The Cockney relieved me at the wheel, at one bell, when the mates
turned the crowd to after a short half hour for dinner. Oh, what a
changed Cockney from yestereve! He came slinking meekly along the lee
side of the poop. When he took over the wheel he had hardly spirit
enough in him to mumble over the directions I gave him. His eyes were
puffed half closed, and his lips were cut and swollen. Gone was the
swanking, swaggering Cockney who had paraded before the Swede's bar.
Instead there was only this cowed, miserable sailorman taking over the
wheel. That Cockney had suffered a cruel double cross when he drank of
the black bottle, and was hoisted over the _Golden Bough's_ rail.
Yesterday he was a great man, the "Knitting Swede's" chief bully, with
the hard seafare behind him, and with unlimited rum, and an easy, if
rascally, shore life ahead of him. To-day he was just a shell-back
outward bound, with a sore head and a bruised body; a fellow sufferer
in the foc'sle of a dreaded ship, mere dirt beneath the officers' feet.
Such a fall! Keenly as I had disliked the man yesterday, to-day I was
sorry for him. The more sorry because I felt that the Jocose Swede had
come near having me as the butt of his little joke, instead of Cockney.
I scurried forward, intent upon dinner. I drew my whack from the
Chinaman in the gallery, and bolted it down in the empty foc'sle. It
was a miserable repast, a dish of ill-cooked lobscouse, and a pannikin
of muddy coffee, and I reflected glumly that I had joined a hungry ship
as well as a hot one.
I finished the last of that mysterious stew, and then filled and
lighted my pipe. I felt sure I would be allowed the half hour dinner
spell the rest of the crowd had enjoyed, and I relaxed and puffed
contentedly, determined to enjoy my respite to the last minute. For
the sounds from the deck indicated a lively afternoon for all hands.
But something occurred to interrupt my cherished "Smoke O," something
that caused me to sit up suddenly and stiffly on the bench, while my
pipe fell unheeded from my slackened mouth, and an unpleasant prickle
ran over my scalp and down my spine.
I have already mentioned that the _Golden Bough_ had a topgallant
forecastle; that is, the crew's quarters were away forward, in the bows
of the ship, beneath the forecastle head. It was a gloomy cavern; the
bright day of outdoors was a muddy light within.
Well, in the floor of the port foc'sle, wherein I was sitting, was the
hatch to the forepeak, below. It was this yard square trap-door which
caused my agitation. My glance fell casually upon it, and I saw it
move! It lifted a hair's breadth, and I heard a slight scraping sound
below.
Aye, I was startled! A rat? But I knew that even a ship rat did not
grow large enough to move a trap-door. The ghost of some dead
sailor-man, haunting the scene of his earthly misery? Well, I had the
superstitions of a foc'sle Jack, but I knew well enough that a proper
ghost would not walk abroad in the noon o' day. I stared fascinated at
that moving piece of wood. It slowly lifted about an inch, and then,
through the narrow slit; I saw an eye regarding me with a fixed glare.
I glared back, my amazement struggling with the conviction that was
oversweeping me; and then, just as I was about to speak, Bucko Lynch's
voice came booming into my retreat.
"_Hey_, you! D'you reckon to spell-o the whole afternoon? If you've
finished your scouse, out on deck with you--and lively about it!"
There was no denying that request, eye or no eye. And at the second
mate's first word, the trap door dropped shut, I clattered out of the
foc'sle, and to work; but I was turning that little matter of the
forepeak hatch over in my mind, you bet!
It was near dusk, well on in the first dog-watch, when the mates let up
with their driving, and herded all hands aft to the main deck. The
forepeak hatch had rested heavily upon my mind all afternoon, and I was
tingling with excitement when I went aft with the rest to face the
ceremony which always concludes the first day out, the choosing and
setting of the watches, and the calling of the muster roll. Something
unexpected was about to happen, I felt sure.
We were a sorry looking crowd gathered there on the main deck, before
the cabin, a tatterdemalion mob, with bruised bodies and sullen faces,
and with hate and fright in our glowering eyes. Those few of us who
were seamen possessed a bitter knowledge of the cruel months ahead, the
rest, the majority, faced a fate all the more dreadful for being dimly
perceived, and of which they had received a fierce foretaste that
merciless day.
Captain Swope came to the break of the poop, lounged over the rail, and
looked us over. In his hand he held the ship's articles. He regarded
us with a sort of wicked satisfaction, seeming to draw delight from the
sight of our huddled, miserable forms. Without saying a word, he
gloated over us, over the puffed face of the Cockney, over the
expression of desperate horror in the face of the red-shirted man, over
the abject figure of the little squarehead, who had been going about
all afternoon sobbing, with his hand pressed to his side, and whose
face was even now twisted with a pain to which he feared to give voice.
Aye, Swope stared down at us, licking his chops, so to speak, at the
sight of our suffering; and we glared back at him, hating and afraid.
