The big steam schooner Quickstep was lying at the Los Medanos dock when
Matt Peasley reported for duty. The captain was not aboard, but the
first mate received him kindly and explained that Captain Kjellin had
gone down to San Francisco by train for a little social relaxation and
to bring back funds to pay off the longshoremen.
Early on Monday morning the crew and a large force of stevedores
commenced to discharge the vessel. Two winches were kept busy, the first
mate being in charge of the work up forward and Matt superintending that
aft. The shingles were loaded in huge rope cargo nets, snatched out of
the ship and swung overside onto flat cars, which were shunted off into
the drying yard as soon as loaded.
The captain returned at noon on Tuesday, and at two o'clock the last
bundle of shingles was out of the Quickstep, for the mate had worked
overtime Monday night in order that they might finish discharging early
enough on Tuesday afternoon to drop down to Oleum and take on fuel oil
for the next voyage. This schedule would bring them to the dock at
San Francisco about six o'clock, where they would take on stores and
passengers and sail at seven for Eureka, on Humboldt Bay, where they
would arrive Wednesday night. On Thursday they would commence taking on
cargo, but since they had to take shingles from several mills round the
bay, they were bound to be delayed waiting for tides to get in and
out, and in all probability they would not be loaded and at sea until
Saturday night, which would give them Sunday at sea--and in the lumber
trade on the Pacific Coast the only profitable way to spend Sunday is
to spend it at sea. To spend it in port is a day lost, with the crew
loafing and drawing full pay for it. The mate explained to Matt that
Captain Kjellin would drive them hard to maintain this schedule, for
he prized his job as master of the Quickstep, and had a reputation for
speed and efficiency with his owners which he was anxious to maintain.
Despite their best efforts, however, the vessel was doomed to fall
behind her schedule. At Oleum they found the oil dock lined with vessels
taking on fuel, and in consequence were forced to wait two hours for a
berth; seeing which the captain went ashore and telephoned his owners
that he would be unable to get to the dock in San Francisco until about
eight o'clock. Consequently, Mr. Skinner, realizing that the passengers
their agent had booked for the Quickstep, by reason of the cut-rates
prevailing on lumber steamers, would not wait on the dock until the
Quickstep should arrive, instructed the captain to lay over in San
Francisco all night and put to sea at nine o'clock Wednesday morning.
In the meantime he said he would send a clerk down to the dock to notify
the waiting passengers of the unavoidable change in schedule.
Promptly at eight o'clock Wednesday morning the Quickstep got away from
the dock. The minute she was fairly out the Golden Gate, however, she
poked her nose into a stiff nor'west gale; and as she was bound north
and was empty, this gale, catching her on the port counter, caused her
to roll and pitch excessively, and cut her customary speed of ten
miles an hour down to five. Every passenger aboard was soon desperately
seasick, and off Point Reyes so violently did the Quickstep pitch that
even some members of the crew became nauseated, among them Matt Peasley.
He had never been seasick before and he was ashamed of himself now,
notwithstanding the fact that he knew even the hardiest old seadogs are
not proof against mal-de-mer under certain extraordinary conditions.
Captain Kjellin, coming up on the bridge during Matt's watch, found
the latter doing the most unseamanlike thing imaginable. Caught in
a paroxysm at the weather end of the bridge, Matt, in his agony, was
patronizing the weather rail! The captain heard him squawk, and ducked
to avoid what instinct told him the gale would bring him his way.
“Vat you ban tankin' of?” he roared furiously. “You damned landsman!
Don't you know enough to discharge dot cargo over der lee rail?”
Having disposed of a hearty breakfast, Matt raised his green face and
stared sheepishly at the Finn. “You didn't get sprayed, did you, sir?”
he queried breathlessly.
“No, but who der devil ever heard of a seaman gettin' sick to
windward--?”
