LIFE ON BOARD THE “PRIDE OF THE WAVE.”
When Tim first went on board the steamer which was to be his home, he
thought, from the beautiful things he saw around, that he should live
in a luxurious manner; but when he was shown the place in which he was
to sleep, he learned that the fine things were for the passengers only,
and that even comfort had been sacrificed in the quarters belonging to
the crew.
He was given a berth in the forecastle, which was anything rather than
a pleasant or even sweet-smelling place; and had it not been that he
had the satisfaction of having Tip with him when he went to bed, he
would have cried even harder and longer than he did.
Captain Pratt had not made his appearance on the steamer that day; but
the steward had told him that his duties as captain’s boy would begin
next morning at breakfast, when he would be expected to wait upon the
captain at the table. The last thing Tim thought of that night was how
he should acquit himself in what he felt would be a trying position,
and the first thing which came into his mind when he awoke on the
following morning was whether he would succeed in pleasing his new
employer or not.
After kissing Tip over and over again, and with many requests to
him to be a good dog and not make a noise, Tim tied his pet in his
narrow quarters, and then made his own toilet. He really made a good
appearance when he presented himself to Mr. Rankin, the steward, that
morning. His cheeks were rosy from a vigorous application of cold water
and a brisk rubbing; and if he could rely upon his personal appearance
for pleasing Captain Pratt, there seemed every chance that he would
succeed.
During the time he had been at work the day before Mr. Rankin took
every opportunity to instruct him in his new duties, and that morning
the steward gave him another lesson.
It was barely finished when Captain Pratt came into the cabin, and one
look at him made Tim so nervous that he forgot nearly everything he had
been told to remember.
The captain’s eyes were red, his hands trembled, and he had all the
appearance of a man who had been drinking hard the day before, and was
not yet perfectly sober.
Tim had never had any experience with drinking men; but he did not need
any explanation as to the causes of the captain’s appearance, and he
involuntarily ducked his head when his employer passed him.
“Now, then, what are you skulking there for, you young rascal?”
shouted Captain Pratt, as he fell, rather than seated himself, in his
chair.
“I ain’t skulkin’, sir,” replied Tim, meekly.
“Don’t you answer me back,” cried the captain, in a rage, and seizing
the milk pitcher as if he intended to throw it at the boy. “If you talk
back to me I’ll show you what a rope’s end means.”
Tim actually trembled with fear, and kept a bright lookout, so that he
might be ready to dodge in case the pitcher should be thrown, but did
not venture to say a word.
“Now bring me my breakfast; and let’s see if you amount to anything, or
if I only picked up a bit of waste timber when I got you.”
“What will you have, sir?” asked Tim, timidly, as he moved toward the
captain’s chair.
A blow on the side of his head that sent him reeling half-way across
the cabin served as a reply, and it was followed by a volley of oaths
that frightened him.
“What do you mean by asking me what I’ll have before you tell me what
is ready? Next time you try to wait upon a gentleman tell him what
there is. Bring me some soda-water first.”
This was an order that he had not been provided for in the lessons
given by Mr. Rankin, and Tim stood perfectly still, in frightened
ignorance.
“Come, step lively, or I’ll get up and show you how,” roared the
captain, his face flushing to a deeper red, as his rage rose to the
point of cruelty.
“Please, sir, I don’t know where it is;” and Tim’s voice sounded very
timid and piteous.
“Don’t know where it is, and been on board since yesterday! What do you
suppose I hired you for? Take that, and that.”
Suiting the action to the words, the cheerful-tempered man threw first
a knife and then a fork at the shrinking boy, and was about to follow
them with a plate, when Mr. Rankin put into Tim’s hand the desired
liquid.
Tim would rather have gone almost anywhere else than close to his
employer just then; but the glass was in his hand, the captain was
waiting for it, with a glare in his eye that boded no good if he
delayed, and he placed it on the table.
“Now what kind of a breakfast have you got?” shouted Captain Pratt as
he swallowed the liquid quickly.
It was a surprise to himself that he could remember anything just then,
but he did manage to repeat the names of the different dishes, and to
take the captain’s order.
