“Suppose she should be wrecked and never came back!” asked Tom as they turned away from watching the bark sail. “What would happen to us?”

“Wall, we ain’t a calc’latin’ on that,” replied Cap’n Pem, “but jes’ the same, we wouldn’t be so bad off ef she didn’t. We’ve got a-plenty o’ grub an’ if wusser come to wusser I reckon we could salt down enough Jackasses an’ albatrosses an’ sea elephants to keep us alive fer quite some spell. ’Twouldn’t be the fust time folks has been lef’ down this way count o’ their ships not turnin’ up in time.”

“Be gob, no!” declared Mike who stood near. “B’gorra, Oi had a frind once, a foine chap entoirely, phwat tould me a sthory av a frind o’ his phwat knowed a feller phwat wuz lift fer three mortal years on wan av these oilan’s. Shure ’tis mesilf phwat’s afther forgettin’ the name av it; but ’twas Quirlicue Lan’ or somethin’ loike thot. Sure, yis, b’gorra, Misther Potter, ’twas that same! Kerguelan, is it? Well, as Oi was afther sayin’ they wuz lift three years, an’ Faith, only wan av the bunch doied an’ he a Portugee phwat didn’t doi but was afther killin’ av himself. So don’t yez be a woorryin’ av yersilves me b’ys. Sure, ’tis not a bad place to sthop at all, at all.”

“Well, I don’t want to be marooned here for three years, anyhow,” maintained Jim. “I guess I wouldn’t mind a few weeks or months, but just think what it must be like in winter when the seas are all frozen and the place is covered with ice and snow. What would you do if the Hector didn’t come back on time, Cap’n Pem?”

“Now, what’s the everlastin’ use o’ talkin’ ’bout it,” replied the mate testily. “There ain’t no ’arthly reason why the Hector shouldn’t turn up an’ if she didn’t, I’d wait a spell an’ then take to the boats. Twouldn’t be no sail ’tall to make Tristan d’ Cunha or the Falklands from here.”

“Why, they’re hundreds of miles off!” exclaimed Tom. “You don’t mean to say you’d try to get there in those little boats!”

Cap’n Pem snorted, “’Course I would!” he declared. “Little boats! Look a-here, son, them there whaleboats is the bes’ seagoin’ craft afloat. I tell ye, I’d rather be in them there boats in a sea than in a heap o’ big ships. Why, bless your heart! I could tell ye more’n one yarn o’ whalemen what sailed more’n three thousan’ miles in boats like them.”

“Oh, do tell us about them!” cried Jim.

“Not now,” replied the old whaleman, “We’ve gotter git busy. Mebbe ’long arter dinner I’ll spin ye a yarn.”

All through the first day the men were busy preparing the implements and getting things ready for slaughtering and trying out the sea elephants. Spades were sharpened and placed in readiness; the big boiling kettles were brought out and the try-works built; the casks were arranged for filling; the killing clubs were selected and with everything prepared for the killing to begin the following day, the men sat down to a hearty meal of sea elephants’ tongues and liver, baked beans and plum duff, while the boys and Cap’n Pem dined on some delicious fresh fish which one of the men had caught, with fresh crabs and craw fish from among the rocks of the shore.

When the meal was over, the boys insisted on the mate keeping his promise to tell them the story he had mentioned and after a few objections, the old man gave in and lighting his pipe, while everybody gathered about and listened, he began.

