The captain of the _Fearless_ came on to the wharf in a manner more
suggestive of deer-stalking than that of a prosaic shipmaster returning
to his craft. He dodged round an empty van, lurked behind an empty
barrel, flitted from that to a post, and finally from the interior of a
steam crane peeped melodramatically on to the deck of his craft.
To the ordinary observer there was no cause for alarm. The decks were a
bit slippery but not dangerous except to a novice; the hatches were on,
and in the lighted galley the cook might be discovered moving about in
a manner indicative of quiet security and an untroubled conscience.
With a last glance behind him the skipper descended from the crane and
stepped lightly aboard.
“Hist,” said the cook, coming out quietly. “I’ve been watching for you
to come.”
“Damned fine idea of watching you’ve got,” said the skipper irritably.
“What is it?”
The cook jerked his thumb towards the cabin.
“He’s down there,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“The mate said when you came aboard you was just to go and stand near
the companion and whistle ‘God Save the Queen’ and he’ll come up to you
to see what’s to be done.”
“_Whistle!_” said the skipper, trying to moisten his parched lips with
his tongue. “I couldn’t whistle just now to save my life.”
“The mate don’t know what to do, and that was to be the signal,” said
the cook. “He’s down there with him givin’ ’im drink and amoosin’ im.
“Well, you go and whistle it,” said the skipper.
The cook wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Ow does it go?” he
inquired anxiously, “I never could remember toones.”
“Oh, go and tell Bill to do it?” said the skipper impatiently.
Summoned noiselessly by the cook, Bill came up from the forecastle, and
on learning what was required of him pursed up his lips and started our
noble anthem with a whistle of such richness and volume that the
horrified skipper was almost deafened with it. It acted on the mate
like a charm, and he came from below and closed Bill’s mouth, none too
gently, with a hand which shook with excitement. Then, as quietly as
possible, he closed the companion and secured the fastenings.
“He’s all right,” he said to the skipper breathlessly. “He’s a
prisoner. He’s ’ad four goes o’ whisky, an’ he seems inclined to
sleep.”
“Who let him go down the cabin,” demanded the skipper angrily. “It’s a
fine thing I can’t leave the ship for an hour or so but what I come
back and find people sitting all round my cabin.”
“He let hisself darn,” said the cook, who saw a slight opening
advantageous to himself in connection with a dish smashed the day
before, “an’ I was that surprised, not to say alarmed, that I dropped
the large dish and smashed it.”
“What did he say?” inquired the skipper.
“The blue one, I mean,” said the cook, who wanted that matter settled
for good, “the one with the place at the end for the gravy to run
into.”
“What did he say?” vociferated the skipper.
“’E ses,’ ’ullo,’ he ses, ‘you’ve done it now, old man,’” replied the
truthful cook.
The skipper turned a furious face to the mate.
“When the cook come up and told me,” said the mate, in answer, “I see
at once what was up, so I went down and just talked to him clever
like.”
“I should like to know what you said,” muttered the skipper.
“Well, if you think you can do better than I did you’d better go down
and see him,” retorted the mate hotly. “After all, it’s you what ’e
come to see. He’s your visitor.”
“No offence, Bob,” said the skipper. “I didn’t mean nothing.”
“I don’t know nothin’ o’ horse racin’,” continued the mate, with an
insufferable air, “and I never ’ad no money troubles in my life, bein’
always brought up proper at ’ome and warned of what would ’appen, but I
know a sheriff’s officer when I see ’im.”
“What am I to do?” groaned the skipper, too depressed even to resent
his subordinate’s manner, “it’s a judgment summons. It’s ruin if he
gets me.”
“Well, so far as I can see, the only thing for you to do is to miss the
ship this trip,” said the mate, without looking at him. “I can take her
out all right.”
“I won’t,” said the skipper, interrupting fiercely.
“Very well, you’ll be nabbed,” said the mate.
“You’ve been wanting to handle this craft a long time,” said the
skipper fiercely. “You could ha’ got rid of him if you’d wanted to.
He’s no business down my cabin.”
“I tried everything I could think of,” asseverated the mate.
“Well, he’s come down on my ship without being asked,” said the skipper
fiercely, “and damme he can stay there. Cast off.”
“But,” said the mate, “s’pose——”
“Cast off,” repeated the skipper. “He’s come on my ship, and I’ll give
him a trip free.”
“And where are you and the mate to sleep?” Inquired the cook, who was a
man of pessimistic turn of mind and given to forebodings.
“In your bunks,” said the skipper brutally. “Cast off there.”
The men obeyed, grinning, and the schooner was soon threading her way
in the darkness down the river, the skipper listening somewhat
nervously for the first intimation of his captive’s awakening.
He listened in vain that night, for the prisoner made no sign, but at
six o’clock in the morning, when the _Fearless_, coming within sight of
the Nore, began to dance like a cork upon the waters, the mate reported
hollow groans from the cabin.
“Let him groan,” said the skipper briefly, “as holler as he likes.”
“Well, I’ll just go down and see how he is,” said the mate.
“You stay where you are,” said the skipper sharply.
“Well, but you ain’t going to starve the man?”
