rugged--nothin' to hurt, you understand, but the floats was all foam,
and once in a while we'd ship a little spray. And every time that
happened Billings would jump and grab for somethin' solid--sometimes
'twas the upholstery and sometimes 'twas me. He wan't on the thwart, but
down in a heap on the cockpit floor.
"'Let go of my leg!' I sings out, after we'd hit a high wave and that
shover had made a more'n ordinary savage claw at my underpinnin'. 'You
make me nervous. Drat this everlastin' fog! Somethin' 'll bump into us
if we don't look out. Here, you go for'ard and light them
cruisin'-lights. They ain't colored 'cordin' to regulations, but they'll
have to do. Go for'ard! What you waitin' for?'
"Well, it turned out that he didn't like to leave that cockpit. I was
mad.
"'Go for'ard there and light them lights!' I yelled, hangin' to the
steerin' oar and keepin' the ark runnin' afore the wind.
"'I won't!' he says, loud and emphatic. 'Think I'm a blame fool? I sure
would be a jack-rabbit to climb over them seats the way they're buckin'
and light them lamps. You're talkin' through your hat!'
"Well, I hadn't no business to do it, but, you see, I was on salt water,
and skipper, as you might say, of the junk we was afloat in; and if
there's one thing I never would stand it's mutiny. I hauled in the oar,
jumped over the cockpit-rail, and went for him. He see me comin', stood
up, tried to get out of the way, and fell overboard backwards. Part of
him lit on one of the floats, but the biggest part trailed in the water
between the two. He clawed with his hands, but the planks was slippery,
and he slid astern fast. Just as he reached the last plank and slid off
and under I jumped after him and got him by the scruff of the neck. I
had hold of the lashin'-end with one hand and we tailed out behind the
ark, which was sloppin' along, graceful as an elephant on skates.
"I was pretty well beat out when I yanked him into that cockpit again.
Neither of us said anything for a spell, breath bein' scurce as
di'monds. But when he'd collected some of his, he spoke.
"'Pard,' he says, puffin', 'I'm much obleeged to you. I reckon I sure
ain't treated you right. If it hadn't been for you that time I'd----'
"But I was bilin' over. I whirled on him like a teetotum.
"'Drat your hide!' I says. 'When you speak to your officer you say sir!
And now you go for'ard and light them lights. Don't you answer back! If
you do I'll fix you so's you'll never ship aboard another vessel!
For'ard there! Lively, you lubber, lively!'
"He went for'ard, takin' considerable time and hangin' on for dear life.
But somehow or 'nuther he got the lights to goin'; and all the time I
hazed him terrible. I was mate on an Australian packet afore I went
fishin' to the Banks, and I can haze some. I blackguarded that shover
awful.
"'Ripperty-rip your everlastin' blankerty-blanked dough-head!' I roared
at him. 'You ain't wuth the weight to sink you. For'ard there and get
that fog-horn to goin'! And keep it goin'! Lively, you sculpin! Don't
you open your mouth to me!'
"Well, all night we sloshed along, straight acrost the bay. We must have
been a curious sight to look at. The floats was awash, so that the
automobile looked like she was ridin' the waves all by her lonesome; the
lamps was blazin' at either side of the bow; Billings was a tootin' the
rubber fog-horn as if he was wound up; and I was standin' on the
cushions amidships, keepin' the whole calabash afore the wind.
"We never met another craft the whole night through. Yes, we did meet
one. Old Ezra Cahoon, of Harnis, was out in his dory stealin' quahaugs
from Seth Andrews's bed over nigh the Wapatomac shore. Ezra stayed long
enough to get one good glimpse of us as we bust through the fog; then he
cut his rodin' and laid to his oars, bound for home and mother. We could
hear him screech for half an hour after he left us.
"Ez told next day that the devil had come ridin' acrost the bay after
him in a chariot of fire. Said he could smell the brimstone and hear the
trumpet callin' him to judgment. Likewise he hove in a lot of
particulars concernin' the personal appearance of the Old Boy himself,
who, he said, was standin' up wavin' a redhot pitchfork. Some folks
might have been flattered at bein' took for such a famous character; but
I wan't; I'm retirin' by nature, and, besides, Ez's description wan't
cal'lated to bust a body's vanity-biler. I was prouder of the
consequences, the same bein' that Ezra signed the Good Templars' pledge
that afternoon, and kept it for three whole months, just sixty-nine days
longer than any previous attack within the memory of man had lasted.
