Captain Nugent awoke the morning after his attempt to crimp his son
with a bad headache. Not an ordinary headache, to disappear with a
little cold water and fresh air; but a splitting, racking affair, which
made him feel all head and dulness. Weights pressed upon his eye-lids
and the back of his head seemed glued to his pillow.
He groaned faintly and, raising himself upon his elbow, opened his
eyes and sat up with a sharp exclamation. His bed was higher from the
floor than usual and, moreover, the floor was different. In the dim
light he distinctly saw a ship’s forecastle, untidy bunks with frouzy
bedclothes, and shiny oil-skins hanging from the bulkhead.
For a few moments he stared about in mystification; he was certainly
ill, and no doubt the forecastle was an hallucination. It was a strange
symptom, and the odd part of it was that everything was so distinct.
Even the smell. He stared harder, in the hope that his surroundings
would give place to the usual ones, and, leaning a little bit more
on his elbow, nearly rolled out of the bunk. Resolved to probe this
mystery to the bottom he lowered himself to the floor and felt
distinctly the motion of a ship at sea.
[Illustration: “He stepped to the side and looked over.”]
There was no doubt about it. He staggered to the door and, holding by
the side, looked on to the deck. The steamer was rolling in a fresh
sea and a sweet strong wind blew refreshingly into his face. Funnels,
bridge, and masts swung with a rhythmical motion; loose gear rattled,
and every now and then a distant tinkle sounded faintly from the
steward’s pantry.
He stood bewildered, trying to piece together the events of the
preceding night, and to try and understand by what miracle he was back
on board his old ship the _Conqueror_. There was no doubt as to her
identity. He knew every inch of her, and any further confirmation that
might be required was fully supplied by the appearance of the long,
lean figure of Captain Hardy on the bridge.
Captain Nugent took his breath sharply and began to realize the
situation. He stepped to the side and looked over; the harbour was only
a little way astern, and Sunwich itself, looking cold and cheerless
beyond the dirty, tumbling seas, little more than a mile distant.
At the sight his spirits revived, and with a hoarse cry he ran shouting
towards the bridge. Captain Hardy turned sharply at the noise, and
recognizing the intruder stood peering down at him in undisguised
amazement.
“Put back,” cried Nugent, waving up at him. “Put back.”
“What on earth are you doing on my ship?” inquired the astonished Hardy.
“Put me ashore,” cried Nugent, imperiously; “don’t waste time talking.
D’ye hear? Put me ashore.”
The amazement died out of Hardy’s face and gave way to an expression of
anger. For a time he regarded the red and threatening visage of Captain
Nugent in silence, then he turned to the second officer.
“This man is not one of the crew, Mr. Prowle?” he said, in a puzzled
voice.
“No, sir,” said Mr. Prowle.
“How did he get aboard here?”
Captain Nugent answered the question himself. “I was crimped by you and
your drunken bullies,” he said, sternly.
“How did this man get aboard here? repeated Captain Hardy, ignoring him.
“He must have concealed ’imself somewhere, sir,” said the mate; “this
is the first I’ve seen of him.”
“A stowaway?” said the captain, bending his brows. “He must have got
some of the crew to hide him aboard. You’d better make a clean breast
of it, my lad. Who are your confederates?”
Captain Nugent shook with fury. The second mate had turned away, with
his hand over his mouth and a suspicious hunching of his shoulders,
while the steward, who had been standing by, beat a hasty retreat and
collapsed behind the chart-room.
“If you don’t put me ashore,” said Nugent, restraining his passion by a
strong effort, “I’ll take proceedings against you for crimping me, the
moment I reach port. Get a boat out and put me aboard that smack.”
He pointed as he spoke to a smack which was just on their beam, making
slowly for the harbour.
“When you’ve done issuing orders,” said the captain, in an indifferent
voice, “perhaps you’ll explain what you are doing aboard my craft.”
Captain Nugent gazed at the stern of the fast-receding smack; Sunwich
was getting dim in the distance and there was no other sail near. He
began to realize that he was in for a long voyage.
“I awoke this morning and found myself in a bunk in your fo’c’s’le,” he
said, regarding Hardy steadily. “However I got there is probably best
known to yourself. I hold you responsible for the affair.”
“Look here my lad,” said Captain Hardy, in patronizing tones, “I
don’t know how you got aboard my ship and I don’t care. I am willing
to believe that it was not intentional on your part, but either the
outcome of a drunken freak or else a means of escaping from some scrape
you have got into ashore. That being so, I shall take a merciful view
of it, and if you behave yourself and make yourself useful you will not
hear anything more of it. He has something the look of a seafaring man,
Mr. Prowle. See what you can make of him.”
“Come along with me, my lad,” said the grinning Mr. Prowle, tapping him
on the shoulder.
The captain turned with a snarl, and, clenching his huge, horny fist,
let drive full in the other’s face and knocked him off his feet.
“Take that man for’ard,” cried Captain Hardy, sharply. “Take him
for’ard.”
Half-a-dozen willing men sprang forward. Captain Nugent’s views
concerning sailormen were well known in Sunwich, and two of the men
present had served under him. He went forward, the centre of an
attentive and rotating circle, and, sadly out of breath, was bestowed
in the forecastle and urged to listen to reason.
For the remainder of the morning he made no sign. The land was almost
out of sight, and he sat down quietly to consider his course of
action for the next few weeks. Dinner-time found him still engrossed
in thought, and the way in which he received an intimation from a
good-natured seaman that his dinner was getting cold showed that his
spirits were still unquelled.
