The Ticket-of-Leave-Man was a practiced bruiser; but the savage knew nothing of the art pugilistic: and so they were even. It was clear hugging and wrenching till both came to the deck. Here they rolled over and over in the middle of a ring which seemed to form of itself. At last the white man’s head fell back, and his face grew purple. Bembo’s teeth were at his throat. Rushing in all round, they hauled the savage off, but not until repeatedly struck on the head would he let go.

  His rage was now absolutely demoniac; he lay glaring, and writhing on the deck, without attempting to rise. Cowed, as they supposed he was, from his attitude, the men, rejoiced at seeing him thus humbled, left him; after rating him in sailor style, for a cannibal and a coward.

  Ben was attended to, and led below.

  Soon after this, the rest also, with but few exceptions, retired into the forecastle; and having been up nearly all the previous night, they quickly dropped about the chests and rolled into the hammocks. In an hour’s time, not a sound could be heard in that part of the ship.

  Before Bembo was dragged away, the mate had in vain endeavored to separate the combatants, repeatedly striking the Mowree; but the seamen interposing, at last kept him off.

  And intoxicated as he was, when they dispersed, he knew enough to charge the steward—a steady seaman be it remembered—with the present safety of the ship; and then went below, where he fell directly into another drunken sleep.

  Having remained upon deck with the doctor some time after the rest had gone below, I was just on the point of following him down, when I saw the Mowree rise, draw a bucket of water, and holding it high above his head, pour its contents right over him. This he repeated several times. There was nothing very peculiar in the act, but something else about him struck me. However, I thought no more of it, but descended the scuttle.

  After a restless nap, I found the atmosphere of the forecastle so close, from nearly all the men being down at the same time, that I hunted up an old pea-jacket1 and went on deck; intending to sleep it out there till morning. Here I found the cook and steward, Wymontoo, Rope Yarn, and the Dane; who, being all quiet, manageable fellows, and holding aloof from the rest since the captain’s departure, had been ordered by the mate not to go below until sunrise. They were lying under the lee of the bulwarks; two or three fast asleep, and the others smoking their pipes, and conversing.

  To my surprise, Bembo was at the helm; but there being so few to stand there now, they told me, he had offered to take his turn with the rest, at the same time heading the watch; and to this, of course, they made no objection.

  It was a fine, bright night; all moon and stars, and white crests of waves. The breeze was light, but freshening; and close hauled,2 poor little Jule, as if nothing had happened, was heading in for the land, which rose high and hazy in the distance.

  After the day’s uproar, the tranquillity of the scene was soothing, and I leaned over the side to enjoy it.

  More than ever did I now lament my situation—but it was useless to repine, and I could not upbraid myself. So at last, becoming drowsy, I made a bed with my jacket under the windlass, and tried to forget myself.

  How long I lay there, I can not tell; but as I rose, the first object that met my eye, was Bembo at the helm; his dark figure slowly rising and falling with the ship’s motion against the spangled heavens behind. He seemed all impatience and expectation; standing at arm’s length from the spokes, with one foot advanced, and his bare head thrust forward. Where I was, the watch were out of sight; and no one else was stirring; the deserted decks and broad white sails were gleaming in the moonlight.

  Presently, a swelling, dashing sound came upon my ear, and I had a sort of vague consciousness that I had been hearing it before. The next instant I was broad awake and on my feet. Right ahead, and so near that my heart stood still, was a long line of breakers, heaving and frothing. It was the coral reef, girdling the island. Behind it, and almost casting their shadows upon the deck, were the sleeping mountains, about whose hazy peaks the gray dawn was just breaking. The breeze had freshened, and with a steady, gliding motion, we were running straight for the reef.

  All was taken in at a glance; the fell purpose of Bembo was obvious, and with a frenzied shout to wake the watch, I rushed aft. They sprang to their feet bewildered; and after a short, but desperate scuffle, we tore him from the helm. In wrestling with him, the wheel—left for a moment unguarded—flew to leeward, thus, fortunately, bringing the ship’s head to the wind,3 and so retarding her progress. Previous to this, she had been kept three or four points free,4 so as to close with the breakers. Her headway now shortened, I steadied the helm, keeping the sails just lifting, while we glided obliquely toward the land. To have run off before the wind—an easy thing—would have been almost instant destruction, owing to a curve of the reef in that direction. At this time, the Dane and the steward were still struggling with the furious Mowree, and the others were running about irresolute and shouting.

  But darting forward the instant I had the helm, the old cook thundered on the forecastle with a handspike, “Breakers! breakers close aboard!—’bout ship! ’bout ship!”

  Up came the sailors, staring about them in stupid horror.

  “Haul back the head-yards!” “Let go the lee fore-brace!” “Ready about! about!”5 were now shouted on all sides; while distracted by a thousand orders, they ran hither and thither, fairly panic-stricken.

  It seemed all over with us; and I was just upon the point of throwing the ship full into the wind (a step, which, saving us for the instant, would have sealed our fate in the end), when a sharp cry shot by my ear like the flight of an arrow.

