STEALING A MARCH ON THE FAR EAST
As the American “hobo” studies the folders of the railway lines, so the
vagrant beyond seas scans the posters of the steamship companies. Few
were the ships plying to the Far East whose movements I had not followed
during that Cairene month of February. On the journey from Ismaïlia to
the coast we passed four leviathans, gliding southward through the canal
so close that we could read from the windows of the train the books in
the hands of the passengers under the awnings. The names on every bow I
knew well. Had I not, indeed, watched the departure of two of these same
ships from the breakwater of Marseilles? Yet what a gulf intervened
between me, crawling along the edge of the desert, and those fortunate
mortals, already eastward bound! Gladly would I have exchanged places
with the most begrimed stoker on board.
Had I been permitted to choose my next port, it should have been Bombay.
He who is stranded at the mouth of the Suez Canal, however, talks not of
choice. He clutches desperately at any chance of escape, and is content
to be gone, be it east or west, on any craft that floats. Not that ships
are lacking. They pass the canal in hundreds every week. But their crews
are yellow men, or brown; and their anchorage well out in the stream,
where plain Jack Tar may not come to plead his cause.
All this I recalled, and more, as I crawled through the African desert
behind a wheezing locomotive. But one solemn oath I swore, ere the first
hovel bobbed up across the sand—that, be it on coal barge or raft, I
should escape from this canalside halting-place before her streets and
alleys became such eyesores as had once those of Marseilles.
It was high noon when we drew into Port Saïd, and I hurried at once to
the compound behind the Catholic monastery. I was just in time. Even as
I laid my knapsack on the ground and lined up with the rest, the Arab
servant issued from the kitchen with those same battered tins in which
he had served us months before. Barely had he disappeared again when
three of the company swooped down upon me. One I had known at the Asile
Rudolph. The second—cheering prospect!—was that identical sun-bleached
Boer who had squatted against the wall of the “Home” on the early
December morning of my first Egyptian day; in those identical
weather-beaten garments which he still inhabited. The third I did not
recognize. He was a portly German whose outward appearance stamped him
as a successful weaver of Märchen, and he spread his squat legs and
gazed at me for some time with what appeared to be an admiring grin
before he spoke.
“Sie sprechen Deutsch, nicht wahr?” he began. “You, perhaps, haven’t
seen me, but I saw you in Jerusalem. You were making pictures with a
photograph machine.” A roar of laughter set his fat sides to shaking.
“Donner und Blitzen! I have been on the road a good twenty years; I know
about every game die Kunde play. But that certainly is the best I ever
fell upon. Ach, what a story! I’ve been telling them of the comrade with
the photograph machine ever since, die Kunde, and it’s a tale they never
try to beat. Herr Allah, dass ist, aber, gut!” and he bellowed with
mirth until the Arab servant, to whom hilarity in one accepting alms was
the height of impudence, threatened to summon the black policeman
outside the gate.
The dinner over, I left my bundle with the Maltese youth and hurried
away to the shipping quarter. As I anticipated, the demand for sailors
was nil. The situation was most graphically described, perhaps, by the
American consul.
“A man on the beach in this garbage heap,” he testified, “is down and
out. He had better be sitting with the penguins on the coast of
Patagonia. We haven’t signed on a sailor since I was dumped here. If you
ever make a get-away, it will be by stowing away. I can’t advise you to
do it, of course; but if I was in your shoes, I’d stick away on the
first packet homeward bound, and do it quick, before summer comes along
and sends you to the hospital. The skippers are tickled to death to get
a white sailor, anyway, for these niggers are not worth the rice the
company feeds ’em. You’re welcome to tumble up these office stairs every
morning, if you like, but I’m not going to promise to look out for
anything for you. I’d only lose my lamps a’ doing it.”
I returned to the Home at nightfall, and shared the kitchen—but not the
cupboard—with the Boer. Early the next morning, I reached the
water-front in time to see a great steamer nosing her way through the
small craft that swarmed about the mouth of the canal. Her lines looked
strangely familiar. Had I not known that the _Warwickshire_ was due in
Liverpool on this first day of March, I should have expected to see my
former messmates peering over the rail of the new arrival. I made out
the name on her bow as she dropped anchor opposite the main street, and
turned for information to a nearby poster.