Although he ran swiftly as possible from the table to the kitchen, and
was served there with all haste, he did not succeed in pleasing the
angry man.
“I want you to remember,” said that worthy, with a scowl, “that I ain’t
in the habit of waiting for my meals. Another time, when you are so
long, I shall give you a lesson you won’t forget.”
Tim was placing the dishes of food on the table when the captain spoke,
and he was so startled by the angry words, when he thought he deserved
pleasant ones, that he dropped a plate of potatoes.
He sprang instantly to pick them up, but Captain Pratt was out of his
chair before he could reach them, and, with all his strength, he kicked
Tim again and again. Then, without taking any heed of the prostrate
boy, who might have been seriously injured, he seated himself at the
table in perfect unconcern.
Mr. Rankin helped Tim on his feet, and, finding that no bones were
broken――which was remarkable, considering the force with which the
blows had been given――advised him to go on deck, promising that he
would serve the captain.
“But I propose that the boy shall stay here,” roared the captain. “Do
you think I’m going to let him sneak off every time I try to teach him
anything?”
Tim struggled manfully to keep back the tears that would come in his
eyes as he stood behind the captain’s chair; but they got the best of
him, as did also the little, quick sobs.
The captain appeared to grow more cheerful as he ate; and although he
called upon Tim for several articles, he managed to get along without
striking any more blows, contenting himself by abusing the poor boy
with his tongue.
It was a great relief to Tim when that meal was ended, and Mr. Rankin
told him he could eat his own breakfast before clearing away the dishes.
Tim had not the slightest desire for food then; but he did want some
for Tip. Hastily gathering up the bones from Captain Pratt’s plate, he
ran with them to the bow, where Tip was straining and tugging at his
rope as if he knew his master was having a hard time, and he wanted to
be where he could help him.
Tim placed the bones in front of Tip, and then kneeling down, he put
his arms around the dog’s neck as he poured out his woes in his ear,
while Tip tried in every way to get at the tempting feast before him.
“I’m the miserablest boy in the world, Tip, an’ I don’t know what’s
goin’ to become of us. You don’t know what a bad, ugly man Captain
Pratt is, an’ I don’t believe I can stay here another day. But you
think a good deal of me, don’t you, Tip? an’ you’d help me if you
could, wouldn’t you?”
The dog had more sympathy with the bones just then than he had with his
almost heart-broken master, and Tim, who dared not stay away too long
from the cabin, was obliged to let him partake of the feast at last.
When Tim returned from feeding the dog Mr. Rankin said all he could to
prevent him from becoming discouraged on the first day of service; but
he concluded with these words:
“I can’t advise you to stay here any longer than you can help, for you
ain’t stout enough to bear what you’ll have to take from the captain.
It’ll be hard work to get off, for he always looks sharp after new
boys, so they sha’n’t run away; but when we get back here again you’d
better make up your mind to show your heels.”
These words frightened Tim almost as much as what the captain had said
to him, for he had never thought but that he could leave whenever he
wanted to. Now he felt doubly wretched, for he realized that he was as
much a captive as he had ever been when he lived with Captain Babbige,
whose blows were not nearly as severe as this new master’s.
The _Pride of the Wave_ made but two trips a week, and each one
occupied about two days and a half. This second day after Tim had come
on board was the time of her sailing, and everything was in such a
state of confusion that no one had any time to notice the sad little
boy, who ran forward to pet his dog whenever his work would permit of
such loving act.
Among his duties was that of answering the captain’s bell, and once,
when he returned from a visit to Tip, Mr. Rankin told him, with evident
fear, that it had been nearly five minutes since he was summoned to the
wheel-house.
While the steward was speaking the bell rung again with an angry
peal that told that the party at the other end was in anything but
a pleasant mood. It did not take Tim many seconds to run to the
wheel-house, and when he arrived there, breathless and in fear, Captain
Pratt met him at the door.
“So the lesson I gave you this morning wasn’t enough, eh?” cried the
angry man, as he seized Tim by the collar and actually lifted him from
his feet. “I’ll teach you to attend to business, and not try to come
any odds over me.”