Then the lady appeared at the poop rail, some paces distant from the
Old Man. It was heartening to turn one's eyes from the Old Man's
wicked, sneering face to the face of the lady. There was sorrow in
that brooding look she gave us, and pity, and understanding. She was
used to looking upon the man-made misery of men, you felt, and skilled
in softening it. There was a stir in our ranks as we met her gaze, a
half audible murmur ran down the line, and the slackest of us
straightened our shoulders a trifle. The Old Man sensed the sudden
cheer amongst us, and, I think, sensed its cause, for without glancing
at the lady, he drawled an order to the mate, standing just below him.
"Well, Mister Fitz, start the ball rolling--your first say."
The mate allowed his fierce, pig eyes to rove over us, and to my secret
delight he passed me by. "Where's the nigger?" he said, referring to
the mulatto, who was at the wheel. "The wheel? Well, he's my meat."
So the watch choosing began. Lynch promptly chose me, as he had
promised he would, and I stepped over to the starboard deck.
Fitzgibbon chose the Cockney, Lynch picked a squarehead--so the
alternate choosing went, the mates' skilled eyes first selecting all
those who showed in their appearance some evidence of sailorly
experience.
"You!" said Fitzgibbon, indicating the red-shirted man, and motioning
him over to the port side of the deck.
The red-shirted man, whose agitated face I had been covertly watching,
instead of obeying the mate, stepped out of line and appealed to Swope.
"Captain, may I speak to you now?" he asked, in a shrill, excited voice.
"_Eh_, what's this?" exclaimed Swope, gazing down at the fellow. He
lifted his hand and checked the mate, who was already about to collar
his prey. I think Swope knew just what was coming, and he found sport
in the situation. "What do you want, my man?" his soft voice inquired.
A flood of agitated words poured out of the red-shirted man's mouth.
"Captain--a terrible mistake--foully mistreated, all of these men
foully mistreated by your officers--tried to see you and was
beaten. . . ." With an effort he made his speech more coherent. "A
terrible mistake, sir! I have been kidnapped on board this vessel! I
am not a sailor, I do not know how I come to be here--I have been
kidnapped, sir!"
"How terrible!" said Swope. "I do not doubt your word at all, my man.
Anyone can see you are no sailor, but a guttersnipe. And possibly you
were--er--'kidnapped,' as you call it, in company with the wharf-rats
behind you."
"But, Captain--good heavens, you do not understand!" cried the man. "I
am a clergyman--a minister of the Gospel! I am the Reverend Richard
Deaken of the Bethel Mission in San Francisco!"
The Reverend Richard Deaken! I saw a light. I had heard of the
Reverend Deaken while I was in the Swede's house. The labors of this
particular sky-pilot were, it appeared, particularly offensive to
crimpdom. He threatened to throw a brickbat of exposure into the camp.
He was appealing to the good people of the city to put a stop to the
simple and effective methods the boarding masters used to separate Jack
from his money, and then barter his carcass to the highest bidder. I
had heard the Swede, himself, say, "Ay ban got him before election!"
And this is how the reverend gentleman had been "got"--crimped into an
outward bound windjammer, with naught but a ragged red shirt and a pair
of dungaree pants to cover his nakedness; and he found, when he made
his disclosure of identity, that the high place of authority was
occupied by a man who enjoyed and jeered at his evil plight.
For, at the man's words, the Old Man threw back his head and laughed
loudly. "_Ho, ho, ho_! D'ye hear that, Misters? The Swede has given
us a sky-pilot--a damned Holy Joe! By God, a Holy Joe on the _Golden
Bough_! _Ho, ho, ho_!" Then he addressed the unfortunate man again.
"So you are a Holy Joe, are you? You don't look it! You look like an
ordinary stiff to me! Let me see--what did you call yourself?
Deaken?" He lifted the articles, and scanned the names that
represented the crew. "Deaken--_hey_! Well, I see no such name
written here." I did not doubt that. Save my name, and Newman's, I
doubted if any name on the articles could be recognized by any man
present. "I see one name here, written in just such a flourishing hand
as a man of your parts might possess--- 'Montgomery Mulvaney.' That is
undoubtedly you; you are Montgomery Mulvaney!"
"But, Captain--" commenced the parson, desperately.
"Shut up!" snapped Swope. "Now, listen here, my man! You may be a
Holy Joe ashore, or you may not be, that does not concern me. But I
find you on board my vessel, signed on my articles as 'Montgomery
Mulvaney, A.B.' Yet you tell me yourself you are no sailor. Well, my
fancy man, Holy Joe you may be, stiff you are, but you'll be a sailor
before this passage ends, or I'm not Angus Swope! Now then, step over
there to port, and join your watch!"
"But, Captain--" commenced the desperate man again. Then he evidently
saw the futility of appealing to Captain Swope. Abruptly, he turned
and addressed the lady.
"Madam--my God, madam, can you not make him understand----"
The lady shook her head, frowned warningly, and spoke a soft, quick,
sentence. "No, no--do not protest, do as they say!" Well she knew the
futility of argument, and the danger to the one who argued. Indeed,
even while she spoke, the mate took the parson by his shirt collar, and
jerked him roughly into his place. And there he stood, by the
Cockney's side, wearing an air of bewildered dismay both comic and
tragic.
