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  The Argosy, March, 1896

  Man Overboard!

  by Anonymous

  THE Bonnibel’s crew, like all sailors, were superstitious. Captain Tower was not. The men commented gloomily on the fact that the brig had left port on a Friday. And still more startling was the presence of a black cat on board, only discovered when the brig was well out to sea.

  Captain Tower laughed good-naturedly when through the second officer he was apprised of the unpleasant prophecies of his crew. The sailing day couldn’t be helped, he said, and as for the half starved cat— why, it was his duty to keep her; the Bonnibel was overrun with rats, and Nig, as he at once named the thin feline, would come in handy as a mouser.

  “Somet’ing bad will happen to ter brig or ter cap’n long as ter black cat stays aboard,”

  was the oft repeated prophecy of old Geordie, a Russian sailor.

  But Nig waxed fat and saucy as the days went by, growing more and more in favor with Captain Tower, who laughingly declared that the black cat was a good, not an evil spirit.

  For from the day when Nig crept up from the vessel’s hold, where she had stowed herself while in port, a succession of fair winds and favoring gales had sent the brig flying to the south ward—the equator being crossed in twenty three days from port, which was better time than the Bonnibel had ever made before.

  “Wait till we git off the Cape er Good Hope— that’s where we’ll catch it on account of havin’ that cat aboard,” growled Marlock, another chronic grumbler.

  But Marlock proved a false prophet. The run round the stormy cape was made with exceptionally good weather and strong westerly breezes. And Captain Tower chuckled to himself as he saw how far the sailors’ prognostications came short of fulfilment.

  “You’ve brought me good luck instead of bad. Nig,” he would say, as the cat, purring contentedly, trotted after him like a dog as he paced the quarter deck.

  So on toward her destination sped the brig till the Straits of Sunda, once the lurking place of bloodthirsty Malay pirates, were reached. And here, as is by no means uncommon near the change of the monsoon, the wind died out, leaving the brig totally becalmed. One—two—three days the surface of the oily sea, unbroken by a ripple, seemed to fairly smoke in the quivering heat of the sun rays from a sky like burnished brass.

  Another day dawned, and except for a slight thickness of the hazy atmosphere the situation was unchanged. All the while unseen currents were drifting the brig toward the southern shore of Sumatra. Grumbling both loud and deep was freely indulged in forward.

  “I knowed that ’ere cat would bring us bad luck in some shape,” repeated Marlock, with a sort of surly triumph, for at least the twentieth time since the calm commenced, as the watch sat about the windlass toward the close of the airless day.

  “You vait,” responded Geordie, shaking his head sagaciously. “Dis night, so sure de black beast come down der main deck, I chucks her over ter rail on ter sly. Dot’ll bring der wind, and don’t you forgets.”

  “Maybe it’ll bring mor’n we bargain for,” suggested another. But, generally speaking, a Jack Tar prefers a gale to a calm, so no notice was taken of the last remark.

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  Twilight came on. The curious haziness of the atmosphere had slowly increased and veiled the stars. The full moon rose from the sea like a great globe of dull fire, throwing a ghastly light over the oily surface.

  “There’s no change in the barometer,” said Captain Tower, addressing Mr. Brace, his chief mate, “but I don’t like the look of the weather for all that. Let ’em stow the light sails and haul up the foresail.”

  This was soon done. Captain Tower went below for another look at his chart. Nig, contrary to her usual custom, walked forward on the rail in place of following her master below.

  “Now’s your chance, Geordie,” whispered Marlock, nudging his shipmate.

  Geordie hesitated but only for a moment. Snatching the cat from the rail, he tossed poor Nig some distance away from the vessel’s side.

  Unluckily or luckily, as the case may be. Captain Tower came out of the forward cabin at that very moment, just in time to see the act and hear poor Nig’s affrighted wails.

  With one bound he was forward and on the rail.

  “I’ll settle with you when I come aboard,” he wrathfully exclaimed, as Geordie shrank back. “Mr. Brace, get the boat over—I’m going after my cat.”

  With the words Captain Tower went over the side like a shot, and struck out for Nig, who was swimming as best she knew how. She lost no time in climbing to her master’s shoulder.

  “Stand by to jump into that boat, a couple of you,” roared Mr. Brace, and the order was instantly obeyed. But hardly had they pushed clear of the vessel’s side when, with a suddenness only known to tropic dwellers, a thunder squall broke upon them.

  In ten seconds the air was filled with driving rain and spray blown from the tops of the waves, which rose almost instantaneously at the command of the storm fiend.

  “Pull for the brig, Geordie, or we’ll lose her!” yelled Marlock, forgetting in his excitement that Mr. Brace in the boat’s stern had command.

  Pull the boat’s head round! Hang the brig! We’re after Captain Tower.”

  Thus roared Mr. Brace, whose voice could be heard above the bellowing of the gale. And the sailors dared not disobey.

  “I see him,” hoarsely shouted the mate a moment later, pointing to windward through a rift in the murk. “Sling over that life preserver—quick!”

  Over went the article in question, but with renewed fury the squall swept down, half swamping the boat. All that could be done was to keep her head to wind and sea till the fury of the tropic tempest should abate. A vivid lightning flash showed the brig on her beam ends, drifting past them with her upper topsail and half furled mainsail blown to ribbons. Then thick darkness shut down again, and for four hours the occupants of the clumsy boat had all they could do to keep her afloat.

