AROUND THE CABIN TABLE
Martin lounged upon the divan, on edge with impatience, his attention
divided between the faces of his companions and the face of the clock
hanging on the forward bulkhead. The two big lamps, upright in their
gimbals, shed a warm, bright glow about the cabin.
The supper remains had disappeared. Little Billy was completing his
steward’s task by spreading over the table the damask cloth that graced
the board between meals. The blind captain sat in a chair, quietly
puffing a pipe. The clock showed a quarter of eight. At eight o’clock,
eight bells would strike overhead, the bosun would relieve the mate,
the mate would come below, and then his burning curiosity was promised
satisfaction.
The mate! Martin’s thoughts buzzed around the girl like a moth around a
candle-flame. Not yet could he reconcile Ruth with her duties as ship’s
first officer. It seemed so absurd. She and the giant bosun divided
the watches between them. What an ill-assorted brace! And she was the
superior. She was the right arm, and the eyes of the old blind man. Oh,
she was a proper sailor, right enough!
Yes, she had set the t’gal’n’s’l and shaken the reef out of the
mains’l. He knew now what she had meant.
What a superb figure she was, standing there on the windswept deck,
singing her orders. Yes, singing—that full, contralto _halloo_ of hers
was naught but a song. And how the wild men of the crew had leaped to
obey! Wild men—he had seen but few white faces forward—wild islanders
of some sort.
He would never forget his first dogwatch, spent by the boatswain’s
side, pacing the poop deck. How niftily he had gained his sea legs! He
had easily learned the trick of throwing his body to meet the ship. He
had learned lots, besides, from the deep voice rumbling in his ear.
“A smart little ’ooker lad, and a smart crew, all married to ’er.
Swiggle me! Ain’t many ’er size can show ’er a pair o’ ’eels. Ay,
small, but big enough for ’er work—’undred thirty ton. Great trader,
the Old Man is. ‘Square Jim’ Dabney, ’e’s called, from the Arctic to
’Obart Town, and across Asia side; except them Rooshuns—they call ’im
the ‘Slippery Devil.’ Says I, fine ’auls we’ve ’ad, seal and fur, from
them Rooshuns.
“Blast o’ dynamite, lad, took the Old Man’s sight. Fine ’aul this
time if we ’ave luck. Swiggle me stiff, it’ll set us up ashore for
bleeding toffs! ... ye’ll ’ear about it later.... Ay, that’s the royal,
lad—topmost spar—be shakin’ that rag out afore long.... Ay, mate,
and a proper fine mate she is, bless ’er bleeding little ’eart! Grew
up at sea—proper shark for navigation—Old Man never ’ad ’er ’ead for
figures.... See—them’s the ’alyards, lad! ... Ay, prime sailorman, she
is, too....”
Such was the burden of the boatswain’s discourse throughout the
dogwatch. A shark for navigation, and a prime sailorman, bless her
bleeding little heart! Oh, she was the apple of the boatswain’s eye!
And of other eyes. And the boatswain had called her “mister” when he
came on deck——
“’Ow’s she going, mister?”
She grew up at sea! So the boatswain had said. Had been able to “take a
sight at ten year, lad, an’ work out a position, which, swiggle me, I
can’t do for all my size and years!” Could even match the red giant at
sailorly work with ropes and wires.
What a strange upbringing for a girl! He had gathered that Ruth was
the granddaughter of the blind man, Square Jim Dabney, that she was
orphaned; that this cockleshell of a vessel had been her home since
babyhood. Bred of seamen and to the sea. No wonder she paced the deck
so confidently, and flung a laugh into the East Wind’s very face!
She was of the breed of the silent old man who bore his affliction so
steadfastly. Martin studied the patient figure of the blind man with
a new interest. What a pity, that hale, active man caged in darkness!
What misery, what despair, thought he, might lurk behind those fine,
unmarred eyes! Yet the face was happy enough. Indeed, it was serene,
unscarred by impatience or passion; the race of one who awaits Fate
fearlessly. Martin had difficulty in connecting that kindly and
peaceful figure with the “Old Man” of the boatswain’s talk.
What stirring adventures the boatswain’s casual words had hinted at!
