“I can’t say that I object very much to the muzzling order,” remarked Captain Peyton. “I have had too many experiences with mad dogs, and my voyage with one of them I am never likely to forget.”
“How was that?” we inquired eagerly; and after a little pressing the captain spun us the following yarn:
The thing happened, he began, on board the ship Globe, when I was a young man before the mast, coming home in her from Denmark.
Our captain had procured the animal for a friend of his, who lived somewhere in the country, and wanted such a dog to keep off tramps and other trespassers.
I have seldom seen a larger or more vicious-looking dog. He was of the breed called the Great Dane, a kind noted for size and fierceness; and though only a year old, he did honor to both these characteristics.
He would make friends with no one forward, and sometimes would even show his large white teeth upon a too familiar caress from the captain, his master pro tem.
You may be sure that not a single one of us ever kicked that dog out of the way or took any other liberty with him.
“That animal will be a treasure to Captain Gale’s friend,” the second mate remarked one day. “Why, if I had him I should expect to come home some afternoon to find my wife in half a dozen pieces, and my children lying about in little strips. What can a man be thinking of to want such a creature as that about the place?”
We used to think that he had more teeth than other dogs—at least, his mouth appeared absolutely full of them—two great, white shining rows that it made one shudder to see.
Once he snapped at little Roy Drew, the ship’s “boy,” and took a piece out of his duck trousers, but without tearing his flesh.
Fortunately Captain Gale was at hand, and a loud, quick shout from him prevented any further demonstration. He accused Roy of carelessness, and said the dog would not have attempted to hurt him if he had been minding his business.
Roy was dreadfully frightened, though, for it was a narrow escape.
“That dog ought to be chained up,” said the first mate.
“Nonsense!” retorted Captain Gale obstinately, “the animal will not hurt any one if left alone, and the men must not meddle with him if they do not wish to be bitten.”
After a time the brute began to lose his appetite. He slept more than usual, and at last refused his food altogether. There was evidently something the matter with him.
“It would be an awkward matter for us if he had hydrophobia,” said the first mate.
“He might easily do so,” replied the second mate. “They say dogs generally behave like that before going mad.”
We sailors also felt rather uneasy; but the captain, as usual, treated the matter very lightly.
“He may die, of course,” he said, as the mate suggested some precaution, “but I won’t have him killed; and as to tying him up just because he won’t eat, I shan’t do that either. He may be all right again in a day or two.”
Although the animal slept much, he would often get up and turn around as if he were not easy in any position. His eyes, too, had a very strange, glassy stare.
He remained in this state for a week, sometimes moving a few feet, but generally asleep.
He growled at every one who came near him, and I believe that even the captain, although too obstinate to acknowledge it, would at last have been glad to see him knocked on the head.
When the crisis finally came, it came suddenly. Most of the foremast hands were aloft in the rigging, I myself being in the maintop. The mate was busy somewhere about the deck, and the captain was leaning over the quarter rail, watching his opportunity to strike a porpoise which had come under the ship’s counter.
Presently we heard him shout to the mate:
“I’ve got him, Mr. Gibson! Come and lend a hand.”
The officer hurried to assist him; but at that moment another cry came from the man at the wheel:
“Look out, Captain Gale! Look out, Mr. Gibson! The dog is raving mad!”
As he spoke he let go of the wheel and sprang for the mizzen rigging. The captain and mate, looking hastily round, saw the mad brute close behind them, leaping up aimlessly and snapping at the air. I need not tell you that they went into the shrouds probably more quickly than they had ever done before.
Every one not already aloft got there without loss of time, so that the deck was soon entirely deserted.
Meanwhile the dog was traversing the deck at a brisk trot, snapping at everything in his way.
Sometimes he would come to a full stop and spring straight up; at others he would tear away at some large rope, as if trying to devour it. Occasionally he uttered a wild, dismal howl.
What was to be done? Had he been a small dog we might have attacked and killed him with handspikes; but with so large and powerful a creature the case was different.
The captain had a revolver in the cabin, but while we were becalmed off the Orkney Islands he had shot away all his cartridges at sea birds that came near the ship, so that now the firearm was useless.
All this while the ship was left to herself, the topsails backing and filling, and the spanker moving from side to side.
“Why not try to lasso the brute?” called out the mate at last.
The captain thought the suggestion worth acting upon, and a number of us going down to the foot of the shrouds, attempted to take off some coils of the running rigging from the pins.
But the dog was there before us, and, leaping up, he fixed his teeth in the shrouds in a way that showed what would be our fate if we did not keep out of his reach.
However, as some of us were on one side of the ship and some on the other, we finally succeeded in getting at the slack of some of the ropes, and then, standing well up in the shrouds, we did our best at lasso-throwing. But we were no cowboys, and all our efforts resulted in failure.
Our attempts served only to irritate the rabid animal, so that he was now perfectly frantic, leaping, howling, and rushing about in a terrible manner.
Just as we had begun to despair of effecting anything in this way we heard a shout from forward. It was little Roy Drew.
“Hello, there!” he said; “I’m on the bowsprit. I’ve just come down the forestay. I see how he can be got overboard.”
As we stood in the shrouds, the ship’s fore and main courses, which were set, prevented us from seeing the boy, but we could easily judge of his position and intention also.
“Look out for yourself, Roy!” was the cry from more than one voice, as all realized the fearful risk that he ran.
But the little fellow had his plan. He made a great stamping and shouting, and the dog, which happened just then to be forward, leaped upon the forecastle.
We, who were in the rigging, hurried down to the deck, no longer thinking of any danger to ourselves, and then the whole scene was before us.
Roy had run out along the bowsprit and jib-boom, and the dog was trying to follow him.
The upper side of the bowsprit being flat, the mad animal could easily traverse it, but we did not believe that he would be able to walk on the jib-boom. To our great alarm, however, we saw him dash out upon it without falling.
“Roy! Roy!” we called, “take care of yourself—quick! quick! Don’t let him get hold of you!”
But the lad was prepared even for this. Away out on the end of the boom he stood, with his hand on the flying jibstay, and when the dog was within a few feet of him, he grasped the hoops of the sail which were around it and went up the log rope like a squirrel.
The mad dog made a sort of half leap, as if to reach him, staggered, lost his balance, and fell with a splash under the ship’s bows.
Probably the sudden immersion threw him into one of those convulsive fits so common in the rabies, for, after a few minutes of violent tumbling, he sank outright, and we saw no more of him.
“Now,” said Captain Gale, after all was over and the ship had been put upon her course, “I’ll finish catching my porpoise.”
And, sure enough, upon going to his line, he found the iron still fast to it.
During the remainder of the voyage, concluded Captain Peyton, little Roy Drew was the hero of the ship. He had performed what all the rest of us combined had been unable to accomplish, and even the captain gave him full credit for his gallant act.