JACK DERRINGER
JACK DERRINGER
A TALE OF DEEP WATER
By BASIL LUBBOCK
AUTHOR OF "ROUND THE HORN BEFORE THE MAST"
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1906
PRINTED BY
HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,
LONDON AND AYLESBURY.
PREFACE
I have endeavoured in this book to paint sea life as it really is,
as it can be seen on any deep-water sailing-ship of the present day,
without glossing over the hardships, the hard knocks, the hard words,
and the continual struggle and strife of it all. At the same time
I have tried to hint at the glamour and fascination which the sea
breathes into such souls as respond to its mighty call.
As to the queer collection of flotsam which found itself in the
down-easter's foc's'le, I can assure my readers that this mixed crowd
is in no way unusual; in fact, I am quite certain that the greater
number of sailing ships "bound deep water" at the present moment are
manned by crews of an even worse mixture of nationalities, trades, and
creeds than formed the complement of the _Higgins_, which, for a ship
sailing out of San Francisco, when seamen were scarce, was singularly
lucky in finding so many bona-fide sailormen amongst her crew.
My reader may ask if the brutality described still goes on on American
ships. All I can say is that several of the Yankee Cape Horn fleet are
still notorious for it, their officers excusing themselves on the plea
that only by the harshest measures can they preserve discipline amongst
the hard-cut citizens of all nations who form American crews.
Many of the episodes in this book, including the cowpuncher's frontier
yarns, I have taken from fact, and the treatment of the knifing dago by
the bucko mate in Chapter IV. actually occurred in every detail.
As regards the moon-blindness, I have no doubt I shall have to bear
with many scoffers and unbelievers, but this I know, that few men who
have been used to sleeping in the open, whether sailors or landsmen,
will be amongst them. Many a time have I hauled a sleeping man out of
the glare of the tropical moon for fear of its direful beams, and many
a time have I had the like service done to me. Few old seamen but have
some strange yarn to spin anent the strange effects of the moon upon
the human countenance exposed to its sinister rays: in most cases it
is some hours' or some days' moon-blindness; sometimes it is a queer
contraction of the muscles on the side of the face exposed; and I have
even heard of cases of idiocy put down to the same cause. Certain it
is that the cold beams of our world's satellite are not to be trusted.
Why, do they not even poison fish or meat if left exposed to the mercy
of their baleful glitter?
I must apologise for the sentimental part of this book, but apparently
in a work of fiction a certain amount of sentiment is considered
necessary, even in a sea yarn. However, if my reader finds it not to
his taste, he can skip. We've all learnt to do that, some time or other.
BASIL LUBBOCK.
CONTENTS
_PART I_
CHAPTER I
"THE YANKEE HELL-SHIP" 3
CHAPTER II
"THE RULE OF THE BELAYING-PIN" 13
CHAPTER III
"THE USE OF A SHEATH-KNIFE" 27
CHAPTER IV
"BARBARISM" 37
CHAPTER V
"IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT" 48
CHAPTER VI
"THE FATAL RED LEAD" 59
CHAPTER VII
"IN THE SECOND DOG-WATCH" 75
CHAPTER VIII
"ON THE FOC'S'LE HEAD" 89
CHAPTER IX
"THE GLORY OF THE STARS" 99
CHAPTER X
"STUDPOKER BOB'S MALADY" 109
CHAPTER XI
"THE STORMFIEND" 118
CHAPTER XII
"A CALL FOR NERVE" 132
CHAPTER XIII
"THE MAN WITH THE GUN" 143
_PART II_
CHAPTER I
"ADRIFT" 157
CHAPTER II
"THE _OCMULGEE_" 167
CHAPTER III
"THE BURNING OF THE SOUTH SEAMAN" 179
CHAPTER IV
"THE OPEN BOAT" 194
CHAPTER V
"THE SPELL OF THE MOON" 209
CHAPTER VI
"THE ATOLL" 218
CHAPTER VII
"LOYOLA" 230
CHAPTER VIII
"THE FIGHT ON THE SANDS" 239
CHAPTER IX
"THE LYNCHING" 253
CHAPTER X
"THE _BLACK ADDER_" 272
CHAPTER XI
"A SEA FIGHT UNDER THE STARS" 291
CHAPTER XII
"THE PLUCK OF WOMAN" 303
CHAPTER XIII
"PAPEETE" 318
PART I
CHAPTER I
"THE YANKEE HELL-SHIP"
Bucking Broncho awoke to the familiar cry of "Roll out, roll out, show
a leg!" and thinking it was the call of the Round Up Boss in the early
morning, he opened his eyes and sat up.
The sight that met his gaze considerably astonished him, and the
foc's'le, with its double row of bunks, its stuffy atmosphere, and its
swinging oil-lamp, he mistook for some mining-camp shanty.
Slowly his half-shut eyes took in the details of the gloomy den, into
which the grey light of dawn had as yet hardly penetrated.
Round him lay men in every condition of drunkenness, some prone upon
the deck, others hanging half in and half out of their bunks, all
apparently still in the stupors of a late carouse.
Stretched upon a chest right under his bunk lay a ghastly object
clothed in greasy, blood-stained rags, which but for its hoarse
rattling breathing he would have taken for a corpse.
From the bunk above him came a spasmodic grunt at intervals, sudden
and unexpected, whilst opposite him a cadaverous-looking deadbeat in a
miner's shirt whistled discordantly through a hawk-like, fiery-tinted
nose.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light he discovered other forms
scattered in a variety of grotesque attitudes amongst the litter of
chests and sea-bags on the deck, and through the open door he beheld a
man, in a pair of overalls, sluicing himself with a bucket of water.
Then a gigantic form with a hairy face of kindly aspect blocked up the
doorway, and in hurricane tones besought the snoring crowd to tumble up
and man the capstan. Advancing into the foc's'le, this leather-lunged
apparition coolly and methodically began to haul the insensible
scarecrows out of their bunks, and to shake them until their teeth
rattled.
"Say, stranger, whatever's the hock kyard to all this? What be you-alls
aimin' for to do?" inquired Bucking Broncho in his soft Western drawl,
as he watched the big man handling the drunks.
"Just you tumble out, my son, and get outside, or you'll reap a skinful
of trouble. You'll get the hang o' things quick enough by-and-by,"
returned the other shortly.
"I'm clean stampeded in my intellec' complete," declared the cowboy;
"but assuming you're the boss of this outfit, your word goes; I plays
your hand, stranger, an' I rolls out."
The big, hairy-faced man was too busy pushing, pommelling, thumping,
and hustling the rest of the inmates to take any more notice of Bucking
Broncho, who, gaining the door, stared round in amazement as he found
himself upon the deck of a large sailing-ship.
The cowpuncher, who had only seen "blue water" on two occasions in his
life, had been shanghaied aboard the notorious Yankee skysail-yard
clipper _Silas K. Higgins_, the hottest hell-ship under the Stars and
Stripes.
The last of the wheat fleet, this vessel had been lying at anchor in
San Francisco Bay for some weeks, delayed from sailing for want of a
crew, which her bad name made impossible for her to get except by foul
means.
With lavish hands her "old man" scattered his blood-money amongst the
boarding-house runners and crimps, and then patiently awaited the
result.
Slowly but surely his crew began to arrive, heels first to a man,
some drugged, some sandbagged, some set upon and kidnapped along the
water-front.
Night after night boats sneaked up to the gangway grating and deposited
insensible bundles of rags, which the ghoulish traders in blood
callously slung aboard.
But before signing the note, the experienced mate took care to
ascertain if his new hand still breathed, for more than once in the
past he had had dead men palmed off upon him. Then, if satisfied after
his careful scrutiny, he ordered the watchman to drag the shanghaied
man forward whilst he ticked off Able-bodied Seaman Jones or Smith,
whichever name happened to come first on his list.
The _Higgins_ had been waiting two days for her last man when Bucking
Broncho fell a victim to the manhunters.
The cowpuncher, discovered in Chinatown busy celebrating his first
night off the prairie, was pounced upon by these vultures as "an
easy thing." Skilfully they drugged him, cheerfully they possessed
themselves of his wad of notes, then, overcome by the humour of the
idea, instead of substituting the trade rags for his clothes as usual
in shanghai-ing men, they slung him aboard an hour after midnight in
all the glory of chaps and spurs.
Thus, with her complement gained at last, the _Higgins_ was about to
get under weigh.
Wholly oblivious of the events of the past night, thanks to the
strength of the dope, with buzzing head and half-fuddled senses the
cowboy stood gazing stupidly at the scene before him.
"I'm shorely plumb locoed," he muttered. "What for of a play is this
I'm into?"
Overhearing this, the man sluicing himself turned round.
"Bit muzzy still, mate----" he began, and then stopped in surprise.
This man formed a big contrast to the broken-looking crowd in the
foc's'le.
As he stood there in the morning light, stripped as he was to the
waist, he looked the beau ideal of health: the muscles on his arms and
shoulders stretched the skin till it shone, and heightened the artistic
effect of the beautiful Japanese tattooing which, in the shape of
dragons, butterflies, Geisha girls, and other quaint designs, made a
picture gallery of his body.
Six foot high at least, he stood lightly on his feet with the careless
grace of one used to a heaving deck.
A peculiar look of devil-may-care good nature stamped his clean-cut,
deeply tanned features, yet there was a keen glint of shrewdness in his
blue eyes, decision in his firm chin and resolute lips, with just a
touch of martial fierceness in the twirl of his small moustache.
No tenderfoot this man, though there was no mistaking his nationality.
"A d----d Britisher" was written large all over him. Bare-footed though
he was, in well-worn dungarees, with leather belt and sheath-knife, his
birth was plain as his nationality.
In England they would use one word to describe him--the one word
"rolling-stone"; but in the world not one but a dozen words would be
required--frontiersman, sailor, soldier, gold-miner, cowboy, hunter,
scout, prospector, explorer, and many more, all marked "dangerous" in
the catalogue of professions, for the "rolling-stone" takes to dangers
and hardships just as a city man does to dollars and comforts. And
who shall lay the blame? It's all in the blood, whether you take your
strain from Francis Drake the buccaneer or Shylock the Jew.
Such was the man who faced Broncho--just a British rolling-stone, a
modern freelance, a sea rover.
As he spoke, Bucking Broncho gave him a keen look, and then cried out:
"I'm a coyote if it ain't Derringer Jack. Shake, old pard, you-alls
ain't shorely forget Bucking Broncho?"
"Think I'd forget an old pal like that; no, Broncho, so sure as you
remember me."
"Which I shorely does. I makes a bet I tells them brands o' yours on
the skyline."
As they gripped hands Jack Derringer remarked:
"You've strayed a long way off your range, Broncho; shanghaied, I
suppose? Well, you've run against bad luck here. It's a rough deal
aboard this ship."
"What for of a game is it?"
"_Quien sabe?_ Pretty tough, I expect, old man; you're a sailor outward
bound----"
"The hell you say!"
"Yes; I'll watch your hand as well as I can, but, mind you, Broncho, no
gun-play whatever happens, or you'll reap more lead than if you'd got
the whole of the Tucson Stranglers on your trail."
"I shorely notes your play, Jack; I'm the last gent to go fosterin'
idees of bloodshed. This here deadfall draws the cinch some tight an'
painful, but you can gamble I ain't going to plunge none before the
draw; I'll just watch the deal a whole lot."
"That's _bueno_! Roll a small loop and don't stir up the range more'n
you can help; trouble comes a-hooping and don't need looking for. How
are you feeling after that poisoned grog?"
"Pretty rocky," replied the cowpuncher.
"Stuff your head into that," said the rover, pointing to the bucket of
water which he had drawn a short while before.
"I guess you had better get out of those buckskins," he went on
gravely, as Broncho tried the saltwater cure. "Bit of boarding-house
runner's wit sending you aboard in them; but I'll fit you out. I expect
you've only got the usual rag-bag, like the rest."
"Seems to me I've got my horns locked in a re-ather tough proposition.
I shore aims to be resigned. The ways of Providence is that various an'
spreadeagle that as a man of savvy I comes in blind an' stands pat,"
remarked the cowboy, as they retired into the foc's'le.
Perhaps before he gets rid of his cowpuncher attire for the blue
dungarees of the 'fore-mast Jack, a short description might be welcome.
He was arrayed in full cowboy get-up, just as he had ridden into
Frisco. He wore a fringed and silk-ornamented buckskin shirt, deeply
fringed leather chaparegos, and long-heeled cowpuncher boots, on which
jingled great Mexican spurs. Round his neck he had the usual gay silk
handkerchief, and on his head a brand new Stetson hat.
A loose belt full of cartridges swung a 45-calibre revolver low down
upon his hip. This had evidently been overlooked by the crimps, and, at
a glance from Jack Derringer, he hastily tucked it under his shirt out
of sight.
In appearance Bucking Broncho was a man of medium height, with good
shoulders, none too square, but broad enough.
He was lean and muscular, with the firm flesh of a man in perfect
health and training. There was not an ounce of fat on his whole body.
His skin was darkened and toughened by long contact with wind, sun, and
alkali.
His eyes were of that blue-grey so often seen in men of cool nerve,
who, though used to danger and ready to dare anything, are yet
long-headed and full of resource. He kept them half-shut from long
squinting in the bright sun of the south-west.
His rather heavy moustache had been sunburnt and bleached to a raw gold
colour.
It took but a short time to convert the cowboy into the sailor in
flannel shirt and overalls, with a belt, minus revolver and cartridges,
but with a sailor's sheath-knife instead.
Whilst he was changing his attire, being lavishly supplied with clothes
from Jack Derringer's big sea-chest, his head was fast clearing and the
drugging was losing its stupefying effect.
Calmly he reviewed the situation, and, used to the vicissitudes of the
West, treated his change of fortune with the stoical philosophy of a
frontiersman.
By the time that Broncho was arrayed afresh, the last of the poor
drunks had been dragged from the foc's'le. Then, as Jack and the cowboy
emerged, they came face to face with a big square chunk of a man, with
eyebrows so thick and bushy that they almost hid his fierce, bloodshot
little eyes.
"Up onto the foc's'le-head," he cried angrily. "Git a move on, yew
blasted farmers, or yew won't know what struck yew."
It was Black Davis, the mate of the _Higgins_, one of the most
notorious of buckos.
Broncho opened his mouth to reply, but Jack Derringer shoved him up the
topgallant ladder with a grip of iron, and, directly they were out of
earshot, said:
"That man with the eyebrows is kind of sheriff of this outfit--mate,
sailors call it. He's a bad 'un from away back, but he's got the
drop on us, old son, and we've got to jump around lively without any
tongue-wagging, or he's liable to make things red hot."
"Gaud blimy, but h'I should sye so," remarked a cockney, who was
shipping a capstan-bar close to them. "'E's a bloomin' devil from the
word go, is that blawsted swine. H'I done a passage with 'im afore, an'
I knows 'im, h'I does, the black-'arted 'ound."
They had no time for further reminiscences of Black Davis, however,
for he now appeared on the foc's'le head in company with the big hairy
bosun.
"Never see'd sich a crowd o' hayseeds--not two sailormen among 'em, I
don't expec'," said the bosun.
"Deadbeats and hoboes, every doggoned one of them," growled the mate;
"not a chanty in 'em, neither."
All hands were now tramping steadily round the capstan.
"Heave an' bust her!" sang out the big bosun. "Heave an' she comes!"
Presently a slim young Englishman with curly hair struck up the
well-known chanty, "Away, Rio."
As the hoarse voices echoed over the calm waters of the bay, the crews
of two large British barques came to the rail, hooting and jeering at
the notorious hell-ship.
"Cut his black liver out, boys!" came a stentorian voice across the
water.
"H'I bloomin' well will, one o' these fine dyes," muttered the cockney
under his breath, with a murderous glance at the bucko mate.
Jack Derringer, who was a great exponent of chanties, followed the lead
of the curly-headed one, and in a clean, strong baritone broke out with:
"As I was walking out one day
Down by the Albert Docks."
There were evidently more sailormen aboard than either the bosun or
Black Davis had calculated on, for the chorus came with a roar:
"Heave a-way, my Johnnies, heave a-way!"
"I saw the charming maids so gay, A-coming down in flocks,"
continued Jack.
Then again came the deep-sea roar of--
"Heave away, my bully boys,
We're all bound to go!"
The shanghaied cowpuncher watched everything the while with a keen eye,
and the chantying greatly pleased him.
"This is shore most elegant music," he said to Jack. "What for of a
play would it be if I gives them the 'Dying Ranger.'"
"Wouldn't go, Broncho," replied the other. "These are sailors' working
songs; they're to help the capstan round."
"You shorely surprises me, Jack. This here ship business is some deep
an' interestin' as a play, an' you'll excuse me for ropin' at you with
questions an' a-pesterin', but I'm cutting kyards with myself desp'rate
as to this here whirlygig concarn we-alls is a-pushin' round."
"Why, we're getting up the anchor, Broncho. Do you hear that 'klink,
klink'? That's the cable coming in."
"Hove short!" suddenly sang out the mate.
"Pawl her!" cried the bosun.
The tugboat now backed fussily up and took the hawser; the anchor was
hove up to the cat-head, and the fish-tackle hooked on.
Then, whilst the anchor was hove in-board, a hand was sent to the
wheel, and with a screech from her whistle the tug went ahead.
With a snort she began to move: the hawser sprang from her eddying
wake, dripping and snaking as it took the strain; a ripple appeared
round the _Higgins'_ cutwater, and her bowsprit slowly swung round
until it headed for the Golden Gate.
The mate went aft, and the bosun called out:
"That'll do, men; get your breakfast. You'll be turned to in
half-an-hour."
CHAPTER II
"THE RULE OF THE BELAYING-PIN"
A shock-headed and tattered ragamuffin of a ship's boy crept off to the
galley, and returned with a steaming kid of wet hash.
"Got no pannikin or plate, I suppose, Broncho?" asked the rolling-stone.
"I shorely don't reckon I needs them heretofore. I makes this trip some
abrupt, as you-alls knows, an' I overlooks the same complete. Mebbe
though I can rustle some tin-ware from the 'old woman.'"[1]
At these words a heavily-built, red-shirted man who had been sitting
silently in the next bunk, looked up with a keen glance at the cowboy
and asked:
"Say, stranger, was you on the Cross-bar outfit last fall? I seems to
recall them feachers o' yours some."
"So?" returned Broncho politely.
"I was a-ditching on Hunker Creek," went on the red-shirted man. "You
hits my camp a-trailing some horses which you allows some doggoned
greasers has gone an' lifted. My name's Ben Sluice--Bedrock Ben they
calls me down Arizona way."
"My mem'ry's plumb onreliable an' scattered this maunin'," replied the
cowpuncher; "but I shorely recalls them greasers, now you speaks."
"And I'm sliding out chips you catches 'em all right?"
"Which we shorely does, mebbe two days later, an' swings 'em up to
two cottonwoods without any ondue delays," said the cattle-ranger
indifferently.
Then, turning to the tattooed Britisher, who had just managed to
procure him a plate, pannikin, and cutlery, he inquired with a sly
twinkle in his eye:
"How's that 'ere sun lookin' to-day, Jack?"
Now the rolling-stone was a keen watcher of the heavens, and in his
chest he kept a big star telescope which, from the care he took of it,
seemed to be his chief joy in life.
Many an hour of a hard-earned night watch below had he spent with
his eye glued to that glass, and he was a mine of queer information
and out-of-the-way knowledge on the subject of sun, moon, and stars,
and with a certain air of pride and self-satisfaction he was wont to
describe himself as an "astronomical weather-prophet."
At Broncho's question he threw up his head like a war-horse scenting
battle, and replied with the gravity befitting such a serious subject:
"The sun rose well this morning, and I expect calm weather with light
variable airs before we take the trades."
Ben Sluice the miner looked up in surprise at Jack's professional
weather-clerk air.
"I presumes the 'old gentleman's' healthy, and ain't been a-developin'
of measles none lately?" ventured the cowboy meekly.
"Well, Broncho, I'm afraid there is a small spot beginning to show
faintly on the lower disk," declared the Britisher.
"You don't say? That 'ere luminary is shore misfortunate that away.
You-alls recalls how he suffers so bad from that malady when we're out
on the Circle-dot outfit together. I allow his grub is too heatin',"
drawled the cowpuncher with a faint smile.
Meanwhile, sundry black bottles had made their appearance and been
passed round. Voices began to be raised, Hollins, the irrepressible
cockney, especially being full of talk.
"Well, byes, stryke me, but we're h'all in the syme boat. This mykes
the tenth bloody time h'I've been shanghaied, but--oh lor! Black Dyvis!
My crymes, byes, wait till you see'd 'im use a belayin'-pin; h'I've
sailed with 'im afore, an' h'I knows----"
"The divil, but if it's a bastin' the rascal wants, I'll be after
tryin' to oblige him ivery time," cried a wild-looking Irishman.
"'E'll give you h'all you wants at turn-to time, Pat, I tells ye
stroight."
At this moment a slight diversion was caused by Jack Derringer
unearthing the occupant of the bunk below his own, so that the
cowpuncher could have it.
"Now den, what de hell----" began a big German as he found himself
seized by the scruff of his neck and yanked out on to the deck.
"You scout round for another berth, Dutchy; this man here"--pointing to
Broncho--"is going to have that bunk," said the rolling-stone coolly,
as he seated himself on his big chest and began to fill a well-smoked
briar.
"You tink you am cock o' dis foc's'le. Wait, mine fine fellah, you see
different bresently," growled the Dutchman, picking himself up slowly.
But he took care to keep his distance from the muscular Britisher, and
retired to the other end of the foc's'le, frowning ferociously as a
general laugh arose at his discomfiture.
Suddenly the deck seemed to lift slowly; then there was a sidelong
lurch and a rattle of falling tin-ware, as plates and pannikins slid
off chests and fell to leeward.
A slight swell was beginning to make itself felt as the _Higgins_
neared the entrance of the Golden Gate.
"The divil take you, ye rowlin' hooker," yelled Pat, as he dived after
his pannikin.
"Motion affect you, Broncho?" asked Jack.
"My innards ain't presumin' none so far," replied the shanghaied
cattleman calmly. "Barrin' it's some like the heavin' of an earthquake
I once was in down San Laredo way, I ain't takin' no account of it";
and he took out a corncob pipe, cut a plug, and was soon puffing away
quite at his ease.
"That's _bueno_," went on Jack approvingly. "When we turn to you'll
have to go aloft; it's a bit of a hard graft the first time, but it'll
soon come as easy to you as branding calves."
"If you-alls has to go up them rope-ladders, it's a cinch[2] that this
here shorthorn'll be in on the deal, an' I'm willing to bet a stack o'
blues I ain't none behind before the draw, neither. I ain't gettin'
tangled up in my rope none as to this here climbin' game. I surmise it
ain't none plumb easy, but if my old wall-eyed pinto can't pitch me
into the heavenly vaults, it's a hoss on me if this here ship can."
"I expect there'll be the usual trouble when we turn to," continued the
Britisher. "Mind your luff, old son, and don't hit back, or they'll lay
you out."
"Do you-alls assert as how I'm to let that big hoss-thief come
man-handlin' me without puttin' up some kind o' bluff."
"That's about the size of it; you'll only get the worst of it if you
do. Take my word for it. Watch my play and whirl a mighty small loop."
At this moment the bosun's deep voice was heard outside:
"Turn-to, men, an' get them moorin' wires rolled up and the big lines
below."
Slowly they began to shuffle out of the foc's'le.
"Snakes!" roared the black-browed mate, coming forward in three
springs; "is this a funeral procession, or what?"
Armed with a belaying-pin, he sprang to the door of the foc's'le and
showered down blows upon the head and shoulders of each man in turn.
"Jump, you packet-rats, jump!" he bellowed.
"Is it jump ye want?" cried Pat, and came out flying with one mighty
leap.
Down went the pair of them, and this was the signal for the fight to
begin.
As Pat and Black Davis struggled in furious embrace on the deck, a big
red-headed English man came charging to Pat's assistance.
"H'it's slaughter from the word go!" screeched the cockney, and with
the fiery tanglefoot tingling through his veins he dashed madly upon
the second mate, a short but tough-built block of a man called Barker.
The scene now grew wild and furious, and as Broncho remarked afterwards:
"It shore were a jimdandy fight!"
The mates were buckos with a reputation to keep up, and whilst many of
the crew were rendered half mad by the bad liquor which had been passed
round at breakfast, several of them--such as Pat, Red Bill, who had
gone to his assistance, Hank, an American, and one or two others--had
their names to uphold as bad men.
Curses, yells, groans, and the thud of falling men resounded over the
ship.
The fierce brutal mates, like wolves amongst a herd of swine, gloried
in this exhibition of their strength, their animal natures revelled in
the cruelty, and the lust of spilt blood was upon them.
With ponderous fists and scrunching belaying-pins they smote the
hapless ones, who, weak from their shore debauch, with splitting heads
and unsteady feet, yet with the courage of rage and bad liquor, offered
a desperate resistance.
It was a struggle of savages. Old Adam, with his coat of civilisation
torn off, let his primitive passions have free sway.
It was the barbaric test of survival by bodily strength. The whole
question turned upon whether the mates were strong enough to rule their
crew, and glorying in their strength, they stepped into the realms of
brutality to prove their fitness and superiority over the men.
The greater the resistance the more they were pleased; they took a keen
delight in exhibiting their methods of Yankee discipline. These violent
methods they had reduced to such a deep science that they could fell a
man with a belaying-pin in such a way as to cause no permanent injury.
Black Davis jumped with his heavy sea-boots full upon the ribs of the
gross German, who lay gasping in the scuppers, and, strange to say, the
result was nothing worse than a bad bruise.
But the sea is a hard master, and its followers must needs be tough
to a degree to survive. Life on a wind-jammer soon weeds out the
weaklings, who leave the lists worn out, broken, and spent.
Jack and Broncho tried their best to avoid being drawn into the vortex
of the battle, but were suddenly confronted by the bosun as they
prowled cautiously round the midshiphouse.
"What the devil are you two doing? Skulking, hey? Jump forrard an' help
overhaul that port chain."
So back they had to go into the midst of the fray, where the two mates,
surrounded by a yelling crowd, were fairly making things hum.
"Reg'lar New Orleans style o' towin' out!" gasped the cockney to Jack,
as he skipped round the fore-hatch windlass to avoid the boot of Black
Davis, whose eyes gleamed like those of a wild beast through blood and
matted hair.
"Ho! ye murtherin' baste, ye, I have ye now," cried Pat with a wild
Irish yell, and he sprang full on the mate from the top of the house,
whence he had climbed by the iron ladder.
Down went the pair of them for the second time, and when the mate
gained his feet one eye was closed, whilst Pat was spitting blood and
teeth out of his capacious mouth.
As Jack bent down to lay hold of the chain, Barker, the second mate,
sprang upon him, screeching venomously.
"I'll teach yew, me loafin' beachcomber; yew don't come it over Jim
Barker none so easy, me pretty chanty-man."
The Britisher gave a peculiar smile--the little bruiser had grievously
misrated his man.
Jack's easy smile drove him to a frenzy. His burly fist shot out
straight from the shoulder, a knock-out blow aimed at the point of the
rover's chin.
Jack grinned broadly as he jerked his head to one side. Then, as the
second mate's arm shot over his shoulder into space, he seized it by
the wrist with one hand. There was a quick half-twist, a slight pull,
and the amazed bucko found himself lying on his back, trying to realise
that brute force was of little use against the science of a Japanese
wrestler.
But it was the only point scored against the mates in the contest. Jack
turned calmly back to his work under the superintendence of the bosun,
and Barker, scrambling to his feet, wisely decided to leave the "durned
Britisher" alone, turning to wreak vengeance instead upon an undersized
dago.
Presently a tall lean man was seen approaching from aft. He had the
long hooked beak of a hawk, thin firmly shut lips, and a goatee
chin-tuft, whilst from under shaggy grey eyebrows his steely blue eyes
gleamed forth with a very sinister glitter.
It was Captain Bob Riley, the "old man," one of the most notorious of
down-east skippers, a hard nut in sea parlance, but, like all down-east
deep-water men, a fine seaman.
