Captain Scott was as commonplace a little man as ever commanded an old wooden tub of a barque lumbering her way forlornly from port to port seeking freight as a beggar seeks pence. His command, the Sarah Jane, belonged to a decayed firm of shipowners that, like many other old-fashioned tradesmen, had not kept pace with the times, and were now reduced to the possession of this ancient pauper and a still older brig, all the rest of their once stately fleet having been sold or lost or seized to satisfy mortgages. Yet they still retained a keen sense of respectability, and when Captain Scott applied for the command of the Sarah Jane they were exceedingly careful to ascertain that he was strictly sober and trustworthy. He not only succeeded in satisfying them on these points, but in some mysterious manner persuaded them also that he was exceedingly pious, and would certainly hold service on board every Sunday, weather permitting. That settled his appointment, for the senior member of the firm was a good, honest Dissenter, who, if a trifle narrow and bigoted in his religious views, was sincerely anxious to live up to the light he had. Beyond all question the Sarah Jane was the best-found vessel of her class in the food line that we chaps forrard had ever sailed in. It would have been hard to find a more agreeably surprised little crowd than we were when the first meal appeared in the fo’c’sle, for our preliminary view of the ship certainly gave us the idea that we were in for “plenty pump and velly flat belly,” as a quaint little Italian A.B. said while we were selecting bunks.

But no, she was a comfortable ship. There was certainly “plenty pump,” but the grub was so good that there was never a growl heard among us, and a pleasanter passage out to Algoa Bay than we enjoyed could hardly be imagined. The Sunday services were held, too—that is to say, twice; after that they were quietly dropped without any reason assigned. No one felt sorry, for there was an air of unreality and constraint about the whole thing that was puzzling and unsatisfactory; and on several occasions there was wafted across the poop, as the skipper emerged from the companion, a tantalizing odour which none of us could mistake—the rich bouquet of old Jamaica rum. This gave rise to many discussions in the fo’c’sle. The port watch took sides against the starboard, insisting that the old man had fallen from grace, if, which was problematical, he had ever possessed any of that mysterious quality. We of the starboard, or skipper’s watch, as in duty bound, stood up for him, accounting for the thirst-provoking smell that came wafting upwards from the cabin periodically by the theory of the Sarah Jane having been an old sugar drogher for many years, until her timbers were saturated with the flavour of rum, and, according as the wind tended to diffuse it, we were favoured with it on deck.

Never was a skipper watched more closely by his crew than Captain Scott was by us, for the steward and the officers were unapproachable upon the subject, and it was only by catching him really drunk that our continual dispute could be settled. After we had crossed the Line, and were getting rapidly to the suth’ard, I began to lose faith, for, although I could not determine whether the skipper’s peculiar gait was or was not the regular nautical roll accentuated by some physical peculiarity, there was no mistaking the ever-deepening hue of his face. When we left home it was fresh-coloured, but as the weeks went by it took on the glow of burnished copper—especially after dinner—and sometimes his nose looked warm enough to light one’s pipe at it. However, we reached Algoa Bay without settling our argument—openly, that is. In truth, we of the starboard watch were looking eagerly for some way of retreat from what we all felt was getting to be an untenable position. Still, no agreement was arrived at until we had been at anchor off Port Elizabeth for a week, during which time we had never seen our respected skipper once.

Then there arrived alongside, on a Saturday afternoon, after we had washed decks and were dabbing out our own few bits of duds for Sunday, a surf-boat, in the stern of which sat precariously a very drunken man. He was truculently drunk, and the big cigar, which was stuck in one angle of his protruding lips, pointed upwards like an old collier’s jibboom. Both his hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and his top-hat was jammed hard down on the back of his head. As the boat bumped alongside, his insecure seat failed him, and he lurched massively forward upon the crown of his hat, which caved in after its brim had passed his ears, adding to the picturesqueness of his outfit. The boatmen seized and reinstated him upon a thwart, receiving for their pains an address that reeked of the pit. For variety of profanity we all admitted it to be far beyond anything of the kind that we had ever heard, and one of our number suggested that he had been founding a new church during his absence, his outbreak of peculiar language being part of the liturgy thereof. We only had an ordinary side ladder of the usual type carried in those ships—two ropes with wooden rungs seized between them—which was suspended perpendicularly from the rail. This kind of approach is not easy of negotiation by anybody but a sober sailor; it was impossible now to Captain Scott. He gazed upwards fiercely at the anxious face of the mate, and, with many flowers of speech, insisted that a whip should be rigged on the mainyard for him—blasphemously sharp, too, or he would, yes, he would, when he did get aboard.

