THE WORKING OF THE LAW
“Shake out the reefs and get the foresail on her,” called Haley. “Lively,
now, we’ve lost time.”
The mate repeated the order; the two available seamen began untying the
reef-points, which had been knotted when sail had been shortened in the
breeze of the previous day. It was simple enough work, merely the
loosening and untying of a series of square knots. Harvey had done the
like a hundred times aboard his own sloop. He hastened to assist, and did
his part as quickly as the other two. Jim Adams, somewhat surprised, eyed
him curiously.
“You’re a right smart youngster, ain’t you?” he said, patronizingly.
“Reckon you’ll be so mightily pleased you’ll come again some time.”
There was something so insolent in the tone, so sheer and apparent an
exulting in his power to compel the youth to do his bidding, that the
blood mounted in Harvey’s cheeks, and he felt his pulses beat quicker.
But he went on soberly with his work, and the mate said no more.
Ignorant of all things aboard a vessel, and too weak to work if he had
been skilled at it, Tom Edwards stood helplessly by. The humiliation of
his repulse at the hands of the captain, and his dismay at the dismal
prospect, overwhelmed him. He gazed at the receding shore, and groaned.
The foresail was run up, and with that and the mainsail winged out on
opposite sides, the bug-eye ran before the wind at an easy clip. She
responded at once to the increased spread of canvas. Her evident sailing
qualities appealed to Harvey, and lifted him for the moment out of his
apprehension and distress.
“Now you get your breakfas’,” said Jim Adams, and the two sailors
shuffled aft, followed by Harvey and Tom Edwards. Harvey was hungry, with
the keen appetite of youth and health, and he seated himself with a zest
at the table in the cabin. But the place would have blunted the appetite
of many a hungry man.
It was a vile, stuffy hole, reeking, like the forecastle, with a stale
fishy odour, uncleanly and shabby. A greasy smell of cooking came in from
the galley. A tin plate and cup and a rusty knife and fork set for each
seemed never to have known the contact of soap and water. Jack Harvey
recalled the praise which his absent friend, Mr. Jenkins, had bestowed
upon the quarters of the schooner, and that young gentleman’s
disparagement of the comparative accommodations of a bug-eye; and he
endorsed the sentiments fully. Compared with the cabin of the schooner,
the cabin of the Z. B. Brandt was, indeed, a kennel.
There was little comfort, either, apparently, in the association of the
two sailors. The fellow directly opposite Harvey, whom the mate had
addressed once that morning as “Jeff,” stared sullenly and dully at the
youth, with a look that was clearly devoid of interest. He was a heavy
set, sluggish man of about thirty-five years, for whom hard work and ill
usage had blunted whatever sensibilities he may have once possessed.
Evidently he was willing to bear with the treatment, and the poor food
aboard the vessel, for the small wages he would receive at the winter’s
end.
The other man was slightly more prepossessing, but clearly at present not
inclined to any sociability. He had a brighter eye and a face of more
expression than his companion; though he, too, under the grinding labour
aboard the oyster dredger, had come to toil day by day silently, in dumb
obedience to the captain and mate. He was one Sam Black, by name,
somewhat taller and larger than his comrade.
These two paid little heed to the new arrivals. It is doubtful if they
really took notice of their being there, in the sense that they thought
anything about it. Life was a drudgery to them, in which it mattered
little whether others shared or not. They scarcely spoke to each other
during the meal, and not at all to Harvey or Tom Edwards.
Presently there stepped out of the galley an uncouth, slovenly appearing
man, who might have passed as a smaller edition of Captain Hamilton
Haley, by his features. He was, in fact, of the same name, Haley, and
there was some relationship of a remote degree between them, which
accounted for his employment aboard the vessel. He was not so stout as
his kinsman, however, and more active in his movements.
Whatever may have been the latent abilities of Mr. George Haley in the
art of cooking, they were not in evidence, nor required aboard the
bug-eye. Jack Harvey and Tom Edwards were now to behold the evidence of
that fact.
The cook bore in his hands a greasy wooden box, that had once held smoked
fish, and set it down on the table. Just what its contents consisted of
was not at first apparent to Harvey. When, however, the two sailors
reached over with their forks, speared junks of something from the box
and conveyed them to their plates, Harvey followed their example.
He looked at the food for a moment before he made out what it was. It
proved to be dough, kneaded and mixed with water, and a mild flavouring
of molasses, and fried in lard. Harvey gazed at the mess in dismay. If it
should prove to taste as bad as it looked, it must needs be hard fare.
