THE SHIP'S LIAR
Death by land is a sobering thing and works many changes; but to my
thought death at sea is more terrible, for there is a vast loneliness,
with only a single ship in the midst of it, and an empty hammock for
days and weeks and even months, to keep a man in mind of what has
happened; and death at sea may work as many changes as death by land.
Now the Rose of Devon was a week from England when a footrope parted
and the boatswain pitched down, clutching at the great belly of the
sail, and plunged out of sight. And what could a man do to save him?
They never saw him after that first wild plunge. There, aloft, was the
parted rope, its ends frayed out and hanging. Below decks was the empty
berth. The blustering old boatswain, with his great roaring voice and
his quick ear for a tune, had gone upon the ultimate adventure which
all must face, each man for himself; but they only said, "Did you see
the wild look in his eyes when he fell?" And, "I fear we shall hear his
pipe of nights." And, "'Tis a queer thought that Neddie Hart is to lie
in old Davy Jones's palace, with the queer sea-women all about him,
awaiting for his old shipmates."
Presently the master's boy came forward into the forecastle, where the
men off duty were sitting and talking of the one who had fallen so
far, had sunk so deep, had gone on a journey so long that they should
never see him again; and quietly--for the boy was much bedevilled and
trembled with fright to think of putting his head, as it were, into the
mouth of the lion--he crept behind Philip Marsham and whispered in his
ear, "The master would see thee in the great cabin."
They sat at close quarters in the forecastle of the Rose of Devon, and
the boy had barely room to pass the table and the benches, for the
men had crowded in and put their heads together; but for once they
were too intent on their own thoughts to heed his coming or his going,
which gave him vast comfort. (Little enough comfort the poor devil got,
between the men forward and the officers aft!)
So Phil rose and followed.
The great cabin, when he entered, was empty. He stood at loss, waiting,
but curiously observed meanwhile the rich hangings and the deep chairs
and the cupboards filled with porcelain ware. There was plate on the
cabin table and a rich cloak lay thrown loosely over a chair; and he
thought to himself that those deep-sea captains lived like princes, as
indeed they did.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot in growing uneasiness. The boy
had disappeared. There was no sound of voice or step. Then, as the ship
rolled and Phil put out a foot to brace himself, a door swung open and
revealed on the old-fashioned walk that ran across the stem under the
poop, the lean, big-boned figure of Captain Francis Candle.
The master of the Rose of Devon stood with folded arms and bent head,
but though his head was bent, his eyes, the lad could see, were peering
from under his heavy brows at the horizon. He swayed as the ship
rolled, and remained intent on his thoughts, which so absorbed him that
he had quite forgotten sending the boy for Philip Marsham.
So Phil waited; and the broad hat that hung on the bulkhead scraped
backward and forward as the ship plunged into the trough and rose on
the swell; and Captain Candle remained intent on his thoughts; and a
sea bird circled over the wake of the ship.
After a long time the master turned about and walked into the cabin
and, there espying Philip Marsham, he smiled and said, "I was remiss. I
had forgotten you." He threw aside the cloak that lay on the chair and
sat down.
"Sit you down," he said with a nod. "You are a practised seaman, no
lame, decrepit fellow who serves for underwages. Have you mastered the
theory?"
"Why, sir, I am not unacquainted with astrolabe and quadrant, and on
scales and tables I have spent much labour."
"So!" And his manner showed surprise. Then, "Inkpot and quill are
before you. Choose a fair sheet and put down thereon the problem I
shall set you."
The captain leaned back and half closed his eyes while Phil spread the
paper and dipped the quill.
"Let us say," he finally continued, "that two ships sail from one port.
The first sails south-south-west a certain distance; then altering
her course, she sails due west ninety-two leagues. The second ship,
having sailed six-score leagues, meets with the first ship. I demand
the second ship's course and rhomb, and how many leagues the first ship
sailed south-south-west. Now, my man, how go you to work?"
Phil studied the problem as he had set it down, and wrinkled his brows
over it, while Captain Candle lay back with a flicker of a smile on his
lips and watched the lad struggle with his thoughts.
After a time Phil raised his head. "First, sir," said he, "I shall
draw the first ship's rhomb thus, from A unto E, which shall be
south-south-west. Then I shall lay a line from A unto C as the ninety
leagues that she sailed west. Next I shall lay my line from C to D, and
further, as her south-west course. Then I shall lay from A a line that
shall correspond to the six-score leagues the second ship sailed, which
cuts at D the line I drew before." As he talked, he worked with his
pen, and the master, rising as if in surprise, bent over the table and
watched every motion.
The pen drew lines and arcs and lettered them and wrote out a problem
in proportions. Hesitating, the point crawled over columns of figures.
"The rhomb of the second ship," said Phil at last, "is degrees
sixty-seven, and minutes thirty-six. Her course is near
west-south-west. And the first ship sailed forty-nine leagues."
Tapping the table, as one does who meditates, Captain Candle looked
more sharply at the lad. "You are clever with your pen."