[Illustration: S.S. _Worcestershire_ of the Bibby Line, on which I
stowed away after taking this picture]
[Illustration: Oriental travelers at Port Saïd]
“Bibby Line,” ran the notice, “_S. S. Worcestershire_. Recently
launched. Largest, best equipped, fastest steamer plying between England
and British Burma. First-class passengers only. Fare to Colombo,
thirty-six guineas.”
A sister ship of the vessel that had rescued me from Marseilles! The
very sight of her was reminiscent of the prime roasts we had been wont
to serve the fishes of the Mediterranean. I hastened to the landing
stage and accosted the officers as they disembarked, with the tourists,
for a run ashore.
“Full up, Jack,” answered one of them.
I recalled the advice of the American consul. A better craft to “stick
away on” would never drop anchor in the canal. Bah! How ludicrous the
notion sounded! The Khedive himself could not even have boarded such a
vessel, in sun-bleached corduroys and Nazarene slippers. By night, with
no moon? The blackest night could not hide such rags! Besides, the
steamer was sure to coal and be gone within a couple of hours. I trained
my kodak upon her, and turned sorrowfully away.
A native fair was in full swing at the far end of the town. Amid the
snake-charmers and shameless dancers, the incident of the morning was
soon forgotten. Darkness was falling when I strolled back towards the
harbor. At the shop where spitted mutton sold cheaply, I halted for
supper; but the keeper had put up his shutters. No doubt he was sowing
his year’s earnings among the gamblers at the fair. Hungrily I wandered
on, turned into the main street of the European section, and stopped
stock still, dumb with astonishment. The vista beyond the canal was
still cut off by the vast bulk of the _Worcestershire_!
What an opportunity—if once I could get on board! Perhaps I might! In
the terms of the paddock, it was “a hundred-to-one shot;” but who could
say when better odds would be chalked up? A quartermaster was almost
sure to halt me at the gang plank. Some palpable excuse I must offer him
for being rowed out to the steamer. If only I had something to be
delivered on board, a basket of fruit, or—shades of Cairo!—of course—a
letter of introduction!
Breathlessly, I dashed into the Home, snatched a sheet of paper and an
envelope from the Maltese youth, and scribbled an appeal for employment,
in any capacity. Having sealed the envelope against the prying eyes of
subordinates, I addressed it in a flourishing hand to the chief steward.
But my knapsack? Certainly I could not carry that on board! I dumped the
contents on the floor and thrust the kodak and my papers into an inside
pocket. There was nothing else—but hold! That bundle at the bottom? The
minister’s frock coat, of broadcloth, with wide, silk-faced lapels! What
kind fairy had gainsaid my reiterated threats to throw away that useless
garment? Eagerly I slipped into it. The very thing! With my unshaven
face and bleached legs in the shadow, I could rival Beau Brummel
himself. Many an English lord, touring in the East, wears a cap after
nightfall.
“Scrape that stuff together for me,” I bawled, springing past the
Maltese youth. “If I don’t turn up within a week, give ’em to the
beachcombers.”
The _Worcestershire_ was still at anchor. Two Arab boatmen squatted
under a torch on one corner of the landing stage. The legal fare was six
pence. I had three. It cost me some precious moments to beat down one of
the watermen. He stepped into his felucca at last and pushed off
cautiously towards the rows of lighted portholes.
As we neared the steamer, I made out a figure in uniform on the lowest
step of the ship’s ladder. The game was lost! I might have talked my way
by a quartermaster, but I certainly could not pass this bridge officer.
The boatman swung his craft against the ladder with a sweep of the oar.
I held up the note:
“Will you kindly deliver this to the chief steward? The writer wants an
answer before the ship leaves.”
“I really haven’t time,” apologized the mate. “I’ve an errand ashore and
we leave in fifteen minutes. You can run up with it yourself, though.
Here, boatman, row me over to the custom wharf.”
I sprang up the ladder. Except for several sahib-respecting Lascars, who
jumped aside as I appeared, the promenade deck was deserted. From
somewhere below came the sound of waltz music and the laughter of merry
people. I strolled leisurely around to the port side and walked aft in
the shadow of the upper cabins. For some moments I stood alone in the
darkness, gazing at the reflection of the lower portholes in the canal.
