He looked expectantly on the cabin table for a letter upon his return to the
ship, but was disappointed, and the only letter yielded by the post next
morning came from Captain Barber. It was couched in terms of great resignation,
and after bemoaning the unfortunate skipper’s untimely demise in language of
great strength, wound up with a little Scripture and asked the mate to act as
master and sail the schooner home.
“You’ll act as mate, Ben, to take her back,” said the new skipper, thrusting
the letter in his pocket.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Ben, with a side glance at Joe, “but I’ll keep for’ard,
if you don’t mind.”
“As you please,” said Fraser, staring.
“And you’re master, I s’pose?” said Joe, turning to Fraser.
Fraser, whose manner had already effected the little change rendered necessary
by his promotion from mate to master, nodded curtly, and the crew, after
another exchange of looks, resumed their work without a word. Their behaviour
all day was docile, not to say lamb-like, and it was not until evening that the
new skipper found it necessary to enforce his authority.
The exciting cause of the unpleasantness was Mr. William Green, a slim,
furtive-eyed young man, whom Fraser took on in the afternoon to fill the
vacancy caused by Ben’s promotion. He had not been on board half an hour before
trouble arose from his attempt to introduce the manners of the drawing-room
into the forecastle.
“Mr. Will-yum Green,” repeated Joe, when the new arrival had introduced
himself; “well, you’ll be Bill ’ere.”
“I don’t see why, if I call you Mr. Smith, you shouldn’t call me Mr. Green,”
said the other.
“Call me wot?” enquired Joe, sternly; “you let me ’ear you callin’ me mister
anythink, that’s all; you let me ’ear you.”
“I’m sure the cook ’ere don’t mind me callin’ ’im Mr. Fisher,” said the new
seaman.
“Cert’nly not,” said the gratified cook; “only my name’s Disher.”
The newcomer apologised with an urbanity that rendered Joe and old Ben
speechless. They gazed at each other in silent consternation, and then Ben rose.
“We don’t want no misters ’ere,” he said, curtly, “an’ wot’s more, we won’t
’ave ’em. That chap’s name’s Bob, but we calls ’im Slushy. If it’s good enough
for us, it’s good enough for a ordinary seaman wot’s got an A. B. discharge by
mistake. Let me ’ear you call ’im Slushy. Go on now.”
“I’ve no call to address ’im at all just now,” said Mr. Green, loftily.
“You call ’im Slushy,” roared Joe, advancing upon him; “call ’im Slushy till I
tell you to stop.”
“Slushy,” said Mr. Green, sullenly, and avoiding the pained gaze of the cook;
“Slushy, Slushy, Slushy, Slushy, Sl——”
“That’ll do,” said the cook, rising, with a scowl. “You don’t want to make a
song abart it.”
Joe, content with his victory, resumed his seat on the locker and exchanged a
reassuring glance with Ben; Mr. Green, with a deprecatory glance at the cook,
sat down and offered him a pipe of tobacco.
“Been to sea long?” enquired the cook, accepting it.
“Not long,” said the other, speaking very distinctly. “I was brought up for
something quite different. I’m just doing this till something better turns up.
I find it very difficult to be a gentleman at sea.”
The cook, with an eye on Joe, ventured on a gentle murmur of sympathy, and said
that he had experienced the same thing.
“I ’ad money,” continued Mr. Green, musingly, “and I run through it; then I ’ad
more money, and I run through that.”
“Ben,” said Joe, suddenly, “pass me over that boot o’ yours.”
“Wha’ for?” enquired Ben, who had just taken it off.
“To chuck at that swab there,” said the indignant seaman.
Ben passed it over without a word, and his irritated friend, taking careful
aim, launched it at Mr. Green and caught him on the side of the head with it.
Pain standing the latter in lieu of courage, he snatched it up and returned it,
and the next moment the whole forecastle was punching somebody else’s head,
while Tim, in a state of fearful joy, peered down on it from his bunk.