“Nothing to do with me,” said the skipper ferociously; “if a man likes
to come down and stay in my cabin that’s his business. I’m not supposed
to know he’s there, and if I like to lock my cabin up and sleep in a
fo’s’c’le what’s got more fleas in than ten other fo’c’s’les put
together, and what smells worse than ten fo’c’s’les rolled into one,
that’s my business.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to berth for’ard too,” grumbled the other. “He
can’t touch me. I can go and sleep in my berth.”
“You’ll do what I wish, my lad,” said the skipper.
“I’m the mate,” said the other darkly.
“And I’m the master,” said the other; “if the master of a ship can stay
down the fo’c’s’le, I’m sure a tuppeny-ha’penny mate can.”
“The men don’t like it,” objected the mate.
“Damn the men,” said the skipper politely, “and as to starving the
chap, there’s a water-bottle full o’ water in my state-room, to say
nothing of a jug, and a bag o’ biscuits under the table.”
The mate walked off whistling, and the skipper, by no means so easy in
his mind as he pretended to be, began to consider ways and means out of
the difficulty which he foresaw must occur when they reached port.
“What sort o’ looking chap is he?” he inquired of the cook.
“Big, strong-looking chap,” was the reply.
“Look as though he’d make a fuss if I sent you and Bill down below to
gag him when we get to the other end?” suggested the skipper.
The cook said that judging by appearances “fuss” would be no word for
it.
“I can’t understand him keeping so quiet,” said the skipper, “that’s
what gets over me.”
“He’s biding ’is time, I expect,” said the cook comfortingly. “He’s a
’ard looking customer, ’sides which he’s likely sea-sick.”
The day passed slowly, and as night approached a sense of mystery and
discomfort overhung the vessel. The man at the wheel got nervous, and
flattered Bill into keeping him company by asking him to spin him a
yarn. He had good reason for believing that he knew his comrade’s stock
of stories by heart, but in the sequel it transpired that there was
one, of a prisoner turning into a cat and getting out of the porthole
and running up helmsmen’s backs, which he hadn’t heard before. And he
told Bill in the most effective language he could command that he never
wanted to hear it again.
The night passed and day broke, and still the mysterious passenger made
no sign. The crew got in the habit of listening at the companion and
peeping through the skylight; but the door of the state-room was
closed, and the cabin itself as silent as the grave. The skipper went
about with a troubled face, and that afternoon, unable to endure the
suspense any longer, civilly asked the mate to go below and
investigate.
“I’d rather not,” said the mate, shrugging his shoulders.
“I’d sooner he served me and have done with it,” said the skipper. “I
get thinking all sorts of awful things.”
“Well, why don’t you go down yourself,” said the mate. “He’d serve you
fast enough, I’ve no doubt.”
“Well, it may be just his artfulness,” said the skipper; “an’ I don’t
want to humour him if he’s all right. I’m askin’ it as a favour, Bob.”
“I’ll go if the cook’ll come,” said the mate after a pause.
The cook hesitated.
“Go on, cook,” said the skipper sharply; “don’t keep the mate waiting,
and, whatever you do, don’t let him come up on deck.”
The mate led the way to the companion, and, opening it quietly, led the
way below, followed by the cook. There was a minute’s awful suspense,
and then a wild cry rang out below, and the couple came dashing madly
up on deck again.
“What is it?” inquired the pallid skipper.
The mate, leaning for support against the wheel, opened his mouth, but
no words came; the cook, his hands straight by his side and his eyes
glassy, made a picture from which the crew drew back in awe.
“What’s—the—matter?” said the skipper again.
Then the mate, regaining his composure by an effort, spoke.
“You needn’t trouble to fasten the companion again,” he said slowly.
The skipper’s face changed from white to grey, “Why not?” he asked in a
trembling voice.
“He’s dead,” was the solemn reply.
“Nonsense,” said the other, with quivering lips.
“He’s shamming or else fainting. Did you try to bring him round?”
“I did not,” said the mate. “I don’t deceive you. I didn’t stay down
there to do no restoring, and I don’t think you would either.”
“Go down and see whether you can wake him, cook,” said the skipper.
“Not me,” said the cook with a mighty shudder.
Two of the hands went and peeped furtively down through the skylight.
The empty cabin looked strangely quiet and drear, and the door of the
state-room stood ajar. There was nothing to satisfy their curiosity,
but they came back looking as though they had seen a ghost.
“What’s to be done?” said the skipper, helplessly.
“Nothing can be done,” said the mate. “He’s beyond our aid.”
“I wasn’t thinking about _him_,” said the skipper.
“Well, the best thing you can do when we get to Plymouth is to bolt,”
said the mate. “We’ll hide it up as long as we can to give you a start.
It’s a hanging matter.”
The hapless master of the _Fearless_ wiped his clammy brow. “I can’t
think he’s dead,” he said slowly. “Who’ll come down with me to see?”
“You’d better leave it alone,” said the mate kindly, “it ain’t
pleasant, and besides that we can all swear up to the present that you
haven’t touched him or been near him.”
“Who’ll come down with me?” repeated the skipper. “I believe it’s a
trick, and that he’ll start up and serve me, but I feel I must go.”
He caught Bill’s eye, and that worthy seaman, after a short tussle with
his nerves, shuffled after him. The skipper brushing aside the mate,
who sought to detain him, descended first, and entering the cabin stood
hesitating, with Bill close behind him.
