Outsailed Page #2

"Outsailed" by W. W. Jacobs is a captivating nautical adventure that intertwines humor and suspense in a tale of seafaring mischief. The story follows a group of sailors who, amidst their maritime escapades, confront challenges that test their camaraderie and resolve. With Jacobs' signature wit and engaging storytelling, the novel explores themes of loyalty and the unpredictability of life at sea, making it a delightful read for lovers of maritime literature and classic tales of adventure.

• Fiction

								


“Ay, ay!” said Joe, starting up.

“Where’s the lights?” said the skipper. “What’s the time? I dreamt I’d
overslept myself. What’s the time?”

“Plenty o’ time,” said the mate vaguely, as he stifled a yawn.

“Ha’-past ten,” said the skipper, as he struck a match, “You’ve been
asleep,” he added severely.

“I ain’t,” said the mate stoutly, as he followed the other on deck.
“I’ve been thinking. I think better in the dark.”

“It’s about time our chaps was aboard,” said the skipper, as he looked
round the deserted deck. “I hope they won’t be late.”

“Sam’s with ’em,” said the mate confidently, as he went on to the side;
“there ain’t no festivities going on aboard the Good Intent,
neither.”

“There will be,” said his worthy skipper, with a grin, as he looked
across the intervening brig at the rival craft; “there will be.”

He walked round the deck to see that everything was snug and
ship-shape, and got back to the mate just as a howl of surprising
weirdness was heard proceeding from the neighbouring stairs.

“I’m s’prised at Berrow allowing his men to make that noise,” said the
skipper waggishly. “Our chaps are there too, I think. I can hear Sam’s
voice.”

“So can I,” said the mate, with emphasis.

“Seems to be talking rather loud,” said the master of the Thistle,
knitting his brows.

“Sounds as though he’s trying to sing,” said the mate, as, after some
delay, a heavily-laden boat put off from the stairs and made slowly for
them. “No, he ain’t; he’s screaming.”

There was no longer any doubt about it. The respectable and
greatly-trusted Sam was letting off a series of wild howls which would
have done credit to a penny-gaff Zulu, and was evidently very much out
of temper about something.

“Ahoy, Thistle! Ahoy!” bellowed the waterman, as he neared the
schooner. “Chuck us a rope?-quick!”

The mate threw him one, and the boat came alongside. It was then seen
that another waterman, using impatient and deplorable language, was
forcibly holding Sam down in the boat.

“What’s he done? What’s the row?” demanded the mate.

“Done?” said the waterman, in disgust. “Done? He’s ’ad a small lemon,
an’ it’s got into his silly old head. He’s making all this fuss ’cos he
wanted to set the pub on fire, an’ they wouldn’t let him. Man ashore
told us they belonged to the Good Intent, but I know they’re your
men.”

“Sam!” roared the skipper, with a sinking heart, as his glance fell on
the recumbent figures in the boat; “come aboard at once, you drunken
disgrace! D’ye hear?”

“I can’t leave him,” said Sam, whimpering.

“Leave who?” growled the skipper.

“Him,” said Sam, placing his arms round the waterman’s neck. “Him an’
me’s like brothers.”

“Get up, you old loonatic!” snarled the waterman, extricating himself
with difficulty, and forcing the other towards the side. “Now, up you
go!”

Aided by the shoulders of the waterman and the hands of his superior
officers, Sam went up, and then the waterman turned his attention to
the remainder of his fares, who were snoring contentedly in the bottom
of the boat.

“Now, then!” he cried; “look alive with you! D’ye hear? Wake up! Wake
up! Kick ’em, Bill!”

“I can’t kick no ’arder,” grumbled the other waterman.

“What the devil’s the matter with ’em?” stormed the master of the
Thistle. “Chuck a pail of water over ’em, Joe!”

Joe obeyed with gusto; and, as he never had much of a head for details,
bestowed most of it upon the watermen. Through the row which ensued the
Thistle’s crew snored peacefully, and at last were handed up over the
sides like sacks of potatoes, and the indignant watermen pulled back to
the stairs.

“Here’s a nice crew to win a race with!” wailed the skipper, almost
crying with rage. “Chuck the water over ’em, Joe! Chuck the water over
’em!”

Joe obeyed willingly, until at length, to the skipper’s great relief,
one man stirred, and, sitting up on the deck, sleepily expressed his
firm conviction that it was raining. For a moment they both had hopes
of him, but as Joe went to the side for another bucketful, he evidently
came to the conclusion that he had been dreaming, and, lying down
again, resumed his nap. As he did so the first stroke of Big Ben came
booming down the river.

“Eleven o’clock!” shouted the excited skipper.

It was too true. Before Big Ben had finished, the neighbouring church
clocks commenced striking with feverish haste, and hurrying feet and
hoarse cries were heard proceeding from the deck of the Good Intent.

“Loose the sails!” yelled the furious Tucker. “Loose the sails! Damme,
we’ll get under way by ourselves!”

He ran forward, and, assisted by the mate, hoisted the jibs, and then,
running back, cast off from the brig, and began to hoist the mainsail.
As they disengaged themselves from the tier, there was just sufficient
sail for them to advance against the tide; while in front of them the
Good Intent, shaking out sail after sail, stood boldly down the
river.

“This was the way of it,” said Sam, as he stood before the grim Tucker
at six o’clock the next morning, surrounded by his mates. “He came into
the ‘Town o’ Berwick,’ where we was, as nice a spoken little chap as
ever you’d wish to see. He said he’d been a-looking at the Good
Intent, and he thought it was the prettiest little craft ’e ever seed,
and the exact image of one his dear brother, which was a missionary,
’ad, and he’d like to stand a drink to every man of her crew. Of
course, we all said we was the crew direckly, an’ all I can remember
after that is two coppers an’ a little boy trying to giv’ me the frog’s
march, an’ somebody chucking pails o’ water over me. It’s crool ’ard
losing a race, what we didn’t know nothink about, in this way; but it
warn’t our fault?—it warn’t, indeed. It’s my belief that the little man
was a missionary of some sort hisself, and wanted to convert us, an’
that was his way of starting on the job. It’s all very well for the
mate to have highstirriks; but it’s quite true, every word of it, an’
if you go an’ ask at the pub they’ll tell you the same.”
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes