SHAKING A CREW TOGETHER
The master of the _Valkyrie_ prowled on deck for some time. The two or
three men in the forecastle had ceased their noise and were presumably
in their bunks. The steamer was quiet. Cary regretted that he had been
compelled to tap Mr. Duff on the head, but there had been no other way
out of it. Quick action had been demanded or the dandyish second mate,
Mr. Panchito, might have escaped from the saloon to raise an alarm.
First impressions of Mr. Bradley Duff had been more favorable than
expected. He amounted to more than a rum-eaten shell of a man. There had
been no cowardice in his violent rebellion. His sense of the fitness of
things had been outraged, that a chief officer left in charge of a ship
should be challenged by a crazy vagabond with no credentials.
On shore Mr. Duff might be a blatant ruin. To such men, however, the sea
is often the breath of salvation, and its austere traditions have power
to restore, for the time, the habits of courage and fidelity.
To Richard Cary the whole adventure had taken a disagreeable slant. The
flavor was spoiled. He was out of the frying-pan into the fire. The
tidings of that thousand-dollar reward stuck in his throat. It hadn’t
occurred to him that this Colombian crew might regard him as a treasure
to be hunted with murderous enthusiasm. The shoe was very much on the
wrong foot. If Señor Bazán was aware of this excessively awkward aspect,
he was not letting it fret him. His confidence in the colossal Ricardo
who plucked iron bars from windows and walked out of prisons was either
sublime or senile.
Could anything be attempted during the night? It would be easy enough to
stay under cover until after the boat-load of firemen and sailors had
returned from the town. But this would not get the steamer to sea
unless—unless—yes, there was a fighting chance.
Richard Cary walked the deck, trying to fit together this detail and
that. He had no fatuous intentions of storming through the ship and
crushing mutiny single-handed. The chief engineer, willing as he was,
ought to be left below with his invalid machinery. And any disturbance
on board would be certain to attract attention on shore.
While Captain Cary, with deliberate scrutiny, was weighing and testing
his plans, he heard the splash of oars and the cadenced thump of
thole-pins. The ship’s boat presently bumped alongside with much loud
mirth and gusty argument. Cary withdrew to the wheel-house where he
could watch them go forward to their quarters. They lingered in a noisy
group, evidently surprised at finding no officer on watch. What was to
be done with the boat? Should they hoist it to the davits or leave it in
the water? One of the mates ought to be somewhere about to give orders.
However, these returning mariners were weary after much liquor and
dancing with the girls. They forgot the boat and stumbled forward,
weaving this way and that, arms around one another, singing
sentimentally.
Richard Cary counted them as well as he could. A dozen or so! Charlie
Burnham must have kept a couple more on watch in the fire-room. The two
or three already in the forecastle accounted for the lot. There was this
to be said for this scratch crew of Colombians. They had not run wild
ashore. It had been a harmless spree.
Cary went to the gangway and turned the boat adrift. It was a needless
hazard to leave it tied alongside. There should be no scrambling out of
the ship in the morning to arouse the police of Cartagena. One hornet’s
nest was enough. Next he stole into the chief officer’s room and flashed
the light on him. Alas, Mr. Duff was indisposed to be an active partner.
He slumbered heavily, his crimsoned nose trumpeting like a bugle. His
gray hair was slightly clotted, but the pistol butt had no more than
scratched it. The effect had been more soporific than serious.
Shaking his shoulder failed to stir him, although he grunted and
muttered a very profane desire to be let alone. This was disappointing.
Captain Cary turned his steps to the room which harbored Señor Ramon
Bazán. The steward nodded in a chair. He put a finger to his lips and
whispered:
“Sleepin’ like he was rocked in a cradle, Cap’n. What kin I do foh you,
sah?”
“Produce that supper you promised me, Rufus. I shall be kept up all
night.”
“Right away, sah. I didn’t hear you blam no more people,” hopefully
observed the steward as he ambled aft. “Th’ reason I has lived a long
while an’ kep’ mah health is, ’cause I abstained mahself from fool
questions. But what does you aim to do wid th’ second mate, Mr.
Panchito? You done lock him in mah pantry. How kin I find suppah foh
you, Cap’n?”
“Sure enough, Rufus. How careless of me! What is your opinion of Mr.
Panchito?”
“He ain’t so worse, sah, tho’ dese Colombia yaller men don’t class with
us Jamaica folks, in mah jedgment. Mr. Panchito was in th’ Colombia navy
till th’ navy filled up an’ sunk one night, right smack in dis yere
harbor, Cap’n. It got tired of stayin’ afloat. Th’ one gunboat was all
the Colombia navy done was, so Mr. Panchito had to go git him another
job. Um-m-m, when you come bulgin’ in to-night he was so skeered his
hair mighty near unkinked. It was jes’ like a nightmare bustin’ in on
him—wid all dis say-so ’bout _El Diablo_ prancin’ an’ ravin’ through
Cartagena.”
“That sounds better,” heartily exclaimed the skipper. “You have seen the
owner of the vessel, Señor Bazán, and you know I am the lawful master.
Can you talk to Mr. Panchito in his own lingo?”
“Yes, Cap’n. I was two years in a gen’leman’s house in Cartagena, an’
then he ups an’ dies on me.”
“Then make Mr. Panchito savvey that I am easy to get along with if he
jumps lively.”
Mr. Panchito was released from the pantry, anticipating sudden death.
Nothing like this had ever happened in the navy of Colombia. When
invited to sit at table with a good-humored _El Diablo_ who smiled
often, he plucked up spirit and found his own voice. In his heart was
dismay at the thought of losing this position as second mate, with its
excellent wages, and he was anxious to do anything in his power to hold
it. To annoy this giant of a captain was to be rapped on the _cabeza_
with a pistol butt. Mr. Panchito had not the remotest idea of collecting
any thousand-dollar reward.
After a refreshing supper, Captain Cary and Mr. Panchito went arm-in-arm
to the wheel-house. The chief engineer sent up the information that the
first assistant, two firemen, and an oiler were on watch, to keep steam
in readiness for morning.
“Hold them down there, Charlie,” was the order. “Have you got a gun?”
“A sort of a one. All right, sir, I’ll hold ’em here. What’s the big
idea?”
“Fetch me a hammer and spikes and some short pieces of scantling. I
won’t need the rest of the crew in the morning. Can you manage to shove
her as far as the Boca Chica?”
“Sure! I sling a mean shovel myself. Nail ’em up? That’s a corker.”
Soon Captain Cary went forward, with Mr. Panchito, to reconnoiter. A
wooden house with large windows had been built, at Mr. Duff’s
suggestion, to give the crew lodgings more livable in the tropics than
the noisome kennels under the deck of the vessel’s bow. These were so
leaky that rough weather would flood them, and they were foully dark. It
had been cheaper to build a shelter than to make the necessary repairs.
Mr. Panchito was eager to assist the captain’s hasty carpentry by
discouraging with a pistol any attempts to break out. The doors had
hasps and padlocks, but these could not withstand much battering from
within. Richard Cary spiked them fast with swift, powerful blows of a
machinist’s hammer. The noise awoke the dozen sailors and firemen. For
the moment they imagined the mate was pounding to call all hands on
deck. They tumbled from the bunks, crowded to the doors, and couldn’t
push them open.
_Caramba!_ There was a commotion in this stout wooden coop. Bare toes
could not kick through obstinate doors. The terrific hammering dinned at
them. It was like being inside a bass drum. Fearfully they flew for the
windows.
And now the rotund Mr. Panchito exhibited a frenzied agility. He bounded
from one window to another, flourishing the pistol, pushing a head back,
belaboring a wriggling pair of shoulders. It was like a multiplied
jack-in-the-box. He caught one limber fellow by the leg as he dived for
the deck. Into the window he stuffed him by main strength. Mr. Panchito
was magnificent. As a second mate he was already deserving encomiums.
Laughter made Richard Cary miss a spike as often as he hit it. He too
had to gallop round and round the wooden structure which seemed to have
a hundred windows and as many frantic men trying to spill out of them.
Never had he heard the Spanish language so molten that it actually
threatened to set a building on fire. As fast as he rammed a man inside,
he slapped a piece of board across a window and whacked the spikes into
it.
Mr. Panchito was running himself to death. He sounded like a whistling
buoy. There was no leisure for him while those infernal heads were
popping out, and _El Diablo_ was at his heels. One by one the windows
were made secure enough to check the eruption. Then Captain Cary had
time to spike more boards across the windows. Even if the captives
should pull the bunks to pieces for battering-rams, they were safely
caged for the present. In their own tongue Mr. Panchito informed them
through the cracks that if they cared to live longer it was essential to
be as still as mice and to beseech the goodness of God on their sinful
knees.
“_Mucho bueno, Capitan Cary_,” exclaimed this excellent second mate
whose pink shirt stuck wetly to his skin.
“One hundred per cent _bueno_,” was the hearty verdict. “If the
Colombian navy hadn’t dropped out from under you, it would have been
Admiral Panchito some day.”
“_Si, señor._ Now ees what?”
“Now is what? That is as bright a remark as I ever had put up to me, Mr.
Panchito.” (Cary held up two fingers.) “_Dos hombres!_ Just the two of
us. We must make the old steamboat, _el vapor_, vamoose from Cartagena.”
“_Dos hombres? Si, señor_,” instantly agreed the second mate to whom
nothing was now incredible.
They adjourned to the saloon where the steward was waiting with food and
drink.
“Seems like I heard yo’ conquerin’ somebody else, Cap’n Cary.”
“You did, Rufus. Now I’ve knocked off. I forgot to ask you—is there a
cook to be accounted for?”
“Yes, sah. He come aboard with th’ men an’ is sleepin’ it off.”
“Please turn him out for an early breakfast. Does he have to be
conquered?”
“Not him. I showed one nigger who was boss yestiddy. Um-m-m, I’se his
speshul brand of Yellow Tiger.”
“Then we are all checked up,” said Cary. “Now, Mr. Panchito, you can
siesta yourself on those cushions for an hour or two. I’ll be on deck.”
Dawn had no more than touched Cartagena with rosy fingers when Mr.
Panchito was lifted from the cushions and stood upon his feet. Captain
Cary was holding a steaming cup of coffee under his nose. The second
mate rubbed his kinky head with both hands, yawned, and sighed a long
“_Si, señor._” Gently but firmly he was led forward and escorted into
the wheel-house. Did he know the channel out through the lagoon? To
Cary’s gestures he nodded confident assent. Through the voice tube the
chief engineer assured them that she could flop her propeller over if
nobody spoke harshly to her. Leaving Mr. Panchito propped against the
steering-wheel, Cary ran to the bow to handle the anchor winch himself.
He opened the valves and grasped the lever. Steam hissed from rusty
connections, but the piston began to chug back and forth. Anxiously he
threw the winch into gear. With a frightful clamor the drum very slowly
revolved, dragging in the links of the cable. If the winch didn’t fly
into fragments or pull itself out of the deck, the anchor would have to
break out of the mud.
A series of protesting shrieks from the laboring winch, a dead stop,
another effort, and it was taking hold in grim earnest. The cable was
coming home link by link. Cary jumped to look overside. The huge ring of
the anchor came surging out of the water. The _Valkyrie_ was free. Her
master let the winch revolve until the anchor hung flat against the bow.
This was good enough. It could be stowed later.
He waved his hand to Mr. Panchito who had drooped himself over a window
ledge of the wheel-house. The pink shirt moved over to the
steering-wheel. The whistle of the _Valkyrie_ blew no farewell to the
port of Cartagena. It would have been a foolish waste of steam.
The steamer sluggishly gathered headway, riding light in ballast. It was
odd to see her heading for sea without any visible crew. Two _hombres_
were in the wheel-house. Not a soul moved on deck.
Safely she avoided the shoals and made the wide circuit to swing into
the narrow fairway of the Boca Chica between the mouldering, grass-grown
forts. By now Captain Richard Cary was pacing the bridge in solitary
grandeur. His brow was serene with contentment. The ship was heaving
under his feet as she felt the swell of the wide Caribbean. He was
gazing ahead.
“‘Now ees what?’” he said to himself. A rumbling cough made him whirl
about. Mr. Bradley Duff was clinging to a stanchion with one hand. The
other tenderly caressed his scalp. On his puffy features was written a
bitter resentment. The night’s rest had not sweetened his temper. Cary
was quick to offer amends.
“I hated to have to do it, Mr. Duff. Señor Bazán was near dying in my
room, and I didn’t dare jolt him with any more excitement. You refused
to listen to me—”
“I went in and saw the old gentleman just now,” grumpily replied the
chief officer. “He set me straight about you. I didn’t air my troubles.
He has chirked up quite a bit. But what was the sense in all the hush
stuff? Why didn’t the old coot tell me you were coming aboard to take
command? Do you think I’d ’a’ blabbed it ashore? It was nothing to me if
a big Yankee sailorman had enjoyed beating up the town.”
“You wouldn’t have blabbed when you were sober,” said Cary. “It was the
Colombian crew that made Señor Bazán nervous. They had some foolish
notions about me.”
“And so you boxed up the crew, Captain Cary? That is a new one on me.
And now you will have to turn ’em loose. How about that?”
“Not a thing to worry about, if you feel like turning to, Mr. Duff,” was
the cheery assurance.
This compliment so astonished Mr. Duff that he blew his mustache like a
walrus. He tried, with no great success, to push his chest out and pull
his stomach in. His bleary eye brightened as he ripped out:
“Hell’s bells, young man, we’ll show ’em who runs this ship. Of course
they may refuse duty and try to make you put back. Seems to me I heard
some mention of a thousand dollars reward for you. It went in one ear
and out the other. I never needed money bad enough to dirty my hands by
crimping a fellow Yank in a foreign port. You’ll take my word for that.”
“I believe you, Mr. Duff. Then I will release the men and set the
watches, if they behave themselves.”
“One moment, Captain Cary,” growled the beach-comber. “You bent a gun
over my crust last night, and I’m willing to forget that, which is very
handsome of me. But you insulted me professionally and I feel hurt. You
called it a filthy ship. Let me tell you, I was commanding smart vessels
when you were a clumsy pup. You don’t know what I have had to contend
with in this blistered old scow that ought to be scrapped. The owner
hollers murder when you ask him for paint. Now you back me up and I’ll
make this ship so clean you can eat off her decks. You can’t tell me one
bloody word about a chief officer’s job.”
“I apologize,” smiled Cary. “It was unfair of me. I snapped it out
before I thought. Go to it. Between us we’ll shake the crew down.”
The swag-bellied Mr. Duff was pacified. He looked almost pleasant. His
professional instincts had been not dead but dormant. Presently he
trudged forward to pull the spikes from the doors of the forecastle
house. The men came piling out, hungry and hostile. Mr. Duff’s fist
smote the first one under the chin. The others took the hint. They were
not so rampant.
On the bridge they happened to descry the figure of a very tall and
broad young man with a thatch of yellow hair that shone in the sun like
spun gold. In every way he was a most unusual young man. He was looking
at them with steady, untroubled eyes, as if they were no more than so
many noisy insects.
This was a great surprise. The young man could be none other than the
dreaded _Tigre Amarillo_ whose capture they had so gayly discussed for
the fun of spending an imaginary fortune. Last night, when the boards
had been mysteriously nailed on the windows, there had been frightened
surmises—the man with the hammer had been ever so much bigger and more
powerful than Mr. Duff—but they had later agreed that they were drunk
and their vision was untrustworthy.
Swiftly now their startled minds were adjusting themselves. Their
emotions were easy to read. Sixteen men in all, if they could unite—the
ship was still within sight of the Boca Chica—if they couldn’t manage
to take her all the way back to Cartagena they could anchor inside and
send a boat once they had gotten the upper hand of the three
_Americanos_. The second mate and the assistant engineers were
Colombians. They would be glad to aid the cause of justice. This
yellow-haired monster of a man had been guilty of crimes to make one
shudder.
Captain Richard Cary saw them hesitate and crowd together. He jumped
down the iron ladder and shoved into the group. A knife flashed. He
slapped the hand that held it. The sailor clasped a benumbed wrist. The
chief officer was bravely collaring them. It was no more than a flurry.
They were given no time to organize and act cohesively.
“Hustle ’em along, Mr. Duff,” said Cary. “Breakfast be hanged! Send the
firemen below. Put your sailors at work. Keep all hands moving. Give me
a good man to relieve the second mate at the wheel. We are too
short-handed to stave any of them up. So be as easy as you can.”
“Here is a quartermaster, sir,” panted Mr. Duff, jerking his thumb at a
chunky fellow with a boil on his neck.
“Aye, I’ll just take him along,” said the skipper.
With this he grasped the quartermaster around the waist, deftly flipped
him head down and heels up and, thus reversed, tucked him under one arm.
