OUR VENTURE.
Those who were present at the launching of our beautiful new _Seagull_
were unanimous in declaring her the trimmest, daintiest, most graceful
craft that had ever yet floated in the waters of old Chelsea bay. Her
color was pure white, her brass work brilliant as gold. She was yacht
built, on the lines of the fast express boats, and no expense had been
spared in her construction or fittings.
My father, Captain Steele, one of the ablest and best known sailors on
the Atlantic coast, had personally supervised the building of the
_Seagull_ and watched every step of progress and inspected every bit of
timber, steel, or brass, so that nothing might be slighted in any way.
She was one hundred and eighty-seven feet in length, with a thirty-six
foot beam and a depth of twenty-one feet, and her net tonnage was close
to fourteen hundred. We had her schooner rigged, because Captain Steele
believed in sailing and had designed his ship for a merchantman of the
highest class, but of the old school.
Uncle Naboth and I, who were also part owners of the ship—the firm being
Steele, Perkins & Steele—had begged earnestly to convert her into a
modern steamer; but my father angrily resented the suggestion.
“Her name’s the _Seagull_,” he declared, “an’ a seagull without wings
’ud be a doggone jack-rabbit; so wings she mus’ have, my lads, ef Dick
Steele’s goin’ to sail her.”
We had really put a fortune into the craft, and Uncle Naboth—a shrewd
old trader who marked the world as it moved and tried to keep pace with
it—was as anxious to have the ship modern in every respect as I was. So
we stood stubbornly side by side and argued with the Captain until he
finally granted a partial concession to our wishes and consented to our
installing an auxiliary equipment of a screw propeller driven by
powerful engines, with the express understanding that they must only be
used in case of emergency.
“It’s a rank waste o’ money, an’ takes up vallyble room,” he growled;
“but ef so be you ain’t satisfied with decent spars an’ riggin,’ why,
git your blarsted ol’ machinery aboard—an’ be hanged to ye both!”
This consent was obtained soon after my return from Panama, but Uncle
Naboth and I had ordered the engines months previously, having been
determined to install them from the day the _Seagull_ was first planned;
so no time was lost in getting them placed.
You will know the _Seagull_ more intimately as my story progresses, so I
will avoid a detailed description of it just now, merely adding that the
ship was at once the envy and admiration of all beholders and the pride
and joy of her three owners.
My father had sailed for forty years and had at one time lost his right
leg in a shipwreck, so that he stumped around with a cork substitute.
But he was as energetic and active as in his youth, and his vast
experience fully justified his reputation as one of the ablest and
shrewdest seamen in the merchant service. Indeed, Captain Steele was
universally known and respected, and I had good reason to be proud of
the bluff old salt who owned me as his son. He had prejudices, it is
true, acquired through many strange adventures at sea and in foreign
parts; but his heart was simple and frank as that of a child, and we who
knew him best and loved him well had little fear of his stubborn
temperament.
Naboth Perkins, my dead mother’s brother, was also a remarkable man in
his way. He knew the sea as well as did my father, but prided himself on
the fact that he “couldn’t navigate a ferry-boat,” having always sailed
as supercargo and devoted his talents to trading. He had been one of my
earliest and most faithful friends, and although I was still a mere boy
at the time the _Seagull_ was launched, I had encountered some unusual
adventures in company with quaint, honest Uncle Naboth, and won certain
bits of prize money that had proved the foundation of our fortunes.
These prize-winnings, converted into hard cash, had furnished the funds
for building our new ship, in which we purposed beginning a
conservative, staid career as American merchantmen, leaving adventures
behind us and confining ourselves to carrying from port to port such
merchandise as might be consigned to our care. You will hear how well
our modest intention was fulfilled.
The huge proportions and staunch construction of the _Seagull_ would
enable her to sail in any known sea with perfect safety, and long before
she was completed we were besieged with proposals from shippers anxious
to secure our services.
