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 CONTENTS

Reader Note:
-Prologue-
-1-
-2-
-3-
-4-
-5-
-6-
-7-
-8-
-9-
-10-
-11-
-12-
-13-
-14-
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-18-
-19-
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-25-
-26-
-27-

More Trackers
-About the Authors-
Afterword
 WILD FIRE
©2022 Nicholas Sansbury Smith and Anthony J. Melchiorri

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior
permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is
prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

Aethon Books supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to
encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual
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[email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

Aethon Books
www.aethonbooks.com

Print and eBook formatting by Steve Beaulieu.

Published by Aethon Books LLC.

Aethon Books is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is
coincidental.

All rights reserved.

To my good friend Ben and all those who have spent their nights and
weekends as volunteer first-responders. You risk your life to keep
others safe. Thank you for your service.
-Anthony

“I have seen that in any great undertaking it is not enough for a man
to depend simply upon himself.”
- Lone Man (Isna-la-wica), Teton Sioux
 READER NOTE:

New Frontier is a brand-new series set in the Trackers

universe by Nicholas Sansbury Smith. For readers of Trackers, this
spin-off written with Anthony J. Melchiorri takes place two years after
the end of Trackers 4. While Trackers was an EMP/war story about
the destruction of the power grid in America, and the chaos that
followed, New Frontier is a story about the aftermath. We focus on
the recovery, but also on a part of the country that has yet to recover,
a place with many names: the Badlands, Wild West, and the New
Frontier. For new readers, you can dive into New Frontier without
reading the four Trackers books.
If you would like to go back and start with Trackers, you can get
the entire series in a box set here for a major discount. Again, this is
not necessary to enjoy or understand New Frontier, but we thought
we would present the option just in case you would like to explore
the beginnings of the Trackers universe.

Thank you for reading!