Encumbered in this manner, Captain Cary strode for the wheel-house where
he stood his spluttering quartermaster right end up and cuffed him
erect. He was shown the course on the compass card in the binnacle. He
gripped the spokes with the most zealous sincerity. He had no other
thought in the world than to steer an absolutely correct course. Neither
to the right nor left did he glance.
The steamer’s speed increased to five knots. The chief engineer, still
at his post, called through the tube:
“All the firemen came tumbling down at once, Captain Cary. They are
awful sore about no breakfast. This bunch of mine would sooner eat than
fight.”
“I’ll send grub and coffee down, Charlie. Can you stand by two or three
hours longer? Things are smoothing out.”
“Sure I can. These engines interest me. I just sit and wonder what makes
’em go. Come down when you get a minute.”
“Right-o, Charlie boy. It looks like a happy voyage, even if we did get
off to a bum start.”
Soon Mr. Duff lumbered to the bridge to report:
“I am going to feed my animals directly, sir. They are washing down with
the hose and scrubbing for their lives. A smart ship, by the time we
slide into the Pacific! The second mate refused to go off watch. He
bounces after the men and damns their eyes if they turn their heads to
spit. The only moment Mr. Panchito took off was to shift into a purple
silk shirt and a necktie with yellow spots.”
The routine set in motion, Richard Cary went in to visit the invalid
Señor Ramon Bazán. He was sitting up in bed. Joyously he piped:
“A life on the ocean wave, Ricardo! I am a man ten years younger. And
the ship has sailed with no trouble at all. How is my fine ship and my
great captain?”
“Not a care in the world,” was the genial reply. “Everybody earning his
wages and the course set for the Isthmus.”
“Bend your ear down, Ricardo mine. Softly now. There is no whisper of
our secret plans? They know nothing about the treasure chart and Cocos
Island?”
“Not a suspicion, Papa Ramon. To Buenaventura for orders and thence with
cargo.”
“What kind of a crew is it to trust when we find the six million dollars
and the gold ingots? This is the only thing that has worried me,
Ricardo. I could do no better for a crew in Cartagena. This chief
officer, Bradley Duff. Will he be a bad egg?”
“Right as can be. You can’t always judge a man by his looks and manners.
As for the crew, there will be no trouble with them.”
“El Draque has come again to the Spanish Main,” said Ramon Bazán, fondly
regarding his commander. “Remember now! The treasure chart is wrapped in
the rubber cloth, under my shirt, Ricardo. Now take me into my own room
and you get yourself all settled comfortably in here where you belong.”
To the _Valkyrie_ came a breathing spell. Outwardly she was an unlovely
little ocean tramp which had seen much better days, plodding along the
Colombian coast on some humdrum errand to earn a pittance by begging
cargoes from port to port. Her discolored sides rolled to the regular
impulses of the sea and the propeller blades flailed the water into
foam. A banner of black smoke trailed from the shabby funnel and spread
behind her in a dirty smudge.
The early morning weather had been kind to these argonauts. During the
forenoon, however, Mr. Duff cocked a knowing eye at the barometer and
sniffed the warm breeze. It was damper than he liked. His feet pained
him more than usual. His broken arches had warned him of more than one
sudden gale of wind and rain. He mentioned his misgivings to Captain
Cary who received them with respect. They set about doing what they
could to make things secure, swinging the boats inboard and lashing
them, covering hatches, attending to odds and ends neglected in the
haste of departure.
Even while they toiled, the sky grew overcast and the sea lost its
sparkle. The wind veered this way and that before it began to blow
strongly out of the east. It threatened to blow much harder. The crew
realized that the _Valkyrie_ was ill-prepared to endure furious weather.
They laid aside all ideas of plotting mutiny. It was more essential to
save themselves from drowning.
By noon the steamer was wallowing in a gray waste of raging water. She
rolled with a sickening motion as if about to turn bottom up. The seas
broke solid on her decks and poured through smashed skylights, through
the leaky joints of deadlights, through weather-cracked doors. When
pounded and submerged like this, the ship was not much tighter than a
basket.
Leaving Mr. Duff on the bridge, Richard Cary went down to the
engine-room. He found a red-eyed, haggard Charlie Burnham hanging to the
throttle valve with both hands to ease her or to jam ahead when the
indicator bell whirred like an alarm clock. Water was slashing over the
greasy floor plates. The first assistant was up to his waist in the
filth of the bilge, trying to clear the pumps of the loose coal which
had choked the suction pipe. He was a small man limp with seasickness
and bruises. When he stooped over to try to claw the coal away and free
the suction strainer, the water boiled over his head as the ship rolled
far down.