But he observed that the sailors made away with it hungrily; so he cut
off a piece and tasted it. It was, indeed, wretched stuff, greasy and
unpalatable. There was nothing else of food forthcoming, however, and he
managed to swallow a few more mouthfuls.
The cook came to his aid in slight measure. He reappeared, bringing a
pail of steaming, black liquid, the odour of which bore some slight
resemblance to coffee. It was what passed for coffee aboard the bug-eye,
a sorry composition of water boiled with several spoonfuls of an essence
of coffee—the flavour of which one might further disguise, if he chose,
with a spoonful of black molasses from a tin can set out by the cook.
Harvey filled his cup with alacrity, hoping to wash down the mess of
fried bread with the hot coffee. He made a wry face after one swallow,
and looked with dismay at his companion in misery.
“It’s awful,” he said, “but it’s hot. You better drink some of it. It
will warm you up.”
Tom Edwards put out a shaky hand and conveyed a cup of the stuff to his
lips. He groaned as he took a swallow, and set the cup down.
“Beastly!” he exclaimed; and added, “I never did like coffee without
cream, anyway.”
Harvey laughed, in spite of his own disgust. “The cream hasn’t come
aboard yet, I guess,” he said. “But you drink that down quick. You need
it.”
Like one obeying an older person, instead of a younger, Tom Edwards did
as Harvey urged. He drained the cup at a draught. Then he staggered to
his feet again.
“I can’t eat that mess,” he said. “Oh, but I’m feeling sick. I think I’ll
go out on deck. It’s cold out there, though. I don’t know what to do.”
He was not long in doubt, however; for, as Harvey emerged on deck, the
mate approached.
“You tell that Mister Edwards,” he said, “he can jes’ lie down on one of
them parlour sofas in the fo’-castle till we gets across to Hoopers. Then
we’ll need him.”
Harvey did the errand, and the unhappy Tom Edwards made his way forward
once more, and threw himself down in the hard bunk, pale and ill. Harvey
returned on deck. The morning was clear, and not cold for November, but
the wind sent a chill through his warm sweater, and he beat himself with
his arms, to warm up.
“Didn’t get you’self any slickers, did you, ’fore you came aboard?”
inquired the mate.
“No, sir,” replied Harvey, remembering how the man had cautioned him to
address him; “I didn’t have a chance. They sailed off with me in the
night.”
The mate grinned. “That was sure enough too bad,” he said, mockingly.
“Well, you see the old man ’bout that. He sells ’em very cheap, and a
sight better than they have ashore in Baltimore. Awful advantage they
take of poor sailors there. Mr. Haley, he’ll fit you out, I reckon.”
They stepped aft, and the mate made known their errand.
Haley nodded. “He’ll need ’em sooner or later,” he assented. “May as well
have ’em now, as any time. Take the wheel.”
The mate assumed the captain’s seat on the wheel box, and Captain Haley
nodded to Harvey to follow him below. He fumbled about in a dark locker
and finally drew forth two garments—the trousers and jacket of an
oil-skin suit. They were black and frayed with previous wear, their
original hue of yellow being discoloured by smears and hard usage.
“There,” said Haley, holding up the slickers approvingly, “there’s a suit
as has been worn once or twice, but isn’t hurt any. As good as new, and
got the stiffness out of it. Cost you seven dollars to get that suit new
in Baltimore. You’ll get it for five, and lucky you didn’t buy any
ashore. There’s a tarpaulin, too, that you can have for a dollar. I
oughtn’t to let ’em go so cheap.”
Harvey hardly knew whether to be angry or amused. He had not shipped for
the money to be earned, to be sure, and the absurd prices for the almost
worthless stuff excited his derision. But the gross injustice of the
bargain made him indignant, too. He had bought oil-skins for himself,
before, and knew that a good suit, new, could be had for about three
dollars and a half, and a new tarpaulin for seventy-five cents. But he
realized that protest would be of no avail. So he assented.
“There’s a new pair of rubber boots, too,” continued Haley, producing a
pair that were, indeed, much nearer new than the oil-skins. “Those will
cost you five dollars. They’re extra reinforced; not much like that
slop-shop stuff.”
The boots thereupon became Harvey’s property; likewise a thin and
threadbare old bed quilt, for the bunk in the forecastle, at an equally
extortionate price. Then a similar equipment was provided for Harvey’s
friend, Tom Edwards, the captain assuring Harvey that they would surely
fit Edwards, and he could take them forward to him.
Suddenly the captain paused and looked at Harvey shrewdly, out of his
cold gray eyes.
