# The Dark Frigate/Chapter 20

CHAPTER XX
A PRIZE FOR THE TAKING
“We shall see,” said Captain Winterton, when he had listened to all of the tale that he would hear. He turned about. ‘‘Boy,” he cried, ‘‘go speedily and send Mr. Rance in to me.”
The boy departed in haste and in a moment there entered a junior officer, who stared in frank curiosity at the three in the cabin.
“Mr. Rance,” said the captain, “go aloft in person to the main truck and look about you sharply. Come back and report what you see.”
“Yea, yea, sir,” the young man replied, and with that he was gone.
The captain stood by the cabin window and frowned. Plainly he had small confidence in the good faith of the prisoner and regarded his story as at best an attempt to save himself at the expense of his friends. The gentleman of the humours, somewhat sobered by the captain’s manner of grave concern, returned to his desk, but sat tapping his fingers and watching Philip Marsham.
It had instantly, of course, dawned upon the runaway boatswain that his peril was more serious than he had had reason earlier to believe. For supposing the unknown sail should in all truth be the Rose of Devon, — and since she was cruising idly thereabouts nothing was more probable, — he stood between the Devil, or at all events the Devil’s own emissary, Thomas Jordan, ​and a deeper sea than any ship has ever sailed: the sea upon which many a man with less plain evidence of piracy against him has embarked from a yardarm with a hempen collar about his neck and a black cap over his eyes.
Who, pray, would accept for sober truth such a tale as any scoundrel would make out of whole cloth to save himself from hanging? Despite all he could do or say, he now saw plainly, he must stand convicted, in their minds, of being at the very least a spy sent to learn the state of affairs on board this tall ship in which he was now a prisoner.
Then back to the cabin came young Mr. Rance and very much excited did he appear.
“Sir,” he exclaimed, and stood in the door.
“Tell your tale.”
"A ship lieth two cable’s lengths from land on the farther side of the point, and a boat hath set out from her and is following the shore as if to reconnoitre.”
“Ah,” said the captain, “it is quite as I thought. No drums, mind you, nor trumpets, Mr. Rance. Call the men to quarters by word of mouth. Make haste and put springs on the cables if there be time before the boat rounds the point. Bid the gunner make all preparations for action and order a sharp watch kept; but order also that there be no sound or appearance of unusual activity. Send me a corporal and a file of men, and the master.”
The gentleman at the desk chuckled.
“Come, boy, clear the table,” said the captain.
The boy jumped and returned to his work.
The master came first, but the corporal and his men were close at the master’s heels.
​“Take this fellow to the gun room, clap him into irons, and set a man to watch him.”
“Yea, yea. Come, fellow, march along.”
And thus sending before them Boatswain Marsham, erstwhile of the Rose of Devon frigate, the corporal and his men departed from the cabin.
There were guns on the right hand and the left — ordnance of a size to sink the Rose of Devon with a broadside. There were sailormen thronging between-decks in numbers to appall the young prisoner who came down among them nearly naked from his swim. Though no greater of burthen than the Rose of Devon, the ship was better armed and better manned, and all signs told of the stern discipline of a man-of-war.
The alternatives that Phil Marsham faced, as he sat in shackles with no spirit to reply to the jibes of the sailors and watched men stripped to the waist and moving deftly among the guns, were not those a man would choose. If his old shipmates took this tall and hand-some ship, a blow on the head and a burial over the side was the kindest treatment he could expect of them. And if not — the gallows loomed beyond a Court of Admiralty. For hours the hum of voices went up and down the main deck and for hours Boatswain Marsham sat with the bolts upon his legs and wrists and saw the life of the ship go on around him. The men leaped here and there at a word, or lolled by their guns waiting for orders. The night wore on, and nodding, Phil thought of the two ships lying one on each side of the point of land and by all appearances two quiet merchantmen. Yet one, he knew to his sorrow, smelled devilishly of brimstone; and the other, in which he now sat a prisoner, though her ports were closed and her claws ​sheathed, was like some great tiger watching through half-shut eyes a bold, adventurous goat.
As the night wore on, he dared hope that the reconnoitring boat had returned to her ship with news that had sent her away in haste, whereby there was a chance that his tale might yet be taken for the truth that it was; and the longer he waited the higher rose his hope, and with the better reason. But an hour or more after midnight he heard men beginning to talk as if there was something new in the wind, and the nearest gunner put his ear to a cat-hole.
“The dogs are out; I hear oars," he whispered.
“Yea, though they are rowing softly, I swear I can hear oars.”
A hush came over the ship and those below heard faintly a hail given on deck.
Distant sounds came and went like whispers out of the sky, then somewhere outside the ship a great shouting arose and one of the men at a starboard gun cried gleefully, with a round oath, “Verily they are bent on boarding us, lads! Their foolish audacity seasons the term of all our weary waiting.”