Then, a step sounded at the door of the saloon behind me, a heavy
British step that advanced several paces and halted. One could almost
feel the authority in that step; one could certainly hear it in the
gruff “ahem” with which the newcomer cleared his throat. An officer, no
doubt, about to order me ashore! I waited in literal fear and trembling.
A minute passed, then another. I turned my head, inch by inch, and
peered over my shoulder. In the shaft of light stood a man in faultless
evening attire, gazing at me through the intervening darkness. His dress
suggested a passenger; but the very set of his feet on the deck proved
him no landsman. The skipper himself, surely! What under officer would
dare appear out of uniform during a voyage?
I turned my head away again, determined to bear the impending blow with
fortitude. The dreaded being cleared his throat once more, stepped
nearer, and stood for a moment without speaking. Then a hand touched me
lightly on the sleeve.
“Beg pahdon, sir,” murmured an apologetic voice; “beg pahdon, sir, but
’ave you ’ad dinner yet? The other gentlemen’s h’all been served, sir.”
I swallowed my throat and turned around, laying a hand over the place
where my necktie should have been.
“I am not a passenger, my man,” I replied haughtily; “I have a
communication for the chief steward.”
The flunky stretched out his hand.
“Oh, I cawn’t send it, you know,” I protested. “I must deliver it in
person, for it requires an answer before the ship leaves.”
“Lord, you can’t see _’im_,” gasped the Briton; “we’re givin’ a ball and
’e’s in the drawrin’-room.”
The sound of our voices had attracted the quartermaster on duty. Behind
him appeared a young steward.
“You’d best get ashore quick,” said the sailor; “we’re only waitin’ the
fourth mite. Best call a boatman or you’ll get carried off.”
“Really!” I cried, looking anxiously about me, “But I must have an
answer, you know.”
“I couldn’t disturb _’im_,” wheezed the older steward.
“Well, show me where he is,” I protested.
“Now we’re off in a couple o’ winks,” warned the quartermaster.
“’Ere, mite,” said the youth; “I’ll take you down.”
I followed him to the deck below and along a lighted passageway. My
disguise would never stand the glare of a drawing-room. I thrust the
note into the hands of my guide.
“Be sure to bring me the answer,” I cautioned.
He pushed his way through a throng of his messmates and disappeared into
the drawing-room. A moment later he returned with the answer I had
expected.
“So you’re on the beach?” he grinned, “you sure did get it on Clarence,
all right. ’Ard luck. The chief says the force is full an’ the company
rules don’t allow ’im to tyke on a man to work ’is passage. Sye, you’ve
slipped your cayble, anyway, ayn’t you? We’re not ’ome-ward bound; we’re
going out. You’d best rustle it an’ get ashore.”
He turned into the galley. Never had I ventured to hope that he would
let me out of his sight before he had turned me over to the
quartermaster. His carelessness was due, no doubt, to his certainty that
I had “slipped my cayble.” I dashed out of the passageway as if fearful
of being carried off; but, once shrouded in the kindly night, paused to
peer about me.
There were a score of places that offered a temporary hiding; but a
stowaway through the Suez Canal must be more than temporarily hidden. I
ran over in my mind the favorite lurking places on ocean liners. Inside
a mattress in the steerage? First-class only. In the hold? Hatches all
battened down. On the fidleys or in the coal bunkers? Very well in the
depth of winter, but sure death in this climate. In the forecastle?
Indian crew. In the rubbish under the forecastle head? Sure to be found
in a few hours by tattle-tale natives. In the chain locker? The anchor
might be dropped anywhere in the canal, and I should be dragged
piecemeal through the hawse-hole.
Still pondering, I climbed to the spot where I had first been accosted.