So we rigged a single whip at the mate’s order, not without many audible comments upon this new development and recriminations between the members of the two disputing watches. With many a bump, as the vessel rolled to the incoming swell, we hoisted our commander on board, letting him come down on deck with a jolt that must have well-nigh started all his teeth. Released from his bonds, he rose swaying to his feet, and, glaring round upon the assembled crew, roared thickly, “All han’s short’n sail!” There was a shout of laughter at this maniacal command, which infuriated him so much that he seemed transformed into a veritable demon. His face went purple, he ground his teeth like a fighting boar, and would no doubt have had some sort of fit but for a diversion made by the boatmen who had brought him off. One of them approached him, saying abruptly but quite civilly—

“If you don’t want us any more, sir, we sh’d like our fare, so’s we can get ashore again.”

Peculiarly, this interruption changed his mood into the coldly sarcastic. With an air of exquisite politeness he turned to the boatman, and, with a bear-like bow, said—

“Ho, indeed; Hi ’ave much pleasure in ’earin’ ov it. An’ may we take th’ hopportunity hof harskin’ oo th’ ’ells a-preventin’ hof yer frum goin’ t’ the devil hif ye likes.” (Be it noted that when sober he spoke fairly correct English.) “Has ter a-wantin’ hof ye hany more, Hi wouldn’t ’ave a barge-load hof yer fur a gift; Hi wouldn’t carry yer fur ballast, there! Might come in ’andy for dunnagin’ carsks—but there, I don’ know. Anyway, get t’ ’ell houter this.”

Of course, it could hardly be expected that such sturdy independent souls as Algoa Bay boatmen would be likely to take contumely of this sort meekly in exchange for their hard labours. At any rate, if such a thing had ever been expected, the expectation was doomed to instant disappointment. Turning to the rail, the boatman who had spoken to the skipper gave a shout which brought the six of his mates on deck. Just a word or two of explanation, and they advanced threateningly towards their debtor. We stood in passive enjoyment of what we felt was soon to be a due meting out of reward to a man who deserved such recompense richly. The two mates made a feeble attempt to interfere, but were roughly thrust aside, while the enraged boatmen seized the burly form of our skipper, and were about to manhandle him over the side when he roared for mercy, saying that he would pay all their demand. He did so, and they departed, not without a full and complete exposition of what they considered to be all his characteristics, mental and physical. They had hardly left the side when the skipper ordered the windlass to be manned, and, in spite of his drunken condition, no long time elapsed before we were under way and standing rapidly out to sea.

But that night a black south-easter sprang up, to which we set all the sail we could stagger under for our northward passage to Pondicherry, but towards morning the wind backed to the northward, and blew so hard as to necessitate the sudden taking in of all the sail we had set except a tiny storm-staysail. But, while we were, all hands of us, in the throes of our conflict with the slatting topsails, a curious thing happened. Sharp snapping noises were heard, and flashes of light totally unlike lightning were seen on deck. Cries were heard, too, that were disconcerting, for it seemed as if a row was going on for which we could imagine no cause. Suddenly the little Italian, who was manfully struggling by my side to get the topsail furled, yelled at the pitch of his voice something in his own language, at the same time disappearing to a dangling position on the foot-rope. This was strange, but almost immediately after something with a sharp “ping” struck the yard by my side, and the horrible truth flashed into my mind that somebody on deck was shooting at us poor wretches struggling aloft. It is difficult, indeed, to express what the conditions of our minds were upon making this discovery. The handling of sails by a weak crew in a gale of wind at night is no child’s play at any time, but when to that great fight is added the peculiar complication of a drunken madman amusing himself by taking potshots at the men aloft, the condition of things is, to say the least, disconcerting. The sails were let go. Incontinently we slid down on deck, taking refuge behind whatsoever shelter we could find. Happily, Natalie, the poor little Italian, managed to get down too, having, as we presently discovered, a bullet through the fleshy part of his arm. The sails blew to pieces, the ship tumbled about helplessly, the helmsman having run from his post, and it appeared as if a terrible calamity was about to overtake us, but presently the two mates came forrard, saying, “It’s all right, men. We’ve knocked him down, and, although we couldn’t find his revolver, we have locked him up in his cabin. For God’s sake, turn to and get the ship in hand.”

With many muttered curses and desires of taking the skipper’s life we resumed our duties, and soon had got the rags of sail still left on the yards snugly secured. Then the watch entitled to go below retired. Natalie had his wound dressed, and peace reigned for a time. In the morning the skipper, being sober, begged piteously to be released. All of us protested strongly against any such piece of folly being perpetrated. However, after he had been confined a week our hearts relented towards him, and, upon his making a solemn assurance that he had no more ammunition or grog, which latter disturbing element the mates assured us they had searched for and were unable to find, it was agreed that he should resume command.