He arrived just in time to hold off a dago, who, with uplifted knife
and a wild cry of "Me keela you, me keela you!" was springing upon the
second mate.
The latter had not noticed the dago's approach, being busily engaged in
punching a Chilean, whose "carrajos" were getting fainter and fainter.
The old man's nickle-plated revolver had the effect of cooling matters
down.
The mates had had a good enough fight even for their appetites. Red
Bill had a broken arm. Bedrock Ben, who had been to sea before and was
a regular hard case, lay senseless in the scuppers, from the effects
partly of belaying-pins and partly of poisonous liquor. The faces of
Pat and the cockney were hardly recognisable, and even Broncho was
hugging a damaged wrist, though, as he explained:
"I shore never goes nearer than the outskirts of the fight."
The ship had now passed through the Golden Gate, and the deep blue
of the Pacific lay before her, stretching away to the indigo of the
horizon, behind which lay the languid islands of the South Seas.
The glorious azure of the Californian sky was covered with fleecy white
clouds, and a freshening breeze from the norrard was rippling the water
into flashes of snowy foam, upon which the sun's rays sparkled and
glittered.
Ahead the tugboat puffed away serenely, whilst the tow-rope, stretching
between the two vessels, glistened with dropping beads of crystal as it
alternately sagged and dipped into the blue, then rose again dripping
and tautened.
Away to windward a beautiful little schooner bobbed gracefully to the
swell under fore-staysail and mainsail, as it waited ready to take the
pilot aboard.
And now the stentorian voice of the huge bosun rang through the ship:
"All hands make sail!"
Mechanically the men climbed up the ratlines and wearily crept out on
to the yards to cast loose the gaskets and overhaul the gear.
As soon as the topsails had been loosed, the capstans on the maindeck
were manned, and the ship resounded with the tramp of the men at the
bars.
The cowboy followed Jack Derringer aloft on the fore to loose the
sails from the skysail down.
The cowpuncher, cool and collected, managed very well for his
first trip aloft, and found no difficulty in following out Jack's
instructions; but up on the main two new hands who had never been to
sea before got into hopeless trouble.
One of them, but a youngster, who had given his name as Jimmy Green,
seemed to have had what little sense he once possessed entirely knocked
out of him by the rough treatment on deck, and could hardly hang on, so
scared and nerveless was he; whilst the other, a much-befreckled man,
whom the cattle-ranger had at once nicknamed Pinto, still suffered so
much from the effects of the black bottle that giddiness almost sent
him headlong to the deck.
In misery of mind the two poor wretches clambered out on to the
footropes of the upper-topsail yard and clutched the jackstay with
trembling fingers, and the stalwart presence of the British bosun was
required before they could be induced to move.
"Let go thet clew-stopper, yew chunk-headed hayseed," roared the
battered second mate to another poor imbecile up the mizzen. "Are
yew sayin' y'r prayers, or d'ye think that t'gallant yard's your
sweetheart?"
Slowly the great topsails rose and the gleaming cotton bellied out to
the breeze.
And now the tug cast off, and, with a long toot of farewell, headed
back for Frisco, whilst a small boat from the dainty schooner removed
the pilot.
By noon all sail had been set, and the men were mustered aft for
watch-picking. A sorry crew they looked after the battle towing out.
First of all their dunnage was overhauled by the mates for revolvers
and knuckle-dusters. Broncho's weapon, however, they failed to
discover, as his knowing friend, the rolling-stone, had carefully
hidden it.
Whilst the watch-picking went on, the old man paced silently to
windward on the poop, and the steward took the wheel.
The two mates stood scowling over the poop-rail at the mob of
well-battered and singularly tattered men, who clustered in a sullen,
silent group on the maindeck.
The mate, taking the first pick, slowly threw his eyes over the crowd
in hesitation.
Then he called out Hank, a long, tough Yankee already mentioned, who
lurched leisurely to the port side.
A whirling belaying-pin interrupted his meditations, and Black Davis
roared like an angry lion.
"Snakes alive, d'yew think we're goin' ter idle 'round all day while
y're takin' a pasear? Skip, ye great, long, whisky-soakin' swab."
Hank did skip with remarkable agility as the pin whistled past him.
Then came the second mate's turn.
"Hyeh, yew, what's your ugly name?" he cried, pointing to Jack.
"Derringer, sir," answered the rolling-stone.
"Git over to starboard, Mister Derringer, sir!" he growled, and there
was vitriol in his voice.
He had not forgotten that throw of Jack's whilst towing out, and there
was murder in his heart as he glared at the Britisher.
Muller, the big German, was the mate's next choice, whilst Pat was
taken by Barker.
Thus the watch-picking proceeded, but not without one or two further
enlivening incidents.
Pinto reaped a black eye for not saying "Sir" when answering the mate,
and Sam, a big buck nigger, was rolled in the scuppers for spitting on
the deck.
To his great satisfaction the cowpuncher found himself in the same
watch as Jack Derringer, in which were also Pat, Hollins, the cockney,
Curly, the singer of the chanty "Away, Rio," who was a runaway English
apprentice, Bedrock Ben, and the disabled Red Bill, the watch being
completed by a man who called himself Studpoker Bob.
This last was one of those characters peculiar to Western America,
who gain a living by dealing faro and studhorse poker in mining camp
saloons. He had, of course, been shanghaied, and being a fatalist,
like all gamblers, accepted his unpleasant position with apparent
resignation. He was a long, scraggy individual with a thin, cadaverous
face, shifty yellow eyes, and a huge jutting moustache.
In the port watch were Hank, Muller, Pedro, the Chilian dago, and his
side-partner, Angelino, a Portuguee, Pinto, the freckled hobo, Jimmy
Green, Sam, and the wretched ship's-boy, who answered simply to the
appellation of "the kid."
Of the idlers, the bosun has already received attention. Chips was a
quiet, harmless Norwegian named Hansen. There was no sailmaker; the
steward was a nonentity and a tool of the old man's; whilst Lung, the
cook, was one of those unfathomable Chinamen.
The starboard watch were now sent below until 4 p.m., and were speedily
at work bandaging their many wounds, and putting their side of the
foc's'le shipshape.
Red Bill went aft, and Captain Riley, an adept in such matters from
much practice, skilfully set his broken arm.
Curly, being the youngest man in the watch, was appointed to the post
of "peggy," and went off to the galley to fetch the dinner forward.
It was not very appetising, but, such as it was, was consumed eagerly,
for the events of the morning had produced a hunger which did not blink
at bad food.
Bedrock Ben, who looked a weird object with a great red handkerchief
tied over his head and under his chin, started the conversation rolling
with the remark:
"This is shore a red-hot ship, pards!"
"I'm surmisin' it were a some violent outfit myself," said Broncho
reflectively.
"Bedad, an' ye're right, mate; this ould baste of a _Higgins_ is after
being called the hottest craft under the flag," put in Pat, with a
shake of his fist towards Black Davis, who could be seen through the
open door busily at work on the greenhorns. "But I'll be aven with ye
yet, Mister Black Davis, be sure I will," he hissed.
Pat was feeling dangerously vindictive, for, with half his teeth
loosened, his meal had been a source of pain.
"I don't know that she's worse than the _Frank N. Thayler_," remarked
Jack.
"Well, I should smile! My crikey! W'y, the _Thayler's_ a byby to this
bloomin' 'ooker," grunted the cockney.
"Ever sailed in her?" asked Jack.
"No, thank Gaud!"
"Well, I saw her in Manila. Her decks were one mass of bloodstains;
you couldn't get them out, either--holystoning only showed them up
brighter. Her old man shot six men off the main-topsail yard. Some of
her crew laid for him one day, and cut him open; but he recovered.
That's what I call a hot ship."[3]
"I callate she's got to be some swift to rake in the pool against this
craft, bloodstains or no bloodstains," drawled the gambler.
At this moment the sharp report of a Winchester rifle echoed through
the ship.
Half the watch sprang to their feet with various exclamations.
"Gun-play, by all that's holy!" ejaculated Bedrock Ben.
"Some locoed critter goin' against rope," hazarded Broncho coolly, as
they crowded to the door.
But the cockney did not stir from his bunk.
"Old man a-shootin' o' gulls, I h'expec'," he remarked; "'e's blawsted
fond o' killin' them pore 'armless birds, the slaughterin' swyne."
Again a report came, and a gull wheeling astern fell dead in the frothy
wake.
"He's shore a crackerjack with his weepon," commented Broncho
admiringly.
The old man, who was a magnificent shot, soon scared away the following
gulls, but not before he had accounted for three of them.
Well knowing what an impression his fine shooting would make upon his
crew, it had become a regular policy with him on starting a passage to
exhibit his marksmanship.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] "Old woman," a cattle-ranging term for the cook.
[2] _Cinch._ The _cinch_ corresponds in an American saddle to the
English girth. To cinch a girth up is to draw it tight by means of
several turns of strap or rope between the ring of the girth and a
ring on the saddle, and from this the word has come to being used in a
variety of ways; for instance, Cinch on to that--catch on to that; It's
a cinch that--it's a certainty that; What a cinch!--what a good thing!
what an easy thing!
[3] True.
CHAPTER III
"THE USE OF A SHEATH-KNIFE"
Contrary to the astronomical prophet's forecast, the _Higgins_ was
lucky in carrying the northerly breeze until she picked up the
"trades," and the third day out all hands were turned to shifting sail.
By this time Broncho was beginning to feel his feet. He was fortunate
in having such a useful friend as Jack Derringer, who showed him the
right way to set about his work and saved him from many a trouble.
It is to be doubted if Broncho's untamed cowboy spirit would have put
up with Barker's bullying and insulting tongue if it had not been
for Jack's strong influence and keen common-sense way of viewing and
explaining everything.
The rolling-stone, except for strange spells of melancholy, when he
seemed to be lost in gloomy thoughts and was hard to get a word out
of, had a way of looking at everything from a comic point of view, and
his infectious smile and cool comments time and again turned Broncho's
smouldering wrath into mirth.
The cowboy prided himself on his philosophical way of taking fate.
His strong points were his virile manhood, his fortitude against
misfortune, and his daredevil bravery, and in these traits he found an
equal, if not a superior, in the cool, self-possessed Britisher.
Only once was the cowpuncher ever heard to discuss his friend, and that
was in one of his queer outbursts of thought.
"This world is shore like a poker game. Some parties is mean an' no
account, like an ace high or pair of deuces; some's middlin', an' has
their good an' bad p'ints, like a pair o' bullets or two low pair in
a Jack-pot; some gents outhold the rest as a general play, like three
of a kind; but is likewise downed themselves by sech superior persons
who, like flushes an' full houses, is bang full o' sand, sense, an'
'nitiative; but thar's only one sport I ever rounds up against who's
got all the vartues of a four of a kind, an' that man's Derringer
Jack--he's shore four aces an' the joker."
Shifting sail started off smoothly enough, chiefly owing to the bosun,
who knew how to get work out of men without using a belaying-pin.
An old Blackwall rigger, he was the very beau ideal of what a bosun
ought to be, and the sight of his spars and rigging was as good for the
old man's liver as a ten-knot breeze astern.
One day the man at the wheel overheard Captain Bob commenting aloud to
himself after a keen look round his ship.
"Me mates be all right as long as it's thumpin' men an' ship-cleaning
as is the ticket; but when it comes to marlin-spike an' riggers work,
that 'ere durned lime-juicer kin give 'em cards an' spades."
The bosun, however, was far from being popular with the bucko mates, as
his methods of enforcing discipline were much too tame to gain their
approval.
"Them doggoned lemon-pelters never could handle men; they coddles em
an' spiles 'em. Human nature requires whippin', an' if them skulkin'
'possums don't get a sort o' warnin' pretty frequent, they're liable
to get thinkin' they've got the bulge on us," remarked Black Davis
to Barker one morning in disgust, as he watched the bosun, Jack, and
Paddy chatting amiably together whilst they were at work patching a
fair-weather topsail on the maindeck.
These two bullies spent their time looking for trouble. Their one
delight seemed to be to haze the men and knock them about; they had
already beaten every bit of spirit out of those two poor greenhorns,
Pinto and Jimmy Green, whilst Sam, the great buck nigger, who topped
Black Davis by at least half a foot, and Barker by more, fairly rolled
his eyes in terror when either one of these worthies approached or
spoke to him; they knocked the cowards about unmercifully, and even
such gluttons for a fight as Pat and the cockney got their fair share
of hard usage.
But neither Jack Derringer nor the cowboy had been touched since the
towing out.
It was a mystery to all hands why Jack escaped so easily. It was not by
reason of his muscle, which was not so apparent on the surface as that
of the big nigger. It was not because they liked him, for any one could
see with half an eye that the pair fairly detested him, and yet their
mysterious fear of the rolling-stone seemed greater than their hate.
It was not a ferocity of manner or a desperado air that caused this
fear, for although Jack had a quiet way of taking the lead and ordering
others about which had already made him cock of the foc's'le, his rule
forward was far from being that of a despot; it was rather that of an
easy-going, level-headed man, gentle but firm. Being also the only
educated man forward except the young English apprentice, his advice
and counsel were in constant demand.
Even he, however, could not understand his freedom from ill-treatment.
Several times he complained in the foc's'le with a queer grin that
he was not getting his fair share of belaying-pin soup. It actually
seemed to annoy him, and he began to air his wit on the buckos in such
an insolent, daring fashion that the men, hearing him, shook in their
shoes at his temerity.
There was no mystery forward, however, about Broncho's escape from
brutality.
It was known aft, of course, that he was a cowboy from the south-west,
and Jack, with infinite cunning, had made Broncho out to the bosun a
terrible desperado:
"One of the most noted 'bad men' of the West," he declared. "Known and
feared from Arizona to the Kootenay, from Texas to the Pacific slope,
with more notches on his six-shooter than years to his life."
This precious character, together with several blood-curdling episodes
of his career, invented on the spur of the moment by the rover's
fertile brain, was in due course passed on to the after gang, with the
result that Broncho was treated with a strange deference by the buckos,
much to the amusement of the hands forward who were in the know.
Barker took care that all the easiest work came the desperado's way,
and often he would favour him in small ways, and even yarn with him,
when the old man was below, in the hopes of hearing from his own lips
one of his many deeds of blood. But all the time the bucko was nervous
and ill at ease; his own gory record seemed mean and petty compared
to the cowboy's wholesale butcheries. One night he buttonholed the
cowpuncher whilst he was coiling up gear on the poop, and asked him to
spin the yarn of how he killed the seven greasers at Tombstone, and
Broncho had a chance of giving free rein to his inventive powers.
The nickname also of Bucking Broncho, which had long replaced the
cowboy's real name, helped to promote the deception, which occasioned
much unholy joy in the starboard foc's'le.
Thus it was that the buckos treated Broncho with almost servility,
though they daily did their best to arouse every passion of hate,
revenge, and murder in the rest of the ship's company.
But the sand in the time-glass of fate was nearly run out for one of
them.
Whilst the bosun and some hands were busy bending the fore-topsails,
the second mate went aloft on the main with Jack, Broncho, Ben Sluice,
Pedro, and Sam.
They had just hoisted up the main upper-topsail ready for bending.
Barker took his post at the bunt, Jack going out to the weather earing,
with Broncho next to him, and Pedro inside next to Barker; whilst
Ben and Sam went out on to the lee yardarm, where they were in a
short time joined by Curly, who had been waiting below to let go the
spilling-lines.
The head of the sail was spread out along the yard, the earings passed,
and they were all busy making it fast to the jackstay.
Suddenly Barker, who had been watching for an opportunity to raise
trouble, noticed that Pedro had skipped a roving.
"Yew mongrel skunk----" he began, raising his fist to strike the dago;
but the sentence was never finished and the blow never fell, for the
hot southern blood, raised to boiling-point by long-pent-up passion,
burst beyond Pedro's control.
With one flashing movement and a yell of fury, he plunged his knife up
to the hilt in the mate's breast.
With a deep groan, Barker fell back against the mast, bleeding
profusely.
Ben, catching the stricken man in his arms, vainly tried to staunch the
wound; but it was all up with the second mate, who was too far gone
even for speech.
As Ben held him there was a gurgle in his throat, and a stream of
bright lung blood poured from his mouth.
"You've been an' gone an' done it this time," said the ex-miner to
Pedro.
"Me keela lo gringo brute. _Carrajo, esta bueno!_" remarked the South
American coolly, with a self-satisfied air.
"It's some obvious you've coppered his play," said Broncho.
"I allows he's done jumped this earthly game for good," he added,
turning to Jack and indicating Barker, who already had the death-rattle
in his throat.
"Yes, I'm afraid he's _pelili_[4]; these buckos are always looking for
it, and they generally get it in the end," answered Jack quietly. "I
heard him call Pedro by a name yesterday which it's suicidal to use to
any of the Latin races, and one I've frequently seen cause gun-play in
the West, as no doubt you have too."
There was a hush on the yard as they watched the dying man, who was
already unconscious.
It was not a pleasant sight, but was viewed by Jack, Broncho, and Ben
Sluice with calm eyes and level pulses. All three had been familiar
with death in many strange and horrible forms, and their senses were
blunted to the keenness of the horror.
But Curly, only a boy in years, hung over the yardarm white and sick
and shaking, whilst Sam, the coloured man, drew back frightened and
nerveless.
The dago, however, stared indifferently, as cool and unmoved as a Sioux
Indian.
Suddenly death came! There was a spasmodic twitching of the limbs, a
sudden gush of blood from the mouth, nose, and ears, the pupils of the
eyes grew glassy, their whites showed, the head dropped back heavily on
Ben's shoulder, and the complexion took on that strange appearance of
wax as the bucko's spirit fled.
* * * * *
Shifting sail is a busy bit of work. The bosun and his men on the fore,
with their backs turned, were busy stretching their sail to a chorus,
all in ignorance of the tragedy which had just occurred; whilst Black
Davis, with the rest of the hands, was in the sail-locker, putting away
the unbent sails.
At this moment he appeared on deck, followed by a line of men
shouldering a main course, which looked for all the world like a huge
white serpent, coming along the deck on six pairs of legs.
It was a delicious day. The north-east trade wind was light, and the
_Higgins_ was sneaking along over the deep blue of the Pacific, doing
hardly six knots.
The bright sun shone upon the gleaming cotton canvas, giving it the
dazzling appearance of snow.
As the mate stepped forward of the mainmast, he glanced casually up at
the men at work above.
The first thing to catch his eye was the red stain of blood on the
bellying breast of the topsail, and then he noticed that the men on the
yard seemed to be all crowded into the bunt.
"Brazen sarpints! What the tarnation hell air yew doin' up thar?" he
roared.
"Second mate's got badly stuck, sir," replied Jack.
"Who stuck him?"
"Dat er dago, Pedro, sah," shouted Sam, who was not a special friend of
the little Chilian.
Black Davis had seen many a fatality of this sort, and to his credit it
may be said that, whatever the emergency, it always found him ready.
"Bosun!" he roared, "git down off thet yard an' fetch a pair er
handcuffs!"
The whole ship was now awake to the fact that a tragedy had occurred.
The old man appeared through the companion-way with his Winchester
crooked under his arm, and going to the rail of the poop, sang out to
know if the second mate was badly hurt.
"He's done cashed in his checks, sir!" Ben Sluice roared back.
"Better send up a bosun's chair to get the body down on deck, sir,"
sang out Jack.
"All right, all right, not so durned full o' talk up thar," growled the
old man.
An atmosphere of excitement began to pervade the ship, and all work
was dropped. Those who were up the fore scrambled quickly to the deck,
and began feverishly to discuss the matter with Black Davis's gang, in
charge of the main course.
Black Davis, swinging himself on to the rail, slowly started the ascent
of the main rigging.
"'Oo did they say stuck 'im?" asked the cockney.
"Yew bet it's thet dago cuss Pedro done carved him up. I see'd the
devil stickin' out a foot outen them black eyes er his; I've just been
waitin' ter see him get his claws into one of 'em," replied Hank,
taking a mighty bite out of a plug of tobacco, which he proceeded to
chew vigorously.
"Gee-up! gee-up! Pedro kill-um one piecee boss number two velly muchee
chop-chop! Me heap flaid--no likee funee business; plenty muchee
solly!" ejaculated Lung, looking out through his galley door.
"You thinks as 'ow it's goin' to raise trouble, does ye, ye bloomin'
h'opium-slave?" remarked Hollins, with the insolent tone of one
addressing an inferior being.
"And I ain't so sure the chink ain't right neither," put in Hank.
"Der teufel ish dode, und it serves him recht; he was lookin' for it,"
grunted Muller, the German.
"You're right, Dutchy. He were playing for a show-down an' the dago
plumb euchred him," remarked the gambler, Studpoker Bob. "An' if thet
other golderned bucko don't mind his little game some, he'll find
himself up against the iron likewise," he continued in a lower tone,
with an upward glance full of sinister meaning.
"I reckon he ain't easily gallied,[5]" said Hank. "It'll take a man
with a mighty stiff backbone to heave that beggar to, an' you may lay
to that."
"Begorr, but there's men in this foc's'le would be after batin' the
eye-teeth out of him," burst in the eager Paddy.
"Not in the port foc's'le, son; yew bet he's got us all skeert."
"Be me sowl, but he ain't goin' to come it over us starbowlines none,
or he'll get the divil's own larrupin'," said Pat fiercely.
"Who's goin' to do ther larrupin'?" inquired Hank scornfully.
"I'm due to get square with that ladybuck myself, bad luck to him."
"Holy Gee! but he'd fair eat yew, Pat, an' ask for more."
"Faith, an' would he thin. Well, he wouldn't be atin' of Jack Derringer
none so aisy, anyhow. Be the Powers! but Jack could knock his d----d
head off."
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Kaffir word meaning "finished," "done."
[5] Whaling term meaning "scared."
CHAPTER IV
"BARBARISM"
The bosun now appeared with the handcuffs, and they were speedily sent
aloft with a bosun's chair. And now every eye was turned on the topsail
yard to see Black Davis put the handcuffs on his prisoner.
To go up on to that yard, with a raging dago waiting to knife you as
you stepped on to the footrope, required nerve, and the mate knew that
he was in a ticklish position, and that he could expect no help from
the other men on the yard.
Yet there was no hesitation about Black Davis; the man was so made
constitutionally that he really did not know what fear was.
"Git the dago's knife an' sling it overboard," he sang out to Broncho,
as he climbed out of the top.
At this Pedro bared his teeth like a tiger at bay, and turned upon the
cowpuncher with knife ready.
"He shore has me treed," said Broncho to Jack. "I ain't organisin' to
bluff that bowie o' his, or he has me p'inting out on the heavenly
trail too prompt for words."
It was evident that Broncho was helpless against the desperate
southerner, and was more than likely to get killed in his turn if he
made the slightest attempt to wrest Pedro's knife from him.
"The dago has me out-held, sir; he's due to cut me open a whole lot if
I makes a move," called Broncho to the mate.
At this, Black Davis, who was half-way up the topmast rigging, pulled
out his gun, and pointing it at Pedro, sang out:
"Heave thet knife overboard, or I'll fill yew full of holes, yew
dogasted West Coast beachcomber."
Quick as a flash Pedro turned and launched his knife full at the mate.
It stuck quivering and shaking between the strands of the wire shroud,
which, as Black Davis leant forward, was touching the top button of his
waistcoat.
It was a close call!
Pedro, helpless without his weapon, snarled round like a wild beast;
then, with wonderful agility, drew himself up on to the yard, and
stepping on Broncho's hand, before any one could divine his intention,
he sprang into the rigging on the opposite side to Black Davis, and in
a moment was up over the crosstrees and running up the ratlines to the
topgallant yard.
"Come de-own outer that!" roared the enraged and baffled mate. "Come
down, or I'll perforate yew."
The Chilian gave a wild laugh as he reached over before swinging
himself on to the topgallant yard.
The bosun sprang into the rigging and hurried aloft to support his
superior officer.
Meanwhile, the old man looked on impatiently from the poop, fingering
his rifle nervously, evidently debating what to do.
Then up went his Winchester. There was a heavy report, and the wretched
Pedro, straddled with one foot on the ratlines and one on the
footrope, spun suddenly round, threw up his hands, and dropped.
Just below him were the crosstrees, and on to these he fell, and, held
there, lay senseless with head and feet dangling.
For a moment there was a deadly silence over the ship; then a low,
menacing growl of rage rose from the crowd of men on the maindeck.
"Silence there, yew mutinous dogs! Silence, or, sure as my name's Bob
Riley, I'll pump some lead into yew!" roared the old man, bringing the
gun up to his shoulder again.
As he spoke the canvas began to shake; the helmsman had let the ship
run up into the wind. Little wonder if, in the excitement of the
moment, Angelino could find no time for glancing at the compass.
In a moment the ship was all aback.
"Darn my dogbasted skin!" raged the old man, turning upon the
unfortunate Portuguee. "Hard up thet wheel! Quick, yew infernal
lunkhead!"
Then, rushing to the rail, he roared:
"Down from aloft there. On ter the foc's'le head, some er yew. Don'
stand gazin' round, yew moon-struck, mongrel crowd o' Bowery slush!
Clap on to them weather jib sheets! Let go to loo'ard! Neow, then,
round with them fore-yards--round with 'em!"
For a few minutes terrific confusion reigned. Excited men ran hither
and thither, braces were thrown off the pins, and a medley of cries
resounded over the ship, half drowned in the thunderous clatter of the
flapping canvas.
Jack, Broncho, Sam, and Curly came sliding down backstays, leaving
Bedrock Ben still with the dead man in his arms.
By this time the old man was half mad with fury, and dancing a regular
war-jig aft. Words poured in a torrent from his mouth, cut off,
distorted, and half senseless as they burst from his stuttering lips.
Certainly the facts of the case were enough to try the temper of any
man as full of bile and ginger as a down-east skipper. His ship aback;
a crew of lunatics running wildly about the deck, letting go sheets,
lifts, spilling-lines, anything in their craziness; two dead men aloft,
and with them his only remaining officers; last, but not least, two
half-bent fair-weather topsails flogging angrily in the strengthening
breeze, with every chance of splitting from top to bottom.
"Carpenter!" he yelled. "Carpenter, get them headsheets over! Sakes
alive--bust me purple--what er mess! Hyeh, y' ravin' idiots, what y'
doin'? Get on ter thet fore-brace. Come down, bosun. Jeerusalem, look
at them t'p'sls! Hell an' damnation, who let go that sheet? Carpenter,
ye mouldy wood-sawyer, can't yew thump 'em? Beat 'em, kill 'em, jump on
'em, man. Wal, I swow! What the blazin' flames o' hell d'yew think y'
doin', yew bean-swillin', lop-eared Dutch swab----" and so he raged on.
What with the old man's scathing remarks and his own confused brain,
the carpenter got in such a flurry that he hardly knew what he was
doing.
Slowly things were straightened out, with the headsheets over to
windward. On the advent of Jack and his gang from aloft, the foreyard
was swung, and gradually the ship began to pay off under the influence
of the backed headyards.
With the appearance of the huge bosun, calm and collected in the midst
of the chaos, something like order began to prevail on deck. The
_Higgins_ was got on to her course, the yards trimmed, and whilst some
of the hands were sent aloft to finish bending the two topsails, Ben
Sluice and the body of the second mate were lowered to the deck in the
bosun's chair.
The captain's bullet proved to have only grazed the forehead of the
dago and stunned him, upon discovering which the mate had the senseless
man roughly lowered down in a running bowline from the gantline block.
As Black Davis reached the deck, the old man, who was still fuming like
a smouldering volcano, turned upon him with a withering glare.
"Hm, mister mate, an' a nice bunglin' yew made of it up aloft, lettin'
a miserable little deck-swab of er Chilanean make a fool er yew like
that. Ain't yew ever put the bracelets on a man before? Y'll have ter
hustle round considerable mor'n this, or yew won't suit Cappen Bob
Riley"; and with a final snort the irate skipper disappeared down the
companion.
Mr. Bucko Davis turned back to his work in no very sweet frame of mind.
The body of the second mate had been placed on the main-hatch, and
alongside it was laid the senseless form of Pedro.