“Wall,” said the old whaleman, “I was sayin’ to ye boys that I knowed o’ whalemen rowin’ over three thousan’ miles in their boats, but I reckon I’d oughter ha’ said I’d heard on ’em. But I hev knowed o’ whalemen a-rowin’ more’n a thousan’ miles, and what’s more, I wuz boy on the ship what picked ’em up in the end, so ye’ll hev to b’lieve this ’ere yarn ’cause it’s true as is, an’ I kin swear to it. Hows’ever I calc’late I’d better begin at the beginnin’ an’ not git all aback an’ in stays an’ afoul o’ my own hawse by beginnin’ tail en’ fust. ’Twas ’long back in ’59, purty long spell ago, an’ the bark Janet, hailin’ from Westport, was a-cruisin’ fer sparm in the Pacific ’long ’bout the equator an’ ’bout a hundred an’ ten west. Eve’ything’d been a-goin’ fust rate an’ one o’ the boats made fast to a bull whale late in the arternoon and by the time he’d spouted blood an’ turned fin-up, ’twas purty near night. Wall, they got their fluke-chain round the critter all right an’ was a startin’ to pull him to the Janet, what was hull down, when a heavy sea caught the boat jes’ right an’ capsized her. ’Course ’twan’t much trouble to right her, but everything they had was lost—kag o’ water, biscuits, compass, lantern an’ all fittin’s—an’ while the crew got her right side up in a jiffy they couldn’t bail her out ’cause o’ the bucket an’ bailer bein’ gone. An’ I tell ye, ’tain’t no picnic tryin’ to keep a water-filled boat right side up in a heavy sea an’ blowin’ a holy gale. Some reason or t’other the ship hadn’t seen ’em an’ they couldn’t signal the bark, an’ to keep the boat from capsizin’ again they lashed the oars ’crost her an’ worked her over ’longside the dead whale and done their best to tip her up an’ dump the water outen her. But ’twan’t no ’arthly use count o’ heavy seas a-breakin’ over ’em an’ at last they give up and started a paddlin’ their way toward the Janet’s lights what was vis’ble. They kep’ at it all night, an’ come mornin’, they found as they was farther off than before, so knowin’ they was jus’ usin’ of their strength for nothin’ they let her drift. Nex’ mornin’ the wind let up a mite an’ the sea went down, an’ the men managed somehow to capsize the boat an’ git her back on her keel with a bit less water in her, but while they was a-doin’ of it, one was drownded. Jes’ recollec’ that for forty-eight hours these chaps hadn’t had nary a drop o’ water nor a bite to eat and had been a-lyin’ in salt water up ter their armpits and ye can’t blame two more on ’em fer goin’ crazy. Derned if ’tain’t a wonder they didn’t all go mad. There they was, driftin’ about in the middle o’ the Pacific jes’ under the line without nothin’ to eat or drink an’ the nearest lan’, Cocos Islan’, more’n a thousan’ miles away. Not one o’ the crew was strong enough to pull oar, but by workin’ like blazes they managed for to tear out the boat’s ceilin’ and lashed it up like a sort o’ sail an’ started off afore the wind.

“For seven days they sailed on with nothin’ to eat or drink ’cause there wasn’t so much as a drop o’ rain fell, an’ all the time under the blazin’ sun o’ the ’quator. By that time, things got so bad they begun to draw lots an’ one o’ the men was killed an’ t’others eat him up. An’ then, jes’ as if Almighty God had a-taken pity on ’em, a shower come along an’ give ’em plenty to drink. On the eighth day arter being adrift, another man died, but nex’ day another shower come along an’ a big dolphin flopped right into the boat. Ye can’t tell me there ain’t no sech thing as Providence arter that, an’ every day arter then a bird’d come so clost the men could cotch him, an’ twenty days arter leaving of the whale, they sighted the Islan’. Gettin’ ashore, they killed a wild pig and they was a-dinin’ like kings offen him an’ a eatin’ of coconuts when the old Leonidas, with Pem Potter aboard as cabin boy, run inter the Cocos fer water an’ found ’em.”

“That’s a fine story,” declared Tom. “It does seem as if they were saved by a miracle.”

“Yes, and if any one read it in a book they wouldn’t believe it,” added Jim.

“Tha’s right,” commented one of the New Bedford boat steerers. “Me, I myself, one time mek long row in da whale boat. Mebbe you like hear heem, yes?”

“Sure we would,” Jim assured him. “Go on, Manuel, and tell us the story.”

“Alla right,” assented the boat steerer, showing his white teeth in a pleased smile. “You know heem, da Pedro Varela schooner, no? Well, two, three year ago, me, myself, I was boat steerer on heem when he mek da cruise for da sperm whale een Atlantic. We mek fine cruise an’ fin’ plenty whale an’ pretty near fill up down by da islan’s an’ da Cap’n he say he think mebbe he strike two, three more whale an’ fill up on da way home. So he mek da course north an’, sure thing, we fin’ da whale jus’ by Bermuda, mebbe leetle way south an’ eas’.