From the starboard side, forward, came the voice of the fourth mate,
clambering on board. In a few moments officers and men would be flocking
up from below. Noiselessly, I sprang up the ladder to the hurricane
deck. That and the bridge were still deserted. I crept to the nearest
lifeboat and dragged myself along the edge that hung well out over the
canal. The canvas cover was held in place by a cord that ran alternately
through eyeholes in the cloth and around iron pins under the gunwale. I
tugged at the cord for a minute that seemed a century before I succeeded
in pulling it over the first pin. After that, all went easily. With the
cover loosened for a space of four feet, I thrust my head through the
opening. Before my shoulders were inside my feet no longer reached the
ship’s rail. I squirmed in, inch by inch, after the fashion of a
swimmer, fearful of making the slightest noise. Only my feet remained
outside when my hand struck an oar inside the boat. Its rattle could
have been heard in Cairo. Drenched with perspiration, I listened for my
discoverer. The festive music, evidently, engrossed the attention of the
entire ship’s company. I drew in my feet by doubling up like a
pocketknife, and, thrusting a hand through the opening, fastened the
cord over all but one pin.
The space inside was more than limited. Seats, casks, oars, and
boat-hooks left me barely room to stretch out on my back without
touching the canvas above me. Two officers brushed by, and mounting to
the bridge, called out their orders within six feet of me. The rattle of
the anchor chain announced that the long passage of the canal had begun.
When I could breathe without opening my mouth at every gasp, I was
reminded that the shop where spitted mutton sold cheaply had been
closed. Within an hour, that misfortune was forgotten. The sharp edge of
the water cask under my back, the oars that supported my hips, the seat
that my shoulders barely reached, began to cut into my flesh, sending
sharp pains through every limb. The slightest movement might send some
unseen article clattering. Worst of all, there was just space sufficient
for my head while I kept my neck strained to the utmost. The tip of my
nose touched the canvas. To have stirred that ever so slightly would
have sent me packing at the first canal station.
The position grew more painful hour by hour, but with the beginning of
the “graveyard” watch my body grew numb and I sank into a half-comatose
state that was not sleeping.
Daylight brought no relief, though the sunshine, filtering through the
canvas, disclosed the objects about me. There came the jabbering of
strange tongues as the crew quarreled over their work about the deck.
Now and then, a shout from a canal station marked our progress.
Passengers mounting to the upper deck brushed against the lifeboat in
their promenading. From time to time confidential chats sounded in my
ears.
All save the officers soon retreated to the shade below. In the arid
desert through which we were steaming that day must certainly have been
calorific. But there, at least, a breeze was stirring. By four bells,
the Egyptian sun, pouring down upon the canvas, had turned my hiding
place into an oven. By noon, it resembled nothing so cool and
refreshing. A raging thirst had long since put hunger to flight. In the
early afternoon, as I lay motionless on my grill, there sounded the
splash of water, close at hand. Two natives had been sent to wash the
lifeboat. For an hour they dashed bucketful after bucketful against it,
splashing, now and then, even the canvas over my head.
The gong had just sounded for afternoon tea when the ship began to rock
slightly. A faint sound of waves breaking on the bow succeeded. A light
breeze moved the canvas ever so little and the throb of the engines
increased. Had we passed out of the canal? My first impulse was to tear
at the canvas and bellow for water. But had we left Suez behind? This,
perhaps, was only the Bitter Lakes? Or, if we had reached the Red Sea,
the pilot might still be on board! To be set ashore now was a fate far
more to be dreaded than during the first hours of my torture, for it
meant an endless tramp through the burning desert, back to Port Saïd.
I held my peace and listened intently for any word that might indicate
our whereabouts. None came, but the setting sun brought relief, and
falling darkness found my thirst somewhat abated. The motion of the ship
lacked the pitch of the open sea. I resolved to take no chances with
victory so close at hand.
With night came the passengers, to lean against the boat and pour out
confidences. How easily I might have posed as a fortune-teller among
them during the rest of the voyage! A dozen schemes, ranging from an
enthusiastic project for the immediate evangelization of all the Indias
to the arrangement of a tiger-hunt in the Assam hills, were planned
within my hearing during that motionless evening. But the sound of music
below left the deck deserted, and I settled down to the less humiliating
occupation of listening to the faint tread of the second mate, who paced
the bridge above me.
An hour passed. Other thoughts drove from my memory the secrets that had
been forced upon me. Suddenly, there sounded a light step and a
frou-frou of skirts, suggestive of ballroom scenes. Behind came a
heavier tread, a hurried word, and a ripple of laughter. Shades of the
prophet! Why must every pair on board choose that particular spot to
pour out their secrets? Because a man and a maid chanced to pause where
I could hear their lightest whisper, was I to shout a warning and tramp
back to starve in the alleyways of Port Saïd? I refused the sacrifice,
and for my refusal, heard many words—and other sounds. The moon was
beautiful that night—I know, though I did not see it. A young English
commissioner had left his island home two weeks before, resolved to
dwell among the hills of India in a bungalow alone—that, too, I know,
though I saw him not. Yet he landed with other plans, plans drawn up and
sealed on the hurricane deck of the _Worcestershire_ in the waning hours
of the second of March; amid many words—and other sounds.