“I know it looks awful, sir,” quavered Matt. “I thought something like
this might happen, and in order to be prepared for eventualities I
hung a fire bucket over the edge of the weather-bridge railing and set
another there by the binnacle. The man at the wheel got me started,
sir. He asked me if I liked fat pork. Can't you see that if I had made a
quick run for the lee rail while the vessel was pitching to leeward
the chances are I'd continue right on overboard? As soon as I get my
bearings again I'll empty the bucket, sir.”
“Der fire buckets ban't for dot purpose.”
“All right, sir. I'll buy you a new fire bucket when we get to Eureka,”
Matt answered contritely.
Kjellin stayed on the bridge a few minutes, growling and glaring, but
Matt was too ill and dispirited to pay any attention to him, so finally
he went below.
The Quickstep bucked the gale all the way to Humboldt Bar, and tied up
at the first mill dock at half past one o'clock on Friday. It was two
o'clock before the passengers and their baggage had been sent ashore,
but the minute the last trunk went over the rail the loading began.
“We'll work overtime again to-night,” the first mate told Matt at
luncheon. “The old man will drive us hard to-morrow, and we'll have more
overtime Saturday night so we can get to sea early Sunday morning.”
“I don't care,” Matt replied. “I get seventy-five cents an hour for my
overtime, and I'm big enough to stand a lot of that. But, believe me,
I'll jump lively. The old man's out of sorts on account of the delay due
to that head wind.”
At three o'clock the captain walked aft, where Matt Peasley was
superintending the stowing in the after hold.
“Is dot all you've got to do,” he sneered--“settin' roundt mit your
hands in your poggeds?”
Matt glared at him. True, his hands were in his pockets at that moment,
but he was not setting round. He was watching a slingload of shingles
hovering high over the hatch, and the instant it was lowered he intended
to leap upon it, unship the cargo hook, hang the spare cargo net on
it and whistle to the winchman to hoist away for another slingload. He
controlled his temper and said:
“I'm doing the best I can, sir. That winchman doesn't have to wait on
us a second, sir. We handle them as fast as they swing them in from the
mill dock.”
“Yump in an' do somedings yourself,” Kjellin growled. “Don't stand
roundt like a young leddy.”
“D'ye mean you want I should mule shingles round in this hold like a
longshoreman?”
“Sure! Ve got to get to sea Sunday morning, und every liddle bit helps.”
“Well, then you'll get along without my little bit. If you don't know
your business, sir, I know mine. Somebody's got to tend that sling,
and everybody's business is nobody's business. If I'm not on the job a
bundle of shingles may come flying down from above and kill a man, or
that heavy cargo block may crack a stevedore on the head. Who's going to
look after the broken bundles and see that they're repacked if I don't?
I can't do that and mule shingles round in this hold, sir; and what's
more I'm not going to do it.”
“Den, by yimminy, you get off der ship!” the captain roared. “I don't
vant no loafers aboard my boat, und if you tank--”
“Stow the gab, you big Finn! I'm through. Pay me off and help yourself
to another second mate.” And Matt put on his coat and whistled to the
winchman to steady his slingload while he climbed out of the hold.
Kjellin followed and Matt preceded him to his stateroom, where the
captain paid him the few dollars he had coming to him.
“Sign clear,” he ordered, and Matt took an indelible pencil and stooped
over the skipper's desk to sign the pay roll. As he straightened up
the captain's powerful left forearm came round Matt's left shoulder and
under his chin, tilting his head backward, while the Finn's left knee
ground into the small of his back. He was held as in a vise, helpless,
and Kjellin spoke:
“Ven I get fresh young faler like you, an' he quit me cold, I lick him
after I pay him off.”
“I see,” Matt replied calmly. “That makes it a plain case of assault and
battery, whereas if you lick him before you pay him off, he can sue your
owners. You're a fine, smart squarehead!”
“You bet!” Kjellin answered, and struck him a stunning blow behind
the ear. Matt, realizing his inability to wriggle out of the captain's
grasp, kicked backward with his right foot and caught the Finn squarely
on the right shin, splintering the bone. The captain cried out with
the pain of it and released the pressure on Matt's chin, whereupon the
latter whirled, picked the Finn up bodily, and threw him through the
stateroom door out onto the deck, where he struck the pipe railing and
rebounded. He lay where he fell, and when Matt's brain cleared and he
came out on deck the captain was moaning.
