C. B.’s Narrowest Escape
The life now led by C. B. was a most distracting one for him, and
stirred his somewhat easy mind to its depths. He gave not one thought
to the dark feelings of hatred with which he knew he was regarded by
certain of his shipmates in the conscientious discharge of duties.
He was much ashore and mixed freely with the Kanakas, who abated no
jot of the reverence with which they had first heard of his doings
upon closest acquaintance with him. It is pleasant to record that
he came and went among them blamelessly. All sorts of gifts were
pressed upon him, some of them such as we need not inquire into more
particularly, but specially of drink and other forms of hospitality. He
readily accepted food when he needed it, but kept his abstinence from
intoxicants or tobacco without any effort, because having never known
their taste he was not disposed to make a trial of them. Doubtless he
was virtuous, but if he had been given to self-analysis he would have
said that if it was virtue it was entirely unconscious on his part.
Which gave it its peculiar charm, for few persons are more offensive
than the ostentatiously virtuous, who are usually Pharisees of the
very worst type. His influence over his men was so great that he could
always be depended upon to take a party ashore on a wood and water
expedition and get the work done without any trouble, while on the
several occasions when the other boat-steerers went on similar errands
there was always an aftermath of quarrels and fighting due to liquor.
Then when the captain intervened and pointed out the difference between
the behaviour of the men who went ashore with C. B. and those whose
conduct was under review, the debt of hatred steadily accumulated.
But the work went steadily on until the ship was nearly ready for sea,
and the captain gave liberty to the port watch. In it were Pepe and
Louis and most of the Portuguese in the fo’c’sle, who, dressed in their
best and with money to spend, left the ship early in the morning with
leave until twenty-four hours later. C. B. spent a quiet day on board,
there being little to do, until just after dark the captain called
his boat away, and with C. B. in his usual place was pulled ashore to
an evening party. There was the usual little group of loafers at the
landing-place, and when the captain, dismissing the boat, ordered C. B.
to return for him at eleven o’clock the information spread. Like a wise
commander the skipper saw the boat on its way back to the ship before
he left the beach, not that he could not trust C. B. to keep his men
together, but from sheer force of habit.
Now the gang of Portuguese who were ashore, fired with drink, had
waited all day in the hope of catching C. B. when he came ashore, and
when they heard of the order given they chuckled hugely, for they felt
that if they had luck they could get him out of the way once for all.
And they laid their plans carefully to entrap him when he came ashore
at eleven and kill him, trusting that under cover of the night none of
them would be recognized. C. B., all unconscious of any danger, called
away his boat’s crew at eleven, and as he was about to step into the
boat himself he was surprised to find Mr. Merritt at his elbow, who
said--
“All right, I’m comin’ with you. I’ve took a fancy t’ run ashore.”
C. B. said nothing, although he wondered much whatever Merritt could
want ashore at that time of night. However, Merritt was his superior,
so he merely said--
“All right, sir, will you steer?”
“No, my boy,” replied Merritt, “I’ll be the admiral for once.” And he
lay back in the stern sheets with a grand assumption of luxury, of
which there is none in a whaleboat, no seat of any kind being provided
aft.
As soon as they swung alongside the little jetty, a Kanaka voice said
out of the darkness--
“That _Liza Adam’s_ boat?”
“Yes,” replied C. B. “what’s the matter?”
“All right, sir, cappen he say come up house, he want speak you ’bout
some things.”
“All right,” responded C. B., “I’ll come,” and sprang ashore, saying as
he did so--
“I’m glad you came now, Merritt.”
“So’m I,” muttered the fourth mate, unheard by C. B., as he watched
the lithe form striding off into the dark after the Kanaka. He allowed
him to get about fifty yards away, then, with a word of caution to the
boat’s crew, sprang lightly after him and rapidly ran in his track. He
was not an instant too soon, for C. B. had only just turned the corner
of the first store when he was attacked by a group of men with clubs,
who sprang at him as a pack of savage dogs might at a strange animal
that had accidentally happened to come in their midst.
C. B., taken entirely by surprise and absolutely unarmed, did the only
thing possible to him: warding off the blows with his arms he sprang
at the nearest man, caught him round arms and body and used him as a
shield. It was a good move, for in their blind fury his assailants
showered their blows indiscriminately, and the helpless man in C. B.’s
arms came in for the full benefit of them. Then with a yell wild as
that of an Indian brave a dark form leapt into the straggling group,
and before its savage onslaught three men went down groaning one after
the other. “All right, Christmas, my boy,” shouted Merritt, for of
course it was he, “drop that swine and get a club.” Crash, crash went
his own as he spoke, each blow accompanied by ear-splitting yells in
Kanaka, which brought dim forms rushing from every side into the fray.
