I went below after that watch with the thought of mutiny stirring in
the back of my mind. But in the back, not the front, mind you. For
mutiny on a ship is a dreadful business, as I, a sailor, well knew. A
neck-stretching business! Yet there the thought was, and it stuck, and
pecked ever more insistently at my consciousness as the days passed.
Of course, I was wild with rage at Swope's attempt. And I was anxious
on Newman's account. You see, I looked upon him as my chum, and--had
he not saved my life, up there, on the yard? It is true, there were
none of the usual manifestations of foc'sle friendship between us; we
did not swap tobacco, and yarns, and oaths. Newman did not permit such
intimacy; always he was a man apart, a marked man. But, from the very
first, the man's personality dominated me, and, after that night on the
yardarm, I felt a passionate loyalty to him. He was not insensible to
my friendliness, I knew; he welcomed it, and found comfort in it.
If he had come to me that night, or afterwards, with a scheme for
taking the ship, I should have joined in straightway, no matter how
harebrained it might seem. But, of course, he did no such thing.
Indeed, he never mentioned the incident to me, after we left the deck
that night. For all of him, it might never have happened. And, you
may be sure, I did not intrude upon his reserve with queries, or
reminiscence.
Nor did the rest of the watch approach him. Rather did they avoid him,
as a dangerous person. With that thought of rebellion in my mind, I
watched my watchmates that night with more tolerance than my eyes had
yet shown them. I wanted to judge what stuff was in them.
The stiffs whispered together and eyed us furtively. I did not like
the stuff I saw in them. Rough, lawless, held obedient only by fear,
the scum of the beach--I did not like to imagine them sweeping along
the decks with restraint cast aside, and passions unleashed. The
squareheads were a different kind. Good men and sailors, here, but men
whose habit of life was submission. Yet, I saw they were gravely
disturbed by what had taken place on deck. No wonder. I knew their
minds. "Who is safe in this ship?" they thought. "Who, now, may go
aloft feeling secure he will reach the deck again, alive and unhurt?"
Those squareheads had proof of the mate's temper in the person of their
young landsman, lying broken in his bunk. Now, they had proof of the
skipper's temper.
My eyes met those of Boston and Blackie, eyeing me speculatively, and
the contact brought my musing to a sharp turn. What did Boston and
Blackie think of it? I could tell from their bearing that, for some
reason, they were pleased. I thought of them as fighting material--and
did not relish the thought. Fighters, yes, but foul fighters. I did
not like to think of being leagued with them in an enterprise. And
what was this "rich lay" they spoke of? What was this game they were
willing I should enter? Did they, too, think mutiny?
These thoughts plagued me for days, and I found no answer, or peace of
mind. Hell was preparing in that ship, I felt it in my bones; and we
were getting enough hell already, with drive, drive, drive, from dawn
to dawn. Yet, there were rifts in the clouds.
For one thing, Lynch quieted my mind of the fear that the Old Man would
again get Newman aloft at night, and attempt his life with better
success. The very next day, Lynch came to the foretop, where Newman
and I were working on the rigging. He examined the work, and then
said, abruptly, to Newman,
"I had nothing to do with that affair last night."
"I know you had not," answered Newman.
"I give you warning--he intends to get you," continued the second mate.
"But he'll not get you that way in my watch. From now on, you need not
go aloft after dark."
"Thank you, sir," said Newman.
"You need not," was the response. "I'm not doing this for your sake.
Well--you understand. And make no mistake, my man, as to my position;
I am a ship's officer, and if trouble comes it will find me doing my
duty by my captain's side."
"There will be no trouble if I can prevent it, sir," was Newman's reply.
"Then you have your work cut out for you. You--understand?"
"Yes, I understand," said Newman.
I watched Mister Lynch leap nimbly to the deck, and go striding aft, a
fine figure of a man. "Why, he's on the square!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, he is not like the others," said Newman. "She says his heart is
clean."
She says! Well, it was hardly news to me. I was sure he was in
communication with her. He always made it a point to meet Wong, the
steward, when the latter came forward to the galley. And there were
times in the night watches below when his bunk was empty. He was a
great hand for pacing the deck in lonely meditation, and for stowing
himself away and brooding alone in odd corners. We did not spy upon
him, or force ourselves upon him, you may be sure. Not upon Newman.
The lady was, we understood, forbidden by the Old Man to come forward.
The daily visits to our dogs' kennel, dispensing cheer and mercy, and
for which she was famous the world around, were to be denied us this
voyage. Because of Newman's presence. We missed the visits; they
would have brightened the cruel days. But I don't think any man felt
resentful against Newman. Our sympathies were all with the lady, and
the lady's feelings, we knew, were all with Newman. So it was upon
Yankee Swope's unheeding head we rained our black curses.