“Just open the door, Bill,” he said slowly.
“Arter you, sir,” said the well-bred Bill.
The skipper stepped slowly towards it and flung it suddenly open. Then
he drew back with a sharp cry and looked nervously about him. _The bed
was empty_.
“Where’s he gone?” whispered the trembling Bill.
“The other made no reply, but in a dazed fashion began to grope about
the cabin. It was a small place and soon searched, and the two men sat
down and eyed each other in blank amazement.
“Where is he?” said Bill at length.
The skipper shook his head helplessly, and was about to ascribe the
mystery to supernatural agencies, when the truth in all its naked
simplicity flashed upon him, and he spoke. “It’s the mate,” he said
slowly, “the mate and the cook. I see it all now; there’s never been
anybody here. It was a little job on the mate’s part to get the ship.
If you want to hear a couple o’ rascals sized up, Bill, come on deck.”
And Bill, grinning in anticipation, went.
“CHOICE SPIRITS”
The day was fine and the breeze so light that the old patched sails
were taking the schooner along at a gentle three knots per hour. A sail
or two shone like snow in the offing, and a gull hovered in the air
astern. From the cabin to the galley, and from the galley to the untidy
tangle in the bows, there was no sign of life to benefit by the
conversation of the skipper and mate as they discussed a wicked and
mutinous spirit which had become observable in the crew.
“It’s sheer, rank wickedness, that’s what it is,” said the skipper, a
small, elderly man, with grizzled beard and light blue eyes.
“Rank,” agreed the mate, whose temperament was laconic.
“Why, when I was a boy you wouldn’t believe what I had to eat,” said
the skipper; “not if I took my Bible oath on it, you wouldn’t.”
“They’re dainty,” said the mate.
“Dainty!” said the other indignantly. “What right have hungry sailormen
to be dainty? Don’t I give them enough to eat? Look! Look there!”
He drew back, choking, and pointed with his forefinger as Bill Smith,
A.B., came on deck with a plate held at arm’s length, and a nose
disdainfully elevated. He affected not to see the skipper, and, walking
in a mincing fashion to the side, raked the food from the plate into
the sea with his fingers. He was followed by George Simpson, A.B., who
in the same objectionable fashion wasted food which the skipper had
intended should nourish his frame.
“I’ll pay ’em for this,” murmured the skipper.
“There’s some more,” said the mate.
Two more men came on deck, grinning consciously, and disposed of their
dinners. Then there was an interval—an interval in which everybody fore
and aft, appeared to be waiting for something; the something being at
that precise moment standing at the foot of the foc’sle ladder, trying
to screw its courage up.
“If the boy comes,” said the skipper in a strained, unnatural voice,
“I’ll flay him alive.”
“You’d better get your knife out, then,” said the mate.
The boy appeared on deck, very white about the gills, and looking
piteously at the crew for support. He became conscious from their
scowls that he had forgotten something, and remembering himself,
stretched out his skinny arms to their full extent, and, crinkling his
nose, walked with great trepidation to the side.
“Boy!” vociferated the skipper suddenly.
“Yessir,” said the urchin hastily.
“Comm’ere,” said the skipper sternly.
“Shove your dinner over first,” said four low, menacing voices.
The boy hesitated, then walked slowly towards the skipper.
“What are you going to do with that dinner?” demanded the latter
grimly.
“Eat it,” said the youth modestly.
“What d’yer bring it on deck for, then?” inquired the other, bending
his brows on him.
“I thought it would taste better on deck, sir,” said the boy.
“Taste better!” growled the skipper ferociously. “Ain’t it good?”
“Yessir,” said the boy.
“Speak louder,” said the skipper sternly. “Is it very good?”
“Beautiful,” said the boy in a shrill falsetto.
“Did you ever taste better wittles than you get aboard this ship?”
demanded the skipper, setting him a fine example in loud speaking.
“Never!” yelled the boy, following it.
“Everything as it should be?” roared the skipper.
“Better than it should be,” shrilled the craven
“Sit down and eat it,” commanded the other.
The boy sat on the cabin skylight, and, taking out his pocket-knife,
began his meal with every appearance of enjoyment, the skipper, with
his elbows on the side, and his legs crossed, regarding him serenely.
“I suppose,” he said loudly, after watching the boy for some time, “I
s’pose the men threw theirs overboard becos they hadn’t been used to
such good food?”
“Yessir,” said the boy.
“Did they say so?” bawled the other.
The boy hesitated, and glanced nervously forward. “Yessir,” he said at
length, and shuddered as a low, ominous growl came from the crew.
Despite his slowness the meal came to an end at last, and, in obedience
to orders, he rose and took his plate forward, looking entreatingly at
the crew as he passed them.
“Come down below,” said Bill, “we want to have a talk with you.”
“Can’t,” said the boy. “I’ve got my work to do. I haven’t got time to
talk.”
He stayed up on deck until evening, and then, the men’s anger having
evaporated somewhat, crept softly below, and climbed into his bunk.
Simpson leaned over and made a clutch at him, but Bill pushed him
aside.
“Leave him alone,” said he quietly, “we’ll take it out of him
to-morrow.”
