The Wrecking Master

"A thick night and no mistake, Dan. It's as black as the face of a Nassau pilot. We ought to be nearing the coal wharf by now. Of course they wouldn't have sense enough to leave a light on it to give us our bearings."

Captain Jim Wetherly was growling through the window of the darkened wheel-house to his deck-hand, young Dan Frazier, as the oceangoing tug Resolute felt her way up the harbor of Pensacola. She had towed a dismasted bark into port after a long and stubborn tussle with wind and sea, and her master was in haste to fill the empty bunkers and drive her home to Key West, five hundred miles across the blue Gulf.

The mate and several of the crew had gone ashore for the evening, the fat and grizzled chief engineer was loafing on the deck below, and Captain Wetherly was somewhat consoled to have a sympathetic listener in his youngest deck-hand. This Dan Frazier was his nephew, not long out of the Key West High School, and trying his hand at seafaring in the Resolute as the first chance which had offered to ease his mother's task of caring for him.

In the presence of any of the vessel's company, discipline was observed between the two with a respectful "aye, aye, sir," or "no, sir," on Dan's part, but now when they were alone on deck Dan felt free to reply:

"It's strange water to me, Uncle Jim. I shouldn't wonder if the old Resolute felt timid about poking around a crowded harbor on a thick night. What she likes best is plenty of sea-room with a wreck piled hard and fast on the Florida Reef and a fighting chance to pull it off. I wish I could have been on board when you were taking hold of that big Italian steamer last spring. The men say they thought the Resolute was going to yank the engines clean out of her before you let go on the last haul that dragged the wreck clear of the Reef. Is it true that Bill McKnight clamped the safety-valve down and said it was up to Providence to see that his boilers didn't blow up?"

Captain Wetherly chuckled. The flare of a match as he relighted his pipe illumined a pair of steadfast gray eyes and a smooth-shaven chin of such dogged squareness of outline that Dan's statements seemed to be half-way answered even before his uncle said:

"Pshaw, boy, Bill McKnight is a good chief engineer, but if his engines didn't get any more rest than that tongue of his, they would have been in the scrap-heap long ago. I suppose he has been filling you up with yarns of the wonderful things he has done with this boat on the Reef. Come to think of it, he was carrying some steam more than the law allowed when we tackled that Italian wreck for the last time, but we weren't there for our health. And wrecking isn't a business for children, Dan. You'll find that out if you stick by me long enough to get your mate's papers. Seems to me we must have run past that confounded coal wharf by this time. I don't know whether that light yonder is a lantern or a store up the street somewhere."

Dan went over to the side of the deck and peered into the shoreward gloom while Captain Wetherly jerked a bell-pull. A mellow clang floated from the engine-room, the Resolute slackened way to half-speed, and began to swing in toward the puzzling light. Dan Frazier thought he heard the click of rowlocks somewhere off in the darkness and cocked an ear to listen. The sound ceased and then he fancied he saw a shadowy patch moving on the water almost in front of the Resolute's bow. An instant later Captain Wetherly shouted in alarm:

"Boat ahoy. Do you want to be run under?"

Angry, confused voices were raised from the blackness close ahead while the tug quivered to the thrust of the engines as they strove to check her headway. Panic-stricken profanity was volleyed from the water, there was a slight shock and crash as of splintered planking, and the tug slid over what remained of the blundering small boat.

"Great Scott!" cried Captain Jim. "The poor fools must have done it a-purpose. When they come up and yell, stand by to fish 'em out, Dan. Tell Bill McKnight to man a boat and be ready to lower it. Of all the----"

The horrified Dan had already scampered down to the main-deck and, snatching up a coil of heaving line, he sprang upon the guard-rail and waited for a call for help from the castaways. The chief engineer was bawling commands to a fireman and the cook who were fumbling with the falls of a boat swung aft. The galley boy came rushing along with a lantern and Dan held it over the side just in time to see a head bob to the foaming surface with a gurgling lament:

"Aren't you going to haul me aboard your murderin' tow-boat?"

Dan tossed him a bight of the line into which he wriggled his shoulders and with Bill McKnight's assistance the derelict was hauled aboard like a large and dripping fish. They did not waste time in looking him over, but asked in the same breath:

"How many more of you?"

"Only one, and he can't be far off," panted the victim of the collision. "You'll hear him holler pretty soon unless you knocked his brains out when you struck us."

The boat was ready by this time, and Dan and the cook, letting it down by the run, scrambled in and shoved clear of the tug. They had paddled only a little way astern when the lantern threw its wavering gleam athwart the missing man, who was groaning as if hurt, while he tried with feeble splashing to keep himself afloat. With great exertion he was dragged over the gunwale and taken to the Resolute. He was unable to stand on deck and blood was oozing from a ragged gash on his forehead. The engineer helped carry him into his own state-room a few steps away on the lower deck, where the wet clothing was stripped from him and the bunk made ready.

