PART I_"Where Angels Fear to Tread" and Other Stories of the Sea

E-text prepared by Paul Hollander, David Clarke, and the Project Gutenberg

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Transcriber's note:

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.

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retained.

"WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD"

AND OTHER TALES OF THE SEA

MORGAN ROBERTSON

Published by The Century Co.

New York M DCCC XC IX

The Century Co.

TO ITS GODFATHER

JOHN S. PHILLIPS

THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY

DEDICATED

"'Where Angels Fear to Tread'" was first published in the "Atlantic

Monthly"; "Salvage" in the "Century Magazine"; "The Brain of the

Battle-Ship," "The Wigwag Message," "Between the Millstones," and

"The Battle of the Monsters," in the "Saturday Evening Post"; "The

Trade-Wind" in "Collier's Weekly"; "From the Royal-Yard Down" in

"Ainslee's Magazine"; "Needs Must when the Devil Drives" and "When

Greek Meets Greek" in McClure's Syndicate; and "Primordial" in

"Harper's Monthly Magazine."

To the publishers of these periodicals I am indebted for the privilege

of republishing the stories in book form.

MORGAN ROBERTSON.

CONTENTS

PAGE

"WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD" 1

THE BRAIN OF THE BATTLE-SHIP 57

THE WIGWAG MESSAGE 88

THE TRADE-WIND 111

SALVAGE 137

BETWEEN THE MILLSTONES 170

THE BATTLE OF THE MONSTERS 193

FROM THE ROYAL-YARD DOWN 213

NEEDS MUST WHEN THE DEVIL DRIVES 233

WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK 259

PRIMORDIAL 272

"WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD"

"I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of each; and I

believe they both get paid in the end, but the fools first."

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

PART I

The first man to climb the _Almena's_ side-ladder from the tug was the

shipping-master, and after him came the crew he had shipped. They

clustered at the rail, looking around and aloft with muttered profane

comments, one to the other, while the shipping-master approached a

gray-eyed giant who stood with a shorter but broader man at the

poop-deck steps.

"Mr. Jackson--the mate here, I s'pose?" inquired the shipping-master. A

nod answered him. "I've brought you a good crew," he continued; "we'll

just tally 'em off, and then you can sign my receipt. The captain'll be

down with the pilot this afternoon."

"I'm the mate--yes," said the giant; "but what dry-goods store did you

raid for that crowd? Did the captain pick 'em out?"

"A delegation o' parsons," muttered the short, broad man,

contemptuously.

"No, they're not parsons," said the shipping-master, as he turned to

the man, the slightest trace of a smile on his seamy face. "You're Mr.

Becker, the second mate, I take it; you'll find 'em all right, sir.

They're sailors, and good ones, too. No, Mr. Jackson, the skipper

didn't pick 'em--just asked me for sixteen good men, and there you are.

Muster up to the capstan here, boys," he called, "and be counted."

As they grouped themselves amidships with their clothes-bags, the

shipping-master beckoned the chief mate over to the rail.

"You see, Mr. Jackson," he said, with a backward glance at the men,

"I've only played the regular dodge on 'em. They've all got the

sailor's bug in their heads and want to go coasting; so I told 'em this

was a coaster."

"So she is," answered the officer; "round the Horn to Callao is

coasting. What more do they want?"

"Yes, but I said nothin' of Callao, and they were all three sheets i'

the wind when they signed, so they didn't notice the articles. They

expected a schooner, too, big enough for sixteen men; but I've just

talked 'em out of that notion. They think, too, that they'll have a

week in port to see if they like the craft; and to make 'em think it

was easy to quit, I told 'em to sign nicknames--made 'em believe that a

wrong name on the articles voided the contract."

"But it don't. They're here, and they'll stay--that is, if they know

enough to man the windlass."

"Of course--of course. I'm just givin' you a pointer. You may have to

run them a little at the start, but that's easy. Now we'll tally 'em

off. Don't mind the names; they'll answer to 'em. You see, they're all

townies, and bring their names from home."