Uncle Naboth, who handled all such matters for our firm, finally
contracted with a big Germantown manufacturer of “Oriental” rugs to
carry a load of bales to Syria, consigned to merchants there who would
distribute them throughout Persia, Turkey and Egypt, to be sold to
American and European tourists and carried to their homes as treasures
of Oriental looms.
It was not so much the liberal payment we received as the fact that the
long voyage to the Syrian port would give us an opportunity of testing
the performances of the _Seagull_ that induced Mr. Perkins to accept the
contract and undertake the lengthy voyage.
“If she skims the Atlantic an’ the Mediterranean all right,” said he,
“the boat’ll weather any sea on earth; so we may as well find out at the
start what she’s good for. ’Sides that, we’re gittin’ a thunderin’ price
fer cartin’ them rags to Syria, an’ so the deal seems a good one all
’round.”
My father gravely approved the transaction. He also was eager to test
the powers of our beautiful new ship, and this would not be his first
voyage to the Orient, by any means. So the papers were made out and
signed and as soon as our last fittings and furnishings were installed
and our crew aboard we were to voyage down the coast in sunny September
weather and anchor in the Chesapeake, there to load our cargo.
Our ship’s company had been carefully selected, for the fame of my
father’s new vessel and the popularity of the Captain himself attracted
to us the best seamen available; so we had the satisfaction of signing a
splendid company of experienced men. In addition to these sailors we
shipped a first and second engineer, clever young fellows that became
instantly unpopular with my father, who glared at the poor “mechanics”
as if he considered them interlopers, if not rank traitors. Some of the
seamen, it was arranged, would act as stokers if the engines were called
into requisition, so with the addition of a couple of oilers who were
also carpenter’s assistants we were satisfied we might at any time steam
or sail, as the occasion demanded.
I am sure Captain Steele had already acknowledged in his heart that we
were justified in equipping the _Seagull_ with engines, since any old
salt fully realizes the horror of being becalmed and knows the loss such
a misfortune is sure to entail in time, wages, and grub. But he would
not admit it. Instead, he persisted in playing the part of a much
injured and greatly scandalized seaman. It would be time enough to “take
water” when the value of the propeller was fully proved.
Ned Britton was Captain’s Mate, of course. Ned had sailed with my father
for years; he had also sailed two exciting voyages with Uncle Naboth and
me, and we all admired and respected this strong, gallant fellow as much
as we had come to trust in his ability.
Two other curious characters were established fixtures of any craft that
the firm of Steele, Perkins & Steele might own. These were two stalwart
black men named Nux and Bryonia, South Sea Islanders whom Uncle Naboth
had rescued from death years before and attached to his service. Since
then they had become my own trusted friends, and more than once had I
owed my life to their intelligence and faithfulness. Bryonia, or Bry, as
we called him, was a famous cook, and always had charge of our ship’s
galley. With Bry aboard we were never in want of a substantial, well
cooked meal; for, as Uncle Naboth was wont to declare: “Thet Bry could
take a rope’s end an’ a bit o’ tarpaulin an’ make a Paris tubble-de-hoot
out’n ’em.”
Nux was cabin steward and looked after our comforts aft with a deftness
and skill that were wholly admirable. These blacks were both of them
shrewd, loyal, and brave, and we knew we might always depend upon their
fidelity.
On the morning following my adoption of Joe Herring I left the runaway
locked up in my stateroom and went on deck to watch the final
preparations for our departure. A fair breeze swept down the bay, so at
ten o’clock we hoisted anchor, spread our main and foresails and, slowly
gathering way, the _Seagull_ slipped through the water on her maiden
trip amid the shouts of hundreds who stood on the shore to watch and bid
us God speed.
We fired a shot from our small howitzer as a parting salute to our
friends, dipped our pennants in gallant fashion, showed our heels, and
sped away so swiftly that the harbor was soon left far behind.
We passed the old _Gonzales_ soon after leaving our anchorage. It was
still waiting to recapture its absconding cabin-boy, though why Captain
Marrow should attach so much importance to the youth I could not then
understand.