"Hyeh, boy!" growled the mate to the kid, who was at work outside the
galley, peeling potatoes for the cabin dinner. "Git er bucket er water
an' see if yew can't wake thet dago up."
The boy drew a bucket over the side, and then, with shaking hands,
tilted it gently over the face of the South American; but with his big
brown eyes dilating with fright, the kid went very gingerly to work.
"Thet won't do, thet won't do," grunted Black Davis. "Give it ter me!
Can't yew throw water yet?"
Seizing the bucket, with a true bosun's swing the mate hove the water
over the unconscious man, with such skill that not one square inch of
him from head to heel escaped the deluge.
"More water! more water! Neow then, jump around lively," called the
angry demon impatiently.
With the sousing the mate gave him, Pedro could only do one of two
things, either lie there and be drowned or come to his senses.
This latter he proceeded to do whilst the kid was drawing a fourth
bucketful.
"Thought thet'd rouse the skunk," commented Black Davis; then, grabbing
hold of the wretched man by the scruff of his neck, he dragged him off
the hatch, and, dropping him on the deck, gave him three terrific kicks
over the ribs.
"P'raps thet'll learn yew who's mate o' this ship, yew knifing beast;
ther's one fer the second mate an' two fer me, 'count of all the
trouble y've given me."
The miserable Pedro now broke out into low moans.
"Hm! Just like er dago! Cuts er man up an' then whines," went on the
bucko, as he picked up the handcuffs off the hatch; then for a moment
he stood hesitating, evidently turning something over in his mind.
Meanwhile the bosun had all hands busily engaged bending the main
course. As the sail was stretched and the rovings passed, a subdued
muttering went on, which in the present ugly humour of the men the
bosun wisely took no notice of.
Presently there was a hail from the deck.
"Bosun, send me down er couple er them jailbirds o' yours."
A low, sibilant hiss of deadly venom ran along the yard at the sound of
the mate's voice.
"Hm!" thought the bosun as he listened, "there's some of 'em pretty
near ready for a word spelt with a big M."
He scanned the men on the yard for a moment in silence, and then
carefully picked out two harmless ones.
"Pinto an' you, Green, get down on deck an' see what the mate wants."
With ludicrous haste these two worthies hurried down the ratlines, for
they knew by experience what it meant to keep Black Davis waiting.
"Neow, yew two," said the mate, "skip forrard, an' if yew ain't got
thet bosun's locker cleared out in two jiffs, thar'll be all-fired
trouble."
They dashed off like a pair of frightened colts, and in record time
reappeared with the statement that the locker was entirely bare.
"Left no blocks an' marlin-spikes behind, have yew?" asked the mate
suspiciously.
"No, sir," came the reply in a hasty duet.
"Wall, I guess yew know what'll happen if yew have," he said with
meaning.
"Neow, pick up the body of the second mate, take it forrard, an' lay it
on the shelf," he went on.
"Aye, aye, sir!" came the hurried duet again.
As the two men rolled staggering off with the heavy form of the dead
bucko, Black Davis turned to the dago on the deck.
"Know what I'm goin' ter do with yew, Mister Mate-killer? No? Wall,
y'll soon find out. I reckon I'll have yew some tamed before I done
with yew! Neow then, up yew git."
Except for a deep groan Pedro took no notice. At this the mate seized
him by his shirt-collar and dragged him on to his feet.
For a moment the poor wretch swayed tottering, and then, with a great
effort, collected his strength and retained his equilibrium.
"Oh, yew can stand, hey? Wall, neow, suppose yew walk forrard into thet
bosun's locker."
Unsteadily Pedro lurched forward, dragging himself along slowly,
followed by the bucko dangling the handcuffs.
The bosun's locker was small, and there was hardly room for the mate
and his victim besides the dead man on the shelf; and as Black Davis
entered, the miserable Chilian backed up against the bulkhead in doubt
as to what was going to happen next.
"Hold out y'r hand," commanded the mate; and as Pedro obeyed, he
snapped the handcuff on it; the other he slowly clasped upon the wrist
of the dead bucko, whilst Pinto and Jimmy Green, standing hesitating
what to do, watched him with eyes of horror from the doorway.
"I'll just see how yew like a night o' that, chained to a stiff of y'r
own killing," said the demon, with a fiendish chuckle. "Wall, yew've
got better company than yew ever had before. A pleasant night to yew!"
and he retired, locking the door after him.
The bosun was now put at the head of the starboard watch, and the
routine of the ship once more continued on its normal course.
Shifting sail was again in full swing, but the men worked listlessly in
deadly silence; there was no chantying on the gantline, and they pulled
and hauled without even the usual hee-hawing.
The bosun tried again and again to instil some life into the work, but
in vain; all hands went at it steadily, but without a sound.
It is a very bad sign when a ship's crew work in silence, and even the
mate ceased his hazing as he noticed the sullen humour of the men. You
can bully and ill-treat a deep-sea crew as much as you like up to a
certain point; but there is a limit mark, and if you step beyond that
you begin playing pitch-and-toss with your own life.
The sea is not to blame for every missing ship. A steady-going,
harmless man can be turned by continual brutality and ill-treatment
into a desperate, iron-nerved assassin, and a good crew can be brought
to such a condition that one accidental spark will set them afire;
then, rendered half madmen, half fiends, they turn the ship into a
shambles.
There is only one thing that protects the lives of American buckos,
and that is that nowadays deep-water ships go to sea with such a mixed
lot of nationalities in their foc's'les that they are totally unable
to act together. The after-gang realise this fully, and work upon it,
skilfully playing the men off against each other.
Whilst the ship's company were seething with passions which threatened
to boil over at any moment, no sound came from the bosun's locker,
where Pedro crouched alone with his victim.
At meal-times his food was passed in to him, in the presence of the
mate; then the key was turned again, and he was left to brood anew with
the blood-stained corpse attached to him like a Siamese twin.
At eight bells, 4 p.m., the decks were cleared up and the watches set
once more.
At knock-off time all hands assembled on the foc's'le head, and a
babble of wild, angry voices arose, in which the shrill squeal of
Angelino, the Portuguee, Pedro's chum, mixed discordantly with the deep
gutturals of the negro, the jerky sh's of the German, the twangy nasal
accents of the Americans, and the misplaced h's of the cockney.
Grimy fists were waved and shaken furiously aft, and the venomous
oratory of the long, vicious gambler, Studpoker Bob, was received with
deep roars of approval.
Jack, Broncho, and Curly seated themselves apart from the wrangling
crowd, and lit their pipes.
Curly, young, soft, and impressionable, was very indignant at the
mate's callousness.
"It's enough to send Pedro off his head, chained in there all alone
with that fearful corpse. It makes me creep to think of it. I shouldn't
be surprised to hear screams from that bosun's locker before morning."
But Jack was not of his opinion.
"The dago's too near an animal for that. His nature's coarse-fibred,
and though his blood is hot and excitable, his nerves are dull and only
respond to the emotions of a brute."
"Which I concurs with them views entire," remarked Broncho. "I allows
that dago's mighty familiar with corpses, an' no longer regyards them
with respec'. That ain't no amature work, the way he uses his bowie; he
weren't doin' no bluffin' on a four-card flush; the way he manip'lates
his weepon shows he knows his game."
"Anyhow, it's a brutal shame, and from the way some of the men are
talking I reckon Black Davis had better look out for squalls," cried
Curly hotly.
"I don't think Davis is afraid of any man forrard; they talk too much.
Listen to 'em now. He knows not one of them dare face him alone," said
Jack.
"Still, I've seen marlin-spikes dropped from aloft, and on a dark night
accidents easily happen," went on the ex-apprentice stubbornly.
"You bet, son, that ole pole-cat's got his ha'r-trigger fixed; he's
plumb loaded with what you-alls call nerve, an' is due to make a mighty
fervent play, however the kyards stacks up."
As Broncho spoke, the cockney's voice, loud and harsh, broke in upon
them as he harangued his audience:
"H'it's a bloomin' shyme, byes, that's wot h'I calls it----" and the
rest of his speech was drowned in the deep tones of the foc's'le bell,
as the silent and suppressed kid, whose duty it was to keep time,
sneaked up and struck eight bells.
CHAPTER V
"IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT"
The starboard watch got slowly to their feet and tramped aft.
"Relieve the wheel and look-out!" called the mate.
It was Jack's wheel, and he was pleased, for he delighted in his night
wheels, when, steering mechanically, like the born helmsman that he
was, he allowed himself to get wrapped up in his thoughts.
The tropical nights always had the effect of stirring up half-forgotten
memories in the breast of the rolling-stone, and after noting all his
favourites gleaming above, he gradually lost himself in deep reverie.
The myriads of stars, studded like diamonds on the indigo robe of the
heavens; the clear-cut moon, with its sparkling path of silver threads;
the creamy wake, swirling astern in one blaze of phosphorus; the sharp
outlines of spars, sails, and cordage, looking as if fashioned in
ebony; the dreamy hum and soft caress of the gentle trade wind,--all
these appealed intimately to the soul of the rover.
Forgotten were the stirring events of the day; he dreamed and dreamed
in a paradise of his own, the beauty of the night recalling other such
nights to him.
* * * * *
Once more he is mate of the rakish island schooner, lying lazily
at anchor in some atoll lagoon, a bevy of flower-decked South Sea
maidens dancing wildly on the maindeck to the soft tones of a guitar,
the bright moon glistening on the swarthy faces of the Kanaka crew,
seated round in squatting posture. The wild cries of the dancers are
half-drowned in the deep boom of the distant surf and the rustling of
the cocoa-palms rocked by the caressing breath of the steady-blowing
zephyr.
Slowly the scene changes, the noise of wind and surf are hushed, the
fairy dancers fade away, his luxurious hammock sinks to earth. He is
alone, stretched at full length on the bare ground, a single blanket
covering him; by his side is a trusty large-bore rifle, and at his feet
a glowing camp-fire; whilst around him, blocking out all but the sky,
there stretches a thick entanglement of mimosa thorn.
Suddenly the silence is broken.
A deep, echoing roar rises on the night, swells and ceases, then breaks
forth again, evidently nearer. He clutches his weapon.
His quick ear notes the uneasy whinny of his horse and the restless
movement of the cattle. The king of beasts is looking for his dinner.
As he listens, the guttural notes of his Kaffir boy under the waggon
whisper anxiously:
"Hark, Baas! Lapa! lapa! (There! there!)"
Again the scene fades, and he finds himself crouching in the smoky
entrance of a teepee. Before him stretches the prairie, like a great,
still ocean. In the foreground twisting lines of bent, naked forms
hop and spring in fantastic figures, the moonlight glancing on their
painted bodies. A discordant tomtom-beating mingles with wild whoops.
Gradually the ghost-dance grows quicker and quicker, the whooping
redoubles, the dreary chant of a group of squaws swells in volume;
then----
* * * * *
Tink-tink! Tink-tink! Clear and sweet came the notes of the bell.
"'Ere, wake up, governor. You looks loike a bloke h'I once see'd
a-walkin' in 'is sleep. Wot's the course?"
Jack started violently. It was the cockney come to relieve the wheel.
"South-a-half-west!" stammered the rover.
"South-a-'alf-west!" repeated Hollins, and Jack retreated forward.
* * * * *
And what were the thoughts of the murderer during that long night, as,
hunched up with his back against the bulkhead and one nerveless hand
held to the corpse, he crouched awaiting the dawn.
Was he thinking of life or of death, of the future or of the past?
Not he! His brain was vacant and his mind a blank; only his mouth was
full, as he chewed steadily all through the long, long night.
* * * * *
Jack curled himself down under the lee of the main fife-rail, and, when
the watch changed, returned there, preferring the open sky above him on
such a perfect night to the frousy bad air of the foc's'le. Just as he
was falling asleep, he noticed the small figure of the kid squeezing
itself in behind the pump wheels.
The first hour of the middle watch passed without incident. Black Davis
paced moodily to windward on the poop, the helmsman nodded sleepily
over the wheel, and the look-out, trusting to luck in not being found
out, was taking a nap on the foc's'le head.
Of the whole ship's company, perhaps the ragged urchin time-keeping was
the only one thoroughly awake besides the mate.
But two bells had not been struck five minutes before every sleeper was
aroused into wakefulness.
Suddenly a long, deep, wailing groan reverberated through the ship.
Dusky forms crouching under the lee of the bulwarks roused themselves,
sat up, and looked round inquiringly.
The mate stopped in his walk and listened, the look-out sprang startled
to his feet, and a hoarse murmur of gruff whispers broke out.
Again came the deep, mournful groan. It seemed to come from somewhere
about the midshiphouse.
"What's thet noise forrard?" called the mate.
"Some one a-groanin' in the midshiphouse, sir!" hailed back the
look-out.
The men nudged each other significantly.
"Poor Pedro!" came a loud voice from somewhere forward.
The mate frowned but said nothing, and the explanation evidently
satisfied him, for he resumed his tramp.
Again the groan broke the stillness of the night.
There was something uncanny about the dismal sound. Full of
superstition, like all deep-water Jacks, the men did not like it;
several of the watch sprang to their feet, and there was a deep hissing
of awe-filled voices amongst the dark groups of clustering men.
Suddenly a voice called from forward:
"It ain't the dago, sir; he says it weren't him."
"Who's that speaking?" roared the mate.
"Green, sir!"
"Come aft, yew; what yew doin' forrard in yer watch on deck?"
The man came running aft at a heavy, ungainly trot.
"Wall?" snapped the bucko venomously.
"Hearin' them groans, sir, I went an' listened at the door of the
bosun's locker."
"Yes; wall? Go on, go on!" broke in the mate impatiently.
"I listens a while, sir, an' hears nothin'; then there comes a groan
again, wery image o' Mister Barker's voice."
There was a renewed nudging and whispering amongst the group of men
listening.
"Told ye so!" growled one. "Just wot I said!"
"By golly! dem is ghost groans, dis chile tell dat easy. No libing coon
eber make dem noises, not on your life," grunted the coloured man, his
voice shaking with fright.
"Silence there!" thundered the mate. "Go on, Green, spit it out 'fore
y'r throat gits sore," he continued.
"Then I asks Pedro, sir, if it was 'im, an' he sez he ain't opened his
mouth all night."
"All right, yew kin go," muttered Black Davis. "It's thet softy of a
carpenter been eatin' too much!" he went on half to himself, half aloud.
Suddenly, right over his head called a voice:
"_I'm comin' fer yew, Davis, I'm comin' fer yew!_" Then, after a short
interval, "_I'm burning! I'm burning! I'm burning!_"
The effect on the superstitious men was stupendous. The voice was the
late second mate's to the life, and seemed to come from the mizzen-top.
Sam, the oracle on ghosts, threw himself to the deck, groaning in
absurd terror.
"De ship am doomed! De ship am doomed!" he shrieked.
Angelino crossed himself nervously, and a shiver ran through the
quaking crowd.
But there is not much superstition in a Yankee bucko, and Black Davis,
tilting back his head, hailed the mizzen-top with a roar loud enough to
wake the dead.
"Who's thet skylarkin' up thar? Come down, yew ratty hoodlum, or I'll
break yew all ter pieces."
Dead silence!
"Up the mizzen riggin', some er yew swine, an' fetch him outer that!"
roared the angry mate.
Not a man stirred.
Suddenly the tall form of the bosun appeared on the edge of the group
of frightened men, awakened out of his light sleep by the commotion.
"What's up now?" he asked, as he shouldered his way through the men.
"Hell is up an' fizzlin'," burst out the exasperated mate. "Some d----d
scowbanker monkeyin' aloft has got this crowd o' softies scared; but he
ain't scared Black Davis--oh no! not by the Holy Pope--an' I pities him
when he comes down."
"Jump aloft, bosun," he continued, "and see if yew kin rake him out by
his eye-teeth; he's somewhere up the mizzen."
"Aye, aye, sir," replied the bosun in his deep voice, and turning, he
swung himself over the rail into the rigging and went up the ratlines.
All heads turned upwards, anxiously watching him.
"He's a dead man," quavered one.
"Shut up, yew brayin' booby!" grunted the mate.
Up went the intrepid bosun. They watched him clamber out on the futtock
shrouds and haul himself into the top; for a moment he disappeared
behind the mast, and then reappeared, and with one hand on the topmast
rigging, leant over the edge of the top and shouted down:
"There ain't nobody up here, sir. Are you sure you heard a voice?"
"Didn't I done tole you?" jerked Sam, his teeth rattling.
"Heard er voice!" howled the mate. "W'y, the swab called me by me name."
"It were Mister Barker's voice!" put in some one in an undertone.
"It were de voice ob de debble!" declared the darkey. "By gorry, dis
bleedin' hooker am doomed!"
"Hell!" roared the mate. "If thet coffee-coloured Jamaica slush-bucket
shoots off his bazoo again, I'll jump down an' whang his hide off."
This snuffed out any further assertions by Sam.
In vain the bosun searched aloft; he even shinned on to the skysail
yard, and the fore and main were likewise searched, but without success.
There were no further utterances of the ghostly voice, and the matter
remained an unexplained mystery.
Black Davis and the bosun did their best to thrash the matter out, but
at last gave it up as hopeless.
"Must a' been some one foolin' on deck," suggested the bosun.
"But the voice came from aloft, man; the whole watch was hyeh with me.
It weren't none er my crowd; I'll lay a hundred dollars thar's none o'
them got the nerve to go monkeyin' with me like that," replied the mate
impatiently.
"An' there ain't no parrot aboard. Well, it beats all my goin' to sea,"
muttered the other. "My crowd was all in the foc's'le 'cept Derringer,
who was doin' a doss on deck, an' I see'd him standin' in your mob as I
come along aft."
"Wall, then, if he was with my crowd o' hoodlums, it couldn't ha' been
him, though if thar's any deadbeat aboard who's got the cheek ter do
it, it's thet durned Britisher."
A curious grim smile appeared on Jack's face as his sharp ears caught
the mate's remark.
Like the others, he had been awakened by the first groan.
As it ceased he heard a long-drawn breath, and looking round, spied the
small white face of the ship's boy, outlined by the moonlight, as he
crouched up against the mast behind the pump wheel.
Even as he watched he saw the small mouth open, at the same moment the
groan broke out again, apparently by the midshiphouse.
Silently Jack gazed, marvelling. No sound seemed to come from the boy,
but as the groan ceased his mouth closed, and he drew a long breath.
"Well, I'm jiggered," muttered Jack to himself. "The boy's a
ventriloquist, and a wonderful one at that."
Then the kid threw his voice into the mizzen-top, and the words which
had caused such consternation burst forth.
This time his mouth was nearly closed, and only a very keen observer
could have detected any movement in his lips.
"Great Harry! If Black Davis were to catch the nipper at that game he'd
kill him," mused Jack; and thinking that the performance had gone
quite far enough, he drew himself under the fife-rail with the silence
of a stalking Apache, and then suddenly pounced on the boy, clapping
one hand over his mouth to prevent any cry of alarm.
"Hush, not a sound!" he hissed, as he took his hand from the kid's
mouth.
"Don't split on me, Derringer, don't split on me. I'll never do it
again, so help me bob," half blubbered the terrified urchin.
"Honest Injun?" inquired Jack.
"Honest Injun!" repeated the boy.
"Well, I'll pull you through this time; but don't breathe a word of
this to another soul aboard," said Jack softly.
"Be sure I won't," whimpered the kid.
"Right! Now we've got to slip into that crowd there without them
spotting that we've not been there the whole time; savvy, youngster?
Keep your pecker up and mum's the word," whispered the rover.
"Hang me, but the lad's got nerve, and I like the look of him, too," he
thought, as the pair of them stealthily joined the group of scared men.
"What's your name, kid?" asked Jack in an undertone, whilst the bosun
was searching aloft.
"Jim," replied the boy; "I don't remember ever havin' no other."
"Where do you come from?"
"London. Fust thing I can remember was sleepin' in the parks; my, but
it were cold sometimes."
"Got no father or mother?"
"No, I didn't have nobody; I wos just a street arab afore I went to
sea."
"And how long have you been at sea, sonny?"
"Four year!"
"Pretty rough, eh?"
"Yes, mos' times, but I'm hard," replied the plucky boy.
"Well, see here, Jim," said the rover, gripping the boy's hand in his
strong grasp. "I'm your friend from now on, and just you come to me
when there's any trouble; savvy? Now you'd better skip along and strike
'one bell.'"
With tears in his eyes the boy stuttered his thanks before hurrying
off to his time-keeping, and as he went he skipped along the deck for
joy. His sad little heart had seldom known a kindness, and he had grown
accustomed to bearing the hardships of his lot with a sullen apathy;
but this offer of friendship and the protection of a strong right arm,
coming as it did from the cock of the foc's'le, seemed almost too great
a bit of luck to be true.
The boy felt a buoyancy within him which refused to be kept down, and
his rising spirits, manifesting themselves in an attempted rendering of
the hornpipe, all but brought him foul of the mate's heavy toe.
The excitement caused by the strange incidents of the middle watch sank
all grievances for the time being. Like all deep-water men, the events
which had put murder into their hearts one day were forgotten the next.
No longer did that sea-lawyer, Studpoker Bob, find an eager audience!
Instead, authorities on ghosts and mysterious voices, such as Sam,
gained the whole attention of the wildly superstitious crowd.
On coming on deck for the forenoon watch the mate made a visit to the
bosun's locker.
He discovered the Chilian sullenly indifferent and serenely calm. The
weird voices of the night did not seem to have troubled the man, or
even aroused his curiosity, and he swallowed down hungrily the rough
breakfast which the Chinese cook placed before him; after which he was
released from the corpse, which was hastily sewn up in canvas, and,
with half a dozen worn-out sheaves made fast to the feet, launched
overboard.
No service was read over the body, for, as Captain Riley remarked to
his second-in-command,
"In the fust place, I ain't got no doggoned prayer-book; an' in the
second, I callate that Barker'll reach whatever port he's bound for
quick enough, prayers or no prayers."
As the body took its dive, all hands rushed to the rail.
"So long, ye devil's spawn, a fair wind down under to ye. I guess
they've their heatin' plant all fixed for ye," muttered Red Bill, of
the broken arm.
"Solitary confinement on bread and water," was the old man's order _re_
Pedro.
He was handcuffed, his donkey's breakfast and a blanket were tossed
in to him, then the door was locked, and he was left to brood in
semi-darkness, the only light being that which glinted through the
ventilator in the door.
CHAPTER VI
"THE FATAL RED LEAD"
The trades failed close to the line, and all the troubles and trials
of the doldrums began. They were a fine opportunity for Black Davis to
take the steam out of his watch, for the wind, when there was any, came
in short puffs from every quarter of the compass, and never blew for
more than an hour or two in any given direction.
"Weather crossjack brace!" was the continual cry, and at night on the
advent of each black squall there was a roar of:
"Stand by your skysail halliards!"
At one moment the rain would be coming down like a waterspout until
the scuppers were full, and the next minute the wet ship would be
glistening in the sunshine.
For five days the _Higgins_ did not average twenty miles a day, and the
whole of one baking Sunday she swung idly on her heel in the clutches
of a Paddy's hurricane, whilst a stick of wood floating at her side
would be sometimes ahead, sometimes astern.
Several of the men in their day watches below fished indefatigably from
the jibboom, and Broncho soon had his first taste of albacore.
The flying-fish attracted him immensely, and he seemed never to tire of
watching them as they flashed in and out of the water in glittering
streaks of silver.
"I allows them fish has a high an' lavish time of it, a-pirootin' round
permiscuous that-away. I shore wonders it don't exhaust them none, the
way they hustles around," observed the cowboy to Jack Derringer, as
they reclined lazily on the foc's'le head one afternoon watch below.
"A good time? Not much! Why, the albacore and bonita chase them out
of the water, and the bosun-birds swoop down upon them in the air;
they spend all their time flying from one enemy into the clutches of
another."
"You don't say? It's shore some mean the way Providence cold-decks them
fish that-away; yet they seem plenty numerous, notwithstandin' the way
they're up agin the iron," drawled Broncho, as he slowly cut up some
tobacco and refilled his corncob.
When within a few miles of the line the _Higgins_ was put about for the
first time.
This piece of seamanship was not executed without a vast amount of
belaying-pin soup, even Broncho, the notorious desperado, getting his
share in the heat of the moment.
The crew were raw and undrilled, and soon were worried into a hopeless
tangle.
As the bosun had to attend to the crossjack and main braces in charge
of the starboard watch, Jack was placed in command on the foc's'le,
with Hank and Pat to aid him. This post is always reserved for the best
men in the ship, for in a fresh breeze the men on the foc's'le have a
most lively time.
From the moment that the helm was put down, the ship was in an
indescribable uproar. The maindeck, littered with ropes'-ends, coils of
braces, and handspikes, was soon in hopeless confusion. Braces jammed,
tackles got foul, and the men ran aimlessly about, chased by Black
Davis, who, like an avenging demon, was swearing as only a ship's mate
can swear, whilst he fairly surpassed himself with his fist and boot
work.
At the break of the poop the old man almost foamed at the mouth with
fury. With clenched fists he raged up and down, roaring like a bull.
"Let go them royal an' skysail braces, yew mongrel rip thar, what in
hell'r yew doin' of? Gol darn my etarnal skin if ever I see'd sech a
inseck. Neow y've gone an' fouled thet brace! Snakes, yew ain't more
use than a lot o' cawpses. Hyeh, bosun! Jump across an' thump thet
hayseed, will yew?"
At the critical moment Sam, at the wheel, nearly had the ship in irons.
With one rush the old man was upon him.
"What in thunder air yew doin'? Y'll have her aback in a second, yew
durned, sooty-faced heathen!"
And he gave the darkey a cuff on the side of the head which would have
sent him to the deck if he had not clung to the wheel.
At last the yards were braced up on the other tack and the old man went
below. Whilst the port watch cleared up the decks, the other retired to
repair damages.
"I shore thinks I've been in some elegant skirmishes afore now,"
remarked Broncho, as he felt himself over for breakages in the
foc's'le; "but I'm an Apache if I'm ever into a fight that's more
stirrin' an' eventful, not to say toomultuous. At one time I'm that
tangled up in my rope I allows it's a whirlwind."
"I believe you, my bye," said the cockney, as he limped painfully
across to the water-barrel for a drink. "I drors h'it mild when h'I
sez it's chucks ahead of a bloomin' 'urricane."
"And you calls the play kerrect, Hollins. What with that old he-wolf
a-howlin' in a mighty unmelodious way on the poop, an' Black Davis
a-swarmin' all over me like a wild-cat, I shore reckons it's a heap
thrillin'. Them two sports throws no end of sperit into their play."
"And thet ain't fosterin' no delusions; they're hot stuff, pard, an'
they earns their reputations," said Bedrock Ben. "That 'ere Black Davis
jumps me offen my mental reservation complete every time."
"When he gets a ship he ought to make a most successful master, if his
training goes for anything," put in Curly. "I notice all the American
deep-water skippers have the reputation of having been regular Western
Ocean buckos in their time."
"That bloomin' roustabout'll never live to command a ship," grunted
Red Bill from the opposite bunk. "He's too successful with his fists
to live long. He'll get cut up one o' these days, like that other New
Jersey tough."
"Yes, success isn't all jam," remarked Jack slowly. "It's got a
remarkable habit of turning sour in your mouth, just as you are
beginning to put on frills and throw out your chest."
"Them remyarks o' yours is shore wisdom, Jack," drawled Broncho in his
musical Texan, as he blew a cloud of tobacco-smoke slowly through his
nose. "What you-alls calls success don't always pan out so rich as you
calculated it would. Often the kyards stacks up mighty contrary, an'
when you're just about callin' for drinks round, blandly surmisin' in
your sublime ignorance that you makes a winnin' an' is shore due to
scoop the pot, that 'ere gent 'Providence,' who's sittin' some quiet
an' unobstrusive whilst you raises the bet to the limit, just steps in
an' calls your hand. Then it is that your full house goes down like an
avalanche before his four of a kind, an' you, some sore an' chagrined,
meanders off an' ponders on this vale of tears."