"'Tis owing to the good Dr. Arber at Roehampton," Phil replied. "Had I
abode with him longer, I had been cleverer still, for he was an able
scholar; but there was much in school I had no taste for."
The captain's eyes searched his face. "I sent for you," he said,
"because I was minded to make you my boatswain. But now, if my mate
were lost, I swear I'd seat you at mine own table."
Phil rose.
"Go then, Master Boatswain. But stay! You and your comerado make a
strange pair. How came you bedfellows?"
"Why, sir, we met upon the road--"
"Yea, not at sea! Not at sea! Enough is said. Begone, Master Boatswain,
begone!"
"How now," cried Martin when Phil passed him on the deck. "Art thou
called before the mast?" And he laughed till he shook.
"Nay, he hath made me his boatswain."
"Thou?"
"Yea, comerado."
"Thou? A mere gooseling? The master's on the road to Bedlam! Why here
am I--" Martin's red face flamed hot.
"Yea, he spoke of thee."
"Ah!"
"Quoth he, thou art a fine fellow, but hot-tempered, Martin, and
overbold."
"Ah!" The crafty, sly look came upon Martin's face and he puffed with
pride; but Phil, delighting to see the jest take effect, laughed before
his eyes, which sorely perplexed him.
"A fine fellow, but overbold," Martin muttered, as he coiled the cable
in neat fakes. "Yea, I did not believe he thought so well of me. From
the glances he hath bestowed upon me, it was in my mind he was a narrow
man,--" Martin smiled and dallied over his work,--"one with no eye for
a mariner of parts and skill. 'A fine fellow, but overbold!' Nay, that
is fair speech and it seems he hath a very searching observation."
Standing erect, Martin folded his arms and swelled like a turkey-cock.
His eyes being on the horizon and his back toward the watchful mate, he
remained unaware that he had attracted the mate's attention.
"A fine fellow, but overbold," he repeated and smiled with a very
haughty air.
The mate, casting his eyes about the deck, picked up a handy end of
rope and made a knot in it. One man and another and another became
aware of the play that the mate and Martin were about to set and,
grinning hugely, they paused in their work to watch, even though they
risked getting themselves into such a plight as Martin's. The captain
came to the break of the quarter-deck and, perceiving the fun afoot,
leaned on the swivel-gun. Slowly his humour mastered his dignity and a
smile twitched at his lips.
"A fine fellow, but overbold," Martin was murmuring for the fourth
time, when the rope whistled and wound about his ribs and the knot
fetched up on his belly with a thump that knocked his wind clean out.
He made a horrible face, gasping for breath, and his ruddy colour
darkened to purple. Reaching for his knife he whirled round and drew
steel.
"What rakehell muckworm, what base stinkard, what--" He met the cold
eye of the mate and for a moment flinched, then, burning with his
own folly, he cried, "Thou villain, to strike thus a man the captain
himself called a fine fellow but overbold!"
A snicker grew in the silence and swelled into a rumble of laughter;
then, by the forecastle bulkhead, a man began to bawl, "A liar! A liar!"
The mate stopped short and his hand fell.
A score of voices took up the cry--"A liar! A liar!"--and Martin turned
pale.
Captain Candle on the quarter-deck was laughing softly and the mate in
glee slapped his thigh. "Thou yerking, firking, jerking tinker," said
he, "dost hear the cry? 'Tis a Monday morning and they are crying thee
at the mainmast."
"A liar! A liar!" the men bawled, crowding close about.
"But 'tis no lie. Or this foully deceitful comerado, this half-fledged
boatswain--" It came suddenly upon Martin that he had been sorely
gulled, and that to reveal the truth would fix upon him the lasting
ridicule of his shipmates. He swelled in fury and gave them angry
glances but they only laughed the louder, then, rope in hand, the mate
stepped toward him.
Though he made a motion as if to stand his ground, at sight of the rope
Martin's hand shook in his haste to thrust his knife back into the
sheath.
It was the old custom of the sea that they should hail as a liar the
man first caught in a lie on a Monday morning and proclaim him thus
from the mainmast, and unhappy was the man thus hailed, for thereby
he became for a week the "ship's liar" and held his place under the
swabber.
"For seven days, thou old cozzener," said the mate, "thou shalt keep
clean the beakhead and the chains, and lucky art thou to be at sea.
Ashore they would have whipped thee through the streets at the cart's
tail."
Again a great wave of laughter swept the deck and by his face Martin
showed his anger. But though he was "a fine fellow" and "overbold," he
kept his tongue between his teeth; and whatever he suspected of Philip
Marsham, he held his peace and went over the bow with ill grace and
fell to scraping the chains, which was a task to humble the tallest
pride. There was that in the laughter of the crew which had taught
discretion to even bolder men than Martin Barwick.
"I have seen his kind before," a voice said low in Phil's ear. "But
though there be much of the calf in him, beware lest you rouse him to
such a pitch that he will draw and strike."
It was Will Canty, the youth who had already won the young boatswain's
liking, spoke thus. He was a comerado more to Phil's taste than was
the luckless Martin; but fate is not given to consulting tastes, and
necessity forces upon a traveller such bedfellows as he meets by the
way.