 -PROLOGUE-

The cool summer breeze carried the scent of smoke

over the mountains. Moonlight bathed the mountaintops.
Crouching, former Marine Staff Sergeant Sam “Raven” Spears
sniffed the air. A few feet ahead, his Akita, Creek, was doing the
same. After losing an eye during the Collapse, the dog relied even
more heavily on his nose than before.
Hard to believe it had been only two years since the event,
Raven thought.
It simultaneously felt like the longest and the shortest two years
of his life.
The power grid across the United States had been virtually
destroyed in the North Korean coordinated electromagnetic pulse
attack. That attack started with the strategic detonation of multiple
nuclear warheads high in the atmosphere and another in a port
outside of Washington D.C leading to the Collapse.
Not long before the bombs went off, Raven had returned home to
civilian life from the Marine Corps. It wasn’t an easy transition,
especially with the demons he carried from combat that often led him
to drink. But thanks to his sister Sandra and her daughter Allie, who
lived nearby, Raven had settled into a new life in Estes Park,
Colorado. His experience as a Recon Marine and the traditions he
learned from his Sioux and Cherokee ancestors helped him launch a
successful tracking business guiding wealthy wannabee hunters into
the mountains. When he wasn’t babysitting the clients, he spent time
with his sister and niece.
While Raven had plenty of problems back then, including
addictions and run-ins with the law, life at least had settled into a
kind of comfortable normal.
Until the Collapse.
Since then, the country had spiraled into a new dark period of
chaos. Entire regions were still without power. The western states
had been hit particularly hard. Large swathes of Wyoming, Colorado,
Arizona, Utah, and New Mexico continued to suffer.
Raven and his dog were out in one of those dangerous stretches
of Wyoming. He had taken a job to find an older couple lost during
the Collapse. They were last seen at their winter home in a small
town called Elk Mountain. He only had three miles to go, but three
miles was a long way when you were beyond the boundaries the US
Government had drawn to mark off the so-called New Frontier—
colloquially known as the Badlands.
That smell of smoke he’d detected meant he and Creek might not
be alone.
Sometimes smoke came from an unmitigated wildfire.
Other times, it came from campfires.
The latter was what Raven feared the most.
People rarely lit campfires unless they were looking for trouble.
Only the bravest well-armed people, or the dumbest, lit them to keep
warm or cook what they had hunted down that day. Anything from
squirrels, pikas, or even other people.
Raven focused on the drifting smoke, sniffing for the odor of
charred flesh. It was a scent he knew all too well. There was a
distinct gut-churning gaminess to it he would never forget.
Another gust of wind carried a heavier scent. Savory. Salty.
Maybe some sort of stew. At least it didn’t smell human. It seemed to
be coming from the northwest, somewhere in the hills ahead.
Creek trotted back to him, tail between his legs.
If the dog was worried, then so was he.
Raven switched his crossbow with his suppressed M4A1, slinging
the bow over his rucksack. The pack contained his survival gear:
dried food, extra water, batteries, a flashlight, ammunition for his
suppressed Sig Sauer P365, and gas mask.
Extra magazines were stuffed in the front MOLLE pouches of his
vest along with his radio, Geiger counter, chemlights, two stun
grenades, and a sheathed buck knife with an antler handle. Two
hatchets hung from loops on his pack.
Under his rainproof hoodie, he wore a stab-proof Kevlar vest.
It was a lot of gear, but he still packed lighter than most other
mercenaries, soldiers, or trackers that ventured into the Badlands,
especially those that traveled alone.
Unlike most people, he knew how to work the land. Food, fire-
starters, shelter. It was all there if you knew how to use it.
Raven considered his options to move forward. The quickest
route would be to hop on Highway 30 and skirt around the campfire.
Still, he usually avoided roads whenever he could. Far more likely to
find an ambush there than in the woods. A serpentine detour through
the forest would cost time.
But losing time was better than losing your life.
Raven set off into the woods, guided by the moonlight and Creek
while memories burned through his mind.
So many had died in those first few weeks following the Collapse.
Even more had died in the two years after. He was lucky to still have
his sister and niece. Without them, he wouldn’t have much to live for
besides Creek.
His best friends were dead. Those that hadn’t died had become
estranged. Like former Estes Park detective, now Colorado Rangers
sheriff, Lindsey Plymouth. They’d had a falling out a few months ago
about the strong-armed tactics used by her people. Tactics that often
meant shoot first and ask questions later.
He shook away the thoughts to focus on his mission.
The chances of the man and woman he was searching for still
being alive weren’t good. But the twenty-five-year-old woman who
hired him, their daughter Chelsea, had been insistent. She wanted
closure. Even if that meant finding a pair of charred corpses.
She had agreed to his ten-thousand-dollar fee in hopes he could
tell her what happened to her parents. And assuming the worst, she
asked him to at least come back with any family photos he might find
along with a gold and turquoise necklace belonging to her mother—if
it hadn’t already been stolen.
A family heirloom, he presumed.
Creek bounded ahead, vanishing into the underbrush.
Raven maintained his same diligent pace, selecting each step
carefully. The forest wasn’t too thick here. He didn’t have to cut down
tangled vegetation or duck under swaying branches, but loose rocks
and gnarled roots could still trip him.
Moving at night was always difficult, especially without a
flashlight. But flashlights, like fires, were something only ignorant
people used. Or people that wanted to be found.
Raven preferred to use the moonlight, keeping his finger along
the trigger guard of his rifle as he crept through the forest.
He divided the terrain horizontally into thirds like he had learned
as a Recon Marine, systematically searching the dark canvas from
left to right.
But nothing moved out here.
He’d even lost the scent of smoke in the shifting breeze.
Creek emerged from the brush a few minutes later, panting.
Raven bent down, strapped his M4 over his back, and poured
water into a cupped hand so Creek could lap it up. As soon as the
dog was satisfied, he scratched Creek behind his ears, then took a
swig of water for himself.
After tucking the bottle away, he followed Creek through the final
stretch of forest. Their improvised trail came out at a bluff
overlooking Interstate 80.
A sprawling metal fence with locked gates formed a barrier
below. Metal warning signs swung against the chain-link, spaced out
every quarter mile.
Raven made his way down the slope to one. The rusting sign
read:
