‘Very likely, ma’am. But there’s no islands nearer ’n Tristan da
Cunha, an’ I don’t think that there’s much spice about that one. I
expect,’ he continued, glancing for’ard, ‘that it’s some of the hands
titivatin’ themselves up. You see, ma’am, these scamps get all sorts
of rubbishy oils and essences on an eastern voyage. One of ’em’s
evidently found a bottle or two in the locker of his chest; and, now,
he and his mates are swabbing themselves down with it.’
‘Dear me, how very interesting,’ replied the widow blandly, with a
languishing glance at the skipper. ‘But’ (as a burst of hoarse
laughter came on the scented wind) ‘they’re a terribly rough set, are
they not, captain? I’m sure, but for yourself and your brave officers,
I shouldn’t feel safe for a minute. I think I heard someone say, too,
that they actually complained about their food at the beginning of the
journey.’
This was touching the skipper on a tender spot.
‘At first, ma’am, at first,’ assented he severely, after a sharp
suspicious look at the somewhat faded features. ‘But they’ve found me
out, now, ma’am. They know John Flett’s up to ’em and their little
games. The less food you give a sailor, ma’am, the better he works.
Full an’ plenty’s a mistake. Give ’em a belly full an’ they’ll growl
from mornin’ till night, an’ all night through. They’ll growl, ma’am,
I do assure you, at the very best of beef and pork, the whitest of
biscuits, an’ the plumpest of rice. Growl! They’d growl if you gave
’em toasted angels!’
‘What horrible wretches!’ exclaimed the widow sympathetically. ‘And
what a lot of worry you must have with them, captain!’
‘No one but myself can imagine it, ma’am,’ replied the skipper, as he
moved off, meditating on the possibility of stopping the usual dole of
treacle for the Sunday duff. That laughter from for’ard annoyed him
beyond endurance.
Presently the cuddy went to luncheon; and the starboard watch to its
dinner.
The lump of dark unleavened dough and hook-pot full of molasses were
there, but untouched, and awaiting the ocean sepulchre which had been
their fate for many past Sundays.
‘I ralely don’t know what this is,’ said Bill, as he helped himself to
a _paté de foie gras_ out of a dozen which lay on the deck. ‘But
whatever it is, it ain’t to be sneezed at. Some sorter swell pie, I
reckons. Talk ’bout jelly, lor! What you got there, Ned?’
‘Looks like soup an’ bully ’ithout the bully,’ answered the man
addressed, who was pouring a steaming mixture out of a tin which he
had just taken from over the big slush lamp—‘But it says on the paper
“Ju-li-enne.” Sounds as if some woman had a hand in it. It don’t go
very high,’ he resumed, after a few mouthfuls, ‘seems thinnish-like—no
body—give us some o’ your meat to mix with it, Nestor.’
‘’Taint meat,’ said the old man. ‘It’s what they calls jugged ’are,
and there’s no bones in it.’
‘Pity we couldn’t manage to hot this duff up,’ sighed one, cutting a
huge slice off a big plum pudding; ‘but they’d smell it all over the
ship.’
‘The cake for me!’ exclaimed another, attacking one of Gunter’s
masterpieces. ‘I ain’t seen a three-decker like this since I was a
kid, an’ used to hang about smellin’ at the tip-top cook-shops in the
Mile-End Road!’
‘Wade in, my bullies, an’ line yer ribs,’ croaked old Nestor. ‘It’s
the spiciest Sunday’s feed I’ve ’ad in forty year o’ the sea. I kin do
three months chokey at the end o’ this trip, flyin’; an’ kin live on
the smell of an oil rag all the time! If we on’y ’ad a few nips
a-piece, now, it would be parfect!’
* * * * *
Midnight in the hold of the _Sardanapalus_. Four red spots moving
slowly about in the thick gloom. From the irregular, tightly-packed
mass proceeds all sorts of eerie creakings and groanings. The ship is
pitching into a head sea and, at times, a wave catching her a
thunderous slap, makes her seem to fairly stand still and shudder all
over. The atmosphere is thick, and stuffy with an indescribable
stuffiness. Presently the four points of light clustered together.
‘What is it, I wonder?’ said Billy, sticking his candle into a
crevice, and pointing to a long, square, narrow case embedded in a
pile of others.
‘Don’t know,’ replied another, stooping. ‘Got no marks, only “_Ex
Sardinapples_—With great care.” Had any luck, you two?’
‘Try this,’ answered one, holding out a bottle which old Nestor
immediately clutched.
‘Wine o’ some sort,’ was his verdict. ‘Poor stuff—got no grip o’ the
throat—sourish. Let’s see what it sez on the bottle. “Chat-oo
Mar-goox,” read he, straddling, with legs wide apart, and bottle and
candle close to his nose.
‘Ay, ay,’ he continued, ‘I thought’s much. Dutch, I reckon. Much the
same kind o’ tipple as ye gets at the dance-houses in Hamburg. We
wants a warmer drink for these ’ere latichudes—not but what it’s a cut
above that sarseperiller, an’ ’op bitters, an’ such like slush as we
bin livin’ on lately.’