The shipping-master drew a large paper from his pocket, and they

approached the men at the capstan, where the short, broad second mate

had been taking their individual measures with scowling eye.

It was a strange crew for the forecastle of an outward-bound,

deep-water American ship. Mr. Jackson looked in vain for the heavy,

foreign faces, the greasy canvas jackets and blanket trousers he was

accustomed to see. Not that these men seemed to be landsmen--each

carried in his face and bearing the indefinable something by which

sailors of all races may distinguish each other at a glance from

fishermen, tugmen, and deck-hands. They were all young men, and their

intelligent faces--blemished more or less with marks of overnight

dissipation--were as sunburnt as were those of the two mates; and where

a hand could be seen, it showed as brown and tarry as that of the

ablest able seaman. There were no chests among them, but the canvas

clothes-bags were the genuine article, and they shouldered and handled

them as only sailors can. Yet, aside from these externals, they gave no

sign of being anything but well-paid, well-fed, self-respecting

citizens, who would read the papers, discuss politics, raise families,

and drink more than is good on pay-nights, to repent at church in the

morning. The hands among them that were hidden were covered with

well-fitting gloves--kid or dog-skin; all wore white shirts and

fashionable neckwear; their shoes were polished; their hats were in

style; and here and there, where an unbuttoned, silk-faced overcoat

exposed the garments beneath, could be seen a gold watch-chain with

tasteful charm.

"Now, boys," said the shipping-master, cheerily, as he unfolded the

articles on the capstan-head, "answer, and step over to starboard as I

read your names. Ready? Tosser Galvin."

"Here." A man carried his bag across the deck a short distance.

"Bigpig Monahan." Another--as large a man as the mate--answered and

followed.

"Moccasey Gill."

"Good God!" muttered the mate, as this man responded.

"Sinful Peck." An undersized man, with a cultivated blond mustache,

lifted his hat politely to Mr. Jackson, disclosing a smooth, bald head,

and passed over, smiling sweetly. Whatever his character, his name

belied his appearance; for his face was cherubic in its innocence.

"Say," interrupted the mate, angrily, "what kind of a game is this,

anyhow? Are these men sailors?"

"Yes, yes," answered the shipping-master, hurriedly; "you'll find 'em

all right. And, Sinful," he added, as he frowned reprovingly at the

last man named, "don't you get gay till my receipt's signed and I'm

clear of you."

Mr. Jackson wondered, but subsided; and, each name bringing forth a

response, the reader called off: "Seldom Helward, Shiner O'Toole,

Senator Sands, Jump Black, Yampaw Gallagher, Sorry Welch, Yorker

Jimson, General Lannigan, Turkey Twain, Gunner Meagher, Ghost O'Brien,

and Poop-deck Cahill."

Then the astounded Mr. Jackson broke forth profanely. "I've been

shipmates," he declared between oaths, "with freak names of all

nations; but this gang beats me. Say, you," he called,--"you with the

cro'-jack eye there,--what's that name you go by? Who are you?" He

spoke to the large man who had answered to "Bigpig Monahan," and who

suffered from a slight distortion of one eye; but the man, instead of

civilly repeating his name, answered curtly and coolly:

"I'm the man that struck Billy Patterson."

Fully realizing that the mate who hesitates is lost, and earnestly

resolved to rebuke this man as his insolence required, Mr. Jackson had

secured a belaying-pin and almost reached him, when he found himself

looking into the bore of a pistol held by the shipping-master.

"Now, stop this," said the latter, firmly; "stop it right here, Mr.

Jackson. These men are under my care till you've signed my receipt.

After that you can do as you like; but if you touch one of them before

you sign, I'll have you up 'fore the commissioner. And you fellers," he

said over his shoulder, "you keep still and be civil till I'm rid of

you. I've used you well, got your berths, and charged you nothin'. All

I wanted was to get Cappen Benson the right kind of a crew."

"Let's see that receipt," snarled the mate. "Put that gun up, too, or

I'll show you one of my own. I'll tend to your good men when you get

ashore." He glared at the quiescent Bigpig, and followed the

shipping-master--who still held his pistol ready, however--over to the

rail, where the receipt was produced and signed.