The night wore on. Less fearful, now, of discovery, I moved, for the
first time in thirty hours, and, rolling slowly on my side, fell asleep.
It was broad daylight when I awoke to the sounding of two bells. The
ship was rolling in no uncertain manner. I tugged at the cord that bound
down the boat cover and peered out. For some moments barely a muscle of
my body responded to the command of the will. Even when I had wormed
myself out I came near losing my grip on the edge of the boat before my
feet touched the rail. Once on deck, I waited to be discovered. The
frock coat lay in the lifeboat. No landlubber could have mistaken me for
a passenger now.
Calmly, I walked aft and descended to the promenade deck. A score of
bare-legged Lascars were “washing down.” Near them, the sarang, in all
the glory of embroidered jacket and rubber boots, strutted back and
forth, fumbling at the silver chain about his neck. I strolled by them.
The low-caste fellows sprang out of my way like startled cats. Their
superior gazed at me with a half-friendly, half-fawning smile. If they
were surprised, they did not show it. Probably they were not. What was
it to them, if a sahib chose to turn out in a ragged hunting-costume for
an early promenade? Stranger things than that they had seen among these
enigmatical beings with white skins. Unfortunately the _Worcestershire_
was a bit too cumbersome or I might have carried it off before my
presence on board was suspected.
Some time I paced the deck with majestic tread without catching sight of
a white face. At last a diminutive son of Britain clambered unsteadily
up the companionway, clinging tenaciously to a pot of tea. “Here, boy,”
I called; “who’s on the bridge, the mate?”
“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy, sidling away; “the mite, sir.”
“Well, tell him there’s a stowaway on board.”
“Wat’s that, sir? You see, sir, I’m a new cabin boy, on me first trip—”
“And you don’t know what a stowaway is, eh?”
“No, sir.”
“If you’ll run along and tell the mate, you’ll find out soon enough.”
The boy made his way aft, clutching, now and then, at the rail, and
mounted to the upper deck. Judging from the grin on his face as he came
running back, he had added a new word to his vocabulary.
“The mite says for you to come up on the bridge, quick. ’E’s bloody
mad.”
I climbed again to the hurricane deck. The mate’s sanguinary choler had
so overcome him that he had deserted his post and waited for me at the
foot of the bridge ladder. He was burly and lantern-jawed, clad in the
négligé of early morning in the tropical seas; bareheaded, barefooted,
his hairy chest agap, his duck trousers rolled up to his knees, and a
thick tangle of dishevelled hair waving in the wind. With the ferocious
mien of an executioner, he glared at me in utter silence.
“I’m a sailor, sir,” I began; “I was on the beach in Port Saïd. I’m
sorry, sir, but I had to get away—”
The mate gave no other sign of having heard than to push his massive jaw
further out.
“There was no chance to sign on there, sir. Not a man shipped in months,
sir, and it’s a tough place to be on the beach—”
“What the holy hell has that got to do with me and my ship!” roared the
officer, springing several yards into the air and descending to shake
his sledge-hammer fist under my nose. “You —— ——, I’ll give you six
months for this directly we get to Colombo. You’ll stow away on my ship,
will you? Get to hell down off this deck before I brain you with this
bucket, you —— ——,” but his subsequent remarks, like his attire, were
for early morning use, and would have created a even greater furor in
that vicinity, a few hours later, than his bare legs.
Not certain to what quarter of the _Worcestershire_ the nautical term
applied, I started forward. Another bellow brought me to a halt.
“You —,” but never mind the details. The new order, expurgated, amounted
to the information that I was to wait in the waist until the captain had
seen me.
I descended, snatched a draught of tepid water at the pump, and leaned
against the port bulwarks. Too hungry to be greatly terrified, I had
really taken new heart at the mate’s threat. “Colombo” he had said.
