In due course Captain Ole Peterson arrived at Cape Town. As the steamer
which bore him slipped up Table Bay to her pier All Hands And Feet saw
a big barkentine, flying the American flag, at anchor just inside the
breakwater and rightly conjectured she was his future command. Three
hours ashore proved ample time to consummate all of the Retriever's
neglected business. He discovered that the man to whom he was to
administer a good, sound, commercial thrashing, as per Cappy Ricks'
instructions, had already purchased and gotten aboard stores and water
for the voyage back to Grays Harbor, so All Hands And Feet drew some
money from the consignees, to be deducted from the freight money, paid
off all the vessel's bills, O.K.'d the consignees' statement of account
to be forwarded to the owners, received a ninety-day draft on London,
in payment of the freight, mailed it to his owners, cleared his vessel,
procured a reliable man to witness the formal transfer of authority from
Matt Peasley to himself, engaged a launch and set out for the Retriever.
All Hands And Feet had had ample time to plan his campaign, and he
had planned it well. Immediately upon setting foot on the deck of the
Retriever he planned to attack; then, this duty accomplished, he would
send his witness ashore, up hook and away. The attack having taken place
in British waters All Hands And Feet hoped Matt Peasley would have no
redress in American waters; and if he took the complainant to sea with
him the man Peasley would, of a certainty, have no legal redress in
British waters!
Mr. Murphy was the first to sight All Hands And Feet. The worthy fellow
had observed the arrival of the steamer and it had occurred to him that
possibly Cappy Ricks' messenger might be aboard her. He had been on
the lookout for two hours, accordingly, and the instant he saw a launch
coming toward the Retriever his suspicions were fully aroused. He ran
below and returned with the two ounce gloves and Captain Kendall's
powerful marine glasses, which latter he leveled at the approaching
launch, and while the new skipper was still a couple of cable lengths
distant, Mr. Murphy recognized him. Instantly he secured the two ounce
gloves and ran aft to where Matt Peasley, dressed in slippers, duck
trousers and undershirt, sat under an awning reading Sinful Peck.
“Matt,” he declared, “the special messenger will be aboard in about
three shakes of a lamb's tail. I recognize him.”
“Who is he?” Matt demanded coolly.
“All Hands And Feet--and believe me, he's there! He isn't a man, Matt,
he's a bear--he's a devil, and if he ever gets his hands on you it's
Kitty bar the door! Get into the gloves, boy, get into the gloves. You
could smash that big Swede to your heart's content, but you wouldn't
even stagger him with the first few punches. You'd just break your hands
on him before you could knock him out and then he'd walk over you. Into
the gloves, Matt, and save your knuckles.”
“All right, Mike. Don't be in such a hurry. Call a couple of hands and
let down the companion ladder so the special messenger can bring his
dunnage aboard. I'll fight him after I've finished this chapter--that
is, if he insists on being accommodated.”
“He'll insist,” Mr. Murphy declared. “He likes it, and the reason he
likes it is because he does it well, and that's the reason he's here. He
won't waste any ceremony on you, Matt. He's always up and doing.”
Matt finished his chapter of Sinful Peck just as All Hands And Feet,
followed by a Cape Town gentleman and two Kru boys, bearing respectively
a brown canvas telescope basket and a sea chest, bore down upon him,
convoyed by Mr. Murphy.
“A big Swede skipper,” Matt Peasley soliloquized, as he eyed the
stranger with alert interest. “Thunder, but he's big. He's the biggest
thing I ever saw walking on two legs, with the exception of a trick
elephant.” He rose, put down his book and advanced to greet his
visitors. While All Hands And Feet was still fully thirty feet from him
he bawled aloud:
“You ban Mr. Peasley?”
“Captain Peasley,” young Matt corrected him. “Since the death of Captain
Kendall I have been in charge of the vessel; hence, for the present, I
am known as Captain Peasley. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
All Hands And Feet glanced appraisingly at Matt Peasley and did him the
honor to remove his coat and vest.
“Yes; it's pretty hot down in these latitudes,” Matt remarked, by way of
being pleasant and making conversation.
All Hands And Feet removed an envelope from his coat pocket and handed
it to Matt; and while the latter perused it the big Swede strode to the
scuttle butt and helped himself to a drink of water. Matt opened the
envelope and read this communication from Cappy Ricks:
San Francisco, California.
February 20, 19--.
Mr. Matthew Peasley,
Chief Mate Barkentine Retriever,
Cape Town, South Africa.