"You're some long-winded, Broncho," said old Ben Sluice, "but you're
dead right. I've seen a hell's slew o' minin' pards go under just 'coss
they'd struck it rich. They rakes in their dinero an' away they goes,
playin' it high an' standin' the crowd, all the time a-consumin' o'
nosepaint unlimited; an' the next thing you knows is they done jumped
the track."
"H'I knew a real bang-up toff once," joined in the cockney. "'E wos
a genelman, too, boiled shirt, shiny pants an' h'all, an' a dead
smooth job 'e 'ad--just raked in the quids for doin' nuffin' but loaf
'round. You've all 'eard of the Scotch 'Ouse--leastways, h'any that's
been to the little village h'I come from. Well, 'e was wot they calls
'shopwalker' there. H'I goes in there one day (h'I'd got a big payday
comin', an' h'I thinks, thinks h'I, I'll be cute this time an' lay in a
bang-up outfit). Well, h'in I goes an' h'up 'e comes as h'affable an'
perlite as you please an' sez:
"'And what's yours, sir?'
"Well, h'I wos h'all took aback, gettin' sich a question from a puffect
stranger. At last h'I stammers out:
"''Arf-an'-'arf, an' thank ye kindly, mister.'
"Well, 'e just smiles superior-loike, an' sez,
"'I mean, what do you want to buy?'
"Well, I thinks to myself, 'That's comin' it low on a chap.' It weren't
the friendly touch, wos h'it? But h'I don' sye nuffin' 'bout it, but
gets a rig-out an' skips.
"Next v'yage h'I comes into the West Indy Docks. I thinks as h'I
loafs round, mebbe I'll go an' see if my rorty toff is still on top.
Well, 'e ain't there, so I asts the cove wot I bought the duds from,
when did 'e cut 'is 'ook? Well, wot d'you think, byes: 'e'd been an'
committed sooicide. Stroike me good an' blind, but you could a' knocked
me down wiv a feaver when I 'ears it."
"What's a dead cinch to one gent is jest an ornery layout to another,"
commented Broncho.
"I allows that 'shopwalker' o' yours don't accoomilate no joys from
his duties. Mebbe he reckons them mighty low, not to say debasin', an'
finally he gets that fretful an' peevish he jest throws up his deal in
disgust, jumps on his war-pony, an' lights out on the death trail."
And now a pitiful incident occurred. That poor ship's drudge, the kid,
with the exception of Jack Derringer, who was in the other watch, had
but one friend and chum, which was the almost equally disreputable
ship's cat--a gaunt, thin tabby.
These two shared their blankets and shared their grub. Scanty as the
fare was, the kid always saved enough out of his daily whack to give
the cat a good square meal.
As Broncho remarked,
"It's shore an example to humanity, the way that 'ere despised an'
put-upon urchin hugs an' cherishes that cat; it's plumb touchin' as a
spectacle."
Since the mysterious voice episode, Jack's friendliness with the ragged
boy had caused some comment in the foc's'le.
Often these two were to be seen seated together talking in the second
dog-watch. A notable change was beginning to show itself in the small
urchin. He was no longer the dirty ragamuffin of yore; his shrill
speech was not so full of oaths, and he ceased to shirk his work
whenever he could conveniently do so.
The rolling-stone seemed to possess a wonderful influence over the boy,
and in the dog-watch he grew into the way of giving the kid a short
lecture.
These strange lectures proved a wonderful education to the suppressed
urchin, who drank in every word of them.
"Jim," the rover would say, as he smoked lazily on the fore-hatch,
"your language is a sight too foul for a kid of your age. You just take
a turn with that small tongue of yours, and go easy on swearing. I
know it's hard, specially at sea, but I'll give you a tip. Now you've
seen the Spanish inscriptions on cigar-boxes, haven't you? Yes? Well,
suppose something happens--you stub your toe over a ring-bolt, or slip
up on some slush by the galley--you want a harmless, inoffensive word
to express your feelings. Well, there's your word in top-weight Spanish
on the cigar-box. 'Claro!' you say, short and quick in an annoyed way,
'Claro!' Well, you do it again; this time you're feeling a bit hotter,
and you want something the least bit stronger. 'Maduro!' you say, and
put your feeling into the 'u.' But you go and stub your toe a third
time; it's getting to be a bad habit of yours, and you really want
something strong this time to get the proper flavour in your mouth.
There's the word ready for you on the cigar-box. 'Colorado!' and the
worse you feel the more you roll the 'r,' until you can make the word
howl with pain. Listen----"
Jack frowned ferociously, and then from the back of his throat threw
out the terrible oath:
"Color-r-r-r-a-a-a-do!!!"
The rolling-stone's lectures were certainly original, to say the least
of them, and they generally had their amusing side.
One Saturday night Jack lay on his back watching his beloved stars,
whilst the boy was busy at the pump washing off his weekly allowance of
dirt in preparation for Sunday.
This was a new habit of his, set going by his star-gazing friend, who,
finding that the boy did not possess any soap, had presented him with a
dozen pieces, saying,
"Jim, here's some soap for you. If there's any of it left by the time
we're in the North Atlantic, there'll be trouble."
As the boy finished his toilet the rover called to him, and pointing
upwards, said:
"Do you see that star, Jim? That's 'Aldebaran,' the eye of Taurus,
the bull, the second sign of the zodiac. Doesn't he shine plain? He's
easy to see, isn't he? But suppose he was all coal-dust and dirt! We
shouldn't be able to see him, should we? In the same way, if you're
all dirty and covered with coal-dust, instead of being well polished
by soap and water, how do you expect your guardian angel to watch over
you? Why, he'd lose you amongst all the other specks of dirt on this
earth, and never find you again; then you'd be an easy thing for the
old gentleman with a forked tail, eh, sonny?"
"I'm afeard then, Jack, my guardian angel ain't never see'd me since I
was born, for I don' ever remember bein' clean 'ceptin' lately," said
the boy mournfully.
"Well, cheer up, old son! I expect he's got his eye on you all right
all the same," declared the other heartily, alarmed by the seriousness
with which Jim took his remarks.
Then, searching round for an idea whereby to soften his statements, he
spied Sam.
"Don't you be down-hearted, Jim," he went on. "Look at Sam. How would
you expect his guardian angel to see him? Yet he does, notwithstanding
his colour."
"But Sam do shine be-e-autiful when he's hot," declared the boy.
This last was too much for Jack; he lay back and roared, whilst Jim's
big brown eyes watched him in wonder.
But the men forward were rather huffed by Jack's friendship with the
boy.
"Fust time h'I ever see'd the cock o' the foc's'le pal up with the
ship's boy," grunted the cockney one day.
"You just be keerful what you say, Hollins," said Red Bill. "I just
gave the little nipper a clout on the jaw t'other day for giving me
sauce, when up jumps Derringer.
"'Leave that kid alone,' sezzee.
"'Mind yer own bloomin' bizness,' sez I; an' before I knows where I am,
I'm lyin' on my back on the deck with a bump the size of a two-sheave
block on the side of my head."
"'E calls 'im Jim, too," went on the scandalised cockney. "Might be
bruvers, the way Jack spiles 'im. Kids want kickin'--h'it's the on'y
way ter teach 'em."
But to return to the cat.
It was close on eight bells in the afternoon watch. The _Higgins_ lay
rolling in a heavy swell, with her courses hauled up; the sun was
obscured, and heavy rain-clouds hung over the horizon.
There was not the slightest breath of wind, and the ship echoed with
the slating and flogging of her sails as she rolled.
A continuous stream of water gushed in through her ports, and poured in
a cascade first one way and then the other across the maindeck.
The port watch were on deck, busy "sand and canvassing" the main and
fore fife-rails, preparatory to revarnishing.
The fore-hatch had just been chipped, and was resplendent in bright
patches of red lead. The fates were rapidly arranging a holocaust for
poor puss, for, as if obeying some unseen hand, he suddenly roused and
stretched himself where he had been coiled up asleep on the foc's'le
head; then, with the slow, graceful movement of his tribe, he descended
the ladder and deliberately went up and rubbed himself against the
fore-hatch. But alas! the eagle eye of Black Davis was upon him, and
the red lead betrayed him, for it had left its marks upon his brindled
coat; too late he tried to lick it off.
"Terantulars, yew dirty sneakin' beast. Rub my paint off, would yew?"
roared the mate.
With remarkable swiftness he clutched poor puss in his iron fist, and a
second later the cat was adrift on the swell and hidden from sight.
With a scream of fury and distress, the kid, who had been at work on
the fore fife-rail, flung himself upon the bully, biting, kicking, and
scratching.
Broken words burst from his mouth in a torrent, and, Jack's lecture
forgotten, he raved and swore as only a boy bred to the sea can swear,
raining a very shower of blows with his little fists upon the big mate.
Catching him by the scruff of his neck, Black Davis flung him aside.
The poor boy was hurled across the deck, to be brought up by the iron
combing of the hatch, which caught him upon the left brow as he fell.
Jim dropped stunned, and lay motionless, bleeding copiously, whilst the
fatal red lead with sardonic irony smeared itself in mockery upon his
cheek and shoulder.
There was a low growl of suppressed anger from the watch, and if looks
could have killed, Black Davis would not have lived long.
"Git on with your work, yew scrapin's o' hell, or I'll soon knock
the bile out o' your gizzards," he roared; then, walking up to the
senseless body of the boy, he kicked it twice heavily on the ribs.
"No shamming, yew little devil! Up yew get, or I'll make yew smell
hell."
But before he could lift his foot again the stalwart form of the
rolling-stone stood between the mate and his victim.
"Drop that, you d----d child-murderer! Come on and hit a man your own
size."
The words fairly hissed from Jack's firm mouth, and there was a devil
in his flashing eyes no one on board had ever seen there before.
Planted lightly but firmly on his legs, he squared up to the bucko with
clenched fists and furious, quivering lips.
"Come on!" he raged, taking a step forward. "Come on, you devil!"
The port watch stared, open-mouthed, half expecting the heavens to fall
in their amazement at Jack's daring.
Black Davis's glance fell before the fury of Jack's eyes. His big fist,
half-raised, dropped to his side again; he took a step backward, then,
muttering something indistinctly between his teeth, he slowly turned on
his heel and walked aft.
Jack stared, the anger in his eyes changing to a look of blank surprise.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered.
A half-muffled cheer broke from the port watch and many of the
starboard who had jumped from their bunks in anticipation of a royal
set-to.
The rover turned and snapped out,
"Fetch a bucket of water, one of you."
A dozen men rushed to obey.
Bending over the senseless urchin, Jack gently wiped the blood and red
lead from the little white face; then, with the tenderness of a woman,
he picked the boy up in his arms and carried him to his bunk.
There he skilfully doctored the long cut on the boy's forehead, first
washing it, and then drawing the edges together with sticking-plaister
zigzagged across it, whilst the starboard watch looked on in admiration
of his handiwork.
Luckily for the poor little waif, his short life of hardship and want
had so toughened him that, with the exception of a bad bruise, his ribs
were intact.
"Poor old Dandy!" were the first words the kid spoke after coming to,
and the tears rushed to his eyes as the lonely feeling of his loss came
over him.
"Never mind the cat, sonny. I reckon Jack Derringer's done saved your
life; if it hadn't been for Jack, you'd a' been hittin' the trail after
Dandy yourself," said old Bedrock Ben.
"And that ain't no bloomin' josh. Jack put the skybosh on the 'ulkin'
bully, and no mistyke. Crikey, if it weren't the 'ighest old rig to see
Black Davis spifflicated.
"''Ow's that, umpire?' sez I.
"'W'y, h'out, er course!' and away walks 'is bloomin' lordship, fairly
'oodooed."
Thus the cockney, with a chuckle of delight.
"Did Derringer save me from the mate? I don' remember nothink. Black
Davis slugged me, didn't he?" the boy asked faintly.
"If standing up between the mate an' you lying senseless, and daring
Black Davis to touch you, isn't saving you, I don't know what is," said
Curly hotly.
"Oh, shut up, you fellows, and leave the boy alone," growled Jack.
"It's just eight bells, and Jim's going to lie quiet and get some sleep.
"Do you hear that, Jim?" he continued; "you're not to stir from your
bunk till I give you leave. Green'll do your 'peggy' for you, eh,
Green?"
The man nodded nervously in assent.
"That's _bueno_! Now shut your eyes, sonny, and take a siesta."
The boy's brown eyes glowed with a wealth of gratitude and a dog-like
look of adoration as they rested upon Jack's stalwart figure; but the
rolling-stone was a martinet of a doctor--not a word would he allow
above a whisper in the foc's'le until the kid was asleep.
It was the cockney's wheel when the watch changed, and at four bells,
six o'clock, he came forward, his face eloquent with news.
"H'I've found 'im out, byes, h'I've found 'im out!" he shouted
incoherently to the group of men seated yarning on the fore-hatch and
spare spars, and he pointed wildly at the rolling-stone.
"What's he done now?" rumbled half a dozen deep voices.
"Wyte, me bloomin' ole shellbacks, lemme tell the yarn."
"Well, pipe ahead; we ain't stoppin' ye," growled Red Bill.
"Jack," said the cockney, suddenly darting upon the rover--"Jack, me
bloomin' lovy-duck, does you know w'y Black Dyvis wouldn't stan' up to
yer?"
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," laughed Jack.
"Well, h'I do, then, so now. I 'eard the ole man spin the bosun the
whole blessed yarn; an' believe me, byes, h'I wos that tickled to
death, before I knoo where h'I wos the bally 'ooker wos two p'ints off
'er course."
"Heave ahead, mate, heave ahead; you're all aback. Swing yer fore-yards
an' get sail on to yer yarn," broke in the impatient Red Bill again.
"Orl right, cocky, orl right. Dye yer 'air. That red 'ead o' yours
mykes ye in sich a blawsted 'urry, you'll get jumpin' inter yer coffin
one fyne dye afore ye're dead."
There was a laugh, for Red Bill was notoriously hasty and impulsive in
his actions.
"Well," began the cockney impressively, "h'it were this wye. The bosun
wos a-leanin' agin the rail to windward er-scannin' o' things in
general, an' allowin' mebbe 'e'd take a pull on the weather braces,
w'en h'up comes the ole man from 'is grub. 'E goes over to ther bosun
an' 'e sez:
"'What sort of er'and is that man Derringer?'
"'Best man wiv a marlin-spike h'I've see'd fer a long time,' sez the
bosun.
"'Well,' goes on the ole man, speakin' slow an' solemn-loike, ''es the
man as did up Slocum on the _I.D. Macgregor_!'
"Byes, h'I could er dropped. Slocum, mind you, the bigges'-fisted lump
of a two 'undred an' fifty pound bucko sailin' the seas--the man as can
'old a six-foot Noo Orleans buck nigger, one in each 'and, lift 'em off
the deck, an' bash their ugly black 'eads together; h'I've see'd 'im do
it----"
"That's so, mate," broke in Hank. "I were in Iquique wi' him when he
killed er man--picked him up an' kind er bumped 'im agin the boat skids
an' broke his head; the ole man put some lie in the log, an' there
weren't no more heard of it."
"Well," continued the cockney, "the skipper 'e spins the bosun the
yarn, an' h'I jest absorbs h'it likewise. Seems Cappen Summers told 'im
'bout it, an' 'e spots you, Jack, from them tattoo-marks o' yourn.
"Well, byes, this ere grinnin' cuckoo 'ere, 'om I'm pra'd to shipmytes
wiv, 'e 'as words or somethin' wiv Mister Bucko Slocum, syme wye mebbe
as 'e 'ad wi' Dyvis, an' they ups an' 'as it out.
"Well, they fit an' fit an' fit, Cappen Summers an' the 'ole bloomin'
ship's comp'ny er-lookin' on. My crikey, but it must er been the
'ighest ole rig! Fer two hours they fit by ole man Summers' ticker,
till they wos h'all blood an' rags. Then Jack, 'e up wiv 'is fist an'
lets drive. Oh Lord! Weren't it er knock-out! That swot Slocum, 'e
just flies back'ards, lands on 'is 'ead on the quarter-bitts, an' lays
there, reglar broke up; didn't come to till nex' mornin'.
"Ole man Summers tho't 'e were killed, an' gives Jack 'is job on ther
spot.
"That's w'y Dyvis weren't 'avin' none!" concluded the cockney solemnly.
"'Sthat true, Jack, 'sthat true?" shouted half a dozen voices.
"Better ask the old man," laughed the rover.
In a moment Jack was circled by a crowd of eager men, all bawling at
once.
"Lord lummy, Jack, you must be a bruiser," called one.
"Did Black Davis know this, d'you suppose?" asked Curly.
"'Course 'e did, you h'ass!" cried the cockney scornfully. "W'y, 'e
ain't put a finger on 'im th'ole passage, not even towin' out."
"I reckon Black Davis was some scared he'd lose his job if Jack downs
him, same as that other fire-eatin' miscreant," mused Broncho. "No, he
were dead agin playin' your hand, Jack; he weren't hankerin' to be your
beef--he's too keerful of his skin that away."
"Gaud blimy! Wot er scrap h'it would er been," lamented the cockney.
"It shore would ha' been some lurid, but I pities the mate. He was due
to emerge a totterin' wreck. Jack was just a-moanin' for blood an'
oozin' with f'rocity," asserted the cowpuncher.
"He did look a heap grim," remarked Bedrock Ben.
"But what if Black Davis had downed him?" inquired Pinto.
"Sich thoughts is figments," said Broncho contemptuously. "I'm puttin'
up chips Jack'd have that rancorous hold-up too dead to skin. Jack
weren't aimin' to put no delicacy into his play, that time."
"Green, if you don't _tcha-tcha_[6] and strike eight bells, you'll have
the mate on your trail," broke in the bucko-downer, anxious to cut
short the conversation.
And a few moments later the silvery note of the bell announced that the
first watch had begun.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] _Tcha-tcha_, "hurry up" (Zulu).
CHAPTER VII
"IN THE SECOND DOG-WATCH"
All through the tropics, Pedro, under the influence of his solitary
confinement, had been becoming more and more morose and despondent.
He hardly touched the wretched fare which was placed before him, and
had wasted to a shadow of his former self.
His fierce black eyes glittered out of a sallow, heavily-lined face,
upon which the lowering scowl daily became deeper and deeper.
His ragged moustache was broken and torn by chewing, whilst his lower
lip hung sore and bleeding from the constant gnawing of his teeth.
"It's a cert," remarked Broncho, "that that bowie-whirlin' dago is due
to go flutterin' from his limb one o' these days. He's lookin' 'bout
ready to break camp for the etarnal beyond; his vittles no longer gives
him joy, an' he just sets thar an' wilts."
"Weevily hard tack and dirty warm water wouldn't give anybody joy,"
replied Jack. "He wants air and exercise; they should let him out for
an hour on deck every day."
"Gate an' seat checks for the realms o' light is about what he wants, I
reckon," retorted the cattle-ranger.
And Broncho was right. One morning they found him too late; he was
lying in a pool of blood with a small piece of broken wood in his
clenched fingers. With this poor weapon the Chilian had managed to tear
open a vein in his arm, and so bled to death. Thus miserably ended the
poor little bucko-killer.
His death brought the superstitious members of the crew to the front
again. Pessimistically they prophesied all sorts of evils, and Sam, the
chief authority, openly proclaimed that Black Davis, with the death of
the ship's cat upon his soul, would be the next victim of the ghostly
avenger.
In the south-east trades easy times reigned in the starboard watch. For
nearly a week not a sheet, brace, or halliard was touched, except for
the usual pull on the braces and general "freshening of the nip" every
evening.
In the second dog-watch the men would collect on the foc's'le head, and
exchange yarns with eager faces and vehement gestures.
Every man forward had seen life in its more unusual phases. Paddy,
Hank, Jack, and the cockney had all been shipwrecked more than once;
and even Jim had had a strange crop of experiences crowded into his
short life.
One evening Jack had just related a yarn of how he had been wounded in
an affray in the New Hebrides, when mate of a "blackbirder," as the
schooners recruiting Kanaka labour for the Queensland plantations were
called.
"Any money in thet layout?" inquired the gambler.
"Used to be," returned Jack, "till the missionaries and opposition in
Australia broke it up."
"Thar's many a cinch in the South Seas," observed Hank. "Copra an'
curios ain't bad, nor yet pearls, speshully if yew kin strike a
preserved patch when thar ain't no gunboat knockin' around."
"Smuggling opium's good, too," reflected Jack musingly.
"Yew bet! Ever tried it?"
"Aye."
"How did it pan out?" inquired Bedrock Ben, somewhat eagerly.
"So-so!" grunted the rover. "Did three good trips. Then we got caught
napping in a typhoon, and the old junk went to the bottom."
"Close call, eh?"
"Yes; only three of us saved--two Chins and myself."
"H'I tell ye, byes, smugglin's good gear h'all round," broke in the
cockney.
"Begorra, an' I'm after knowin' that same. Weren't I in the _Admiral
Tronde_, a bruck-up little one-gunned stame-kettle runnin' guns fur
them Urriguay sports," cried Paddy excitedly.
"Were ye, Pat? Bully for you," went on the cockney. "I done some
gun-runnin' too up the Persian Gulf; but h'I 'ad ter quit--the screw
were good enuff, but the 'eat wos a knock-out. Lord love ye! W'y, we
biled our cauffee on the shanks o' the anchors; s'elp me, but they
wos allers red 'ot. An' th' ole man, 'e don' ever wear nuffin' but a
bloomin' gal's night-gownd----"
"Heat don't worry me," interrupted Hank. "It's cold calls the turn on
me. I was up the Behring once sealin' an' got my bellyful."
"Much ice?" inquired Jack casually.
"A pretty considerable mush of it."
"I was two months in the ice to the south'ard once in the _Cairngorm_,"
declared the rover.
"The hell yew war? 'Member speakin' the _I.P. Rakes_ off the Dyeego
Ramerrez? Yew had ye jibboom gone an' nought above the lower-mast
forrard. Your ole man sent a life-boat aboard us fur spuds--said y'd
got scurvy bad. By Davy, I allers allows thet were the dirtiest sea I
ever see'd a boat live in."
"It was bad," agreed Jack. "We got stove in trying to get aboard again,
and lost three men."
"Thet's right! I see'd yew wi' these very eyes, smashed to staves yew
were; an' yew were in thet boat, eh?"
"Yes," said the Britisher quietly. "I was second mate of the
_Cairngorm_, and had charge of her."
"Phew!" exclaimed Hank, drawing a long breath; "an' whar did yew larn
thet trick o' handlin' a boat? Been whalin', I s'pose?"
"No; all the boat-work I know I picked up in the Islands."
"Ever seen Siwash squaws run a birch-bark through rapids?" asked old
Bedrock Ben. "That's what I calls boat-handlin'."
"Squaws 'andle a boat! To 'ell wiv ye!" burst out the cockney
disdainfully. "What d'you know 'bout h'it? W'y, you ain't never seen
the Boat Ryce."
"What boat race?" grunted old Ben.
"Lord lummy, byes, listen to 'im! Sech h'ignorance is bloomin' well a
disgryce."
"What's this here race you-alls alludes to?" inquired Broncho in his
polite Texan drawl.
"Oh, 'ell!" gasped the cockney, and sank back in a state of collapse.
"I see'd the Boat Race onct," suddenly put in Jim's small voice, "an' I
ain't never forget it."
"I ain't no use fur racin'," growled Red Bill. "I does a v'yage once
in one o' them tea-clippers, an' that were enuff racin' to last me my
time. What wi' carryin' on when it's blowin' great guns an' muckin'
around in the tropics with royal stuns'ls, save-alls, water-s'ls,
ringtails, an' sech-like superfloous pocket-handkerchers, it ain't no
game fur a white man."
"What was your ship, mate?" inquired the rover, looking up with
interest.
"_Titania._"
"I came home from Australia once in the _Cutty Sark_," said Jack slowly.
"Lose any men?" asked Red Bill sharply.
"Well, off the Horn we did. Helmsman lost his head--let her run off,
whilst we were at the main braces. We shipped a big sea and lost nine
men overboard--two of them washed off the foreyard."
"I believe you, son," snorted the fiery-headed Bill. "That's the way
wi' them packets. Men's lives is nuffin' so long as they makes a good
passage."
"Men's lives!" growled Jack disdainfully. "Red Bill, you talk like
a softy! What do you come to sea for but to take the rough with the
smooth? When a man begins thinking of his life at sea, it's about
time he stopped ashore and turned counterjumper, ink-squirter, or
hayseed----"
"Go easy, mate, go easy!" put in Hank mildly.
"Well, I've got no patience when a man begins talking about his
precious life."
"Look 'ere!" began Red Bill hotly, "you jest take in the slack o' that
jaw-tackle o' yours, Jack Derringer. You're a sight too free wi' them
insinnivations. I ain't afraid o' you for all ye prize-fightin' tricks,
so go slow, or there'll be a slogging match."
"Bill," said the rolling-stone, with that catching smile of his, "shake
hands. You're a white man, and I take it all back. It was just you
talking of men's lives that roused my dander. I don't like to hear good
sailormen talk about their lives like so many frightened land-crabs.
I once went a yachting trip with three brass-bound, useless,
chicken-hearted clothes-props, and I tell you I got a sickener of 'my
precious life' talk.
"Things went well enough at first, when there was only just enough
wind to keep us moving--though I had my hands full, what with cooking,
steering, and doing all the dirty work; for though they were all three
big men, they were so fat and flabby they couldn't pull their own
weight on a rope or even hit a dent in a pat of butter; but we got a
bit of a blow heading over to the French coast from Falmouth, and if
ever I saw three badly scared, nerveless citizens, it was that crowd.
"The boat was a snug little yawl, and as I was pressing her through it
pretty hard, things naturally got a bit wet, and now and again some
green water lopped aboard.
"Well, after they'd had their first experience of a big dollop, they
all turned on me.
"'Isn't it getting dangerous?' began the first uneasily.
"'Haven't we got too much sail for safety?' quavered the second.
"'Wouldn't it be risking our lives to go on?' stuttered the third. 'I'm
afraid----'
"'Any fool could see that,' I broke in, as I shoved her nose into a
lump of green water to cut short their chorus.
"After a good deal of spluttering they recovered sufficiently to give
tongue again.
"'I'm wet through,' whimpered one. 'I must go below and change my
things or I'll catch cold. D'you think it safe for me to leave the
deck?'
"'I guess the deck can take care of itself all right,' I answered.
"'No, I don't mean that,' he said solemnly. 'I mean, if the boat turned
over when I was in the cabin, I should lose my life, I should be
d-d-drowned.'
"'By Jove, so you would!' I exclaimed, as if struck by the gravity of
the idea.
"'D'you really think it would be more dangerous below than here?' put
in another of the boobies anxiously.
"'You're all insured, ain't you?' I asked with a wooden face.
"'Yes,' they gulped as a spray took them; 'but for God's sake turn the
boat round and go back.'
"'Can't; too dangerous to run before this sea,' I declared, making a
big bluff.
"They were getting too much for my patience altogether, so with a wild
cry of 'Look out!' I shoved the helm over and soused them again.
"This time I had them all as limp as a wet swab, and as the wave hit
them they screeched like so many frightened women. But directly the
water cleared off there was more tongue-wagging.
"'My God! I thought we were gone,' gasped one.
"Then the second booby let fly:
"'What an escape! A second longer and I should have been drowned----'
"'How terrible!' I put in brutally.
"'Terrible? Yes, you're right. Isn't the sea awful? I've never been in
such danger in my life before.'
"'Nor ever will be again if you can help it, I expect,' I sneered.
"But their minds were too overwrought to take any notice of my brutal
speeches.
"'I thought I should burst----' began the fattest.
"'I've often thought you'd do that,' I cut in cheerfully.
"'----from holding my breath so long,' he finished, eyeing me dismally.
"Well, the end of it all was, I got the unhappy trio below, battened
'em down, and weathered it out by my lonesome. Twenty-seven hours at
the tiller! Ever since that cruise, whenever a man begins to talk about
his life being in danger, I begin to get hot in the collar."
"Land folk is certainly queer that way an' easily scared," commented
the pacified Red Bill.
