THE RUSSIAN SAILOR'S PLOT
Captain Ponsberry's stern manner made Ostag Semmel wild with hatred, and
when he went back to the forecastle after swabbing up the deck he was in
a fit mental condition for almost any dark deed.
For a good half-hour he lay in his bunk in a corner, brooding over his
ill-luck and wondering what he could do to revenge himself upon both the
master of the schooner and Larry. Larry he especially disliked--the very
open-heartedness of the young second mate made him long to do the lad
harm.
At the end of the half-hour another sailor came in. It was Carl
Peterson, his close friend. Peterson was a burly tar who had visited
nearly every quarter of the globe. He loved to drink and carouse, and
was ever ready to lend a hand in any excitement that offered. There was
a rumor that he had once led a mutiny on a Danish merchant vessel, but
this he denied, laying the blame entirely on others.
"Is that you, Peterson?" demanded Semmel, in his native tongue, for he
knew that the other could speak Russian fluently.
"Yes," came in a rough voice from Peterson. He gave a coarse laugh. "A
fine job you made of it, to pour dirty water over Russell and then have
to swab up the deck for it."
"Who told you of that?"
"Didn't I see it with my own eyes--and heard what the captain said,
too."
"Bah! It makes me sick!" growled Semmel. "I am sick of the ship--the
crew--everything!"
Peterson gave a short toss of his head, which was covered with a shock
of fiery red hair. "What are you going to do about it? Even if the
captain treats you like a dog, what shall you do, Ostag Semmel? He
thinks we are all curs--door mats to wipe feet on!"
"He shall find out that I am neither a dog nor a door mat!" muttered the
bearded Russian. "By my right hand I promise you that!"
"Talk is cheap--it takes wind to make the mill go," answered Peterson.
To an outsider it would have been plain to see that he was leading
Semmel on, in an endeavor to find out what was in his companion's mind.
"It will not end in talk."
"Bah! I have heard that before."
"I have been thinking," went on Ostag Semmel, slowly. "Can I trust you?"
"You know you can."
"You do not love the captain--do not love that Russell?"
"Do I act as if I did?"
"Good! Now, how many on board of this ship?"
"Fourteen men, counting in ourselves."
"You count fairly. Fourteen, how many are our friends?"
"Postnak and Conroy, at least."
"Then we are four, so far. Now, what of Groot and Shamhaven and Jack
Wilbur?"
"Groot is a good fellow and a man who wishes to make money."
"And Shamhaven will do almost anything for money--he once told me so. He
took a sailor suit from a store in Manila without paying for it."
"I know that too. The tailor was rich and didn't need the money," and
Peterson gave another coarse laugh.
"Then we are six--to stand up for our rights. And Jack Wilbur will make
seven--just half the number on the ship."
"How can we count that Wilbur in? He is a Yankee."
"He is a weakling and we can manage him,--and I think we can manage some
others, too--when we get that far."
"How far do you mean?" demanded Peterson, although he knew about what
was coming.
"Is anybody else near here?"
"No," and Peterson took a careful look around.
"Supposing we seize the ship--in the name of the Russian Government?
They have a Japanese cargo on board, the captain cannot deny it. We can
take the ship, sail her to some Russian port, and win both prize money
and glory. Is it not a grand scheme?"
"Ha, that is fine!" Carl Peterson's eyes glowed voraciously. "Ostag, you
are a man after my own heart! We might become rich!"
"Then you like the plan?"
"Yes--providing we can make it work. But it is a big undertaking. If we
were caught we might swing from a yardarm for it."
"We can make it work--I have another plan for that. I have thought it
out completely. We can--but more later," and Ostag Semmel broke off
abruptly, as several sailors entered the forecastle. A little later he
began to complain in broken English to a sailor named Jack Wilbur that
he was suffering from a severe stomach ache.
"Sorry to hear on it," said Wilbur, who was a very mild foremast hand.
"Anything I can do for you?"
"I dink not," answered Semmel. "I dink de poor grub ve git mak me feel
pad."
"Didn't notice that the grub was poor," answered Wilbur.
"Very poor--not so goot as py my las' ship," answered Semmel. "Some grub
here not fit to eat."
It was soon noised around that Semmel was not feeling well and that he
had complained that the food dealt out at noontime had made him sick. As
soon as Captain Ponsberry heard of this he went to interview Jeff, the
colored cook, who, as of old, was singing gayly to himself among the
pots and pans of the ship's galley.
"Wasn't nuffin de mattah wid dat grub, Cap'n Ponsberry," exclaimed Jeff,
after hearing what the commander of the ship had to say. "It was jess as
good as we always has."