As soon as we were well at sea I liberated Joe and told him he was to be
my special servant and assistant, but must also help Nux to look after
the cabin during his spare time—which was likely to be plentiful enough.
Knowing that the sooner I established the lad’s footing aboard the
easier it would be for us both, I sent him on an errand that would take
him past my father’s station on the deck. His sharp eye encountered the
boy at once, as I had expected, and he promptly roared out an order for
him to halt.
Joe stopped and saluted respectfully. He was looking cheery and bright
this morning; indeed, a different boy from the one I had pulled from the
sinking dinghy the night before. Life bore a new aspect for Joe and his
heart was light as a feather. He looked honest and wholesome enough in
the fresh blue suit I had given him, and he had been duly warned that
his only remaining danger lay in not winning the countenance of the
skipper.
“Who are you? ’N’ where ’n’ thunder’d you come from?” demanded Captain
Steele.
“Joe Herring, sir. Master Sam’s assistant, sir,” answered the boy, in
his quiet tones.
“Assistant! Bungs an’ barnacles! Assistant to Sam! What doin’? Loafin’
an’ a-killin’ time?”
“I beg to refer you to Master Sam, sir,” was the composed answer,
although from where I watched the scene I could see that Joe was badly
frightened.
“What Sam needs is suthin’ to do, more ’n a grub-devourin’ assistant,”
pursued my father, sternly. “Look here; did my son lug you aboard?”
“He did, sir,” replied Joe, truthfully.
“Send him to me, then,” ordered my father.
I stepped forward at once, saluting the Captain with my usual deference.
When we were at sea I had been taught to put by the fact that this was
my father, bearing in mind only the immediate fact that he was my
commander. Still, in my capacity as secretary to Uncle Naboth I was in a
measure independent of ship’s discipline.
“What tricks are you up to now, Sam?” demanded the Captain, scowling at
me.
“Father, this boy was the runaway from the _Gonzales_, whom Captain
Marrow has been seeking so earnestly. He was so abused by the dirty
Mexican that he would rather die than return to his slavery. So he threw
himself on my mercy, and knowing he would surely be retaken if I left
him ashore, I brought the lad with us. Don’t blame him, sir. I’ll take
all the responsibility.”
The Captain stared at me a moment.
“See that you do, then,” he grumbled. “Sam, it’s a illegal an’
unperfessional act to harbor a runaway.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Usually no good ever comes of it.”
“He’s an honest lad, sir.”
The Captain eyed him closely.
“It’s no affair o’ mine,” he muttered, half turning away. “The boy
belongs now to the Perkins outfit, mind you. I’ll have no runaways ner
stowaways in my crew.”
I knew then the battle was won, and that my father would refuse to
surrender Joe to his old captain under any circumstances. The “Perkins
outfit,” so sneeringly referred to, meant Uncle Naboth and myself, and
although it was evident the mission of the _Seagull_ was dependent on
the “Perkins outfit” to manage and arrange its commerce in a profitable
manner, it pleased my father to denominate us landlubbers and consider
us of “no ’count” in the sailing of the ship.
Uncle Naboth wasn’t aboard yet. He had gone by rail some days before to
Philadelphia to attend to the business of our cargo, and it was not
until we anchored in the placid waters of the Chesapeake that my uncle
appeared, smiling and cheery as ever.
Mr. Perkins was short and stout, with a round, chubby face, smoothly
shaven, and a circle of iron-gray locks around his bald head. His eyes
were small, light blue and twinkling; his expression simple and
childlike; his speech inelegant and with a humorous twist that rendered
him an agreeable companion. But as a trader Naboth Perkins was famed far
and wide; his shrewdness was proverbial; his talent for bargaining
fairly marvelous; his honesty undisputed. I have heard merchants say it
was a pleasure to pay Mr. Perkins his demands, even though they could
procure the same service elsewhere at less cost. For he was square as a
die, faithful to the smallest detail, and his word was absolutely to be
relied upon. The little old gentleman was known as a money-maker, and
had been the partner of my father, his brother-in-law, for many years.