"Gettin' scared is easy. The bigges' fire-eatin' son of a gun is scared
some time in his life; but it's givin' away your hand an' showin'
you're scared that gets you logged down as plumb nerveless an' no
account," remarked old Ben sagely.
"You're shore right, Ben," agreed Broncho. "It's the white-livered
coyote who can't keep his mental fears corralled who goes to drawin'
his gun when there ain't no need, an' gets over shootin' an' pluggin'
the wrong gent."
"Thet's so, pardner," grunted the gambler. "See this scar?" pointing
to a livid streak on his cheek-bone. "I gets that from a tenderfoot
back-east puppy as acts the way you mentions."
"He sartinly makes a greevious mistake that time," returned Broncho
ambiguously.
"He shore would ha' had a depitation o' thanks from his grateful pards
if he'd hit the bull's-eye, I reckon," rumbled old Ben in a loud aside.
At this moment the bell went, and the watch on deck got hastily to
their feet, caught up caps, and knocked the ashes out of their pipes
before going aft.
* * * * *
Sometimes Broncho and Jack would sneak into the bosun's little berth
in the midshiphouse. Here the three of them, with pipes smoking like
chimneys, passed many a pleasant hour.
Over the bosun's bunk was the worn and faded photograph of a very
pretty girl. This picture seemed to attract the rolling-stone in some
strange way, for often he stared fixedly at it with a faraway look in
his eyes, as if he were peering back into the past and trying to recall
some half-forgotten memory.
One night, noticing his rapt gaze, the bosun remarked casually:
"Yes, she's a nice-lookin' gal, ain't she?"
"I beg your pardon!" said Jack hastily, the dark red flushing through
his tan. "I didn't mean to be rude, but that photograph reminds me of
somebody."
"Well, bein' as we're all good mates here," observed the bosun, "I'll
tell you the yarn. I never ain't married--I ain't that lucky, though I
walks out with scores o' gals in my time; but I on'y ever has one real
sweetheart, an' she was a clipper. She was----" He broke off, and then
resumed slowly, "That's 'er photo--she was second 'ousemaid to Lord
Arrendale" (Jack gave a sharp start of surprise).
"That's away back ten years or more," continued the bosun reflectively;
"then I goes off on a v'yage out East, thinkin' as how with a big
payday a-comin' I'd get spliced when I gets home again. But my luck's
dead out. I gets wrecked among the Islands, an' precious near ate up,
an' it's over four years afore I drops my mudhook in the old cottage.
Then I found my gal had gone an' left her place an' disappeared." The
strong man's eyes grew misty, and the deep voice shook. "Well, I ups
anchor an' beats up and down the whole country, but I never meets up
with my gal no more; so I goes to sea again, and I ain't been ashore
more'n two months all put together in the last ten years.
"And do you think I ever forgets that gal o' mine? No, sir; she's as
dear to me, an' more, than she was in them days when I was a-courtin'.
I often envies folks that I sees married, all so comfort'ble in their
little bit o' home with the kids an' all. The likes o' them never don't
seem to realise their luck. It's us fellers who 'as no wife, nor 'ome,
nor kids--who's in Shanghai one minit an' off the Horn the next--it's
us who spots their luck."
The bosun ceased and looked keenly at Jack.
"Ben Cray," said the latter earnestly but simply, reaching out his hand
and seizing the bosun's burly fist, "I'm sorry!"
Broncho stared; he had only heard the big Britisher addressed as bosun,
and did not know his real name, and he also thought that Jack was in
like ignorance up to that evening.
There was something going on behind the scenes which he could not even
guess at. He was a keen observer, and had noticed the blush on the
cheek of his friend.
"He's a hard-cut citizen, is Jack," thought the cowboy. "It takes a lot
to jump him offen his gyard."
"Ben," continued Jack, "you're a real white man. I remember her now,
poor little thing, and you too."
"I spotted you fust day you comes aboard, sir!"
"I didn't know, bosun; I've never been home since I went to sea, and
that was just before you went on that unlucky voyage."
"I see'd the ole lord last time I was back," began the bosun with
some hesitation; and then stopped, as if he would have liked to say
something more, but dared not.
"Hm!" muttered Jack indifferently, with mask-like face; but the
keen-eyed cowpuncher noticed a singular gleam in the rover's clear blue
orbs.
For a few moments there was silence, and then Broncho broke in:
"Talkin' of marriage, you shorely recalls my Juanita, don't you, Jack?"
"Certainly I do."
"Well," went on the cowboy, "I never gets my brand on to her, though I
near has the hobbles on more'n once."
"I'm very sorry to hear that, Broncho. I thought you were in double
harness long ago."
"Well, I never does fasten somehow, though I ropes at her continuous;
then one day she goes curvin' off with that ere miscreant Montana Joe,
which has me plumb disgusted. I just chucks a pair o' blankets across
my saddle, stuffs a wad o' notes in my war-bags, an' lights right
out. Finally I makes Frisco, where I gets to drownin' dull care with
nosepaint; an' I makes sech a success of that ere undertakin' that I
presently finds myself as you-alls knows."
"Sidelights out, hand on the look-out!" roared Black Davis from aft.
"Aye, aye, sir!" came back the answer, and night began.
The following evening Jack, Broncho, and the boy Jim were yarning
together on the foc's'le head, when a terrific uproar broke out on the
deck below them. There was a hurricane of deep-sea laughter, and the
next moment the small form of the cockney disengaged itself from the
crowd, and came dashing up the topgallant ladder.
"Jack!" he cried, "Jack, wot's a genelman?"
"Why, Jack is, er course," burst out the boy.
"I mean, wot mykes a genelman?"
The rest of the crowd were on his heels, and Curly, thrusting his way
through, burst out hotly.
"Hollins says a gentleman is a man with shiny pants and a stove-pipe
hat. What do you say, Jack?"
"Bedad! I on'y knoo one gintlemen," cried Pat, "an' he weren't one at
all at all."
"I see's a gentleman once," said Red Bill, "an' he had a bit er glass
stuck in his eye."
"When you-alls says gentleman," drawled Broncho, "you mean the real
brand, I surmise; for there's a greevious number o' gents a-waltzin'
around puttin' on frills an' bluffin' they're the thoroughbred article,
which same soon bogs down in one's eestimation as plumb low an' ornery.
What you-alls call gentlemen is gettin' 'most rar' as buffaloes
in these here wide-spread an' high-flung times; but when you does
cut their trails, you can bet a whole team you're goin' to be duly
impressed tharby."
"A gentleman's a cove wi' clean 'ands, 'coss he don't work," shouted
Jimmy Green excitedly from the edge of the crowd.
"You shut yer dirty 'ead! 'Oo asked you ter talk when able seamen's
around?" roared the cockney furiously. "Give that byby-face er clout,
will ye, Ben?"
Jimmy Green got his clout and retired from the contest.
"A gentleman's a sport who can sit down to a game o' poker an' lose his
dollars smiling," asserted the gambler.
"A gentleman's a tenderfoot who trails round buyin' salted claims,"
pronounced old Ben.
"I meets a shentlemans vonce vot I yumps a bag along vor, an' he give
me two bob; you bet dat's a shentleman's, my schmard fellers," grunted
Muller.
"A gentleman has shiny boots," put in Pinto from the background, with a
nervous glance round as if he were taking a liberty.
"That's wot I sye," cried the cockney approvingly; "'e's a toff wi'
shiny pants an' shiny boots----"
"And a boiled shirt, I hope?" interrupted Jack, laughing.
"Well, h'I don' mean to insinnivate nuffin' agin you, Jack. We h'all
knows you is a real bang-up 'eavy swell when you've got your shore togs
on."
"I meets a genelman one time way down to Saint Louis, bigges' genelman
eber I see'd, an' he gib dis chile a clout on der ear an' say, 'Get out
ob my way, yo dirty nigger,'" announced Sam.
"Well, 'ave you h'all done, for Gaud's syke?" inquired the cockney
loftily.
"Wall," said Hank slowly, "I calculate a gentleman's a cuss as is some
perlite. He don't spit on the floor----"
"Bedad, what does he do, thin?" broke in the astonished Pat.
"Why, spits in the spittoon!"
"Er course," agreed the cockney. "W'ere wos you brought h'up, Pat?"
"Seein' as 'ow each member o' this 'ere committee-meetin' 's 'ad 'is
sye," he went on, "h'I arise ter propose that we asts the opin'on o'
Jack Derringer, h'as bein' er h'expert on the subject."
"I shore seconds thet proposal," said Broncho, "though I nurses certain
views tharon which no expert is goin' to stampede me out of."
"Well," began Jack, as they all waited round silently, "it's a pretty
big subject; but my idea of a gentleman is a clean man who minds his
own business and'll go the limit for a pal--a man who plays his cards
straight and keeps a stiff upper lip."
"Thet ain't no gentleman, thet's a white man," exclaimed old Bedrock
Ben, with a shake of his head.
"Same thing, ought to be," replied Jack.
"Well, see 'ere, cocky, does you mean ter tell me a man can be a
genelman wivout no shiny pants nor nuffin'?" asked the astonished
cockney.
"Every Siwash is a gentleman when he's got his store-clothes on,
'cordin' t'you, Hollins," said Hank with contempt.
"What in hell air yew broken-down gin-soakers doin' forrard? Relieve
the wheel, yew scum, or I'll come an' knock yer durned ugly heads off."
It was Black Davis on the rampage. The foc's'le head committee-meeting
broke up like a swarm of disturbed ants, and as they crowded down the
ladder the cockney called out:
"There's a genelman for ye, byes, a real genelman."
CHAPTER VIII
"ON THE FOC'S'LE HEAD"
One Sunday afternoon in the south-east trades the foc's'le indulged
itself in another of those excitable debates which sailors on
deep-water ships love so much.
It was a superb South Pacific day, with a glinting sea and a sky full
of those fluffy white billowy clouds which painters so delight to seat
cherubs upon.
The upper strata of these sheep-backs moved faster than the lower, as
if engaged in a heavenly steeplechase, signifying an increase of wind.
On the _Higgins_, for a wonder, peace reigned, for the old man and
Black Davis were both below taking a "stretch off the land," whilst the
bosun held the deck.
Forward both watches were assembled on the foc's'le head--some
stretched on their backs with eyes shut, others propped up against the
capstan or bitts pretending to sew or read.
Studpoker Bob, true to his bent in life, was rapidly appropriating
Hank's payday by aid of a very dirty pack of cards and a game known as
"Casino."
Close by sat Jack Derringer, patching a pair of oilskin pants, with the
cowboy prone beside him, a paint-covered, disreputable slouch hat which
had once been a "shore-enough Stetsin" hiding his face from the glare
of the sun.
Leaning against the port lighthouse, old Ben Sluice, with the aid of a
gigantic pair of spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, laboriously
spelt out a yellow-backed English society novel.
The cockney, with his head buried in his arms, lay face down on the
deck in the attitude beloved by the British Tommy Atkins, snoring like
a tired cross-cut saw; whilst Paddy at his side bent a wrinkled brow
upon a gigantic volume entitled, _The Drainage of Europe_.
Below on the maindeck Curly and the boy worked steadily upon a mass of
singlets and shirts, with the aid of the wash-deck tub.
Suddenly old Ben Sluice dropped his book, gave a slow look round, and,
catching Jack's eye, spoke:
"Jack, you've been learnt--eddicated as they say. What breed o' coyote
air these here book-sharps? What does they allow is their long suit?
Does this here benighted burro reckon he knows 'hoss'? He don't know
'hoss' from 'jackass,' nor 'mewel' from 'dogy'; he's green an' juicy a
whole passel, like a fool-kid suckin' eggs an' actin' smart."
"What's the trouble, Ben?"
"Why, look-a-here; this buckaroo clean gets me, fur a fact. I cain't
throw a squaw-hitch over his idees worth a cent. He has me driftin'
like lost sheep----"
"What cuts you, old son?" broke in Broncho, from behind his sombrero.
"Wall, it's this way. Thar's a long-nose coon the book-sharp calls Lord
Edward, who didn't oughter be allowed round. He's a big auger, too, way
up on the trail.
"He goes buttin' round the landscape, a-hittin' it up high,
a-discardin' his dinero like as if he's a mine-boss an' a-soakin' up
tanglefoot to beat a sheepman; an' he's roped up a wife as pretty as
a peach, whom he don' pay no more attention to than if she's an empty
bottle.
"He jest neglec's her complete 'cept with his tongue, which is that
mean an' ugly it gets her hot in the collar every time. Wall, she jest
sets thar an' wilts, an' don' pay no heed to nothin', though thar's a
whole mob o' softies floppin' round her like gapin' trout-fish, sayin'
as how hers weren't no dago dream o' paradise, till they gets mushy
an' maudlin' over her white face an' big eyes; an' thar ain't one of
'em, with their soft talk, who's got the sand to up an' shoot the white
outer the high-falootin' eye of Lord Edward.
"Chucks! It makes me tired. Is they men or wax figgers? An' this here
book-sharp allows they're first-class broncho-twisters. But if they
is low-down skunks, the wimen bar this here put-upon Lady Beatrice is
shore rattlesnakes from away back, they're that venomous; an' they
fires out words at this here Lord Edward's wife as'd make a jack-rabbit
curl his tail, which same words carves out wounds in the pore female
like mushroom bullets. I'm a single-footer myself, an' ain't cut the
tracks o' many wimen bar squaws; nor yet want to, onless this here
book-sharp's brand o' female is a fake, which I shore reckon it is."
"Women is mighty various," drawled the cowpuncher meditatively. "Some
is sweet as molasses, some's all venegar. One kind'll stampede at the
drop of a hat, another'll get balky an' jest set thar. No, you can't
play no system on women--the deal's a sight too blotched."
"Then you allows this here book-sharp shows savvy in his idees?"
"Has these here rattlesnake females you discourses on many rings on
their horns?"
"Wall, I reckon their lustre is some faded, if that's a high kyard in
the deal."
"Which it shore enough is, for it's this way. When we-alls starts along
this mortal trail we're like colts friskin' about, allowin' it's a case
o' jam an' doughnuts cl'ar through. We shore sooner or later butts into
trouble, gets bogged, and is yanked out, an' goes on gettin' bogged
an' bein' yanked out till it gets to be a habit. But wi' wimen it's
different. Gettin' bogged that-a-way frets 'em, till they're feelin' as
ugly an' mean as Government pack-mules, an' they jest hankers to shoot
off their bazoo till they has some one howlin'; an' the more rings they
has on their horns the more they frets an' sets in to pull the props
out from under the fresher fillies an' side-track them into the bog of
disrepute."
Jack listened to this speech with half-shut eyes, and then half
muttered to himself:
"Men are a queer kind of beasts and women a queer kind of angels."
"I allow Broncho piles it on too thick," declared old Ben stubbornly,
not noticing Jack's remark.
"Bedad!" chimed in Paddy, roused from his book by the miner's deep
voice, "but my old woman's after bein' 'the pole o' me tent,' as they
say in the Seharey. Her spuds'd make the mouth o' the divil wather
sufeecient to put out old Mother Nick's galley-fire."
"Lawd, you surprise me, Pat!" exclaimed the cockney, rolling over on
his back and rubbing his eyes. "A bloomin' Don Juan like you spliced?
W'y, you're a disgryce."
"Be aisy, be aisy, an' don't call y'r brither names. What's a Don Juan,
any way?"
"A Don Juan is er sort er----" and Hollins broke off and scratched his
head for want of the proper word.
"I'll be after Don Juaning you with a black eye the minit before next,"
burst out Paddy fiercely, the suspicion breaking into his brain that he
was being insulted.
"Oh, go slow an' don't be so bloomin' gay," drawled the cockney
disdainfully. "You ain't the on'y lydy-killer on the beach, if you 'as
got an old Dutch peelin' spuds on yer h'ancestral mud-bank."
"The hen-breed is smooth goods s'long as yew don't get married none;
then they're sure p'ison," suddenly broke in Hank, with the sad but
self-satisfied look of a man of big experience in such matters.
"Thar, you're shore way off the range," exclaimed Broncho emphatically.
"A female which ain't hitched up in double harness is as wo'thless
in the game o' life as an ace which ain't drawed nothin'. Her locoed
parents is plumb chagrined to death, when, after chippin' in a blue
stack or two for the draw, they can't rake out even a hen-ranche tough
or a paper dude to yoke her up to. And, again, say you-alls is a-aimin'
to throw your rope over some high-steppin', head-tossin' filly; what
with you prancin' out in y'r store-clothes every time, an' the dinero
you-alls has to paw down in your war-bags for to soothe her frettin's
for doughnuts an' sech eadibles, it shore makes your wad o' notes look
some flat an' shrunk up. An' all the time you-alls is a-frettin' an'
a-frothin' an' feelin' chunked up, mebbe, one minit, an' flatter than
a flapjack the next. No, you draws no dividend on women onless they're
married. It's them yoked-up longhorns like Paddy who gets a rake off
the pot in this earthly game."
"I'm puttin' up my payday agen that deck-swab that yew ain't married
none, Broncho," returned Hank sourly.
"That's so, son, I ain't that lucky," drawled the cowpuncher. "I've
taken tickets more'n once, but I never ain't drawed nothin' I'm near
makin' a winnin' play with."
"I'd rather hev' had a blank than the winning number o' the lottery I
raked in my old woman with," growled the disillusioned Hank.
"Mebbe she reckons she ain't owin' Providence nothin' fur bliss gratis
when she gets down to the bedrock o' your vartues," remarked old Ben
Sluice, with a slow grin.
"Is that meant?" snarled Hank, rising to his feet. He was not in
the best of tempers--those who played cards long with Studpoker Bob
seldom were. "I'll soon show yew my vartues, my all-fired smartie,"
he growled, advancing on Ben in a menacing attitude. "I guess
them vartues'll raise some pretty considerable bumps on y'r ugly
figger-head."
"It's a foight, bedad!" exclaimed Paddy, delightedly. "Go it, ye
spalpeens! Git a move on your bump-raisin' operations, Hank, me broth
of a boy."
"Jest you backwater some," said Ben coolly, pulling out a capstan-bar
from the rack as Hank squared up to him.
Hank drew back uncertainly, for there was a nasty gleam in the old
miner's eyes.
"Crikey! but 'e's got the bulge on you, Hank, proper," grinned the
cockney appreciatively.
"I would shorely like to savvy what for you two lunattics is a-howlin'
for blood?" drawled Broncho, as he slowly proceeded to fill his pipe.
"This half-baked sluice-robber has the hell-freezin' nerve to
insinnivate that my old woman don't bank none on my vartues," explained
the injured benedict ferociously.
Jack had been holding himself in up till now well enough, but this
last was too much for him, and, doubling up, he burst into a roar of
laughter, in which old Ben joined heartily, taking for granted that the
laugh was on his side of the deck.
"I guess Ben wouldn't think it so durned funny, if he'd drop that
handspike an' stand up like a man," snarled Hank.
"Book-sports allows as how it's women as causes mos' of the
skin-ticklin' in this ornery globe, an' I reckon they shore hits the
bull's-eye this time," remarked Broncho, sagely.
"What's the row?" broke in Curly excitedly, coming up the
topgallant-ladder in two bounds.
"W'y, swipe me if ole Ben ain't been an' hurted Hank's delikit
feelin's," explained the cockney.
"It's a cert, son, as how Hank ain't out to have his back scratched
that away. A wounded grizzly is mild an' dreamlike compared to him,"
added Broncho, with a slow droop of his left eye.
"Vy don' you blunk 'im?" grunted the Dutchman's heavy voice, addressing
itself to Hank.
"Hell!" burst out the exasperated man. "If thet Dutch son of a
carrion-crow gives me any durned chin-chin, I'll ram his ugly
pig's-eyes outer the back of his head"; and Dutchy withered into his
shell again.
"Look-a-here, partner, ain't you had 'bout enuff o' this low-grade
dust-raisin'," inquired Ben loftily; still, however, clinging to his
trusty capstan-bar. "'Cos thar goes four bells an' it's my wheel."
"Air you goin' to take in the slack o' them insinnivations?" demanded
Hank, with dignity.
"You jest step outer the trail an' let this outfit pass, or I reckon
you'll be shy considerable epidermis in another minit," growled old Ben
angrily, as Hank blocked his way down the topgallant-ladder.
"Wall! Dog my cats if I stand to that!" roared Hank, and he made a wild
rush at the old miner.
Ben lunged out furiously with the handspike, but the long, wiry
down-easter dodged the formidable weapon with catlike activity, and the
next moment they were "in holds," in the parlance of the prize-ring.
Clutched in each other's arms, they reeled across the foc's'le head
like hugging bears, and then down they came with a crash on the deck.
"I'll learn yew to miscall a free-born American citizen, yew
long-ha'red dump-thief," screeched Hank, as they rolled over and he
came on top.
But with a desperate effort Ben reversed the positions, and as his
horny fingers gripped the other's hairy throat he growled like an angry
grizzly.
"You reckon you's ugly, but this child's uglier."
Hank tried hard to gurgle out a suitable retort, but his effort sounded
like the choke of a ship's pump. Wildly he clutched at the iron hands
on his throat, but in vain; he could not budge them. His breath began
to come in short gasps, his face to flush purple beneath the deep tan,
and his strength to leave him.
Both watches were now gathered round the two combatants, a ring of
excited faces.
The gambler was perched up on the capstan, and as he remarked
afterwards in describing the fight to Red Bill, who was all this time
waiting to be relieved at the wheel,
"I jest sits back in the peep-chair an' follows the run of the cards,
like it were a faro game."
The cockney, his face working with excitement, hopped up and down like
a cat on hot bricks, crying out,
"Sock it to 'im, Ben, sock it to 'im! Starboard watch fur ever!"
"Chucks! but Ben has him in one spin o' the wheel," remarked Broncho
to the rover. "This here's a freeze-out for Hank; he's beginnin' to
unwind melodies o' despair."
For Hank, in his effort to breathe, was groaning and grunting and
choking.
"Go easy, Ben; I think Hank's had about enough," interposed Jack,
leaning over and trying to drag him off the prostrate down-easter.
"Sticks to Hank closer'n bacon-rind," observed Broncho, watching Jack's
unavailing efforts.
"Help me get him off," panted the rover. "He'll choke the man in a
minute."
"That's some obvious--that 'possum ain't doin' no roll-over an' playin'
dead," drawled the cowboy composedly, as he lent Jack his aid.
"A man's finish is his own," put in the gambler, objecting to the
interference of the two friends.
"You jest hold your hand, my lively one-horse-saloon bottle-washer,
or I suspicion I'll have to tame you some," said the cowpuncher
contemptuously.
Then, with a terrific heave together, Jack and Broncho pulled old Ben
off Hank on to his feet.
Ben just stood there and looked at his victim, gasping on the deck.
"Mebbe that'll learn you some, mister; Ben Sluice don't allow no Yankee
wolf to come yowlin' blood round him without puttin' up a breeze o'
some sort"; and he turned on his heel, clambered down the ladder, and
went aft to relieve the wheel.
"Wake up, old son, an' take a new hold," said the cowpuncher kindly,
as Hank gave no signs of life except to roll his eyes and breathe in
harsh, jerky groans.
"Get us a bucket of water, Jim," called the rover.
The water had the desired effect. Hank's face assumed a more healthy
colour; he drew a deep breath and sat up.
"I'm feelin' some considerable used up," he muttered slowly; and then
he began to swear in that vivid, forcible way which obtains at sea.
Presently he rose to his feet and stood staggering, then lurched
forward like a drunken man and headed for the topgallant-ladder.
"He's shore as wobbly as a tenderfooted cow-hoss in a patch o' cactus,"
remarked Broncho, as he noted Hank's tottering steps.
"I was all choked up in a minit; that minin' tough's fingers are like
iron clamps," threw back the other, as he carefully clawed his way down
on to the maindeck.
"And that h'ain't no josh, neither," declared the cockney feelingly.
"'E nearly 'as you garrotted inter dead meat, s'elp me bob."
"I allows Hank has all he wants," pronounced Broncho. "When women is
the theme o'discourse, gents o' savvy cash in an' quit; thar's no
knowin' which way the cat will hop. You're liable to get creased or
reap a skinful o' lead whichever way you plays your hand."
And thus the argument finished.
CHAPTER IX
"THE GLORY OF THE STARS"
That evening, Jack, the astronomical weather-prophet (as he laughingly
called himself) took advantage of the magnificence of the stars,
undimmed by the moon, which was still below the horizon, to bring out
his big telescope.
Eight bells had gone and the starboard watch were below until midnight.
The greater number of them, preferring the fresh night air to that of
the stuffy foc's'le, had brought their blankets up on to the foc's'le
head. Here they lay about in attitudes peculiar to sailors, and in
which only sailors could sleep.
Only one man lay at full length, flat on his back, his pipe between
his lips, as he puffed steadily, a vacant look in his open eyes as he
rested his brain as well as his body. This was Red Bill. Near him lay
the cockney, curled up like a dog and snoring tunefully, his pipe on
the deck by his cheek, where it had fallen from his mouth. A sailor
always lights his pipe to go to sleep with, and generally falls asleep
smoking. A habit which is supposed to be very dangerous to landlubbers,
but which, so far as I have heard, never caused an accident at sea.
Paddy sat jammed between two bollards, his chin sunk upon his chest,
in a position which looked the reverse of comfortable, and yet he was
sleeping peacefully.
Up in the bows reclined Jack, with the cowboy and Curly. These last two
were taking turns to peer through the telescope, whilst Jack discoursed
upon the wonders of the heavens.
"Now, just you look at that fellow there, Broncho," said the rover,
pointing along the cowboy's line of sight. "That's the planet Saturn."
"You don't say!"
"Yes, have you got him? Now, do you see his rings?"
"Which I do for shore. Whatever be them rings, Jack, an' why does this
here Saturn trail round with 'em. I notes he's the on'y star with them
appendages."
"They're supposed to be rings of gas or vapour. It's been said that our
world once had rings like that, and that they burst and all fell upon
the earth at once, which produced the flood."
"Say, but that's kinder strange. However scientific sports onravels
them mysteries an' rounds up them facts shore has me bogged. Mebbe
Providence devastates this here Saturn with floods right now. If them
rings is rain-clouds they're bulky a whole lot, an' liable to swamp
this Saturn planet if they plays a steady game; an' if I were an
inhabitant thar I'd be hittin' quite a gait for the high spots, or
pawin' in my war-bags for the price of a birch-bark."
"Of course, you know the signs of the zodiac, Curly," went on the
amateur astronomer.
"No, not all. Spout 'em out, Jack, and show 'em to us."
"Why, don't you remember the rhyme:
The Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins,
And next the Crab, the Lion shines;
The Virgin and the Scales,
The Scorpion, Archer, and He-Goat,
The Man that holds the water-pot,
And Fish with glittering tails."
"Whar's the Bull you mentions?" exclaimed the cowpuncher eagerly. "I
jest itches to throw a rope over him."
"Well, do you see that V with a big red star?"
"Red star--why, shore, I savvys that V since I were a kiddy."
"That's the head of the Bull, and that rose-red star is Aldebaran, the
eye of the Bull. That's a star you'll find useful some day, Curly, when
you're captain of a ship and want to take night sights."
"Why ever do they call him 'Aldebaran'?" asked Broncho.
"It's Arabic, meaning 'the follower,' because it follows the Pleiades."
"I know the Pleiades," said Curly, pointing aloft proudly.
"Many a night I saw the Pleiads,
Rising through the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies
Tangled in a silver braid,"
quoted Jack.
"The Pleiades," he went on, "were the seven daughters of Atlas, and are
in some mysterious way connected with the flood. The ancient Egyptians
celebrated a festival in November at the culmination of the Pleiades,
which they directly connected with the flood.
"The same thing seems to have occurred amongst the Hindoos, the
Persians, the Druids, and in the South Seas. The Japanese Feast of
Lanterns is also supposed to commemorate this event, whilst the ancient
inhabitants of Mexico had a tradition that the world had been destroyed
at the midnight culmination of the Pleiades. This is all mysteriously
borne out by the fact that Taurus, the Bull, whom you have just looked
at, shows only his head and shoulders; he is supposed to be swimming."