The fracas was very brief, for every one of the assailants had been
laid low within two or three minutes. But C. B. also settled down, much
to Merritt’s dismay, who could not believe that he was badly hurt.
Merritt tried to raise him, but found that he was a dead weight in
his arms, and in great alarm he shouted for a light. Several Kanakas
brought torches, and the inanimate form of C. B. was lifted with tender
care and carried into the nearest store. It was there found that he had
received two serious wounds, one in the fleshy part of the thigh, which
had completely penetrated the great band of muscle and bled profusely,
the other in the side laying open the cavity of the abdomen. A surgeon
was immediately sent for, and in the meantime Merritt devoted all his
skill to stopping the bleeding, at the same time issuing orders that
every one of the villains who had committed this outrage should be
secured and brought into the store.
It was done, but it was hardly necessary, for they were all so badly
hurt that they could not make their escape, Pepe and Louis especially
being recognized at once by Merritt, although their features were
battered into shapelessness, and their stertorous breathing pointed to
brain concussion. Of the other five only one belonged to the ship, the
third mate’s harponeer Carlo, the rest were beach-combers of the worst
repute. There was not a Kanaka among them. As usual the Kanakas crowded
around, volubly discussing the affair in all its possible details, but
when the news spread among them that the attack had been made upon the
man whom they had agreed to honour, almost worship, very ugly sounds
began to arise, and but for the arrival of the surgeon, accompanied
by the captain and a posse of police, the lives of those murderous
wretches would hardly have been worth a moment’s purchase. Certainly
Merritt would have joyfully egged the Kanakas on to do any deed they
thought fit.
But with the coming of the police order was soon restored and the
offenders were carried off under strong guard to the calaboose, or
lock-up, where with scantiest ceremony they were flung into a cell and
left to recover or not as it might please them. C. B., though almost
at the last extremity from loss of blood, made a magnificent rally,
and in an hour had so far recovered as to be able to tell the simple
story of his waylaying. He could not identify any of his assailants,
for the attack had been so sudden and the night was so dark; but here
Merritt stepped in and took up the tale, filling in all the later
details of which C. B. had been unconscious, and winding up grimly with
the words--“An’ we’ve got ’em all by the heels now. Besides, I guess
they’ve got enough punishment to last ’em till next time. But if I’d
had my way I’d a killed every last one of ’em. A little killin’ ’d do
that gang a power of good.”
The captain’s sympathy with his wounded harponeer was very great, but
it must be sorrowfully admitted that his annoyance was greater. It
would have given him much satisfaction if he could have blamed C. B.
or Merritt, but they were both utterly blameless. And so he had no one
upon whom he could expend the rage he felt at what he now realized
would mean considerable delay and expense, as well as alteration in
the personnel of his ship. Again and again the cowardly thought arose,
“I must get rid of this fellow, I shall never have any peace in this
ship until I do,” and he remembered Winsloe’s attitude as well as that
of the now discomfited harponeers. But in any case he feared that they
would be in no shape to resume the voyage from what he had heard of
their injuries.
Whichever way he looked he could see nothing but trouble, and he weakly
put it down to the presence in his ship of a man who, he fretfully
muttered to himself, was too good for this world. At last, with a sigh,
he rose to his feet saying--
“Well, doctor, I s’pose I can leave the patient to you; you’ll oblige
me by seeing that he’s looked after, an’ I’ll be ashore again early in
the mornin’ to see him.”
But before the doctor could reply Merritt stepped forward and said
respectfully but firmly--
“I’ll stay and look after him, sir, if you please.”
“Ah, certainly not,” testily returned the skipper. “I can’t have any
more of you ashore. It’s bad enough as it is. You’ll come aboard with
me now.”
Merritt looked keenly at his commander and replied in a deeper tone--
“No, sir, I wouldn’t leave him to-night for the value of the ship and
her cargo. I’m sorry, sir, to go agen your wishes, but he’s my chum,
an’ I want to look after his life. Nothing matters to me just now but
that.”
Such unexpected opposition on the part of the most docile and quiet of
all his officers added to the annoyance he was already feeling nearly
maddened the skipper. Besides, he was angry with himself for what he
could not but feel was the injustice he was contemplating. He stormed
and raged and threatened until the doctor said laconically--
“If you want to kill this man, captain, you can’t do better than go on
as you’re doing.”