For some time Tommy lay worrying over the fate in store for him, and
then, yielding to fatigue, turned over and slept soundly until he was
awakened some three hours later by the men’s voices, and, looking out,
saw that the lamp was alight and the crew at supper, listening quietly
to Bill, who was speaking.
“I’ve a good mind to strike, that’s what I’ve a good mind to do,” he
said savagely, as, after an attempt at the butter, he put it aside and
ate dry biscuit.
“An’ get six months,” said old Ned. “That won’t do, Bill.”
“Are we to go a matter of six or seven days on dry biscuit and rotten
taters?” demanded the other fiercely. “Why, it’s slow sooicide.”
“I wish one of you would commit sooicide,” said Ned, looking wistfully
round at the faces, “that ’ud frighten the old man, and bring him round
a bit.”
“Well, you’re the eldest,” said Bill pointedly.
“Browning’s a easy death too,” said Simpson persuasively, “you can’t
have much enjoyment in life at your age, Ned?”
“And you might leave a letter behind to the skipper, saying as ’ow you
was drove to it by bad food,” said the cook, who was getting ex-cited.
“Talk sense!” said the old man very shortly.
“Look here,” said Bill suddenly, “I tell you what we can do: let one of
us pretend to commit suicide, and write a letter as Slushey here ses,
saying as ’ow we’re gone overboard sooner than be starved to death. It
’ud scare the old man proper; and p’raps he’d let us start on the other
meat without eating up this rotten stuff first!”
“How’s it to be done!” asked Simpson, staring.
“Go an’ ’ide down the fore ’old,” said Bill “There’s not much stuff
down there. We’ll take off the hatch when one of us is on watch
to-night, and—whoever wants to—can go and hide down there till the old
man’s come to his senses. What do you think of it, mates?”
“It’s all right as an idea,” said Ned slowly, “but who’s going?”
“Tommy,” replied Bill simply.
“Blest if I ever thought of him,” said Ned admiringly, “did you,
cookie?”
“Never crossed my mind,” said the cook.
“You see the best o’ Tommy’s going,” said Bill, “is that the old man
’ud only give him a flogging if he found it out. We wouldn’t split as
to who put the hatch on over him. He can be there as comfortable as you
please, do nothing, and sleep all day if he likes. O’ course we don’t
know anything about it, we miss Tommy, and find the letter wrote on
this table.”
The cook leaned forward and regarded his colleague favourably; then he
pursed his lips, and nodded significantly at an upper bunk from which
the face of Tommy, pale and scared, looked anxiously down.
“Halloa!” said Bill, “have you heard what we’ve been saying?”
“I heard you say something about going to drown old Ned,” said Tommy
guardedly.
“He’s heard all about it,” said the cook severely. “Do you know where
little boys who tell lies go to, Tommy?”
“I’d sooner go there than down the fore ’old,” said Tommy, beginning to
knuckle his eyes. “I won’t go. I’ll tell the skipper.”
“No, you won’t,” said Bill sternly. “This is your punishment for them
lies you told about us to-day, an’ very cheap you’ve got off too. Now,
get out o’ that bunk. Come on afore I pull you out.”
With a miserable whimper the youth dived beneath his blankets, and,
clinging frantically to the edge of his berth, kicked convulsively as
he was lifted down, blankets and all, and accommodated with a seat at
the table.
“Pen and ink and paper, Ned,” said Bill.
The old man produced them, and Bill, first wiping off with his
coat-sleeve a piece of butter which the paper had obtained from the
table, spread it before the victim.
“I can’t write,” said Tommy sullenly.
The men looked at each other in dismay.
“It’s a lie,” said the cook.
“I tell you I can’t,” said the urchin, becoming hopeful, “that’s why
they sent me to sea becos I couldn’t read or write.”
“Pull his ear, Bill,” said Ned, annoyed at these aspersions upon an
honourable profession.
“It don’t matter,” said Bill, calmly. “I’ll write it for ’im; the old
man don’t know my fist.”
He sat down at the table, and, squaring his shoulders, took a noisy dip
of ink, and scratching his head, looked pensively at the paper.
“Better spell it bad, Bill,” suggested Ned.
“Ay, ay,” said the other. “’Ow do you think a boy would spell sooicide,
Ned?”
The old man pondered. “S-o-o-e-y-s-i-d-e,” he said slowly.
“Why, that’s the right way, ain’t it?” inquired the cook, looking from
one to the other.
“We mustn’t spell it right,” said Bill, with his pen hovering over the
paper. “Be careful, Ned.”
“We’ll say killed myself instead,” said the old man. “A boy wouldn’t
use such a big word as that p’raps.”
Bill bent over his work, and, apparently paying great attention to his
friends’ entreaties not to write it too well, slowly wrote the letter.
“How’s this?” he inquired, sitting back in his seat.
“‘Deer captin i take my pen in hand for the larst time to innform you
that i am no more suner than heat the ’orrible stuff what you kall meet
i have drownded miself it is a moor easy death than starvin’ i ’ave
left my clasp nife to bill an’ my silver wotch to it is ’ard too dee so
young tommie brown.’”
“Splendid!” said Ned, as the reader finished and looked inquiringly
round.