"That's shore interesting as an idee," commented Broncho. "But do
you-alls regyard this here flood superstition you recounts as a likely
play?"
"It's only a theory, Broncho, with maybe nothing in it."
"Theeries is theeries, an' facts is facts. I meets a gent once way
down to Tombstone, who allows he's the bigges' full-blooded wolf in
Arizona. He's shore a tough citizen a whole lot, carries a six-gun
with the stock full o' notches an' the trigger tied back. Wall, this
here Tombstone sport, which his name is P'ison Dick (an' he's shore
p'isonous as a t'rantler) cherishes the theery, an' gives it out
premiscuous as a hoss-back opinion, that a 45-calibre bullet ain't able
to worry him none; if he accoomilates one he allows he assimilates
it into his system, an' don't take no more account tharof. That's
his theery, an' as mebbe you-alls shrewdly surmises, it bogs down in
the dust before facts--an' it's this way; he's been a-loafin' around
Tombstone mebbe hard on the hocks of a year, an' the camp's shore full
to bustin' with his goin's on; and I ain't wonderin', for there ain't a
moon goes by without Tombstone's shy a citizen an' mebbe a greaser or
two, all corpses o' this P'ison Dick's layin' out.
"Wall, it's 'bout sundown, one day in the early fall, when a stranger
comes lopin' into camp on a played-out pinto pony, which he halts up
before the 'Gold Nugget,' old Konkey Bell's saloon, an' proceeds to
dismount tharfrom like as if he's some wearied an' bone-tired. I notes
this through the door, from where I'm buckin' a faro game, an' likewise
takes in a pair o' big black eyes an' a smooth face. 'It's a boy,' I
remyarks casual to myself as I coppers my bet, an' the next minit I
sees this here black-eyed foreigner up agen the bar, a-swallowin' a
drink 'longside o' P'ison Dick. It ain't manners none to take a drink
alone that-away, an' is liable to make a gent too conspicuous to be
healthy; but seein' he's a stranger and without many rings on his
horns, it passes. P'ison Dick scowls, but says nothin'; then _poco
tiempo_ tells the bar-keep to set 'em up again.
"The bar-keep slams down a glass before the stranger, who pushes it
away some careless, an' allows he's done finished lubricatin'.
"P'ison Dick's eyes kinder narrowed like a snake's.
"'I'm askin' you to hev' a drink, stranger,' he says, colder'n ice in
hell.
"You-alls may surmise the rest of us is some taciturn, not to say mute
a whole lot, an' some foxy longhorns is already takin' cover.
"The stranger smiles kinder queer at Dick--jest a mouth twist, his eyes
lookin' a heap grim; an' he stands thar for mebbe the length of a drink
o' whisky, then snaps out in a sorter shaky screech, 'To hell with yer
drink!' an' before you can turn a kyard over, he ups an' has the glass
bruck on P'ison Dick's crimson beak.
"By this move he has Dick some disgruntled an' gains more time to draw;
then, bang! go the gatlin's a'most together, an' Dick's theery cuts
adrift from him without strainin' itself none. He's dead meat that
sudden, he don't even have time to emit a groan.
"The stranger's hit too, plumb through the lung, an' pretty soon
cashes in likewise; but, where the game comes queer is this way. That
'ere black-eyed party whom I allowed was a boy is a woman, an' a
mighty pretty one at that, though her sperit peters out 'fore we is
able to corral any reasons for the game she plays; an' as I pulls my
freight next sun-up I never does accoomilate no knowledge tharof.
Anyway, P'ison Dick gets his medicine an' lights out that sudden for
the heavenly pastures I reckons the angels, or more likely it's them
fork-tailed miscreant collectors, is some surprised to see him bulgin'
in an' defilin' the scenery o' their sperit-ranche."
"Well," observed Jack slowly, "astronomy's a science which gives a wide
fling to the imagination, and without those theories you despise is
liable to lose a great deal of interest. But let's look at Orion, the
finest constellation in the heavens. He's the greatest hunter the world
has ever known--Nimrod, who, with his dogs, has been placed up in the
heavens to hunt the Bull.
"D'you see that reddish star? That's Betelgeuse--Arabic _beyt al
agoos_, 'the old man's house.' Betelgeuse is a sun like our own, but
a cooling one, and represents the left shoulder of Orion, Bellatrix,
supposed to be a lucky star for women, being the right shoulder. Those
three bright stars in a line are the hunter's belt, whilst below is
Rigel--Arabic _rigl_, 'a foot'--being Orion's left foot.
"That big star of a delicate green is Sirius, the blazing dog-star,
Orion's great hunting dog."
"So!" drawled Broncho with a slow smile. "Smell-dawg or tree-dawg?"[1]
"Sirius," went on Jack, taking no notice of Broncho's facetiousness,
"is the brightest star in the heavens, though not the biggest. Canopus,
though only half as bright, is immeasurably bigger; but if it were as
near to us as Sirius I expect it would shine in the sky with as great a
brilliance as our sun.
"Now, at the least computation, Sirius is fifty billion miles off,
or five hundred and thirty-seven thousand times as far from the earth
as the sun; and since light diminishes as the square of the distance
increases, the sun, if as far off as Sirius, would give us two hundred
and eighty-eight thousand million times less light than it does now.
"The character of Sirius' spectrum shows that, surface for surface,
its brightness is far greater than the sun's, and as Sirius is some
twenty times the size of the sun, Sirius is reckoned to shine some
seventy times as bright as the sun. This is putting the calculation at
its smallest. Good authorities put Sirius at twice that distance off,
and calculate the star's brilliancy as two hundred and eighty-eight
times greater than the sun's.[7] Now, when you come to contemplate
Canopus----"
"Hold on, son! Hold your horses there!" burst out Broncho, drawing a
long breath. "Sirius is a size too large for this child. My brain's
dizzy an' wobblin' with them Sirius calc'lations o' yours, an' if you
turns your wolf loose on this Canopus star, compared to which you
allows Sirius is merely a puny picaninny, you'll shore have me that
locoed an' brain-strained, tryin' to size up them measurements o'
yours, I'd be liable to dislocate my mental tissues an' stampede away
into a lunatic complete."
"Well, you needn't worry; astronomers are beaten by Canopus."
"If you-alls aims to surprise me by that statement, you don't succeed.
I bet a stack o' blues them astronomy sharps goes locoed or beds down
in their coffins 'fore they has time to round up the tally o' Canopus,"
declared the cowpuncher.
"He's so far off," continued Jack impressively, "that if they used up
all the oughts in the world, they couldn't get his distance down on
paper."
"Tell us some more about Sirius," said Curly, his eyes bulging with
Jack's stupendous statements.
"Well, there is another queer thing about Sirius. He's got a big
companion-star fussing round him, which gives such a dim light it
can only be seen by the very biggest of astronomical telescopes.
There is no reason why there should not be many invisible as well as
visible stars in the firmament. As Bessel said, 'No reason exists for
considering luminosity an essential property of stars.'
"Just imagine, then, that it is quite possible that the heavens are not
only full of those bright globes we see night after night, but besides
them a multitude of dim, ghostlike stars, unseen by us, but there all
the same, are pacing along their allotted paths like the rest."
"Are these invisible, unlighted stars allowed by scientists, Jack?"
asked Curly, in a subdued voice of awe.
"Hinted at, hinted at," returned the rover carelessly. "But I'll tell
you something more wonderful to think of than that--the systems of
double, treble, and quadruple suns. Now, our solar system is at the
bottom rung of the social ladder in the heavenly world. We just have a
plain white sun, which we revolve round with regular seasons and fixed
day and night; but take a system that revolves round a double star, and
thus has two suns, and say these suns differ in colour,--as is often
the case, for every star has a colour of its own--Sirius is a pale
green, Aldebaran rose-red, Betelgeuse orange-red, Rigel a blue-white,
Capella a pearly white, and so on.
"Suppose, then, one of these suns is red and the other blue. Imagine,
if you can, the combinations of colour that ensue, not to mention the
variations in day and night and in the seasons.
"At one time both suns will be high in the heavens at once, one
shedding rays of red, the other rays of blue; and as they set in
different corners of the horizon, two gorgeously coloured sunsets
simply overwhelm the sky with beautiful colour-effects.
"At another time, perhaps, one sun will be above the horizon for half
the round of the clock, the other taking the other half--no night
during that period, simply so many hours of red and so many hours of
blue light, and perhaps the sunrise of the one coincides with the
sunset of the other. Ye gods! What a prospect! But how much further
does a quadruple system carry us--four suns glaring down upon one; no
nights at all now (the people in those systems no doubt have reached
a stage in the evolution of the body--if, indeed, they have bodies at
all--when sleep is no longer required), just days of every hue, of
every grade of colour--pale blue days, brilliant red days, gorgeous
yellow days, violet days, green days----"
"Good night, Jack," broke in the cowpuncher softly. "I guess I'll
quit. You're one too many for me; you have me beat to a stan'still.
My head'll burst if I accoomilates any more astronomy. It takes up
too much space in my brain-cells an' don' settle down none, but jest
rampages 'round stampedin' my intellec's out into the cold, till I
wonders, has I a headpiece at all or has it blowed off like a rawcket?"
This broke up the astronomy party, and the three rolled into their
blankets; but Curly, when he was turned out at one bell, complained
of a dream in which the devil, with a face of variegated colours,
had been grinning at him through Saturn's rings, whilst the grim
shades of ghost stars pranced before him in all manner of fantastic
shapes, headed by the monstrous fiery apparition of Sirius, whose
flames, spread out in great tentacles--a twisty, creepy, crawly mass
of claw-ended arms--sought to drag the terrified dreamer out of his
blankets.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] It is now known that these figures _re_ Sirius are much overstated.
CHAPTER X
"STUDPOKER BOB'S MALADY"
Like most wooden ships, the _Higgins_ had to be pumped out twice a day,
once in the morning watch and once in the second dog-watch.
A ship's pumps are worked by handle-bars on heavy flywheels, and it
is probably the finest exercise in the world for your back muscles,
especially if you have a bucko like Black Davis to watch over you and
keep you doing sixty revolutions to the minute for half an hour without
a spell.
The bosun was not such a keen muscle-developer, and in consequence
the starboard watch only averaged thirty-five to forty revolutions a
minute, and also had a spell-ho after fifteen minutes.
Notwithstanding this, Studpoker Bob, who had a horror of any sort of
form of muscle-developing, used to let his arms go round with the
brakes, and so managed that, instead of his arms pulling the brakes,
the brakes pulled his arms.
This man was fast beginning to show up in his true colours.
As Broncho observed to Jack:
"That ere kyard-sharp don't surge back on a rope suffeecient to throw
a calf. He's shore regyardful of his health that-away; yet he's
a-distributin' views in the foc's'le like as if he's the most put-upon
gent in the ship, which same views is shore fomentin' trouble."
"The man's a real waster," replied the rover. "I watched him dealing
a brace game last night against Hank, Ben, and those two tenderfoots,
Jimmy Green and Pinto. I believe he's got notes for most of the
men's paydays already, and now, as you say, he's trying in a sneaky,
underhand way to rake up trouble; but sailors always will walk blindly
into the ditch, and won't be warned."
"Which his mood is shore ornery an' he's plumb wolf by nacher; but as
you-alls sagely remyarks, them misguided shorthorns won't believe it
none, an' listens to his howlin' like he's the President of the United
States. It has me plumb wearied," and Broncho sniffed disdainfully as
he slowly filled his favourite corncob.
But matters were rapidly coming to a head. The _Higgins_ had lost
the south-east trades, and was plunging into a heavy head sea under
topgallant-s'ls, whilst a succession of sprays turned the forward part
of the ship into a shower-bath, and ever and anon a green sea tumbled
aboard and roared aft.
The wind, a dead muzzler, was slowly increasing in strength, with an
edge to it which was a good foretaste of the "Roaring Forties."
To windward the sky had a dirty look, and untidy, threadbare
storm-clouds swept across it, whilst in the west the sun sank into a
greenish, sickly sea through a variegated mess of yellow tints.
The watch no longer went about bare-foot in thin dungarees; instead,
oilskins and sea-boots were the order of the day.
At four bells, 6 p.m., the port watch went below, and as they came
forward some of them presented a very curious appearance. Sam, the
coloured man, had supplemented his rags with odd bits of dungaree and
canvas, tied on to his body with numerous pieces of ropeyarn; whilst
Jim, the boy, swaggered along in an old blanket coat of Jack's, which
made him a good-sized overcoat.
The cockney went aft to relieve the wheel, a somewhat comical figure in
some Piccadilly masher's discarded town coat, with velvet collar and
cuffs, whilst the rest of the watch were turned out to man the pumps.
They started briskly to work at a cry of "Shake her up, boys," from the
bosun.
Studpoker Bob, in his usual style, took special care lest he should
inadvertently put some weight on to the brakes, and was succeeding, he
thought, very well.
Jack, of course, was not the man to let the opportunity go by without a
chanty, and started off with:
"Were you never down in Mobile bay?"
The whole watch thundered in the chorus with the exception of the
gambler, who kept all his breath for his mutinous talk in the foc's'le.
As they swung the bars, deep came the note:
"John, come tell us as we haul away."
(Jack) "A-screwing cotton all the day."
(_Chorus_) "John, come tell us as we haul away.
Aye, aye, haul, aye!
John, come tell us as we haul away."
Then Jack went on:
"What did I see in Mobile Bay?"
(_Chorus_) "John, come tell us as we haul away."
(Jack) "Were the girls all fair and free and gay?"
(_Chorus_) "John, come tell us as we haul away.
Aye, aye, haul, aye!
John, come tell us as we haul away."
(Jack) "Oh! This I saw in Mobile Bay."
(_Chorus_) "So he tells us as we haul away."
(Jack) "A pretty girl a-making hay."
(_Chorus_) "So he tells us as we haul away.
Aye, aye, haul, aye!
So he tells us as we haul away."
So the chanty ran on gaily verse after verse, the chorus raised high
above the moaning of the wind and the groaning of the ship.
"Give us another!" was the general cry as the last verse finished, and
away went Jack again with "A-roving":
(Jack) "In Amsterdam there lives a maid--
Mark you well what I say--
In Amsterdam there lives a maid,
And she is mistress of her trade.
I'll go no more a-roving from you, fair maid!"
(_Chorus_) "A-roving, a-roving, since roving's been my ruin,
I'll go no more a-roving from you, fair maid!"
This also ran its course, then Curly struck up "One more day for
Johnnie":
(Curly) "Only one more day for Johnnie."
(_Chorus_) "One more day!"
(Curly) "Oh! rock and roll me over!"
(_Chorus_) "One more----"
Then the bosun most rudely interrupted the music.
Biff! Bang! Thud! "You d----d sodgering hound!" Whack! "I've watched
you loafin' long enough!" Thump! and Studpoker Bob, lifted clean off
his feet by a sudden muscular grasp upon his collar, was held at arm's
length and fairly battered by the bosun's brawny fist. Crash! an eye
closed up.
"Mercy! mercy! you're killin' me!" whined the miserable wretch.
Bish! his nose began to bleed.
"Had enough yet, you d----d Yankee tough?" growled the bosun.
"Yes, yes; lemme----"
Crack! and his two front teeth were loosened.
"By gum! that were a sockdologer!" commented Bedrock Ben.
The men had stopped working and watched the gambler getting his gruel
with appreciative eyes.
"Now, then, put your back into it and no more sodgerin'!" said the
bosun, as he released his iron grip.
"I'll get even with you, you durned Britisher," snarled the
card-sharper, as soon as he was released, his anger overcoming his
caution.
"Give me lip, will ye?" roared the bosun. "Threaten me, would ye?"
Again he seized upon Studpoker Bob, and this time did not desist from
his chastening until the man dropped to the deck, beaten to a jelly and
hardly able to move.
At the wheel the cockney hopped up and down with excitement, straining
his neck in his eagerness to see the gambler get his hammering, and a
grim smile of amusement came into Old Man Riley's keen visage, as he
watched the performance with the eye of an expert from the poop rail.
Letting his victim lie where he dropped, the bosun turned to the pumps
and called out, "Tune her up again, boys!" and presently came the
welcome cry, "That'll do the pumps!" and the watch trooped forward.
Studpoker Bob, who had lain all this time groaning on the deck, made
shift now to get to his legs, and made tracks for the foc's'le.
But the bosun was on to him again.
"Here, you there," he called, "go up an' overhaul them fore an' main
t'gallant buntlines."
And up the man had to go.
It was now two bells, and Red Bill trudged slowly aft to relieve
the cockney, as he owed him a wheel, and the second dog-watch being
considered one of the worst wheels, the cockney had gladly consented
to take an hour of that instead of the whole trick at any other time.
Diving through a curtain of spray, the rest of the watch reached the
foc's'le.
Hanging up their oilskins, they proceeded to make themselves
comfortable. Some crawled into their bunks for a short spell; others,
with pipes alight, sat round on the chests, then yarns and chaff began
to fly round.
Without it was cold and wet, nearly dark and with every prospect of a
dirty night.
The wind could be heard moaning and crying, whistling and screaming
through the rigging.
The ship groaned and creaked beneath the sledge-hammer blows of the
heavy head sea.
The sprays rattled outside, and all was dismal and comfortless. What
wonder if the watch below is one of the comforts of a sailor's life.
"Golly, byes!" burst out the cockney, as he dashed in dripping. "Poor
ole Bob, didn't 'e get it socked to 'im. 'E weren't 'ollerin' for more
when the bosun got through with 'im, were 'e? Sykes alive! but it were
a h'awful lickin'!"
"Begob! but it takes the divil an' all to tackle that big hefty brute
of a bosun; an' now he has the poor varmint overhaulin' buntlines. Be
me sowl, but Bob's fair up agin' it!" said Paddy.
"And serve him right. The amount of work he does wouldn't bother a
child," remarked Jack scornfully.
"Oh, Bob's orl right. 'Is trouble is weakness. 'Ow can 'e work? That
bloke ain't got more strength than a 'edge-sparrer; 'is 'ealth is give
h'out."
"Who told you that?" asked Jack.
"'E did 'imself, 'bout two days back."
"And whatever is the malady of this here weak-kneed kyard-sharp?"
inquired Broncho, in his slow, polite way.
"'E sez as 'ow h'it's consumption which 'as 'im in its gruesome
clutches."
"I ain't heard him kaufin' none," remarked the cowboy suspiciously. "I
cuts the trail one time of a gent who cashes in from that cawpse-makin'
complaint, an' he shore coughs a heap plentyful, an' that loud an'
wideflung you couldn't bed-down in the same teepee with him an' make
any sort o' success o' slumber. His kaufin' that-away shore puts a
bull-moose to shame."
"Now, see 'ere, ducky, I ain't er-sayin' as 'ow that ain't the general
racket; but Bob, 'e sez to me, sezzee, 'I'm past the korfin' styge; h'I
just spits up my lungs in chunks; h'I ain't the strength to korf,'"
returned the cockney doggedly.
"I ain't in line for no sech flapdoodle as that," drawled Broncho. "He
ain't goin' to fool this old he-coon none that-away. Why, consumption
can no more make a play without kaufin' than smallpox can without
spots."
"'Ave it 'ow you loike--h'I just tells you what 'e sez, that's h'all,"
retorted the cockney angrily.
"Thet's right, pard; but I reckons Broncho calls the deal correct when
he says that consumption ain't no more than a low-grade malady without
kaufin'. It's kaufin' that makes it the clean-sweep disease that it
is," joined in old Bedrock Ben.
"Bedad thin," commented Pat, "Bob's sick with consumption, but the
disaise ain't after makin' him ill at all."
"The man's as strong and well as you or I," exclaimed Curly hotly,
poking his head out of his bunk.
"I ain't sayin' but that if Studpoker Bob's got consumption prowlin'
around him, it ain't been an' staked out its claim an' started in
to work diggin' out his innards by now, after the energy the bosun
displays on him," went on Ben.
"And that ain't no bluff, neither. The bosun shore puts a heap o' zest
into the game, an' after bein' upheaved an' jumped on that-away, I
reckons Bob don't get so much bliss as he did," agreed Broncho.
At this moment, Jim, who had just been to strike one bell, dived in
glistening with wet.
"It's blowin' up hard; it'll be 'All hands to the crojjick' at eight
bells, the bosun says," he announced.
"What's that, sonny? All hands at eight bells? An' it's our first watch
below! Hell take the sea, anyhow," growled old Ben.
"We're in for a night of it. Listen to the wind," observed Curly.
There was a general rush for oilskins and rubbers.
"You'll want lashings on your oilskins to-night, Broncho," remarked
Jack, as he knotted a deep-sea lashing round his waist.
"An' what's the aim in life o' these here lashin's?"
"Ter keep the bloomin' water out, er course," jerked out the cockney,
as he struggled with a sea-boot.
"Where's that 'ere sufferin', consumption-stricken gent, Studpoker Bob,
all this time?" asked old Ben, looking round the foc's'le.
"He's warmin' an' repa'rin' himself in the galley, and havin' a
chin-chin with Lung," returned Jim.
"And he calls himself an American citizen," grunted Ben, in great
disgust. "I'd sooner exchange views with a pra'rie-dog or a gopher than
one o' them heathens from the Orient. They're all right to wash clothes
or toss flapjacks or sech-like plays, but to shake dice with 'em--no,
sirree, that's what I calls plumb degradin'."
As he spoke the thundering voice of the bosun was heard.
"A-l-l h-a-n-d-s s-h-o-r-t-e-n s-a-i-l!"
Sure enough it was about time, for the wind was shrieking through
the rigging with more strength every minute, and at every plunge the
heavily pressed vessel sent the sprays right over her. The lee-scuppers
were full, and a succession of dollops poured over the weather rail.
CHAPTER XI
"THE STORMFIEND"
"Crojjick buntlines and clew-garnets!" roared Black Davis.
The men stumbled clumsily round the fife-rail and groped about in the
darkness for the right ropes; then, like sundry tug-of-war teams, stood
waiting for the word.
"Ready with your tack there, bosun?" called the mate.
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"Haul away!" came the order.
"Hoo-oop, come in with her! Ho-yah, an' she must!" sang Jack, giving
time to the hauling.
"Hand over hand, hand over hand!" yelled the bosun.
"Yo-ho-yo-ho-oh-yo-har!"
Swish! and a green sea tumbled aboard, washing the men at the
clew-garnet off their legs.
"Bedad, an' it's could!" gasped Pat.
"Thet'll do, y'r weather buntlines; haul away to leeward!" called the
mate.
"Hy-ei-ei-ei-ei-ei!" came the swelling chorus, the note rising at each
pull.
"Now, then, what ye crowdin' up like that for? Spread out! How can you
haul if you ain't got room?" holloaed the bosun. "Up with her, boys,
lively now, lively!" he cried sharply. "Oh ho! Two-block her!"
Suddenly from aft came the old man's voice, rising above the roar of
the gathering gale.
"Belay all that! Git them t'gallant-s'ls in, Mr. Davis, quick!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
There was no time to lose. A nasty-looking heavy black cloud with torn,
ragged edges was racing up to windward.
"There's dirt in that," said the bosun to Jack, as they manned the
t'gallant clew-lines.
"Haul, yew mutton-faced haymakers, haul!" bellowed the mate.
The ship resounded with the cries of the men and the thunder of the
flogging canvas.
As the _Higgins_ lay over, it was almost impossible to stand on her
gleaming wet decks, and to leeward the men on the spilling-lines were
up to their waists in broken water.
"Sweat her up, my barnacle-backs!" yelled the bosun encouragingly,
standing out a very tower of strength in the midst of the panting,
struggling men.
"There's snow coming," jerked out the rover to Broncho, as he sniffed
to windward.
First the mizzen topgallant-sail was clewed up and four light men were
sent aloft to make it fast; but it was touch and go whether the fore
and main topgallant-sails would be clewed up before the approaching
squall was upon them, and the men had only just got out on to the
footropes and started to fist the sails when it swooped down upon the
ship with a furious roar, accompanied by a mixture of snow, hail, and
sleet.
The driving snow thickened the darkness into the density of black mud.
The sleet spattered and hissed and the hail rattled, pounding on the
wet decks like dancing pebbles and beating with blood-drawing force
upon the grim, weather-worn faces.
Upon the yards, headed by the bosun, the men fought furiously with the
maddened canvas. Crooked fingers scratched despairingly at the rigid
curves, bleeding knuckles struck ragingly at the stubborn, iron-like
folds. Wildly-shouted commands, cut off by the hooting wind, flew to
leeward unheard.
The face of the bosun at the bunt of the main topgallant-sail grew
twisted and distorted with grimaces in his vain attempts to make the
men understand, unseen in the smothering darkness of the squall even by
the man next him; vainly he waved and gesticulated; again and again his
mouth shaped the words:
"All together! All together!"
The footropes swung violently as the savage sail jerked them, in a vain
attempt to dislodge the struggling men.
The _Higgins_ lay over and over and yet over under the strength of
the blast; the covering-board disappeared, then the dead-eyes and the
topgallant rail; the sheerpoles were dipped, the fair-leads smothered,
and a hissing cauldron of seething white water boiled up to and over
the hatch tarpaulins.
Minutes passed and she lay steady, her lower yardarms spiking the
whirling smother to leeward, right over, pressed down and overwhelmed
by the fearful strength of the screeching tempest.
Then there came a lull. The gallant vessel gave a desperate quiver as
she struggled to rise, then slowly she brought her spars to windward
and shook herself free, the water pouring off the maindeck and dragging
the gear off the pins in a hideous tangle.
"Now! now! now!" screeched the bosun, his voice strained to cracking
point, and ten sets of hooked claws from ten burly fists fastened upon
the swelling breast of the main topgallant-sail.
A few inches were gained and stuffed between the groaning yard and the
straining, perspiring bodies. Again the aching finger-tips caught hold;
a foot came in this time, then another, and the men at the yardarms
fumbled for the gaskets.
"Catch a turn! catch a turn!" bellowed the bosun.
The cockney to windward, his sou'wester gone, his long hair streaming
in the wind, and his thin, comical face working furiously with his
efforts, managed to get the yardarm gasket passed.
One more heave and the sail was muzzled, and the worn-out men clambered
slowly down from aloft.
Meanwhile, Jack, Broncho, Hank, and the gambler were having the time of
their lives on the fore.
Jack, at the bunt, with a grim smile on his streaming face and eyes
gleaming with a kind of strenuous joy, leant far over and watched like
a prize-fighter for an opening.
Broncho and Hank, on each side of him, plucked furiously at the tightly
stretched canvas without success.
Like the bosun, Jack saw his chance in the short lull and grabbed a
fold, but it was too strong for him and tore itself free; again he
dived at it, but the sail, which had not been properly clewed up,
behaved like a fiend.
It bellied up in front of him and above him in raging protest, and
battered him mercilessly against the mast, whilst it nearly sent
Broncho and Hank headlong overboard.
The cowpuncher made a wild clutch at the man-rope as he was hurled
backward, and hung there, his muscles strained and cracking as the
canvas beat its weight upon him.
Hank, with both arms embracing the bunt-line, swung on the footrope
with head and shoulders buried in the shaking folds.
Unsuccessful in its murderous attempt, the sail dropped back and the
battle began anew.
Fiercely, enraged by the dastardly behaviour of the vicious sail, the
three deep-sea musketeers leant forward to the attack again.
Again and again the sail broke away from the clawing hands, staining
itself red with the blood from torn finger-nails and skinned knuckles,
until at last they got a firm hold.
Up it came, inch by inch; their arms groaned under the strain, their
curved fingers throbbed with fiery pains--still with gritted teeth,
they hung on.
Bending over, Jack drove his strong teeth into the sail where his left
hand had a grip; then with the weight on his jaw, he shifted his hand
and groped for the bunt gasket, whilst Hank hurled furious profanity at
the frightened gambler, who was hanging on to the jackstay to leeward,
terrified, half-demented, quite useless.
The card-sharper made no attempt to move from his position, and whilst
Jack and Broncho passed the bunt gasket, Hank slid out along the
footrope and, grasping the jackstay with his left hand, hit fiercely
with his right at the face of the shirker.
There is a grim work sometimes aloft in the raging of a gale, the work
of heated blood and feelings overwrought by the cruel stress of the
moment.
