The Lady and the Pirate - Emerson Hough (lightweight ebook reader .txt) 📗

At the first breaking of the storm I had, of course, ordered all ports closed, and had sent both my young companions to the ladies’ cabin aft, as the driest part of the boat. Even there, the water that sometimes fell upon our decks as the great waves broke, poured aft and even broke about the cabin, drenching everything above deck. It was man’s work that was to be done now, yet none could bear a hand in it save the engineer and the steersman. I was, therefore, ready sternly to reprove Jean Lafitte when, presently, I saw him making the perilous passage forward, clinging to the rail and wet to the skin before he could reach the forward deck. But he protested so earnestly and seemed withal so fit and keen, that I relented and allowed him to take his place by us at the wheel, showing him as well as I could, on the chart, the course we were trying to hold—the mouth of a long channel, six miles or more, dredged by the government across a foot of the bay and making through to deeper and more sheltered waters beyond.

“S’posin’ we don’t hit her, in this fog!” asked Jean Lafitte.

“It is our business to do that,” was my reply. “In an hour or so more we shall know. How did you leave the ladies, Jean?”

“Jimmy, he’s sicker’n anything,” was his reply, “except the old lady, and she’s sicker’n Jimmy! The young lady, Miss Emory, she’s all right, an’ she’s holdin’ their heads. She says she don’t get sick. Neither do I—ain’t that funny? But gee, this is rougher’n any waves ever was on our lake. What’re you goin’ to do?”

“Hold straight ahead, Jean,” I answered. “Now, wouldn’t you better go back to the others?”

“Naw, I ain’t scared—much. I told Jimmy, I did, any pirate ought to be ashamed to get sick. But they’re all scared. So’m I, some,” he added frankly.

I might have made some confession of my own, had I liked, for I did not, in the least, fancy the look of things; but after a time, I compromised with sturdy Jean by sending him below into the dining saloon, whence he could look out through the glass front and see the tumbling sea ahead. Through the glazed housing I could see him standing, hands in pockets, legs wide, gazing out in the simple confidence that all was well, and enjoying the tumult and excitement of it all in his boyish ignorance.

“He don’t know!” grinned Peterson to me, and I only nodded in silence.

“Where are we, Peterson?” I asked, putting a finger on the wet chart before us.

“I don’t know,” replied the old man. “It depends on the drift, which we can’t calculate. Soundings mean nothing, for she’s shallow for miles. If the fog would break, so we could see the light—there ain’t any fog-buoy on that channel mouth, and it’s murder that there ain’t. It’s this d——d fog that makes it bad.”

I looked at my watch. It was now going on five o’clock, and in this light, it soon would be night for us. Peterson caught the time, and frowned. “Wish’t we was in,” said he. “No use trying to anchor unless we must, anyhow—she’ll ride mighty wet out here. Better buck on into it.”

So we bucked on in, till five, till five-thirty, till six, and all the boat’s lights revealed was a yellow circle of fog that traveled with us. Wet and chilled, we two stood at the wheel together, in such hard conditions that no navigator and no pilot could have done much more than grope.

“We must have missed her!” admitted the old skipper at last. “I don’t fancy the open gulf, and I don’t fancy piling her up on some shore in here. What do you think we should do, Mr. Harry?”

“Listen!” said I, raising a hand.

“There’s no bell-buoy,” said he.

“No, but hark. Don’t you hear the birds—there’s a million geese and swans and ducks calling over yonder.”

“Right, by George!” said he. “But where?”

“They’d not be at sea, Peterson. They must be in some fresh-water lake inside some key or island. On the Long Key there’s such an inland lake.”

“It’s beyond the channel, maybe?” said he. But he signaled Williams to go slow, and that faithful unseen Cyclops, on whose precious engines so much depended, obeyed and presently put out a head at his hatch, quickly withdrawing it as a white sea came inboard.

“We’ll crawl on in,” said Peterson. “The light can’t be a thousand miles from here. If only there was a nigger man and a dinner bell beside the light—that’s the trouble. And now—good God! There she goes!”

With a jar which shook the good boat to the core, we felt the bottom come up from the depths and smite us. Our headway ceased, save for a sickening crunching crawl. The waves piled clear across our port bow as we swung. And so we hung, the gulf piling in on us in our yellow rimmed world. And at the lift and hollow of the sea we rose and pounded sullenly down, in such fashion as would have broken the back of any boat less stanch than ours.

Here, in an eye’s flash, was danger tangible and real. I heard a shriek from the cabin aft, and called out for them all to keep below and keep the ports closed. Peterson had the power off in an instant, and swung her head as best he could with the dying headway; but it only put her farther on the shoal.

“It’s the Timbalier Shoals!” he screamed. “Oh, d—— it all! We’ll lose her, now.” I recalled that his concern seemed rather for his boat than the lives she carried.