Meanwhile, Captain Wetherly, relieved to learn that no lives were lost, rang up speed and headed the tug for what he hoped might be the wharf he was seeking. Presently Dan Frazier reported at the wheel-house door and explained:

"You won't be any more surprised than I was to find out that the first man we picked up is Jerry Pringle. Yes, it's old Pringle himself sure enough, Uncle Jim. I didn't get time for a sight of him until just now. What in the world is he doing so far from Key West, and how did he happen to be run down in a boat at night in Pensacola harbor? It beats me."

"What has he got to say for himself?" snapped Captain Jim with a note of hostility and suspicion in his voice. "Is he sober? And Jerry Pringle let a tow-boat waltz right over him! Um-mm, he must have been mighty busy thinking about something else. Who is the other fellow? Ever see him before?"

"No, sir. He's an Englishman, I think, a big, strong man with a brown beard. He is pretty well knocked out and his wits were muddled by a thump on the head. He talks flighty. Jerry Pringle is with him and says he will fetch him around without our help and get him ashore as soon as we land."

"Well, there's the coal-pocket looming up ahead, and you'd better get aft to make a line fast, Dan," observed the captain. "As soon as we dock, I'll step down and see what I can do for our passengers. They're welcome to stay aboard overnight. Jump lively."

While the Resolute was deftly laid alongside the head of the wharf, Dan made a flying leap to the string-piece and dragged the hawsers to the nearest pilings, bow and stern. Then he hurried back to the chief engineer's room in quest of more information about the strange and unwilling visit of Mr. Jeremiah Pringle of Key West.

Dan Frazier knew him as one of the most daring and successful wreckers of the Florida Reef, that cruel, hidden rampart of coral which stretches in the open sea for a hundred and fifty miles along the Atlantic coast of southern Florida, on the edge of the great highway of ocean traffic for Central and South America. Because the Gulf Stream flows north along this crowded highway, the steamers and sailing craft bound south skirt the Reef as close as they dare in order to avoid the adverse current. Tall, spider-legged, steel light-houses rise from the submerged Reef, but its ledges still take their yearly toll of costly vessels, as they have done for centuries. When such disasters happen, the wreckers flock seaward to try to save the ship and cargo.

Jerry Pringle was one of the last of a famous race of native wrecking masters of Key West. His father and grandfather were wreckers before him, and they had been hard and godless men, rejoicing in the tidings of disaster on the Reef as a chance to plunder and destroy. Rumor had said some curious things about this Jeremiah Pringle's methods as a wrecking master, but Dan Frazier gave them careless heed, partly because he had heard so many wicked tales of the by-gone wrecking days, but more because young Barton Pringle, the only son of this man, was his dearest chum and school-mate.

With very lively curiosity Dan halted in the doorway of the little state-room which Captain Jim Wetherly had entered just before him. Jeremiah Pringle was sitting on the edge of the bunk as if to shield his comrade of the small boat from observation, and was gruffly cautioning him not to exert himself by trying to talk. Captain Wetherly was eying them both with the keenest interest reflected in his determined countenance. He was saying as Dan came within earshot:

"Of course I am very sorry it happened, Pringle, but I don't see how you can hold me responsible for the loss of your boat. My lights were in order and the vessel was moving at half speed. I'm sure your friend there, the master of the Kenilworth, lays it to your own carelessness."

"Who said he was master of the Kenilworth?" spoke up Jerry Pringle. "You seem to be taking a whole lot of things for granted. He's in no shape to deny it, so call him what you please."

Mr. Pringle looked unhappy and not all at ease, nor had he any thanks to spare for his rescue. Even Dan could perceive how thoroughly disgusted he was over this unlucky meeting with Captain Wetherly who replied:

"Oh, yes, it is Captain Bruce of the Kenilworth, that big English cargo steamer in the stream loaded with naval stores for London. He was pointed out to me in the broker's office this afternoon. Were you coming ashore from his ship when you ran under my bows?"

Hearing his name spoken, the man with the bandaged head tried to raise himself in the bunk and muttered, as if his senses were still confused:

"Malcolm Bruce, if you please, bound home to London, then out to Vera Cruz with a general cargo. Lost at sea, all stove up, and a black, wet night. But I get well paid for losing the rotten old ship. How much is it worth, Pringle? Ha, ha!"

Jerry Pringle's tanned cheek turned a shade or two paler and he forced a hot drink between the other man's lips as if to shut off his speech. The master of the Kenilworth subsided and put his hands to his head while Pringle explained to Captain Wetherly with nervous haste:

"He's jabbering about the loss of his boat that you made hash of. It was nothing but a skiff. It was my fault, I guess. We were busy talking and I kept no lookout. I'll pay him the cost of the boat, Captain Wetherly. So forget it, won't you. If you'll send ashore for a hack I can lug Captain Bruce up to a hotel right away."