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