"And finally, just as mornin' was breakin,' the bows of the floats slid
easy and slick up on a hard, sandy beach. Then the sun riz and the fog
lifted, and there we was within sight of the South Ostable
meetin'-house. We'd sailed eighteen miles in that ark and made a better
landin' blindfold than we ever could have made on purpose.
"I hauled down the sail, unshipped the mast, and jumped ashore to find a
rock big enough to use for a makeshift anchor. It wan't more'n three
minutes after we fust struck afore my boots hit dry ground, but Billings
beat me one hundred and seventy seconds, at that. When I had time to
look at that shover man he was a cable's-length from high-tide mark,
settin' down and grippin' a bunch of beach-grass as if he was afeard the
sand was goin' to slide from under him; and you never seen a yallerer,
more upset critter in your born days.
"Well, I got the ark anchored, after a fashion, and then we walked up to
the South Ostable tavern. Sim Small, who runs the place, he knows me, so
he let me have a room and I turned in for a nap. I slept about three
hours. When I woke up I started out to hunt the automobile and Billings.
Both of 'em looked consider'ble better than they had when I see 'em
last. The shover had got a gang of men and they'd got the gas-cart
ashore, and Billings and a blacksmith was workin' over--or rather
under--the clockwork.
"'Hello!' I hails, comin' alongside.
"Billings sticks his head out from under the tinware.
"'Hi, pard!' says he. I noticed he hadn't called me 'Grace' nor 'Dewey'
for a long spell. 'Hi, pard,' he says, gettin' to his feet, 'the old gal
ain't hurt a hair. She'll be good as ever in a couple of hours. Then you
and me can start for Orham.'
"'In her?' says I.
"'Sure,' he says.
"'Not by a jugful!' says I, emphatic. 'I'll borrer a boat to get to
Orham in, when I'm ready to go. You won't ketch me in that man-killer
again; and you can call me a coward all you want to!'
"'A coward?' says he. 'You a coward? And--Why, you was in that car all
night!'
"'Oh!' I says. 'Last night was diff'rent. The thing was on the water
then, and when I've got enough water underneath me I know I'm safe.'
"'Safe!' he sings out. '_Safe!_ Well, by--gosh! Pard, I hate to say it,
but it's the Lord's truth--you had me doin' my "Now I lay me's!"'
"For a minute we looked at each other. Then says I, sort of thinkin' out
loud, 'I cal'late,' I says, 'that whether a man's brave or not depends
consider'ble on whether he's used to his latitude. It's all accordin'.
It lays in the bringin' up, as the duck said when the hen tried to
swim.'
"He nodded solemn. 'Pard,' says he, 'I sure reckon you've called the
turn. Let's shake hands on it.'"
FOOTNOTE:
[L] Reprinted from "The Depot Master." Copyright, 1910, by D. Appleton
and Company.
[Illustration]
XIV--The Dollar[M]
_By Morgan Robertson_
HIS name was Angus Macpherson--pronounced MacPh_ai_rson--but he was so
intensely Scotch that in every ship he had sailed in men called him
Scotty. He had a face like a harvest-moon, with a sorrowful expression
of the eyes, a frame like a gladiator's, a brogue modified from its
original consistency to an understandable dialect, and the soul of a
Scotchman--which means that he was possessed by two dominant and
conflicting passions, love of God and love of Mammon. Add to these
attributes a masterful knowledge of seamanship and an acquaintance with
navigation, and you have a rough sketch of him as he stood at the wheel
of a tow-barge just out of New York.
Her name was the _Anita_, and she was the second barge in a tow of two.
Ahead of her, at the end of a ninety-fathom steel tow-line, was the
sister barge _Champion_, and at an equal distance farther ahead was the
steamer _Proserpine_. Each barge carried stump spars and mutton-leg
canvas--which was why Scotty, weary of the endless work in the
deep-water windjammers, had gone "tow-barging"--and the three craft
belonged to one owner.
The skipper, a young man with a humorous face and democratic manner, as
became a lowly barge skipper, appeared before the Scotsman, jingling in
his hand a number of bright silver dollars. Scotty eyed them hungrily.
"Fine, aren't they, Scotty?" he said. "How many of these plunkers does
the devil need to buy your soul?"
"More than you can count, Cappen Bolt," answered Scotty, gravely. "My
soul no belongs to me, but to my Maker."
"Nonsense," laughed the captain. "A Scot loves the siller first, his
Maker next. Why, a Jew can't make a living in your country, Scotty."
"Possibly not, cappen; but it's no because Scotchmen are dishonest. The
Lord has given us wits--that's all."
"Dead broke, Scotty?" asked Captain Bolt, idly.
"I banked the most o' my pay, sir. Ay, I'm what you might call broke."