“I put in that bit about the knife and the watch to make it seem real,”
said Bill, with modest pride; “but, if you like, I’ll leave ’em to you
instead, Ned.”
“I don’t want ’em,” said the old man generously.
“Put your cloes on,” said Bill, turning to the whimpering Tommy.
“I’m _not_ going down that fore ’old,” said Tommy desperately. “You may
as well know now as later on—I won’t go.”
“Cookie,” said Bill calmly, “just ’and me them cloes, will you? Now,
Tommy.”
“I tell you, I’m not going to,” said Tommy.
“An’ that little bit o’ rope, cookie,” said Bill, “it’s just down by
your ’and. Now, Tommy.”
The youngest member of the crew looked from his clothes to the rope,
and from the rope back to his clothes again.
“How’m I goin’ to be fed?” he demanded sullenly, as he began to dress.
“You’ll have a stone bottle o’ water to take down with you an’ some
biskits,” replied Bill, “an’ of a night time we’ll hand you down some
o’ that meat you’re so fond of. Hide ’em behind the cargo, an’ if you
hear anybody take the hatch off in the day time, nip behind it
yourself.”
“An’ what about fresh air?” demanded the sacrifice.
“You’ll ’ave fresh air of a night when the hatch is took off,” said
Bill. “Don’t you worry, I’ve thought of everything.”
The arrangements being concluded, they waited until Simpson relieved
the mate at the helm, and then trooped up on deck, half-pushing and
half-leading their reluctant victim.
“It’s just as if he was going on a picnic,” said old Ned, as the boy
stood unwillingly on the deck, with a stone bottle in one hand and some
biscuits wrapped up in an old newspaper in the other.
“Lend a ’and, Bill. Easy does it.”
Noiselessly the two seamen took off the hatch, and, as Tommy declined
to help in the proceedings at all, Ned clambered down first to receive
him. Bill took him by the scruff of the neck and lowered him down,
kicking strongly, into the hold.
“Have you got him?” inquired Bill.
“Yes,” said Ned in a smothered voice, and, depositing the boy in the
hold, hastily clambered up again, wiping his mouth.
“Been having a swig at the bottle?” inquired Bill.
“Boy’s heel,” said Ned very shortly. “Get the hatch on.”
The hatch was replaced, and Bill and his fellow conspirator, treading
quietly and not without some apprehension for the morrow, went below
and turned in. Tommy, who had been at sea long enough to take things as
he found them, curled up in the corner of the hold, and with his bottle
as a pillow fell asleep.
It was not until eight o’clock next morning that the master of the
_Sunbeam_ discovered that he was a boy short. He questioned the cook as
he sat at breakfast. The cook, who was a very nervous man, turned pale,
set the coffee-pot down with a thump which upset some of the liquor,
and bolted up on deck. The skipper, after shouting for him in some of
the most alluring swear words known on the high seas, went raging up on
deck, where he found the men standing in a little knot, looking very
ill at ease.
“Bill,” said the skipper uneasily, “what’s the matter with that damned
cook?”
“’E’s ’ad a shock, sir,” said Bill, shaking his head, “we’ve all ’ad a
shock.”
“You’ll have another in a minute,” said the skipper emotionally.
“Where’s the boy?”
For a moment Bill’s hardihood forsook him, and he looked helplessly at
his mates. In their anxiety to avoid his gaze they looked over the
side, and a horrible fear came over the skipper. He looked at Bill
mutely, and Bill held out a dirty piece of paper.
The skipper read it through in a state of stupefaction, then he handed
it to the mate, who had followed him on deck. The mate read it and
handed it back.
“It’s yours,” he said shortly.
“I don’t understand it,” said the skipper, shaking his head. “Why, only
yesterday he was up on deck here eating his dinner, and saying it was
the best meat he ever tasted. You heard him, Bob?”
“I _heard_ him, pore little devil!” said the mate.
“You all heard him,” said the skipper.
“Well, there’s five witnesses I’ve got. He must have been mad. Didn’t
nobody hear him go overboard?”
“I ’eard a splash, sir, in my watch,” said Bill.
“Why didn’t you run and see what it was?” demanded the other.
“I thought it was one of the chaps come up to throw his supper
overboard,” said Bill simply.
“Ah!” said the skipper, biting his lip, “did you? You’re always going
on about the grub. What’s the matter with it?”
“It’s pizon, sir,” said Ned, shaking his head. “The meat’s awful.”
“It’s as sweet as nuts,” said the skipper. “Well, you can have it out
of the other tank if you like. Will that satisfy you?”
The men brightened up a little and nudged each other.
“The butters bad too, sir,” said Bill.
“Butter bad!” said the skipper frowning, “how’s that, cook?”
“I ain’t done nothing to it, sir,” said the cook helplessly.
“Give ’em butter out o’ the firkin in the cabin,” growled the skipper.
“It’s my firm belief you’d been ill-using that boy, the food was
delicious.”
He walked off, taking the letter with him, and, propping it up against
the sugar-basin, made but a poor breakfast.
