People's Pilot, Volume 6, Number 31, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 January 1897 — A SEA CHANCE. [ARTICLE]

A SEA CHANCE.

By MORGAN ROBERTSON.

A Tale Told BY a Mate and a Cook.

At the age of twenty-five, John Dorsey possessed few attributes of mind or body that would distinguish him from other seafaring men, unless it was the deep resonance of his voice and a strong memory for faces, facts, and places—which latter made him a wonderful pilot, his mind retaining a vivid picture of every harbor, island, rock or shoal that he had once seen. His strong lungs, with his pilotage and a general intelligence, raised him early to the quarter-deck. Born at Nassau, in the Bahamas, where his mother still lived, he had obtained such education as the island schools afforded, had followed “wrecking” until his brain was a comprehensive chart of the whole West India group, and had then made four long voyages—one in the engineroom. The closing years of the Civil War found him engaged in blockade-running, which had grown to be a prosperous—though risky—and, from his insular standpoint, a legitimate business. Long, low, speedy steamers were built, painted shite color, loaded with munitions of war, and sent to dodge their way past Federal cruisers into Southern ports, to return With cotton. In one of these—the •“Pel - id”—he occupied the position of first mate, and stood aft m ;. • she taffrail, one dark night, w.aching the indefinite loom of a siw.-p of-war about a mile astern. At intervals a gleam, as of heat lightning, would light up t! ‘darkness. Then could be b? n d the humming and “cheep, cl eep” of ricochetting solid shot, so owed by the bark of the gun. Tney were firing low. The chase, commencing with the wind abeam, ended with the w. -d ahead; for the quarry, with la: ge engine , and small sail power, had edged around in a w de curve until the sails of the pursuer no longer drew. The cruisers of that time were at best but auxiliaries, unfitted to chase to windward, and had not this one, as though to voice her disgust to the night, discharged a br•$ f dside as she squared away, the fleeing steamer might have pefiaped. ; 1: is this broadside, or, particularly, one round, nine-inch sin . of it, that concerns us. The re >‘ of them, with the screaming si.- 'ls, flew wide or short.. This si. / , uuaimed and unhoped of, st tick a sea at a quarter of the di ance. another three quarters, a;...-:/' hi the air, and crashed through ilie rudder and stern posts of the “Petrel”, forward through the boiler, and then on through the length of the steamer, making holes for itself where necessary, from the last of which ' -in the port bow— it dropped into the sea. The “Petrel” was successfully raked and disabled. When the shot had entered the stern, an iron belaying pin, jolted from its place in the tali'rall by the impact, had spun high •as the cross-trees. Before it came down, and coincident with the roar of escaping steam from, the punctured boiler, the mate noted the damage done in his department, and, to apprise the captain on the bridge, roared out: ‘fKudder post —” But the desendjug belaying pin, stricfcmg him '.a giaw ing blow on the head, cut ,t : short the sentence, and he fell to the deck. The escaping steam broughtthe Cruiser back to the chase,-and the “Petrel” was captured, towed to a Northeim port-, and condemn'd. Here John Dorsey, 'Still unconscious, though .breathing, wan placed in the hospital of a 'military prison. In a week he open*.! his'eyes and smile l—as a baby smiles. Then as a baby looks at his hands, he looked at his. and cooed softly. His skull had not, apparently, been in- . jured, and the lump raised had so he was told z to get up and dress. He only smiled, wu- then assist* . , .It could hardly have been said tfiat John Dorsey had recovered consciousness. While physr-ahy healthy, a m- .ative, non-combik-tive good-humor,indicated b;, his smile, was t-lm only mental uttriHe even si.umed to lack some of the instils.is of self-preservAtion which the humah, in with other aniJnjdls-, ... from parents. ■Feeling hunger, ho would not eat food placed before him until