The mates renewed their choosing, and in a few more moments we were all
gathered in two groups, regarding each other across the empty deck.
There were fifteen men in the mate's watch, but, because of Newman's
absence, only fourteen had fallen to Lynch.
The Old Man handed down the articles to Mister Lynch. "All right,
Mister, muster them," he said. "And (addressing us generally) if you
don't recognize your names, answer anyway--or we'll baptize you anew!"
Lynch held the papers before his face. I thrilled with a sudden
expectancy. Something startling was going to happen, I felt it in my
bones. Some clairvoyant gleam told me the forepeak hatch was wide open
now.
"Answer to your names!" boomed Lynch's great voice. "A. Newman!"
"Here!" was the loud and instant response.
As one man, we swung our heads, and looked forward. Sauntering aft,
and just passing the main hatch, was the man with the scar. He came
abreast of us, and paused there in the empty center of the deck.
It was the lady, on the poop above, who broke the spell of silence the
man's dramatic arrival had placed upon all hands. She broke it with a
kind of strangled gasp. "Roy--it is Roy--oh, God!" she said, and she
swayed, and clutched the rail before her as though to keep from
falling. She stared down at Newman as if he were a ghost from the
grave.
But it was the manner of Captain Swope which commanded the attention of
all hands. He was seeing a ghost, too, an evil ghost. It was like
foc'sle belief come true--this man had sold his soul to the Devil, and
the Devil was suddenly come to claim his own. He, too, stared down at
Newman, and clutched the rail for support, while the flesh of his face
became a livid hue, and his expression one of incredulous horror.
"Where have you come from?" he said in a shrill, strained voice.
Newman's clothes and face were smutted with the grime from the peak,
but his air was debonair. He answered Captain Swope airily. "Why--I
come just now from your forepeak--a most unpleasant, filthy hole,
Angus! And less recently, I come from my grave, from that shameful
grave of stripes and bars to which your lying words sent me, Angus!
I've come to pay you a visit, to sail with you. Why, I'm on your
articles--I am 'A. Newman.' An apt name, a true name--_eh_, Angus?
Come now, are you not glad to see me?"
It was unprecedented, that occurrence. A foremast hand badgering the
captain on his own poop deck; badgering Yankee Swope of the _Golden
Bough_, whilst his two trusty buckos stood by inactive and gaping.
But, as I explained, there was an air about Newman that said "Hands
off!" It was not so much his huge, muscular body; there was something
in the spirit of the man that was respect-compelling; something lethal,
a half-hidden, over-powering menace; something that overawed. He was
no foc'sle Jack, no commonplace hard case; as he stood there alone, he
had the bearing of a man who commanded large ships, who directed great
affairs. And his bearing held inactive and over-awed those two
fighting mates, while he mocked their god, Swope.
And Swope! The man became craven before Newman's upturned gaze. He
was palsied with fear, stark fear. I saw the sweat beads glistening on
his brow. He lifted a shaking hand and wiped them off. Then he
suddenly turned and strode aft, out of our view, without a parting word
to the mates, without even the time honored, "Below, the watch." In
the quiet that was over us, we heard his footsteps as he walked aft.
They were uncertain, like the footsteps of a drunken man. We heard
them descend to the cabin.
Newman turned his gaze upon the lady. She stood there, clutching the
rail. Her body seemed frozen into the attitude. But her face was
alive.
Yes, alive--and not with fear or horror. There was a delight beyond
the powers of description shining in her face. There was incredulity,
with glad conviction overcoming it. Her eyes glowed. Her heart was in
her eyes as she looked at Newman.
Newman spoke, and his voice was rich and sweet, all its harsh menace
gone.
"I have come, Mary," says he.
She did not reply with words. But they looked at each other, those
two, and although there were no more words, yet we gained the
impression they were communing. Men and mates, we gaped, curious and
tongue-tied. This was something quite beyond us, outside our
experience. Bully Fitzgibbon, across the deck from me, pulled wildly
at his mustache, and every movement of his fingers betrayed his
bewilderment.
For what seemed a long time the man and the woman stood silent,
regarding each other. The dusk, which had been gathering, crept upon
us. The lady's face lost its clear outline, and became shadowy.
Suddenly she turned and flitted aft. We listened to her light
footsteps descending to the cabin, as, a short while before, we had
listened to the Old Man's.
When sound of her had ceased, Newman, without being bidden, stepped to
the starboard side and fell into line beside me.
The mate finally broke the awkward silence. Lack of the usual sting
from his voice showed how the scene had shaken him.
"Well--carry on, Mister!" he said to Lynch. "Finish the mustering."
The second mate read off the list of names. With the single exception
of myself, not a man responded with the usual "Here, sir." Not a man
recognized his name among those called; a circumstance not to be
wondered at, for the list was doubtless made up of whatever names
happened to pop into the Knitting Swede's mind. But the mates did not
care about responses. As soon as Lynch was finished, Fitzgibbon
commanded shortly, "Relieve wheel and lookout. Go below, the watch."
We of the starboard watch went below. Newman came with us, and he
walked as he afterwards walked and worked with us, a man apart.