That sobered him, and calling up all the self-control he had
temporarily lost he replied more quietly--
“Oh, all right, it seems I’m bound to be wrong anyway. But as for you,
you yellow image, I’ll make you sweat for this. I’ll let you see if
you’ll disobey my orders an’ have your own way for nothing”; but there
he stopped dead, for Merritt coming closer to him said--
“Don’t talk like that, captain, you ain’t thinkin’. You know you ain’t
got a more willin’ man than I am in the ship, an’ I know you’re too
good a man to mean what you say. You wouldn’t like this man to be left
here at the mercy of a careless Kanaka.”
The captain looked at Merritt doubtfully, and then his better feelings
conquered him, and holding out his hand he said--
“You’re right, Merritt, of course. I’m so upset I don’t know what I’m
sayin’. But I feel that rattled that nothin’ ’d please me better than
to have a number one row with somebody, an’ I only hope Winsloe don’t
get talkin’ to-night. Good-night, I’ll be ashore before breakfast.” And
he departed for the jetty, where his patient boat’s crew were still
sitting, waiting through all the stirring scenes that had transpired.
He stepped into the boat, crying, “Shove off! Pull two stern three, so,
give way together,” and off flew the boat to the ship.
Fortunately Mr. Winsloe was not on watch, and Spurrell was far too good
a man to be caught napping, so as soon as the captain came alongside
the officer was ready to receive him, the hands stood by the fall and
the boat was immediately hoisted to her place. And in ten minutes all
was quiet again on board, for the captain went straight to his bunk and
turned in, determined to sleep off his annoyance.
During the night the captain had several long intervals of wakefulness,
every one of them occupied by reflections upon the happenings of the
day. And suddenly he remembered the promise he had made to C. B.’s
mother at that meeting which now seemed to be so far away, and his
conscience smote him, for that he found himself willing to sacrifice an
innocent man to avoid trouble for himself. It is done every day and by
people who ordinarily would scorn to do an unjust or unkind action, but
under the plea of business exigencies they will perpetrate this basest
of all betrayals. I hear now the voice of a good man, a man whose name
stands above all possibility of defamation, saying to me--
“Young man, I know that you are perfectly in the right, that your
conduct in the matter is above reproach, but--you are not indispensable
to the business and the man you are in conflict with is. Therefore if
he makes the condition that either you or he must go, you will have to
go, or hold a candle to the devil.”
I am quoting the exact words, for they seared my soul, and I swore then
that at whatever cost I would not do the same mean unrighteous thing:
I would rather let the devil have the business than hold a candle to
him in that way.
The outcome of the captain’s white night was that he arose in the
morning determined to do the right thing no matter what the personal
loss might be. And besides there was just the chance that C. B. might
die--another diabolical temptation to look to that solution of his
difficulty as welcome--but if he recovered the perpetrators of the
outrage should be punished, and the brave, innocent man protected.
He went on deck as usual at sunrise for his coffee, and exchanged
greetings with Mr. Winsloe, who reported that Mr. Merritt had not
returned last night, and had indeed gone ashore without asking leave.
Then the captain said--
“I know all about Merritt, the service he’s ben able to render excuses
him from all breach of discipline. An’ I gave him leave to stay all
night. He’s nursing my boat-steerer, who was nearly killed last night
by your friend Pepe.”
Strive as Winsloe would, he could not help a momentary gleam of triumph
in his eyes, and Captain Taber, keenly observant of him, saw it. The
simmering wrath within him awoke and, growing pale with rage, he burst
out--
“Yes, I know that’s pleasant intelligence to you, Winsloe, and I want
to tell you right here that, though I don’t believe for the honour of
our name as Americans that you were mixed up in this infernal cowardly
scheme to kill one of the best fellows that ever lived, I know you
would have been glad to hear of his death or disablement or anything
that would keep him out of this ship. I’ve been a bit of a cur myself
over this business, though I never suspected it before; but I’ve got
over that, thank God. If that chap gets well he’s comin’ back here as
boat-steerer, an’ if you or anybody else aboard dares to pick on him
except in th’ lawful way of discipline in case of his doin’ wrong,
you’ll have to reckon with me. I never did play no favourites, nor I
won’t now. But as I don’t want to spoil a good ship or a fairly good
man (though y’ ain’t half as good as I thought ye was), I’ll give ye
yeer option: treat that man square, white man fashion or skip. I won’t
have ye in my ship if ye can’t be a man.”
Winsloe was beaten--let us hope that he felt ashamed--and he replied
after a pause--
“Captain Taber, I own up, I ben goin’ wrong. I don’t love the feller a
bit, but I can’t gainsay that he’s a good man, too good for me in fact.