"Away you go, now," said the mate; "you and your gun. Get over the

side."

The shipping-master did not answer until he had scrambled down to the

waiting tug and around to the far side of her deck-house. There, ready

to dodge, he looked up at the mate with a triumphant grin on his shrewd

face, and called:

"Say, Mr. Jackson, 'member the old bark _Fair Wind_ ten years ago,

and the ordinary seaman you triced up and skinned alive with a

deck-scraper? D' you 'member, curse you? 'Member breakin' the same

boy's arm with a heaver? You do, don't you? I'm him. 'Member me sayin'

I'd get square?"

He stepped back to avoid the whirling belaying-pin sent by the mate,

which, rebounding, only smashed a window in the pilot-house. Then, amid

an exchange of blasphemous disapproval between Mr. Jackson and the tug

captain, and derisive jeers from the shipping-master,--who also averred

that Mr. Jackson ought to be shot, but was not worth hanging for,--the

tug gathered in her lines and steamed away.

Wrathful of soul, Mr. Jackson turned to the men on the deck. They had

changed their position; they were now close to the fife-rail at the

mainmast, surrounding Bigpig Monahan (for by their names we must know

them), who, with an injured expression of face, was shedding outer

garments and voicing his opinion of Mr. Jackson, which the others

answered by nods and encouraging words. He had dropped a pair of

starched cuffs over a belaying-pin, and was rolling up his

shirt-sleeve, showing an arm as large as a small man's leg, and the

mate was just about to interrupt the discourse, when the second mate

called his name. Turning, he beheld him beckoning violently from the

cabin companionway, and joined him.

"Got your gun, Mr. Jackson?" asked the second officer, anxiously, as he

drew him within the door. "I started for mine when the shippin'-master

pulled. I can't make that crowd out; but they're lookin' for fight,

that's plain. When you were at the rail they were sayin': 'Soak him,

Bigpig.' 'Paste him, Bigpig.' 'Put a head on him.' They might be a lot

o' prize-fighters."

Mr. Becker was not afraid; his position and duties forbade it. He was

simply human, and confronted with a new problem.

"Don't care a rap what they are," answered the mate, who was sufficiently

warmed up to welcome any problem. "They'll get fight enough. We'll

overhaul their dunnage first for whisky and knives, then turn them to.

Come on--I'm heeled."

They stepped out and advanced to the capstan amidships, each with a

hand in his trousers pocket.

"Pile those bags against the capstan here, and go forrard," ordered the

mate, in his most officer-like tone.

"Go to the devil," they answered. "What for?--they're our bags, not

yours. Who in Sam Hill are you, anyhow? What are you? You talk like a

p'liceman."

Before this irreverence could be replied to Bigpig Monahan advanced.

"Look here, old horse," he said; "I don't know whether you're captain

or mate, or owner or cook; and I don't care, either. You had somethin'

to say 'bout my eyes just now. Nature made my eyes, and I can't help

how they look; but I don't allow any big bull-heads to make remarks

'bout 'em. You're spoilin' for somethin'. Put up your hands." He threw

himself into an aggressive attitude, one mighty fist within six inches

of Mr. Jackson's face.

"Go forrard," roared the officer, his gray eyes sparkling; "forrard,

all o' you!"

"We'll settle this; then we'll go forrard. There'll be fair play; these

men'll see to that. You'll only have me to handle. Put up."

Mr. Jackson did not "put up." He repeated again his order to go

forward, and was struck on the nose--not a hard blow; just a

preliminary tap, which started blood. He immediately drew his pistol

and shot the man, who fell with a groan.

An expression of shock and horror over-spread every face among the

crew, and they surged back, away from that murderous pistol. A

momentary hesitance followed, then horror gave way to furious rage, and

carnage began. Coats and vests were flung off, belaying-pins and

capstan-bars seized; inarticulate, half-uttered imprecations punctuated

by pistol reports drowned the storm of abuse with which the mates

justified the shot, and two distinct bands of men swayed and zig-zagged

about the deck, the center of each an officer fighting according to his

lights--shooting as he could between blows of fists and clubs. Then the

smoke of battle thinned, and two men with sore heads and bleeding faces

retreated painfully and hurriedly to the cabin, followed by snarling

maledictions and threats.

