HOW ETHAN CARLYLE FACED THE BULLY OF THE RANGER
The knowledge displayed by Ethan in the working of a ship during the
first week out, and his ready courage in the taking of a couple of
British prizes, won the regard of the Ranger’s tars, and he was ever
a welcome visitor to the forecastle when he chose to go there. Many
were the yarns they told him of voyages with Barry, Murray, Whipple and
other hearts of oak; and many were those he told in return of strange
seas, strange ports and stranger people.
He had finished telling of an adventure in the China Sea in his
grandfather’s ship, Warlock; and during the appreciative pause that
followed, the silence was rudely broken by a loud, sneering laugh.
“He pulls a long bow for a youngster,” said a voice; “and you seasoned
tars sit around and draw it in like sucking pigs their mammy’s milk.”
Ethan flushed scarlet, and a murmur went up from the watch below. But
it was the master’s mate that spoke, a huge-chested Canadian named
Blake; and no one among the seamen dared to resent his words, for in
his week among them he had, by his ruffianism, cowed them all. A few,
at the beginning, had dared to defy him; but his brawny fists had soon
beaten them into submission. Indeed, by this time, the forecastle had
come to be a sort of grill upon which the bully toasted his shipmates
one after the other and laughed at their helpless squirming.
Ethan made no reply to the man’s remark. Longsword, who sat with his
broad back against the heel of the bowsprit, grew crimson, and two
sharp points of light shot into his eyes; but he made no movement;
since the death of Ethan’s father he had come to look upon the lad as
his superior officer, and so strong was the military idea fixed in his
mind that he never took an important step without orders.
The master’s mate took a seat upon an upturned tub and regarded his
mates with a sneering smile.
“It’s amusing,” said he, “to stand and watch you taking in all the plum
duff that this boy gives you. I suppose,” with a significant laugh,
“you’re duty bound to do it because he’s a friend to the skipper.”
Still there was no reply; Ethan sat still, never even glancing at the
man; the seamen shifted uneasily in their places; they felt assured
that the bully meant to pick a quarrel with Ethan, and while they
did not like it, his demeanor had so awed them that they dared not
interfere. Blake seemed to have mapped out his plan of action well in
advance, and proceeded.
“It may be an honor to be a friend to a captain, but I don’t know. What
sort of captains have you in this American navy of yours? I’ve sailed
in British ships, and I tell you they wouldn’t let your skippers swab
the quarter deck.”
Still he got no answer, though there was no lack of scowling looks
directed at him.
“And this Captain Jones,” he went on, his face alive with malice, “was
one time named Paul, I hear, just plain John Paul. He was drove out of
the British merchant service for killing a sailor by flogging, and he
come to America and changed his name.”
Ethan had come to admire John Paul Jones greatly since he came aboard
the Ranger, and this repetition of an old slander aroused him at once.
“If you know anything about the matter at all,” said he quietly, “you
know that what you say is false!”
“What’s that?” shouted the bully, leaping to his feet.
“I said it was false. It was a thing invented by his enemies; when he
defied them and invited them to prove it, they feared to come forward.”
“Maybe,” spoke the master’s mate, folding his thick arms across his
bulging chest, “you think that I am afraid to come forward, as you call
it.”
“It seems to me,” said Ethan as he rose slowly to his feet, “that you
are too ready to bluster and bully people whom you think will not
fight.” His voice had been low and his movements of the most deliberate
as he said this. Then suddenly his manner changed; like a flash he
stripped off his woolen shirt and cried, sharply: “Get ready; I’m going
to make you prove what you’ve said.”
Longsword came to his feet like a shot, and two long strides took
him to Ethan’s side. The boy’s bared body gleamed like satin under
the glare of the ship’s lanterns, and the strong fingers of the
Irish trooper at once began kneading the long, supple muscles of the
arms, chest and back and performing other services that his years of
experience told him would be of benefit.
Blake stood, for a moment, dumbfounded, unable to credit his eyes;
there was a clattering of draught boards as sailors who had been
playing sprung up, a hissing of sharply in-drawn breath, and then a
ring of human bodies formed in a twinkling; a circle of tense faces
showed the interest that was excited in the breasts of all.
The master’s mate was slow of brain; but when he at last realized that
a combat was inevitable, he manifested much savage satisfaction.
“I’ve got you safe now,” said he, as he stripped off his shirt in
turn. “And I’ll beat you so badly that you’ll think keel-hauling is
play in comparison.”
“You’ll never beat him by talking about it, my bucko,” said Longsword,
grimly, still grooming his principal in a very workmanlike manner.
In a moment the two had faced each other. The bulk of the Canadian
seaman and the slenderness of the young American were now, more than
ever, evident. But Blake was muscle bound, ponderous in his movements
and scant of wind; nevertheless he was a formidable foe, for his bulk
suggested power, and his cruel expression denoted a merciless nature.
Ethan’s frame was strong, but needed the filling that years would
bring; his muscles, thanks to the effort of Longsword, were those of
a trained athlete, but when compared with the bully he looked almost
frail.