DANGER.
This territory does not serve under any legal
jurisdiction.
Enter at your own risk.
In other words, this was the Wild West.
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 Even the foreign aid groups that had helped get America back on
her feet wouldn’t venture past this boundary without major armed
escorts. They had lost too many civilians and peacekeepers over the
past two years trying to help the US restore law to these lands.
Raven didn’t need to go far to find a panel of chain-link fence that
had already been cut. He pushed the chain-link flap back to let
Creek through, then ducked under.
The next thickly wooded area was about a mile away over an
open stretch of road and rolling, rocky fields.
Creek ran ahead, sniffing the ground, and then stopped to raise
his snout.
He turned to Raven. Whatever had spooked the Akita before no
longer seemed to bother the animal.
Raven kept low as he ran among the tall weeds blowing in the
breeze. Leaves rustled on the skeletal limbs of sporadic trees. He
searched the terrain again.
Medicine Bow River bordered the field on his left, and O’Mara
Creek flowed on his right. He started toward the creek. Maybe he
would find boot prints in the mud and gravel if someone was using it
as a thoroughfare.
Plus, the trees were slightly thicker there, giving him more cover.
Creek led the way toward the gurgling water. Raven didn’t see
any tracks in the moonlight and kept moving.
Finally, he spotted the boxy shapes of houses bordering a small
town. According to Chelsea’s direction, the one he was looking for
was on Medicine Bow River right after O’Mara Creek fed into it.
He trekked toward the homes slowly, his senses on high alert.
Most had broken windows, dislodged gutters, and drooping roofs.
Overgrown grass and weeds carpeted the landscape.
He kept close to the water. Creek finally stopped before they
reached Bridge Street, tail frozen, eyes pointed ahead, waiting for
Raven’s next command.
It had rained the day before. Enough to turn the dry ground to
mud for a few hours. Good for Raven too; it helped him see what
Creek had already spotted—tire tracks over the asphalt left by dried
mud.
They appeared to be off-road tires from a four-wheel vehicle.
 The tracks headed east across a bridge that connected East
Main Street.
Raven motioned for Creek to follow him down to the edge of the
river. From there, they hugged the shoreline and moved under the
bridge. Raven waited in the shadows, listening for signs of human
activity.
He heard nothing, so he signaled Creek to forge ahead. They
pushed onward toward the house, now only about a half mile from
their location.
As he proceeded, he finally saw footprints near the water’s edge.
Boot tracks. Several sets. They reminded him of his Marine-issue
variety.
Raven stood, scanning both sides of the river.
Someone was definitely in the area. Or at least they had been
recently.
He considered abandoning his hunt, the hair on his neck
prickling. Even with the M4, could he afford to get pinned down in a
firefight with some backwoods wannabe militia?
No, you’re so close...
Something about the look in Chelsea’s eyes had gotten to him
the day he accepted this mission. Her desperate desire to know what
had happened to her parents.
Raven understood that all too well.
He climbed up the hill and used the meager woods for cover as
he continued. He took each step carefully, sweeping the darkness for
contacts.
And then he saw it.
A brown house with a metal fence overlooking the river. Just like
Chelsea had described.
That was his target.
Raven guided Creek along a retaining wall for cover to get to the
side of the house.
The back door was already kicked in, the wood around the
deadbolt splintered.
Not good.
Undoubtedly, the people he was looking for were gone or dead.
The question was, would he find their bodies and the items Chelsea
wanted?
He had his doubts, but he hadn’t come all this way to trudge back
to Estes Park empty-handed.
Raven cleared the yard and street for hostiles. Seeing and
hearing nothing, he moved through the busted door. Leaves, dirt,
and debris were scattered inside the kitchen.
There were no recent tracks, though.
He crossed into a living room. Filthy floorboards creaked under
his boots.
Using a finger, he motioned for Creek to stay and watch their
back. Then Raven took a set of stairs covered in tattered carpet up
to the second floor.
At the top, he cleared the hallway and then entered the first
bedroom. A bed and dresser furnished the small room. It looked
mostly intact. He hoped the same for the master.
Those hopes were dashed quickly.
The nightstands were toppled. Mold covered the walls. Part of the
ceiling had collapsed onto the bed. Clothes and personal items were
scattered on the floor among the heaped bed sheets. The closet
doors were open, revealing a few hanging shirts and even more on
the floor.
He went to look for the safe Chelsea had told him was hidden
behind an older family portrait stored in the closet. He guessed the
picture was the one that now lay smashed on the floor. A pile of
shirts covered the broken frame.
Behind cracked glass, he found a photograph of a man and
woman, each with a head of graying hair. Standing in front of them
was Chelsea, much younger than she was now. Maybe in her late
teens. They all wore smiles. A perfect image of innocence before the
Collapse.
Raven wiped off the glass. The picture was still in decent shape.
He carefully removed it and then inserted it into a plastic envelope in
his pack. Then he searched the drywall, finding a hole where the
safe had been removed.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.
Creek suddenly burst into the room.
 Raven heard the rumble of an engine a moment later. He rushed
over to the window. Through the dusty glass, headlights speared
across the river.
The low rumble of that engine had to belong to a truck. It
sounded like a throaty V8. Maybe the same truck that had left the
tracks he’d seen before.
He brought up his rifle scope. Through the moonlight, he could
see at least three people in the bed of the pickup headed his
direction.
“Shit, this isn’t good, buddy,” he whispered to Creek.
The dog whined.
So much for an easy in and out.
Moving his scope from the truck, Raven searched the town for
the best escape route. The most direct way seemed to be along the
river. As he looked for a path down the steep bank, he noticed what
looked like a body in the shallow water just below the fence.
On the ground-level, he’d missed it, thanks to the large rocks
breaking up the river. But up here, he could see the corpse perfectly.
He had a feeling the body belonged to one of Chelsea’s parents.
Creek followed him out of the room, down the stairs, and back
outside. They moved around the house and down toward the river.
The truck engine was idling now.
A voice called out, “I saw a dog. Went this way.”
“You sure it wasn’t a coyote?”
“Ain’t no coyotes left out here, man. You ate ‘em all, fat ass.”
Laughter rang out.
The truck rolled onward, engine gurgling over the chuckles.
Someone had been watching this town. A perfect trap for unwary
