E-text prepared by Al Haines
THE BLOOD SHIP
by
NORMAN SPRINGER
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers ---------- New York
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1922, by
W. J. Watt & Company
Printed in the United States of America
Third Edition
THE BLOOD SHIP
CHAPTER I
It was the writing guy who drew this story out of Captain Shreve. He
talked so much I think the Old Man spun the yarn just to shut him up.
He had talked ever since his arrival on board, early that morning, with
a letter from the owners' agent, and the announcement he intended
making the voyage with us. He had weak lungs, he said, and was in
search of mild, tropical breezes. Also, he was seeking local color,
and whatever information he could pick up about "King" Waldon.
He had heard of the death of "King" Waldon, down in Samoa--Waldon, the
trader, of the vanishing race of island adventurers--and he expected to
travel about the south seas investigating the "king's" past, so he
could write a book about the old viking. He had heard that Captain
Shreve had known Waldon. Hence, he was honoring a cargo carrier with
his presence instead of taking his ease upon a mail-boat.
Captain Shreve must tell him all he knew about the "king." He was
intensely interested in the subject. Splendid material, you know.
That romantic legend of Waldon's arrival in the islands--too good to be
true, and certainly too good not to put into a book. Was Captain
Shreve familiar with the tale? How this fellow, Waldon, sailed into a
Samoan harbor in an open boat, his only companion his beautiful young
wife? Imagine--this man and woman coming from nowhere, sailing in from
the open sea in a small boat, never telling whence they came!
He said this was the stuff to go into his book. Romance, mystery! It
was quite as important as the later and better known incidents in the
"king's" life. That was why Captain Shreve must tell him all he knew
about the fellow. If he could only get at the beginning of the
"king's" career in the islands. Where did the fellow come from? Why
should a man bring his bride into an uncivilized and lawless section of
the world, and settle down for life? There must be a story in that.
Ah, yes, and he was the man who could properly do it.
Well, that was the way that writer talked. He talked so steadily
nobody could slide a word in edgeways. Yet he said he wanted
information. We wondered. If the ability to deliver an unending
monologue, consisting chiefly of the ninth letter in the alphabet, is
any sign of lung power, that chap didn't need any cod-liver oil or sea
air. He could have given up writing, and still have made a good living
ashore as a blacksmith's bellows! And as for the local color and
information--well, he blinked through his black rimmed glasses at our
immaculate decks, and said it was a pity they built ships for use and
not for looks nowadays, and went on talking about himself, and what he
could do with "King" Waldon.
Briggs, the mate, confided to me in a soft aside that the chap was
making the voyage because he knew he had an audience which couldn't
escape--unless it jumped over the side. Captain Shreve didn't confide;
his face kept its accustomed expression of serenity, and he made no
attempt to stem the author's flood of words. I was somewhat surprised
by this meekness, for our Old Man is a great hand to puncture a
windbag; but then, I reflected, the writing guy, being a passenger, was
in the nature of a guest on board, and, according to Captain Shreve's
code, a man to be humored.
We lay in the Stream, with a half dozen hours to pass ere we proceeded
to sea. It was Sunday, so we were idle, the four of us lounging on the
lower bridge deck--the Captain, Briggs, myself, and this human
phonograph. It was a pleasant day, and we would have enjoyed the loaf
in the warm afternoon sunshine, had it not been for the unending drivel
of the passenger. I enjoyed it anyway, for even though the ears be
filled with a buzzing, the eyes are free, and San Francisco Bay is an
interesting place.
". . . and the critics all agree," the passenger rambled on, "that my
genius is proved by my amazingly accurate portraits of character. I
have the gift. That is why I shall do 'King' Waldon so well. I need
but a mental image of the man to make him live again. You must tell me
what he looked like, Captain. Is it true, as I have been told, he was
such a giant of a man, and possessed of such enormous physical
strength? And that his hair retained its yellow luster even in old
age? And that he had a great scar on his face, or head, about which he
never spoke? Ah, yes, you must tell me about him, Captain."
Captain Shreve grunted at this--the first sound he had been able to
squeeze into the talk for half an hour. But the author did not pause;
in fact he hastened on, as though determined to forestall any
interruption. Talk! I don't know when that fellow found any time to
write. He was too eager to tell the world about his gift.
"You know," says he, "I need but a few little intimate facts about
'King' Waldon's appearance and character, and I can make him stalk
through my story as truly alive as when he was in the flesh. If he
were alive I should not need your assistance, Captain; one look at the
man and I could paint him in his true colors. I have that gift. Not
men alone--I am able to invest even inanimate objects with personality.
A house, a street, or a--yes, even a ship. Even this ship. Now, this
old box----"
Captain Shreve sat up straight in his chair. I thought he was rasped
by the fellow's slur, for he is very proud of his ship. But it was
something else that rubbed the expression of patient resignation from
his face; he was staring over the starboard rail with an expression of
lively interest. I followed his gaze with mine, but saw only a
ferryboat in the distance, and, close by, a big red-stack tug towing a
dilapidated coal hulk.
