Leaves from a middy's log

A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

At the time when the adventures which I am about to relate took place, I, Jack Darcy, was serving as a midshipman on board H.M.S. Rattler, a smart frigate of fifty guns, commanded by Captain Graves, who was a very distinguished officer and much beloved by all who served under him. Our vessel was attached to the North American squadron, and consequently we often visited the West Indies and cruised in the Caribbean Sea. On this particular occasion we were lying at anchor in the commodious harbour of Havana, the capital of the beautiful and fertile island of Cuba, which its Spanish masters delight to call “the pearl of the Antilles.”

A few days after we had come to anchor in the harbour, I, in company with some of my brother-middies, obtained leave to go ashore and have a look at the city and its Spanish and Creole inhabitants. As the reader may suppose, we found plenty to interest and amuse us. The afternoon, however, turned out so hot that we made up our minds to return on board the ship earlier than we had intended; and with this in view, we sauntered down to the wharf under a burning tropical sun to seek for a shore-boat. In a few minutes, the placid waters of the harbour, glowing like molten gold under the fierce rays of an almost vertical sun, opened out before us, crowded with shipping of various nationalities, amid which our own beautiful, shapely frigate was clearly discernible with her lofty tapering spars and shining black hull, the latter relieved by the broad white streak across the portholes, from which the open-mouthed guns frowned menacingly.

“I say, Jack,” exclaimed one of my messmates, Charlie Balfour, as we were steering our way through the piles of merchandise that lay strewn on the wharves, “that looks uncommonly like the officers’ recall flying at the Rattler’s masthead. What can the meaning of it be?”

We glanced in the direction of our ship, and sure enough there flew the recall as a signal for every officer to return on board without delay.

As we gazed a flash issued from one of the forecastle ports, and the sullen boom of a signal-gun reverberated over the harbour and died away in multitudinous echoes amongst the hills behind the city.

“Perhaps the flagship is coming in,” I suggested.

“Impossible, my dear fellow,” answered Charlie, who was a particular friend of mine; “the admiral was at Halifax by last advices, and was likely to remain there.”

“We shall soon solve the mystery, anyhow,” I answered, pointing across the harbour, “for here comes my boat, the second cutter.”

A few minutes later, the craft in question glided alongside the wharf, cleverly steered by Ned Burton, the coxswain.

“What’s up now, Ned?” we shouted in chorus; “why has the first lieutenant hoisted the recall?”

The coxswain touched his hat as he answered, “There is a high old row up somewhere along the coast, gentlemen; and the long and the short of it is that the captain has ordered us round to Santiago—leastways that’s the yarn upon the lower deck.”

At this moment a group of our wardroom officers hurried down to the landing-stage, and we all sprang into the cutter, which was at once pushed off into deep water and headed for the ship. The ten lusty oarsmen gave way with a will, and sent the boat spinning along at an exhilarating pace, whilst Ned Burton carefully steered her through the maze of merchant shipping and fishing-craft that thronged the harbour. In a quarter of an hour we were alongside the Rattler, and found every one full of excitement, and a general preparation for weighing anchor going forward.

It seemed that the crew of an English merchant vessel, more than half of whom were foreigners, had mutinied upon the high seas, and after murdering the captain and the first mate, and pitching their bodies overboard, had taken charge of the ship, which had a very valuable general cargo. They had run her into the harbour of Santiago de Cuba, where, owing to the disturbed state of the island, they imagined that they could perhaps dispose of the cargo, and then either burn the ship and join the insurgents, or put to sea again and trust to the hazardous chance of not falling in with an English cruiser.

Fortunately, however, their diabolical schemes were nipped in the bud by the successful escape of Mr. Osborne, the surgeon of the vessel, whom the mutineers had kept in close confinement lest they should require his services. On the arrival of the ship at Santiago, the leading desperadoes went on shore to try to dispose of the cargo. During their absence, the surgeon managed to give the others the slip, and with considerable pluck swam to a small coasting-steamer which was anchored not far off. The skipper of this craft had easily been prevailed upon to steam off at once for Havana on the promise of a reward; and to the surgeon’s delight he was soon en route for the capital. On arriving at Havana, he at once reported himself to Captain Graves, who paid the skipper of the steamer handsomely for his co-operation; and after consulting with the Captain-General of Cuba, he ordered the Rattler to hold herself in readiness to proceed to Santiago.

As the sun sank to rest in a blaze of crimson glory which was reflected in ruddy hues on city and shipping, and on the tranquil waters of the harbour, we tripped our anchor and steamed slowly out to sea. At the same time, the innumerable bells of Havana rang out their confused and jangling summons to vespers from the church and convent towers, their tones mellowed by distance as they came sounding over the expansive bay. They seemed to be ringing out a farewell to us as we faded from view in the short evanescent twilight, which still glowed with some of the sunset’s rapidly-dissolving glories.