Jean Lafitte came bounding up the companionway, his face pale, but ready for ship’s discipline. “Come,” said I quickly, “help me with the anchor.” A moment later, we sprung the capstan clutch, and I heard the brief growl of the anchor chain as the big hook ran free. Glad enough I was to think of the extra size it had. We eased her down and made fast under Peterson’s orders now, and so swung into the head of the sea, which mercilessly lifted us and flung us down like a monkey seeking to crack a cocoanut shell. Williams joined us now, and Willie and John, pale as Jean Lafitte, came up from the forecastle, all shouting and jabbering. I ran aft as soon as might be, and only pulled up at the cabin door to summon such air of calm as I might. I rapped, but followed in, not waiting. Helena met me, pale, her eyes wide, her hair disheveled, but none the less mistress of herself.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What makes it jolt?”

“We’ve gone aground,” said I. “She does pound a little, doesn’t she?”

She looked out into the wild night, across which the voices of the confused wild fowl came like souls in torment.

“This is terrible!” said she simply. “Are we lost?”

“No,” said I. “Let us hear no such talk. Go below, now, and keep quiet. We may pass the night here, or we may conclude after a little to go on ahead a little farther. We’ve just dropped the anchor. The island’s just over there a way.” I did not care to be too specific.

“What is it, oh, what is it?” I heard the faint voice of Mrs. Daniver. “Oh, this is awful. I—am—going—to—die, going to die!” The agony of mal de mer was hers now of full license, for the choppy sea was sustained on the bosom of a long ground swell, coming we knew not whence.

“Jimmy!” I called down. “Are you there?”

“Yes, Sir,” answered L’Olonnois bravely, from his place on the floor. “I’m feeling pretty funny, but I’ll be all right—maybe.”

“Stay right where you are—and you also, Miss Emory. I must go forward now, and just came to tell you it’s all right. If there should be any need, we’ll let you know. Now keep down, and keep the door shut.”

“I’m—going—to—die!” moaned Mrs. Daniver as I left. Helena made no outcry, but that horror possessed her I knew very well, for every reason told us that our case was desperate. The boat might start her seams or break her back, any instant, now.

I found the men trying to make soundings all about us as best they could with boat hooks and a spare spar. But it came to little.

“Peterson,” said I, “you’re ship’s master. What are your orders?”

“Unlash the boat covers,” said he. “Get even the dingey ready. Williams, close your hatch and bear a hand to swing the big boat out in her davits. Set the bottom plugs in well. And Mr. Harry, you and John, the Chink, had better get some stores and a case or so of bottled water aboard the long boat. Have you got the slickers and rugs ready, and plenty of clothes? We’ll just be ready if it happens. I don’t know where that damned light or the damned channel is, but the damned ducks maybe know where some damned thing is. We’ll run for them, if we can’t ride her out.”

We all hurried now, Jean Lafitte at my heels, silent and faithful as a dog, aiding me as I piled blankets and coats and rugs from our cabin into the ship’s boat, which swayed and swung perilously at the davits. What with the aid of John, the China boy, and Willy, the deck-hand, we also got supplies aboard her, I scarce knew what, except that there seemed abundance. And then we stood waiting for what might happen, helpless in the hands of the offended elements, and silent all. I held Jean’s hand in my own. He was loyal to his mate, even now. “Jimmy’d be here,” he said. “’Course he would, only he’s so awful sick. I ain’t sick—yet, but I feel funny, someway.”

Peterson stood looking ahead, but was anxious. “She’s coming up stronger,” said he, “and two points on the port quarter. We’re going on harder all the time. Anchor’s dragging. Afraid we’re going to lose her, Mr. Harry.”

“Hush!” said I, nodding to the boy. “And turn on the search-light. It seems to me I hear breakers in there.”

“That’s so,” said the old man. “Hook on the light’s battery, Williams, and let’s see what we can see.”

The strong beam, wavering from side to side, plowed a furry path into the fog. It disclosed at first only the succession of angry incoming waves, each, as it passed, thudding us down on the bar of shell and mud and slime. But at last, off to starboard and well astern in our new position, riding at anchor, we raised a faint white line of broken water which seemed a constant feature; and now and then caught the low boom of the surf.

“She ain’t a half mile, over yonder,” I heard Willy, the deck-hand, say. “An’ we could almost walk it if it wasn’t for the sea.”

“Yes, sir,” said Williams, “we’d do fine in there now, with them boats. When we hit that white water——”

“Shut up!” ordered Peterson. “Safe as a church, here or there, you lubbers. Stand by your tackle, and keep your chin. Mr. Harry, tell the ladies just to wrap up a bit, because—well, maybe, because——”

“Call me when it is time, Peterson,” said I; and moved aft, holding Jean Lafitte by the arm.

“Gee!” said he, as he dropped, wet and out of breath, into the cabin; and “Gee!” remarked a very pale L’Olonnois in return, gamely as he could. And Mrs. Daniver’s moans went rhythmic with the pound of the keel on the shoal.

“What shall we do?” asked Helena at last calmly. “Auntie is very sick. I am beginning