The lady was doing what she could to aid us. She held, every morning,
a levee in the cabin for the lame and sick, all who could drag
themselves aft, and tended them skillfully. But this did not help the
bedridden ones. It did not help young Nils.
But nothing could have helped Nils. The bucko had done his work too
well. Not once did the boy rally; daily and visibly his life ebbed.
You must understand the callous indifference of the afterguard to
realize its effect upon the foc'sle. The boy lay dying for weeks, and
not once did the Captain come forward to look at him. Medicines and
opiates were sent forward by the lady, but, though they eased the chap,
they were powerless to salvage his wrecked body. Newman said Nils'
ribs were sticking into his lungs.
Lindquist went aft to ask permission to move the boy to the cabin,
where the lady could nurse him. Swope blackguarded the man, and
Fitzgibbon kicked him forward. Lynch ignored the very existence of
Nils---the lad was not of his watch, and the whole matter was none of
his business. But Mister Fitz came into the port foc'sle every day, to
make sure Nils could not stand on his feet and turn to; and on deck he
would sing out to his watch that Nils' fate was the fate of each man
did he not move livelier. "Jump, you rats! I'll put you all in your
bunks!" he would tell them.
The sight of their young landsman in agony stirred the berserk in the
squareheads of the crew. It made them ripe for revolt, drove them to
lawless acts, as their shanghaiing and the brutality of the officers
could not have done.
These squareheads were no strangers to each other. They were all
friends and old shipmates. The Knitting Swede had crimped them all out
of a Norwegian bark, plied them with drink, and put them on board the
_Golden Bough_ after he had promised to find them a high-waged coasting
ship.
Young Nils was a sort of mascot in this crowd. He was making his first
deep-water voyage under their protection and guidance. Most of them
were his townsmen; they had known him from babyhood. As Lindquist said
to me, his blue eyes filled with pain and rage, "I know his mudder.
When Nils ban so high, I yump him by mine knee." So it was that rage
over the pitiful fate of their dear friend fanned into flame a spark of
rebellion in the squarehead's disciplined souls, and caused them,
eventually, to leap the barriers of race and caste prejudice and make
common cause with the stiffs.
Now, I do not wish to idealize those stiffs. No use saying they were
honest workingmen kidnaped to sea. They were not. They were just what
the mates called them--dogs, scum, vile sweeps of jail and boozing-ken.
With the single exception of the shanghaied parson, there was not a
decent man in the lot. Bums and crooks, all.
These men had lived violent, lawless lives ashore. Here, at sea, the
mates hammered the fear of the Lord and the Law into them. This was
well and good. But the mates hammered too hard. They aimed to cow the
stiffs, and cow them they did. But the stiffs' fear of the afterguard
became so great they were like cornered rats. They came below after a
watch on deck with fresh marks upon their faces and bodies, and heard
little Nils moaning in his pain. And each man said to himself, "I may
be the next to get what the little squarehead got."
Misery loves company, so these stiffs naturally drew close together.
Their common hatred and fear of the afterguard fused them into a unit.
By the time we were a month at sea, the stiffs, like the squareheads,
were in a most dangerous temper, and ripe for any deviltry.
This common state of mind grew beneath my eyes, but at first I did not
see significance in it. A mutinous state of mind is a normal state of
mind in a hell-ship's foc'sle.
But a mutiny was incubating in that ship. There were men forward who
were vitally interested in bringing trouble to a head, in causing an
outbreak of violence, in fomenting an uprising of the slaves. One day,
my eyes were opened to their game.
For weeks I noticed Blackie and Boston circulating among the men during
the dog-watches. They were great whisperers, a secretive pair, and
they never spoke their minds outright before the crowd. I paid them
little attention, for I did not like them, and felt no interest in what
I thought was their gossip. It never occurred to me they were
industriously fanning the spark of revolt, suggesting revenge to the
squareheads, and tickling the rascally imagination of the stiffs with
hints of golden loot.
So far my rule as cock of the foc'sle had been unchallenged. All hands
had accepted my will in foc'sle matters willingly enough, and I had
been careful not to hector. As number one man, it was my place to see
that the men stood their "peggy"--that is, they took their regular turn
about at getting the food at meal time, and cleaning up the foc'sle.
It came Boston's peggy day. He didn't like it a bit. He thought
himself too good for such menial tasks, and suggested that Shorty, the
smallest and weakest of the stiffs, be made permanent peggy. I vetoed
this as unfair, and Boston went about the work, but sullenly.
Next day was Blackie's peggy, as he well knew. When we came below at
noon, he made no move to fetch the grub from the galley.
"How about dinner, Blackie?" I demanded.