The gambler flinched from the vicious blows and whimpered miserably.
"The cur's no use, anyhow!" shouted Jack disdainfully, but Hank in his
mad rage heeded him not.
At last the sail was overcome; they swung themselves into the rigging
and slowly descended, struggling against the fury of the wind.
Each gust pinned them down as if spreadeagled, and it was a work of
difficulty and arduous labour shifting their feet from one ratline
to another. When they reached the deck they were streaming with
perspiration and nearly dead beat with their terrific exertions, but
the keen, chilly wind soon put new life into them. Paying no heed to
the buffeting of the storm, the flying spume, or the pattering hail,
they hastily hauled themselves along the weather rail in the pitch
darkness, knowing by long experience of night work the geography of the
ship.
They found the rest of the crew gathered round the main fife-rail,
about to haul up the main course.
The lull had passed and the wind was once more shrieking over them in
its mad turbulence. Hail, snow, and spindrift flew across the straining
vessel in solid sheets, whilst on every side the torn-up sea lashed
itself into smoking soap-suds, and in rushing breakers hurled itself to
leeward.
The ship, too heavily pressed under whole topsails and two courses,
ploughed her way straight through the rising seas, taking whole
mountains of green water over her weather rail forward which, pouring
aft, kept the maindeck continually awash.
A bright shaft of light from the carpenter's lamp suddenly flashed
forth upon the wild scene, illuminating with its rays the group of
sorely spent men amidships. Then it went out before the onslaught of
the furious wind, and the darkness seemed greater than before.
Muller, the German, was just slacking away the main-tack when a furious
gust came; he lost his head at the wrong moment and the tack took
charge.
In a second pandemonium reigned. A frightful slating arose from the
released sail, and the heavy block raged about at random, threatening
death at every spring, whilst the great ninety-foot mainyard buckled
like a bamboo cane.
The confusion for some minutes was indescribable, and by way of
improving the situation, the bosun and four of the best men were washed
from the clew-garnet into the lee-scuppers.
At the break of the poop the old man danced and screamed with rage,
swinging his arms and beating his fists on the rail in a very whirlwind
of passion.
Black Davis, hanging on with one hand and grasping a belaying-pin in
the other, clawed his way skilfully along the weather bulwark and
pounced upon the unfortunate Dutchman.
"Hell an' furies!" he screeched. "Yew infernal, stockfish poundin'
Dutch son of a shark, yew slab-sided, bean-swillin', dunderhead yew,
what yew think y'r doin', hey? Want ter carry away the mainyard, yew
slush-brained numskull?"
Crack! crack! crack! went the belaying-pin on the wretched man's head.
Suddenly, in the midst of it all, the wind lulled again, and the bosun,
crawling up the sloping deck on hands and knees, gave tongue lustily:
"Haul away there, haul away, haul away, haul away!"
Once more backs were bent and arms stretched out. Slowly the buntlines
came two blocks under the frenzied efforts of the half-dazed men.
"Away aloft an' make it fast!" came the command.
The stumbling, panting crowd pushed and shoved and tumbled over each
other as they struggled to the rail and swarmed over it into the
rigging.
Headed by the untiring bosun, they raced up the ratlines and scrambled
out along the footropes.
"Dig your fingers in and on to the yard with her, boys. All together,
now, ay-hay an' up she comes!" roared the bosun from the bunt. "Make a
skin! make a skin!" he went on sharply.
"It's shore none easy," muttered Broncho.
"Now you have her! now you have her!" came the bosun's overstrained
voice again. "Roll her, boys, roll her!"
"She's a-comin'!" gasped some one, and with a last great effort they
got the sail on the yard.
"I'll sit down on the footrope, whilst you swing the gasket to me,"
Jack called to the cowpuncher, leaning over and putting his lips close
to the other's ear.
"I surmise as how a diamond-hitch ain't needful in these heavenly
regions," grunted Broncho to himself as he passed the gasket.
"Don't haul on it with both hands," suddenly cried the rover from the
footrope below him. "Keep fast hold of the jackstay with one hand.
Never trust a gasket, or one day you'll take a header to the deck."
"You can bet your moccasins I'll be a heap regyardful of what you-alls
advises. I'm none anxious to come flutterin' from my perch that-away,"
observed Broncho, as he took Jack's advice.
Hardly was the main course fast before the wind shifted suddenly into
the west-south-west, and began to blow harder than ever.
The men were trooping off to man the fore and mizzen upper-topsail
spilling-lines, and Black Davis and the bosun were at the halliards;
but as the wind came astern, the old man thundered out:
"Hold all fast there! Weather crojjick brace!"
"Weather crojjick brace!" echoed the mate. "Let go o' that gear!" and
he crossed the deck to slack away the lee braces.
As the helm was put up and the ship went off, a heavy westerly sea
came up on each quarter, and soon converted the maindeck into a raging
flood, which made squaring the yards no child's play.
"Now you're going to see what a Cape Horner's maindeck is like in heavy
weather," remarked Jack to Broncho, as they took hold of the brace,
ready to haul away on the word of command.
"I ain't hankerin' after no sech spectacle," replied Broncho. "I've had
the vividest scrimmage of my life, an' I'm some jolted up an' chewed
from the effects tharof."
"Haul away!" roared Black Davis.
Hardly had three pulls been taken before the top of a sea fell upon
them, and the whole watch lay on their backs submerged and hanging on
to the brace for dear life.
Two or three unfortunates let go their hold and were washed helplessly
away, head under, at the sport of the mighty, swirling mass of water.
Bruised, battered, and choked, they were rolled over and over and
hurtled mercilessly forward in the cruel grasp of the raging torrent.
As the water gradually drained off, Black Davis, who was clinging to
the lee crojjick brace, with which he had taken a rapid turn round the
pin, felt a heavy bundle of gasping humanity bump heavily up against
his sturdy sea-boots.
Long habit caused him to draw back his toe and deliver a shrewd kick at
the object.
A muffled yell broke forth.
"Oh, it's yew, is it, yew lump o' Dutch grease? Git up!" he snarled as
he repeated the dose.
Half senseless, chock full of salt water, breathless and bruised, with
sore head and sore ribs, the luckless Muller contrived to scramble
giddily to his feet and blunder hurriedly out of range.
As he once more took hold of the brace, the German gritted his teeth
and muttered ferociously:
"Vait, mine fine mister mate, I dink I vill my knife stick into you von
dark nacht; yah, mine Gott! Den you no more kick me, ain't it? Yah!"
Then other unfortunates gathered their scattered faculties together as
the thundering voices of the mate and bosun mingled with the roar and
the scream of the stormfiend.
Pinto disengaged himself from the rough embrace of the fife-rail and
crawled up on all fours. Studpoker Bob, who had clung wildly to the
poop-ladder after the first mad rush, appeared grumbling in his usual
surly fashion, and Jimmy Green limped painfully forth from behind the
hatch.
"Haul away!" roared the bosun.
A bright whisp of a moon now appeared, soaring like a flashing scimitar
into the eye of the wind, and it was very welcome as it shed its cold
beams upon the wild scene.
The wet, glistening decks, the mass of curved cordage bending to the
blast, the line of toiling men, the clear-cut figure of the old man
swaying at the break of the poop, the raging sea which rolled in great
snow-capped mountains of ink, the scudding ragged clouds, and the
rounded bosoms of the straining topsails--all these its silver rays
showed forth in rugged, strongly touched relief.
The wheel was now too much for the strength of little Angelino, and
though he worked furiously, heaving it up and down with all his might,
he was always too late in meeting her; the compass card grew more and
more unsteady in its movements, and the ship began to swing a couple of
points on each side of her course.
The result was that the tired men at the braces spent most of their
time under water.
"Somebody'll be overboard directly, if Angelino goes on letting her run
off like that," grunted Jack to the bosun, as they hung on, dipped to
their waists in the surging flood, and waited for the maindeck to clear
itself.
"This old _Higgins_ is a bit of a wet ship, I'm thinkin'," reflected
the bosun. "She's as bad as any iron ship that ever I was on. Call 'em
diving-bells an' half-tide rocks--these here wooden Yankees are just as
bad."
Presently an extra big monster came along, and broke aboard high over
the men's heads, sweeping across the maindeck with a deafening roar,
and taking every man on the braces away in its furious embrace.
This was too much for the old man. For a few moments his whole crew
disappeared from sight in the flood; then, as the water began to pour
off over each rail in turn, he caught sight of an odd leg or arm poking
out of the torrent for a second, like derelict boughs tossed about in a
swollen mountain stream.
With a furious imprecation he turned and pounced upon Angelino.
"Oh, it's yew again, is it? What in hell d'yew think y're doin',
spinnin' tops er what? Snakes! d'ye want to have her broach to? Hard
up, yew scattermouch, hard up! Thet's enuff! Neow then, meet her as
she goes off. Gol darn my skin, yew ain't got more strength than er
cockroach! Heave her down, man, heave her down----Gaul bust my boots,
down, I said--don't yew know down from up yet? Jeerusalem, y're enuff
to make the Archangel Gabriel bawl blue hell."
Then, giving the little dago a cuff on the ear, he rushed to the break
of the poop, bellowing,
"Lee-wheel, hyeh, send a lee-wheel along, Mister Davis, an' send a man
to relieve thet dago; he ain't more use than a bad egg."
By the time the yards were squared and the starboard watch allowed to
go forward, all but an hour of their watch below had passed.
"Well, Broncho," said Jack with a queer note of gaiety in his voice,
as they stripped off their oilskins, "this is something like, eh? This
is the weather to wash the mud out of a man and keep his blood from
getting sluggish and clogged." And he sang softly,
"See how she buries that lee cat-head;
Hold on, good Yankee pine!"
The foc's'le presented a dreary interior, and seemed more calculated
to produce melancholy and sourness than gaiety; yet, as the light from
the lamp fell upon the rover's face, there was a look of exultation
upon it; his eyes glittered and beamed with a great content, whilst
the corners of his lips curved and his mouth opened with a bright,
unconscious smile.
A born fighter, the blood of battle was surging in his veins, roused
by the tempestuous strife with the elements. The queer fascination of
danger gripped him; he gloried in the desperate struggle with those two
mighty ones, the wind and sea, in all the grandeur of their fearful
passions.
It is not given to every nature to feel this strange delight in battle,
this glorious uplifting of the soul in moments of great stress or
peril, this queer, sweet sensation of sheer personal joy which tingles
through a man's blood and converts it into electric fluid, whilst it
cools his nerve, clears and sharpens his brain, and enables him to take
no heed of hunger or thirst, heat or cold, bruises or knockdowns, but
to accomplish prodigies of strength, endurance, and valour with a cold,
icy courage and unwearying muscles.
Broncho stared at the rover with wondering eyes, then glanced round as
if to see wherein lay the cause of this strange joy.
On the floor of the foc's'le three inches of water washed steadily
backwards and forwards at each heave of the tumbling vessel; from a
line overhead suspended a row of yellow oilskin coats and pants, which
swayed gravely to the rolling like so many headless bodies. Everything
seemed damp and miserable; the air was close and foul and the wet
clothing steamed; a mess of debris and wreckage washed wearily to and
fro on the flood; tired men with aching limbs lay silent between their
damp blankets, whilst that great comforter, the pipe, sent out great
clouds of smoke from each pair of lips.
Outside, mingling with the crash of the seas, the stormfiend could be
heard playing his great oratorio.
"We shore seems to be havin' a mighty strenuous time of it," replied
Broncho slowly, "though how you contrives to accoomilate joy an'
delight tharfrom has me a heap surprised. What with the way this here
locoed ship's a-buckin' an' pitchin' worse'n the meanest cayuse that
ever wears ha'r, an' the waves like stampeded landslides a-pourin' over
one an' a-heavin' one around without consultin' nobody's opeenions on
the proposition, it's shore toomultuous an' is due to have me some
ravelled an' frayed if it keeps up this vigorous high-flung gait."
"_Waache eein bietje!_" laughed Jack. "This cattle stampede's merely
beginning; it's just taking a preliminary pasear. Wait till we get into
the clutches of a Cape Horn snorter."
"A cattle stampede is low down an' ornery compared to this here
fatiguin' disturbance," returned Broncho in disgust.
"It bogs down as plumb dull an' no account before this impulsive
whirlwind, which I states emphatic is a whole team an' jest raises
Almighty discord from the heavenly vaults to the bottomless pit as easy
as winnin' a Jack-pot with four aces."
"Douse that glim," growled a voice, and soon the foc's'le resounded
with the deep, heavy breathing of tired men asleep in a foul
atmosphere.
CHAPTER XII
"A CALL FOR NERVE"
At midnight it was Jack's wheel and Broncho's look-out.
"How's she steering?" asked Jack, as he took the wheel from Hank.
"Oh, not so dusty. They've got the relievin' tackles rigged, an' she
only wants watching. Ain't yew got no lee-wheel with yew, though?"
"No, I guess I can manage."
"Waal, I reckon yew can tiew, though it'll come heavy on yew, durned
heavy."
It was now blowing a strong, steady gale, with squalls at intervals--a
good fair sample of "running easting down" weather.
The sky was almost clear, and the great Southern Cross gleamed high up
in the heavens.
The _Higgins_ required careful watching to meet her in time as she was
hurled from mountain to valley. Down, down, down into the depths, down
she dropped until the foresail began to shake; then up, up, up she
went again, staggering desperately to reach the top as, like a beast
of prey, a great hill of whirling liquid with a seething crest of foam
swooped upon her.
High up above the helmsman it reared its raging top, a nerve-shaking, a
terror-giving sight as it threatened to overwhelm the struggling ship
with its huge bulk and roll her over and over, broken, waterlogged,
sinking--only one more ship to be posted as missing, gone to an unknown
grave in the vast depths of the mighty Southern Ocean. But up swung the
stern of the gallant clipper as, held steady by Jack's cool hand, she
ran dead before it, and the great roller rushed by harmless and fell
with a deafening clatter upon the flooded maindeck.
In such a sea everything depends upon the helmsman, and the bosun kept
handy to the wheel, ready to give his powerful aid should the emergency
arise.
But the rolling-stone needed no help--he was thoroughly in his element.
A magnificent helmsman, a few spokes either way and he kept the
_Higgins_ steady on her course.
The thought that the safety of the vessel and the lives of his
shipmates depended upon his skill and nerve was pure bliss to him. He
rejoiced in it, and mocked at the vainly pursuing seas.
The helm was heavy, however, for one man, and all his strength was
needed; yet he felt it not. His muscles rebounded to the call upon
them, and he threw the wheel up a turn with easy grace, where another
man would have been straining with cracking muscles.
With legs firmly planted on the grating, he stood to windward, swaying
easily with the motion of the vessel, whilst with keen eyes he steered
by a star at the yardarm, hardly taking a glance at that deceiver, the
compass.
This, this was life, strenuous, stern, full of fearful hardship, yet
wonderful bewitching joy--the life which sharpens the faculties,
quickens the wits, and hardens the backbone of a man, producing at the
same time a self-reliance not to be come at by any other method.
It is the strife, the struggle, the fierce endeavour which, once
experienced, make the quieter, more tranquil paths of life seem dull
and insipid.
It is the sense of safety in this life which palls upon men and drives
adventurers forth into the world, seeking anything that will arouse
their natures, grown sluggish and torpid in the monotony of the modern
daily round.
Some go and shoot big game, others climb mountains, a few explore, and
some rush gaily into foreign wars, all for the same reason, to shake
off the choking folds of security's sombre cloak and feel the thrill of
danger.
What is there to compare with this exulting feeling, this tasting of
the juice of peril in realms where the spice of life, the sweets of a
hard-fought victory, are known to the full?
In these realms the qualities of nerve and pluck are at a premium, and
he who has not sufficient goes under, broken and tossed aside in swift
defeat. In these realms a man is thoroughly tested and tempered in the
fire, and he must be "clean strain" or he won't survive the ordeal.
Jack gazed with a look of defiance into the heart of the storm.
"Fight me, you raging sea and howling wind," he cried in his
exultation; "overcome me, if it is so fated, but I will give you a
stiff battle. All my cunning, all my nerve, all my endurance are ready
to my call. Exhaust them if you can, break them down, but first you
have to break my spirit, strain it, tear it, beat upon it, crush it
down; and if you are able to destroy it, you can take my useless body
also. Blow, ye winds; smite me, O sea, for I am ready!" And he hummed
the famous chanty:
"Blow the man down, Johnny, blow the man down!
To my aye, aye, blow the man down!
If he be white man or black man or brown,
Give me some time to blow the man down."
* * * * *
Meanwhile, on the foc's'le head, Bucking Broncho trudged up and down,
five paces to windward and five paces back in a vain attempt to keep
himself warm.
"This here seems a pretty tough game I'm into," he mused. "It shore
needs sand to make a winnin' against the kyards these tempestuous
elements holds up, an' a gent can't drop out o' this game the fates
drags him into. He's got to stay with it from his first sun-up to
his last moon-rise, for if he lays down an' quits he leaves this
mortal game for good, which no critter with the smallest grain o'
sand is goin' to do without puttin' up some sort of a fight; yet when
Providence begins to crowd the play an' get action this-a-way, it's
shore a hard, deep crossin'.
"I never allows I'd have to dig up the hatchet an' go on the war-path
with any sech ragin', blisterin' proposition as this. It kind o' shakes
the grit out of a man an' makes him feel small an' petty."
As the _Higgins_ rushed madly before the blast, she buried her nose
to the cat-heads in each huge comber. At each plunge she threw great
masses of spray full fifty feet away from her dripping cutwater to port
and starboard.
The wind roared in a voice of thunder out of the foot of the foresail,
but with the exception of the fore-topmast staysail the head sails had
been made fast, and the long bare jibboom stabbed viciously into the
smother as each overtaking sea rushed onward.
Broncho, as he looked ahead with straining eyes, submitted to a strong
feeling of awe as each gigantic sea went foaming by, leaving a white
curtain of spume and froth in its train as it roared past at headlong
speed.
The majesty, the might, the stupendous power of the furious sea, its
insolent treatment of the strong ship as it raged around her, its fury,
its superb grandeur--all these appealed to the wild soul of the cowboy,
and the charm, the fascination of the Great Waters was beginning to
wrap itself around him.
It is this great power of fascination and attraction which the sea
possesses that gets to the root of men's hearts, and, once there, can
never be exorcised.
Suddenly, as Broncho watched the furious battle and meditated thereon,
at a moment when the _Higgins_ balanced giddily on the top of a
sixty-foot "grey-beard," he caught sight of a ship hove-to on the port
tack under lower-topsails, lying right across the down-easter's bows.
"Ship right ahead," he yelled. "We'll be clean over her as we're goin'."
Before he could say more the stranger lay close aboard on the crest of
the last roller, in plain view of all.
She was an iron Clyde-built barque, with painted ports, and made a
grand picture in the moonlight as she lifted gracefully to the top of
the great hill of water. Helpless, unable to move out of the way, she
lay at the mercy of the _Higgins_, and a collision in that sea would
mean the loss of both ships with all hands.
"We'll hit her plumb on the port quarter," cried the bosun to Jack.
"Down with your helm, down with it, even if we have our decks swept
bare," he roared.
To bring the sea on either beam would mean the grave danger of
broaching to, with the chance of a capsize and the certainty of having
the decks swept fore and aft.
Jack, cool and collected as ever, hove the wheel down a few spokes.
"Right down!" yelled the bosun, who was hanging on to the mizzen
backstays. "Right down, or you won't clear her."
"If you leave it to me, I'll clear her all right," said the rover
coolly, his eyes glued on the barque.
"Have it your way, have it your way," returned the bosun, giving in to
Jack's calm confidence.
"Better order the hands aloft, or some one'll get taken overboard,"
went on Jack quietly; "and you might hand me the end of that boom-guy."
As Jack hurriedly lashed himself to the wheel, the bosun's deep voice
broke through the noise of the gale like a foghorn.
"Aloft, all hands!" he thundered. "Away aloft for your lives."
The men needed no second bidding, but raced up the ratlines, for a
gigantic roller was raising its head above them to starboard as it tore
down upon the _Higgins_.
It was a moment of terrible peril. Would they go clear of the barque?
Would the huge "grey-beard" destroy them? Two heavy chances against
them. Everything depended on Jack's skill, his keen eye, his strong
arm, and his nerve--above all, his nerve.
The elements had taken up his wild challenge with a vengeance. He had
swung the _Higgins_ four points off her course and stood braced ready
for the shock, for that terror of sailors, a pooper, was approaching
at terrific speed. The bosun, half way up the mizzen rigging, yelled
wildly to him. He caught something about "hanging on," but the rest was
lost in the roar of the gale.
Over his shoulder he caught a quick glimpse of the approaching sea,
a great wall of water, black and forbidding, which, as it raced in
pursuit of the flying clipper, grew momentarily more mountainous,
until, having reached the limit of its growth, it burst its whole
length of summit into boiling, hissing white water, which gave it more
than ever the appearance of a snow-capped ridge of solid earth.
As Jack turned his eyes resolutely away, he realised how the
inhabitants of Herculaneum must have felt the moment before Vesuvius
poured its molten lava upon them.
Still he stood erect, head up, without a flinch. It was a position
sufficient to scare the stoutest heart, and freeze a man's brain into
idiocy. Yet his nerve never failed him, whilst the watch clung aloft,
shaking with sheer fright, and with wavering eyes stared wildly from
the helpless barque to Jack, and from Jack to the swooping demon of a
sea, which, roaring and raging in pursuit, lifted its foaming head on a
level with their blanched faces.
Broncho, hanging in the fore-rigging, gave his chum up for lost.
"He's shore due to cash in this time," he muttered sadly. "Even if
we-alls go clear o' that ship, he'll come through the racket a drowned
cawpse. Poor old Jack, standin' thar game as hornets, no more fretted
than if he's coolly sittin' down to a poker game."
Jack gave one last look astern at the approaching sea, and then a keen
glance at the hove-to Scotchman.
"We'll do it by the skin of our teeth," he murmured, as he put the helm
up a few spokes to steady her as she went.
And now the mountain of water was upon him. Catching the _Higgins_
on her starboard quarter, it hit the mizzen-mast half way up to the
crossjack yard, and with a fearful din went raging over everything.
It washed over the poop until the spanker boom was hidden; the two
quarter-boats were smashed into staves, and there was a crash of
splintered glass as the windows of the afterhouse went in.
Jack wondered, as it fell upon him, whether the terrific force of the
comber would not tear the wheel up and carry it with himself overboard.
But the stout wheel held, and Jack was crushed furiously against it
until all the wind was beaten out of his body, and his ribs almost
stove into his lungs.
Still he kept his senses, and never lost his presence of mind. Grimly
he grasped the spokes and waited for the end, wondering how long he
could live under water without becoming unconscious.
A hideous pain in his chest gradually overcame his will-power, and
caused a drowsiness in his brain, which echoed one word again and again.
"Loyola!" it said, "Loyola! Loyola!"
But it is slow work drowning. His eyes shut in agony, there was a
rushing sound in his ears, and his head felt as if it would burst. With
clenched teeth he fought the growing feeling of insensibility. Seconds
would decide it now.
"Goodbye, my darling, goodbye!" cried his fading senses.
It was his last conscious effort. Was this the end? Would the water
never clear off? Indistinct pictures of his past life flitted through
his dazed brain like blurred dreams.
The notes of a long-forgotten tune tingled in his ears, then suddenly
changed to a bugle call; the Reveille was sounding, clear and shrill,
to be broken in upon by the deep boom of Big Ben striking the hour;
then he heard nothing but a wild moaning, and a sound as of the
flapping of countless wings. Flames flashed on his eyeballs; blue,
red and green, purple and yellow sparkled before him like a myriad of
precious gems; then all was black, a hideous, piercing black.
With a sickly roll the _Higgins_ freed herself, and the tons of water,
pouring to leeward, washed over her rail in a smother of foam; then,
with a jerk, the gallant vessel gained her level once more.
The breath of the keen westerly gale put new life into the half-drowned
man, as he hung crumpled up and stupefied in his lashings, his hands
still grasping the spokes with contracted muscles.
Slowly he opened his eyes and gasped for breath like a fish out of
water. His scattered senses returned to him, and his keen brain revived
with a wonderful vitality; but whilst his mind, recovering rapidly,
grasped the situation, his overstrained body remained weak and helpless.
Dimly his dazed eyes perceived the Scotchman rising ahead on the crest
of the wave which had just swept over him. He heard wild cries from
aloft, but could distinguish no words.
Instinctively he exerted his last pound of strength to meet her as she
fell off, and then collapsed into unconsciousness.
And now the _Higgins_ flew upon the stranger with the swoop of an eagle.
All hands but the senseless helmsman gazed fascinated at the nearing
peril, whilst the bosun scrambled hastily out of the mizzen rigging and
made for the wheel.
But Jack had done his work. It was touch and go, but he had judged the
distance exactly. As the _Higgins_ surged past, her bow wave swamped
the poop of the barque and poured over her rail.
The Scotchman was close enough to toss a biscuit aboard, and a weird
chorus of yells arose from her crew, who had swarmed into her rigging.
The _Higgins'_ starbowlines replied with a ringing cheer, and the next
moment the barque was almost out of sight astern, only her topmasts
showing from behind a big sea.
The bosun ground the wheel up, and the _Higgins_ was put on her course
again.
But what a sight were her decks! The two boats were matchwood, the
doors of the bosun's locker and carpenter's shop opening to windward
were burst in; the heavy poop-rail of brass was bent and twisted into
all shapes, whilst the standard compass box lay forced over by sheer
weight of water to an angle of forty-five degrees.
The cabin was nearly full of water, which had poured in through the
smashed windows, and the foc's'le and midshiphouse were both badly
waterlogged. The maindeck was a hideous tangle of gear washed off the
pins, and the top of the midshiphouse had been swept bare. Galley
funnel, harness casks, rolls of wire, all were gone; whilst of the poop
ladders, one lay over-turned, clean wrenched from its supports.
The mate now appeared, followed by the old man and the steward.
"What in hell er yew been doin' with my ship, bosun?" roared the old
man, and the bosun started in to explain.
Meanwhile, with tender hands, the senseless form of the rover was
unlashed from the wheel and carried forward to the foc's'le, and the
old man, on hearing what had happened, had the grace to send the
steward along with a stiff glass of grog.
In the foc's'le Jack quickly regained his senses, the men contending
eagerly for the honour of attending upon him.
A buzz of conversation went round as the port watch, who had been
washed out of their bunks by the big sea, eagerly asked question after
question.
Suddenly the bosun stood in the broken doorway.
"How are you feeling, Jack? It were a pretty close call, weren't it?
Smite me pink, but you've got the pluck of the devil, an' I'm proud to
be shipmates with ye. Your hand, mate," and he grasped the rover's hand
in his great paw with a grip of iron.
"I'll be as right as can be, directly," said Jack weakly.
"Well, you just stay where you are and don't think of moving," replied
the bosun. "Now then, the rest of you starbowlines, out you come!
There's heaps of work to do"; and he retired aft, followed by the watch.
The carpenter was routed out, and whilst some of the men helped the
steward in the cabin the rest were kept busy nailing up weather-boards
over the broken windows of the afterhouse.
CHAPTER XIII
"THE MAN WITH THE GUN"
"Seven bells! Tumble up, starbowlines, an' show a leg. There's burgoo
for breakfast."
It was Jim calling the watch at 7.20 a.m., so that they could get their
breakfast before going on deck at eight bells.
"Burgoo? Who said burgoo?" cried Red Bill, sitting up excitedly at the
announcement of this luxury.
"I've just seen Lung cooking it," declared Jim. "The steward says
there's to be burgoo for breakfast from forty to forty."
"Then we're in the Roaring Forties all right," observed Jack.
"Did you see that ere chink a-cookin' of it, did you say, kid?"
inquired old Ben Sluice.
"Yes, I did," replied the boy.
"Well, I'm glad I didn't, or I couldn't have ate it, for sure,"
returned the ex-miner with a grunt. Like many westerners, he considered
the pig-tail tribe as "rank p'ison," and he never lost an opportunity
of deriding the _Higgins'_ cook.
