“’E’s a nero, that’s wot ’e is, sir,” said the cook, as he emptied a
boiler of dirty water overboard.
“A what?” said the skipper.
“A nero,” said the cook, speaking very slowly and distinctly. “A nero
in real life, a chap wot, speaking for all for’ard, we’re proud to have
aboard along with us.”
“I didn’t know he was much of a swimmer,” said the skipper, glancing
curiously at a clumsily built man of middle age, who sat on the hatch
glancing despondently at the side.
“No more ’e ain’t,” said the cook, “an’ that’s what makes ’im more
’eroish still in my own opinion.”
“Did he take his clothes off?” inquired the mate.
“Not a bit of it,” said the delighted cook; “not a pair of trowsis, nor
even ’is ’at, which was sunk.”
“You’re a liar, cook,” said the hero, looking up for a moment.
“You didn’t take your trowsis off, George?” said the cook anxiously.
“I chucked my ’at on the pavement,” growled George, without looking up.
“Well, anyway, you went over the embankment after that pore girl like a
Briton, didn’t you?” said the other.
There was no reply.
“Didn’t you?” said the cook appealingly.
“Did you expect me to go over like a Dutchman, or wot?” demanded George
fiercely.
“That’s ’is modesty,” said the cook, turning to the others with the air
of a showman. “’E can’t bear us to talk about it. Nearly drownded ’e
was. All but, and a barge came along and shoved a boat-hook right
through the seat of his trowsis an’ saved ’im. Stand up an’ show ’em
your trowsis, George.”
“If I do stand up,” said George, in a voice broken with rage, “it’ll be
a bad day for you, my lad.”
“_Ain’t_ he modest?” said the cook. “Don’t it do you good to ’ear ’im.
He was just like that when they got him ashore and the crowd started
patting him.”
“Didn’t like it?” queried the mate.
“Well, they overdid it a little, p’r’aps,” admitted the cook; “one old
chap wot couldn’t get near patted ’is ’ead with ’is stick, but it was
all meant in the way of kindness.”
“I’m proud of you, George,” said the skipper heartily.
“We all are,” said the mate.
George grunted.
“I’ll write for the medal for him,” said the skipper. “Were there any
witnesses, cook?”
“Heaps of ’em,” said the other; “but I gave ’em ’is name and address.
‘Schooner _John Henry_, of Limehouse, is ’is home,’ I ses, and George
Cooper ’is name’.”
“You talked a damned sight too much,” said the hero, “you lean,
lop-sided son of a tinker.”
“Theres ’is modesty ag’in,” said the cook, with a knowing smile. “’E’s
busting with modesty, is George. You should ha’ seen ’im when a chap
took ’is fortygraph.”
“Took his what?” said the skipper, becoming Interested.
“His fortygraph,” said the cook. “’E was a young chap what was taking
views for a noose-paper. ’E took George drippin’ wet just as ’e come
out of the water, ’e took him arter ’e ’ad ’is face wiped, an’ ’e took
’im when ’e was sitting up swearing at a man wot asked ’im whether ’e
was very wet.”
“An’ you told ’im where I lived, and what I was,” said George, turning
on him and shaking his fist. “You did.”
“I did,” said the cook simply. “You’ll live to thank me for it,
George.”
The other gave a dreadful howl, and rising from the deck, walked
forward and went below, giving a brother seaman who patted his shoulder
as he passed a blow in the ribs, which nearly broke them. Those on deck
exchanged glances.
“Well, I don’t know,” said the mate, shrugging his shoulders; “seems to
me if I’d saved a fellow-critter’s life I shouldn’t mind hearing about
it.”
“That’s what you think,” said the skipper, drawing himself up a little.
“If ever you do do anything of the kind perhaps you’ll feel different
about it.”
“Well, I don’t see how you should know any more than me,” said the
other.
The skipper cleared his throat.
“There have been one or two little things in my life which I’m not
exactly ashamed of,” he said modestly.
“That ain’t much to boast of,” said the mate, wilfully misunderstanding
him.
“I mean,” said the skipper sharply, “one or two things which some
people might have been proud of. But I’m proud to say that there isn’t
a living soul knows of ’em.”
“I can quite believe that,” assented the mate, and walked off with an
irritating smile.