"Well--how about it?" he replied. "I'm no servant girl! Get your own
grub!"
All hands looked at me, expectantly. This was open defiance, and they
wanted to see what the cock would do about it. There was only one
thing I could do, and I did it gladly.
I took that chesty stiff by the throat, and squeezed until his eyes
popped. Then I carried him out on deck and stuck his head in the
wash-deck tub, to cool his ardor; the whole watch following us as
interested spectators.
"Well, Blackie, how about dinner?" I asked, when I released my grip.
In answer, he backed quickly away from me, spluttering oaths and salt
water. I watched him warily, for his affair with the second mate had
shown him to be a knife wielder, and I had no wish to be stabbed. True
enough, he jerked out his sheath knife.
"Stop that, you fool!" came Boston's voice, from behind me. "Do you
want to crab the whole game?"
Those words had an astonishing effect upon Blackie. His bellicose
attitude vanished abruptly, he stopped cursing, and his knife went back
into its sheath.
"That dinner, Blackie," I insisted.
"Sure--I'll get it," he answered submissively.
But I wasn't satisfied with my victory. Of course, I was confident I
could have knocked him out as handily as Bucko Lynch, himself, but I
knew it was not fear of me, but obedience to Boston's words that caused
Blackie to give in so readily.
Those words bothered me. "Do you want to crab the whole game?" Now
what the deuce did Boston mean? What game were these two worthies up
to? Undoubtedly, it was that "rich lay" they had spoken to Newman
about. But what had I to do with it? How could I crab their game? I
began to think there was something besides loose talk in these hints of
revenge and loot the pair were dropping in the foc'sle.
I guess Boston knew my suspicions must be aroused, and thought it time
to sound my sentiments. Also, as it turned out, he wanted to pump me
regarding Newman. I was Newman's one close friend, and Boston must
have thought I knew something of the big man's intentions.
Anyway, after supper that evening, as I was sitting on the forehatch,
whittling away at a model of the _Golden Bough_ I was making, Boston
came and sat down beside me.
"Should think you'd be so fed up with this hooker, you wouldn't want
any model of her," he remarked, by way of opening a conversation.
"She's a bonny ship," I told him. "It is not the ship, it is the men
in her. You'll never see a better craft than the _Golden Bough_,
Boston."
"_Faugh_!" he snorted, and followed with a blistering curse. "Blast
your pretty ships! I'd like to see this old hooker go on the rocks, by
God I would! Well--maybe I will see her finish, eh?"
I glanced at him sidewise, and discovered he was likewise regarding me,
with the lids drawn over his pale eyes till they were mere slits. I
didn't like Boston's eyes. For that matter, I didn't like anything
about Boston. But I was interested; I sensed this was no idle talk.
There was something behind the words.
"Small chance of your seeing her finish," I said. "As well found a
ship as there is afloat--and you may call the Old Man and his buckos
what you will, but they are sailormen."
"I've heard of ships sinking in storms," says he.
"You talk like the stiff you are," I scoffed. "Show me the weather
that will drown the _Golden Bough_, with good sailors aft! Besides,
Boston, we're not likely to have any bad weather, for which you can say
a prayer of thanks, for you stiffs would catch it if we did pick up a
decent blow."
"Why not?" he asked.
"It's a fair weather passage," I explained. "These trades will blow us
clean across one hundred and eighty, into the sou'west monsoon, and
with luck that'll carry us into the China Sea. Of course, there is
always the chance of meeting a hurricane this side, or a typhoon on the
other side. You'll squeal if we do, I bet!"
Says he, "Well, now how about running on a rock? We'll be going among
islands, _hey_? These South Sea Islands?"
"Forget it," I replied. "We'll not sight the beach this side of the
Orient, unless the Old Man makes a landfall of Guam. We are running
along sixteen north, and that takes us south of the Sandwich group, and
north of the Marshalls and Carolines."
"Well, now, I guess the Big 'Un has been showing you his map, hey?"
"What's that to you?" I said, shortly.
"Nothing. Nothing at all," he answered, hurriedly.
In truth, I was surprised and nettled. I hadn't got the point of
Boston's questions, and I hadn't supposed he was watching Newman and me
so sharply.
For Boston had it right, I had been looking at the Big 'Un's "map."
Newman had a fine, large scale chart of the Pacific in his bag, and
this he brought out every day, and traced upon it the progress of the
voyage. He got the ship's position either from the steward, or from
the lady, I did not know which.
I had been privileged to see the chart, but I knew that none other had
ventured to approach when it was spread out on Newman's bunk. Newman
had traced the ship's probable course clear to Hong Kong, for my
benefit, and explained to me the problems of the passage. He did not
speak like a man merely guessing, but with authority, like a man who
had sailed his own ship over this course. I absorbed the information
greedily, but did not venture to inquire how he was so positive about
Yankee Swope's sailing plans. Somehow, I knew he was correct.
