"A man what finds fault an' criticises everybody above him is always a
failure, Mr. Rolling," he went on. "Yes, sir, the faultfinder is always a
failure. An' the reason so many sailors find fault all the time is
because they is failures. I am tryin' not to find fault with the skipper,
but to pint out that we're in for some rough times if things don't change
aboard in the sailorin' line afore we gets to the west'ard o' the
Agullas. Sink me, if that ain't so, for here we is without half the sails
bent an' no new braces, nothin' but two-year-old manila stuff what's wore
clean through. Them topsails look good enough, but they is as rotten with
the lime in them as if they was burned. No, sir, I ain't makin' no
criticism, but I burns within when I think of the trouble a few dollars
would save. Yes, sir, I burns within."
Mr. Trunnell here spat profusely to leeward and walked athwartships for
some moments without further remark. The third mate came on deck and
stood near the lee mizzen rigging, looking forward at the foam swirling
from the bends and drifting aft alongside at a rapid rate. The
phosphorus shone brilliantly in the water, and the wake of the ship was
like a path of molten metal, for the night was quite dark and the heavy
banks of clouds which had been making steadily to the westward
over-spread the sky. It was nearly time for the southwest monsoon to
shift, and with this change would likely follow a spell o' weather, as
Trunnell chose to put it. The third mate had never given an order since
he had come aboard, and I noticed Trunnell's sly wink as he glanced in
the direction of the mizzen.
"Mr. Rolling," said he, "wimmen have been my ruin. Yes, sir, wimmen have
been my ruin, an' I'm that scared o' them I can raise them afore their
topmast is above the horizon. Sink me, if that ain't one." And he leered
at the figure of the third mate, whom we knew as Mr. Bell.
"What would a woman be doing here as third mate?" I asked; for although I
had come to the same conclusion some days before, I had said nothing to
any one about it.
"That's the old man's affair," said Trunnell; "it may be his wife, or it
may be his daughter, but any one can see that the fellow's pants are
entirely too big in the heft for a man. An' his voice! Sink me, Rolling,
but you never hearn tell of a man or boy pipin' so soft like. Why, it
skeers me to listen to it. It's just like--but no matter."
"Like what?" I suggested gently, hoping much.
But it was of no use. Trunnell looked at me queerly for a moment as if
undecided to give me his confidence. Then he resumed his walk athwart the
deck, and I went forward to the break of the poop and took a look at the
head sails.
The night was growing darker, and the breeze was dying slowly, and I
wondered why the skipper had not come on deck to take a look around. He
was usually on hand during the earlier hours of evening.
I reached the side of the third officer, and stood silently gazing at the
canvas which shone dimly through the gathering gloom. As we had always
been separated on account of being in different watches, I had never
addressed the third mate before save in a general way when reporting the
ship's duties aft.
"Pretty dark night, hey?" I ventured.
The third officer looked hard at me for the space of a minute, during
which time his face underwent many changes of expression. Then he
answered in a smooth, even tone.
"Sorter," said he.
This was hardly what I expected, so I ventured again.
"Looks as if we might have a spell o' weather, hey? The wind's falling
all the time, and if it keeps on, we'll have a calm night without a
draught of air."
"What do you mean by a ca'm night without a draft of air?" asked the
young fellow, in a superior tone, while at the same time I detected a
smile lurking about the corners of his eyes.
If there's one thing I hate to see in a young fellow, it is the
desire to make fun of a superior's conversation. Being an American
sailor, I had little use for _r_'s in every word which held an _a_
but I had no objection to any one else talking the way they wished. I
was somewhat doubtful just how to sit upon this nebulous third mate,
so I began easily.
"Do you know," said I, "there are a great many young fellows going out in
ships as officers when they could be of much more benefit to people
generally if they stayed home and helped their mothers to 'bark cark,' or
do other little things around the nursery or kitchen."
As I finished I thought I heard some one swear fiercely in a low tone. I
looked over the poop rail down to the main deck beneath, but saw no one
near. The third officer seemed to be lost in thought for a moment.
"It isn't good to be too clever," said he, in the tone which was
unmistakably a woman's. "When a person is good at baking cake, or
'barking cark,' as you choose to call it, the sea is a good place for
them. They can look out for those who haven't sense enough to perform the
function."
I had a strong notion to ask him outright if he was fitted to perform the
function, but his superior air and the feeling that I might make a
mistake after all and incur the displeasure of the beak-nosed skipper
deterred me. But I was almost certain that our third mate was a woman.
We remained standing together in the night for a few moments while
neither spoke. My advances had not received the favorable acknowledgment
I had expected, and there was a distinctly disagreeable feeling creeping
upon me while in this neutral presence. I was young and hot-headed, so I
spoke accordingly before leaving the field, or rather deck, in retreat.
"I wish you had the distinction of belonging to the port watch."
"Why?"
"I think I might strengthen your powers of discernment regarding the
relative positions of second and third mates."
"We'll see who has the better insight in regard to the matter without my
being bored to that extent," said the third officer in his softest tones,
and again I fancied I heard the voice of a man swearing fiercely in a low
voice as if to himself. Then I turned and went aft.
"It's something queer," said Trunnell, shaking his great shaggy head and
glancing toward the break of the poop. A step sounded on the companion
ladder, and the skipper came on deck.
"Pretty dark, hey?" he said, and his quick eyes took in both Trunnell and
myself comprehensively.
"Looks like we might have a spell o' weather if the wind keeps fallin',"
observed Trunnell.
"Well, I don't suppose a dark night is any worse than a bright one, and I
call to mind many a time I'd give something to see it a bit blacker. Do
you know where you're at?"
"She's headin' about the same, but if ye don't mind, I'll be gettin' her
down gradual like to her torps'ls if the glass keeps a-fallin'. Short
commons, says I, on the edge o' the monsoon."
"Short it is, my boy. Get her down low. The more she looks like you, the
better she'll do, hey? What d'you think of that, Mr. Rolling? The shorter
the longer, the longer the shorter--see? The sooner the quicker, eh?
Supposen the question was asked you, Mr. Rolling, what'd you say, hey?
Why is Mr. Trunnell like a lady's bouquet, hey? Why is the little man
like a bunch of flowers? Don't insult him, Mr. Rolling. The sanitary
outfit of the cabin is all right. 'Tain't that. No, split me, it ain't
that. Think a minute."
Trunnell walked to and fro without a word, while the captain grinned. The
fellow at the wheel, Bill Spielgen, a square-cut man with an angular face
and enormous hands, stared sullenly into the binnacle.
"It's because he's a daisy," rapped out the skipper. "That's it, Mr.
Rolling, he's a daisy, ha, ha, ha! Split me, if he ain't, ho, ho, ho!
Shorten her down, Trunnell; you're a daisy, and no mistake."
There was a distinct smell of liquor in the light breeze, and as the
skipper came within the glare of the binnacle lamp I could see he was
well set up. Trunnell went to the break of the poop and called out for
the watch to clew down the fore and mizzen skysails. He was much upset at
the skipper's talk, but knew better than to show it. The captain now
turned his attention to the man at the wheel.
"How d'you head, Bill?" said he.
"West b' no'the," said Bill.
The skipper came to the wheel and stuck his lean face close to the
quartermaster's. His glinting eyes grew to two little points and his
hooked nose wrinkled on the sides as he showed his teeth while he drawled
in a snarling tone:--
"D'you set up for a wit, Bill, that you joke with your captain, hey? Is
that it, you square-toed, lantern-jawed swab? Would you like me to rip
you up the back, or lam some of the dirt out of your hide, hey? Is that
it? Don't make jokes at your captain, Bill. It's bad business."