shown how; and then not with a kfiife and fork; or even by intelligent use of his fingers, but by lowering his head in the manner of brutes. Hustled aside by a harsh attendant, he felt pain, and cried out —with no articulation. But he felt no fear at the next meeting; he could not remember. , An inner sub-consciousness directed necessary physiological function, and he lived and gained flesh. But, though far below the level of brutes in intellect, he differed from them and idiots in his capacity for improvement. For he learned —to dress himself; to use a knife and fork; to make his bed, sweep,’carry water, etc. The first sign of memory he displayed was in his avoidance of the nurse who habitually abused him. He learned the names of things one by one, and, in time, essayed to speak them. But only with the progress of a gurgling infant did he acquire a vocabulary sufficient for his wants; and this he used, not in the breezy, quarter-deck tone of John Dorsey, but in accents soft and low, as became the gentleness of his new nature. Not being a prisoner of war, he was discharged—rcured; but being useful, and not a stickler for salery, was allowed to remain in the hospital until it was officially abolished, six months after the close of the war. Then he*was turned adrift—a man in physique but a child in experience /for his life now dated from the awakening in the hospital, and what he knew he * had learned since then. Not a glimmer or shadow of memory as to his past remained. It was as though the soul of John Dorsey had gone from him, and in its place had come another—but a limited, a weakling soul: one that couid neither love, nor hate, hor fear, in a human sense. Poorly equipped as he was, he natu> ally became a beggar, but would work when told to. He wandered, associating with tramps; and under the tutelage of tramps, his mind expanded, but only to the limit of his soul. I Some things he could not underI stand.

In a measure the embargo on bis faculties impressed its stamp on his face; but tiie features of the intelligent John Dorsey did not at once yeild to the new conditions, and while a fit cauidute for an asylum, the strange mixture of expression, resembling careworn candor, saved him from commiti.'im as weak-minded, though he was often sent to jail as a van-rant. . For thirty ’ years he was a homeless wanderer on the face of the earth, at the end of which time he had learned much, considering his limitations. He could talk fairly well in the slang of the road, and in an evenly-mod-ulated tone of voice which was somewhat plaintive. He could not read or write; but he could count, though telling the time by the clock marked the limits of his progress in practical mathematics. A timetable map, the, chart of his wandering confreres, was an incomprehensible puzzle to him. Re knew the use of money, and what his. day’s labor was worth, though his lack of skill at the simplest tasks prevented his holding a job;' hence, his over-reactionary tendency to beg ary. But latterly lie had worked in a hotel kitchen, and liking the shelter and warmth, cultivated the industry to the extent of becoming, in spite of himself, a fairly good third-rate cook- x At the hospital he had been number seven, Asked his name later, he had given this number, which bis companions corruptee}. to “Shiven” and prefixed with “Jack”---their hall-mark of fellowship. His beard hud grown, and will, his hair, was of a soft shade of brown; with no vices to age him, and tormented by nospeculations as to his origin or destiny—the impressions of a year back deing forgotten unless renewed, by friction—his face, though changed, was even more youi'iful than the sailor Dorsey’s. In repose it,was stuped; but wnen he was pleased and smii..d with the infantile smile that marked the birth of his new exi iimss—it lighted up with the ineffable glory of an angle’s. It was the.mute expression of an innocence of soul which approched the divine—beyond hu