By the time afternoon came he was faint with hunger, and, having
determined upon his course of action, he sent a fairly polite message
to Captain Hardy and asked for an interview.
The captain, who was resting from his labours in the chart-room,
received him with the same air of cold severity which had so endeared
Captain Nugent himself to his subordinates.
“You have come to explain your extraordinary behaviour of this morning,
I suppose?” he said, curtly.
“I have come to secure a berth aft,” said Captain Nugent. “I will pay
a small deposit now, and you will, of course, have the balance as soon
as we get back. This is without prejudice to any action I may bring
against you later on.”
“Oh, indeed,” said the other, raising his eyebrows. “We don’t take
passengers.”
“I am here against my will,” said Captain Nugent, “and I demand the
treatment due to my position.”
“If I had treated you properly,” said Captain Hardy, “I should have put
you in irons for knocking down my second officer. I know nothing about
you or your position. You’re a stowaway, and you must do the best you
can in the circumstances.”
“Are you going to give me a cabin?” demanded the other, menacingly.
“Certainly not,” said Captain Hardy. “I have been making inquiries, and
I find that you have only yourself to thank for the position in which
you find yourself. I am sorry to be harsh with you.”
“Harsh?” repeated the other, hardly able to believe his ears.
“You—harsh to me?”
“But it is for your own good,” pursued Captain Hardy; “it is no
pleasure to me to punish you. I shall keep an eye on you while you’re
aboard, and if I see that your conduct is improving you will find that
I am not a hard man to get on with.”
[Illustration: “You keep on, Nugent, don’t you mind ’im.”]
Captain Nugent stared at him with his lips parted. Three times he
essayed to speak and failed; then he turned sharply and, gaining the
open air, stood for some time trying to regain his composure before
going forward again. The first mate, who was on the bridge, regarded
him curiously, and then, with an insufferable air of authority, ordered
him away.
The captain obeyed mechanically and, turning a deaf ear to the
inquiries of the men, prepared to make the best of an intolerable
situation, and began to cleanse his bunk. First of all he took out the
bedding and shook it thoroughly, and then, procuring soap and a bucket
of water, began to scrub with a will. Hostile comments followed the
action.
“We ain’t clean enough for ’im,” said one voice.
“Partikler old party, ain’t he, Bill?” said another.
“You leave ’im alone,” said the man addressed, surveying the captain’s
efforts with a smile of approval. “You keep on, Nugent, don’t you mind
’im. There’s a little bit there you ain’t done.”
“Keep your head out of the way, unless you want it knocked off,” said
the incensed captain.
“Ho!” said the aggrieved Bill. “Ho, indeed! D’ye ’ear that, mates? A
man musn’t look at ’is own bunk now.”
The captain turned as though he had been stung. “This is my bunk,” he
said, sharply.
“Ho, is it?” said Bill. “Beggin’ of your pardon, an’ apologizing for
a-contradictin’ of you, but it’s mine. You haven’t got no bunk.”
“I slept in it last night,” said the captain, conclusively.
“I know you did,” said Bill, “but that was all my kind-’artedness.”
“And ’arf a quid, Bill,” a voice reminded him.
“And ’arf a quid,” assented Bill, graciously, “and I’m very much
obliged to you, mate, for the careful and tidy way in which you’ve
cleaned up arter yourself.”
The captain eyed him. Many years of command at sea had given him a fine
manner, and force of habit was for a moment almost too much for Bill
and his friends. But only for a moment.
“I’m going to keep this bunk,” said the captain, deliberately.
“No, you ain’t, mate,” said Bill, shaking his head, “don’t you believe
it. You’re nobody down here; not even a ordinary seaman. I’m afraid
you’ll ’ave to clean a place for yourself on the carpet. There’s a nice
corner over there.”
“When I get back,” said the furious captain, “some of you will go to
gaol for last night’s work.”
“Don’t be hard on us,” said a mocking voice, “we did our best. It ain’t
our fault that you look so ridikerlously young, that we took you for
your own son.”
“And you was in that state that you couldn’t contradict us,” said
another man.
“If it is your bunk,” said the captain, sternly, “I suppose you have a
right to it. But perhaps you’ll sell it to me? How much?”
“Now you’re talking bisness,” said the highly gratified Bill, turning
with a threatening gesture upon a speculator opposite. “Wot do you say
to a couple o’ pounds?”
The captain nodded.
“Couple o’ pounds, money down,” said Bill, holding out his hand.
The captain examined the contents of his pocket, and after considerable
friction bought the bunk for a pound cash and an I O U for the balance.
A more humane man would have shown a little concern as to his
benefactor’s sleeping-place; but the captain never gave the matter a
thought. In fact, it was not until three days later that he discovered
there was a spare bunk in the forecastle, and that the unscrupulous
seaman was occupying it.
It was only one of many annoyances, but the captain realizing his
impotence made no sign. From certain remarks let fall in his hearing he
had no difficulty in connecting Mr. Kybird with his discomfiture and,
of his own desire, he freely included the unfortunate Mr. Wilks.
He passed his time in devising schemes of vengeance, and when Captain
Hardy, relenting, offered him a cabin aft, he sent back such a message
of refusal that the steward spent half an hour preparing a paraphrase.
The offer was not repeated, and the captain, despite the strong
representations of Bill and his friends, continued to eat the bread of
idleness before the mast.