Chapter IX: With Hobson on the “merrimac”--The Story That Curtis Told

Both Curtis and Ingomar were capital story-tellers or “yarn spinners,” and the tales they told the boys helped to while away the time on many a forenight which might otherwise have felt long. I give the following as specimen; it was told by Curtis:--

“I liked Jack Hardy from the very first day I clapped eyes on him. Had I got that lad into the British Navy, I should have been proud to have seen him among his pals drawn up for inspection on the flagship’s deck, first Sunday after entering. But this young Jack was an American Jack, and his ship was the bold _Iowa_, on which my hammock was hung _pro temp._, and the time was very shortly after the capitulation or capture of Santiago, and destruction of the fleet of Cervera.

“The American-Spanish War didn’t last long enough to please me, but it did rip and rattle and roar in Cuba and all around the island after the first ship spat angry fire. You shall earn my eternal gratitude, boys, if you bring any one up with a round turn who dares call it ‘a _little_ war.’ I tell you what it is, the book isn’t written yet that shall describe one-half the gallant deeds done by our brave cousins, on land and at sea, during those brief summer months of eighteen hundred and ninety-eight.

“‘The Spaniards never had a chance,’ some may tell you.

“But the Spaniards _had_, and Admiral Cervera had also; and if his gunners had been smart and good, and with some degree of dash and go about them then, with his splendid ships he might have done wonders, and the war might still be raging.

“‘Manaña!’ (ma-nyah-na--to-morrow). ‘Manaña!’ is the beggarly whine for ever on the lips of the Dons, be they seamen or soldiers.

“But ‘To-day!’ is America’s battle-cry. Jackie just flings off his jacket and goes at it hammer and tongs, like a true-born Briton. And God give us gunners, lads, like the Americans, when our own day of battle dawns.

“Well, about Jack Hardy? He was a fine, open-countenanced boy, say seventeen or a little over. He really hadn’t been a year in the service, hardly time for some to get used to their sea-legs. But the lad was a sailor already--you could have told that at a glance--a sailor every inch, from his purser’s shoes to his broad blue-banded cap and collar, and his cheerful, willing, brick-dust face. Guess it was his splendid, spreading bare brown neck that first drew my attention to Jack. Give me a boy, or a dog either, that has a well-put-on neck; he’s got the sand in him. You can bet your blouse on that. Take your turtle-necked chap on shore again. He is no good for the navy, and a turtle-necked dog isn’t worth the price of a rope to hang him.

“Now, the American man-o’-war’s courtesy is well known, so is my modesty. But the latter is _sui generis_. For example, if I required to borrow money from a friend to get me a dinner, I should never ask for a dollar, if there was the ghost of a chance of getting a guinea. So when Captain Hotchkiss, in his kindly way, said to me, ‘Want to do Santiago, do you, Curtis? Press, eh? Very well, you can choose a man and boy as body-guard,’ I chose Hardy, and a fine old sailor not long promoted to the rank of bo’s’n’s mate--the two best hearts in the ship; and the latter, I knew, had been with Hobson in the _Merrimac_, and I hoped, therefore, to worm a _vivâ voce_ yarn out of him before we came off from shore again.

“Now, I had been to Santiago before--years ago--and I rather liked it then. I can remember it even now as I speak, remember it as a lovely dream, a romance--with a beautiful Spanish girl in it whom I---- But never mind, the ruthless fingers of Time have long since torn that leaf from the log of my young life. But somehow I expected to find Santiago on this bright and beautiful forenoon, as my boat went dancing over the blue bay, just as I had left it in the days of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ I had but to close my eyes to see once more all its greenery and quaintness, with its quiet court-yards where flowers and fruit trees grew; where, when moon or stars shone bright and fire-flies rose and fell among the foliage, I used to listen to the tinkle of the lute--Lucia’s lute, Lucia in robes of white, with dark mantilla thrown carelessly over her raven hair, and a flower on her breast, a flower I never left without.

“‘I say, bo’s’n’--I had opened my eyes now wide enough--‘I say, doesn’t the breeze smell rather--er--er--gamey?’