For that day the men lived, as Ned put it, on the fat of the land, in
addition to the other luxuries figgy duff, a luxury hitherto reserved
for Sundays, being also served out to them. Bill was regarded as a
big-brained benefactor of the human race; joy reigned in the foc’sle,
and at night the hatch was taken off and the prisoner regaled with a
portion which had been saved for him. He ate it ungratefully, and put
churlish and inconvenient questions as to what was to happen at the end
of the voyage.
“We’ll smuggle you ashore all right,” said Bill, “none of us are going
to sign back in this old tub. I’ll take you aboard some ship with
me—Eh?”
“I didn’t say anything,” said Tommy untruthfully.
To the wrath and confusion of the crew next day their commanding
officer put them back on the old diet again. The old meat was again
served out, and the grass-fed luxury from the cabin stopped. Bill
shared the fate of all leaders when things go wrong, and, from being
the idol of his fellows, became a butt for their gibes.
“What about your little idea now?” grunted old Ned, scornfully, that
evening as he broke his biscuit roughly with his teeth, and dropped it
into his basin of tea.
“You ain’t as clever as you thought you was, Bill,” said the cook with
the air of a discoverer.
“And there’s that pore dear boy shut up in the dark for nothing,” said
Simpson, with somewhat belated thoughtfulness. “An’ cookie doing his
work.”
“I’m not going to be beat,” said Bill blackly, “the old man was badly
scared yesterday. We must have another sooicide, that’s all.”
“Let Tommy do it again,” suggested the cook flippantly, and they all
laughed.
“Two on one trip’ll about do the old man up,” said Bill, regarding the
interruption unfavourably. “Now, who’s going to be the next?”
“We’ve had enough o’ this game,” said Simpson, shrugging his shoulders,
“you’ve gone cranky, Bill.”
“No, I ain’t,” said Bill; “I’m not going to be beat, that’s all.
Whoever goes down they ’ll have a nice, easy, lazy time. Sleep all day
if he likes, and nothing to do. _You_ ain’t been looking very well
lately, Ned.”
“Oh?” said the old man coldly.
“Well, settle it between you,” said Bill carelessly, “it’s all one to
me, which of you goes.”
“Ho, an’ what about you?” demanded Simpson.
“Me?” inquired Bill in astonishment. “Why, I’ve got to stay up here and
manage it.”
“Well, we’ll stay up and help you,” said Simpson derisively.
Ned and the cook laughed, Simpson joined in. Bill rose, and going to
his bunk, fished out a pack of greasy cards from beneath his bedding.
“Larst cut, sooicide,” he said briefly. “I’m in it.”
He held the pack before the cook. The cook hesitated, and looked at the
other two.
“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” said Simpson.
“Why, do you funk it?” sneered Bill.
“It’s a fool’s game, I tell you,” said Simpson.
“Well, you ’elped me start it,” said the other. “You’re afraid, that’s
what you are, afraid. You can let the boy go down there, but when it
comes to yourselves you turn chicken-’arted.”
“All right,” said Simpson recklessly, “let Bill ’ave ’is way; out,
cookie.”
Sorely against his better sense the cook complied, and drew a ten; Ned,
after much argument, cut and drew seven; Simpson, with a king in his
fist, leaned back on the locker and fingered his beard nonchalantly.
“Go on, Bill,” he said, “see what you can do.”
Bill took the pack and shuffled it. “I orter be able to beat seven,” he
said slowly. He handed the pack to Ned, drew a card, and the other
three sat back and laughed boisterously.
“Three!” said Simpson. “Bravo, Bill! Ill write your letter for you;
he’d know your writing. What shall I say?”
“Say what you like,” retorted Bill, breathing hard as he thought of the
hold.
He sat back, sneering disdainfully, as the other three merrily sat down
to compose his letter, replying only by a contemptuous silence when
Simpson asked him whether he wanted any kisses put in. When the letter
was handed over for his inspection he only made one remark.
“I thought you could write better than that, George,” he said
haughtily.
“I’m writing it for you,” said Simpson.
Bill’s hauteur vanished, and he became his old self again. “If you want
a plug in the eye, George,” he said feelingly, “you’ve only got to say
so, you know.”
His temper was so unpleasant that half the pleasure of the evening was
spoiled, and instead of being conducted to his hiding-place with quips
and light laughter, the proceedings were more like a funeral than
anything else. The crowning touch to his ill-nature was furnished by
Tommy, who upon coming up and learning that Bill was to be his
room-mate, gave way to a fit of the most unfeigned horror.
“There’s another letter for you this morning,” said the mate, as the
skipper came out of his state-room buttoning up his waistcoat.
“Another what?” demanded the other, turning pale.
The mate jerked his thumb upwards. “Old Ned has got it,” he continued,
“I can’t think what’s come over the men.”
The skipper dashed up on deck, and mechanically took the letter from
Ned and read it through. He stood for some time like a man in a dream,
and then stumbled down the foc’sle, and looked in all the bunks and
even under the table, then he came up and stood by the hold with his
head on one side. The men held their breath.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded at length, sitting limply
on the hatch, with his eyes down.
“Bad grub, sir,” said Simpson, gaining courage from his manner; “that’s
what we’ll have to say when we get ashore.”
“You’re not to say a word about it?” said the other, firing up.
“It’s our dooty, sir,” said Ned impressively.