man understanding. And it won nim universal good-will, though not always good treatment. In the autumn of 1895 he -was in Mew York, penniless; and overhearing from a group of South Street loungers that the “Avon,” at Pier No. 9, wanted a cook hurried there and met her captain, stepping over the rail to find him. “I heard you had no cook,” he began. “You a cook?” “I kin cook plain grub.” “Ever been to sea?” I “Mo.” “Where’er your clothes?” The applicant looked down at himself. “Tramp, aren’t you?” said the captain, good-humoredly. “Yes, kinder,” he answered and smiled. “Come aboard, I’m in a hurry. Thirty dollars a month. Say ‘Sir’ when you speak to mb or the mate.” The “Avon” was a two-masted, schooner-rigged, five-hundred-ton, iron screw steamer, with an old-fashioned oscillating engine, which her old-fashioned engineer patted lovingly for the wonderful bursts of speed he could induce from it. Against his name on the Avon’s articles, the new cook placed his mark for the highest rate of pay he had worked as Jack Shiven. He was seasick the first day out, but recovered, and gave satisfaction. Quiet, good-humored, and obliging, he smiled on all hands and won hearts. “He’s a daft man, but a good ’un,” said the engineer. At Ceder Keys, Florida, the captain brought aboard, one evening, a tall, dark man, with whom he consulted locked in his cabin. As they parted at the rail, he he said, in Es low tone: “We’re speedy enough to get away from any cutter on the coast, "and, I think, any cruiser the Spanish have over. This was a blockade, dodger in war times, named ‘Petrel’ Still, as I said, Doctor, I must consult my crew. It’s risky work. ”

“Did’ you own the ‘Avon’ then, when she [jwas the ‘Petrel?” asked the other, speaking with an accent that stamped him a foreigner. “No,” answered the captain; “I bought her years afterward. But, “ he added proudly, “I sailed in hor ‘fore the mast when she was captured. They jugged us for a whilejthen let us go. •Twas curious about the mate, a fellow named Dorsey. Got? a rap on the head somehow, and came to in the hospital, but lost his bearings—did’nt know his name, and couldn’t understand when told. They let him out ’fore they did us, and we lost all track of him. It’s pitiful, the w; y bis old mother sits up on the rocks over at Nassau and watches the channels. She expects her boy back; says she knows he’ll come. I’ve got so I hate to bring the •Avon’ there; for every time I’ve done it, she’s recognized the old •Petrel.’ and waved her shawl from the rocks, and crushed aboard. And I’ve always had to give her the same old story: ‘Haven’t heard from him.” Its heartbreaking. But John Dorsey’s dead, sure.” .

In a couple of, days the ‘Avon’ sailed, with the dark stranger below in the hold. Two hours later a revenue cutter, primed with information of a purposed breach of the neutrality laws, lifted her anchor and followed, a menacing speck on the horizon astern of the “Avon,” and an irritation to the quickened nerves of her captain, as he viewed her through the glasses, and wondered, and guessed and swore. But next morning the horizon was clear, and the “Avon,” having doubled the Florida reef in the night, was steaming up the east coast. The following midnight found her well up past Cape Canaveral, and hero, after answering a rocket from the shore, she cautiously, and with much heaving of the lead, and speak-ing-tube calls to the engineroom, felt her way through a narrow inlet in the outlying reef or sand covered barrier, into the enclosed lagoon, where she lay, with steam up and without anchoring. while her crew brought off, with thetbree boats/ numerous boxes, eases,.and 1 barrels, which they Stowed carefully in the hold. As the largest boat came out, the captain said to the tall stranger: “I’ll not have that stuff aboard. We’ll tow it astern. Its fine weather and smooth water. Here, you cook, Jack Shiven, watch this boat. Don’t let it touch the side, or it’ll blow, youi* old head off. Keep it away with an oar.” The boat was fastened to the stern by the painter, and the cook, who had