Until then I had feared the _Worcestershire_, like most East-Indiamen,
would put in at Aden; and unwelcome passengers, turned over to the
British governor there, were invariably packed off on the first steamer
to Port Saïd.
An hour, two hours, three hours, I stood in the waist, returning the
stares of every member of the ship’s company, Hindu or English, whose
duties or curiosity brought him to that quarter. With the sounding of
eight bells a steward returned from the galley with a can of coffee.
Once started, an endless procession of bacon, steaks, and ragoûts filed
by under my nose. To snatch at one of the pans would have been my
undoing. I thrust my head over the bulwarks, where sea breezes blew, and
stared at the sand billows of the Arabian coast. Not until the denizens
of the “glory-hole” had returned to their duties did I venture to turn
around once more. “Peggy,” the stewards’ steward, peered furtively out
upon me.
“Eh! Mite,” he whispered; “’ad anythink to eat yet?”
“Not lately.”
“Well, come inside. There’s a pan o’ scow left to dump.”
Very little of it was dumped that morning.
I had barely returned to my place when four officers descended the
starboard ladder to the waist. They were led by the mate, immaculate
now, as the rest, in a snow-white uniform. His vocabulary, too, had
improved. A “sir,” falling from his lips, singled out the captain. My
hopes rose at once. The commander was the exact antithesis of his first
officer. Small, dapper, almost dainty of figure and movement, his
iron-gray hair gave setting to a face in which neither toleration nor
authority had gained the mastery.
With never a sign of having seen me, the officers mounted the poop
ladder and strolled slowly aft, examining as they went. “Peggy” appeared
at the door of the “glory-hole” with a dish cloth in his hands.
“Morning h’inspection,” he explained, in a husky whisper; “they’ll be
back on the port side directly they’ve h’inspected the poop. The little
cuss’s the old man, Cap Harris, commodore in the Nyval Reserve. ’E’s all
right.”
“Hope he lives out the voyage,” I muttered.
“The fat, jolly chap’s the chief steward,” went on “Peggy.” “Best man on
the ship. The long un’s the doctor.”
A stowaway takes no precedence over any other apparatus on board ship
that needs regulating. After their reappearance in the waist the
officers halted several times within a few feet of me to scrutinize some
article of the steamer’s equipment. When the scuppers had been ordered
cleaned and the pump had been pronounced in proper sanitary condition,
the mate turned to the captain and pointed an accusing finger at me:—
“There he is, sir.”
“Ah,” said the skipper. “What was your object, my man, in stowing
yourself away on this vessel?”
I began the story I had attempted to tell the first officer. The captain
heard it all without interruption.
“Yes, I know,” he mused, when I had finished. “Port Saïd is a very
unfortunate place to be left without funds. But why did you not come on
board and ask permission to work your passage?”
What stowaway has not heard that formula, even though the inquirer has
refused that permission a dozen times during the voyage?
“I did, sir!” I cried, “That’s just what I did! I brought a letter to
the chief steward. That’s how I come on board, sir.”
“That’s so!” put in the “fat jolly chap” eagerly; “he sent a note to me
in the drawing-room the night of the ball. But I sent back word that my
force was full.”
“I see,” pondered the captain. “You’re the first man that ever stowed
away on a vessel under my command,” he went on, almost sadly; “you make
yourself liable to severe punishment, you know?”
“I’d put him in irons and send him up, sir,” burst out the mate.
“N-no,” returned the skipper, “that wouldn’t be just, Dick. You know
Port Saïd. But you know you will have to work on the voyage,” he added,
turning to me.
“Why, certainly, sir,” I cried, suddenly assailed with the fear that he
might see, through my coat, the kodak that contained a likeness of his
ship.
“You told the chief officer you were a sailor, I believe?”
“A. B., sir—and steward.”
“Have you anything you can put him at, Chester?”
“I’ve more than I can use now,” replied the heavy-weight.
“Beg pardon, sir,” put in the mate, “but the chief engineer says he can
use an extra man down below.”
He was a kindly fellow, was the mate. Not only was the stoke hole an
inferno in that latitude, but the Hindu firemen would never have ceased
gloating over the sahib who had been sentenced to the degradation of
working among them.