  About midnight, as nearly as they could tell, the squall began to break. And, to their joy, the moon, breaking through the scattering clouds, revealed the brig lying to about naif a mile distant. After rowing round as long as their strength would permit in vain hope that Captain Tower might have reached the life preserver, Mr. Brace (who himself told me the story) reluctantly gave command to return to the vessel.

  But here a new difficulty arose. The intensity of the gale had forced the brig nearer and nearer the shore until the breakers were plainly discernible. And the stiff breeze which had replaced the squall itself was blowing directly on to the land. On every side were islands or exposed reefs, and being thus embayed it was impossible to work out into the open water of the

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  straits without a shift of wind.

  Mr. Brace held a hasty consultation with Stevens, the second officer, and, as their only chance of safety, the brig, under short sail, was brought to under the lee of a heavily wooded island a mile distant. Letting go an anchor, within a few cable lengths of the shore, they waited impatiently for day dawn.

  With its first gleams the boat was put over the side, and, taking a couple of water casks in tow, Mr. Brace was pulled ashore by Geordie and Marlock, who generally acted as the boat’s crew.

  Mr. Brace gave variety to the pull by soundly rating Geordie for throwing the cat overboard.

  “I consider that you alone are responsible for Captain Tower’s drowning, you old renegade,” he said sharply, “and it wouldn’t surprise me if his ghost came back to haunt you, and Nig with him.”

  This was added for the reason that, like all Finn or Russian sailors, Geordie was terribly superstitious. And as Mr. Brace told me, he wanted to make the old mariner as uncomfortable as possible. Geordie’s weather beaten face blanched slightly, but with dogged obstinacy he stuck to his original text

  “It vos all troo ter blamed cat bein’ kep’ aboard,” he grumbled between his teeth, and nothing more was said till the boat had reached the hard coral beach.

  “Blest if there ain’t one of them Chinese junks driv up high and dry,” exclaimed Marlock, calling Mr. Brace’s attention to a clumpy hull half hidden by the growth of mangroves bending over the shore.

  So there was, but Mr. Brace had no desire to investigate just then. He had brought his gun with him, and, leaving the men to get out the water casks and hunt up a stream or brook, he plunged into the dense underbrush in search of some sort of small game.

  No sooner had Mr. Brace disappeared than Marlock nudged his companion significantly.

  “By the look of her, the wreck ain’t been there no great while. Likely as not we’ll find something to drink aboard, arrack or samshu. Come on, Geordie.”

  The Finn, nothing loath, obeyed, and. climbing aboard by the clumsy rudder, they looked about the deck, which was lumbered with the broken bamboo masts and yards and coir rigging.

  “I’ll go for’ard and have a peek in the hold, Geordie,” said Marlock, “while you’re searchin’ the cabin. Sing out if you find anything.”

  Geordie nodded, and, pushing open a door in the high gilded poop, entered the square apartment before him. But it was a barren looking interior, with matting on the floor, Chinese mottoes painted on the sides, and a shrine containing a very ugly “joss,” or idol.

  “Not’n to drink here, for certain,” muttered Geordie; “mebbe dis lead to der pantry.”

  Opening another door, Geordie stood for a moment aghast. Stretched on a pallet of straw work was a man of large stature,
in complete Chinese costume, whose face was turned to the wall.

  “He must be dead, I see him not breathe,” said Geordie, aloud. “Perhaps there shall be monies in ter clo’es.”

  Stepping beside the prostrate form, Geordie inserted his hand beneath the blue blouse in search of a pocket.

  Suddenly tbe presumed corpse gave a deep respiration, and, twisting over on his back, seized the sailor’s wrist in a vise-like clutch. A pair of hard, steely eyes, such as no Chinaman

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  ever owned, stared for a moment mutely into his own, while a grim smile flitted across the pallid features half covered by a matted gray beard.

  “Ter cap’n’s ghost,” yelled Geordie, dropping on his knees, while at the same moment a drenched black cat, suddenly appearing from beneath the cot, began spitting furiously at the affrighted sailor.

  The shout of terror that escaped poor Geordie’s lips at this final corroboration of his fears, reached the ears of Marlock, who ran aft, scenting a find of drinkables.

  Without speaking a word or relaxing his grip, the captain’s presumed ghost raised himself to a sitting posture, just in time to confront Marlock, who fled with a terrified cry, closely followed by Geordie.

  Captain Nathan Tower laughed till he was purple to his very ear tips, as he rose and hurried out on deck, where Mr. Brace found him a few minutes later, alternately wiping his mirthful eyes and patting Nig, who, barring her wet fur, seemed none the worse.

  Mutual explanations followed. Captain Tower had succeeded in grasping tbe circular life preserver, by the aid of which he reached the island shore, with Nig clinging for dear life to his shoulder. Having discovered tbe wrecked junk, he took possession of a stateroom, and, exchanging his wet clothing for a dry Chinese garb, lay down for a nap, from which he was roused by the action of old Geordie.

  This was not all. The junk proved to contain a valuable cargo of expensive teas, silks, sandalwood, and the like, which later on was transferred to the Bonnibel’s hold, after which the brig resumed her voyage.

  “Under tbe circumstances, Geordie,” said Captain Tower grimly. “I’ll let you off this time. But don’t you ever dare to lay a finger on Nig again, calm or no calm, for as sure as you live Nig is a veritable witch.”

  Which Geordie devoutly believes to this day?

 

 

  Monte Herridge, Man Overboard

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