Such a character could not fail to be eccentric, and Uncle Naboth’s ways
were at time puzzling; but I knew he was devoted to me, since he had
proved this quality many times; and I naturally regarded my whimsical
uncle with great affection.
When Mr. Perkins came aboard he announced that the bales of rugs were
all on the dock and ready to load without delay. I was much interested
in our queer cargo, for it seemed strange to me that Americans should
ship “Oriental” rugs to the Orient, to be purchased there by Americans
and brought back home again. But Uncle Naboth, who had been through the
mills at Germantown, explained the matter very clearly.
“You see,” he said, “there ain’t enough genooine Oriental rugs left to
supply the demand, now thet they’ve got to be sich a fad with rich
people. When the Orient was fust diskivered there was a good many rugs
there, but it had took years to make each one of ’em, an’ some was so
old they had holes wore in ’em; but that made ’em the more vallyble
’cause it proved they was antiques. They picked ’em up fast, an’ the
Orientals was glad to sell ’em an’ say nothin’. Ev’ry tourist thet goes
to the East wants to buy rugs to send home, an’ he’ll pay ’most any
price that’s asked fer rare ol’ patterns an’ dim, washed-out colors. Ef
there’s a few holes, badly mended, so much the better, fer they proves
the rugs is old. So the clever Easterners an’ the cleverer Yankees hit
on a scheme to supply the demand, an’ here in Germantown they makes
thousands of rare ol’ Oriental rugs every year. They buy a few genooine
ones to copy the patterns from, an’ they weave ’em by machinery. Then
the new rugs is put into a machine that beats dust an’ dirt into ’em an’
beats it out again, till the new, fresh colors gits old an’ faded. After
this they’re run through a rubbin’ machine that wears ’em down some an’
makes a few holes, here an’ there; an’ then the menders take ’em an’
darn the holes. In about a day’s time one o’ them rugs goes through
about as much wear an’ tear by machinery as it would get in centuries of
use; an’ fer my part I can’t tell the diff’rence atween a genooine
Oriental an’ a imitation one. We’ve got a whole cargo to take to Syria,
an’ in a few months they’ll mostly come back agin, an’ be laid on the
floors of our millionaires. Queer traffic, ain’t it, Sam? But if you
stops to think, there’s been enough Oriental rugs carted out’n the
Orient, in the last hundred years, to carpet most of Asia an’ Africa
with; so it stands to reason they ain’t all the real thing. If it wasn’t
fer Yankee ingenooity an’ Oriental trickery the supply’d been exhausted
years ago, an’ our people’d hev to carpet their floors with honest,
fresh rugs instead o’ these machine worn imitations. That would break
their hearts, wouldn’t it?”
But Uncle Naboth had arranged also to carry another queer line of
merchandise on our voyage, consisting of several large cases consigned
by a Connecticut manufacturer. These contained imitations of ancient
Egyptian scarabs (a sort of mud beetle considered sacred by the old
sun-worshippers), and a collection of funeral figures, tiny household
gods and other articles supposed to be found only in the tombs of the
primitive kings and nobles of Egypt.
“The Egyptian gov’ment,” explained Uncle Naboth, “won’t let any more
genooine relics be taken out’n the country, ’cause they wants ’em all
fer the Cairo Museum; so the Yankees hev come to the front agin, an’
made mud relics by the bushel, so’s the eager tourists can buy what they
wants to bring home an’ prove they’ve been there. These cases o’ goods
is consigned to merchants in Luxor, a little town up the Nile, an’ I’ve
agreed to run over to Alexandria, after we’ve unloaded our Syrian rugs,
an’ dump the rubbish on the dock there. There ain’t many cases of it,
but the profits is so big that we get well paid for the job.”
“But how did these wares get to Philadelphia from Connecticut?” asked my
father.
“Oh, I’ve been correspondin’ with ol’ Ackley, the Yankee that makes ’em,
fer some time,” said my uncle, “but I couldn’t tell how much room the
rugs would take up until I got here. When I found I could stow the
Egyptian rubbish, I telegraphed to Ackley an’ the consignment got here
by freight yesterday. But that ain’t the worst of it, partners.”