“No! No!” answered the commander; “The man is a sailor and a steward. He
is not a stoker. You had better take him on deck with you, Dick.”
He started up the ladder; but the mate loathed to acknowledge himself
defeated. He made a sign to the doctor.
“Stick out your tongue,” commanded Sangrado, suddenly.
I complied.
“Does that look as if he had been without food for forty-eight hours?”
demanded the mate.
What he hoped to prove by the question I could not fathom. It would
never do to incriminate “Peggy,” and I kept silent. The leech shrugged
his shoulders.
“Huh,” muttered the mate, “I know what I’d do with him if I was in
command.”
“Take him on deck with you, Dick,” repeated the captain, from above.
“And his accommodation?” put in the chief steward.
“There are a few berths unoccupied in the quarters of your men, are
there not?”
“Two or three, I believe.”
“Give him one of those and increase the mess allowance by one. Get
something to eat now, my man, and report to the chief officer, forward,
when you have finished.”
“I’ll send you down a couple of cotton suits,” whispered the chief
steward, as he labored up the ladder; “you’ll die of the plague with
that outfit on.”
I lingered in the “glory-hole” long enough to have eaten breakfast and
hurried forward. The mate, scowling, began a rapid-fire of questions, in
the hope of tangling me up in a contradictory story. The attempt failed.
“Box the compass,” he snarled, suddenly.
I did so. For an hour he subjected me to a severe nautical examination
without any startling satisfaction.
“Umph!” he growled at last, “Take that holly-stone with the handle”—it
weighed a good thirty pounds—“and go to polishing the poop. You’ll work
every day from six in the morning until seven at night, with a half-hour
off for your mess. From four to six in the morning and from eight to ten
at night, you’ll stand look-out in the crow’s-nest and save us two
Lascars. On Sunday you’ll stand look-out from four to eight, nine to
twelve, two to seven, and eight to ten. Look lively, now, and see that
the poop deck begins to shine when I come aft.”
Without a break, I continued this régime as long as the voyage lasted.
Having once imposed his sentence upon me, the mate rarely gave me a
word. Less from fear of his wrath than of a leer of satisfaction on his
rough-hewn face, I toiled steadily at the task he had assigned. The
holly-stone took on great weight, but the privilege of viewing every
tropical sunrise and sunset from the crow’s-nest I would not have
exchanged for a seat at the captain’s table. My messmates were
good-hearted, their chief ever eager to do me a kindly service. The
Hindu crew took vast joy in my fancied degradation, and those intervals
were rare when a group of the brown rascals were not hovering over me,
chattering like apes in the forest, and grinning derisively. But the
proudest man on board was the sarang; for it was through him that the
mate sent me his mandates. Since the days when he rolled naked and
unashamed on the sand floor of his natal hut on the banks of the Hoogly,
the native boatswain had dreamed of no greater bliss than to issue
commands to a sahib.
Ten days the _Worcestershire_ steamed on through a motionless sea, under
a sun that waxed more torrid every hour. The “glory-hole” became
uninhabitable. Men who had waded through the snow on the docks of
Liverpool two weeks before took to sleeping on the deck of the poop, in
the thinnest of garb. With the smell of land in our nostrils, the
good-night chorus was sung more than once on the eleventh evening, and
our sleep was brief. Before darkness fled I had climbed again to my
coign of vantage on the foremast. The first gray of dawn revealed the
dim outline of a low mountain range, tinged with color by the unborn
sunrise behind it. Slowly the mountains faded from view as the lowlands
rose up to greet us. By eight bells we were within hailing distance of a
score of brown-black islanders, unburdened with clothing, who paddled
boldly seaward in their outrigger canoes. The _Worcestershire_ found
entrance to a far-reaching breakwater, and, escorted by a great school
of small craft, rode to an anchorage in the center of the harbor. A
multitude swarmed on board, uncontrolled and uncontrollable, and in the
resulting overthrow of discipline I left my stone where the mess-call
had found it, and hurried below to make up my “shore bundle.” By the
kindness of the chief steward, I was amply supplied with cotton suits.
The frock coat, still in the lifeboat, I willed to “Peggy,” and reported
to the captain. His permission granted, I tossed my bundle into the
company launch, and, with one English half-penny jingle-less in my
pocket, set foot on the verdant island of Ceylon.