Suspended Sentence For Knights of Malta: Schooner Days MCCXLIII (1243)

by C. H. J. Snider

ERE the last scoop shovel scraped that last half bushel of wheat from the bilges of the Malta, at the old red elevator in Collingwood, Capt. Wm. Carradice, of St. Catharines, was prancing to get away.

It was late in the fall. The wind was blowing fair for Chicago. Another trip could be squeezed in. At the high rates then paid for grain it might mean $3,000 in hard cash ere the week was out. The Malta had made one run from Chicago to Collingwood 560 miles in 50 hours, in July 1855, And another in November in 26 days blowing out all her sails. She might do either again. Anyway, it was worth trying.

"Get her sail," rumbled Capt. Carradice, to black bearded Davy Hunter, his first mate.

ROYAL AWAKENING

Davy Hunter of Port Colborne, King of the Welland Canal, roared down the forescuttle: "Show a leg, all of you! And when you come, come a-runnin'!"

The Malta carried eight men in the forecastle and a second mate in those old days of hand power and armstrong-gear. But only four hands tumbled out.

"Where's the gang?" demanded Davy.

"Hot time up town last night-half the boys pinched," explained the second mate.

"Well be frozen in for the winter in this Hen-and-Chicken hole." groaned Capt. Carradice. "And fair wind out, too!--"

"I'll get 'em," quoth David sliding down a mooring line.

Up town he sped. It was market morning. The place was crowded. So was the courthouse. Farmers, townsmen and a crowd of lumberjacks on their way north to the winter cut were arguing what was going to happen to "them sailors" that had raise such particular cain the night before. Police court was in session.

ENTER HIS MAJESTY

Davy Hunter swashed up the aisle like the Malta herself making that 50-hour passage. The magistrate had cleared his throat for judgment.

"The sentence will be--" he began.

Davy's eye fell on the stray lambs of his flock huddled hopelessly in the police-court dock.

"Never mind. Your Lordship. I'll give 'em what's good for 'em" he hailed.

Then the concentrated fury vibrating in every hair of his black whiskers as he reached the dock: Don't youse know the comp'ny of judges and lawyers is no place for the likes of sailors? Out of this now, I'm tellin' youse!"

Grabbing the nearest of his Maltese kittens as would an angry mother cat, only he used the slack of the trousers and neckband of his shirt as handy "holts," he hurled him from the dock and through the courthouse window. The sill was low but more than knee-high. Before the crash of the first lamb's landing reverberated from the square Davy had emptied the dock of the other three and started for the door himself.

With yells of "Order! Order now!" Collingwood's entire police force had fallen upon Davy as one man, as indeed the chief was, and not more.

"If you must do something," said Davy to the limb of the law, "see that those get aboard the Malta without stopping to liquor up!"

EXEUNT BOTH

With that he threw him through was was left of the window walked out of the door to see that he obeyed orders. Not for nothing was he called King of the Canal. Neither man nor mule on the "big ditch" between Gravelly Bay and Twelve-Mile Creek was his match for action or argument.

A boiling whirlpool of fists and feet and checked shirts and tossing beard, with a particularly bushy one riding the crest like a black squall, rolled to the rusty elevator. There were curses, cries and splashes. Some went over the wharf edge, and some went home on shutters.

Davy Hunter helped his recovered lambs up the Malta's black side with copper toe of his blue-topped leather boot, threw off the mooring lines, and swung himself aboard the lanyard of a fender. The Malta's square foretopsail bellied out and rose to the t'gallant crosstrees with a might halloaing of "Weigh-heigh-heigh-YIP!" and other sobering-up cries.

She was off for Chicago, all well on board.