From A Tarpaulin Muster, by John Masefield,
by permission of Dodd, Mead and Company.
“Once upon a time,” said the sailor, “the Devil and Davy Jones came to
Cardiff, to the place called Tiger Bay. They put up at Tony Adam’s, not
far from Pier Head, at the corner of Sunday Lane. And all the time they
stayed there, they used to be going to the rum-shop, where they sat at a
table, smoking their cigars, and dicing each other for different
persons’ souls. Now you must know that the Devil gets landsmen, and Davy
Jones gets sailor-folk; and they get tired of having always the same, so
then they dice each other for some of another sort.
“One time they were in a place in Mary Street, having some burnt brandy,
and playing red and black for the people passing. And while they were
looking out on the street and turning the cards, they saw all the people
on the sidewalk breaking their necks to get into the gutter. And they
saw all the shop-people running out and kowtowing, and all the carts
pulling up, and all the police saluting. ‘Here comes a big nob,’ said
Davy Jones. ‘Yes,’ said the Devil; ‘it’s the Bishop that’s stopping with
the Mayor.’ ‘Red or black?’ said Davy Jones, picking up a card. ‘I don’t
play for bishops,’ said the Devil. ‘I respect the cloth,’ he said. ‘Come
on, man,’ said Davy Jones. ‘I’d give an admiral to have a bishop. Come
on, now; make your game. Red or black?’ ‘Well, I say red,’ said the
Devil. ‘It’s the ace of clubs,’ said Davy Jones; ‘I win; and it’s the
first bishop ever I had in my life.’ The Devil was mighty angry at
that—at losing a bishop. ‘I’ll not play any more,’ he said; ‘I’m off
home. Some people gets too good cards for me. There was some queer
shuffling when that pack was cut, that’s my belief.’
“‘Ah, stay and be friends, man,’ said Davy Jones. ‘Look at what’s coming
down the street. I’ll give you that for nothing.’
“Now, coming down the street there was a reefer—one of those apprentice
fellows. And he was brass-bound fit to play music. He stood about six
feet, and there were bright brass buttons down his jacket, and on his
collar, and on his sleeves. His cap had a big gold badge, with a
house-flag in seven different colours in the middle of it, and a gold
chain cable of a chinstay twisted round it. He was wearing his cap on
three hairs, and he was walking on both the sidewalks and all the road.
His trousers were cut like wind-sails round his ankles. He had a fathom
of red silk tie rolling out over his chest. He’d a cigarette in a
twisted clay holder a foot and a half long. He was chewing tobacco over
his shoulders as he walked. He’d a bottle of rum-hot in one hand, a bag
of jam tarts in the other, and his pockets were full of love-letters
from every port between Rio and Callao, round by the East.
“‘You mean to say you’ll give me that?’ said the Devil. ‘I will,’ said
Davy Jones, ‘and a beauty he is. I never see a finer.’ ‘He is, indeed, a
beauty,’ said the Devil. ‘I take back what I said about the cards. I’m
sorry I spoke crusty. What’s the matter with some burnt brandy?’ ‘Burnt
brandy be it,’ said Davy Jones. So then they rang the bell, and ordered
a new jug and clean glasses.
“Now the Devil was so proud of what Davy Jones had given him, he
couldn’t keep away from him. He used to hang about the East Bute Docks,
under the red-brick clock-tower, looking at the barque the young man
worked aboard. Bill Harker his name was. He was in the West Coast
barque, the _Coronel_, loading fuel for Hilo. So at last, when the
_Coronel_ was sailing, the Devil shipped himself aboard her, as one of
the crowd in the fo’c’sle, and away they went down the Channel. At first
he was very happy, for Bill Harker was in the same watch, and the two
would yarn together. And though he was wise when he shipped, Bill Harker
taught him a lot. There was a lot of things Bill Harker knew about. But
when they were off the River Plate, they got caught in a pampero, and it
blew very hard, and a big green sea began to run. The _Coronel_ was a
wet ship, and for three days you could stand upon her poop, and look
forward and see nothing but a smother of foam from the break of the poop
to the jib-boom. The crew had to roost on the poop. The fo’c’sle was
flooded out. So while they were like this the flying jib worked loose.