Cary crawled over and pulled him out of the bilge. Here was a job for a
man of more height and strength. He plunged in himself and was working
with the energy of a dredge when Charlie Burnham slid across the floor
to yell in his ear:
“The pumps are drawing a little, sir. You can clear it if anybody can.
If you don’t, it’s good-night. We’ve got to keep the water down or it
will put out the fires.”
Cary wiped the floating grease from his eyes and grunted:
“I’ll do my best to clear it, Charlie, if I have to stand on my head.
How is she steaming?”
“Like a dizzy old miracle. Better than she knows how. It’s lucky I held
all the firemen below. They are working short shifts, but it’s banging
’em around something awful.”
Twenty minutes later, Captain Cary hauled himself out of the bilge. The
pumps were sturdily pulling water, and the flood in the engine-room had
been checked. He went into the stokehold. Half-naked men were staggering
and tumbling to and fro in a fog of steam from the hot ashes and salt
water. Red coals spilled out when a furnace door was opened. Frequently
the wretched toilers lost their footing and were flung headlong. Arms
were seared with burns, bodies contused.
When the captain of the ship suddenly loomed among them, they cowered
from him, dropping slice-bars, letting coal fall from their shovels.
Their nerves were already rasped to breaking. They were disheartened men
dumbly struggling for survival against the obliterating ocean. Instead
of striking and cursing them, this mighty captain was smiling like a
friend. He snatched a shovel from a half-dead fireman with a bleeding
shoulder and pushed him out of the way. The shovel ate into a pile of
coal on the floor and swiftly fed it into a furnace door.
The captain poised himself against the wild rolling of the ship and shot
the coal into that furnace like three or four men. He was all grease and
grime like themselves. He was _El Diablo_ of a stoker, setting them an
example to wonder at. The word passed that he had been in the bilges,
making the pumps suck to save the fires. This was a new kind of captain.
It restored their hope and made them oblivious of hurts and fatigue.
For some time the captain plied the shovel or raked the fires with a
long slice-bar. They had heard of his prowess with an iron bar. It was
the truth. He handled this heavy bar like a straw. They watched him with
the eager excitement of children. The ship was safe with such a captain.
He could do anything. It was certain that he would preserve their lives.
When, at length, the captain desisted from stoking like a giant, he
shouted a few words of Spanish at them. They were all _muchos buenos
hombres_, and _viva el vapor_! It was a little storm, nothing to worry
brave sailors of Colombia. They grinned and clapped their hands
together. He was not a yellow tiger, but _El Capitan Grande_.
When, at length, he climbed to the bridge, the sea seemed less violent
and the sky not so somber. Mr. Duff was planted beside the engine-room
indicator, jockeying the ship as best he could to ward off the blows of
the toppling combers. His red face was streaked with salt. A sou’wester
was jammed on his gray pow. The wind whipped his oilskin coat out behind
him. At a glance he was competent, a man restored to his element.
“All right, Mr. Duff,” said Cary. “We have seen the worst of it. Go
below and ease your feet. You may as well snooze till I call you. There
was nothing I could do up here. I left the ship in good hands.”
“Thank you for that,” beamed the chief officer. “It shook the ship up
some, but, by Judas, it’s worth the damage. It shook this flighty crew
together. I don’t anticipate much more trouble with them.”
“Neither do I, Mr. Duff. This gale has blown some of the nonsense out of
their heads. I think we can make it a contented ship.”
Sunset found a quieting sea and a dying wind. The _Valkyrie_ was on her
course for Colon. After a while the second mate came up to relieve the
captain and let him snatch a few hours of sleep. Richard Cary waited a
moment. A sailor paused beside the wooden house in the bows. Upon the
roof was mounted the bronze bell of the galleon _Nuestra Señora del
Rosario_. The sailor pulled a cord and the ancient bell rang out the
hour, _dong-dong—dong-dong—dong-dong—dong-dong_! Eight bells!
“All’s well and westward ho!” said Richard Cary, the sense of illusion
stealing over him. “It’s still the same. Ships have changed, but men are
the same. And the game is still worth playing.”