We middies were of course full of excitement at the idea of fresh adventures, and were burning to know what plans the captain had laid for capturing this daring band of mutineers, who had had the effrontery to murder their officers and seize the vessel on the high seas.

It soon became known that Captain Graves designed to capture these villains by means of a little strategy. He intended to enter Santiago de Cuba under easy steam, after nightfall, so as not to arouse suspicion on board the craft which had been thus cleverly seized, and which was called the Flying-fish. It would then perhaps be possible to seize the crew in their hammocks before any resistance could be offered. Mr. Osborne, who accompanied us, gave it as his opinion that, on learning of his escape, the mutineers would probably be seized with alarm, and betake themselves elsewhere. It was highly improbable, indeed, that they could know of the presence of a British man-of-war in Cuban waters; but still they would not unnaturally conjecture that some Spanish gunboats might be sent in chase of them, as soon as the facts of the mutiny and murders reached the ears of the Captain-General at Havana.

Fortunately for our scheme, there was no moon, though the stars shone down with the sparkling brilliancy so remarkable in tropical climes. The night, however, was sufficiently dark for our purpose; and toward the end of the middle watch, the Rattler, like a giant phantom-ship, glided almost imperceptibly into Santiago harbour, with forecastlemen stationed at the small bower anchor, and armed boats’ crews ready to go on any service at a moment’s notice.

The captain knew the Santiago de Cuba anchorage well, besides being provided with excellent charts; so the frigate was taken in at the dead of night without the slightest hesitation. Mr. Osborne declared that he distinguished the Flying-fish in about the same position in which he had left her; consequently we anchored as quietly as possible a few lengths distant from her, and at once proceeded to put our plan into execution.

The second cutter, the boat of which I was midshipman, was one of those told off for the enterprise, so I hurriedly got my side-arms, and mustered my crew preparatory to manning the boat. Mr. Giles, the master-at-arms, supported by some ship’s corporals and marines, was to go with me, taking handcuffs with him. Mr. Thompson, the gunnery lieutenant, was to command the party, and, in company with Mr. Osborne—who had provided himself with a revolver—was to go in the first cutter with my chum, Charlie Balfour. These two boats the captain considered quite sufficient for the duty, especially as a complete surprise was intended, and it was known that the mutineers were very imperfectly supplied with arms.

With muffled oars, and long steady strokes, we pulled away over the star-begemmed waters for the long low vessel, which with her clear-cut spars and rigging, and somewhat rakish appearance, more nearly resembled a pirate than a peaceful merchantman.

All seemed silent as death. Not a voice broke the stillness that reigned fore-and-aft. The crew were apparently wrapped in slumber.

The first cutter hooked on at the vessel’s starboard gangway, whilst we made fast to port, and quickly scrambled on board. The deck was deserted, and a deathlike stillness reigned throughout the ship.

I met Mr. Thompson and his party at the main-hatchway, and we proceeded to light some dark lanterns we had brought with us, and get our revolvers ready for use.

“Mr. Osborne has sprained his ankle in getting out of the boat,” whispered the gunnery lieutenant, “and he is in such pain that we left him in the cutter in charge of the bowmen. We can manage all right without him. Have you got the handcuffs ready, Mr. Giles?”

“All right, sir,” replied that officer in the same undertone, and he held up to view the instruments in question, and chuckled audibly.

“Now, men, keep perfect silence,” continued Mr. Thompson, “and we’ll surprise these fellows in their berths, and bundle them into the boats before they can say ‘Jack Robinson.’ Follow me down the main hatchway, and in the first place we’ll overhaul the cabins, for it’s there the rascals are sleeping, I expect.”

With cautious and stealthy steps—having divested ourselves of our shoes—we followed our leader below. At this moment we almost betrayed ourselves through a clumsy marine knocking his head against the ship’s bell, which hung at the foot of the ladder, and gave out a metallic ring that could have been distinctly heard by any wakeful person on the main-deck or in the cabins.

“Confound that bullet-headed lobster!” whispered Mr. Thompson fiercely. “I’ll crack his skull in earnest for him if he doesn’t look out.”

The man, who had overheard this remark, and was ruefully rubbing his head, slunk to the rear, and sheltered himself behind the stalwart form of the master-at-arms.

“There are several men asleep in hammocks,” continued the gunnery lieutenant, flashing his lantern as he spoke on the after part of the deck.—“Mr. Darcy, you must take some of your crew and seize the men that are in them. One of the corporals will go with you, and two marines to handcuff them. I’ll push on with Mr. Balfour and capture the mutineers that may be in the stateroom and the cabins, and you can join me there as soon as possible.”