The watch below noted all this; they also saw the panther-like grace
with which the lad advanced to the centre of the human ring, and marked
the lumbering movements of Blake as he did likewise.
“Mind yourself,” warned the Irish dragoon as he sent his man forward.
“Don’t let him clinch. He’ll have ye then, Master Ethan.”
The two met in the centre and raised their guards. Ethan’s was free,
swinging and low; Blake’s was high and held as rigid as iron. With
short cat-like steps Ethan wove in and out; the bully watched him
narrowly; the regular opening and closing of his hands showed that he
was meditating a rush--a grapple--and then Ethan would be at his mercy.
The great weight of the man must crush the slighter boy to the deck.
Around and around crept the soft-footed young athlete; Blake wheeled
constantly to face him, still holding his high, rigid guard. Suddenly
the man’s bulging muscles grew tense; Ethan knew that another moment
would bring the expected rush; with the speed of lightning his right
shot out and landed a smashing blow in the other’s wind; then he went
dancing away, a smile upon his lips. The lad continued to follow these
tactics. Every time Blake stepped in to clinch, Ethan’s left hand would
dart in a quick stab. Each succeeding failure to get within reach
made Blake more and more ferocious; the lad’s tantalizing smile, and
Longsword’s words of advice, served to almost madden him.
He began to make savage, bull-like rushes; his thick arms thrashed
like flails. Laughter came from the watch below as he failed again
and yet again. Ethan had expected much more from his huge opponent; a
growing contempt took possession of him; he began to step in and out
with little or no caution; his second called to him frantically to be
careful, but he paid no heed.
A gleam of cunning shot through the brain of the panting giant; he drew
in his breath in gasps; his movements were labored; his knees seemed to
quiver beneath him.
“Finish him,” came the cry from the sailors, delighting in the bully’s
defeat.
Longsword shouted his warnings madly, but Ethan was after his foe like
a flash, and driving in short, jarring blows with all the power of his
athletic young body. Suddenly Blake’s burly form stiffened and lurched
forward; his great arms whirled, and one brawny fist landed with
terrific force upon Ethan’s body. It was his first blow of the battle.
Ethan went white and swayed weakly, his hands groping blindly. With a
savage grin Blake dashed at him.
“Down,” yelled Longsword desperately. The reeling brain of the sorely
hurt boy just managed to grasp the meaning of this advice, and he sank
to his knees just in time to escape the shattering blow that passed
above his head.
“Stand off,” snarled the Irish dragoon as he worked like mad over his
pupil. He turned his face to glare over his shoulder at Blake, and the
great scar across it seemed to burn like fire.
A friendly hand dashed cold water over Ethan’s bare back; the shock
cleared the lad’s head, and clinging to Longsword he regained his
feet, his breath wheezing in his throat, his chest laboring in great
spasmodic sobs.
At this point the ring at the side nearest the forecastle hatch
opened and Captain Paul Jones appeared; behind him showed the face of
Lieutenant Simpson, wrinkled with malicious satisfaction. The commander
half raised his hand for a gesture that would have stopped the combat;
but he paused, hesitated; then he caught the appeal in Ethan’s wide
open eyes. He nodded quickly. The crowd drew a breath of relief. The
fight was to go on.
Longsword sluiced more water over his charge, taking care to stand
between him and his opponent, so as to give him the benefit of every
second’s delay.
“Stand out of the way,” raved Blake. “Play fair, there!”
“Fair play,” came from all hands. They almost to a man desired to see
Blake defeated; but it must be done fairly. Ethan shoved Shamus aside
and faced his foe once more, pale and perceptibly weak.
The bully rushed, but Ethan evaded him. With each passing moment the
boy felt the glow of fresh life stealing through his numbed limbs,
and to avoid the heavy plunges of Blake grew easy once more. He began
again to rock the other’s head with his straight shoulder drives. But,
for all this, he found himself, little by little, being driven back to
the side of the ring, Blake pressing eagerly after him. Now and then
Ethan would dart in a stinging hit; the man would shake his head in a
bull-like motion, but still come on.
At length the lad could retreat no farther; he was preparing to feint
and dart aside when he stumbled over an outstretched foot. He shouted
for those behind him to take notice, and then stumbled again. There
came an answering cry from the vigilant Longsword, who hurled himself
across the ring and struck down the Lascar, Siki, whose treacherous
foot was stretched into Ethan’s way.
The young American’s attention was taken by this incident for a moment;
then Blake came driving at him like a bison; Ethan was penned up, his
back to the throng of seamen, with no hope of escape by his usual
tactics of retreat.
So he braced himself and met the rush with all the power of his square
young shoulders. Once, twice, thrice he struck, throwing his head from
side to side to avoid the swinging hits of the other. Then, suddenly,
he felt Blake’s big body give before his blows; the next instant he was
standing gazing with dazed eyes, at the prostrate form of the Ranger’s
bully as he lay, with wide flung arms, upon the deck.