“Get up, you brute!” Matt ordered. “You got the wrong pig by the ear
that time.”
“My leg ban broken,” Kjellin whimpered.
“I wish it was your neck,” Matt replied with feeling, and bent over to
examine his fallen foe. When he grasped Kjellin by the right shoulder,
however, the Finn screamed with pain, so Matt called the steward, and
together they lifted him and carried him to his berth.
“I'll bet a cooky you're a total loss and no accident insurance,” Matt
soliloquized. “You're not worth it, but for the sake of the owners I'll
get a doctor to look you over,” and he went ashore at once. When the
doctor had looked Thorwald Kjellin over his verdict was a broken tibia,
a broken radius and a broken clavicle.
Matt was concerned. “I don't think I ever had any of those things to get
broken,” he declared humorously, “but if mere words mean anything I'll
bet this is a hospital job.” The doctor nodded, and Matt turned to
the captain: “Do you want to go to the hospital in Eureka or in San
Francisco?”
“I ban vant to go home,” the Finn moaned.
“Very well, captain; I guess your successor will bring you there. I'm
going up to the mill office now to report to the owners by telephone.”
“Dot ban't none o' your business, Peasley,” Kjellin protested. “Dot is
der first mate's job. You ban fired.”
“Yes, I know. Now I'm back-firing,” Matt retorted.
Fifteen minutes later he had Cappy Ricks on the long-distance telephone.
“Mr. Ricks,” he began, “this is Peasley talking from Eureka. I have to
report that I'm fired out of the Quickstep. I'm not complaining about
that or asking you to reinstate me, because I can get another job now,
but I want to tell you why I was fired. The captain got a grouch against
me coming up. We had a nor'west gale on our port counter and she rolled
and bucked until even some of the crew got seasick. I'm ashamed to say I
fell by the wayside myself for a few minutes, and Captain Kjellin caught
me draped over the weather bridge railing. So I guess he thought I
wasn't much of a seaman. Anyhow he picked on me from then on, and a
little while ago he ordered me to mule shingles with the longshoremen in
the after hold. I couldn't do that, Mr. Ricks. I'm a ship's officer,
and besides you've simply got to have somebody to watch the slings when
they're coming into the ship at the rate of two a minute or somebody
will get hurt, and then the vessel will be sued for damages. You see we
were working overtime and in a hurry to get loaded--”
“I see everything,” Cappy retorted. “What happened next?”
“The captain got me foul in his cabin when I went to be paid off, and
hung a shanty back of my ear, so I threw him out on deck and hurt him.
You'll have to send a new skipper up to bring the Quickstep home, sir.
The first mate is a good man but he hasn't a master's license--”
“What did you do to Kjellin, Matt?”
“You'll have to ask a doctor, sir. I didn't intend to break him up, but
it seems I damaged all his Latin superstructure, and he'll have to go to
a hospital for a couple of months. I'm sorry I hurt your skipper,
sir, and I felt I couldn't leave your employ, Mr. Ricks, without an
explanation.”
“You haven't left my employ at all. Get back on the job and load that
vessel, or the first thing you know you'll be stuck in port over Sunday,
and that's not the way to make a start as master of the Quickstep. You
have a license as master of steam, haven't you?”
“Yes, sir. I can handle her, sir.”
“Then do it and don't stand there burning up good money on the
long-distance phone. The Quickstep is yours--on one condition.”
“I accept it, sir,” Matt exclaimed, overjoyed. “What is it?”
“That you stick in her at least six months.”
“I will if I live and she floats that long, sir. Thank you. Please have
a second mate and an ambulance waiting for me at Meiggs Wharf on Monday.
I'll touch in there on my way up river to discharge what's left of your
skipper.”