If I’d ben skipper I’d ha’ give big money t’ get rid of him, or I’d ha’
driven him out. But I didn’t try ner I wouldn’t ha’ tried, t’ kill him,
an’ I thank ye for exoneratin’ me from that. An’ I’ll put up with him
an’ try to get over my natural dislike fer a man whose whole life makes
ours look bad by comparison. An’ I’m ready to apologize for acting ugly
t’ you, Captain Taber, whom I’ve worked with and liked so long.”
A hearty handshake was all that followed, but it spoke volumes. Then
the skipper called his boat and went ashore, making straight for the
store where he had left C. B. and Merritt the previous night. But
long before he reached it he was aware of a huge concourse of natives
gathered around it, and, wondering greatly what all the excitement was
about, he pushed through the crowd and gained the store, to find the
German proprietor in a state bordering on frenzy because his trade was
being ruined, he said, nobody could get near the shore to do business.
Inside the captain found Merritt sitting by the side of the patient
looking exceedingly dangerous.
Upon seeing the skipper Merritt’s brow lightened a little but still he
looked black, and when Captain Taber accosted him, inquiring after the
welfare of the patient, he growled--
“He’s off his head and no wonder, what with that mob outside and this
infernal Dutchman fidgeting about in here ’cause of his half-cent
trade. Let’s get him aboard the ship, sir, at once, or he’ll be worried
to death, an’ then I shall have to kill a few of these animals to ease
my feelings.”
The skipper looked dubious at this proposition, and yet knowing how
immense is the recuperative power of men like C. B. if left to nature’s
own restorative processes, he felt that probably Merritt was right. So
at last he said--
“Look here, Merritt, go down to the boat and get aboard as quick as you
can. Rig up a stretcher to carry him on an’----”
“Beg pardon, sir,” interrupted Merritt, “but they’s plenty o’ stuff
here in the store to do that with, an’ I can rig somethin’ up in less
than a quarter of the time it’d take to fetch it from the ship. An’
whatever’s to pay let me pay it, sir, if you will; it’d do me good to.”
“All right, all right,” assented the skipper testily; “you’re right
again as usual. Now I’ll go an’ have a yarn with the Dutchman an’ see
if I can’t put him in a better humour. Hello, here’s the doctor. Good
mornin’, doc.; your patient isn’t anything to brag about this mornin’,
he’s in a high fever, an’ I’m not surprised after the way this gang has
been yelling around here all night I’m told. So I’m goin’ to shift him
aboard the ship as soon as my fourth mate can rig up something to carry
him on.”
“Now, my dear sir,” interjected the doctor hastily, “you surely don’t
want to extinguish the feeble flicker of life, do you? If you move
that man in his present condition, he’ll die before sunset, now mark
my words. But let me see him.” And passing in the doctor examined the
suffering man, shaking his head gravely at each new symptom. When he
had concluded his examination, during which Merritt watched him as if
prepared at a moment’s notice to fall upon him and do him grievous
bodily harm, he turned to the captain and said deprecatingly--
“Just as I told you, sir, to move him now must be fatal. He has a good
sporting chance of life now; move him, and it’s gone.”
Merritt sprang to the captain’s side and hissed, “Don’t take no manner
o’ notice of him, sir. He don’ know th’ first thing about it. You know
I’d rather die forty times than my chum should, an’ I say that his only
chance is to get him aboard. I’m willing to risk it, the rig is all
ready, an’ if you’ll let me hire four o’ these Kanakas, we’ll have him
out o’ this an’ inter a safe place ’thout him bein’ a cent the worse
for it.”
“All right, Merritt,” agreed the skipper; “I feel sure you’re right.”
“Thank you, captain,” sneered the doctor; “my fee is fifteen dollars,
which I’ll trouble you for.”
Out came the skipper’s wallet on the instant and the money was paid.
Not another word was exchanged between the pair, and the doctor strode
off in high dudgeon.
Meanwhile Merritt had enlisted volunteers, and poor C. B. was lifted
gently on to the improvised ambulance and carried down in the midst of
a huge procession of natives, all looking as if they had lost their
dearest friend. With the tenderest care he was placed in the boat, and
presently was laid in Merritt’s cabin on board the ship with one of the
hands on watch to fan him and keep off the flies, while Merritt went to
break his long fast.
The captain had some difficulty in settling up with the proprietor of
the store, and only succeeded in doing so by threatening him that if he
did not accept the offer of five dollars for the use of his premises
for the night, he would get nothing but by process of law. The money
was then taken and they parted unfriends. Then the skipper, feeling
considerably easier in his mind, went off to his friends of the night
before and enjoyed a substantial breakfast, interesting his host,
who was the American Consul, mightily in his recital of the stirring
circumstances.