“Of course I provide all this for a man, in advance of his wages,” he
said, “when he comes aboard, like the most of ’em, without a cent; but
when he has some money, he has to pay. Suppose he gets drowned—it’s all
dead loss to me. You got any money?”
Harvey thanked his stars for Tom Edwards’s precaution.
“I’ve got some,” he said, and began to feel in his pockets, as though he
were uncertain just how much he did have. “Here’s five dollars—and let’s
see, oh, yes, I’ve got some loose change, sixty-three cents.” He brought
forth the bill and the coins. Haley pounced on the money greedily. He
eyed Harvey with some suspicion, however.
“Turn your pockets out,” he said. “I can’t afford to take chances. Let’s
see if you’ve been holding back any.”
Harvey did as he was ordered.
“All right,” muttered Haley. But he was clearly disappointed.
“Can that fellow, Edwards, pay?” he asked.
“He told me he hadn’t a cent,” answered Harvey, promptly. “He was robbed
after they got him drugged.”
Haley’s face reddened angrily.
“He wasn’t drugged—nor robbed, either,” he cried. “Don’t you go talking
like that, or you’ll get into trouble. Leastwise, I don’t know nothin’
about it. If he was fixed with drugs, it was afore he came into my hands.
I won’t stand for anything like that. Get out, now, and take that stuff
for’ard.”
Harvey went forward, carrying his enforced purchases. An unpleasant sight
confronted him as he neared the forecastle.
The two men that had been brought aboard the bug-eye, stupefied, had been
dragged out on deck, where they lay, blinking and dazed, but evidently
coming once more to their senses. The mate gave an order to one of the
sailors. The latter caught up a canvas bucket, to which there was
attached a rope, threw it over the side and drew it back on deck filled
with water.
“Let’s have that,” said the mate.
He snatched it from the sailor’s hand, swung it quickly, and dashed the
contents full in the face of one of the prostrate men. The fellow gasped
for breath, as the icy water choked and stung him; he half struggled to
his feet, opening his eyes wide and gazing about him with amazement. He
had hardly come to a vague appreciation of where he was, putting his
hands to his eyes and rubbing them, to free them of the salt water,
before he received a second bucket-full in the face. He cried out in
fright and, spurred on by that and the shock of the cold water, got upon
his feet and stood, trembling and shivering. Jim Adams laughed with
pleasure at the success of his treatment.
“Awful bad stuff they give ’em in Baltimore, sometimes,” he said,
chuckling, as though it were a huge joke; “but this fetches ’em out of it
just like doctor’s medicine. You got ’nuff, I reckon. Now you trot ’long
down into the cabin, and get some of that nice coffee, an’ you’ll feel
pretty spry soon.”
The fellow shambled away, led by one of the crew.
Jack Harvey, his blood boiling at the inhumanity of it, saw Jim Adams’s
“treatment” applied with much the same success to the other helpless
prisoner; and this man, too, soon went the way of the other, for such
comfort and stimulus as the cabin and coffee afforded. Harvey deposited
his load of clothing in the forecastle, and returned to the deck.
In the course of some seven miles of sailing, as Harvey reckoned it, they
approached a small island which he heard called out as Barren island.
Still farther to the eastward of this, there lay a narrow stretch of
land, some two or three miles long, lying lengthwise approximately north
and south. Off the shore of this, which bore the name of Upper Hooper
island, the dredging grounds now sought by the Brandt extended southward
for some ten miles, abreast of another island, known as Middle Hooper
island.
Preparations were at once begun to work the dredges; and Harvey watched
with anxious interest. Here was the real labour, that he had by this time
come to look forward to with dread. He recalled the utterance of the
dismal sailor aboard the schooner, “You breaks yer back at a bloody
winder;” and he saw a prospect now of the fulfilment of the man’s
description of the work.
In the mid-section of the bug-eye, on either side, there were set up what
looked not unlike two huge spools. Wound around each one of these was
fathom upon fathom of dredge line. Each spool rested in a frame that was
shaped something like a carpenter’s saw-horse, and, in the process of
winding, was revolved by means of a crank at either end, worked by men at
the handles. The frame was securely bolted to the deck at the four
supports.
Connected with each dredge line, by an iron chain, was the dredge. This
consisted, first, of four iron rods, coming to a point at the chain, and
spread out from that in the form of a piece of cheese cut wedge-shaped,
and rounded in a loop at the broad end. Fastened to this was a great mesh
of iron links, made like a purse, or bag, This metal bag was a capacious
affair, made to hold more than a bushel of oysters. There were two larger
iron links in the mesh, by which it could be hooked and lifted aboard,
when it had been wound up to the surface of the water.