“What is the worst?” I inquired.
“Why, the Yankee manufacturer has sent me his beloved son, with a letter
askin’ me to carry him with us to Egypt, so’s he can study the country
an’ find out what ancient relics they need supplied in large quantities,
an’ collect from the dealers fer this first batch.”
“We don’t take passengers,” said my father, sharply.
“So I said; but the young duffer is here, an’ won’t take no fer an
answer. He says he’s willin to pay fer his passage, an’ his dad wants
him to keep an eye on them precious modern antiquities as we’re to
carry. So I’ve put the case up to you, an’ you can decide it.”
“It’s none o’ my business, Naboth,” said my father, turning away with a
frown; “I don’t like passengers, but you an’ Sam can do as you please.
Only, if you take him, keep him out o’ my way.”
Uncle winked at me, and I knew the passenger would be booked.
Work of loading the cargo progressed rapidly, and in two days the bales
of rugs were all aboard and carefully stowed in our dry and ample hold.
Then the Yankee antiques for Egypt appeared for loading, and with them
came a youth whose appearance caused me to smile involuntarily.
“Archibald Ackley, Jr., Middletown, Conn.,” his cards read. He was a
stocky, well built fellow about seventeen years of age, although he
evidently wished to appear much older. He had sharp gray eyes, lanky
hair of light tow color, immense hands and feet, a swaggering gait, and
a style of dress gay enough to rival the plumage of a bird-of-paradise.
Archibald’s features might have been handsome originally, but a swiftly
pitched base-ball had once ruthlessly pushed his generous nose against
his left cheek, and there it had remained.
The youth sported a heavy watchchain that was palpably plated, a big
“diamond” on his cravat that perhaps came from the famous “Barrios
mines,” of New York, and his fingers were loaded with rings of vast
proportions set with doubtful gems. It may be Mr. Ackley, Jr., imagined
himself an exquisite, and sought to impress people by a display of
wealth that may have cost him or his father several dollars; but, as I
said, my first glimpse of his gorgeous person caused me to smile—an
impertinence I quickly tried to repress.
Mr. Perkins and I considered carefully the young man’s request for a
passage to Egypt, and as we had ample accommodations we decided to take
him along; but when he came for his answer and I caught sight of him for
the first time, I almost regretted our decision.
Uncle Naboth, however, seemed not to be disagreeably impressed. He shook
the boy’s hand—it was a “flipper,” all right—with cordial greeting and
said to him:
“Very good, Archie, my lad; we’ve talked it over an’ you can go ’long ef
so be you want to. But remember this is a merchantman, an’ no passenger
ship, an’ make up your mind to abide by Cap’n Steele’s rules an’
reggleations.”
“That’s fair,” said the boy, evidently pleased. “I’m not likely to
bother any one. All I want is a berth to sleep in and three square meals
a day. How’s the feed?”
“Why, we have hearty appetites, ourselves, my lad, an’ there’s no call
for you to starve as I knows on,” with a wink at me. “You’ll eat at our
table an’ have the best the ship affords.”
“That’s what I want,” said Archie, nodding his bullet head; “there’s
nothing too good for me. What’s the price for the passage?”
I told him.
“That’s a pretty steep figure,” he rejoined, uneasily. “I can take an
ocean liner for about the same cost.”
“It is your privilege, sir,” I said, stiffly. “We don’t want passengers;
so we don’t want you. But Mr. Perkins is disposed to accommodate you
because your father is one of our shippers. Go or stay, as you like; but
make up your mind quickly, for we sail at seven.”
He scowled first at me and then at uncle; but presently he grinned.
“I haven’t a choice,” said he, carelessly. “Pop’s paying the shot, for
he wants me to keep an eye on the scarabs and things and see the goods
safe landed and the money collected for them. They’re shipped to a lot
of dirty Arabs who can’t be trusted. So here’s your money, and I’ll mail
the receipt for the passage to Pop before we skate away, so he’ll know
it’s you who are robbing him instead of me.”