As soon as the meal was over, they went down to the calaboose and
learned that the prisoners were in an exceedingly bad way bodily, and
quite unlikely to be fit to stand their trial for some time to come.
This intelligence decided the skipper on a course of action that had
been hazily floating in his mind--he would ship three more harponeers
(several had offered), make his season on the Japan grounds, leaving
bonds for payment of the shares due to the offenders, and then call
back again on his way south. In this resolve the Consul supported him
heartily, and within an hour three more harponeers had been shipped,
all of whom, strange to say, were Americans, who from some misfortune
or another had got stranded in Oahu.
The rest of the business took very little time to clear up, and by
midday all was in train for the departure of the ship, if only the
authorities could be got to agree. This the Consul was able to manage
by leaving the charge against the ill doers as only that of a drunken
brawl, and declaring that he held all funds necessary for payment
of their fines and maintenance until they could be shipped away. So
expeditiously were matters settled that at sunset that evening the
_Eliza Adams_ was under weigh, stealing out of the harbour westward
bound for the coast of Japan, and her skipper bearing a lighter heart
than he had done for a very long time as regarded the conditions of
life on board of his ship.
When all was settled and shipshape the skipper paid a visit to C. B.,
finding to his amazement and delight that the patient had taken a long
stride towards convalescence. He was sane and cool, and was eating
with good relish some boiled rice and molasses with which his nurse
was feeding him. So far from being any the worse for his removal in
the morning he was demonstrably better, and when the captain sat down
by his side and commenced to talk with him, he turned a bright and
intelligent eye upon him and listened intently to what he had to say.
The captain proceeded to tell him all that had occurred in the short
time that had elapsed since the uproar of the previous night, but when
he described the parlous condition of the Portuguese aggressors and
explained that they had been left behind in prison, C. B. looked away
sad, saying--
“I do pity those poor fellows with all my heart, sir. I can’t in the
least understand why they hated me so, and, of course, I feel very
angry that they should have waylaid me as they did, but I expect it was
the drink that did it. I really don’t believe they would have done it
if they had been sober.”
The skipper gave a dissatisfied grunt as he replied--
“Don’t, don’t ye? Well, if I should be asked what I think, I should say
they had planned the whole business long before we got in, an’ that
they was only waiting their chance to get you out of the way once for
all. But now I hope we’ll have a happy as well as a smart ship. You’ve
only got to hurry up and get better, because I can’t have you laid up
now, ye know. We may raise whale at any minute between here and the
cruisin’ grounds, an’ I know it wouldn’t be good for you to be lyin’
here while we’re havin’ all the fun. So give your mind to gettin’ well.”
The skipper had hardly gone when Merritt appeared, and sending the
attendant forrard, proceeded to make C. B. comfortable, renew the
dressings on his wounds, etc., with infinite patience and tenderness,
looking all the time as grim and savage as if he were meditating
murder. At last C. B., laying his hand affectionately upon his friend’s
arm, said--
“Thank you so much, dear man, for making me so comfortable, but why
are you looking so mad? I wish you wouldn’t, it grieves me to see that
terrible look in your eyes.”
“All right,” growled Merritt, “I’ll try and look as pleasant as my ugly
mug will let me, for your sake. But when I see how you’ve been served,
I can’t help feeling sorry that I didn’t put all them Portuguese dogs
beyond the possibility of ever doin’ any more harm. Anyhow, I got one
consolation, they’ll probably die as it is. An’ if I only knew they
would, I’d be easy in my mind.”
“Oh, chum, chum, don’t talk like that, you don’t know how it hurts me.
If I thought you were joking I could smile, dreadful though the words
sound. But I know you mean every word you say, and I feel so sorry
because--because I love you and wish you knew how good a thing, how
happy a thing it is to forgive.”
Merritt stared blankly at his patient for a few moments and then
snorted, “Forgive, hay! Yes, I’d forgive ’em when they was fixed so’s
they couldn’t do any more harm. But if forgivin’ ’em means lettin’
’em loose again to go on the same as before an’ murder some chap
that’s worth a whole regiment of ’em, why then I calls that such silly
nonsense that I won’t talk about it, not even to you. Never mind, I’ve
often wondered what good I was in the world and now I know--to look
after a great soft-hearted baby like you, who’d almost lie down and let
anybody walk over ye an’ thank ’em for doin’ it. But that’s enough now,
you go to sleep an’ get better more quicker.”