"How's that ere boisterous party, the weather, a-conductin' himself
this maunin'?" asked Broncho. "I'm hopin' he's got his fur some
smoothed since last night, when he's shore more pesky than a croger[8]
with the indigestion."
"She's hummin' pretty strong yet," Jim replied; and then inquired
softly, "How you feelin' this mornin', Jack?"
"Fit enough to put the gloves on with Sullivan, and as hungry as fifty
Siwash Indians," replied the latter gaily, vaulting out of his bunk.
"Fur a bloke as wos as near drowned as you wos, h'I bloomin' well
thinks you tyke the cyke," exclaimed the cockney. "W'y, my gills is
still flappin' fur air an' me stomich gurglin' wi' salt water after
that ere washin' around we gets squarin' 'er in las' night."
"Be Jasus, ye're roight, me son o' London Town, an' I've been after
dramin' I was a fish an' couldn't get into the wather. Shure, it were a
crool drame after spendin' the blitherin' night sprainin' me nose with
tryin' to get it out of the wet. Ah, the wather! I ain't after havin'
no use for it onless it's a weak solution in a glass of ould Oirish,"
said Pat in disgust.
"'Allo, Pat, 'old 'ard! I'm a bloomin' swot if you ain't given yer
jibboom a bigger hoist," burst out the cockney with a note of concern
in his voice.
Pat's nose was very much what society papers call tip-tilted.
"Arrah, now, with yer bamboozlin'," cried Pat.
"Wot you sye, byes?" pursued the cockney. "Ain't 'e been an'
cock-billed that yard of 'is?"
"You shore has her p'intin' so as an angel with a spy-glass can look
down your nostrils," remarked Bedrock Ben, solemnly, amidst laughter.
"Fetch the grub along, there's a good chap," said Curly, whose duty it
was, but who was vainly struggling to get a pair of wet rubbers on over
damp socks, to Jim.
"Right you are," said the boy cheerily, and he started off cautiously
for the galley for two reasons--the one to avoid the succession of
dollops which poured over the rail, the other to escape the vigilant
eye of the mate.
He found the industrious Lung busy burnishing up his pots and pans,
and though several inches of water were washing over the floor of the
galley, it was as clean as a new pin.
"Starboard watch's breakfast ready yet, Lung?" asked Jim.
"You wait one quallah minit; burgoo no done yet," returned the
celestial.
"What kind of a time did you have in the galley last night?" inquired
the boy.
"Me heap 'flaid. Tink-um dlown chop-chop. Plenty muchee water top-side
galley. Big sea come, tink all smash, China boy tink-um all-e-same
dead. No can see, no can do, no likee, velly bad time."
"I don't wonder. The water must have poured in through the chimney-hole
and nearly filled you up," Jim admitted.
"Water him come, heap big flood; bime-by him go 'way, hey? Lung no
savvy nuttin' plenty long time----"
"Nearly drowned, eh?"
"Lung tink-um pletty soon dlown. Plenty muchee solly! Want um
first-chop coffin, no have got; no loast pig, no China blandy, no
funelel. Tink-um lose face, heap 'shamed. Bime-by come one-piecee boss,
him talkee-talkee.
"'You allee-lightee, Lung?' him say.
"'No can tell,' me say. 'Tink-um China boy plenty muchee sick, plaps
him die pletty soon.'
"'No sick, no dead if can chin-chin,' him say, an' go 'way."
"Was that the bosun?" asked Jim.
"Yass, him bosun," replied Lung, as he handed Jim a kid of steaming
burgoo and a big tin of a coloured concoction known at sea by the name
of "ship's coffee."
Jim started warily for the foc's'le, but the eagle eye of Black Davis
was upon him, and he was fairly caught.
"Hyeh, yew kid! What yew doin'? Is this y'r watch on deck or ain't it?"
roared the mate from aft.
"Come hyeh, yew whelp!" he bellowed.
Jim went bravely up on to the poop and faced the bully, expecting
nothing less than a knockdown; but Black Davis, though boiling with
rage, controlled himself with an effort.
Shaking his fist in the boy's face, he burst forth:
"Yew little skunk, I'll half kill yew one o' these days, loafin' an'
sodgerin' around! Git out quick, or I'm liable to let fly an' jump your
ribs in."
Then, as Jim moved hurriedly away, he roared,
"Wait, doggone ye! Who told yew ter go, yew Whitechapel mudlark? Jump
up, overhaul an' stop them main-tops'l buntlines, an' turn to at one
bell on the poop brasswork. I'll teach yew, yew Bowery refuse, thar
ain't goin' ter be no skulkin' while Davis is mate o' this packet. Away
with ye!"
On coming on deck at eight bells the starboard watch were all sent
aloft, each man with a bundle of rovings and rope-yarns.
Now that the _Higgins_ was getting near the stormy cape, all
preparations had to be made for the tempestuous weather which is always
encountered whilst turning the last corner of the world, as rounding
the Horn is sometimes called.
For great "Cape Stiff" never disappoints one. He keeps an unlimited
supply of bad weather about him, dealing out his great sixty-foot
greybeards, his terrific hail-squalls, and his furious southern blasts
with no niggard hand.
To withstand the boisterous southern wind, the sails had to be lashed
as securely as possible to the jackstays, which run along the top of
the yards. This the watch were sent aloft to do.
As the _Higgins_ tore along before the gradually slacking westerlies, a
swarm of Cape pigeons, molly-mawks, and Cape black hens swooped about
her stern, whilst three or four majestic albatrosses sailed in their
stately manner in the wake of the clipper, occasionally with a graceful
sweep stooping to pick some tit-bit off the water.
Presently a sail was sighted right ahead, and the _Higgins_ overhauled
her hand over hand.
In an hour the stranger was close alongside. She turned out to be one
of those famous craft, which are fast disappearing--a South Sea whaler.
She was truly an interesting sight as she rolled heavily on the long
westerly swell, lying hove-to under bare poles, with nothing but a
tarpaulin in the mizzen rigging.
She was evidently a real old-timer, for as she rolled you could see
that she was as round as a barrel, with a square sawed off stern and an
apple-cheeked bow, surmounted by a long jibboom with a great hoist to
it.
She had no yard above the main-topgallant but the crow's-nest--a huge
barrel from which the look-out, with skinned eyes, searches the ocean
for the longed-for blow of the whale--hung on the main-topgallant mast,
looking heavy and bulky enough at that height to carry away the slender
spar.
But this same crow's-nest was empty. The whaler had a well-seasoned
and weather-stained appearance. As she heeled over she showed a bottom
covered with long weed and barnacles. Her rigging had a slack and
unkempt look about it, being a mass of bights and Irish pennants;
whilst her yards were badly braced and cocked at all angles.
Only two men could be seen on her decks, and they seemed to pay little
attention to the _Higgins_.
There was no one at her wheel, but as she was hove-to a helmsman was
not necessary; for all that, she had a strange appearance of desolation
about her.
The two men visible seemed busily occupied, whilst squatting on their
hams, at some mysterious work, and an object stood on the deck between
them which was too small to be distinguished, but seemed to be giving
them a great deal of thought, for they looked to be both staring
fixedly at it.
"Come yew hyeh!" called the old man to Jim, who was busy polishing the
compass case. "Come yew hyeh, boy, an' help me with these flags."
"Neow then," he went on, hauling the Stars-and-stripes out of the
flag-locker, "run 'Old Glory' up to the monkey-gaff."
"Aye, aye, sir!" replied Jim.
But though the old man tried to have a flag-talk as he went by, the
stranger made no response, the two men on her deck making no movement,
much to his indignation.
"The infarnal son of a gun! Ain't he got the civility even to dip to
the Stars-an'-stripes? Gaul bust my etarnal skin!"
"Kin yew read her name?" he sang out to the mate, who was ogling her
stern with an ancient-looking ship's telescope.
"The _Ocmulgee_ o' Nantucket, I make it, sir."
"Why, thet's ole Ebenezer Morgan's boat! Terant'lers, air they all
asleep, er what? A goldarned, barnacle-backed South Seaman, an' he
won't have a gam! Jeerusalem, but thet beats all my goin' to sea,"
growled Captain Bob Riley in tones half angry, half puzzled.
"Hyeh, yew boy," he went on, turning to Jim, "jump below an' ask the
steward fur my gun. I'll poke his fire for him,[9] I'll wake up his
oil-soaked intellec', I'll stir his blubber, or thar's no sech things
as snakes an' pumpkins."
On Jim handing him the Winchester, he went to the break of the poop and
let drive two or three shots through the rigging of the whaler.
As the sound of the report reached them and the whistle of the bullets
went "Theu, theu!" overhead, the two men on the deck of the South
Seaman jumped about six feet into the air, then rushed below and were
seen no more.
"Seemed to scare 'em some, anyway," remarked the old man coolly, as he
pumped another cartridge into the barrel.
At this moment Black Davis, spying round to see where he could find
trouble, caught sight of Jack, Broncho, and Studpoker Bob all on the
lee main lower-topsail yardarm, at work putting in rovings--at least,
Jack and Broncho were at work, but the gambler on the inside was
loafing as usual; and thinking that the old man and mate were too busy
watching the other ship to notice him, whilst the bosun was forward
with his back turned, he had calmly lit up a pipe, a most heinous
offence during work hours at sea.
This was too much for the bucko mate altogether. For a second he glared
at the delinquent as if mesmerised, for the man was out of reach of his
terrible boot or even a well-aimed belaying-pin; then, with a roar of
fury, he pulled out his ever-ready six-shooter and fired.
The shot narrowly missed the gambler and cut the lanyard of a
marlin-spike, which he had slung round his neck.
The heavy spike dropped, and hitting Black Davis, who was standing
just underneath, on the shoulder, felled him to the deck.
The incident, seen from the poop, looked as if Studpoker Bob had
deliberately dropped the spike with intent to hit the mate, and such
the old man believed to be the case.
Without a second's hesitation he brought his Winchester to the shoulder
and fired at the card-sharper, who, hit clean through the back and
lungs, threw up his hands and dropped forward over the yard; then, as
the vessel pitched, he fell headlong to the deck.
The whole affair was so sudden and unlooked-for that it took Jack and
Broncho, who were carelessly working with both hands, completely by
surprise; and the jerk, caused by the sudden release of the gambler's
weight on the footrope, upset their balance before they could catch a
hold. At the same time the ship gave a heavy roll to leeward, and they
both fell into the sea.
Immediately all was confusion. Whilst the old man thundered out orders
from the poop, the bosun bellowed for all hands, and Jim rushed wildly
to the stern, and, cutting loose the three life-buoys, sprang over with
them into the swirling wake; and so quick was the boy, that Jack and
Broncho, both good swimmers, came to the surface close to him.
The three scrambled into the life-buoys, and even in that short space
of time the _Higgins_ was nearly half a mile away.
Meanwhile on board of her there was trouble. As the port watch rushed
wildly aft at the bosun's call, the first thing they saw was the broken
body of Studpoker Bob, which, with crushed-in head, was lying crumpled
up in a pool of blood, within a few feet of the senseless form of Black
Davis.
The carpenter stood waving his arms at the door of his shop, shouting,
"Man ovairboard! Man ovairboard!"
The starboard watch came sliding down backstays from aloft in frantic
haste. All hands were speedily in a wild state of excitement and
indignation.
"Steady, boys, steady! Stand by yer lee braces!" called the bosun
quietly in his deep voice.
"Hard down the wheel!" roared the old man. "No, hold hard, as yew were!
Hold on all! Keep her as she goes!"
"Ain't you goin' to try an' pick 'em up, sir?" asked the bosun
indignantly.
"What kin I do, bosun, what kin I do? We ain't got no boats! Snakes,
what a 'tarnal mess! But thar ain't nothin' ter do. Send the port watch
below," cried the old man unsteadily.
There was a roar of indignation from the crew at these words, and a
storm of groans, hoots, and hisses broke forth.
"It's murder, begorr, black, bloody murder!" screeched Pat.
"Ain't you goin' ter give 'em a chanst?" cried the cockney with his
shrill squeak.
Things began to look nasty. The men gathered round the main-hatch. Some
of them drew knives, others pulled belaying-pins from the rail, and
fists were shaken wildly at the old man as he stood at the break of the
poop, roaring:
"Git forrard, yew rakin's an' scrapin's o' hell an' Sing-sing, git
forrard, or I'll blow the guts outer some o' yer," and he lifted his
Winchester threateningly.
A belaying-pin whirled and nearly knocked it out of his hands, whilst
Angelino's knife stuck quivering in the rail before him.
"Jump up hyeh, bosun!" he jerked rapidly. "Steward, whar' are yew?"
"Here, sir!" called the steward at his back.
"Fetch my pistols an' git the hell of a gait on yer."
"Here they be's, sir," said the steward meekly, thrusting them forward.
He was a well-trained steward, and had been through this sort of
business with Captain Bob Riley before.
"Better get forrard, boys," said the bosun soberly. "It's too late to
do anything now, an' you ain't foolish enough to go buckin' against
guns, are ye? We're short-enough handed as it is, without any more lame
ducks."
The bosun's sensible words had their effect, and so did the old man's
glittering nickel-plated six-shooters.
There was a murmur of consultation amongst the men, and two or three of
the cowards began to sneak to the rear of the group.
"Wot er we goin' ter do?" asked the cockney. "St'y w'ere we are an' get
plugged, rush 'im, or retryte. I ain't afryde of 'im an' I'm feelin'
dyngerous."
"He's got the drop on us, pard. It ain't no manner o' use that I ever
see'd, takin' liberties wi' six-shooters," declared old Ben gloomily.
"I'm gyme ter sock it to 'im, any'ow. I'll stand in ter jump 'im. Wot
you sye, fellers?"
The cockney was as pugnacious as a cock-sparrow, and far from lacking
in courage.
"Bedad, an' I'm with ye!" sang out Pat.
"It vas too lade, anyway; der ole man vas too schmard vor us," grunted
Muller heavily.
"Dat am what I done told you," put in Sam.
"Wot er you w'inin' 'bout there, you good-fer-nothin' nigger," sneered
the cockney. "You ain't no bloomin' use, any'ow, so shut yer jaw."
"Brazen sarpints!" broke in the old man again, "what's all this powwow
about? Air yer goin' ter git forrard, or shall I slam her loose?"
What the outcome of the matter would have been it is difficult to say,
but at this interesting point a big sea interrupted the discussion most
effectively. Toppling aboard amidships, it overwhelmed the mutineers
and washed them helter-skelter in every direction. So the trouble
finished, and Yankee discipline once more reigned supreme.
Black Davis was taken below with a badly broken collar-bone, whilst the
remains of Studpoker Bob, the gambler and sea-lawyer, were got ready
for burial.
For a few days the absent ones were discussed in the foc's'le, until
the advent of Cape Horn weather drove all other thoughts out of the
minds of the short-handed crew.
But Curly went heavily-hearted about his work, whilst the big bosun
also felt their loss in his own fashion.
And before the westerly gale flew the _Higgins_, leaving two men, a
boy, and three life-savers to the mercy of the great southern rollers.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] A cougar or mountain lion.
[9] An expression meaning to stir up a whale's inside with a lance.
When a whale spouts blood from his blow-hole, his chimney is spoken of
as being afire.
PART II
CHAPTER I
"ADRIFT"
All three castaways were close together, and floated easily enough in
the life-buoys with head and shoulders above water.
"Thrown your life away, Jim," jerked out the rover, as he skilfully
avoided a big breaker. "The old man won't round to--no boats."
"Ain't there no chance o' gettin' aboard the whaler?" asked the boy.
"She's dead to windward, an' seems to be driftin' down our way."
"I allows as thar's p'ints in Jim's remyarks," observed the cowpuncher,
floating with his back to wind and sea. "But say we-alls gets
alongside: if this here sea butts us up agin her, we're shore liable to
emerge tharfrom a heap busted an' unstrung."
"Look out!" broke in Jack hurriedly, as he faced to windward, and the
next moment the broken top of a sea rolled them over and over.
Jack and Broncho both came out of the clutches of the roller without
any damage, but poor Jim's life-buoy brought him to the surface upside
down, and the rolling-stone only just rescued him in time.
"Lord, I thought I was a gorner!" gasped the boy, as all three in the
midst of a smother of bubbling froth floated down into the calm hollow
behind the breaker.
"That wave does mighty near call the turn on you that time, Jim. This
here is drawin' the cinch some tight, an' I ain't hankerin' after any
more hurdygurdies o' that party's sturdy physique," remarked Broncho,
conversing in his usual quaint, off-hand way, his gentle southern
drawl in no way affected by the terrible circumstances in which he was
placed, for the chances of being picked up by the Nantucket barque were
very slim.
As they rose to the top of the next wave, all three anxiously turned
their eyes on the whaler.
"Shall we reach her?" asked Jim, with trembling voice.
"Drift right on to us in an hour or two. Keep your pecker up and feet
down," declared Jack cheerily.
"I will if I can, you bet your life," replied the plucky boy, regaining
his courage at Jack's reassuring words. "Why, look! The old _Higgins_
is nearly out of sight. I expect there's hell to play on her now," he
went on.
"An' I ain't none sorry to quit her," drawled Broncho serenely, "that's
presumin' we-alls escapes boggin' down in this here quicksand."
"My God! Look out for yourself, Jack!" suddenly cried the boy in
accents of horror.
A huge albatross was swooping down upon the rover.
These birds are the terror of a man overboard in the Southern Ocean.
With their great curved beaks they attack the eyes of the castaway,
who, from his position in the water, is but poorly placed for defending
himself, and nearly always succumbs, his strength failing him in the
unequal combat.
"Your knives, boys!" sang out Jack heartily, as if this new danger were
nothing much to bother about.
Then with a lightning stroke he almost severed the great bird's head
from its body.
With a splash it struck the water, and, after one wild flurry, lay
motionless, floating on the wave with its head under.
"That's fine bowie-work as ever I sees," remarked Broncho. "That bird
gets all he wants; he ain't askin' for more. He shore makes a sperited
play, but he notes now as how he can't bluff Jack none."
"Bold, vicious bird, that!" commented Jack.
"One down, but there are hundreds more," groaned Jim.
"Three's too many for 'em. I don't think any more will attack us,
except perhaps an odd old one," declared the rover.
"I corrals your remyarks with gladness, Jack," declared the cowboy;
"for I was shore some dubious about the play. If they rounds up
together an' charges in a mob, it's on the kyards one or other of
we-alls emerges from the battle shy an eye."
Presently another albatross made a descent upon them, and after a
fierce fight retired from the contest, bleeding and disgusted; but he
had left his mark on Broncho's hand, which was nastily torn.
"This here abandoned conduct of these debauchees of birds has me plumb
weary," remarked the cowpuncher, as he wiped his blood-stained knife
on his sleeve. "I feels like a spring lamb on the pra'rie up agin an
eagle. That ere profligate bird was shore hungerin' for blood, an'
I feels kind o' comforted when I dirties his shirt-front, an' he,
carolling forth a squawk, jumps out an' pulls his freight. No, Jack,
thar's nothin' timid about these here albatrosses; they're bold a whole
lot, not to say f'rocious an' gore-thirsty."
"Our combination's too strong," grunted the latter optimistically.
But though Broncho discussed the danger in his off-hand way, and Jack
seemed cool and undismayed, Jim hung in the life-buoy, his little, thin
face white and drawn.
The desperate fight with the fierce birds had almost been too much for
his young nerves, toughened though they were, and he felt sick and
faint.
But the cold was now beginning to make itself felt, and this was really
the chief danger to the castaways; for the wind had been falling
steadily all the morning, and had become very faint, whilst the sea ran
in long oily ridges, only one of which here and there broke with any
strength. The boy's lips were blue, and his teeth chattered, though he
tried hard to keep them clenched.
"Bit cold, Jim, ain't it? How're you feeling?" asked Jack, observing
the pinched features and chattering teeth with inward concern.
"I'm all r-r-r-right! Go-go-goin' strong."
"More'n that riotin' albatross is," remarked Broncho, pointing to the
dead bird, which still floated close to the rover. "He ain't stuck his
head out of water since Jack downed him."
"He's d-d-d-dead, isn't he?"
"I ain't right certain he ain't foxin'," returned the cowpuncher. "Give
him a poke with your bowie, Jack, an' see if you can't rouse him some."
"Not I," objected Jack. "Let sleeping dogs lie."
And so time passed as, slowly, very slowly, the whaler drifted nearer.
The sea was bitterly cold, and occasionally a breaker knocked the
breath out of them, but no one of the three showed any signs of
weakening.
Hovering round them were several albatrosses, besides black-hens and
molly-mawks, all squawking loudly, and evidently trying to summon up
sufficient courage to attack the dauntless trio.
"Them birds is shore organisin' for war," observed Broncho, as he
watched them. "They're beginnin' to whoop an' beat their tomtoms a
whole lot. I've a theery that six-shooters would be good argyments with
them feathered sports. I regrets most sincere our havin' to leave our
weepons on the _Higgins_ that-away, Jack; I just loathes hittin' a new
trail without packin' a gun along."
"No time to pack our trunks," grunted Jack disgustedly. "Left my baccy,
and want a smoke bad."
"Wall, you shorely goes the limit a whole corralful for sheer,
blisterin', hell-freezin' coolness. You'd light a seegyar whilst you
were prospectin' the bottomless pit, Jack."
But Jack was watching the gathering birds.
"Union is strength," he said musingly. "Closed ranks defence against an
open order attack. Let's tie the life-buoys together."
"Sech observations is plenty sagacious," commented Broncho approvingly,
"an' I votes we acts tharon instanter. You bushwhack in here, Jim,
between us two. This here hand has got to be played with care, if
we-alls is goin' to avoid gettin' cold feet."
Jack and Broncho still had their bundles of rope-yarns and rovings
thrust through their belts, and with these they soon lashed the
life-buoys securely together in the form of a triangle.
"Now, let 'em all come!" cried Jim defiantly.
"They're shore makin' war medicine," observed Broncho; "but I ain't in
no frenzied hurry to begin the battle. Let 'em sachey around an' take
their time."
"Here comes a scout, boys," cried Jack, as a great, white-headed bird
swooped gracefully towards them.
"Take your seats, gents, the performance is about to commence,"
remarked Broncho coolly.
But the albatross only circled slowly round, evidently rather diffident
about beginning the attack.
"He's cuttin' kyards with himself as to whether he'll jump in an' skeer
us up some, or lope back an' make a report on our poseetion," was the
cowboy's interpretation of the bird's actions.
"He's going," exclaimed Jim, with a long breath of relief.
"He's wise! It's just the tenderness of hell saves him from our bowies
that time," drawled Broncho, with a grim smile.
For nearly an hour they floated with knives drawn, but the fierce birds
never came within range of the flashing steel again, though they kept
wheeling round the castaways in a manner which was very trying to the
nerves.
About 2 p.m. the old whaler was only about a hundred yards off, and
drifting right down upon them.
"Let's give 'em a shout," proposed Jack. "A whaler would think nothing
of launching a boat in this sea."
"Whoopee!" yelled Broncho; but there was no sign of any one moving on
the barque.
"Co-oo-ee!" sang Jack; but still no result.
"I'll soon wake 'em if they ain't all dead," declared Jim, and putting
a finger in his mouth, he emitted an ear-piercing whistle, which
swelled and sank like a siren.
"That shore takes the pot for the shrillest, most searchin' whistle I
ever hears," exclaimed Broncho. "It plumb near deafens me, an' I bet
the limit it scurries up those sharps aboard there a whole lot."
And Broncho was right, for now two heads appeared above the rail of the
barque, and an arm was flourished.
"Hurrah! we're seen," cried Jim.
"Whatever species of men are they?" exclaimed the cowpuncher excitedly,
as he scanned the distant heads with his keen, prairie-trained eyes.
"Do you-alls notice anything strange about them whalers?" he asked of
Jack.
"Seem to have very blotchy faces."
"Blotchy faces? Wall, I should gamble," drawled Broncho. "Why,
their physio'nomies is cut up in black an' yellow squares like a
checker-board, an' may I be locoed if the one without a sombrero ain't
scalped."
"Stickin'-plaster, p'r'aps," suggested Jim, "some whale they've been
scrappin' with done it."
"Something's queer aboard," mused Jack. "Those are the two
scattermouches we saw this morning. Query, where's the rest of the
crowd? South Sea whalers carry a big crew."
"Stand your hands thar, boys; thar's somethin' wrong on that packet
or I'm a jack-rabbit. Seems to me we're prancin' down too rapid an'
heedless on that ere outfit. We're liable to overplay our hands if we
don't go some slower," said Broncho solemnly, as with knit eyebrows he
watched the nearing whaleship.
"Maybe it's the phantom ship or the haunted whaler, _quien sabe_?"
remarked Jack. "Anyhow, it's better than cruising off the Horn in a
life-buoy. _Que quieres hombre_, Broncho--cross the road and let 'em go
by, or politely inquire if they've got measles aboard?"
"That's all right, that'll go for humour this time," retorted Broncho,
with keen irony.
"S'pose they have got somethin'," put in Jim. "Berri-berri, or scurvy,
or Java fever----"
"Go it, Jim," laughed the rover. "What else? Plague, eh? And leprosy?
Or I have it--Yellow Jack, of course; that would account for the
yellow, blotchy faces."
"I ain't s'picious o' no malady," asserted Broncho. "No, it's ambushes
or some sech cawpse-makin' plays I'm some doobersome of; an' I'm
allowin' we-alls had better have our bowies out when we meets up with
them speckled parties. They shore looks to me like redskins painted for
war."
"Why, they're Kanakas!" declared Jack, as they got nearer.
"What breed o' dawg are Kanakas?" asked Broncho.
"South Sea Islanders."
"Cannibals!" gasped Jim. "I see our finish."
"Long pig, eh, Jim?" laughed the rover.
"Them cannibals is some like redskins, ain't they?" inquired Broncho,
taking no notice of Jack's levity. "Cold an' p'isonous as rattlesnakes,
an' the way they've daubed themselves shows they're plumb ready for the
thunderbolt of war."
"Tattooing," explained Jack; and as soon as they were close enough he
sang out, "Ship ahoy!"
One of the Kanakas waved his arm, but the other jumped up and down,
evidently very excited, and gave vent to the most weird cries.
"He's throwin' off some mighty high-flung whoops. What's that
ghost-dance he's evolvin' thar? Do you savvy, Jack, if that's his
wardance?" inquired the cowboy.
"Oh, Lord!" groaned poor Jim dismally. "Here we are right into a horde
of man-eatin' savages."
"Stick your spurs in, sonny, an' we'll stampede right over 'em on the
top of the next wave, so as they won't know if it's a landslide or a
cloud-burst that devastates 'em," said Broncho heartily.
"Stand by to heave us a rope," hailed Jack again.
The silent one waved, then disappeared, and presently bobbed up above
the rail with a coil of harpoon-line in his hand.
"Heave away!" yelled Jack.
The rope's-end came snaking out over the water, and Jack, leaving his
life-buoy, made a dive after it.
"Who'll go first?" he asked quickly, on getting hold of the line.
"Can't we-alls go in a bunch," inquired Broncho. "It would be a safer
play that-away. I ain't hankerin' on playin' a lone hand agin them two
tiger-lilies. Where's the rest of the band? The deal seems some queer
to me."
"We must go one at a time. Which is it, quick?" asked Jack shortly.
"Pass me," returned Broncho distrustfully. "You take the first deal,
Jack; you've been acquainted with them tattooed gents before, an' mebbe
will make a better play of it, breakin' the ice, than either Jim or me."
"Yes, go ahead, Jack--if you think it's all right," added the boy
uneasily.
"Well, here goes then," and watching his chance as the barque rolled,
he shouted, "Haul away!" and at the same time kicked out lustily
towards the ship.
The sea swung him right up to the rail, and catching hold quickly,
with the aid of the Kanaka he managed to scramble aboard, and a few
seconds later Broncho and Jim were likewise hauled over the bulwark
into safety. And as they lay on the deck rubbing their cramped and
chilled limbs to restore the circulation, they gazed around anxiously;
but except for the two Kanakas, who stood regarding them silently, the
decks seemed to be deserted.