My Dear Mr. Peasley:
Cast your eye along the lines of the bearer of this note, Captain
Ole Peterson, who comes to Cape Town to take command of the
Retriever. Within five minutes he will, acting under
instructions from me and without the slightest personal animus
toward yourself, proceed to administer to you the beating of a
lifetime. By the time he gets through wiping the deck with you
perhaps you will realize the necessity, in the future, of obeying
orders from your owners.
In your cablegram received to-day, you take occasion to remind us
that no manager or owner has authority to disrate a ship's
officer. This is quite true. Such authority is vested only in
the master of the ship. You need have no fear for your job,
however. We believe you to be a clever first mate, otherwise
Captain Kendall would not have dug you up out of the forecastle;
and believing this, naturally we dislike the thought of disrating
you. We have, therefore, instructed Captain Peterson to retain
you in your berth as first mate.
However, in view of the fact that we have informed him of your
amiable intentions of throwing him overboard, he will first
inculcate in you that spirit of respect to your superiors which
you so manifestly lack. He will then dip you into the drink, to
bring you to, and after that you will kindly go forward and break
out the anchor. You signed for the round trip and you're going
to complete your contract. Remember that.
Cordially and sincerely yours,
Blue Star Navigation Company,
By Alden P. Ricks,
President.
Matt Peasley read this extraordinary communication twice, then folded it
and calmly placed it in his pocket.
“May I inquire, sir,” he said, facing the gentleman who had accompanied
All Hands And Feet aboard the Retriever, “who you are and the nature of
your business?”
“I am the American consul, Mr. Peasley, and I am here at the invitation
of Captain Peterson, the master of this ship, to witness the formal
transfer of authority from you to him. I was given to understand by
Captain Peterson that you might offer some slight objection to this
arrangement.”
“Slight objection!” Matt Peasley replied with a rising inflection, and
grinned maliciously.
The consul had his Yankee sense of humor with him and chuckled as Matt
lifted his big body on his toes and stretched both arms lazily. Then
Matthew Peasley turned toward All Hands And Feet.
“I have a letter from the owners of the Retriever,” he said
respectfully, “which leads me to presume that you are to supersede me
in command of the vessel.” All Hands And Feet nodded. “Which being the
case,” Matt Peasley continued, “as a mere matter of formality, you will
of course present your credentials as master.”
“Sure!” Ole replied pleasantly, and sidled toward Matt Peasley with
outstretched arms. Could Cappy Ricks have seen his skipper then, he
would have reminded the Old Man more than ever of a bear.
Matt Peasley needed no blueprint of the big Swede's plans. All Hands
And Feet, depending on his sheer horse power and superior weight, always
fought in mass formation, as it were. His modus operandi was to embrace
his enemy in those terrible arms, squeeze the breath out of him with
one bearlike hug, then lay him on the deck, straddle him, and pummel him
into insensibility at his leisure. Matt gave ground rapidly and held up
a warning hand.
“One moment, my friend,” he requested. “Before you get familiar on brief
acquaintance, don't you think you had better present your credentials?”
All Hands And Feet shook his two great fists and grinned good-naturedly.
“How dese ban suit you for credentials?” he queried.
“Fine,” Matt Peasley answered; “only, before you present them, our first
duty is to the ship. I take it that you have cleared the vessel and that
after trimming me you intend to put to sea.”
“You ban guess it,” the Swede rumbled. “Put up de dooks. Anyhow, I ban't
have to fight little feller. Dat ban one comfort.”
“You cleared the ship, eh? Well, Swede, I'm glad to hear that. I
should have cleared her myself and sailed long ago if I had only had
a skipper's ticket; but these British custom-house officials are great
sticklers for red tape and they wouldn't clear me. And, of course, a man
can't sail without his papers. When he does they send a gunboat
after him. However,” he added brightly “the ship is cleared and the
skipper--so I am unofficially informed--is aboard. By the way, Swede, I
left a lot of O.K.'d bills for stores and provision up at the office of
the Harlow & Benton Company, Limited. Did you square up for them?”
“Yah; everything ban shipshape,” All Hands And Feet assured him.
“And you insist on presenting your credentials in bunches of fives, eh?”
All Hands And Feet nodded and once more commenced sidling toward Matt
Peasley, who backed away again, meantime addressing himself to the
United States consul:
“You heard what he said, Mr. Consul. He may be my superior officer, but
I have not been informed of that fact officially; and meantime, so far
as I am concerned, he is merely a fine, big squarehead who has climbed
aboard my ship uninvited and attacked me. Did you ever see a sea bully
licked, Mr. Consul?”
“I have never had that pleasure, Mr. Peasley.”