“Look here now,” said the skipper, and he looked at the remaining
members of the crew entreatingly. “Don’t let’s have no more suicides.
The old meat’s gone now, and you can start the other, and when we get
to port I’ll ship in some fresh butter and vegetables. But I don’t want
you to say anything about the food being bad, or about these letters
when we get to port. I shall simply say the two of ’em disappeared, an’
I want you to say the same.”
“It can’t be done, sir,” said Simpson, firmly.
The skipper rose and walked to the side. “Would a fi’pun note make any
difference?” he asked in a low voice.
“It ’ud make a little difference,” said Ned cautiously.
The skipper looked up at Simpson. On the face of Simpson was an
expression of virtuous arithmetical determination.
The skipper looked down again. “Or a fi’pun note each?” he said, in a
low voice. “I can’t go beyond that.”
“Call it twenty pun and it’s a bargain, ain’t it, mates?” said Simpson.
Ned said it was, and even the cook forgot his nervousness, and said it
was evident the skipper must do the generous thing, and they’d stand by
him.
“Where’s the money coming from?” inquired the mate as the skipper went
down to breakfast, and discussed the matter with him. “They wouldn’t
get nothing out of me!”
The skylight was open; the skipper with a glance at it bent forward and
whispered in his ear.
“Wot!” said the mate. He endeavoured to suppress his laughter with hot
coffee and bacon, with the result that he had to rise from his seat,
and stand patiently while the skipper dealt him some hearty thumps on
the back.
With the prospect of riches before them the men cheerfully faced the
extra work; the cook did the boy’s, while Ned and Simpson did Bill’s
between them. When night came they removed the hatch again, and with a
little curiosity waited to hear how their victims were progressing.
“Where’s my dinner?” growled Bill hungrily, as he drew himself up on
deck.
“Dinner!” said Ned, in surprise; “why, you ain’t got none.”
“_Wot?_” said Bill ferociously.
“You see the skipper only serves out for three now,” said the cook.
“Well, why didn’t you save us some?” demanded the other.
“There ain’t enough of it, Bill, there ain’t in-deed,” said Ned. “We
have to do more work now, and there ain’t enough even for us. You’ve
got biscuit and water, haven’t you?”
Bill swore at him.
“I’ve ’ad enough o’ this,” he said fiercely. “I’m coming up, let the
old man do what he likes. I don’t care.”
“Don’t do that, Bill,” said the old man persuasively. “Everything’s
going beautiful. You was quite right what you said about the old man.
We was wrong. He’s skeered fearful, and he’s going to give us twenty
pun to say nothing about it when we get ashore.”
“I’m going to have ten out o’ that,” said Bill, brightening a little,
“and it’s worth it too, I get the ’orrors shut up down there all day.”
“Ay, ay,” said Ned, with a side kick at the cook, who was about to
question Bill’s method of division.
“The old man sucked it all in beautiful,” said the cook. “He’s in a
dreadful way. He’s got all your clothes and things, and the boy’s, and
he’s going to ’and ’em over to your friends. It’s the best joke I ever
heard.”
“You’re a fool!” said Bill shortly, and lighting his pipe went and
squatted in the bows to wrestle grimly with a naturally bad temper.
For the ensuing four days things went on smoothly enough. The weather
being fair, the watch at night was kept by the men, and regularly they
had to go through the unpleasant Jack-in-the-box experience of taking
the lid off Bill. The sudden way he used to pop out and rate them about
his sufferings and their callousness was extremely trying, and it was
only by much persuasion and reminder of his share of the hush-money
that they could persuade him to return again to his lair at daybreak.
Still undisturbed they rounded the Land’s End. The day had been close
and muggy, but towards night the wind freshened, and the schooner began
to slip at a good pace through the water. The two prisoners, glad to
escape from the stifling atmosphere of the hold, sat in the bows with
an appetite which the air made only too keen for the preparations made
to satisfy it.
Ned was steering, and the other two men having gone below and turned
in, there were no listeners to their low complaints about the food.
“It’s a fool’s game, Tommy,” said Bill, shaking his head.
“_Game?_” said Tommy, sniffing. “’Ow are we going to get away when we
get to Northsea?”
“You leave that to me,” said Bill. “Old Ned seems to ha’ got a bad
cough,” he added.
“He’s choking, I should think,” said Tommy, leaning forward. “Look!
he’s waving his hand at us.”
Both sprang up hastily, but ere they could make any attempt to escape
the skipper and mate emerged from the companion and walked towards
them.
“Look here,” said the skipper, turning to the mate, and indicating the
culprits with his hand; “perhaps you’ll disbelieve in dreams now.”
“’Strordinary!” said the mate, rubbing his eyes, as Bill stood sullenly
waiting events, while the miserable Tommy skulked behind him.
“I’ve heard o’ such things,” continued the skipper, in impressive
tones, “but I never expected to see it. You can’t say you haven’t seen
a ghost now, Bob.”
“’Strordinary!” said the mate, shaking his head again. “Lifelike!”
“The ship’s haunted, Ned,” cried the skipper in hollow tones. “Here’s
the sperrits o’ Bill and the boy standing agin the windlass.”
The bewildered old seaman made no reply; the smaller spirit sniffed and
wiped his nose on his cuff, and the larger one began to whistle softly.