“The good fellow laughed. ‘That it do, sir,’ he said. ‘Santeehager ain’t what it used to be by a jugful. You’ll find it ain’t the sweetest o’ perfoomery now. Sometimes it’s wusser’n others. Sometimes, when seven miles at sea, ye might hang your sou’wester on the perfoom o’ sweet Santeehager!’

“My romance, my dream of fair women fled just then, and didn’t return.

“Well, I have seen a city or two after a siege and bombardment, and I know as well as anybody how many ‘r’s’ there are in horror, but the sights I saw that day I had better make no attempt to describe. How American and Spanish troops could live and laugh in such a place as this, even with assistance from the bodegas, was more than I could tell. Ruins everywhere, sometimes whole rows of them, with fallen roofs and blackened rafters; streets and lanes and piazzas obstructed with broken furniture of every sort; vilely smelling currents of black filth, and pools and lakelets of the same; and--mercy on us!--corpses everywhere in the quieter squares--corpses of wretches who had crawled there to die; corpses reeking in the sunlight; corpses that even the clouds of horrid vultures refused to put a talon in.

“Such was Santiago. I had come for copy, and I soon had enough of it.

“‘Let’s get out of this, bo’s’n. Can’t we spend the night up yonder among the hills and palm trees?’

“‘Yes,’ the good fellow answered, cheerily. ‘And luckily the wind’s about a N.N.E.’

“We didn’t leave the city empty-handed, though. One hotel was doing a roaring trade, and when we found ourselves, an hour before sunset, high up among the woods, we had enough of the good things of this life to have stood a five days’ siege.

“Perhaps we didn’t make a hearty supper! Oh no, sailor-men never eat and drink!

“We had some wine anyhow, for our stomachs’ sake, let me say, and to eliminate the perfume of sweet Santiago, which seemed still to hang around us.

“The sunset was ineffably beautiful, the clouds and the bay were streaked with the colours of tropical birds; of those very birds that sang their evening songs above us, while the breeze sighed through the foliage.

“Twilight does not last long here, however, but a big round moon rose slowly over the hills, and there would be neither darkness nor danger to-night.

“‘I say, bo’s’n,’ I cried, ‘you were in the _Merrimac_ with gallant Hobson. Tell us your version. Have another cigar, and another glass of wine. Keeps away infection, you know.’

“The bo’s’n needed no second bidding. He had a bo’s’n’s nip--four fingers high--and the wine was brandy too.

“‘Ahem! Yes, I was in the _Merrimac_, and so was Jack Hardy, here.’

“‘Well,’ I cried, ‘I _am_ in luck. Wait, bo’s’n, till I light up. Now, then, heave round, my friend. Sure you’re not thirsty?’

“‘No, sirree. I feel that last little tot in my eye like. Ever seen Hobson? Well, you’ll like ’im when you does. You’ve seen a yacht, spick and span, new, that can rip through a stormy sea, hang or move like a Mother Carey’s chicken, and do ’most anything. That’s him. That’s Hobson. Bless you, sir, the old men didn’t like the youngster’s brave proposal at first. They pooh-poohed it, as ye might say. Even Schley himself laughed a little, as, in his fatherly way, he put a hand on young Hobson’s shoulder. I was as close to ’em, sir, as I am to Jack here. “Admiral Cervera,” he says, “is in yonder right enough. Only wish the beggar would come out. He’s bottled.”

“‘“Ay, admiral,” says Hobbie, as we calls him for fond like, “and I want to cork the bottle. Give me that old collier the _Merrimac_, and, with a few volunteers, I’ll take her in and sink her right across the narrow neck, ’twixt Canores and Estrella Points, and----”

“‘“And where will you and your men be then?” says Schley.

“‘“I’ll give you my word of honour, sir, I’ll go to heaven, almost cheerfully, as soon’s we bottle up the dirty Don! Besides, sir,” he says, “why smash that fine fleet up, when it would make so grand an addition to the American Navy?”

“‘Yes; and it were that very argerment, I guess, that carried the pint, wi’ the captains in council assembled. Volunteers! Ay, in course; half the navy would have volunteered to steam to certain death with young Hobson. It was the forlornest o’ hopes ever led.