Captain Pratt had a stout piece of rope in one hand, and as he held Tim
by the other, nearly choking him, he showered heavy blows upon the poor
boy’s back and legs till his arm fairly ached.
“Now see if you will remember that!” he cried, as he released his
hold on Tim’s collar, and the poor child rolled upon the deck almost
helpless.
Tim had fallen because the hold on his neck had been so suddenly
released, rather than on account of the beating; and when he struggled
to his feet, smarting from the blows, the captain said to him:
“Now bring me a pitcher of ice-water, and see that you’re back in five
minutes, or you’ll get the same dose over again.”
Tim limped away, his back and legs feeling as if they had been bathed
in fire, and each inch of skin ached and smarted as it never had done
from the worst whipping Captain Babbige or Aunt Betsey had favored him
with. He entered the cabin with eyes swollen from unshed tears, and
sobs choking his breath, but with such a sense of injury in his heart
that he made no other sign of suffering.
Mr. Rankin was too familiar with Captain Pratt’s methods of dealing
with boys to be obliged to ask Tim any questions; but he said, as the
boy got the water:
“Try to keep a stiff upper lip, lad, and you’ll come out all right.”
Tim could not trust himself to speak, for he knew he should cry if he
did; and he carried the water to the wheel-house, going directly from
there to Tip.
The dog leaped up on him when his master came where he was, as if he
wanted a frolic; but Tim said, as he threw himself on the deck beside
him:
“Don’t, Tip, don’t play now; I feel more like dyin’. You think it’s
awful hard to stay here; but it’s twice as hard on me, ’cause the
captain whips me every chance he gets.”
Tip knew from his master’s actions that something was wrong, and he
licked the face that was drawn with deep lines of pain so lovingly that
Tim’s tears came despite his will.
He was lying by Tip’s side, moaning and crying, when old black Mose,
the cook, was attracted to the spot by his sounds of suffering.
“Wha-wha-wha’s de matter, honey? Wha’ yer takin’ on so powerful ’bout?”
Tim paid no attention to the question, repeated several times, nor did
he appear to feel the huge black hand laid so tenderly on his head.
“Wha’s de matter, honey? Has Cap’en Pratt been eddercaten’ of yer?”
Then, without waiting for a reply, he continued: “Now, don’ take on so,
honey. Come inter de kitchen wid ole Mose, an’ let him soothe ye up a
little. Come, honey, come wid me, an’ bring de dorg wid yer.”
While he spoke the old colored man was untying the rope which fastened
Tip, for he knew the boy would follow wherever the dog was led. And in
that he was right, for when Tip went toward the little box Mose called
a kitchen he followed almost unconsciously.
Once inside the place where the old negro was chief, Mose took his
jacket off, and bathed the ugly-looking black-and-blue marks which had
been left by the rope, talking to the boy in his peculiar dialect as
he did so, soothing the wounds on his heart as he treated those on his
body.
“Now, don’ feel bad, honey; it’s only a way Cap’en Pratt has got, an’
you must git used to it, shuah. Don’t let him fret yer, but keep right
on about yer work jest as ef yer didn’t notice him like.”
Mose bathed the wounds, and gave Tip such a feast as he had not had for
many a day; and when it was done Tim said to him:
“You’re awful good, you are; but I’m afraid the captain will make you
sorry for it. He don’t seem to like me, an’ he may get mad ’cause
you’ve helped me.”
“Bress yer, chile, what you s’pose ole Mose keers fur him ef he does
git mad? The cap’en kin rave an’ rave, but dis nigger don’ mind him
more’n ef he was de souf wind, what carn’t do nobody any harm.”
“But――” Tim began to say, earnestly.
“Never mind ’bout any buts, honey. Yer fixed all right now, an’ you go
down in de cabin an’ go ter work like a man; ole Mose’ll keep keer ob
de dorg.”
Tim knew he had already been away from his post of duty too long, and,
leaving Tip in the negro’s kindly care, he went into the cabin.