“Poor things!” said the skipper, after they had discussed these
extraordinary apparitions for some time. “Can you see the windlass
through the boy, Bob?”
“I can see through both of ’em,” said the mate slyly.
They stayed on deck a little longer, and then coming to the conclusion
that their presence on deck could do no good, and indeed seemed only to
embarrass their visitors, went below again, leaving all hands a prey to
the wildest astonishment.
“Wot’s ’is little game?” asked Simpson, coming cautiously up on deck.
“Damned if I know,” said Bill savagely.
“He don’t really think you’re ghosts?” suggested the cook feebly.
“O’ course not,” said Bill scornfully. “He’s got some little game on.
Well, I’m going to my bunk. You’d better come too, Tommy. We’ll find
out what it all means tomorrer, I’ve no doubt.”
On the morrow they received a little enlightenment, for after breakfast
the cook came forward nervously to break the news that meat and
vegetables had only been served out for three. Consternation fell upon
all.
“I’ll go an’ see ’im,” said Bill ravenously.
He found the skipper laughing heartily over something with the mate. At
the seaman’s approach he stepped back and eyed him coolly.
“Mornin’, sir,” said Bill, shuffling up. “We’d like to know, sir, me
an’ Tommy, whether we can have our rations for dinner served out now
same as before?”
“_Dinner?_” said the skipper in surprise. “What do you want dinner
for?”
“Eat,” said Bill, eyeing him reproachfully.
“Eat?” said the skipper. “What’s the good o’ giving dinner to a ghost?
Why you’ve got nowhere to put it.”
By dint of great self-control Bill smiled in a ghastly fashion, and
patted his stomach.
“All air,” said the skipper turning away.
“Can we have our clothes and things then?” said Bill grinding his
teeth. “Ned says as how you’ve got ’em.”
“Certainly not,” said the skipper. “I take ’em home and give ’em to
your next o’ kin. That’s the law, ain’t it, Bob?”
“It is,” said the mate.
“They’ll ’ave your effects and your pay up to the night you committed
suicide,” said the skipper.
“We didn’t commit sooicide,” said Bill; “how could we when we’re
standing here?”
“Oh, yes, you did,” said the other. “I’ve got your letters in my pocket
to prove it; besides, if you didn’t I should give you in charge for
desertion directly we get to port.”
He exchanged glances with the mate, and Bill, after standing first on
one leg and then on the other, walked slowly away. For the rest of the
morning he stayed below setting the smaller ghost a bad example in the
way of language, and threatening his fellows with all sorts of fearful
punishments.
Until dinner time the skipper heard no more of them, but he had just
finished that meal and lit his pipe when he heard footsteps on the
deck, and the next moment old Ned, hot and angry, burst into the cabin.
“Bill’s stole our dinner, sir,” he panted unceremoniously.
“Who?” inquired the skipper coldly.
“Bill, sir, Bill Smith,” replied Ned.
“_Who?_” inquired the skipper more coldly than before.
“The ghost o’ Bill Smith,” growled Ned, correcting himself savagely,
“has took our dinner away, an’ him an’ the ghost o’ Tommy Brown is a
sitting down and boltin’ of it as fast as they can bolt.”
“Well, I don’t see what I can do,” said the skipper lazily. “What’d you
let ’em for?”
“You know what Bill is, sir,” said Ned. “I’m an old man, cook’s no
good, and unless Simpson has a bit o’ raw beef for his eyes, he won’t
be able to see for a week.”
“Rubbish!” said the skipper jocularly. “Don’t tell me, three men all
afraid o’ one ghost. I sha’n’t interfere. Don’t you know what to do?”
“No, sir,” said Ned eagerly.
“Go up and read the prayer-book to him, and he’ll vanish in a cloud of
smoke,” said the skipper.
Ned gazed at him for a moment speechlessly, and then going up on deck
leaned over the side and swore himself faint. The cook and Simpson came
up and listened respectfully, contenting themselves with an occasional
suggestion when the old man’s memory momentarily failed him.
For the rest of the voyage the two culprits suffered all the
inconvenience peculiar to a loss of citizenship. The skipper blandly
ignored them, and on two or three occasions gave great offence by
attempting to walk through Bill as he stood on the deck. Speculation
was rife in the fo’c’sle as to what would happen when they got ashore,
and it was not until Northsea was sighted that the skipper showed his
hand. Then he appeared on deck with their effects done up neatly in two
bundles, and pitched them on the hatches. The crew stood and eyed him
expectantly.
“Ned,” said the skipper sharply.
“Sir,” said the old man.
“As soon as we’re made fast,” said the other, “I want you to go ashore
for me and fetch an undertaker and a policeman. I can’t quite make up
my mind which I want.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” murmured the old man.
The skipper turned away, and seizing the helm from the mate, took the
ship in. He was so intent upon his business that he appeared not to
notice the movements of Bill and Tommy as they edged nervously towards
their bundles, and waited impatiently for the schooner to get alongside
the quay. Then he turned to the mate and burst into a loud laugh as the
couple, bending suddenly, snatched up their bundles, and, clambering up
the side, sprang ashore and took to their heels. The mate laughed, too,
and a faint but mirthless echo came from the other end of the schooner.