been awakened by the unusual proceedings, obeyed orders. Then, leaving the dark man on the bridge to watch the horizon, and a negro fireman in the boiler-room to keep up steam, every other man in the crew from the captain to the mess-boy went ashore in the next boat, for the last and' hardest lift of alt. A large shell gun, too heavy for one boat, was to be carried off on a temporary deck covering two. At this work they were engaged when daylight broke; and with its coming appeared, outside the barrier and heading for the inlet, the revenue cutter that had followed them, with ports open, guns showing, and at her gaff-end a string of small flags which, in the silent Volapuk of the sea, said: “Get under way as fast as you can.” A signal-book and a good glass are needed, as a rule, to interpret this language. The caplain and - mate ashore had neither and those aboard were not tutored in their use; so the command was not answered. “The jig’s up,” said the captain. “Get this gun ashore again. We’Ll go aboard and answer' or he may fire. They’ll confiscate my boat, but I don’t want her sunk.” But their hurry to unload the gun, resulted in the Swamping of one boat and the staving of the other; so they were forced to remain—-and hope. “Run up a white flag,” roared the captain; “then scull that boat ashore.” The cook heard, but could not understand. The man on the bridge understood, bnt could not obey—he could not find the flag locker. However, he impressed on the cook’s mind the wisdom of getting the boat ashore. But Jack Shiven only smiled and shook his head. He could not scull a boat. Neither could the Cuban—for such he ‘ was—and the fireman conscientiously 7 and emphatically 7 refused to leave his work. lie had shipped fireman, not sailor.

The boom of an unshotted gun was heard from seaward—given as a hint, which, of course, -was not taken. Then another report, louder, came from the' cutter, and with it a shot, aimed to cross the stern of the “Avon.” But years of service in the’ revenue marine had somewhat demoralized the old man-of-war’s-man who Jia'd charge of the gun. He did not allow for the half-charge of powder, and the lateral de- ■ flection given the consequently ricochetting shot by choppy waves, running at angle with his aim. That shot, barely clearing the reef, made a curve, shorter with each blow of a glancing sea, bounded over the stern of the “Avon,” and cut through the port main boom lift (a wire rope), which fell and struck the wondering, smiling cook on the head —a slight blow but enough. The shot buried itself in the sand on the beach, having undone the work of that other government shot fired thirty years before; it had' wakened the sleeping soul of John Dorsey. He reeled, recovered, and in a cracked falsetto, cried out: “ —carried away, sir,” finishing the sentence begun in his youth and interrupted by the descending belaying-pin. Clap-' ping his hand to his head, he looked around bewildered; then bounded forward to the bridge. The Cuban followed. "Are you hurt?” asked the latter. “Hurt? Who are you? Get off the bridge! Where’s the captain? Who's got the wheel?” His voice was choked and guttural. “The captain is on the shore with the crew. Do you not see them?” . Dorsey reached into the pilot bouse, and in the old familiar nook placed his hand on a pair of glasses, with -which, after a suspicious inspection, he examined the group on the beach. “None of our crowd,” he muttered. Then he turned the glasses on the revenue vessel outside.

“Haven’t they got enough meu-of-war on the coast without trottirg out their cutters?” he growled. “What’s he say? ’M, L. H.’— ‘get under way.’ Say, you,” he demanded of the Cuban, “what’s happened? What time is it? When’d you join this boat?” “On the day before yesterday, at Cedar Keys.” t “Y-ou lie,” snarled Dorsey. ‘We haven’t been there in four months: but—” he felt his head again—“what’s happened? Everything looks queer. Where’s the ball on the pilot-house? -Two minutes ago it was night time. Whtit does this mean?” Two minutes ago you were struck on the head, and have

'acted strangly since,” answered' the Cuban, who thought the cook was crazed by the blow. “Yes, I know something belted me; my head’s pretty sore. But you weren’t aboard, and t’was up I near Hatteras. Now we’re down here in Gallino Bay, and it’s daylight. I must ha’ been knocked silly and’ stayed so. What day is it? Monday? Three days ago!” Dorsey’s mind had solved the problem, though with no regard to the lapse of time. But his mind not yet regained thb command of Jack Shiven’s body: his gestures were ciunisy, and his eyes—wide open and alert—though not the eyes of Jack Shiven, were not the eyes of John Dorsey. -His voice was a mixture of .strange sounds, and he coughed continually. “What ails my throat? Ajad this!” he exclaimed; he had felt j of his beard. “Say, Mister Man, I am I dead or alive, or asleep, or crazy? Who am I?” (TO BE CONTINUED.)