travelers.
Raven started down the bank toward the water. As he neared the
body, he spotted a second stuck against a rock. His stomach turned
over.
With only moments to escape, he moved into the shallow water
with his rifle hanging over his chest. He grabbed both bloated,
decaying corpses and dragged them to the opposite shore, gagging
at the scent. Even with the gruesome signs of decomposition, he
could see the bullet holes in the back of their skulls.
 They’d been killed, execution-style.
A man and a woman.
Were these the people he’d seen in the family portrait? Hard to
tell with their bodies gripped by rot.
Pulling up his bandana over his nose, he searched their clothes
for anything that he could use to identify them. He felt something
metal in the woman’s jacket. At first, he thought it was in her pocket,
but he found nothing, turning her jacket inside and out.
Then he realized how it was hidden and why it had been missed
by whoever killed these people. He ripped at a handstitched seam
inside the jacket. It was a secret pocket, meant to thwart thieves.
He pulled out a gold necklace with turquoise on it.
Holy shit.
It was exactly like Chelsea had said.
The sudden screeching of the truck jolted his eyes back toward
the house.
“Someone’s with that dog!” shouted a deep voice.
Raven cursed. They must’ve discovered his footprints in the
house.
He pocketed the necklace and ran across the shallow river.
Creek bounded next to him. They loped up the hill and into the
woods.
“There!” someone yelled.
Flashlight beams chased them through the forest. A rifle cracked,
a bullet cutting through the air.
Raven had to find a way to lose these people and hide again.
He directed Creek deeper into the woods, running hard for ten
minutes. The sound of the truck faded, replaced by the soft rustle of
the breeze. No vehicles could follow him through these trees, but he
could still see the flashlight beams lancing through the darkness.
Every half-a-minute or so, he checked over his shoulder, seeing
them farther behind.
There was a clearing ahead. Raven saw an old homestead with
two standing pole barns and a house set between a semicircle of
pine trees.
The voices behind him grew louder again. Those flashlight
beams danced frantically between the trees as his pursuers spread
out, trying to encircle him.
Raven couldn’t risk trying to outrun them with the truck out there.
The only way to escape was to hide and holdout. Let them pass him
by—or at least take them on, one-by-one.
But first, he had to kill his tracks.
Raven bent down and quickly unlaced his boots. Pulling them off,
he secured them to his pack. He motioned for Creek to head toward
the homestead.
Raven ran after the dog.
His lungs heaved with each breath, the taste of blood on the back
of his tongue. His muscles burned as he sprinted, pushing himself as
hard as he could.
It wasn’t until he got to the first pole barn that he smelled it.
A campfire.
This time, the scent wasn’t an innocent stew.
Creek had sensed it too, his tail between his legs.
Raven peeked around the side at the source of the overwhelming
odor—a smoldering fire crackled under a spinning metal spike
skewered through a charred human arm.
Lights suddenly hit the road, leading into the homestead.
Raven signaled for Creek to hide in the underbrush at the edge of
the homestead then took off to hide behind the closest tree. He
aimed at the truck with his rifle. Through the open cab window, he
spotted the driver.
Three flashlight beams bounced in the woods about a quarter
mile behind.
Of all the bad luck… his attempt at escape landed him right at
what appeared to be the hideout of some cannibalistic monsters.
Perhaps the very people running after him.
An idea sparked in his mind. Raven swapped out his rifle for his
crossbow.
Holding in a breath, Raven waited until the vehicle was within
range. Lining up the sights, he moved his finger to the trigger,
knowing he would only get one shot.
He raised the sights slightly and squeezed off a single, silent
arrow. It zipped through the open window and straight into the
driver’s neck. The truck swerved and went into the ditch. Grass and
mud kicked up as the rear wheels tore into dirt.
Raven ran toward the vehicle, switching to his hatchet.
The driver was dead behind the wheel, the arrow sticking out of
his neck. But a man stumbled out of the passenger seat. He aimed a
rifle at Raven before he could throw his blade.
A deafening blast forced him to hit the road. He rolled away,
prepared for bullets to puncture his body when a wicked growl
exploded from the darkness.
Creek sprinted at the rifleman and leapt at him, pinning him
against the hood of the truck, and sinking his teeth into the man’s
neck. He took the man to the ground, ripping out flesh and blood
vessels.
Raven replaced his hatchet and switched to his M4 as the man
let out dying moans.
“Over there!” someone yelled.
Raven looked around the front of the truck in time to see three
more men approaching the ditch.
A hailstorm of lead blasted his direction, forcing him to duck down
next to Creek.
Raven waited for a respite in the gunfire, then got up and aimed
at where he’d seen the muzzle flashes. With several squeezes, he
fired calculated bursts at the heads illuminated by each flash.
One of the bullets found a target with a crack, the man crumpling
from the headshot.
Raven ran to the other side of the truck. He aimed at a shooter,
firing from a tree nearly fifty yards away.
Another pull of the trigger, and another man lost his life.
Raven fired at the other man, forcing him down. He lowered his
rifle, whistled, and pulled the dead driver out of the truck. The engine
was still on, but the front wheels seemed stuck in mud with the rear
wheels grinding away.
Creek jumped in as Raven slammed the four-wheel-drive truck in
reverse, engine growling. Mud flew for a few seconds until the rear
wheels bit into the soil again. After shooting out of the ditch, he
slammed the shifter into drive and crushed the pedal to the floor.
 Bullets punched into the truck bed and pinged against the
bumper.
The truck burst forward, kicking up a rooster tail of dirt and grass.
Rounds tore into the rear windshield. Glass exploded into the cab,
raining down on Raven and Creek.
He swerved so he wouldn’t be an easy target. A couple of rounds
cut through the cab, dangerously close to his head. He leaned down
until they made it to the muddy dirt road. Gripping the wheel with
both hands, he mashed the pedal, accelerating wildly. The back end
of the pickup fishtailed in the mud.
When they were around the next bend, Raven looked over at
Creek. The dog was panting again, blood dripping off his maw.
“Thanks, boy,” he said. “You saved my ass.”
Creek licked Raven’s arm and then curled up on the passenger
seat.
Raven let out a deep breath and focused on the road.
Until he got back to Estes Park, he wasn’t going to let his guard
down.
This was the New Frontier, the Badlands, a place that could
swallow even the most hardened warriors without a trace. And
tonight, Raven and his dog were lucky to be alive.
 -1-