I felt like punching the cad’s nose, but Uncle Naboth laughed good
naturedly and nodded approval.
“That’s businesslike an’ to the point,” said he. “Take the money, Sam,
and give our passenger the proper receipt.”
I did so, and Archibald Ackley, Jr., stalked away down the dock to fetch
his baggage from the hotel.
To my surprise the _Gonzales_ made the harbor that afternoon and
anchored alongside us. I promptly hid the trembling Joe in my cabin and
locked him up; it proved a wise action because Captain Marrow lost no
time in boarding us and asking for an interview with Captain Steele.
This made me nervous, for I knew my father would not lie under any
circumstances, and I dreaded the result of the ugly Mexican’s visit. So
I stood beside my father to make every possible endeavor to save my
protege from recapture.
“Cap’n Steele, sir, where’s my cabin-boy?” asked Marrow, gruffly, as he
came up and touched his cap.
My father looked him over with grave attention.
“Cap’n Marrow,” he replied, sternly, “where’s that calf that broke out’n
my ten-acre lot three year ago come next Sunday?”
Marrow muttered a curse and glared at us evilly.
“I happen to know, Steele, that my boy Joe, who was tryin’ to vamoose,
stole a rotten dinghy an’ rowed out to the _Seagull_ the night afore you
sailed. Ain’t thet so?”
“Mebbe,” said my father.
“Then I demand him in the name o’ the law, an’ I’ll hold you here in the
bay till you give me back the stolen goods,” continued Marrow, savagely.
“Ned,” said my father, turning quietly to his brawny mate, “show Cap’n
Marrow over the side, an’ if he’s too slow in goin’, toss him
overboard.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” returned Ned, pleasantly.
“I’ll hev the law, remember! You can’t sail from the harbor till you’ve
given up my property!” roared the exasperated Mexican.
“Mebbe,” repeated my father, again, as he turned indifferently away.
But I saw trouble brewing and resolved to head it off.
“Captain Marrow,” I said, politely, with a motion to Ned to delay his
intention, for the mate’s hand was lifted to seize the fellow in his
terrible grip, “please allow me to explain this case. A boy—perhaps it
was your runaway—did indeed board us at Chelsea, as you say; but my
father, Captain Steele, did not discover his presence until we were at
sea. Then we were obliged to carry him on here, where he was put upon
the dock. I assure you I saw him bolt for the land as fast as he could
go.”
This was true in fact, as I had sent Joe on an errand. I did not relate,
of course, that the boy had quickly returned, but my tale seemed to
impress Marrow and explain why Captain Steele had so recklessly sneered
at his demands, as if wilfully defying the marine law. “If you make
haste, sir,” I continued, very courteously, “you may still be able to
lay hands on the boy, who I am sure has no money to take him any
distance from Philadelphia.”
Marrow looked at me shrewdly.
“Did Joe say anything about me, or about money?” he asked.
“Not a word, sir,” answering the last question. “But I advise you to
make haste. And you must forgive Captain Steele for his abrupt answers,
caused by what he considered the insolence of your demand and the
knowledge that you are in the wrong in threatening to hold his ship. You
know, sir, it would cost you heavily to do this, when the court found
you were unable to prove your case.”
This argument decided the man. He swore a nasty oath and stamped his
foot in futile rage; but he at once left the ship to be rowed ashore,
and that was the last we saw of him.
Still I wondered at his interest in the miserable, half starved boy he
had so wickedly abused; and I wondered at his strange question about
money. There must be some mystery about Joe.
At seven o’clock, all being snugly stowed and the last of our fresh
provisions taken aboard, we hoisted anchor and headed out toward the
mouth of the bay. Our passenger had settled himself in a spare cabin an
hour before, having brought with him two huge “telescopes” that appeared
to contain all his belongings.
I did not let Joe out of his confinement until about midnight, and when
from the swish of the water against our sides I knew we had reached the
open sea.