"Too bad! Ought to have held some out. There'll be no money at
Philadelphia. Owner's kickin'. Wants to save the interest, and he won't
pay off till we get back."
Scotty's face assumed a rueful expression, and Captain Bolt watched it
from the tail of his eye; then, before Scotty could speak, the prolonged
clatter of the steward's dinner-bell began, and the captain moved
towards the companion, pocketing the coins as he went. One fell on the
deck, the noise of the bell preventing its fall being heard, and the
captain did not see it. But Scotty did, and he watched it roll back
towards the taffrail, assume a spiral motion, and lie down just aft of
the quarter-bitt. The captain was now down in the cabin, but Scotty
picked up the coin to hold for him until he came up. He should have let
it lie.
For it was bright and beautiful to look at, hard and slippery to the
touch as he held it in his trousers pocket, a pleasing contrast to the
coming emptiness of that pocket in Philadelphia. Scotty's soul went
through the usual conflict in such cases, and when Captain Bolt came up,
rubbing his mouth, love of Mammon had won over love of God, and he said
nothing about it. Shortly after, he was relieved, and he went forward.
On the way a revulsion set in, and he turned back, resolved to hand it
over, as though he had forgotten; but the captain had stepped below
again, and with the memory of his boasted honesty and the certainty of
the captain's skepticism and ridicule in his mind, he turned again and
went to the forecastle. When he had eaten his dinner, and slept four
hours, he found on waking that his inclination to return it was stronger
than at noon; but the certainty of being disbelieved had gained equally
in strength, and the dollar remained in his pocket--a source of guilty
joy and expectant misgiving. He longed for the day when it would be
spent and off his mind, and calculated the days and hours before the tow
would reach Philadelphia.
But Scotty did not reach Philadelphia; he fell overboard just within the
Delaware capes and though he bawled lustily as the black side of the
barge slipped by him in the darkness, and was answered in kind by his
watchmates above, the noise did not reach the relentless power eleven
hundred feet away, and he was left behind. But one had thrown him a
life-buoy, and on this he floated until daylight, when an outbound tug
picked him up. The tug was bound to Boston.
"I'll e'en make the best o' it," said Scotty, as he wrung out his wet
clothing in the tug's small forecastle. "And I'll regard the dollar as a
special deespensation of an all-wise Providence; for what would I do in
Boston wi'oot a bit o' money in my clothes?"
But he did not reach Boston. The tug had a full crew, scant
accommodations, and a hard-hearted captain, who decreed that Scotty
should be put aboard the first craft that would take him. This happened
to be a three-skysail-yard American ship--the _Baltimore_--two days out
from New York for Shanghai, whose skipper backed his yard in answer to
the tug-captain's offer to give him a sailor, and whose third-mate
received Scotty--not with open arms, but clinched fists, as he dropped,
swearing, to the deck in a bosun's chair.
"You ought to be glad you're alive," said her skipper, harshly, when
Scotty had, later, come aft to protest against his abduction. "He pulled
you out of a life-buoy, where you'd ha' drowned 'fore the next craft
came along, and puts you aboard a big, safe ship where you couldn't fall
overboard if you tried. Get forward, now, and stop this talk."
"And am I to be put on the articles?" demanded Scotty. "I expect to wark
where'er I be; but do I get pay, I'm askin'?"
"No. My articles are full. You'll _wark_ your passage."
"Four months' sleevery in a hell-ship," growled Scotty, as he went
forward. "This comes o' back-sleedin'. Lord forgi' me for it, but the
punishment is hard. Howe'er, I'll just hang on to the dollar. I'll ha'
earned it long this side o' the cape."
He did, and continued to earn it until the ship had neared the
Yangtse-Kiang. Marked for the officers' attentions by his initial
profane and irreverent comment on his transferral by the tug-captain, he
was assaulted on the slightest provocation by the mates--no bigger than
he or more skillful of fist, but justified by the law--and, though
easily the best sailorman of the mixed crew, was put at distasteful
tasks while inferior men worked at sailorly work on ropes and rigging.
There was nothing of this in the watch below, for Scotty could thrash
the best two men forward, and led them all in forecastle discourse; but
as it was a mixed crew, none too honest, in his opinion, he made a
monk-bag--a leather pocket--for his dollar, and hung it around his neck;
and, to further protect the precious coin, forswore his religion, called
himself a Catholic and the monk-bag a phylactery, with a saint's relic
within. This brought him to the notice of a gentle-souled Portuguese of
the crew, a true believer, who made friends with the Scot and earned his
confidence before he learned of the shamness of the phylactery. Scotty,
on lookout one night, told him this in a burst of confidence that also
included a confession of his peculation. His friend, horrified, not at
the theft, but at the sacrilegious fraud, informed him that the coin was
accursed, that his soul was accursed, and that the only salvation for
him in this life and the next was, first, that he return the stolen
dollar by hand to its rightful owner, next that he become a real
believer in the only true church instead of an impostor.