“Hark! They are hailing!” cried another.
“Come, strike your flag. Have an end of all this talk,’’ a distant voice called. Whereat Philip Marsham, who knew the voice, thought that though their audacity cost him his life it was in its own mad way superb.
The reply was inaudible below, but a boat crashed against the ship.
There was a burst of yelling, followed by a rattle of musketry, then a voice boomed down, “Haul up your ports and run out your guns!”
At that the men beside the guns sprang up with run​ning and calling and the ports flew open and the sounds from without became suddenly louder and clearer. On the one hand were boys handing up filled budge-barrels; on the other were gunners with linstocks ready and powder for the priming. Then, ‘‘Ho, Master Gunner,” a great voice roared, “withhold your fire! The boats are under the guns and too near for a fair shot!” It was such a moment as a man remembers always, for there was the smoke of powder in the air, with a din of splashing and cursing, and overhead a great hubbub, then silence save for the quick beat of oars.
“See! See!" cried the men. “There go their boats, splintered and all but sunk! And see! There go ours! To your oars, lads, to your oars, ere their ship hath time to flee! See! There they go! Yea, and there go we!”
The Old One had made his last blunder. He had come by night, thinking to board a peaceful merchantman laden with a rich cargo, and had found himself at the head of his score of men on the deck of a man-of-war.
To all those below, but most of all to Philip Marsham chained in the gun room, it was a blind, confusing affair; but the sounds told the story; and though darkness hid the blood that was spilled, there was no mistaking the cries for quarter and the shrieks of agony.
Nor was there need for haste to reach the Rose of Devon, since the men left as keepers of the ship were too few to make sail. Captain Charles Winterton of the King’s navy himself boarded the dark frigate by starlight, and a capital lark he found it, for behind his stern mien was a lively taste for such adventure. With lusty shouting he swept the handful of men from her deck, and having put a prize crew and his lieutenant in charge ​of her, he brought back a few more prisoners to join company with the luckless boarders he had sent down to be locked in irons below.
They were sad and angry gentlemen, for there are those to whom the laughter of a hundred sailors is worse than death by the sword. The first of them all to enter the gun room was Tom Jordan. His cheek was gashed and his hair was singed and blood smeared his shirt from shoulder to shoulder and one arm hung limp and broken; but though he was in great pain he smiled, and when they led him into the gun room and he saw Philip Marsham with bolts on wrists and ankles, he laughed aloud.
The fellow was a very mark and pattern of a scoundrel, but he had the courage and spirit of a hero, and had he first gone to sea under another king than James or Charles he might in some overwhelming danger have saved England. Great admirals are made of such timber — bold, resolute, utterly dauntless — and any bold man might have fallen into the same trap that had caught Tom Jordan. (Nay, had nothing warned Captain Winterton or aroused his suspicions, there was a fighting chance for Tom Jordan to have taken his ship from him even so.) But Tom Jordan had gone to sea in the days when the navy was going to the dogs, and, like many another lad of spirit who left the King’s service to join the pirates, he had adventured with the Algerians before he led the gentlemen of Bideford. And at last, hazarding a final effort to retrieve his luck, he had unwittingly thrust his head into the halter.
Yet, though they had broken his body, they had failed to touch his courage; despite his pain, he could smile and even laugh. Turning his great grief into a ​jest, he cried, “Holla, O bravest of boatswains! This is a joy I had not looked for. It seems that, if hang I must, I shall not hang alone.” And laughing again, right merrily, he swooned away, which Captain Charles Winterton, having himself come down with the others to see them all shackled, watched with quiet interest.
They brought down the carpenter, who was shaking like a man with an ague, and his beard waggled as he shook. They brought down Martin Barwick, whose face was drawn and haggard, and his hand rubbed his throat, for it itched in a prophetic manner. Then came Harry Malcolm, who stopped before Phil and spat at him and cursed him, and Paul Craig, who had neither eye nor thought for any one besides himself, and a dozen others of whom there was not one that failed to revile at their erstwhile boatswain. A hapless time of it Philip Marsham had among them, but it added little to his great burden of misery.
Nor, for the matter of that, did reviling content them; for toward morning, when the others were dozing, Harry Malcolm, whom they had locked to a longer chain, crawled over to where Phil lay and very craftily tried to kill him with bare hands. The guard cried out, but instead of stopping, the man redoubled his efforts to throttle the lad whom he had seized from behind when he was asleep; whereupon the guard struck a sharp blow with the butt of his musket, and when the corporal had come running and had felt of Harry Malcolm’s wrist and had listened for his heart and had turned him over on his back, he cursed the guard with fluent oaths for robbing the gallows.