“Oh, boy, I, me myself, tell da worl’, we fin’ heem! One day da lookout, he sing out, ‘There she blow,’ an’ da other lookout he sing out same leetle minute, ‘There she blow,’ an’ we see ten, twelve, one dozen mebbe, blowin’. He on’y three boat ship, da Varela, an’ da cap’n an’ mate an’ secon’ mate, they all lower. Me, myself, I was in da secon’ mate boat an’ got fast da firs’. Long time me, myself, I been whalin’ an’ never not een my life do I see whale so mad. Oh, boy! Firs’ thing he sound, six hundred fathom he go, two line, an’ then he breach so dam queek we no can pull in da slack an’ he mill an’ then, Santa Maria! He mek off all same like he goin’ for tow us to Flores. Never, never, do I see one whale go like that. One whole hour he run an’ leetle by leetle we draw in an’ then, jus’ when we think we get heem, da iron draw an’ we los’ heem. Then we look ’roun’ an’ no see da Varela nowhere. No, sir, I, me myself, I tell you we los’. Mebbe, we think, da Varela fin’ us in da night, so all da night we burn lantern lash to da oar an’ stick eet up, but da schooner she no come an’ when da day come da mate he say, ‘look like we bes’ row home, boys.’ So we eat leetle biscuit an’ drink leetle water an’ head nor’wes’ and row all day. Nex’ day jus’ da same; eat leetle, leetle biscuit, drink leetle, leetle water an’ row. Third day—’bout six bell—biscuit he all finish an’ water he finish, too. Then we feel mighty seek, I myself, I tell da worl’, an’ we row an’ row an’ ’bout four bell, mebbe, we see smoke. Pretty soon we see da steamer an’ come our way an’ we signal an’ he see an’ come near. He spik us an’ want tek us aboard, but da mate he ask heem where he boun’ an’ when he say ‘Englan’,’ da mate he ask us eef we want go Englan’ an we all say no. So da mate he say we not go aboard, but if he give us grub an’ water an’ course for New Bedford, we thank heem ve’y much and row home. Da skipper of da steamer he say we crazy, yes, an’ laf; but he give us plenty grub an’ water an’ da course and we eat plenty an’ row an’ bimeby we see Gay Head light an’ we mek New Bedford.”

“Gosh!” exclaimed Jim. “You mean you rowed a whaleboat all the way from Bermuda to New Bedford? How far is it?”

“Me, I don’ know, mebbe three, four hundred mile,” replied Manuel.

“Bout eight hundred,” volunteered Cap’n Pem. “Purty consid’ble of a row, eh?”

“Shure, ’twas thot!” exclaimed Mike. “B’gorra Misther Potter, did yez iver see a sphirit at say?”

“Nope!” replied the other. “Derned if I hev, ’ceptin’ in bottles.”

“Ah, gwan wid yez!” went on the bo’sun. “’Tis not that kind Oim afther mainin’ at all, at all. An’ if yez hasn’t, thin, b’gorra, Oive seen somethin’ phwat yez haven’t an’, be the Saints, ’tis a wonder ye’ll admit it. Would yez loike to hear about ut, b’ys?”

“Yes, indeed, Mike,” said Tom with interest. “Go ahead and tell the yarn. I’ll bet it’s a corker.”