During the rest of our passage to Pondicherry there was certainly nothing to complain of. More, she was as comfortable a ship as one could wish to be on board of. Evidently, with a view to mollifying our feelings towards him, Captain Scott allowed us to fare as well as he and his officers did, so that by the time we anchored in Pondicherry we had, with the short memory for previous sufferings peculiarly characteristic of sailors, apparently entirely forgotten his amiable little outbreak. Nor during her stay at Pondicherry did we have anything to complain of. Then came the welcome news that we were homeward bound. On a glorious morning, just at daybreak, the order was given to man the windlass, and, with the singing that old-time shanty of “Hurrah, my boys, we’re homeward bound,” we were all lustily engaged in tearing out the big mud-hook, when suddenly, to our unspeakable horror, Captain Scott emerged from the cabin, his outstretched hands each grasping a huge navy revolver, and almost immediately after bullets were flying like hail. Like frightened rabbits, we bolted for even the most impracticable holes and corners—anywhere, indeed, out of that withering fire. The situation was desperate, but, happily for us, a British gunboat was lying near. The officer in charge of her deck, hearing the fusillade, with naval promptitude sent a boat’s crew on board to inquire into the cause of this strange occurrence.

It so happened that the inquirers arrived just as Captain Scott was recharging his revolver, and they lost no time in taking him prisoner. We, the luckless crew, emerging from our various hiding-places, laid the matter before them with much wealth of detail, and the result that we presently had the satisfaction of seeing our vivacious commander, bound hand and foot, being lowered into the boat for conveyance on board the man-o’-war. Her commander held an inquiry immediately into Captain Scott’s conduct, examining us closely as to the reasons for this outbreak, if we could give any. Strange to say, our recollection of his good treatment outweighed our immediate resentment against him, and we agreed that if only he could be rendered incapable of either getting drunk or shooting, we should be glad to finish the voyage with him. So, after a thorough search for fire-arms and rum, resulting in the discovery of no less than four more revolvers, quite a large box of ammunition, and an extraordinarily large quantity of the potent liquor, all of which was duly confiscated by the naval authorities, we returned to our duties, got under way, and sailed for home.

The Sarah Jane was a most fortunate ship, as far as weather was concerned, at any rate. Catching the first breath of the north-eastern monsoon immediately outside the harbour, under all canvas we bowled briskly down to the line, crossed it with a steady, if light breeze from the northward, and, without experiencing any calm worth mentioning, presently found ourselves in the tender embrace of the south-east trade-winds, and being wafted steadily at the rate of about five knots an hour across the vast placid bosom of the Indian Ocean.

Life at sea under such conditions is very pleasant. For the vicissitudes of a sailor’s life only become hard to bear when weather is bad, food scanty, and officers brutal. When the opposites of these three conditions obtain, the sailor can gladly put up with many evil qualities in the ship itself. The leakiness of our old vessel troubled us not at all as long as the pleasant conditions of which I have spoken continued. Even when we reached the stormy latitudes adjacent to the Cape of Good Hope we were favoured by fair winds until we arrived off Simons Bay, when the wind fell away, and a perfect calm ensued with lowering, ugly-looking weather. But our good fortune still remained. The great sweep of the Agulhas current carried us round the Cape of Storms homeward without any wind worth taking notice of coming upon us out of the leaden-looking sky, and so we rounded the Cape, and with a fine southerly breeze pointed the Sarah Jane jibboom homeward.

The usual routine work of cleaning ship was indulged in. Nothing worthy of notice occurred until losing the trades. In about 7° N. lat. a calm of a week’s duration ensued. Here we fell in with several other ships, and our captain, apparently with a view of getting a little amusement, had a boat out, and went ship-visiting. This suited us admirably. Sailors always enjoy it, perhaps because they get so little of it on board merchant ships. The first two ships we visited were evidently strongly teetotal, for we noticed that while our captain returned on board perfectly sober, he always looked exceedingly glum and disappointed. But at last we spoke a vessel whose captain was in dire want of a little fresh water. We had plenty to spare, and in no long time had filled a couple of puncheons, lowered them over the side into the water, and towed them to the other ship. Her captain’s gratitude was great; in fact, he seemed hardly able to reward us sufficiently. Among other gifts we received a huge hog, two cases of preserved beef, a barrel of cabin biscuits, and two large cases of what appeared to us to be lime-juice. We returned on board, and hoisted in our spoils.

