the best light the place afforded. Close to me was a chest, and upon this I sat down to think.

It would be hard to express my feelings at this moment. Had I gone on board the Spitfire of my own will I would not have considered the matter as bad. True, I had no great fancy for a life on the ocean wave, such as most boys are supposed to cherish. I knew that at best it was little better than a dog's existence.

"Hello, there!"

I looked up. A boy several years younger than myself stood near me. He was thin and pale, and his eyes had a frightened look.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I'm Polly Jones," he replied.

"Polly Jones," I repeated. "That's a girl's name."

"'Tain't my right name. They used to call me Phil at home, but the sailors all call me Polly here, because they say I act like a girl."

"What do you do on board?" I asked with some curiosity.

"I'm the cabin boy and the cook's help. What are you?"

"I don't know what I am yet. I didn't come on board of my own free will."

"You didn't?" Phil Jones's eyes opened to their widest. "You don't look like a sailor."

"Come down here," said I. "I want to have a talk with you."

The cabin boy gave a sharp look about the deck and then hurried into the forecastle.

"I don't want Captain Hannock to see me down here," he explained. "If he did he'd thrash the life out of me."

"Is the captain such a hard man?"

"Is he? Just you wait until something goes wrong and you'll find out quick enough. See here," the cabin boy bared his arm and exhibited several bruises that made me shudder, "he gave me those day before yesterday, just because I wasn't spry enough to suit him."