All the time Matt Peasley was circling around the deck, with All Hands
And Feet sidling after him.
“Then you've got something coming, sir,” Matt replied. “Help yourself to
a reserved seat on the rail and watch the joyous procedure. Mr. Murphy?”
“Here, sir,” Mr. Murphy replied promptly.
“I'm going to thrash the big fellow, Mr. Murphy. Stand by to see fair
play and keep the crew off him. I observe you have equipped yourself
with a belaying-pin. Thank you, Mr. Murphy. You anticipate the
situation.”
He turned to All Hands And Feet, who was still crowding him as they
circled the deck. “Stop where you are, my friend; otherwise, Mr. Murphy
will crack you on the head with the belaying-pin.”
All Hands And Feet grinned patronizingly and paused.
“Vell?” he queried.
“On my ship,” Matt continued, “all fights are pulled off under my rules.
Kicking, choking, biting, gouging and deadly weapons are prohibited.
If you get me down you can use your fists on me, but anything else
will necessitate the interference of the referee with his trusty
belaying-pin.”
“Vell?” All Hands And Feet queried again. He was very eager for the
fray.
“We have procured a set of two-ounce gloves in anticipation of this
physical culture exhibition,” Matt replied. “Unfortunately, however, I
fear your hands will not fit them. Would you care to try them on?”
“Cut it oud! Cut it oud!” the enemy rumbled contemptuously, and again
commenced his advance.
“One minute, then, my friend, until I put on--”
“Fight mit your bare hands like a man!” the big Swede bellowed
scathingly.
“You forget. I told you all fights on my ship are pulled off under my
rules. I always fight with two-ounce gloves.”
“All righd. Suit yourself.” All Hands And Feet felt he could afford to
give the enemy a trifle the better of the argument without the slightest
prejudice to his own chances for success.
Accordingly, Mr. Murphy skillfully bandaged Matt Peasley's hands, drew
on the gloves and gently shoved his young champion toward the center of
the deck. “Let 'er go!” he announced.
“Come Swede! Present your credentials!” Matt taunted. His long left
flashed out and cuffed All Hands And Feet on the nose.
It was a mere love-tap! All Hands And Feet grinned pityingly, and with
his left arm guarding his face, rushed.
“Lower deck!” Mr. Murphy warned, and laughed as Matt planted left and
right in the midriff and danced away from the Swede's swinging right.
All Hands And Feet grunted--a most unwarriorlike grunt--and dropped both
hands--whereupon a fog suddenly descended upon his vision. Faintly he
made out a blur that was Matt Peasley; bellowing wrathfully he rushed.
Matt gave ground and the Swede's vision cleared and he paused to
consider the situation.
“No rest for the wicked,” Mr. Murphy declared. “At him, boy, at him!”
All Hands And Feet realized he faced a desperate situation, and as Matt
stepped in he ducked and leaped upon his antagonist.
“By yiminy,” he yelled. “I got you now!” and his great hands closed
around Matt Peasley's neck.
“Lower deck!” Mr. Murphy yelled shrilly, and a volley of short arm
blows commenced to rattle on the big Swede's stomach. For at least seven
seconds Matt worked like a pneumatic riveter; then--
“Swing your partner for the grand right and left,” Mr. Murphy counseled,
and Matt closed with All Hands And Feet, and managed to shake the badly
winded champion off.
“All off,” Mr. Murphy declared to the American consul and dropped his
marline-spike, as Matt Peasley ripped left and right, right and left
into Ole Peterson's dish face. “Watch the skipper--our skipper, I mean.
Regular young human pile-driver.” He raised his voice and called to Matt
Peasley. “He's rocking on his legs now, sir; but keep away from those
arms. He's dangerous and you're givin' him fifty pounds the best of it
in the weights. Try the short ribs with your left and feel for his chin
with the right, sir. Very nicely done, sir! Now--once more!”
Mr. Murphy nodded politely to the American consul.
“Excuse me,” he said. “The bigger they are the harder they fall, and
the Retriever's deck ain't no nice place to bump a man's head. I'll just
skip round in back and catch him in my arms.”
Which being done, Mr. Murphy laid All Hands And Feet gently on deck,
walked to the scuttle butt, procured a dipperful of water and threw it
into the gory, battered face. Matt Peasley had simply walked round him
and, with the advantage of a superior reach, had systematically cut
Captain Ole Peterson to strings and ribbons.
He held up the blood-soaked gloves for Mr. Murphy to untie the strings,
the while he sniffed a little afternoon breeze that had just sprung up,
blowing straight for the open sea.