“‘Look you, see, sir.’ The bo’s’n paused a minute to draw with his knife a rough sketch of Santiago bay and city on the ground.

“‘That’s my map, like, o’ the place lying down yonder beneath us in the moonlight. Them things there at sea is the fleet--our fleet. You’ll have to take Cervera’s for granted, but one of his ships lay here, you see, to guard the entrance. The crosses is the batteries, and they did blaze and batter us that awful night!’

“The bo’s’n paused a moment, and laid his hand affectionately on Jack Hardy’s shoulder.

“‘Me and my young pal here,’ he continued, ‘had known one another for months afore then. There was something about the lad that made me like him. See’d him throw his extra garments one day and go like thunder for big Nat Dowlais, ’cause he’d kicked the ship’s cat. Ay, and welted him well, too. I took to talkin’ more to Jack after that. But I couldn’t get down deep enough to the boy’s heart. There was something under the surface; I could tell that. Jack was no ordinary bit o’ ship’s junk. Bless you, sir, there’s hundreds o’ gentlemen’s sons before the mast--but they’re not all like Jack Hardy. Jack was more like a stage sailor than anything else. Everything he put on was so darned natty--his hands so white and soft, though his face and neck was brown. Then he talked American like a book. Played the piano, too, like a freak, and was often in the ward-room in consequence. And blowed if I didn’t hear the master-at-arms--bloomin’ old brass-bound Jimmy Legs--more’n once call him “sir.”

“‘Well, the _Merrimac_ was ’long-side and ready. Incloodin’ Lieutenant Hobson himself, eight of us were chosen for this deed o’ danger. Torpedoes were arranged in the hold. Hobson would stand by the helmsman, Hobson would touch the button and sink her, and, at a word, we should leap into the sea and swim for the dinghy towin’ astern, for this was our only hope o’ salvation.

“‘Jack, here, had stood by my side among the volunteers, but the poor lad was passed over. Don’t nudge me, Jackie lad; I’m goin’ to tell the truth, the whole bloomin’ truth, and nothin’ but--so there! I’ll never forget, sir, the look o’ disappointment on the lad’s face just then. Some time after, I found him for’ard with his back to the ship and his face to the sea. He looked smartly up, but I could see by the starlight there were tears on his face.

“‘He said nothing, but walked away impatient like, and I saw him no more _for a time_.’

“The bo’s’n leaned towards me now, and his eyes sparkled in the moonlight. He touched my knee with his horny palm.

“‘We steamed away,’ he said, in a hoarse half-whisper--steamed into the darkness and away from the flag-ship. Not a sound for a time save the hollow dump o’ the screw and the swirl o’ the seethin’ seas!

“‘In silence we steamed--it might have been for half an hour, but it seemed like an age--an age of blackness and terror. Nothing was nateral like. The ship was a death-ship, the figures agin the bulwarks yonder were spectres. I would have given worlds to have heard but a word, a laugh, a cough even!

“‘I said there were _eight_ of us! By the sky above us yonder, sir, there were _nine_!

“‘I guessed at once who the ninth was, and I shuddered a bit when I thought of brave, foolish Hardy here. For never a stroke could he swim, and his coming with us to-night was sheer madness--nay, more, it looked like suicide.

“‘Soon after Jack slid slowly up towards me, and his left arm clutched my right as I clutch yours now. Every one of us, sir, was stripped to the waist. Every one wore a lifebelt save Jack Hardy. He was a stowaway, and not in it.

“‘“Oh, boy,” I said, speaking in a whisper, “why have you done this?”

“‘“Hush!” he answered. “My time is mebbe short, mate, and you’ve always been my friend. So listen. Something tells me you’ll be saved, but I am here to die. I want you to bear a message to my parents--to my mother especially. Her address you’ll find in my ditty-box. But go to see her, Sam, when the war is over. Far away west my people live in opulence, and I’m an only son. Father taunted me with cowardice, and I ran away and came to sea. Tell father I forgave him. Tell mother----” Ah, sir, just here the lad broke down. He’s only a boy. “Tell mother,” he sobbed, “how her Jack died for his country. Tell her I felt she’d forgiven me--that will please her--that my every dream was of home and her, that----”

“‘“A boat on the weather-bow,” cried a man to Hobson. “Shall we fire?”