Victory, rendered cheap and easy by reason of the purblindness of the frantic
cook, who was trying to persuade Mr. Green to raise his face from the floor so
that he could punch it for him, remained with Joe and Ben, who, in reply to the
angry shouts of the skipper from above, pointed silently to the combatants.
Explanations, all different and all ready to be sworn to if desired, ensued,
and Fraser, after curtly reminding Ben of his new position and requesting him
to keep order, walked away.
A silence broken only by the general compliments of the much gratified Tim,
followed his departure, although another outbreak nearly occurred owing to the
cook supplying raw meat for Mr. Green’s eye and refusing it for Joe’s. It was
the lack of consideration and feeling that affected Joe, not for the want of
the beef, that little difficulty being easily surmounted by taking Mr. Green’s.
The tumult was just beginning again, when it was arrested by the sound of angry
voices above. Tim, followed by Joe, sprang up the ladder, and the couple with
their heads at the opening listened with appreciative enjoyment to a wordy duel
between Mrs. Tipping and daughter and the watchman.
“Call me a liar, then,” said old George, in bereaved accents.
“I have,” said Mrs. Tipping.
“Only you’re so used to it you don’t notice it,” remarked her daughter,
scathingly.
“I tell you he’s drownded,” said the watchman, raising his voice; “if you don’t
believe me, go and ask Mr. Fraser. He’s skipper in his place now.”
He waved his hand in the direction of Fraser, who, having heard the noise, was
coming on deck to see the cause of it. Mrs. Tipping, compressing her lips, got
on board, followed by her daughter, and marching up to him eyed him severely.
“I wonder you can look us in the face after the trick you served us the other
night,” she said, fiercely.
“You brought it on yourselves,” said Fraser, calmly. “You wouldn’t go away, you
know. You can’t always be coming here worrying.”
“We shall come whenever we choose,” said Mrs. Tipping. “In the first place, we
want to see Mr. Robinson; anyway we intend to see Captain Flower, so you can
save that fat old man the trouble of telling us lies about him.”
“Captain Flower fell overboard night before last, if that’s what you mean,”
said Fraser, gravely.
“I never saw such a man in all my life,” exclaimed Mrs. Tipping, wrathfully.
“You’re a perfect—what’s the man’s name in the Scriptures?” she asked, turning
to her daughter.
Miss Tipping, shaking her head despondently, requested her parent not to worry
her.
“Well, it doesn’t signify. I shall wait here till he comes,” said Mrs. Tipping.
“What, Ananias?” cried Fraser, forgetting himself.
Mrs. Tipping, scorning to reply, stood for some time gazing thoughtfully about
her. Then, in compliance with her whispered instructions, her daughter crossed
to the side and, brushing aside the outstretched hand of the watchman, reached
the jetty and walked into the office. Two of the clerks were still working
there, and she came back hastily to her mother with the story of the captain’s
death unmistakably confirmed.
Mrs. Tipping, loath to accept defeat, stood for some time in consideration.
“What had Captain Flower to do with Mr. Robinson?” she asked at length, turning
to Fraser.
“Can’t say,” was the reply.
“Have you ever seen Mr. Robinson?” enquired the girl.
“I saw him one night,” said the other, after some deliberation. “Rather
good-looking man, bright blue eyes, good teeth, and a jolly laugh.”
“Are you likely to see him again?” enquired Miss Tipping, nodding in
confirmation of these details.
“Not now poor Flower’s gone,” replied Fraser. “I fancy we shipped some cases of
rifles for him one night. The night you first came. I don’t know what it all
was about, but he struck me as being rather a secretive sort of man.”
“He was that,” sighed Miss Tipping, shaking her head.
“I heard him say that night,” said the mate, forgetful of his recent longings
after truth, “that he was off abroad. He said that something was spoiling his
life, I remember, but that duty came first.”
“There, do you hear that, mother?” said Miss Tipping.
“Yes, I hear,” said the other, with an aggressive sniff, as she moved slowly
to the side. “But I’m not satisfied that the captain is dead. They’d tell us
anything. You’ve not seen the last of me, young man, I can tell you.”
