Mr. Trunnell

Mr. Trunnell

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Title: Mr. Trunnell
Author: T. Jenkins Hains
Release Date: August 1, 2004 [EBook #13073]
Language: English
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Mr. Trunnell
Mate of the Ship "Pirate"
By T. Jenkins Hains
Author of "The Wind-jammers," "The Wreck of the Conemaugh," etc.
1900
To All Hands under the lee of the weather cloth this is inscribed

MR. TRUNNELL

I
By some means, needless to record here, I found myself, not so many years ago, "on the beach" at Melbourne, in Australia.
To be on the beach is not an uncommon occurrence for a sailor in any part of the world; but, since the question is suggested, I will say that I was not a very dissipated young fellow of twenty-five, for up to that time I had never even tasted rum in any form, although I had followed the sea for seven years.
I had held a mate's berth, and as I did not care to ship before the mast on the first vessel bound out, I had remained ashore until a threatening landlord made it necessary for me to become less particular as to occupation.
It was a time when mates were plenty and men were few, so I made the rounds of the shipping houses with little hope of getting a chance to show my papers. These, together with an old quadrant, a nautical almanac, a thick pea coat, and a pipe, were all I possessed of this world's goods, and I carried the quadrant with me in case I should not succeed in signing on. I could "spout it," if need be, at some broker's, and thus raise a few dollars.
As I made my way along the water front, I noticed a fine clipper ship of nearly two thousand tons lying at a wharf. She was in the hands of a few riggers, who were sending aloft her canvas, which, being of a snowy whiteness, proclaimed her nationality even before I could see her hull. On reaching the wharf where she lay, I stopped and noticed that she was loaded deep, for her long black sides were under to within four feet of her main deck in the waist.
Her high bulwarks shut off my view of her deck; but, from the sounds that came down from there, I could tell that she was getting in the last of her cargo.
I walked to her stern and read her name in gilt letters: "Pirate, of Philadelphia." Then I remembered her. She was a Yankee ship of evil reputation, and although I wanted to get back to my home in New York, I turned away thankful that I was not homeward bound in that craft. She had come into port a month before and had reported three men missing from her papers. There were no witnesses; but the sight of the rest of the crew told the story of the disappearance of their shipmates, and the skipper had been clapped into jail. I had heard of the ruffian's sinister record before, and inwardly hoped he would get his deserts for his brutality, although I knew there was little chance for it. He belonged to the class of captains that was giving American packets the hard name they were getting, so I heartily wished him evil.
As I turned, looking up at the beautiful fabric with her long, tapering, t'gallant masts, topped with skysail yards fore and aft, and her tremendous lower yards nearly ninety feet across, I thought what a splendid ship she was. It made me angry to think of what a place she must be for the poor devils who would unwittingly ship aboard her. Only a sailor knows how much of suffering in blows and curses it cost to accomplish all that clean paint and scraped spar.
"Kind o' good hooker, hey?" said a voice close aboard me, and looking quickly aft I saw a man leaning over the taffrail. He was a strange-looking fellow, with a great hairy face and bushy head set upon the broadest of shoulders. As for his legs, he appeared not to have any at all, for the rail was but three feet high and his shoulders just reached above it; his enormously long arms were spread along the rail, elbows outward, and his huge hands folded over the bowl of a pipe which he sucked complacently.
"Not so bad to look at," I answered, meaningly.
"She is a brute in a seaway, but she keeps dry at