It was hardly a victory for either side. The pistols were empty and the

fight taken out of the mates for a time; and on the deck lay three

moaning men, while two others clung to the fife-rail, draining blood

from limp, hanging arms. But eleven sound and angry men were left--and

the officers had more ammunition. They entered their rooms, mopped

their faces with wet towels, reloaded the firearms, pocketed the

remaining cartridges, and returned to the deck, the mate carrying a

small ensign.

"We'll run it up to the main, Becker," he said thickly,--for he

suffered,--ignoring in his excitement the etiquette of the

quarter-deck.

"Aye, aye," said the other, equally unmindful of his breeding. "Will we

go for 'em again?" The problem had defined itself to Mr. Becker. These

men would fight, but not shoot.

"No, no," answered the mate; "not unless they go for us and it's

self-defense. They're not sailors--they don't know where they are. We

don't want to get into trouble. Sailors don't act that way. We'll wait

for the captain or the police." Which, interpreted, and plus the slight

shade of anxiety showing in his disfigured face, meant that Mr. Jackson

was confronted with a new phase of the problem: as to how much more

unsafe it might be to shoot down, on the deck of a ship, men who did

not know where they were, than to shoot down sailors who did. So, while

the uninjured men were assisting the wounded five into the forecastle,

the police flag was run up to the main-truck, and the two mates retired

to the poop to wait and watch.

In a few moments the eleven men came aft in a body, empty-handed,

however, and evidently with no present hostile intention: they had

merely come for their clothes. But that dunnage had not been searched;

and in it might be all sorts of dangerous weapons and equally dangerous

whisky, the possession of which could bring an unpleasant solution to

the problem. So Mr. Jackson and Mr. Becker leveled their pistols over

the poop-rail, and the chief mate roared: "Let those things alone--let

'em alone, or we'll drop some more o' you."

The men halted, hesitated, and sullenly returned to the forecastle.

"Guess they've had enough," said Mr. Becker, jubilantly.

"Don't fool yourself. They're not used to blood-letting, that's all. If

it wasn't for my wife and the kids I'd lower the dinghy and jump her;

and it isn't them I'd run from, either. As it is, I've half a mind to

haul down the flag, and let the old man settle it. Steward," he called

to a mild-faced man who had been flitting from galley to cabin,

unmindful of the disturbance, "go forrard and find out how bad those

fellows are hurt. Don't say I sent you, though."

The steward obeyed, and returned with the information that two men had

broken arms, two flesh-wounds in the legs, and one--the big

man--suffered from a ragged hole through the shoulder. All were

stretched out in bedless bunks, unwilling to move. He had been asked

numerous questions by the others--as to where the ship was bound, who

the men were who had shot them, why there was no bedding in the

forecastle, the captain's whereabouts, and the possibility of getting

ashore to swear out warrants. He had also been asked for bandages and

hot water, which he requested permission to supply, as the wounded men

were suffering greatly. This permission was refused, and the

slight--very slight--nautical flavor to the queries, and the hopeful

condition of the stricken ones, decided Mr. Jackson to leave the police

flag at the masthead.

When dinner was served in the cabin, and Mr. Jackson sat down before a

savory roast, leaving Mr. Becker on deck to watch, the steward imparted

the additional information that the men forward expected to eat in the

cabin.

"Hang it!" he mused; "they can't be sailor-men."

Then Mr. Becker reached his head down the skylight, and said: "Raisin'

the devil with the cook, sir--dragged him out o' the galley into the

forecastle."

"Are they coming aft?"

"No, sir."

"All right. Watch out."

The mate went on eating, and the steward hurried forward to learn the

fate of his assistant. He did not return until Mr. Jackson was about to

leave the cabin. Then he came, with a wry face and disgust in his soul,

complaining that he had been seized, hustled into the forecastle, and

compelled, with the Chinese cook, to eat of the salt beef and pea-soup

prepared for the men, which lay untouched by them. In spite of his

aches and trouble of mind, Mr. Jackson was moved to a feeble grin.