“When he comes to, Mr. Murphy,” he ordered calmly, “escort him to your
old room. Have one of the men stow his dunnage there also; and tell him
if he shows his nose on deck until I give him permission, he shall have
another taste of the same. Mr. Consul, I should be highly honored if you
would step into my cabin and hoist one to our own dear native land.”
“With pleasure,” the consul replied. “Though I cannot, in my capacity as
a citizen of the United States, endorse your--er--mutiny, nevertheless,
as a United States consul at Cape Town I shall take pleasure in
certifying to the fact that the fallen gladiator was the aggressor,
that he did not present his credentials, and that you had no official
knowledge of his identity.”
“I wish you would make an affidavit to that effect, under the seal of
the Consulate, and mail it to me at Hoquiam, Washington, U. S. A.,”
Matt pleaded, as they reached his cabin. He reached into poor old Cap'n
Noah's little private locker. “I've a suspicion, sir, I'm going to need
your affidavit very badly.”
“I shall do so, Mr. Peasley. May I inquire what you purpose doing with
Captain Peterson?”
“Captain Peasley--if you please, Mr. Consul.” Matt looked up and
grinned. “I think,” he continued, as he inserted the corkscrew, “I shall
ship that boy as second mate if he's willing to work. If he's sullen, of
course he'll have to remain in his room--and I shall not permit him to
present his credentials now.”
“Captain Peasley,” the consul warned seriously. “I'm afraid you're in
very, very Dutch.”
“I wouldn't be surprised. However, it will be about three months before
I commence to suffer, and in the meantime I'm going to be supremely
happy skippering the barkentine Retriever back to Grays Harbor, if they
hang me for it when I get there. Say when!”
“When!”
“Here's success to crime, Mr. Consul.”
“Good luck to you, you youthful prodigy; good luck and bon voyage,
Mr.--I mean Captain Peasley.”
“Thank you, Mr. Consul. I hate to hurry you away; fact is, I'd like to
have you stay aboard and have dinner with us, but if this breeze holds
good I can save my owners an outward towage bill, and I'll have to
hustle. So I'll bid you good-bye, Mr. Consul. Glad to have had you for
the little exhibition. Here is my name and address--and please don't
forget that affidavit.”
When the American consul left the ship Matt Peasley was on the poop
bawling orders; up on the topgallant forecastle the capable Mr. Murphy
and his bully boys were walking around the windlass to the bellowing
chorus of Roll A Man Down! while the boatswain, promoted by Matt Peasley
to second mate, was laying aloft forward shaking out the topsails and
hoisting her head-sails. When the consul looked again, the American
barkentine Retriever had turned her tail on Cape Town and was scampering
down Table Bay with a bone in her teeth; heeling gently to the
freshening breeze, she was rolling home in command of the boy who had
joined her five months before as an able seaman.
Matt Peasley rounded the Cape of Good Hope nicely, but he had added
materially to his stock of seamanship before he won through the
tide-rips off Point Aghulas and squared away across the Indian Ocean.
Coming up along the coast of Australia he had the sou'east trades and
he crowded her until Mr. Murphy forgot the traditions of the sea, forgot
that Matt Peasley was the skipper and hence not to be questioned, and
remembered that the madman was only a boy.
“Captain Matt,” he pleaded, “take some clothes off the old girl, for the
love of life! She's making steamer time now, and if the breeze freshens
you'll lift the sticks out of her.”
“Lift nothing, Mike. I know her. Cap'n Noah told me all about her. You
can drive the Retriever until she develops a certain little squeak up
forward--and then it's time to shorten sail. She isn't squeaking yet,
Mike. Don't worry. She'll let us know,” and his beaming glance
wandered aloft to the straining cordage and bellying canvas. “Into it,
sweetheart,” he crooned, “into it, girl, and we'll show this Cappy
Ricks what we know about sailing a ship that can sail! Meager maritime
experience, eh? I'll show him!”
Oh, Sally Brown, I love your daughter,
I love your daughter, indeed I do,
he caroled, and buck-and-winged his way back to the poop, for he was
only a boy, life was good, he was fighting a fight and as Mr. Murphy
remarked a minute later when Matt ordered him to bend the fore-staysail
on her; “What the hell!”
Day and night Matt Peasley drove her into it. He stood far off shore
until he ran out of the sou'east trades, fiddled around two days in
light airs and then picked up the nor'east trades; drove her well
into the north, hauled round and came romping up to Grays Harbor bar
seventy-nine days from Cape Town. A bar tug, ranging down the coast,
hooked on to him and snaked him in.