The skipper was about to follow him, to complain of the needless
ambiguity of his remarks, when he was arrested by a disturbance from
the fo’c’sle. In response to the cordial invitation of the cook, the
mate and one of the hands from the brig _Endeavour_, moored alongside,
had come aboard and gone below to look at George. The manner in which
they were received was a slur upon the hospitality of the _John Henry_;
and they came up hurriedly, declaring that they never wanted to see him
again as long as they lived, and shouting offensive remarks behind them
as they got over the side of their own vessel.
The skipper walked slowly to the fo’c’sle and put his head down.
“George,” he shouted.
“Sir,” said the hero gruffly.
“Come down into the cabin,” said the other, turning away. “I want to
have a little talk with you.”
George rose, and, first uttering some terrible threats against the
cook, who bore them with noble fortitude, went on deck and followed the
skipper to the cabin.
At his superior’s request he took a seat on the locker, awkwardly
enough, but smiled faintly as the skipper produced a bottle and a
couple of glasses.
“Your health, George,” said the skipper, as he pushed a glass towards
him and raised his own.
“My bes’ respec’s, sir,” said George, allowing the liquor to roll
slowly round his mouth before swallowing it. He sighed heavily, and,
putting his empty glass on the table, allowed his huge head to roll on
his chest.
“Saving life don’t seem to agree with you, George,” said the skipper.
“I like modesty, but you seem to me to carry it a trifle too far.”
“It ain’t modesty, sir,” said George; “it’s that fortygraph. When I
think o’ that I go ’ot all over.”
“I shouldn’t let that worry me if I was you, George,” said the other
kindly. “Looks ain’t everything.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said George very sourly. “My looks is good
enough for me. In fact, it is a partly owing to my looks, so to speak,
that I’m in a mess.”
“A little more rum, George?” said the skipper, whose curiosity was
roused. “I don’t want to know your business, far from it. But in my
position as cap’n, if any of my crew gets in a mess I consider it’s my
duty to lend them a hand out of it, if I can.”
“The world ’ud be a better place if there was more like you,” said
George, waxing sentimental as he sniffed delicately at the fragrant
beverage. “If that noosepaper, with them pictures, gets into a certain
party’s ’ands, I’m ruined.”
“Not if I can help it, George,” said the skipper with great firmness.
“How do you mean ruined?”
The seaman set his glass down on the little table, and, leaning over,
formed a word with his lips, and then drew back slowly and watched the
effect.
“What?” said the skipper.
The other repeated the performance, but beyond seeing that some word of
three syllables was indicated the skipper obtained no information.
“You can speak a little louder,” he said, somewhat crustily.
“Bigamy!” said George, breathing the word solemnly.
“You?” said the skipper.
George nodded. “And if my first only gets hold of that paper, and sees
my phiz and reads my name, I’m done for. There’s my reward for saving a
fellow-critter’s life. Seven years.”
“I’m surprised at you, George,” said the skipper sternly. “Such a good
wife as you’ve got too.”
“I ain’t saying nothing agin number two,” grumbled George. “It’s number
one that didn’t suit, I left her eight years ago. She was a bad ’un I
took a v’y’ge to Australia furst, just to put her out o’ my mind a bit,
an’ I never seed her since. Where am I if she sees all about me in the
paper!”
“Is she what you’d call a vindictive woman?” inquired the other.
“Nasty-tempered, I mean.”
“Nasty-tempered,” echoed the husband of two. “If that woman could only
have me put in jail she’d stand on ’er ’ead for joy.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can for you if the worst comes to the worst,”
said the skipper. “You’d better not say anything about this to anybody
else.”
“Not me,” said George fervently, as he rose, “an’ o’ course you———”
“You can rely on me,” said the skipper in his most stately fashion.
He thought of the seaman’s confidence several times during the evening,
and, being somewhat uncertain of the law as to bigamy, sought
information from the master of the _Endeavour_ as they sat in the
latter’s cabin at a quiet game of cribbage. By virtue of several
appearances in the law courts with regard to collisions and spoilt
cargoes this gentleman had obtained a knowledge of law which made him a
recognized authority from London Bridge to the Nore.
It was a delicate matter for the master of the _John Henry_ to broach,
and, with the laudable desire of keeping the hero’s secret, he
approached it by a most circuitous route. He began with a burglary,
followed with an attempted murder, and finally got on the subject of
bigamy, _via_ the “Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill.”
“What sort o’ bigamy?” inquired the master of the brig.
“Oh, two wives,” said Captain Thomsett.