"Takes a sailor or a hog to eat it, hey, Steward?" he said.

He relieved Mr. Becker, who ate his dinner hurriedly, as became a good

second mate, and the two resumed their watch on the poop, noticing that

the cook was jabbering Chinese protest in the galley, and that the men

had climbed to the topgallant-forecastle--also watching, and

occasionally waving futile signals to passing tugs or small

sailing-craft. They, too, might have welcomed the police boat.

But, either because the _Almena_ lay too far over on the Jersey flats

for the flag to be noticed, or because harbor police share the

fallibility of their shore brethren in being elsewhere when wanted, no

shiny black steamer with blue-coated guard appeared to investigate the

trouble, and it was well on toward three o'clock before a tug left the

beaten track to the eastward and steamed over to the ship. The officers

took her lines as she came alongside, and two men climbed the

side-ladder--one, a Sandy Hook pilot, who need not be described; the

other, the captain of the ship.

Captain Benson, in manner and appearance, was as superior to the

smooth-shaven and manly-looking Mr. Jackson as the latter was to the

misformed, hairy, and brutal second mate. With his fashionably cut

clothing, steady blue eye, and refined features, he could have been

taken for an easy-going club-man or educated army officer rather than

the master of a working-craft. Yet there was no lack of seamanly

decision in the leap he made from the rail to the deck, or in the tone

of his voice as he demanded:

"What's the police flag up for, Mr. Jackson?"

"Mutiny, sir. They started in to lick me 'fore turning to, and we've

shot five, but none of them fatally."

"Lower that flag--at once."

Mr. Becker obeyed this order, and as the flag fluttered down the

captain received an account of the crew's misdoing from the mate. He

stepped into his cabin, and returning with a double-barreled shot-gun,

leaned it against the booby-hatch, and said quietly: "Call all hands

aft who can come."

Mr. Jackson delivered the order in a roar, and the eleven men forward,

who had been watching the newcomers from the forecastle-deck, straggled

aft and clustered near the capstan, all of them hatless and coatless,

shivering palpably in the keen December air. With no flinching of their

eyes, they stared at Captain Benson and the pilot.

"Now, men," said the captain, "what's this trouble about? What's the

matter?"

"Are you the captain here?" asked a red-haired, Roman-nosed man, as he

stepped out of the group. "There's matter enough. We ship for a run

down to Rio Janeiro and back in a big schooner; and here we're put

aboard a square-rigged craft, that we don't know anything about, bound

for Callao, and 'fore we're here ten minutes we're howled at and shot.

Bigpig Monahan thinks he's goin' to die; he's bleedin'--they're all

bleedin', like stuck pigs. Sorry Welch and Turkey Twain ha' got broken

arms, and Jump Black and Ghost O'Brien got it in the legs and can't

stand up. What kind o' work is this, anyhow?"

"That's perfectly right. You were shot for assaulting my officers. Do

you call yourselves able seamen, and say you know nothing about

square-rigged craft?"

"We're able seamen on the Lakes. We can get along in schooners. That's

what we came down for."

Captain Benson's lips puckered, and he whistled softly. "The Lakes," he

said--"lake sailors. What part of the Lakes?"

"Oswego. We're all union men."

The captain took a turn or two along the deck, then faced them, and

said: "Men, I've been fooled as well as you. I would not have an Oswego

sailor aboard my ship--much less a whole crew of them. You may know

your work up there, but are almost useless here until you learn.

Although I paid five dollars a man for you, I'd put you ashore and ship

a new crew were it not for the fact that five wounded men going out of

this ship requires explanations, which would delay my sailing and incur

expense to my owners. However, I give you the choice--to go to sea, and

learn your work under the mates, or go to jail as mutineers; for to

protect my officers I must prosecute you all."

"S'pose we do neither?"

"You will probably be shot--to the last resisting man--either by us or

the harbor police. You are up against the law."