"If you do not," he said, "you have alla time badda luck till you die,
then purgatory and the flame."
Perhaps the flames of Sheol could not have turned Scotty from his faith;
but he was certainly impressed with the first clause of the obligation.
"Ye maun be right, Manuel," he said; "for, though I thought it a
deespensation, I find that all my hard luck came after it. I'll gie it
back when I may."
"Who's on lookout here?" demanded the burly third mate as he climbed the
forecastle steps. "Hey, who's on lookout?"
"I am, sir," answered Scotty, as Manuel drew out of the way.
"Get down on the main-deck, you dago son of a thief," bellowed the
officer, aiming a kick at the retreating Portuguese. "D' ye see that
light?" he said to Scotty. "With a man to help you keep lookout, d' ye
see it?"
Scotty, derelict in his duty, did not see it for some moments--in fact,
not until the third mate was through with him. Then he looked through
closing eyes to where the third mate pointed--dead ahead, where a white
light shone faintly in the darkness.
"Ay, ay, sir," he said, thickly. "I see it; and I'll e'en remember this
night when I meet ye on shore, Mr. Smart. I'm no shipped in the craft,
and it's a matter for the underwriters to know--puttin' me on lookout.
As it is, I doot I'd meet trouble should I pull yer head off the noo.
I'm no a shipped man, d' ye hear?"
The last was like the roar of an angry bull, and the officer backed away
from the enraged Scotchman. Then he descended the steps, and in a minute
a man came up and relieved him.
The light did not move, and, the wind being gentle, the day broke before
the ship had come up to it. Then they saw a black tramp steamer, rolling
easily in the trough, with a string of small flags flying from aloft and
the English ensign from the flag-staff at the taffrail. There was an
exchange of signals between the two crafts until eight bells struck, and
then Scotty, just about to sit down to his breakfast, was called aft and
told to get his belongings ready for another trans-shipment. Scotty's
belongings, the few rags he had collected by various methods from his
shipmates, were hardly worth taking; but he regretted his breakfast,
though glad to quit the ship. As he slid down the davit-tackle he
surmised the meaning of the change by the expression on the third mate's
face as he peered over the rail, and some words uttered by the captain,
among which he only made out one--"underwriters."
"I'm told," said the semi-uniformed captain of the tramp, "that you are
a castaway, picked up on the American coast, and are discontented with
the ship."
"I dinna ken what the sleeve-drivers telt ye, cappen," answered Scotty,
his brogue a little thicker from his emotions, "but I agree that I'm
discontented."
"What's wrong with your face?"
"Ran foul o' the third mate's fist for no seem' your light. I were no
one o' the crew, yet they put me on lookout. And I strongly suspect,
cappen, that I'm bundled off mair on account o' that than because of my
discontent."
"Possibly; but I'm a man short, and will sign you at Shanghai
wages--three pounds a month. You will not be struck here, and will be
well treated while you do your work. We're bound for Boston, and will go
on when the engine is mended."
"I'm obleeged to ye, sir," said Scotty, radiantly. "And Boston's the
port for me, sir. I've strong reasons for strikin' that coast."
He still had his dollar secure in its leather casing, hung to his neck,
but in this ship he said nothing about it.
Nothing unpleasant happened to him on this passage homeward; and he
fondly believed that his sincere intent to return the dollar to Captain
Bolt had changed his luck--that his painful friction with Mr. Smart's
fist was a providential happening; but Providence had ordered otherwise,
and in this manner: The steamer captain, ahead of his reckoning while
approaching the coast in thick fog, ran his ship at full speed onto the
sands of Cape Cod. He was unable to back off; a rising wind and sea
threw the steamer broadside to the beach, and here she churned a hole
for herself from which a wrecking tug could hardly pull her.
But a wrecking tug was sent for, by signals to the shore when the fog
lifted, and in time one arrived, with a lifeboat in tow--which was a
lucky forethought of some one, for the rising wind and sea had developed
into a storm that was breaking the ship in pieces. Anchored well out,
and steaming with full power into the teeth of the gale, the tug slacked
down the lifeboat, and one by one the crew sprang into the sea and was
pulled in. Six trips in and out completed the rescue, and Scotty came
out on the last, with the frantic captain, who never ceased his bitter
self-reproach.