“Yes, yes,” said the other, “but are there any mitigating circumstances
in the case, so that you could throw yourself on the mercy o’ the
court, I mean?”
“_My_ case!” said Thomsett, glaring. “It ain’t for me.”
“Oh, no, o’ course not,” said Captain Stubbs.
“What do you mean by ‘o’ course not’?” demanded the indignant master of
the _John Henry_.
“Your deal,” said Captain Stubbs, pushing the cards over to him.
“You haven’t answered my question,” said Captain Thomsett, regarding
him offensively.
“There’s some questions,” said Stubbs slowly, “as is best left
unanswered. When you’ve seen as much law as I have, my lad, you’ll know
that one of the first principles of English law is, that nobody is
bound to commit themselves.”
“Do you mean to say you think it _is_ me?” bellowed Captain Thomsett.
“I mean to say nothing,” said Captain Stubbs, putting his huge hands on
the table. “But when a man comes into my cabin and begins to hum an’
haw an’ hint at things, and then begins to ask my advice about bigamy,
I can’t help thinking. This is a free country, and there’s no law ag’in
thinking. Make a clean breast of it, cap’n, an I’ll do what I can for
you.”
“You’re a blanked fool,” said Captain Thomsett wrathfully.
Captain Stubbs shook his head gently, and smiled with infinite
patience. “P’r’aps so,” he said modestly. “P’r’aps so; but there’s one
thing I can do, and that is, I can read people.”
“You can read me, I s’pose?” said Thomsett sneeringly.
“Easy, my lad,” said the other, still preserving, though by an obvious
effort, his appearance of judicial calm. “I’ve seen your sort before.
One in pertikler I call to mind. He’s doing fourteen years now, pore
chap. But you needn’t be alarmed, cap’n. Your secret is safe enough
with me.”
Captain Thomsett got up and pranced up and down the cabin, but Captain
Stubbs remained calm. He had seen _that_ sort before. It was
interesting to the student of human nature, and he regarded his visitor
with an air of compassionate interest. Then Captain Thomsett resumed
his seat, and, to preserve his own fair fame, betrayed that of George.
“I knew it was either you, or somebody your kind ’art was interested
in,” said the discomfited Stubbs, as they resumed the interrupted game.
“You can’t help your face, cap’n. When you was thinking about that pore
chap’s danger it was working with emotion. It misled me, I own it, but
it ain’t often I meet such a feeling ’art as yours.”
Captain Thomsett, his eyes glowing affectionately, gripped his friend’s
hand, and in the course of the game listened to an exposition of the
law relating to bigamy of a most masterly and complicated nature,
seasoned with anecdotes calculated to make the hardiest of men pause on
the brink of matrimony and think seriously of their position.
“Suppose this woman comes aboard after pore George,” said Thomsett.
“What’s the best thing to be done?”
“The first thing,” said Captain Stubbs, “is to gain time. Put her off.”
“Off the ship, d’ye mean?” inquired the other.
“No, no,” said the jurist. “Pretend he’s ill and can’t see anybody. By
gum, I’ve got it.”
He slapped the table with his open hand, and regarded the other
triumphantly.
“Let him turn into his bunk and pretend to be dead,” he continued, in a
voice trembling with pride at his strategy. “It’s pretty dark down your
fo’c’sle, I know. Don’t have no light down there, and tell him to keep
quiet.”
Captain Thomsett’s eyes shone, but with a qualified admiration.
“Ain’t it somewhat sudden?” he demurred.
Captain Stubbs regarded him with a look of supreme artfulness, and
slowly closed one eye.
“He got a chill going in the water,” he said quietly.
“Well, you’re a masterpiece,” said Thomsett ungrudgingly. “I will say
this of you, you’re a masterpiece. Mind this is all to be kept quite
secret.”
“Make your mind easy,” said the eminent jurist.
“If I told all I know there’s a good many men in this river as ’ud be
doing time at the present moment.”
Captain Thomsett expressed his pleasure at this information, and,
having tried in vain to obtain a few of their names, even going so far
as to suggest some, looked at the clock, and, shaking hands, departed
to his own ship. Captain Stubbs, left to himself, finished his pipe and
retired to rest; and his mate, who had been lying in the adjoining bunk
during the consultation, vainly trying to get to sleep, scratched his
head, and tried to think of a little strategy himself. He had
glimmerings of it before he fell asleep, but when he awoke next morning
it flashed before him in all the fulness of its matured beauty.