They looked at each other with varying expressions on their faces; then

one asked: "What about the bunks in the forecastle? There's no

bedding."

"If you failed to bring your own, you will sleep on the bunk-boards

without it."

"And that swill the Chinaman cooked at dinner-time--what about that?"

"You will get the allowance of provisions provided by law--no more. And

you will eat it in the forecastle. Also, if you have neglected to bring

pots, pans, and spoons, you will very likely eat it with your fingers.

This is not a lake vessel, where sailors eat at the cabin table, with

knives and forks. Decide this matter quickly."

The captain began pacing the deck, and the listening pilot stepped

forward, and said kindly: "Take my advice, boys, and go along. You're

in for it if you don't."

They thanked him with their eyes for the sympathy, conferred together

for a few moments, then their spokesman called out: "We'll leave it to

the fellers forrard, captain"; and forward they trooped. In five

minutes they were back, with resolution in their faces.

"We'll go, captain," their leader said. "Bigpig can't be moved 'thout

killin' him, and says if he lives he'll follow your mate to hell but

he'll pay him back; and the others talk the same; and we'll stand by

'em--we'll square up this day's work."

Captain Benson brought his walk to a stop close to the shot-gun. "Very

well, that is your declaration," he said, his voice dropping the

conversational tone he had assumed, and taking on one more in

accordance with his position; "now I will deliver mine. We sail at once

for Callao and back to an American port of discharge. You know your

wages--fourteen dollars a month. I am master of this ship, responsible

to my owners and the law for the lives of all on board. And this

responsibility includes the right to take the life of a mutineer. You

have been such, but I waive the charge considering your ignorance of

salt-water custom and your agreement to start anew. The law defines

your allowance of food, but not your duties or your working- and

sleeping-time. That is left to the discretion of your captain and

officers. Precedent--the decision of the courts--has decided the

privilege of a captain or officer to punish insolence or lack of

respect from a sailor with a blow--of a fist or missile; but,

understand me now, a return of the blow makes that man a mutineer, and

his prompt killing is justified by the law of the land. Is this plain

to you? You are here to answer and obey orders respectfully, adding the

word 'sir' to each response; you are never to go to windward of an

officer, or address him by name without the prefix 'Mr.'; and you are

to work civilly and faithfully, resenting nothing said to you until you

are discharged in an American port at the end of the voyage. A failure

in this will bring you prompt punishment; and resentment of this

punishment on your part will bring--death. Mr. Jackson," he concluded,

turning to his first officer, "overhaul their dunnage, turn them to,

and man the windlass."

A man--the bald-headed Sinful Peck--sprang forward; but his face was

not cherubic now. His blue eyes blazed with emotion much in keeping

with his sobriquet; and, raising his hand, the nervously crooking

fingers of which made it almost a fist, he said, in a voice explosively

strident:

"That's all right. That's _your_ say. You've described the condition o'

nigger slaves, not American voters. And I'll tell you one thing, right

here--I'm a free-born citizen. I know my work, and can do it, without

bein' cursed and abused; and if you or your mates rub my fur the wrong

way I'm goin' to claw back; and if I'm shot, you want to shoot sure;

for if you don't, I'll kill that man, if I have to lash my knife to a

broom-handle, and prod him through his window when he's asleep."

But alas for Sinful Peck! He had barely finished his defiance when he

fell like a log under the impact of the big mate's fist; then, while

the pilot, turning his back on the painful scene, walked aft, nodding

and shaking his head, and the captain's strong language and leveled

shot-gun induced the men to an agitated acquiescence, the two officers

kicked and stamped upon the little man until consciousness left him.

Before he recovered he had been ironed to a stanchion in the

'tween-deck, and entered in the captain's official log for threatening

life. And by this time the dunnage had been searched, a few

sheath-knives tossed overboard, and the remaining ten men were moodily

heaving in the chain.

And so, with a crippled crew of schooner sailors, the square-rigger

_Almena_ was towed to sea, smoldering rebellion in one end of her, the

power of the law in the other--murder in the heart of every man on

board.