In what a bald, matter-of-fact manner had the _Cohasset’s_ various
activities been mentioned! Pearl shell and island trade; “a bit o’
filibustering now and then,” to Mexico and South America; seal and fur
poaching on the Siberian coast, in open defiance of the Czar’s mandates!
Square Jim Dabney, might be the captain’s name from the Arctic to
Hobart Town, but some of the exploits the boatswain had boasted of
suggested “Freebooter Jim” Dabney to Martin’s mind. How about that
affair where the captain had lost his eyesight? Raiding a gold-bearing
reef in the Louisiades with dynamite, the boatswain had said, in
derisive revolt against the Australian mining laws.
It had happened but a few months before, and a premature explosion of a
dynamite charge had been the unusual fruit of the raid—unusual because
when the boatswain and others had rushed to recover what they thought
was their captain’s mangled body, they discovered their leader unmarred
by the blast but stone-blind from the shock. An injured optic nerve,
the San Francisco specialists had said, a hopeless case.
Yet even permanent blindness did not place a period to the career
of this venerable Pacific freelance. Was he not engaged in some
wild venture even now? Some mysterious business that had begun with
bloodshed, and would end—how? What had Little Billy said? “Bound for
the End o’ the World!” And what, pray, would they find at the End o’
the World?
Well, he didn’t care what they found there, but he was very glad to be
able to voyage to the world’s end with this company. He was glad he had
been pitched head foremost into the affair, little as he yet understood
of it all; he was glad to be at sea and shipmates with the “happy
family.” No longer was he a despised quill-pusher.
Just what he was at present, Martin could not decide, but he was
determined to become a valued and accomplished member of this
adventuring household. He was determined—like the moth to the flame,
Martin’s thoughts came back to the girl—he was determined to win the
respect of Ruth Le Moyne, to match her self-reliance. He would show
her, by George, that he did not lack for courage; that stranger though
he was to sea life, he could acquit himself creditably in the face of
any danger he might encounter in his new environment!
The boatswain came out of his room and paused at the foot of the
companion-ladder to fill his pipe. He looked like some huge,
red-shagged bear, thought Martin, a well-fed, contented bear. The hands
of the clock were almost on the hour—in a moment the bosun would be on
deck, and Ruth would come below. Then...
The boatswain’s enormous sea boots disappeared through the hatch, and a
moment later eight bells struck overhead.
Martin sat up expectantly. Little Billy grinned at him from across
the room. Confound the fellow! He had insisted on treating Martin as
an invalid during the supper, had been absurdly solicitous about the
wounded head and the turbulent stomach, when Martin had forgotten the
existence of both; he had persisted in interrupting when Martin wanted
to talk to Ruth. Here she came!
A light step, a little boot poked into view, and Ruth bustled down the
ladder. By George, she was a beauty!
“Due west—setting more canvas,” she announced briskly to Captain Dabney.
The latter turned his sightless eyes on the rosy face that bent above
him; the serene, white-bearded face was suddenly beautiful with its
welcoming smile. The blind man’s hand reached out and gently stroked
the girl’s arm. Martin saw there was complete agreement between the two.
Ruth divested herself of the heavy pea-coat she wore, tossed it upon
the divan, and drew up a chair beside the captain’s.
“Well, let us commence at once with our tales of woe, and our council
of war,” said she laughingly. “I am quite sure Mr. Blake is perishing
with curiosity. I know I would be in his place.”
It was an odd assortment that gathered about the table—a girl, a blind
man, a hunchback, and a clerk. A strange company for a ship’s cabin, at
sea.
But the incongruity escaped Martin. For the moment he had eyes but
for the figure opposite him, for the trim figure revealed by the
tight-fitting guernsey, for the vivid face that bloomed above. Ruth
bore his gaze with composure; she even smiled at him, with a twinkle in
her eye. Martin blushed.
Little Billy had brought to the table a small, locked cash-box, made of
light steel. He set it carefully in the center of the table, and then
took a seat by Martin’s side.
Ruth spoke.
“First of all, we had better tell the whole story of the _Good Luck_,
and the code, and the log, to Mr. Blake. It is unfair to keep him in
darkness any longer.”
“Yes—that will be best,” said Captain Dabney. “I will tell you about
finding the wreck. But Billy must finish the tale—he is the more used
to yarn-spinning. Billy, have you the box there?”