"Was it thoroughly cooked?"
"Yes, sah--I don't 'low nuffin to go from dis yere galley 'less it am
well cooked."
"Are your pots and kettles clean?"
"Yes, sah--yo' can see fo' yourself, sah."
The captain did see, and moreover he knew that Jeff was usually a
careful and conscientious culinary artist who always gave the men the
best his stock afforded.
"Well, be careful of what you cook and how you cook it after this," said
Captain Ponsberry.
"Would yo' mind tellin' me, sah, who is kicking, sah?" asked Jeff,
respectfully.
"Semmel says he was made sick by what he ate."
"Huh, dat scab!" grunted Jeff. "He ain't no 'count at all, he ain't!"
And the cook turned away in disgust.
"It looks to me as if Semmel was trying to make trouble all around,"
said Tom Grandon, when he and the captain and Larry talked the matter
over.
"I never liked that man from the first time I clapped eyes on him," came
from Larry. "He's a sneak--and worse."
"I shall watch him pretty closely after this," said Captain Ponsberry.
"One discontented fellow like him can upset the whole ship if he sets
out to do it."
"They can't complain of the grub," went on the first mate. "It's as good
as on any merchantman, and better than the law requires."
"I guess it was the deck-swabbing that gave him the stomach ache," said
Larry, and this made the captain and Grandon smile.
The next day when the sailors sat down to their dinner two or three of
them sniffed suspiciously at the food they were eating.
"This don't taste just right to me," said Shamhaven. "The meat tastes
decayed."
"And the vegetables ain't much better," put in Conroy,--a sturdy
Irish-American, who was one of the best seamen on the schooner.
"Dat dinner am fust-class," cried Jeff. "I ain't gwine to stand yere an'
see you growlin' at it."
"It certainly tastes a bit off, Jeff," put in Jack Wilbur. "Taste it
yourself."
The cook did so, and his face looked doubtful for a moment.
"Guess dat needs a little salt an' pepper," he said, slowly. It did not
taste nearly as good as he had anticipated.
As there was nothing else to do, and they were hungry, the men ate the
meal, grumbling to themselves as they did so. Luke said but little and
ate sparingly, and his example was followed by Cal Vincent.
The captain, Grandon, and Larry ate in the cabin and the dinner served
to them was first-class in every particular.
"Guess Jeff is spreading himself, just to show what he can do," remarked
Larry to the first mate, after he had finished his repast.
"It's very good, Larry," answered Tom Grandon.
By the middle of the afternoon three of the men were complaining of
feeling sick and all attributed their ailments to what they had eaten
for dinner.
"Ha! vat I tole you?" cried Semmel. "Didn't I say de grub vos pad? Not
maybe you belief me, hey?"
"I shan't stand for any more poor grub," came from Shamhaven. "If I
can't get good stuff I'm going to the captain about it."
The sickness of the hands worried Captain Ponsberry greatly and he
opened up his medicine chest and gave them such remedies as he thought
were best.
At supper time Jeff was extra cautious in selecting and preparing the
food. Nevertheless, the men who ate of it were suspicious and more than
half the meal went to waste. The captain was very thoughtful, but said
little or nothing.
On the following day the wind died down utterly and it was exceedingly
warm. With nothing to do, the majority of the hands gathered at the bow
to talk of matters in general, and the food in particular. Semmel and
Peterson were of the number, and both did all in their power to magnify
the outrage, as they termed it.
"Der captain don't haf any right to gif us such grub," said Semmel. "It
vos against der law."
"On some ships there would be a mutiny over this," added Peterson.
Larry overheard a part of the conversation and it set him thinking. Luke
Striker also grew suspicious.
"Unless I am mistaken, this is some of Semmel's work," said Larry to the
old tar. "He is doing his level best to make trouble on the ship."
"Well, he better mind his business," grumbled Luke. "I don't reckon the
captain will stand fer any underhanded work."
Without appearing to do so, Larry continued to keep his eyes on Semmel,
and about an hour before dinner he saw the bearded sailor approach the
cook's galley and look inside. Jeff was below, getting a case of canned
goods. With a swift movement, Semmel stepped into the galley, raised the
lid of a big pot full of stew that was on the stove, and sprinkled
something over the food. Then he hurried out and sneaked forward once
more.
"The rascal!" murmured Larry. "So this is his game. I wonder what he put
into that pot?"
For the moment the young second mate thought to confront Semmel and
demand an explanation. Then he changed his mind and hurried for the
cabin, to tell the news to Captain Ponsberry.