He went on deck smiling, and, leaning his arms on the side, gazed
contemplatively at George, who was sitting on the deck listening darkly
to the cook as that worthy read aloud from a newspaper.
“Anything interesting, cook?” demanded the mate.
“About George, sir,” said the cook, stopping in his reading. “There’s
pictures of ’im too.”
He crossed to the side, and, handing the paper to the mate, listened
smilingly to the little ejaculations of surprise and delight of that
deceitful man as he gazed upon the likenesses. “Wonderful,” he said
emphatically. “Wonderful. I never saw such a good likeness in my life,
George. That’ll be copied in every newspaper in London, and here’s the
name in full too—‘George Cooper, schooner _John Henry_, now lying off
Limehouse.’”
He handed the paper back to the cook and turned away grinning as
George, unable to control himself any longer, got up with an oath and
went below to nurse his wrath in silence. A little later the mate of
the brig, after a very confidential chat with his own crew, lit his
pipe and, with a jaunty air, went ashore.
For the next hour or two George alternated between the fo’c’sle and the
deck, from whence he cast harassed glances at the busy wharves ashore.
The skipper, giving it as his own suggestion, acquainted him with the
arrangements made in case of the worst, and George, though he seemed
somewhat dubious about them, went below and put his bed in order.
“It’s very unlikely she’ll see that particular newspaper though,” said
the skipper encouragingly.
“People are sure to see what you don’t want ’em too,” growled George.
“Somebody what knows us is sure to see it, an’ show ’er.”
“There’s a lady stepping into a waterman’s skiff now,” said the
skipper, glancing at the stairs. “That wouldn’t be her, I s’pose?”
He turned to the seaman as he spoke but the words had hardly left his
lips before George was going below and undressing for his part.
“If anybody asks for me,” he said, turning to the cook, who was
regarding his feverish movements in much astonishment, “I’m dead.”
“You’re wot?” inquired the other.
“Dead,” said George, “Dead. Died at ten o’clock this morning. D’ye
understand, fathead?”
“I can’t say as ’ow I do,” said the cook, somewhat acrimoniously.
“Pass the word round that I’m dead,” repeated George hurriedly. “Lay me
out, cookie. I’ll do so much for you one day.”
Instead of complying the horrified cook rushed up on deck to tell the
skipper that George’s brain had gone; but, finding him in the midst of
a hurried explanation to the men, stopped with greedy ears to listen.
The skiff was making straight for the schooner, propelled by an elderly
waterman in his shirt-sleeves, the sole passenger being a lady of ample
proportions, who was watching the life of the river through a black
veil.
In another minute the skiff bumped alongside, and the waterman standing
in the boat passed the painter aboard. The skipper gazed at the fare
and, shivering inwardly, hoped that George was a good actor.
“I want to see Mr. Cooper,” said the lady grimly, as she clambered
aboard, assisted by the waterman.
“I’m very sorry, but you can’t see him, mum,” said the skipper
politely.
“Ho! carn’t I,” said the lady, raising her voice a little. “You go an’
tell him that his lawful wedded wife, what he deserted, is aboard.”
“It ’ud be no good, mum,” said the skipper, who felt the full dramatic
force of the situation, “I’m afraid he wouldn’t listen to you.”
“Ho! I think I can persuade ’im a bit,” said the lady, drawing in her
lips. “Where is ’e?”
“Up aloft,” said the skipper, removing his hat.
“Don’t you give me none of your lies,” said the lady, as she scanned
both masts closely.
“He’s dead,” said the skipper solemnly.
His visitor threw up her arms and staggered back. The cook was nearest,
and, throwing his arms round her waist, he caught her as she swayed.
The mate, who was of a sympathetic nature, rushed below for whisky, as
she sank back in the hatchway, taking the reluctant cook with her.
“Poor thing!” said the skipper.
“Don’t ’old ’er so tight, cook,” said one of the men. “There’s no
necessity to squeeze ’er.”
“Pat ’er ’ands,” said another.
“Pat ’em yourself,” said the cook brusquely, as he looked up and saw
the delight of the crew of the _Endeavour_, who were leaning over their
vessel’s side regarding the proceedings with much interest.
“Don’t leave go of me,” said the newly-made widow, as she swallowed the
whisky, and rose to her feet.
“Stand by her, cook,” said the skipper authoritatively.
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the cook.
They formed a procession below, the skipper and mate leading; the cook
with his fair burden, choking her sobs with a handkerchief, and the
crew following.