But Scotty, irresponsible, had troubles of his own; he was wet and
cold--for it was midwinter--and once aboard the wrecking tug, he fled
the captain's inward objurgations, and sought the warmth of the
firehold. Here he burrowed far along beside the boilers, and being
utterly exhausted as well as chilled and drenched, and far from the
captain's voice, fell into a sleep which lasted until the tug had tied
up at Boston; then he came out, to find his shipmates gone ashore.
"Are you the missing man o' that crew?" asked the mate of the tug. "Your
skipper says to stay here, and he'll bring you your pay."
"That's gude," answered Scotty, cheerfully. "But I'll just stretch my
legs on the dock a wee bit, for it's a long time since I've been
ashore."
The tug was moored outside of a small schooner, whose crew, as he
crossed her deck, were "loosing" sails, singling lines and making other
obvious preparations to getting away. As he mounted her rail to climb to
the dock, he saw his captain looking sadly down on him.
"It's just as well, my man," he said, "that you couldn't be found; for I
didn't sign you before the consul, and want no complications. However,
I'll pay you here. Just sign this receipt--an even two months at three
pounds a month."
"Ay, ay, sir--and thank you, cappen."
He reached up and secured the slip of paper and a pencil handed down;
then, first examining the document with Scottish caution, knelt down and
signed his name to a receipt for six pounds. Passing it up, he received
a cylindrical roll of coins from the captain, and thanked him again.
Then he turned to drop to the deck; but his foot slipping on the hard,
painted rail, he came down on all fours, and the roll of coin left his
grasp.
"Catch it--quick!" called the captain from above. "Look out for that
scupper; it's rolling right into it."
Scotty made a frantic scramble towards his treasure, and just missed
closing his fingers on it before it rolled into the scupper; then he
heard the tinkling sound as it struck the water over the side.
"Domnation!" he roared, as he rose to his feet. "Twa months' pay gone to
the de'il, and I never e'en laid eyes on it."
"I'm very sorry, my man," said the captain. "There were six gold
sovereigns, and I have your receipt. I can't pay you again."
"Na, na, cappen," answered Scotty, as sadly as the captain. "'Tis na
fault o' yourn, nor mine; it's my luck, and it'll ne'er change till I
git to New York and find my old skipper. I'm under a curse, I am."
But the captain had gone.
"Want to get to New York?" asked a voice behind him.
"That I do," said Scotty, shortly, as he faced the speaker. It was the
captain of the schooner.
"I'm a man short," he said. "Where's your clo's?"
"On my back, cappen. I lost twa months' pay the noo, and can't
repleenish my wardrobe."
"It's fine weather, and you won't need any. I pay twenty a month. Turn
to."
Scotty went to New York in this schooner--that is, he went as far as the
Sandy Hook Lightship, where the skipper, a man of poor judgment,
mistakingly put about under the bow of an outward-bound steamer, which
had slowed down to discharge her pilot, and which went ahead too soon
for the welfare of that schooner. The impact was not dead on--it was a
glancing blow that the schooner received, and it only carried away the
weather main rigging and the davit on the stern. But Scotty was at work
in this weather main rigging, and foreseeing disaster to the frail
spider web to which he clung, he leaped for the big stockless anchor of
the steamer just before it caught the shrouds. On this he sat perched,
while wire rope snapped over and around him, and as the steamer forged
ahead, managed to make himself heard over the shouts and curses with
which the two skippers paid their parting compliments. He was lifted up
and taken to the captain--a man black in the face from rage and
overstrained vocabulary.
The captain greeted Scotty with inarticulate snorts.
"And can ye put me on some craft bound in, cappen?" asked Scotty,
anxiously.
"Na-ow," roared the irate man. "Put you 'board nothing. Nor will I put
you on the articles, curse you. I'll put you to work, and if you don't
work your hands off, I'll charge you for your passage to Melbourne. Get
out o' this."
"I tell ye," roared Scotty, in return, equally enraged at the prospect
of another trip to the antipodes, "if ye don't get rid of me, ye'll no
reach Melbourne. I'm a Jonah--a Jonah from the curse that has come to
me. Put me ashore, ye poor, unfortunate fule."
Scotty was led away--after the gentle manner of the sea--and, in spite
of his loud protestations that he was a competent able seaman, placed at
the degrading labor of coal passing. When the cooler atmosphere of the
stoke-hole had lowered his temperature somewhat, he again went to the
captain and earnestly told his story--of his theft, his bad luck and the
bad luck he had brought to others.