“I hope not,” said Fraser, cordially. “Any time the ship’s up in London and you
care to come down, I shall be pleased to see you.”
Mrs. Tipping, heated with the climb, received this courtesy with coldness,
and having enquired concerning the fate of Captain Flower of six different
people, and verified their accounts from the landlord of the public-house at
the corner, to whom she introduced herself with much _aplomb_ as being in
the profession, went home with her daughter, in whom depression, in its most
chronic form, had settled in the form of unfilial disrespect.
Two hours later the _Foam_ got under way, and, after some heated language owing
to the watchman mistaking Mr. Green’s urbanity for sarcasm, sailed slowly down
the river. The hands were unusually quiet, but their behaviour passed unnoticed
by the new skipper, who was too perturbed by the falsehoods he had told and
those he was about to tell to take much heed of anything that was passing.
“I thought you said you preferred to keep for’ard?” he said to Ben, as that
worthy disturbed his meditations next morning by bustling into the cabin and
taking his seat at the breakfast table.
“I’ve changed my mind; the men don’t know their place,” said the mate, shortly.
Fraser raised his eyebrows.
“Forget who I am,” said Ben, gruffly. “I was never one to take much count of
such things, but when it comes to being patted on the back by an A. B., it’s
time to remind ’em.”
“Did they do that?” said Fraser, in a voice of horror.
“Joe did,” said Ben. “’E won’t do it ag’in, I don’t think. I didn’t say
anything, but I think ’e knows my feelings.”
“There’s your berth,” said Fraser, indicating it with a nod.
Ben grunted in reply, and being disinclined for conversation, busied himself
with the meal, and as soon as he had finished went up on deck.
“Wot yer been down there for, Bennie?” asked Joe, severely, as he appeared;
“your tea’s all cold.”
“I’ve ’ad my breakfast with the skipper,” said Ben, shortly.
“You was always fond of your stummick, Bennie,” said Joe, shaking his head,
sorrowfully. “I don’t think much of a man wot leaves his old mates for a bit o’
bacon.”
The new mate turned away from him haughtily, “Tim,” he said, sharply.
“Yes, Ben,” said the youth. “Why, wot’s the matter? Wot are you looking like
that for? Ain’t you well?”
“Wot did you call me?” demanded the new mate.
“I didn’t call you anything,” said the startled Tim.
“Let me ’ear you call me Ben ag’in and you’ll hear of it,” said the other,
sharply. “Go and clean the brasswork.”
The youth strolled off, gasping, with an envious glance at the cook, who,
standing just inside the galley, cheerfully flaunted a saucepan he was
cleaning, as though defying the mate to find _him_ any work to do.
“Bill,” said the mate.
“Sir,” said the polite seaman.
“Help Joe scrub paintwork,” was the reply.
“Me!” broke in the indignant Joe. “Scrub—Look ’ere, Ben.”
“Pore old Joe,” said the cook, who had not forgiven him for the previous
night’s affair. “Pore old Joe.”
“Don’t stand gaping about,” commanded the new mate. “Liven up there.”
“It don’t want cleaning. I won’t do it,” said Joe, fiercely.
“I’ve give my orders,” said the new mate, severely; “if they ain’t attended
to, or if I ’ear any more about not doing ’em, you’ll hear of it. The idea o’
telling me you won’t do it. The idea o’ setting such an example to the young
’uns. The idea—Wot are you making that face for?”
“I’ve got the earache,” retorted Joe, with bitter sarcasm.
“I thought you would ’ave, Joe,” said the vengeful cook, retiring behind a huge
frying-pan, “when I ’eard you singing this morning.”
Fraser, coming on deck, was just in time to see a really creditable imitation
of a famous sculpture as represented by Joe, Tim, and Ben, but his criticism
was so sharp and destructive that the group at once broke and never re-formed.
Indeed, with a common foe in the person of Ben, the crew adjusted their
own differences, and by the time Seabridge was in sight were united by all
the fearful obligations of a secret society of which Joe was the perpetual
president.
