The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea

“Odd!” says the captain, resuming speech; “a ship running up signals of distress, at the same time refusing to be relieved! Very odd, isn’t it, gentlemen?” he asks, addressing himself to the group of officers now gathered around; who all signify assent to his interrogatory.

“There must be something amiss,” he continues. “Can any of you think what it is?”

To this there is a negative response. They are as much puzzled as himself – mystified by the strange barque, and more by her strange behaviour.

There are two, however, who have thoughts different from the rest – the third lieutenant, and one of the midshipmen. Less thoughts than imaginings; and these so vague, that neither communicates them to the captain, nor to one another. And whatever their fancies, they do not appear pleasant ones; since on the faces of both is an expression of something like anxiety. Slight and little observable, it is not noticed by their comrades standing around. But it seems to deepen, while they continue to gaze at the becalmed barque, as though due to something there observed. Still they remain silent, keeping the dark thought, if such it be, to themselves.

“Well, gentlemen,” says the commanding officer to his assembled subordinates, “I must say this is singular. In all my experience at sea, I don’t remember anything like it. What trick the Chilian barque – if she be Chilian – is up to, I can’t guess; not for the life of me. It cannot be a case of piracy. The craft has no guns; and if she had, she appears without men to handle them. It’s a riddle all round; to get the reading of which, we’ll have to send a boat to her.”

“I don’t think we’ll get a very willing crew, sir,” says the first lieutenant jestingly. “Forward, they’re quite superstitious about the character of the stranger. Some of them fancy her the Flying Dutchman. When the boatswain pipes for boarders, they’ll feel as if his whistle were a signal for them to walk the plank.”

The remark causes the captain to smile, as also the other officers; though two of the latter abstain from such cheerful demonstration – the third lieutenant and midshipman, already mentioned, on both of whose brows the cloud still sits, seeming darker than ever.

“It’s a very remarkable thing,” observes the commander, musingly, “how that sort of feeling still affects the forecastle! For your genuine British tar, who’ll board an enemy’s ship, crawling across the muzzle of a shotted gun, and has no fear of death in human shape, will act like a scared child when it threatens him in the guise of his Satanic majesty! I have no doubt, as you say, Mr Black, that our lads forward are a bit shy about boarding yonder vessel. Let me show you how to send their shyness adrift. I’ll do that with a single word!”

The captain steps forward, his subordinates following him. When within speaking distance of the fore-deck, he stops, and makes sign he has something to say. The tars are all attention.

“Men!” he exclaims, “you see that barque we’ve been chasing; and at her masthead a flag reversed – which you know to be a signal of distress? That is a call never to be disregarded by an English ship, much less an English man-of-war. Lieutenant! order a boat lowered, and the boatswain to pipe for boarders. Those of you who wish to go, muster on the main-deck.”

A loud “hurrah!” responds to the appeal; and, while its echoes are still resounding through the ship, the whole crew comes crowding towards the main-deck. Scores of volunteers present themselves, enough to man every boat in the frigate.

“So, gentlemen!” says the captain, turning to his officers with a proud expression on his countenance, “there’s the British sailor for you. I’ve said he fears not man. And, when humanity makes call, as you see, neither is he frightened at ghost or devil!”

A second cheer succeeds the speech, mingled with good-humoured remarks, though not much laughter. The sailors simply acknowledge the compliment their commanding officer has paid them, at the same time feeling that the moment is too solemn for merriment; for their instinct of humanity is yet under control of the weird feeling.

As the captain turns aft to the quarter, many of them fall away toward the fore-deck, till the group of volunteers becomes greatly diminished. Still there are enough to man the largest boat in the frigate, or fight any crew the chased craft may carry, though these should prove to be pirates of the most desperate kind.

Chapter Three.

Forecastle Fears

“What boat is it to be, sir?”

This question is asked by the first lieutenant, who has followed the captain to the quarter.

“The cutter,” replies his superior; “there seems no need, Mr Black, to send anything larger, at least till we get word of what’s wanted. Possibly it’s a case of sickness – scurvy or something. Though that would be odd too, seeing how the barque keeps her canvas spread. Very queer altogether!”

“Is the doctor to go?”

“He needn’t, till we’ve heard what it is. He’d only have to come back for his drugs and instruments. You may instruct him to be getting them ready. Meanwhile, let the boat be off, and quick. When they bring back their report we’ll see what’s to be done. The cutter’s crew will be quite sufficient. As to any hostility from those on board the stranger, that’s absurd. We could blow her out of the water with a single broadside.”

“Who’s to command the boat, sir?”

The captain reflects, with a look cast inquiringly around. His eye falls upon the third lieutenant, who stands near, seemingly courting the glance.

It is short and decisive. The captain knows his third officer to be a thorough seaman; though young, capable of any duty, however delicate or dangerous. Without further hesitation he assigns him to the command of the cutter.

The young officer enters upon the service with alacrity – as if moved by something more than the mere obedience due to discipline. He hastens to the ship’s side to superintend the lowering of the boat. Nor does he stand at rest, but is seen to help and hurry it, with a look of restless impatience in his eye, and the shadow still observable on his brow.