The sounds of train engines idling filled the humid air

of Union Station. What had once been a majestic structure in
Washington, DC was now nothing but skeletal support columns and
piles of scree. The former restaurants and shops had all been
gutted, leaving husks of what had once attracted shoppers and
tourists.
In some ways, the train station was no different than what most of
DC looked like after the North Korean strike two years ago. But
despite the devastation, this place had become a vital part of the
nation’s recovery.
The US Corps of Engineers and the Civilian Volunteer Recovery
Task Force—CVRTF—had repaired much of the train station and
tracks, turning it into a hub to aid in the rebuilding efforts across the
country.
Calvin Jackson was just a small cog in the machine that kept that
recovery going. But no matter how many times he walked through
this place, he still found it hard to believe it wasn’t dangerous to his
health. Even with assurances the radiation levels here were minimal,
he sometimes wondered.
Having served as a Navy SEAL for over a decade prior to the
Collapse, he was no stranger to deadly field agent exposure. Neither
was his close friend and fellow SEAL Steve “Mouse” Gomez, who
walked with him toward the train being loaded on Platform A2.
 Despite his nickname, Mouse stood six-foot-four and had the
physique of a gorilla that spent every day in the weight room. He was
a freak of human physiology that looked like he could bend a steel I-
beam between his thumb and finger if he was mad enough.
The two of them marched between the roughnecks whose job it
was to load the precious cargo. Sweat poured down their leathery
faces, the sun beating down on them as they hoisted crates and
barrels of medical supplies and food.
This was the Angel Line, one of the many trains originating on the
East Coast that fed goods throughout the country, earning its name
by delivering life-saving cargo. Like so many other trains, it traveled
on a hodgepodge of routes cobbled together from the well-worn and
well-known lines prior to the Collapse.
But not all these trains made it to their destination.
Especially when they traveled through the New Frontier, or the
Badlands, or whatever people wanted to call it.
To Calvin, it was simply the shithole landscape filled with
murderous ass-wipes.
The only upside for him was the existence of such a place meant
he had a job as a Steel Runner assigned to protect the Angel Line.
Even if the SEAL Teams no longer had room for him and his bum
spine.
Still, that experience from his time in the SEALs had earned him
a spot as Iron Lead, more or less the equivalent of a Troop
Commander. He was responsible for a solid eighty-some Steel
Runners at any given time. The numbers assigned to his group,
known as Iron Team, fluctuated, depending on the contracts of the
people working under him and the size of the trains they were
protecting.
Mouse was Calvin’s Senior Officer. If Iron Lead was comparable
to a Troop Commander, Senior Officer was equivalent to the Troop
Senior Enlisted on the SEAL Teams.
“Heat like this makes my balls stick to my legs,” Mouse grumbled.
While Mouse talked like a jock in a locker room, the guy was one
hundred percent professional when shit hit the fan. Of course, all the
pent-up pressure of being a professional warrior meant when he
could let off steam, he sure as hell did.
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Other documents randomly have
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Black
Barque
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Title: The Black Barque

Author: T. Jenkins Hains

Illustrator: W. Herbert Dunton

Release date: November 20, 2017 [eBook #56017]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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 Transcriber’s Note:
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A Tale of the Pirate Slave-Ship
Gentle Hand
on Her Last African Cruise
 Works of
T. JENKINS HAINS

The Windjammers $1.50

The Black Barque 1.50
The Voyage of the 1.50
Arrow
Bahama Bill 1.50

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY

New England Building
BOSTON MASS.
“SPRANG WITH THE EASE OF A CAT UPON
OUR POOP-RAIL.”
(See page 227)
 The
Black Barque
A Tale of the Pirate Slave-Ship
Gentle Hand
on Her Last African Cruise

By
T. JENKINS HAINS
AUTHOR OF
“THE STRIFE OF THE SEA,” “THE WIND-
JAMMERS,” ETC.