Captain Barber, with as much mourning as he could muster at such short notice,
was waiting on the quay. His weather-beaten face was not quite so ruddy as
usual, and Fraser, with a strong sense of shame, fancied, as the old man
clambered aboard the schooner, that his movements were slower than of yore.
“This is a dreadful business, Jack,” he said, giving him a hearty grip, when at
length he stood aboard the schooner.
“Shocking,” said Fraser, reddening.
“I’ve spoken to have the coast-guards look out for him,” said the old man. “He
may come ashore, and I know he’d be pleased to be put in the churchyard decent.”
“I’m sure he would,” said Fraser. “I suppose there’s no chance of his having
been picked up. I slung a life-belt overboard.”
Captain Barber shook his head. “It’s a mysterious thing,” he said slowly; “a
man who’d been at sea all his life to go and tumble overboard in calm weather
like that.”
“There’s a lot that’s mysterious about it, sir,” said Joe, who had drawn near,
followed by the others. “I can say that, because I was on deck only a few
minutes before it happened.”
“Pity you didn’t stay up,” said Captain Barber, ruefully.
“So I thought, sir,” said Joe, “but the mate saw me on deck and made me go
below. Two minutes afterwards I heard a splash, and the skipper was overboard.”
There was a meaning in his words that there was no mistaking. The old man,
looking round at the faces, saw that the mate’s was very pale.
“What did he make you go below for?” he asked, turning to Joe.
“Better ask him, sir,” replied the seaman. “I wanted to stay up on deck, but I
’ad to obey orders. If I ’ad stayed on deck, he wouldn’t have been cap’n.”
Captain Barber turned and regarded the mate fixedly; the mate, after a vain
attempt to meet his gaze, lowered his eyes to the deck.
“What do you say to all this?” enquired Barber, slowly.
“Nothing,” replied the mate. “I did send Joe below and the skipper fell
overboard a minute or two afterwards. It’s quite true.”
“Fell?” enquired Captain Barber.
“Fell,” repeated the other, and looked him squarely in the eyes.
For some time Captain Barber said nothing, and the men, finding the silence
irksome, shuffled uneasily.
“Fred saved your life once,” said Barber, at length.
“He did,” replied Fraser.
The old man turned and paced slowly up and down the deck.
“He was my sister’s boy,” he said, halting in front of the mate, “but he was
more like my son. His father and mother were drownded too, but they went down
fair and square in a gale. He stuck by his ship, and she stuck by him, God
bless her.”
Fraser nodded.
“I’m obliged to you for bringing my ship from London,” said Barber, slowly. “I
sha’n’t want you to take ’er back. I sha’n’t want you to stay in ’er at all. I
don’t want to see you again.”
“That’s as you please,” said Fraser, trying to speak unconcernedly. “It’s your
ship, and it’s for you to do as you like about her. I’ll put my things together
now.”
“You don’t ask for no reason?” asked Barber, eyeing him wistfully.
The other shook his head. “No,” he said, simply, and went below.
He came up some little time later with his belongings in a couple of chests,
and, the men offering no assistance, put them ashore himself, and hailing a man
who was sitting in a cart on the quay, arranged with him to convey them to the
station.
“Is ’e to be let go like this?” said Joe, hotly.
“Will you stop me?” demanded Fraser, choking with rage, as he stepped aboard
again.
“Joe,” said Ben, sharply.
The seaman glared at him offensively.
“Go for’ard,” said the new mate, peremptorily, “go for’ard, and don’t make
yourself so busy.”
The seaman, helpless with rage, looked to Captain Barber for guidance, and, the
old man endorsing the new mate’s order, went forward, indulging in a soliloquy
in which Ben as a proper noun was mixed up in the company of many improper
adjectives.
Fraser, clambering into the cart, looked back at the _Foam_. The old man was
standing with his hands clasped behind his back looking down on the deck, while
the hands stood clumsily by. With an idea that the position had suddenly become
intolerable he sat silent until they reached the station, and being for the
first time for many months in the possession of a holiday, resolved for various
reasons to pay a dutiful visit to his father at Bittlesea.