While thus occupied, he is accosted by another officer, one yet younger than himself – the midshipman already mentioned.

“Can I go with you?” the latter asks, as if addressing an equal.

“Certainly, my dear fellow,” responds the lieutenant, in like familiar tone. “I shall be only too pleased to have you. But you must get the captain’s consent.”

The young reefer glides aft, sees the frigate’s commander upon the quarterdeck, and saluting, says:

“Captain, may I go with the cutter?”

“Well, yes,” responds the chief; “I have no objection.” Then, after taking a survey of the youngster, he adds, “Why do you wish it?”

The youth blushes, without replying. There is a cast upon his countenance that strikes the questioner, somewhat puzzling him. But there is no time either for further inquiry or reflection. The cutter has been lowered, and rests upon the water. Her crew is crowding into her; and she will soon be moving off from the ship.

“You can go, lad,” assents the captain. “Report yourself to the third lieutenant, and tell him I have given you leave. You’re young, and, like all youngsters, ambitious of gaining glory. Well; in this affair you won’t have much chance. I take it. It’s simply boarding a ship in distress, where you’re more likely to be a spectator to scenes of suffering. However, that will be a lesson for you; therefore you can go.”

Thus authorised, the mid hurries away from the quarterdeck, drops down into the boat, and takes seat alongside the lieutenant, already there.

“Shove off!” commands the latter; and with a push of boat-hook, and plashing of oars, the cutter parts from the ship’s side, cleaving the water like a knife.

The two vessels still lie becalmed, in the same relative position to one another, having changed from it scarce a cable’s length. And stem to stern, just as the last breath of the breeze, blowing gently against their sails, forsook them.

On both, the canvas is still spread, though not bellied. It hangs limp and loose, giving an occasional flap, so feeble as to show that this proceeds not from any stir in the air, but the mere balancing motion of the vessels. For there is now not enough breeze blowing to flout the long feathers in the tail of the Tropic bird, seen soaring aloft.

Both are motionless; their forms reflected in the water, as if each had its counterpart underneath, keel to keel.

Between them, the sea is smooth as a mirror – that tranquil calm which has given to the Pacific its distinctive appellation. It is now only disturbed, where furrowed by the keel of the cutter, with her stroke of ten oars, five on each side. Parting from the frigate’s beam, she is steering straight for the becalmed barque.

On board the man-of-war all stand watching her – their eyes at intervals directed towards the strange vessel. From the frigate’s forward-deck, the men have an unobstructed view, especially those clustering around the head. Still there is nearly a league between, and with the naked eye this hinders minute observation. They can but see the white-spread sails, and the black hull underneath them. With a glass the flag, now fallen, is just distinguishable from the mast along which it clings closely. They can perceive that its colour is crimson above, with blue and white underneath – the reversed order of the Chilian ensign. Its single star is no longer visible, nor aught of that heraldry, which spoke so appealingly. But if what they see fails to furnish them with details, these are amply supplied by their excited imaginations. Some of them can make out men aboard the barque – scores, hundreds! After all, she may be a pirate, and the upside-down ensign a decoy. On a tack, she might be a swifter sailer than she has shown herself before wind; and, knowing this, has been but “playing possum” with the frigate. If so, God help the cutter’s crew?

Besides these conjectures of the common kind, there are those on the frigate’s fore-deck who, in very truth, fancy the polacca to be a spectre. As they continue gazing, now at the boat, now at the barque, they expect every moment to see the one sink beneath the sea; and the other sail off, or melt into invisible air! On the quarter, speculation is equally rife, though running in a different channel. There the captain still stands surrounded by his officers, each with glass to his eye, levelled upon the strange craft. But they can perceive nought to give them a clue to her character; only the loose flapping sails, and the furled flag of distress.

They continue gazing till the cutter is close to the barque’s beam. For then do they observe any head above the bulwarks, or face peering through the shrouds!

The fancy of the forecastle seems to have crept aft among the officers. They, too, begin to feel something of superstitious fear – an awe of the uncanny!

Chapter Four.

The Cutter’s Crew

Manned by ten stout tars, and as many oars propelling her, the cutter continues her course with celerity. The lieutenant, seated in the stern-sheets, with the midshipman by his side, directs the movements of the boat; while the glances of both are kept constantly upon the barque. In their eyes is an earnest expression – quite different from that of ordinary interrogation.

The men may not observe it; if they do, it is without comprehension of its meaning. They can but think of it as resembling their own, and proceeding from a like cause. For although with backs turned towards the barque, they cast occasional glances over their shoulders, in which curiosity is less observable than apprehension.

Despite their natural courage, strengthened by the late appeal to their humanity, the awe is strong upon them. Insidiously returning as they took their seats in the boat, it increases as they draw farther from the frigate and nearer to the barque. Less than half-an-hour has elapsed, and they are now within a cable’s length of the strange vessel.

“Hold!” commands the lieutenant.

The oar-stroke is instantly suspended, and the blades held aloft. The boat gradually loses way, and at length rests stationary on the tranquil water.