There was a locking device on the end of the support, so that the spool
would hold, without unwinding, when the handles were released.
The huge spools were set up lengthwise of the vessel. On either side of
the craft were rollers; one of these was horizontal, to drag the dredge
aboard on; one was perpendicular, for the dredge-line to run free on, as
it was paid out, or drawn in, while the vessel was in motion.
Captain Haley, at the wheel, gave his orders sharply. The sailors and Jim
Adams, lifting the dredges, threw them overboard on either side, and the
work was begun. The bug-eye, with sheets started, took a zig-zag course,
laterally across the dredging ground.
Obeying orders, Harvey took his place at one of the handles of a winder;
one of the sailors at the other. Presently appeared Jim Adams, followed
by the disconsolate Tom Edwards. The latter, pale and sea-sick, seemed
scarcely able to walk, much less work; but the mate led him along to the
handle of the other winder. Tom Edwards was not without making one more
feeble attempt as resistance, however.
“See here,” he said, addressing Adams, “you’ve got no right to force me
to work here. I’m a business man, and I was brought down here by a trick,
drugged. You’ll pay dear for it. I warn you.”
Jim Adams grinned from ear to ear, his expansive mouth exhibiting a
shining row of white teeth. He put a big, bony hand on Tom Edwards’s
shoulder.
“Don’t you go worrying ’bout what I’ll get, mister,” he answered; and
there was a gleam of fire in his eyes as he spoke. “I reckon you might as
well know, first as last, that I don’t care where we get you fellows, nor
how we gets yer; nor I don’t care whether you come aboard drugged or
sober; nor whether you’ve got clothes on, nor nothin’ at all. All I cares
is that you’s so as you can turn at this ere windlass. That’s all there
is ’bout that. Now you jes’ take a-hold of that handle, and do’s you’re
told, or you’ll go overboard; and don’t you forget that.”
Tom Edwards was silent. He stood, hand upon the windlass, shivering.
“You’ll be warm ’nuff soon, I reckon,” was Jim Adams’s consolation.
They got the order to wind in, presently, and the men began to turn the
handles. It was hard work, sure enough. The huge iron bags, filled with
the oysters, torn from the reefs at the bed of the bay, were heavy of
themselves; and the strain of winding them in against the headway of the
bug-eye was no boys’ play.
Harvey and his companion at their winder were strong and active, and
presently the dredge was at the surface, whence it was seized and dragged
aboard. There it was emptied of its contents, a mass of shells, all
shapes and sizes. Then followed the work of “culling,” or sorting and
throwing overboard the oysters that were under two inches and a half
long, which the law did not allow to be kept and sold.
“You need a pair of mittens,” volunteered Harvey’s working comrade, as
Harvey started in to help, with bare hands. “You’ll get cut and have sore
hands, if you don’t,” he added. “The cap’n sells mittens.”
The mittens, at a price that would have made the most hardened
shop-keeper blush, were provided, and Harvey resumed work.
The seriousness of the situation had developed in earnest. It was
drudgery of the hardest and most bitter kind.
“Just wait till the month is up,” said Harvey, softly; “I’ll cut out of
this pretty quick. A sea experience, eh? Well, I’ve got enough of it in
the first half hour.”
Spurred on by the harsh commands of the mate, Tom Edwards managed to hold
out for perhaps three quarters of an hour. Then he collapsed entirely;
and, seeing that nothing more could be gotten out of him for the rest of
the day, the mate suffered him to drag himself off to the forecastle.
“But see that you’re out sharp and early on deck here to-morrow morning,”
said Jim Adams. “We don’t have folks livin’ high here for nothin’. You’ll
jes’ work your board and lodgin’, I reckon.”
Thus the day wore on, drearily. The exciting sea experience that Jack
Harvey had pictured to himself was not at present forthcoming; only a
monotonous winding at the windlass—hard and tiring work—and the culling
of the oysters, and stowing them below in the hold from time to time. He
was sick of it by mid-day; and, as the shades of twilight fell, he was
well nigh exhausted.
“And only to think of this for nearly four weeks more,” he groaned. “Next
time—oh, hang it! What’s the use of thinking of that? I’m in for it. I’ve
got to go through. But won’t I scoot when the month is up!”
Toward evening, they ran up under the lee of Barren island, in what the
mate said was Tar Bay, and anchored for the night. Almost too wearied to
eat, too wearied to listen to the commiseration of Tom Edwards, who lay
groaning in his bunk, Jack Harvey tumbled in with his clothes on, and was
asleep as soon as he had stretched himself out.