The Captain's eyes were upon this tow. He tugged excitedly at his
beard. "Well, by George, what a coincidence!" he exclaimed. He turned
to the mate, his bright eyes snapping. "Look, Briggs! Do you know
her? By George, do you recognize her?"
The writing guy was disgusted by this interruption, just when he was
going to prove his genius. Briggs shifted his quid, spat, and
inspected the passing hulk with extreme deliberation. I looked at her
too, wondering what there was about an old coal-carrier that could
pierce Captain Shreve's accustomed phlegm.
The tow was passing abreast, but a couple of hundred yards distant.
The tug was shortening the line, and on the hulk's forecastle-head a
couple of hands were busy at a cathead, preparing to let go anchor.
She was ill-favored enough to look at, that hulk--weather-beaten,
begrimed, stripped of all that makes a ship sightly. Nothing but the
worn-out old hull was left. An eyesore, truly. Yet, any seaman could
see with half an eye she had once been a fine ship. The clipper lines
were there.
Suddenly Briggs sat up in his chair, and exclaimed, "Well, blast my
eyes, so it is!" He nodded to the Captain, and then returned his
regard to the hulk, his nostrils working with interest. "So it is! So
it is! Well, blast my----"
"Is what?" I demanded. "What do you two see in that old hull that is
so extraordinary?"
Just then the writing guy decided we had monopolized the conversation
long enough. So he seized the opportunity to exercise for our benefit
the rare gift he was endowed with. He glanced patronizingly at the
coal hulk, wrinkled his nose in disapprobation of her appearance, and
delivered himself in an oracular voice.
"What a horrible looking old tub! Not a difficult task to invest her
with her true personality. An old workhorse--eh? A broken down old
plug, built for heavy labor, and now rounding out an uninspiring
existence by performing the most menial of tasks. An apt
description--what?"
I noticed a faint smile crack the straight line of Captain Shreve's
mouth. But it was Briggs who was unable to contain himself. He turned
full upon the poor scribe, and plainly voiced his withering scorn.
"Why, blast my eyes, young feller, if you weren't as blind as a bat
you'd know you were talking rot! 'A workhorse!' you say. 'A broken
down old plug!' Blast me, man, look at the lines of her!"
The passenger flushed, and stared uncomprehendingly at the poor old
hulk. The tug had gone, and she was lying anchored, now, a few hundred
yards off our starboard bow. A sorry sight. The author could see
nothing but her ugliness.
"Why, she is just a dirty old scow--" he commenced.
"Blast me, can't you even guess what she once was?" went on Briggs,
relentlessly. "Well, young feller, that dirty old scow--as you call
her--is the _Golden Bough_!"
The passenger only blinked. The name meant nothing to him. But it did
to me.
"The _Golden Bough_!" I echoed. "Surely you don't mean the _Golden
Bough_?"
"But I do," said Briggs. He waved his hand. "There she is--the
_Golden Bough_. All that is left of the finest ship that ever smashed
a record with the American flag at her gaff. She's a coal hulk now,
but once she was the finest vessel afloat. Eh, Captain?"
Captain Shreve nodded affirmation. Then he turned to the writing guy,
and courteously salved the chap's self-esteem.
"Small wonder you overlooked her build; it takes a sailor's eye for
such things. And really, your description strikes home to me. We are
all workhorses, are we not, we of the sea? And time breaks down us
all, man and ship." The Old Man was staring at the hulk, and his voice
was sorrowful. "Aye, but time has used her cruelly! What a pity--she
was so bonny!"
The writing guy perked up at this. "Well, you know, I see her through
a layman's eyes," he explained. "And she does look so old, and dirty,
and commonplace----"
Briggs snorted, and the Captain hastened to continue, cutting off the
mate's hard words. "Oh, yes, she looks old and dirty--no mistake. But
time was when no ship afloat could match her for either looks or speed.
Aye, she was a beauty. Remember how she looked in the old days,
Briggs?"
Briggs did. He emphatically blasted his eyes to the effect that he
remembered very well the _Golden Bough_ in the days of her glory, the
days when she was no workhorse, but a double-planked racehorse of the
seas, as anyone but a lubber could see she had once been, just by
looking at her. Yes, blast his eyes, he remembered her. He remembered
one time running the Easting down in the _Josiah T. Flynn_, a smart
ship, with a reputation, and they were cracking on as they would never
dare crack, on in these degenerate days, when, blast his eyes, the
_Golden Bough_ came up on them, and passed, and ran away from the poor
old _Flynn_, and Yankee Swope had stood on his poopdeck at the passing,
and waved a hawser-end at the Old Man of the _Flynn_, asking if he
wanted a tow. "And then we caught hell," commented Mr. Briggs. Aye,
he should say he did remember the _Golden Bough_. But he had never
sailed in her.