“Will, thin,” began Mike as he stuffed a load of tobacco into his pipe. “Oi said ’twas a sphirit, but I dunno if ’twas aither—but ’twas somethin’ quare an’ sooper-natural-loike. But shure an’ Oim gittin’ off me course so Oi’ll ’bout ship an’ be afther sthartin’ on a new tack. ’Twas ’bout thirty year ago, afore ships wuz a-talkin’ wid woireless, ye moind, an’ Oi wuz furrst mate av a wee shmall staymer what wuz afther tradin’ ’twixt Cuby an’ Noo Yorrk, an’ proud Oi wuz to be a threadin’ the bridge wid the best av thim, Oi’ll tell yez. Will, wan thrip, phwat did the skipper do but git took wid the yaller Jack an’ doi,—may his soul rist in pace. An’ b’gob, there Oi wuz, masther av a trim little ship as iver wuz. Faith though, ’twas a grrand falin’, but with a hape o’ raysponsibility, b’gorra. Thin, wan night, Oi was a-sittin’ in me cabin on the bridge wid the second mate on watch an’ a thinkin’ o’ the foine future Oi’d be afther havin’—niver dramin’, b’gob, thot Oi’d iver be afther a-killin’ say iliphants in the back o’ beyont—bad cess to the dhrink,—whin all av a suddin Oi sees a figure a-sthandin’, or a-flyin’, or a floatin’—faith, Oi dunno which—in the air fornist the port bow o’ the ship. B’ the Saints! ’Twas dramin’ Oi thought Oi wuz, an’ Oi lept up an’ rubbed me ois an’ says Oi to mesilf, says Oi, ‘Sure Mike is it sayin’ things ye arre or is it not.’ But b’gorra, there she wuz—for ’twas a woman sphirit she wuz—a floatin’ or a-flyin’ along an’ a beckonin’ to me wid her arrm. Says Oi to the secon’ mate’ say Oi; ‘Misther Thompson,’ says Oi, ‘will yez look to two p’ints offen the port bow,’ says Oi, ‘an’ tell me do yez see annythin’.’ ‘Aye Sir,’ says he, ‘Oi see a cloud,’ says he, ‘an’ nothin’ more,’ says he. So thin Oi thinks to mesilf; ’tis a hallo-sue-nation ye’re havin’, think Oi, an’ Oi looks the other way an’, Saints presarve me, if there wuzn’t the colleen again, an’ as Oi sees her she sort o’ flits acrost me bows an’ off to port agin, a-beckonin’-loike all the toime. So Oi says to meself, says Oi, ‘Shure Mike, ’tis a predomition ye’re afther havin’ or a message o’ some sort an’ the spirit’s been sent yez to guide yez.’ So Oi says to the second, says Oi, ‘Mr. Thompson, starboard the helm a bit,’ says Oi, an’ as the bow swings to port Oi sees the spirit a-swingin’ a bit further ’til me bow’s a-headin’ six p’ints off me course, an’ thin the spirit sthops movin’ an’ jist floats aisyloike over me bow, so Oi says, ‘Steady as she is, Mr. Thompson,’ an’ bein’ a good sailorman he niver asks why in blazes Oi’m runnin’ off me course six pints. For two hours we run an’ thin, b’gorra, the lookout sings out, ‘Ship afire ahead!’ an’ there, plain as the nose on me face, Oi could see the glow o’ a burnin’ ship, an’ with that, the spirit disappears an’ Oi know she’s been a-guidin’ av me to save thim that’s on the burnin’ ship. Full spheed ahead, Oi rings, an’ nearer and nearer we comes, an’ we kin see the flames o’ the burnin’ ship an’ her sphars an’ all. An’ b’gorra, through me glasses Oi sees folks a-sthandin’ aft wid the flames not twenty fate from thim an’ no boats over at all, at all. ’Twas a race fer loife, b’gorra, for me staymer was a shakin’ an’ a throbbin’ what wid the spade av her fit to bust, an’ the flames a-racin’ aft on the barrk. Thin, as I get widin’ hailin’ distance, a man sings out that there’s powder aboard an’ the hooker’ll be a blowin’ up in a minute more. Shure, an’ may Hivin help me, if Oi wuz not in a foine fix! Shure, if Oi wint alongside to save the sowls aboard the barrk ’twould be loike Oi wud lose me ship, an’ if Oi didn’t ’twould be nothin’ short o’ murtherin’ the folks on the barrk, an divvil a bit o’ toime wuz there to be a lowerin’o’ me boats. ’Twas between the divvil an’ the dape say, Oi wuz, wid the divvil holdin’ the thrump carrds. But b’jabbers, Oi made up me mind an’ do yez know phwat Oi did?”

“No,” cried Tom excitedly. “What did you do?”

“Phwat would yez do, Misther Potter?” queried the bo’sun.

“Derned if I know,” replied Cap’n Pem. “Spit it out, ye ol’ sinner, what did ye do?”

Mike grinned. “Shure,” he replied, “Oi woke up!”

“Dern yer ol’ hide!” exploded Pem. “I’ll git one over on ye fer that, blowed ef I don’t.”

“Was you ever shipmates along of a mutiny, Mister Potter?” asked one of the men, when the merriment over Mike’s joke on Cap’n Pem had subsided.

