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  THE

  CHIEF MATE'S YARNS

  _TWELVE TALES OF THE SEA_

  BY

  CAPT. MAYN CLEW GARNETT

  [Illustration]

  G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
  PUBLISHERS      NEW YORK




  COPYRIGHT, 1911, 1912, BY
  STREET & SMITH

  COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY
  G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY

  _The White Ghost of Disaster_




CONTENTS


                                     PAGE

  THE WHITE GHOST OF DISASTER           5

  THE LIGHT AHEAD                      42

  THE WRECK OF THE "RATHBONE"          76

  THE AFTER BULKHEAD                  105

  CAPTAIN JUNARD                      123

  IN THE WAKE OF THE ENGINE           148

  IN THE HULL OF THE "HERALDINE"      172

  A TWO-STRANDED YARN--PART I         198

  A TWO-STRANDED YARN--PART II        234

  AT THE END OF THE DRAG-ROPE         263

  PIRATES TWAIN                       279

  THE JUDGMENT OF MEN                 310

  ON GOING TO SEA                     333




THE WHITE GHOST OF DISASTER


We had been sitting in at the game for more than an hour, and no life
had entered it. The thoughts of all composing that little group of five
in the most secluded corner of the ship's smoking room were certainly
not on the game, and three aces lay down to fours up.

The morose and listless ship's officer out of a berth, although he
spoke little--if at all--seemed to put a spell of uneasiness and unrest
on the party. The others did not know him or his history; but his looks
spelled disaster and misfortune.

At last Charlie Spangler, the noted journalist, keen for a story or
two, threw down his cards, exclaiming: "Let's quit. None of us is less
uneasy than the rest of the ship's passengers."

"Yes," chimed in Arthur Linch, the noted stock-broker. "We have
endeavored to banish the all-pervading thought, 'will the ship arrive
safely without being wrecked,' and have failed miserably. Cards will
not do it." This seemed to express the sentiments of everybody except
the morose mariner, whose thoughts nobody could read or fathom. He sat
there, deep in his chair, gazing at a scene or scenes none of us could
see or appreciate.

"Well! Since we cannot take our thoughts off'shipwreck,' we may as
well discuss the subject and ease our minds," added the journalist
again, still hot on the scent of the possible story which he felt that
the ship's officer hoarded.

The mariner, however, did not respond to this, and continued with his
memories, apparently oblivious of our presence.

Under the leadership of the journalist the discussion waxed warm for
some time, until the stock-broker, ever solicitous for the welfare of
the stock-market and conforming his opinions thereto, exclaimed loudly:
"The officers and the crew were not responsible for the collision with
the berg. It was an 'act of God!' and as such we are daily taking
chances with it. What will be, will be. We cannot escape Destiny!"

"Destiny be damned!" came like a thunderbolt from the heretofore
silent mariner, and we all looked to see the face now full of rage and
passion. "What do you know of the sea, you land pirate? What do you
know of sea dangers and responsibility for the safety of human lives?
Man! you're crazy. There is no such thing as Destiny at sea. A seaman
knows what to expect when he takes chances. If you call that an 'act of
God,' you deserve to have been there and submitted to it."

The face of Charlie Spangler was glowing. His heart beat so fast when
he heard this sea clam open up, that he was afraid it might overwork
and stop. "Our friend is right!" he exclaimed. "I infer that he speaks
from knowledge and experience. We are hardly qualified to discuss such
matters properly.

"You have something on your mind, friend. Unburden it to us. We are
sympathetic, you know. Our position here makes us so," saying which,
Spangler filled the mariner's half-empty glass and looked at him with
sympathy streaming out of his trained eyes. We all nodded our assent.

Having fortified himself with the contents of the glass before him, the
mariner spoke: "Yes, gentlemen, I am going to speak from knowledge and
experience. It was my luck to be aboard of the vessel which had the
shortest of lives, but which will live in the memory of man for many a
year.

"It is my misfortune to be one of its surviving officers. I am going
to give you the facts as they happened this last time, and a few other
times besides. It is the experiences through which I have passed that
make me wish I had gone down with the last one. I must now live on with
memories, indelibly stamped on my brain, which I would gladly forget.
Your attention, gentlemen--"

       *       *       *       *       *

Captain Brownson came upon the bridge. It was early morning, and the
liner was tearing through a smooth sea in about forty-three north
latitude. The sun had not yet risen, but the gray of the coming
daylight showed a heaving swell that rolled with the steadiness that
told of a long stretch of calm water behind it. The men of the
morning watch showed their pale faces white with that peculiar pallor
which comes from the loss of the healthful sleep between midnight and
morning. It was the second mate's watch, and that officer greeted the
commander as he came to the bridge rail where the mate stood staring
into the gray ahead.

"See anything?" asked the master curtly.

"No, sir--but I smell it--feel it," said the mate, without turning his
head.

"What?" asked Brownson.

"Don't you feel it?--the chill, the--well, it's ice, sir--ice, if I
know anything."

"Ice?" snarled the captain. "You're crazy! What's the matter with you?"

"Oh, very well--you asked me--I told you--that's all."

The captain snorted. He disliked the second officer exceedingly. Mr.
Smith had been sent him by the company at the request of the manager of
the London office. He had always picked his own men, and he resented
the office picking them for him. Besides, he had a nephew, a passenger
aboard, who was an officer out of a berth.

"What the devil do they know of a man, anyhow! I'm the one responsible
for him. I'm the one, then, to choose him. They won't let me shift
blame if anything happens, and yet they sent me a man I know nothing of
except that he is young and strong. I'll wake him up some if he stays
here." So he had commented to Mr. Wylie, the chief mate. Mr. Wylie had
listened, thought over the matter, and nodded his head sagely.

"Sure," he vouchsafed; "sure thing." That was as much as any one
ever got out of Wylie. He was not a talkative mate. Yet when he knew
Smith better, he retailed the master's conversation to him during a
spell of generosity engendered by the donation of a few highballs by
Macdowell, the chief engineer. Smith thanked him--and went his way
as