"And she looks commonplace enough," continued Captain Shreve,
"providing you know nothing of her history. But she does not look
commonplace to Briggs or me. I suppose we regard her through the mist
of memory--we see the tall, beautiful ship that was. We know the
record of that ship. Aye, lad, and if those sorry-looking timbers
yonder could talk, you would not have to make the voyage with us in
order to get a taste of the salt. You'd get real local color
there--you'd hear of many a wild ocean race, of smashed records, or
shanghaied crews and mutinies. Yes, and you'd get, perhaps, some of
that particular information you say you are after. Those old, broken
bulwarks yonder have looked upon life, I can tell you--and upon death."
"The dangerous life of the sailor, I presume," drawled the writing guy.
"Falling from aloft, and being washed overboard, and all that sort of
thing."
"Not always," retorted Captain Shreve. "There were other ways of going
to Davy Jones in the old clipper days--and in these days, also, for
that matter. Knives, for instance, or bullets, or a pair of furious
hands--if you care for violent tragedy. But I did not mean the
physical dangers of life, particularly; I meant, rather, that Fate
tangles lives on board ship as queerly as in cities ashore. I meant
that the _Golden Bough_, in her day, left her mark upon a good many
lives. She broke men, and made them. And once, I know, she had to do
with a woman's life, and a woman's love. There was a wedding performed
upon that ship upon the high seas, and a dead man sprawled on the deck
at the feet of the nuptial pair, and the bride was the dead man's
widow!"
"Oh, come now--" said the writing guy. It was plain he thought the
skipper was stringing him. But I knew how difficult it was to get our
Old Man to spin a yarn, and I was determined he should not be shunted
off on a new tack. I interrupted the author, hurriedly. "Did you ever
make a voyage in the _Golden Bough_, Captain?" I asked.
"Yes," replied the Captain. "I was a witness to that wedding; and I
played my small part in bringing it about. Yes, that old wreck yonder
has had a good deal to do with my own life. I received my first boost
upward in the _Golden Bough_. Shipped in the foc'sle, and ended the
voyage in the cabin. Stepped into dead man's shoes. And more
important than that--I won my manhood on those old decks."
"Ah, performed some valorous deed?" purred the writing guy.
"No; I abstained from performing an infamous deed," said Captain
Shreve. "I think that is the way most men win to manhood."
"Oh!" said the writing guy. He seemed about to say a lot more, when I
put my oar in again.
"Let us have the yarn, Captain," I begged.
Captain Shreve squinted at the sun, and then favored the passenger with
one of his rare smiles. "Why, yes," he said. "We have an idle
afternoon ahead of us, and I'll gladly spin the yarn. You say, sir,
you are interested in ships, and sailors, and, particularly, in 'King'
Waldon's history. Well, perhaps you may find some material of use in
this tale of mine; though I fear my lack of skill in recounting it may
offend your trained mind.
"Yet it is simply life and living--this yarn. Human beings set down
upon those decks to work out their separate destinies as Fate and
character directed. Aye, and their characters, and the motives that
inspired their acts, were diverse enough, heaven knows.
"There was Swope, Black Yankee Swope, who captained that hell-ship, a
man with a twisted heart, a man who delighted in evil, and worked it
for its own sake. There was Holy Joe, the shanghaied parson, whose
weak flesh scorned the torture, because of the strong, pure faith in
the man's soul. There were Blackie and Boston, their rat-hearts
steeled to courage by lust of gold, their rascally, seductive tongues
welding into a dangerous unit the mob of desperate, broken stiffs who
inhabited the foc'sle. There were Lynch and Fitzgibbon, the buckos,
living up to their grim code; and the Knitting Swede, that prince of
crimps, who put most of us into the ship. There was myself, with my
childish vanity, and petty ambitions. There was the lady, the
beautiful, despairing lady aft, wife of the infamous brute who ruled
us. There was Cockney, the gutless swab, whose lying words nearly had
Newman's life. And last, and chiefly, there was the man with the scar,
he who called himself 'Newman,' man of mystery, who came like the
fabled knight, killed the beast who held the princess captive, and led
her out of bondage. And I helped him; and saw the shanghaied parson
marry them, there on the bloody deck.
"Stuff for a yarn--eh? But just life, and living. By George, it was
mighty strenuous living, too! And yet, well as I know this tale I
lived in, I am at a loss how to commence telling it. You know, sir,
this is where you writing folk have at disadvantage the chaps who only
live their stories--you see the yarn from the beginning to the end, we
see but those chapters in which Fate makes us characters. The
beginning, the end, the plot--all are beyond our ken. If indeed there
is a beginning, or end, or plot to a story one lives."
"Every story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end," began the
writing guy, sonorously. "Now I----"
Just then I leaned over and placed my number nine brogan firmly upon
that writing guy's kid-clad foot, and held him in speechless agony for
a moment, while Captain Shreve got his yarn fairly launched.