“What did he die of?” she asked in a whisper broken with sobs.
“Chill from the water,” whispered the skipper in response.
“I can’t see ’im,” she whispered. “It’s so dark here. Has anybody got a
match? Oh! here’s some.”
Before anybody could interfere she took a box from a locker, and,
striking one, bent over the motionless George, and gazed at his
tightly-closed eyes and open mouth in silence.
“You’ll set the bed alight,” said the mate in a low voice, as the end
of the match dropped off.
“It won’t hurt ’im,” whispered the widow tearfully.
The mate, who had distinctly seen the corpse shift a bit, thought
differently.
“Nothing ’ll ’urt ’im _now_,” whispered the widow, sniffing as she
struck another match. “Oh! if he could only sit up and speak to me.”
For a moment the mate, who knew George’s temper, thought it highly
probable that he would, as the top of the second match fell between his
shirt and his neck.
“Don’t look any more,” said the skipper anxiously; “you can’t do him
any good.”
His visitor handed him the matches, and, for a short time, sobbed in
silence.
“We’ve done all we could for him,” said the skipper at length. “It ’ud
be best for you to go home and lay down a bit.”
“You’re all very good, I’m sure,” whispered the widow, turning away.
“I’ll send for him this evening.”
They all started, especially the corpse.
“Eh,” said the skipper.
“He was a bad ’usband to me,” she continued, still in the same sobbing
whisper, “but I’ll ’ave ’im put away decent.”
“You’d better let us bury him,” said the skipper. “We can do it cheaper
than you can, perhaps?”
“No. I’ll send for him this evening,” said the lady. “Are they ’is
clothes?”
“The last he ever wore,” said the skipper pathetically, pointing to the
heap of clothing. “There’s his chest, poor chap, just as he left it.”
The bereaved widow bent down, and, raising the lid, shook her head
tearfully as she regarded the contents. Then she gathered up the
clothes under her left arm, and, still sobbing, took his watch, his
knife, and some small change from his chest while the crew in dumb show
inquired of the deceased, who was regarding her over the edge of the
bunk, what was to be done.
“I suppose there was some money due to him?” she inquired, turning to
the skipper.
“Matter of a few shillings,” he stammered.
“I’ll take them,” she said, holding out her hand.
The skipper put his hand in his pocket, and, in his turn, looked
inquiringly at the late lamented for guidance; but George had closed
his eyes again to the world, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he
slowly counted the money into her hand.
She dropped the coins into her pocket, and, with a parting glance at
the motionless figure in the bunk, turned away. The procession made its
way on deck again, but not in the same order, the cook carefully
bringing up the rear.
“If there’s any other little things,” she said, pausing at the side to
get a firmer grip of the clothes under her arm.
“You shall have them,” said the skipper, who had been making mental
arrangements to have George buried before her return.
Apparently much comforted by this assurance, she allowed herself to be
lowered into the boat, which was waiting. The excitement of the crew of
the brig, who had been watching her movements with eager interest, got
beyond the bounds of all decency as they saw her being pulled ashore
with the clothes in her lap.
“You can come up now,” said the skipper, as he caught sight of George’s
face at the scuttle.
“Has she gone?” inquired the seaman anxiously.
The skipper nodded, and a wild cheer rose from the crew of the brig as
George came on deck in his scanty garments, and, from behind the
others, peered cautiously over the side.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
The skipper pointed to the boat.
“That?” said George, starting. “That? That ain’t my wife.”
“Not your wife?” said the skipper, staring. “Whose is she, then?”
“How the devil should I know,” said George, throwing discipline to the
winds in his agitation. “It ain’t my wife.”
“P’r’aps it’s one you’ve forgotten,” suggested the skipper in a low
voice.
George looked at him and choked. “I’ve never seen her before,” he
replied, “s’elp me. Call her back. Stop her.”
The mate rushed aft and began to haul in the ship’s boat, but George
caught him suddenly by the arm.
“Never mind,” he said bitterly; “better let her go. She seems to know
too much for me. _Somebody’s_ been talking to her.”
It was the same thought that was troubling the skipper, and he looked
searchingly from one to the other for an explanation. He fancied that
he saw it when he met the eye of the mate of the brig, and he paused
irresolutely as the skiff reached the stairs, and the woman, springing
ashore, waved the clothes triumphantly in the direction of the schooner
and disappeared.