“Can’t say as I was,” admitted the old whaleman. “Heard lots o’ yarns ’bout ’em, though.”

“Well, I can beat you there,” asserted the other. “’Cause I was ’board a ship what had a mutiny.”

“Tell us about that,” begged the boys.

“Well, ’twasn’t much of a mutiny,” went on the man, “but I guess ’twas ’bout the funniest mutiny ever was, at that. Manuel, speakin’ ’bout the Pedro Varela, minded me of it, ’cause that’s the ship ’twas on.

“I’d shipped as seaman an’ ’thout countin’ me an’ my two mates an’ the officers, what was Portugees, every man was a greenie. ‘All American crew,’ they called it, but I’ll bet my lay ’gainst a chew of tobaccer there wasn’t two real Yanks in the bunch. Worst set of bums I ever see, an’ not casting no reflections on present company. Officers couldn’t do nothing at all with ’em—never did learn the riggin’, even though the Varela’s just a fore-an’-aft schooner,—an’ didn’t have enough gumption to pull a boat decent. Just the same, things went along pretty well an’ we got a little oil; but along about six weeks out, the men commenced for to get tired of whalin’ an’ wanted to get ashore,—grumbled a bit an’ cussed the skipper an’ all, but no open complainin’ an’ nothing particular to complain about. Then, one morning, Chips come runnin’ an’ a cussin’ an’ saying his tool box had been stole. Hunted every place, but tools had just nat’rally disappeared. Next morning, along comes the cooper swearin’ his tools an’ the grinstone’d gone. Next morning, ’twas the blubber-kettles missin’ an’ by that time things begun to look mighty serious an’ funny. Skipper had all hands aft, but every man-jack swore he didn’t know nothin’ an’ there wasn’t no proof that they did. While the Old Man was chinnin’ the lookout sighted a whale an’ the skipper left off an’ ordered the crew to the boats, an’ what do you think happened? Why, bless you! There weren’t an iron or lance or fluke-spade or any darned thing in any one of the boats. ’Course there weren’t no use in lowering, an’ believe me, there was some skyhowlin’ rumpus on the old Varela when the Portugee skipper let loose. But he couldn’t do nothing. There we was, on the high seas a-cruisin’ for sperm, an’ not an iron on the ship for to get ’em with. An’ when we got to searchin’ about we found there weren’t a spade or a blubber-hook or a cuttin’ in tackle, neither. Of course, we all knew what ’twas. That crew of bums had just heaved every darned thing over the side long in the night watches an’ knowing if the skipper couldn’t catch whales, he’d nat’rally have to make port. Well, there weren’t nothing left for him to do but make port so, talkin’ something fierce in United States and Portugee, he heads for Fayal swearin’ to clap every man-jack in irons soon as he got there. Worst of it was he blamed every mother’s son of us, Yanks as well as the greenies. When we made Fayal, there, big as life, was a Yankee cruiser an’ soon as we got near, up goes a signal for assistance and a-sayin’ there’s a mutiny on board.

“I dunno whether them navy men was so tickled at the fun of the thing or what ’twas, but the up-shot was they had us all aboard an’ talked a bit, though I knowed they was a bustin’ themselves tryin’ not to laff, an’ after a heap of questioning, they let all but eight of us loose an’ ironed the others an’ took ’em home for trial. I was on the beach but got a ship after a bit an’ when I got back to New Bedford I heard the rest of the story. Seemed this ’ere mutiny was a new kind. No law’d ever been made to cover it an’ accordin’ to law the men hadn’t mutinied—didn’t use violence nor threaten nobody nor disobey orders—so they couldn’t be charged with mutiny. Then the owners tried to get ’em sent up for theft or destroyin’ property or most anything, but there weren’t no proof of nothing, so the judge finally sentenced ’em for disorderly conduct an’ they got ten days each.”

“I heerd ’bout that,” commented Cap’n Pem. “Wisht they’d been my crew. I’d a-heaved ’em over after them fittin’s. Derned if I wouldn’t. But look-a-here! It’s a-gittin’ too late ter be a yarnin’ with killin’ to begin in the mornin’. All han’s turn in!”

An hour later, only the protesting croaks of sleepy penguins and the distant barks of the sea elephants broke the silence that reigned over the island.