“Yes—here,” answered the hunchback.
He rapped the cash-box with his fingers, and the captain nodded at
the metallic sound. Then Little Billy drew a key from his pocket and
unlocked the box. He threw an envelope out upon the table.
Martin blinked. He knew that plain wrapper. Yesterday afternoon, old
Smatt had handed him that envelope, and last night at the Black Cruiser
he, himself, had delivered it to Captain Carew. Now, it was here before
his eyes!
Little Billy chuckled at his amazement. Even Ruth smiled at him.
“Hello! Our friend seems to recognize Exhibit A,” bantered the
hunchback. “Well, Blake, without waiting for counsel’s advice, I will
admit that you probably have seen this very envelope before. But I bet
the contents are stranger to your popping eyes!”
With that, Little Billy spread the envelope’s contents upon the table.
Martin saw a plain sheet of paper, written upon by Smatt’s angular
hand, and a strip of some kind of animal skin, or gut, about 4x5 inches
in size, and of a leprous-white color. The skin was covered with what
he took to be a multitude of faint, red scratches, but upon a second
look he saw that the scratches were figures.
Ruth indicated the skin with her finger.
“The secret of Fire Mountain,” she said.
“Yes, the secret of Fire Mountain,” echoed Little Billy. “And this—”
he pointed to the paper containing Smatt’s writing—“is the secret
kindly bared for us by that genial gray vulture of the law, Mr. Smatt.
The envelope also contained Wild Bob’s clearance papers—cleared for
Papeete, the slick devil—but we presented them to the gulls off the
Farallones. They can go a-voyaging on them if they wish.”
“A little thing like a clearance will not keep Bob Carew in port,”
interposed Captain Dabney.
“No, I suppose not,” replied Little Billy, his face sobering. “He is
on our heels now, I dare say. However, we have had the satisfaction of
putting a good one over on him.”
“But—but what—” stammered Martin, his eyes still upon the envelope; the
others’ reference were Greek to him.
“So friend Blake is puzzled!” exclaimed the hunchback, his light humor
returned. “Are you not beginning to see light, Blake? Observe—” he
tapped the skin with a finger—“this cryptic skin contains the secret of
Fire Mountain. Ichi, the wily one, abstracts it from its discoverers
and rightful owners and carries it to that fine legal rascal who
employed you; fine legal rascal gives it to clerk to deliver to Wild
Bob Carew. Wild Bob Carew has rakish schooner ready to scoot for loot,
but needs code translation, and latitude and longitude; friend Blake
carries code in pocket, friend Mate carries position in head—so, there
is plot and counterplot; gumshoeing and shanghaiing. You, my friend,
at the center of one storm circle. Devious and devilish machinations
assail you—at first with failure, for the mate lost her wits, and
the boatswain lost his balance. But Little Billy Corcoran, King of
Legerdemain, succeeds. With his prattling tongue and dexterous fingers
he effects the substitution, and the lost is regained.”
Little Billy finished triumphantly, and beamed at Martin’s blank face.
“Substitution!” exclaimed Martin.
“Yes. Must I place a tack upon your head, and smite it with a hammer,
in order to drive the point home? Do you not comprehend? Little Billy
sat upon a fire hydrant and very carefully picked a young gentleman’s
pocket.”
“Why, then it was you placed the envelope containing the blank paper—”
commenced Martin.
“Exactly. Your intuition is remarkable,” stated the hunchback.
“But—please—do not look so shocked. I assure you I do not commonly
pick young gentlemen’s pockets. It is a vulgar pastime, and I am an
accomplished villain. Why, once upon a time, I wrote an epic poem.
What mere larceny can compare with that fell deed! Besides, this
particular outrage upon the sanctity of your overcoat was not without
justification. Observe: Ichi, the beast, picks Little Billy’s pocket,
and the way to Fire Mountain is lost; Little Billy picks Mr. Blake’s
pocket, and the way to Fire Mountain is regained! Is it not beautifully
simple?”
“Way to Fire Mountain! But I don’t understand,” answered Martin.
“Oh, don’t listen to him,” interrupted Ruth. “Billy, you shut up! You
will have plenty of chance to talk after awhile. Captain, you tell
about finding the _Good Luck_.”
“Squashed!” sighed Little Billy.