The death of Captain Noah Kendall, while profoundly deplored by his next
in command, first mate Matthew Peasley, had not been permitted by that
brisk young man to interfere in the least with the task of getting
the cargo out of the Retriever, for sailoring, like soldiering, is a
profession in which sentiment is a secondary consideration. Each day
of demurrage to a ship like the Retriever, even at the prevailing low
freight rate, meant a loss of at least a hundred dollars to the owners,
and since navigating a ship safely and expeditiously is the least of a
good skipper's duties, and since, further, Matt Peasley was determined
to be a skipper in the not very distant future, he concluded to give
his owners evidence of the fact that he was, in addition to being a
navigator, also a first-class “hustler.” If the Retriever made a loss on
that voyage he was resolved that no blame should attach to him.
“Skipper's dead, Mike,” he announced to Mr. Murphy, the second mate.
“Policeman in a small boat alongside says the old man got into a row
with the Kru boy that rowed him ashore and the black scoundrel skewered
him. I'm going ashore to look after his body and order a tug to kick
us into our berth. I guess the old man didn't get time to attend to the
business that brought him ashore, poor fellow.”
“Very well, Sir,” Mr. Murphy replied, and murmured some commonplace
expression of regret. He was not particularly shocked for he had lost
shipmates in a hurry before now.
Matt Peasley proceeded to the beach, attended to the necessary details
incident to the skipper's untimely removal, was informed by the Harlow
& Benton Company, Limited, of the location of the berth he was to
discharge, ordered a tug for that afternoon, went to the cable office,
registered his cable address, sent a cablegram to the owners and
returned to the ship.
“Well, Mike,” he announced to the second mate, “I guess I'm the skipper;
following the same line of deduction, I guess you're the chief mate, so
I'll move my dunnage into the old man's cabin and you move into mine.
I'll pick up a second mate in Cape Town before we leave.”
Mr. Murphy eyed his youthful superior with mild curiosity, not
untempered with amusement. “Thank you for the promotion, Captain Matt,”
he replied. “However, if you'll excuse my apparent impudence on the
grounds that I'm about fifteen years older than you and have been longer
in the Blue Star employ, I'd like to make a suggestion.”
“Fire away, Mike.”
Mr. Murphy hitched his belt, walked to the rail, spat tobacco juice from
between his fingers and came back. “You're the youngest chief mate I've
ever seen, and this is your first berth in that capacity,” he began.
“Suppose you hang on to it and don't be so infernally generous.”
“But you have a first mate's license, haven't you?”
“Certainly. But--”
“No ifs or buts, Mike. The skipper's dead; I was first mate;
consequently I take command of the ship, and by virtue of my authority
I appoint you first mate. That goes. You'll do one of two things, Mike.
You'll be first mate or get out of the ship.”
Michael J. Murphy grinned. “You mean that?”
“Naturally.”
“If you stick by that determination you'll find yourself on the beach
in Cape Town, unless you conclude to take my recently vacated berth as
second mate. And I'd hate like the devil to have you do that. There's
neither sense nor profit for you in swapping jobs with me.”
“But I tell you I'm going to be skipper.”
“I know--until old Cappy Ricks sends down a relief captain. If you
promote me now, the relief captain may conclude to retain me as first
mate and then you'd have to take my job or quit the ship; and of course
I wouldn't care to have that happen. I'd have to quit the ship, too. I
wouldn't care to do that. I've made up my mind to sail under the Blue
Star flag for the rest of my natural life and I'd hate to have to change
my mind.”
“I've made up my mind to the same thing, Mike, and I know I'm not going
to change my mind.”
“Well, then, Matt, you stick in your first mate's berth and I'll be
satisfied with my second mate's berth.”
“I suppose you'll say next that the relief skipper will be happy in
poor old Captain Noah's berth, eh?” Matt interrupted. He grinned at Mr.
Murphy.
“Mike, listen to me. There isn't going to be any relief skipper. You're
going back to Hoquiam, Grays Harbor, Washington, U. S. A., as chief
kicker of the barkentine Retriever, and you're going to take orders from
me all the way. In fact, you might as well begin right now. Take your
duds and move into my cabin.”
“Matt,” Mr. Murphy pleaded earnestly, “you don't know Cappy Ricks, do
you?”
“No, but I'll get acquainted with him in due course. Don't let that
worry you Mike.”
“All right, I won't. But what does worry me is the fact that Cappy Ricks
doesn't know you.
“Does he know you?”
“No.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, by proxy. I've heard a lot about him, and that's why I'm in his
employ and resolved to stay there. If a man sails under the Blue
Star flag long enough and behaves himself and displays a little human
intelligence from time to time sooner or later he gets his chance. Cappy
Ricks does all the hiring and firing for the fleet, and whenever he has
a good job to fill, he never goes outside his own employ to fill it. He
always promotes the deserving. You cabled him, of course, that Captain
Kendall has been killed.”
“Yes, I did. And I cabled him also to cable me authority to draw drafts,
as skipper, in order to disburse the vessel.”
“Just like a kid! Just like a kid!” Mr. Murphy groaned. “That finishes
you, Matt. Cappy'll think you're fresh and you'll be ten years proving
to him you are not.”
“It proves I'm on the job,” Matt protested doggedly.
“No matter, Matt. Cappy Ricks will go over the list of his skippers
due for promotion into a larger ship and more pay, and right away he'll
start Captain Noah's successor for Cape Town to bring the ship home.”
“If he does, Mike, he's crazy.”
“Oh, he's crazy enough, Matt, like a fox--so blamed crazy he will not
consider handing over this Retriever to an untried and unknown man who
has been in his employ for less than a voyage. Why, I wouldn't myself.”
“Maybe you think he'll hand her over to you?” Matt asked, with the
suspicion and impetuosity of youth.
“Boy,” said Mr. Murphy patiently, “you're getting into deep water close
to the shore. Starboard your helm and put her on the other tack. If he
gives her to me--which he will not--I'll take her. I've been three years
in his employ. I'm capable--”
“Mike,” Matt interrupted. “I like you fine, but I want to tell you that
if Cappy Ricks cabled you to take charge, I wouldn't let you. I'm next
in command, and it's only etiquette that I should have my chance.”
“Then,” Mr. Murphy murmured sententiously, “there'd be a fight with skin
gloves and I'm afraid you'd get licked, son. I wasted a good many years
in the navy, Matt, and there I learned two things--how to obey and how
to fight with my fists. I was the champion amateur light-heavy-weight of
the Atlantic fleet, and every once in a while something happens to prove
to me that I'm far from being a slouch even at this late date.”
“No offense, Mike. We're crossing our bridges before we come to them,
and besides, I didn't intend to be offensive.”
“I understand. Our conversation was entirely academic,” Murphy admitted
graciously.
“You said you learned to obey in the navy,” Matt suggested. “What's the
matter with obeying my last order?”
“All right, Matt. I'll obey. But remember, I have given you fair
warning. If I move into your cabin to-day, I'll not move out when the
relief skipper comes.”
“I'll take a chance,” said Matt Peasley.