‘The jib will be gone in a half a tick,’ said the mate. ‘Out there, one
of you, and make it fast, before it blows away.’ But the boom was
dipping under every minute, and the waist was four feet deep, and green
water came aboard all along her length. So none of the crowd would go
forward. Then Bill Harker shambled out, and away he went forward, with
the green seas smashing over him, and he lay out along the jib-boom and
made the sail fast, and jolly nearly drowned he was. ‘That’s a brave
lad, that Bill Harker,’ said the Devil. ‘Ah, come off,’ said the
sailors. ‘Them reefers, they haven’t got souls to be saved.’ It was that
that set the Devil thinking.
“By and by they came up with the Horn; and if it had blown off the
Plate, it now blew off the roof. Talk about wind and weather. They got
them both for shore aboard the _Coronel_. And it blew all the sails off
her, and she rolled all her masts out, and the seas made a breach of her
bulwarks, and the ice knocked a hole in her bows. So watch and watch
they pumped the old _Coronel_, and the leak gained steadily, and they
were hove to under a weather cloth, five and a half degrees to the south
of anything. And while they were like this, just about giving up hope,
the old man sent the watch below, and told them they could start
prayers. So the Devil crept on to the top of the half-deck, to look
through the scuttle, to see what the reefers were doing, and what kind
of prayers Bill Harker was putting up. And he saw them all sitting round
the table, under the lamp, with Bill Harker at the head. And each of
them had a hand of cards, and a length of knotted rope-yarn, and they
were playing able-whackets. Each man in turn put down a card, and swore
a new blasphemy, and if his swear didn’t come as he played the card,
then all the others hit him with their teasers. But they never once had
a chance to hit Bill Harker. ‘I think they were right about his soul,’
said the Devil. And he sighed, like he was sad.
“Shortly after the _Coronel_ went down, and all hands drowned in her,
saving only Bill Harker and the Devil. They came up out of the
smothering green seas, and saw the stars blinking in the sky, and heard
the wind howling like a pack of dogs. They managed to get aboard the
_Coronel’s_ hen-house, which had come adrift, and floated. The fowls
were all drowned inside, so they lived on drowned hens. As for drink,
they had to do without for there was none. When they got thirsty they
splashed their faces with salt water; but they were so cold they didn’t
feel thirst very bad. They drifted three days and three nights, till
their skins were all cracked and salt-caked. And all the Devil thought
of was whether Bill Harker had a soul. And Bill kept telling the Devil
what a thundering big feed they would have as soon as they fetched to
port, and how good a rum-hot would be, with a lump of sugar and a bit of
lemon peel.
“And at last the old hen-house came bump on to Terra del Fuego, and
there were some natives cooking rabbits. So the Devil and Bill made a
raid of the whole jing bang, and ate till they were tired. Then they had
a drink out of a brook, and a warm by the fire, and a pleasant sleep.
‘Now,’ said the Devil, ‘I will see if he’s got a soul. I’ll see if he
give thanks.’ So after an hour or two Bill took a turn up and down and
came to the Devil. ‘It’s mighty dull on this forgotten continent,’ he
said. ‘Have you got a ha’penny?’ ‘No,’ said the Devil. ‘What in joy d’ye
want with a ha’penny?’ ‘I might have played you pitch and toss,’ said
Bill. ‘I give you up,’ said the Devil; ‘you’ve no more soul than the
inner part of an empty barrel.’ And with that the Devil vanished in a
flame of sulphur.
“Bill stretched himself, and put another shrub on the fire. He picked up
a few round shells, and began a game of knucklebones.”