  It was Salem: “All ready for’ard; hard down!”6

  Round and round went the spokes—the Julia, with her shortkeel, spinning to windward like a top.7 Soon, the jib-sheets lashed the stays, and the men, more self-possessed, flew to the braces.

  “Main-sail haul!”8 was now heard, as the fresh breeze streamed fore and aft the deck; and directly the after-yards were whirled round.

  In half-a-minute more, we were sailing away from the land on the other tack, with every sail distended.

  Turning on our heel within little more than a biscuit’s toss of the reef, no earthly power could have saved us, were it not that, up to the very brink of the coral rampart, there are no soundings.9

  CHAPTER 24

  OUTBREAK OF THE CREW

  The purpose of Bembo had been made known to the men generally by the watch; and now that our salvation was certain, by an instinctive impulse they raised a cry, and rushed toward him.

  Just before liberated by Dunk and the steward, he was standing doggedly by the mizen-mast; and, as the infuriated sailors came on, his bloodshot eye rolled, and his sheath-knife glittered over his head.

  “Down with him!” “Strike him down!” “Hang him at the main-yard!” such were the shouts now raised. But he stood unmoved, and, for a single instant, they absolutely faltered.

  “Cowards!” cried Salem, and he flung himself upon him. The steel descended like a ray of light; but did no harm; for the sailor’s heart was beating against the Mowree’s before he was aware.

  They both fell to the deck, when the knife was instantly seized, and Bembo secured.

  “For’ard! for’ard with him!” was again the cry; “give him a sea-toss!” “overboard with him!” and he was dragged along the deck, struggling and fighting with tooth and nail.

  All this uproar immediately over the mate’s head at last roused him from his drunken nap, and he came staggering on deck.

  “What’s this?” he shouted, running right in among them.

  “It’s the Mowree, zur; they are going to murder him, zur,” here sobbed poor Rope Yarn, crawling close up to him.

  “Avast! avast!” roared Jermin, making a spring toward Bembo, and dashing two or three of the sailors aside. At this moment the wretch was partly flung over the bulwarks, which shook with his frantic struggles. In vain the doctor and others tried to save him: the men listened to nothing.

  “Murder and mutiny, by the salt sea!” shouted the mate; and dashing his arms right and left, he planted his iron hand upon the Mowree’s shoulder.

  “There are two of us now; and as you serve him, you serve me,” he cried, turning fiercely round.

  “Over with them together, then,” exclaimed the carpenter, springing forward; but the rest fell back before the courageous front of Jermin, and, with the speed of thought, Bembo, unharmed, stood upon deck.

  “Aft with ye!” cried his deliverer; and he pushed him right among the men, taking care to follow him up close. Giving the sailors no time to recover, he pushed the Mowree before him, till they came to the cabin scuttle, when he drew the slide over him, and stood still. Throughout, Bembo never spoke one word.

  “Now for’ard where ye belong!” cried the mate, addressing the seamen, who by this time, rallying again, had no idea of losing their victim.

  “The Mowree! the Mowree!” they shouted.

  Here the doctor, in answer to the mate’s repeated questions, stepped forward, and related what Bembo had been doing; a matter which the mate but dimly understood from the violent threatenings he had been hearing.

  For a moment he seemed to waver; but at last, turning the key in the padlock of the slide, he breathed through his set teeth—“Ye can’t have him; I’ll hand him over to the consul; so for’ard with ye, I say: when there’s any drowning to be done, I’ll pass the word; so away with ye, ye blood-thirsty pirates!”

  It was to no purpose that they begged or threatened: Jermin, although by no means sober, stood his ground manfully, and before long they dispersed, soon to forget every thing that had happened.

  Though we had no opportunity to hear him confess it, Bembo’s intention to destroy us was beyond all question. His only motive could have been, a desire to revenge the contumely heaped upon him the night previous, operating upon a heart irreclaimably savage, and at no time fraternally disposed toward the crew.

  During the whole of this scene the doctor did his best to save him. But well knowing that all I could do, would have been equally useless, I maintained my place at the wheel. Indeed, no one but Jermin could have prevented this murder.

  CHAPTER 25

  JERMIN ENCOUNTERS AN OLD SHIPMATE

  During the morning of the day which dawned upon the events just recounted, we remained a little to leeward of the harbor, waiting the appearance of the consul, who had promised the mate to come off in a shore boat for the purpose of seeing him.

  By this time the men had forced his secret from the cooper; and the consequence was, that they kept him continually coming and going from the after-hold. The mate must have known this; but he said nothing, notwithstanding all the dancing, and singing, and occasional fighting which announced the flow of the Pisco.

  The peaceable influence which the doctor and myself had heretofore been exerting, was now very nearly at an end.

  Confident, from the aspect of matters, that the ship, after all, would be obliged to go in; and learning, moreover, that the mate had said so, the sailors, for the present, seemed in no hurry about it; especially as the bucket of Bungs gave such generous cheer.

  As for Bembo, we were told that, after putting him in double irons, the mate had locked him up in the captain’s state-room, taking the additional precaution of keeping the cabin scuttle secured. From this time forward we never saw the Mowree again, a circumstance which will explain itself as the narrative proceeds.