Illustrated by
W. HERBERT DUNTON

BOSTON
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
 Copyright, 1905
By L. C. Page & Company
(INCORPORATED)

All rights reserved

Published February, 1905

Fifth Impression, March, 1908.

COLONIAL PRESS
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
 TO THE
MEMORY OF MY GRANDFATHER
Thornton Jenkins
REAR-ADMIRAL UNITED STATES NAVY
AND HIS COUSIN
Sir Robert Jenkins, K.C.B.
VICE-ADMIRAL ROYAL NAVY
WHOSE SERVICES TO THE BLACK MAN SHOULD NOT
BE FORGOTTEN
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED
 CONTENTS

PAGE
I. I Seek a New Ship 1
II. Captain Howard 8
III. The Barque 18
IV. Shanghaied 30
V. In the Fo’c’sle 39
VI. I Become “Cock of the Walk” 48
VII. Two Kinds of Hand-shakes 55
VIII. Our Bos’n 65
IX. I Make Another Friend 72
X. Yankee Dan and His Daughter 81
XI. We Make a Day of It 92
XII. How the Day Ended 100
XIII. A Surprising Salute 107
XIV. I Decide to Leave the Barque 117
XV. Others Decide Otherwise 128
XVI. A Taste of Cold Iron 135
XVII. Sir John and Miss Allen 144
XVIII. The Barque Has Ill Luck 152
XIX. And Still More Ill Luck 162
XX. What Happened in Madeira 171
XXI. The Strange Brig 180
 XXII. “Stand to It!” 188
XXIII. What the Captain’s Chest Held 198
XXIV. The Captain Shows His Mettle 207
XXV. We Hear of Long Tom 218
XXVI. We Repel Boarders 225
XXVII. Our Captive 233
XXVIII. My First Glimpse of Slavery 241
XXIX. We Lay in Our Cargo 248
XXX. I Suspect Treachery 254
XXXI. I Meet Cortelli 264
XXXII. Open Mutiny 273
XXXIII. The Fight on Deck 280
XXXIV. The Cargo Breaks Loose 288
XXXV. Our Last Chance 296
XXXVI. The End of the Black Barque 305
XXXVII. The Last Strand of My Yarn 313
 THE SHIP’S COMPANY
OF THE
Gentle Hand
OFFICERS
William Howard, master.
Richard Hawkson, first officer.
John Gull, second officer.
Sherman Henry, third officer.
CREW
Peter Richards, American, boatswain.
John Heywood, American, gunner (who relates the story).
Able Seamen Ordinary Seamen
Tim, American Johnson, Dane
Bill, Norwegian Jones, Welshman
Heligoland, Norwegian Anderson, Swede
Guinea, Dago Holmberg, Swede
Ernest, German Jennings, Dutch
Martin, Scotch Pete, Dago
Johns, German Tom, Cockney
Jorg, Finn Jim, Englishman
Pat, Irishman Gilbert, half-breed Kanaka
Gus, Swede Johnson, Norwegian
Pacetti, Dago

Watkins, steward The “Doctor,” cook

OWNERS AND PASSENGERS
Yankee Dan, of Nassau, trader (Daniel Allen).
Rose Allen, his daughter.
Lord Renshaw, an outcast from society, with money in the
enterprise.
Sir John Hicks, bankrupt, engaged in the slave traffic.
Mr. Curtis, engaged in the slave traffic.
 CHAPTER I.
I SEEK A NEW SHIP