‘Well,’ asked Billy, tapping the case, as he spoke, with a short iron
bar, ‘shall we see what’s in this?’
‘Not worth while,’ replied Nestor, who had finished the claret, not
without many grimaces—
‘It’s only china crockery, or somethin’ o’ that. They always put “With
great care,” an’ “This side hup” on sich. Blast the old hooker, how
she do shove her snout into it!’
This last, as a tremendous forward send of the ship nearly carried him
off his legs.
Billy, however, appeared determined on seeing the contents of the
case, whose peculiar shape had aroused his curiosity, and started to
break it out by himself. Finally the others came to his assistance,
and a quarter-of-an-hour’s work hove it up from its nest. To their
surprise it was locked and hinged. Curiosity took hold upon them. They
prised and hammered, and strove, until, with a crash, the top flew
back.
‘Kind o’ cork chips!’ exclaimed Nestor, taking up a handful and
putting it to his nose. ‘Poof! smells like a chemist’s shop, full o’
camphor an’ drugs.’
‘’Ere’s another box inside this un,’ said Bill, who had been groping
amongst the odoriferous mass. And so it proved; another long, narrow
case, also locked and hinged, made of some polished wood whose surface
reflected dimly the faces bending over it.
Subjected to similar treatment with its outer shell, it, too, soon
yielded.
As the lid, which was thickly padded, flew off under the pressure of
the iron levers, the four men shrank away as if they had stumbled on
a den of venomous serpents.
On a strip of soft black velvet lay the shrouded corpse of a man. The
grizzled head rested on a pillow, and the hands were crossed on the
breast. Thin slats fitting athwartships kept the body in position.
Although the eyes were closed, the features looked unnaturally
natural. There even seemed to be a tinge of colour in the dead cheeks.
But the artist had failed with the lips. The upper one had shrivelled
and curled up over the white teeth, imparting a sardonic, grinning
semblance to the whole face, unutterably ghastly to look upon,
especially just then.
This it was, and the life-like seeming of _It_, that frightened the
cargo broachers so badly. And they _were_ terribly frightened. They
were too frightened to run, even had running been practicable. But the
man who attempts such tricks in a ship’s hold at night, and with a
heavy head sea on, comes to rapid grief at the second step. So they
just stood still, gripping each other’s arms, and swearing under their
breath, as is the wont of the British seaman when badly scared.
The old man, Nestor, was the first to speak. In quavering tones he
said,—
‘It’s only a wax himmidge.’
‘Nothin’ o’ the kind,’ replied Bill, the boldest of the group, letting
go his hold and coming a little closer. ‘It’s a ’barmed corpus, that’s
wot _It_ is. I was shipmates with one on ’em afore. A soger officer
he were. He were lashed under the mizzen-top, an’ labelled
“Combustibles; do not touch!” in big black letters. One fine mornin’
he come down by the run an’ busted the case. He was just the same’s
this un, only they hadn’t put that howdacious grin on to him. It were
in the old _Euryalus_, man-o’-war, so we had to suffer him; an’ a most
hunlucky trip it were. Run her ashore twice. Took the sticks out on
her twice. Lost four men overboard. No wonder _we’ve_ had three weeks
o’ head winds. But this joker ’ll get a free passage without much
delay, if I’ve got to give it him single-handed.’ So saying, he
advanced, picked up the lid, and began to fasten it down.
* * * * *
The next morning dawned bright and clear; but the head wind still
stood, and there was a nasty lump of a sea on. For the comparatively
high latitude the air was warm and comfortable.
Most of the passengers came up on the poop after breakfast. Presently,
with the assistance of the skipper’s arm, the widow began a promenade.
‘What an exhibition she’s making of herself! Her husband, if she ever
had one, can’t be six months dead yet, by her mourning. She ought to
be ashamed of herself—the sly thing!’
If the widow did not exactly hear all this, she felt it, and cast
looks of triumphant defiance at her female friends, clustered in
groups, most of them holding on to something unassisted. Elderly
unmarried convalescents, and very spiteful, the majority.
‘Something—on—the—lee-quarter, sir!’ came down from aloft.
The skipper called for his glass, without quitting his companion.
‘Keep her away a couple of points,’ he commanded, as he brought the
instrument to bear.
‘Can’t make it out at all,’ he went on, after a minute’s focussing.
‘Something white, jumping up and down. Bit of wreckage, spar, or the
like, I expect. Keep her away another point. Take a peep, ma’am. Your
bright eyes ’ll perhaps distinguish it.’
The widow bridled coquettishly and, supported by the skipper, put
herself in what she fancied an appropriate and elegant position.
‘Oh!’ she squealed presently, ‘I see it, captain; it’s coming this
way. How very interesting! “A message from the sea,” “Strange tale of
the ocean,” and all that sort of thing, you know, that one reads about
in the papers. What an exciting adventure!’ The widow had taken the
glass from her eye whilst speaking.