That night a breeze sprang up, and the little company of vessels that had clustered together in the vortex made by the “trades” separated, and pursued their various ways. Next morning we were alone, our ship was by herself on the face of the deep. The steward went to call the captain as usual, but could get no response. Alarmed, he came and reported the matter to the mate, whose watch on deck it was at the time. The mate went down, and, after repeated knockings at the captain’s door which failed to obtain any response, took violent measures, and burst the door open.

The captain was not there. A search was immediately made without result, but presently, to the horror of every one on board, the steward, a rather feeble-minded mulatto, rushed on deck shouting “Fire!” It need not be said how terrible this cry at sea always is, but it is never more so than when on board a badly-found wooden ship. However, all hands rushed aft at the call of the mate, and prepared to do everything that was possible for the subdual of the fire when it should be located. The smoke appeared to be rising from the lazarette, a store-room in the after part of the ship beneath the cabin. The mate and a couple of men tore off the hatch, and, half choked with the smoke that burst up in a great volume, made their way below, only to scramble out again in double quick time and fall fainting on the deck.

Meanwhile everybody was wondering what had become of the captain, until suddenly an awful-looking figure was seen emerging from a ventilator on deck at the fore part of the cabin. It was the captain, who announced his presence with a series of horrible yells. His clothes were in ribands, his face was black, his eyeballs glared. Several of us made a rush at him, conceiving him to have suddenly gone mad, but he eluded our grasp, and, nimble as a monkey, rushed up aloft, and sat mowing on the mainyard. A couple of us started after him, but were recalled by the second mate, who said—

“Let the old —— alone. We have got something else to do if we want to save our lives.”

And indeed we had. The feeble pump in the bows of the ship, which we used for washing decks, was not of the slightest service as a fire-engine, and drawing water overside by buckets is a tedious process. We could hear the roaring of the flames underneath our feet, we could feel the decks getting hot, and as it appeared that our labour was utterly in vain, and that if we wished to save our lives we must waste no time in getting the boats provisioned and lowered, we turned all our energies in that direction. By the most tremendous exertions we succeeded in getting a fairly satisfactory amount of food and water into the two boats, along with some clothing, a compass, and a sextant. Hardly had we done so before a sudden outburst of flame from the cabin of furious violence warned us that it was time to be gone.

Meanwhile the skipper had been raging, a howling madman, on the mainyard. What was to be done about him? Truth compels me to state that the majority of us were for leaving him to his fate, realizing that to him we owed all our misfortunes. But still, that we could hardly bring ourselves to do when the time came. The ship herself solved the question for us. She seemed to suddenly burst into flame fore and aft, the inflammable cargo, most of which was of cotton and various grasses, burning almost like turpentine. Indeed, some of us were compelled to spring into the sea and clamber on board the boats as best we could. Having done so, it became necessary to put a goodly distance between us and the ship with little delay, for the heat was terrible. And there sat the skipper on the mainyard, while the long tongues of flame went writhing up the well-tarred rigging. Suddenly we saw him spring to his feet, balancing himself for a moment on the yard, and then, with a most graceful curve, he sprang into the sea. He reappeared, swimming strongly, and the mate’s boat picked him up. And here occurred the strangest part of the whole matter, for no sooner was he in the boat than all the previous occurrences seemed to be wiped clean out of his mind, and he was as sane as any man among us. We stared at him in amazement, but he took no notice, saying a word or two on the handling of the boat or the direction in which she was to be steered, but making no comment upon the sudden catastrophe that had overtaken us.

Fortunately for us all, the weather remained perfectly fine, and as we knew we were directly in the track of ships, we were under no apprehensions as to our safety, but we certainly looked upon the skipper as, to say the least of it, uncanny. We watched him closely by day and by night, lest in some new maniacal outbreak he should endanger the lives of us all once more, and this time without hope of recovery. But he remained perfectly quiet and sensible, nor did he betray by any sign whatever any knowledge of what had happened. On the third day we sighted a barque right astern. She came up grandly, and very soon we were all safely on board of the same vessel from which we had received the provisions. Then we found that the two cases we had supposed to contain lime-juice had really been full of lime-juice bottles of rum—which explained matters somewhat.

And now another astonishing thing happened. Captain Scott suddenly conceived the notion that the Jocunda was his own ship, nor could any arguments convince him that he was wrong. The captain humoured him for a while, but at last his mania reached such a height that it became necessary to confine him in irons, and thus he was kept under restraint until our arrival in Plymouth, where no time was lost in placing him in a lunatic asylum.

What became of him I do not know, but at the Board of Trade inquiry all hands had the greatest difficulty in persuading the officials that we were not joined in a conspiracy of lying, and I for one felt that we could hardly blame them.