When I struck the beach in Havre, the war with England had
turned adrift upon that port’s dock heads a strange assortment of
men. Many had served in either the American or English navy, and
many more had manned French privateers and had fought under
Napoleon’s eagles. The peace that had followed turned hordes of
these fighting men into peaceable merchant sailors without ships,
and they drifted about without definite means of support.
I had come over from the States in an old tub of a barque called
the Washington, after having served as mate for two years on the
schooner General Greene. The war had taught me something, for I
had served in the navy in one of the South Pacific cruises, and had
fought in the frigate Essex. I was only a boy in years, but the
service--and other matters hardly worth mentioning here--had
hardened my nature and developed the disagreeable side of my
character. I was mate of the old hooker, and could have made out
well enough if the captain hadn’t been somewhat down on me, for I
never cared especially for women, and I believed my experience
justified my opinion of them,--but no matter.
The old man seemed to think I couldn’t be happy without
thrashing every day one or more of the miserable dagoes he had
had the assurance to tell me were sailors, and, after a nasty voyage
of fifty days, I was not sorry to step ashore. I joined the saturnine
pier-enders with my pay and discharge as being a remarkably hard
and quarrelsome mate with but small experience.
We tied up to one of the long docks, and I had seen that all the
canvas was properly unbent and stowed below before being notified
of my failings.
The dock-jumpers had made their leap, and we were short-
handed enough, so I may have been a bit out of sorts with the extra
work and the prospect of breaking out the cargo with only four
Portuguese and a third mate, who was the captain’s son.
It wasn’t the work I dodged, however, nor was it that which
caused the outfly. It was started by this third mate coming aboard
with a very pretty girl whom he had met in town. To see him walking
about the main deck with her, when he should have been hard at
work, aggravated me. They said he was to marry her, and the
dagoes kept looking after him instead of doing what I told them, and
then--well, after it was over I didn’t care very much.
The only man aboard who seemed interested to any extent was
old Richards, the second mate. Richards had served on the frigate
Essex in her famous cruise, and after the war he had chosen to try
his hand in merchant ships, for the change of the man-o’-war’s
man’s life from action to slothful peace had been too much for him.
Silent and thoughtful, he had listened to me and was pained at my
speech. He was called old Richards because of his quiet manner,
although he was not much over thirty-five, and I bore with his sour
looks while I went to the quarter-deck to finish my little say with the
skipper.
As an American man-o’-war’s man, it was my duty to invite the
captain ashore to prove to him by the force of my hands that I was
the best natured young fellow afloat. As I was a powerful lad, and
had served two years under him, he had the good judgment to
explain to me that my argument would prove most illogical, and that
if I dared to lift a hand against him, he would blow a hole through
me as big as a hawse-pipe. To lend emphasis to his statement, he
produced a huge horse-pistol, and, sticking it under my nose so that
I might look carefully down the bore and see what he had loaded it
with, he bade me get hence.
I was not very much afraid of the weapon, so I gazed carefully
into it, while I pronounced some flattering comments about his birth
and the nationality of his mother. Then, lest I might really appear
quarrelsome to the few knaves who were enjoying the spectacle, I
spat into the muzzle as though it were the receptacle for that
purpose, and, turning my back upon him, sauntered ashore,
followed by my second mate, whom I thought came to expostulate
with me and bring me to a better humour, and return.
I was in a somewhat grim humour, but not by any means
quarrelsome. I had lost my ship, but I had a bit of American gold,
and as long as a sailor has this commodity he is cheerful enough. I
had no sooner landed on the pier than I was accosted by a little
ferret-faced fellow, who seemed busy nosing around the dock after
the manner of a nervous little dog that noses everything rapidly and
seriously, as though its life depends upon its finding something it is
not looking for.
“Bon jaw,” he said.
I turned upon him and looked into his ugly face.
“I’m a Yankee sailor,” said I, “and if you want any business with
me you’ll have to speak something I understand. And besides,” I
added, edging closer to him, “I don’t allow fellows to talk about me
in a foreign language,--unless I’ve got a good reason to think they’re
saying something truthful. You savvey? Or I’ll make a handsome
monkey of you by changing that figurehead you’ve got there.”
A sudden scowl came over the fellow’s face and went again. “I kin
give you all the langwidge you need, young man, but I was only
about to do you a favour.”
“‘Virtue is its own reward,’” I said, reaching into my pocket as
though for a piece of money. “Cast loose!”
“It’s on account of that reward I reckon you don’t practise it,”
grinned the fellow. “Perhaps a more substantial acknowledgment
might--”
“Shut up!” I snapped. “If you are an American or English, let’s
have your lay.
“Is it a ship you want me to take? For, if that’s your game, you
better slant away. Don’t you see I’ve enough ship for the rest of my
life, hey?”
The creature sidled closer to me and attempted to slip his arm
through mine, but I brushed him away. He flashed that fox-like scowl
at me again, his little yellow eyes growing into two points. He gave
me an unpleasant feeling, and I watched his hands to see if he
made any movement. Then I was more astonished, as I noticed his
fingers. They were enormous.
“Look a-here now, don’t you think we cud do a bit a bizness
without all these here swabs a-looking on? You look like you had
sense enough to go below when it rains right hard. What! you follow
me? Now there’s a ship without a navigator a-fitting out not far from
here, and, if you’ll come go along with me, an’ talk the matter over,
there’ll be no harm done except to the spirruts,--an’ they’s free.”
I was very thirsty and could talk no French, so, more to be guided
to a place to quench my thirst on good ale than by curiosity, I
allowed him to lead me up the dock. I noticed several of the
loungers upon the pier-head scowl at me as I went my way, and one
tall, fierce-looking fellow, who had been glancing at me frequently,
gradually fell away from the group of loafers and strolled up behind
us. I paid no further attention to these fellows, but, as I reached the
street with its babble of unfamiliar language, a sudden feeling came
upon me. I don’t know what it was, but I was only a boy, and the
future seemed dark and lonely. I turned and looked back at the
Washington. She was the only thing American in sight, and the
months I spent aboard her were not to be thrust aside lightly. They
had all been too full of work and sorrow.
“Good-bye, old barkey,” I cried, holding my right hand high up,-
-“good-bye, and may the eternal God--no, bless you.”
I hastened on to where the ferret-faced fellow stood grinning at
me. He was peculiarly aggressive, and his shabby unnautical rig only
added to this disagreeable characteristic. Richards followed slowly
behind, his eyes holding a peculiar look as he joined the little
stranger. The man gave a sneer.
“Very sentimental and proper feeling,” said he. “A ship’s like a
person, more or less, an’ when one gets used to her he don’t like to
give her up.”
“What do you know about sentiment, you swine?” I asked,
fiercely. “I’ve a good notion to whang you for your insolence.”
“A very fine spirit,” he commented, as though to himself, as he
walked ahead, “a very fine spirit indeed, but guided by a fool. Here’s
the ale-house I spoke of, and the sooner we have a mug or two, the
better.”
 CHAPTER II.
CAPTAIN HOWARD