“‘“No,” cried Hobson; “never a shot.”

“‘It had been a picket. We heard her officer shout in Spanish to give way with a will, and she disappeared up into the darkness of the channel we were now entering.

“‘The end was coming; the end was very near, and we all knew it.’

* * * * *

“While the bo’s’n had been telling his story, young Hardy sat silent, but he spoke now almost for the first time.

“‘A moment, sir. The bo’s’n won’t tell you, but I must. He tore off his lifebelt, and fastened it around me. He swore I must wear it or he would fling it into the sea. That’s all!’

“‘Well, sir,’ continued the bo’s’n, ‘the awful silence was speedily broken. They had seen us only as a dark mass, black as the rocks that towered above us. Then their fire opened. We’ll never be under such a fire again as that, sir, and live. Shells burst above us, around us, shells riddled our hull, and raked our spar-deck, and crushed into our deck-house. Fragments and splinters flew about in all directions. I think most of us were flat on our faces just then, and I lay beside Jackie here holding his hand. No tremor there, though! No signs of fear! And the fire poured into us from three sides, sir, from the batteries of Socappa on the left, from Morro on the right, and from a warship ahead.

“‘Speak of thunder. Pah! thunder isn’t in it with such a devil’s din as this, and lightning ’gainst those gun-gleams would have been like the glint of a farthing candle!

“‘Then we saw brave Hobson’s figure--unearthly tall it looked. No voice could be heard, only his arms waved us to the bulwarks.

“‘Next second it seemed we were all in the water, as a roar louder than the artillery shook the sky, shook the hills, and silenced even the batteries.

“‘The ship was sinking beside us! We were all but drawn into the whirlpool, but I held Jack’s hand and toughly towed him off.

“‘But the dinghy was gone, and the rudder too, and the _Merrimac_ sank, not across, but along the channel. So our forlorn hope had been led in vain. The Spanish fleet was bottled still, but not corked, sir.’

“He paused for a moment.

“‘Ah, sir, no one there would ever forget that night, nor the hours we passed under a tilted grating that God in His mercy had put it into some one’s head to attach by a rope to the ship. We could just get under this catamaran and hold on to the spars above.

“‘Hour after hour of darkness went by. Boats passed and repassed, and we could hear the men talking. Had they known there were nine heads under that grating, short would have been our shrift, sir.

“‘And all these hours we hardly spoke. We almost feared to breathe aloud.

“‘More than once I thought that Jackie here was dead or dying, but I whispered cheering words to him. More than once I trembled as my feet were touched by slimy sharks. How they did not tear me down I cannot tell you. Seems to me, sir, ’twere a ’tarposition o’ Providence like.

“‘But daylight came at last, and Cervera’s own boat and Cervera himself.

“‘Hobson’s voice was feeble enough now, but he managed to hail her.

“‘“_Por Dios!_” we heard the white-haired admiral cry. “Do the dead talk to us?”

“‘But we were saved, and taken to the Spanish ship. Yes, sir, treated with every kindness, made prisoners, but released at long, long last, even before sweet Santeehager fell.

“‘Well, that’s my yarn, sir, and it’s all as true as the stars above us.’

“‘And Jack Hardy here,’ I ventured to ask, ‘was he reprimanded?’

“‘Tried by drum-head he was, sir. Condemned to death for desertion, and pardoned all in one sentence.’”

“‘Ah, sir,’ the brave bo’s’n added, ‘I’ll bet my boots that Jack Hardy is a midshipman before this cruel war is over. Thank ye, sir, I don’t mind if I do; and I’ll give ye a toast, too--

“‘“May the Stars and Stripes we love so well,
With Britain’s flag entwine,
And we’re goin’ to give the world--fits,
When the two brave fleets combine.“‘“

* * * * *

The _Walrus_ sailed on and on around the great Antarctic continent, but never saw her consort till once more the two ships met safe and sound at Kerguelen Isle.

END OF BOOK II