  Noon came, and no consul; and as the afternoon advanced without any word even from the shore, the mate was justly incensed; more especially, as he had taken great pains to keep perfectly sober against Wilson’s arrival.

  Two or three hours before sundown, a small schooner came out of the harbor, and headed over for the adjoining island of Imeeo, or Moreea,1 in plain sight, about fifteen miles distant.The wind failing, the current swept her down under our bows, where we had a fair glimpse of the natives on her decks.

  There were a score of them, perhaps, lounging upon spread mats, and smoking their pipes. On floating so near, and hearing the maudlin cries of our crew, and beholding their antics, they must have taken us for a pirate; at any rate, they got out their sweeps,2 and pulled away as fast as they could; the sight of our two six-pounders,3 which, by way of a joke, were now run out of the side-ports,4 giving a fresh impetus to their efforts. But they had not gone far, when a white man, with a red sash about his waist, made his appearance on deck, the natives immediately desisting.

  Hailing us loudly, he said he was coming aboard; and after some confusion on the schooner’s decks, a small canoe was lanched overboard, and, in a minute or two, he was with us. He turned out to be an old shipmate of Jermin’s, one Viner, long supposed dead, but now resident on the island.

  The meeting of these men, under the circumstances, is one of a thousand occurrences appearing exaggerated in fiction; but, nevertheless, frequently realized in actual lives of adventure.

  Some fifteen years previous, they had sailed together as officers of the bark Jane, of London, a South Seaman. Somewhere near the New Hebrides,5 they struck one night upon an unknown reef; and, in a few hours, the Jane went to pieces. The boats, however, were saved; some provisions also, a quadrant, and a few other articles. But several of the men were lost before they got clear of the wreck.

  The three boats, commanded respectively by the captain, Jermin, and the third mate, then set sail for a small English settlement at the Bay of Islands in New Zealand. Of course they kept together as much as possible. After being at sea about a week, a Lascar6 in the captain’s boat went crazy; and, it being dangerous to keep him, they tried to throw him overboard. In the confusion that ensued, the boat capsized from the sail’s “jibing;”7 and a considerable sea running at the time, and the other boats being separated more than usual, only one man was picked up. The very next night it blew a heavy gale; and the remaining boats taking in all sail, made bundles of their oars, flung them overboard, and rode to them with plenty of line. When morning broke, Jermin and his men were alone upon the ocean; the third mate’s boat, in all probability, having gone down.

  After great hardships, the survivors caught sight of a brig, which took them on board, and eventually landed them in Sydney.

  Ever since then our mate had sailed from that port, never once hearing of his lost shipmates, whom, by this time, of course, he had long given up. Judge, then, his feelings, when Viner, the lost third mate, the instant he touched the deck, rushed up and wrung him by the hand.

  During the gale his line had parted; so that the boat, drifting fast to leeward, was out of sight by morning. Reduced, after this, to great extremities, the boat touched, for fruit, at an island of which they knew nothing. The natives, at first, received them kindly; but one of the men getting into a quarrel on account of a woman, and the rest taking his part, they were all massacred but Viner, who, at the time, was in an adjoining village. After staying on the island more than two years, he finally escaped in the boat of an American whaler, which landed him at Valparaiso.8 From this period he had continued to follow the seas, as a man before the mast, until about eighteen months previous, when he went ashore at Tahiti, where he now owned the schooner we saw, in which he traded among the neighboring islands.

  The breeze springing up again just after nightfall, Viner left us, promising his old shipmate to see him again, three days hence, in Papeetee harbor.

  CHAPTER 26

  WE ENTER THE HARBOR • JIM THE PILOT

  Exhausted by the day’s wassail, most of the men went below at an early hour, leaving the deck to the steward and two of the men remaining on duty; the mate, with Baltimore and the Dane, engaging to relieve them at midnight. At that hour, the ship—now standing off shore, under short sail—was to be tacked.

  It was not long after midnight, when we were wakened in the forecastle by the lion roar of Jermin’s voice, ordering a pull at the jib-halyards; and soon afterward, a handspike struck the scuttle, and all hands were called to take the ship into port.

  This was wholly unexpected; but we learned directly, that the mate, no longer relying upon the consul, and renouncing all thought of inducing the men to change their minds, had suddenly made up his own. He was going to beat up1 to the entrance of the harbor, so as to show a signal for a pilot before sunrise.

  Notwithstanding this, the sailors absolutely refused to assist in working the ship under any circumstances whatever: to all mine and the doctor’s entreaties lending a deaf ear. Sink or strike, they swore they would have nothing more to do with her. This perverseness was to be attributed, in a great measure, to the effects of their late debauch.

  With a strong breeze, all sail set, and the ship in the hands of four or five men, exhausted by two nights’ watching, our situation was bad enough; especially as the mate seemed more reckless than ever, and we were now to tack ship several times close under the land.

  Well knowing that if any thing untoward happened to the vessel before morning, it would be imputed to the conduct of the crew, and so lead to serious results, should they ever be brought to trial; I called together those on deck, to witness my declaration:—that now that the Julia was destined for the harbor (the only object for which I, at least, had been struggling), I was willing to do what I could, toward carrying her in safely. In this step I was followed by the doctor.