I might as well say in the beginning that, while I have a sailor’s

taste for liquor, I’m not especially noted as a drunkard or spirit-
wholloper. By the latter I mean given to ruffianism or brawling while
under its influence. It is because of a naturally refined and peaceful
disposition that I am so constituted, and I take no glory on that
account. It is nonsense to suppose all sailors ruffians and all tales of
the sea coarse, because some swabs have found that the hand of a
knowing mate or skipper lies heavy upon an empty pate. The story
of many voyages on American ships is gentle and uneventful as the
daily run of a lady’s carriage. For evidence, read their logs. We
entered the den of our little ferret-faced companion, and had no
sooner sat at a table to order the ale than I was aware of the tall,
dour man who had followed us from the pier-head. My second mate
was too much taken up with the inmates of the place to notice
anything else. I might as well confess Richards was a very pious
fellow, and it must have been much against his wish to have been
where he was. The tall man paid little attention to him, but looked at
me.
He did not come into the room, but stood in the doorway, his
fierce eyes fixed upon my face, and his long, drooping moustache
hanging below his jowls, giving him a most sinister appearance. Our
companion appeared not to perceive his presence at first, and only
when he tilted his mug and threw his head back did his weasel eyes
seem to fall in with those of the stranger.
“Come in, you terrier!” I cried. “Come in and have a mug to soak
your whiskers in. Sink me, but barbers must be scarce around here.
Soldier o’ the guard, hey? No one but a Voltigeer-r-r o’ the guard-r-
rd would wear such hangers.”
“Young man,” said the stranger, quietly, “your language is rather
unseemly, and should not be applied to one of the cloth. Hark ye! I
am a man of peace, sir. I am Richard Raymond, chaplain of the
Guerrière frigate. I never indulge.” He raised a lean, sinewy hand
and shook his head gently at the proffered ale.
“May the devil seize me if you ain’t the holy joe I’m looking for!” I
cried. “Sit down, man, sit down.”
“Not in such a place. I but came to plead with you not to fill
yourself with that liquid. It is ruinous.” Here he looked across the
room where the proprietor was attending to a group of sailors who
were about a table. “It is ruinous, I say, and here I implore you not
to drink too much. As a man of God, I ask you, and the chaplain of
the Guerrière,” and he raised his eyes aloft and clasped his hands as
if in prayer. I now noticed his clothes were somewhat clerical in cut,
though shabby. At this moment, a buxom maid brought some fresh
mugs, foaming full, and I tossed her a piece of money. She looked at
me and smiled, saying something I failed to understand. Then
casting a look at the tall man in the door, she laughed and went her
way.
“And why not on the frigate now?” I asked Mr. Raymond, who still
seemed to be absorbed in prayer.
“Lost, man, lost!” said my little companion, taking a fresh mug.
“Don’t you know she was lost?”
“Well,” I cried, “what difference? Should a holy man desert his ship
any the sooner for being holy, hey? Answer me that. Why didn’t you
get lost in her? Sink me, but I like a man who will do something
more than talk for the good of a soul. I like a bit o’ sacrifice now and
again to show the meaning true. I’d like to see our friend drink this
mug of ale to save me from the devil, for, if he’ll drink it, I vow I’ll
not buy another for myself.”
“Deliver us from evil,” moaned Raymond. “Oh, Henry, I couldn’t do
it,” and his eyes rolled up.
“So your name is Henry, is it?” I asked my little companion.
He looked queerly at me.
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