It pricked my conceit to discover that Boston was aware Newman had
fathered the information that was falling from my lips.
"Say, how long before we reach Hong Kong?" went on Boston.
"You had better ask Newman, himself," I retorted.
"Now don't get mad, Jack," he said humbly. "You know I didn't mean
nothing. Guess you _sabe_ as much about sailing as the Big 'Un,
anyway."
"Well, this is a fast ship--none faster," I told him, mollified by his
flattery. "Say seventy days, at the outside, from 'Frisco to Hong
Kong. Probably sixty days would be nearer to it."
At that he burst out cursing, and consigned the ship and all her
afterguard to the Evil One. "My God, another month of this hell!" he
cried. "Will you stand it, Shreve?"
"Sure. We'll all stand it. What else to do?" I replied.
"What else!" said he. His voice was suddenly crafty. "Well, now,
Shreve, didn't it ever strike you as how we're blasted fools to let
those fellows aft knock us about? There are thirty of us, and two of
them!"
"More than that," I warned him. "You forget Captain Swope, and the
tradesmen. There are seven of them, aft, all armed, and of a fighting
breed. You are hinting at a silly business, Boston."
"Oh, I don't know," he persisted. "Thirty to seven ain't so bad. And
they haven't all the arms--we got our knives, ain't we? And maybe
other things, too."
"Forget it," said I. "Don't imagine for a minute these stiffs will
face guns. You and your mate might, but as for the rest of the
gang--why, Lynch could clean them up single-handed. Better stow that
kind of talk. It's dangerous. You have the law against you, and it's
a neck-stretching affair."
"The law?" he echoed. "What do you think that gang cares for the law?
Mighty few laws they ain't broke in their time! And they may be
stiffs, right enough, but they'll fight--for money!"
"Dare say," I remarked, sarcastically. "And I suppose you'll hire them
with your bags of gold, which you probably have stowed under your bunk?"
"Well, now, maybe I'd just have to promise them something," he said.
He glanced around, then leaned towards me and lowered his voice to a
whisper. "Shreve, there are a hundred thousand dollars in hard cash
aft there in the cabin!"
"What's that?" I exclaimed.
"Yes," he said. "I know. You bet I know. Blackie and me knew before
ever we come on board this cursed hooker. The Swede didn't shanghai
us, you bet!"
"Oh, stow that sort of guff, Boston," I told him. "Maybe the Swede
didn't shanghai you; but if he didn't, it was because you and your mate
were willing to ship with the devil himself in order to get out of the
country."
My words touched his temper, as I thought they would. "You seem to
know a lot more than I know myself," he sneered. Before I could
answer, he regained control of his tongue, and continued with oily
suavity. "I guess the Big 'Un has been talking to you? Hasn't he? I
guess maybe he's told you that Blackie and me are two men who can take
a chance without weakening? Say, Jack, what has the Big 'Un been
saying to you about us? I want particular to know."
"He hasn't said a blessed word about you," I answered, truthfully.
Boston cursed, and favored me with an evil squint; then he hid the look
behind a forced laugh. "Well, If you don't want to tell me, I guess
you don't have to," he remarked. "It don't hurt me and Blackie none,
whatever the Big 'Un says. And say, Jack, you and us ought to be good
friends. Blackie and me know that you're a good man, the kind that'll
take a chance, and keep his word. Well, we're the same. There are
only a few of us in this end of the ship that have any backbone to
speak of, and we ought to stick together. There's pay-dirt in this
ship if we only play the game right."
"What do you mean?" I wanted to know.
But Boston concluded he had said almost enough for once. He rapped his
pipe against the hatch-combing to dislodge the dottle, and got to his
feet. I thought he was going to leave me without replying to my query,
but after he had taken a step or two he spoke over his shoulder, softly.
"That's true what I said about the money, Jack. It's there, just
waiting for a few lads of nerve to come and take it."
"If that talk gets aft, the Old Man will have you thumped into a jelly,
just as an example to the other stiffs," I warned him.
He gave the devil's cackle that passed with him for a laugh, and
stepping close to my side, spoke directly into my ear.
"Who is going to take the talk aft? Not you. Blackie and me know that
Jack Shreve ain't a snitch. Not the Big 'Un. You can tell him what I
said if you like. You can tell him something more. Blackie and me
think there is a snitch in this gang, and the Big 'Un had better keep
his eyes peeled for a double-cross. You tell him that. You tell him
to ask Nigger about it."
"What do you mean?" I cried.
His answer was a mysterious shake of the head, and he disappeared into
the foc'sle.