I
When the Cubans, led by Gomez and Maceo, were waging their final
rebellion against the immemorial tyranny of Spain, it may be recalled
that there was much filibustering out of American ports, and a lively
demand for seafaring men of an intrepid temper who could be relied on
to keep their eyes open and their mouths shut. Such a one was young
Captain O’Shea, and, moreover, he was no amateur at this ticklish
industry, having already “jolted one presidente off his perch in Hayti,
and set fire to the coat-tails of another one in Honduras,” as he
explained to the swarthy gentlemen of the Cuban Junta in New York, who
passed on his credentials.
They gave him a sea-going tug called the _Fearless_, permitted him to
pick his own crew, and told him where to find his cargo, in a fairly
lonesome inlet of the Florida coast. Thereafter he was to work out
his own salvation. The programme was likely to be anything else than
monotonous. To be nabbed by a Yankee cruiser in home waters for
breaking the laws of nations meant that Captain O’Shea would cool his
heels in a Federal jail, a mishap most distasteful to a man of a roving
disposition. To run afoul of the Spanish blockading fleet in Cuban
waters was to be unceremoniously shot full of holes and drowned in the
bargain.
Such risks as these were incidental to his trade, and Captain O’Shea
maintained his cheerful composure until the _Fearless_ had taken her
explosive cargo on board and was dropping the sandy coast-line of
Florida over her stern. Then he scrutinized his passengers and became
annoyed. The Junta had sent him a Cuban colonel and forty patriots,
recruited from the cigar factories of Tampa and Key West, who ardently,
even clamorously, desired to return to their native land and fight for
the glorious cause of liberty.
Their organization was separate from that of the ship’s company. It
was not the business of Captain O’Shea to enforce his hard-fisted
discipline among them, nor did he have to feed them, for they had
brought their own stores on board. Early in the voyage he expressed his
superheated opinion of the party to the chief engineer. The twain stood
on the little bridge above the wheel-house, the clean-built, youthful
Irish-American skipper, and the beefy, gray-headed Johnny Kent, whose
variegated career had begun among the Yankees of ’way down East.
The deep-laden _Fearless_ was wallowing through the uneasy seas of
the Gulf Stream. The Cuban patriots were already sea-sick in squads,
and they lay helpless amid an amazing disorder of weapons, blankets,
haversacks, valises, and clothing. Now and then the crest of a sea
flicked merrily over the low guard-rail and swashed across the pallid
sufferers.
“Did ye ever see such a mess in all your born days?” disgustedly
observed Captain O’Shea. “And we will have to live with this menagerie
for a week or so, Johnny.”
“It’ll be a whole lot worse when all of ’em are took sea-sick,” was the
discouraging reply. “Doggone ’em, they ain’t even stowed their kits
away. They just flopped and died in their tracks. Why don’t you make
their colonel kick some savvey into ’em, eh, Cap’n Mike?”
“Colonel Calvo?” and O’Shea spat to leeward with a laugh. “He is
curled up in the spare state-room, and his complexion is as green as a
starboard light. There is one American in the lot. Wait till I fetch
him up.”
A deck-hand was sent into the dismal chaos, and there presently
returned in his wake a lean, sandy man in khaki who clutched an
old-fashioned Springfield rifle. At a guess his years might have been
forty, and his visage had never a trace of humor in it. Much drill had
squared his shoulders and flattened his back, and he stiffly saluted
Captain O’Shea.
“Who are you, and what are ye doing in such amazin’ bad company?” asked
the latter.
“My name is Jack Gorham, sir. I served four enlistments in the Fifth
Infantry, and I have medals for marksmanship. The Cubans took me on as
a sharp-shooter. They promised me a thousand dollars for every Spanish
officer I pick off with this old gun of mine. I have a hundred and
fifty rounds. You can figure it out for yourself, sir. I’ll be a rich
man.”
“Provided ye are not picked off first, me hopeful sharp-shooter. Are
there any more good men in your crowd?”
The old regular dubiously shook his head as he answered:
“There’s a dozen or so that may qualify on dry land. The rest ain’t
what you’d call reliable comrades-in-arms.”
“Oh, they may buck up,” exclaimed Captain O’Shea. “Look here, Gorham,
you can’t live on deck with those sea-sick swine. Better go for’ard and
bunk with my crew.”
Jack Gorham looked grateful, but firmly declared:
“Thank you, sir, I belong with the Cuban outfit, and I’ll take my
medicine. It would make bad feeling if I was to quit ’em. They are as
jealous and touchy as children. I have a tip for you. There is one ugly
lad in the bunch, the big, black nigger settin’ yonder on the hatch.
They tell me he comes from Colombia and left there two jumps ahead of
the police.”
They gazed down at the powerful figure of the negro, whose tattered
shirt disclosed swelling ridges of muscle and more than one long
scar defined in pink against the shining black skin. Thick-lipped,
flat-nosed, he was the primitive African savage whose ancestors had
survived the middle passage in the hold of a Spanish slaver. He was
snarling and grumbling to a group of Cubans, and Captain O’Shea pricked
up his ears.
“Raising a row about the grub, is he? ’Tis a pity he could not be
sea-sick early and often.”
“Why don’t you crack him over the head with a belayin’-pin just for
luck?” amiably suggested the chief engineer. “It would sweeten him up
considerable.”
“I am carrying them as passengers, you blood-thirsty old buccaneer,”
retorted O’Shea. “I must keep me hands off till they really mix things
up. But I do not like the looks of the big nigger. He is one of your
born trouble-hunters.”
“You take my advice and beat him up good and plenty before he gets
started,” was the sage farewell of Johnny Kent as he lumbered below to
exhort his oilers and stokers.
The night came down and obscured the hurrying tug whose course was laid
for the Yucatan passage around the western end of Cuba. The lights of a
merchant-steamer twinkled far distant and Captain O’Shea sheered off to
give her a wide berth. He had no desire to be sighted or reported.
To him, keeping lookout on the darkened bridge, came his cook, a
peaceable mulatto who had a grievance which he aired as follows:
“Please, cap’n, them Cubans what ain’t sea-sick is actin’ powerful
unreasonable. I lets ’em heat their stuff and make coffee in my
galley, but I ain’t ’sponsible for th’ rations they all draws. That
big, black niggah is stirrin’ ’em up. Jiminez, they calls him. At
supper-time to-night, cap’n, he tried to swipe some of th’ crew’s bacon
and hash, and I had to chase him outen th’ galley.”
“All right, George. I will keep an eye on him to-morrow,” said the
skipper. “Between you and me the Cuban party did not bring enough
provisions aboard to run them on full allowance for the voyage. There
was graft somewhere. But I’m hanged if they can steal any of my stores.
We may need every pound of them. I will see to it that your galley
isn’t raided. And if this big bucko Jiminez gets gay again, give him
the tea-kettle and scald the black hide off him--understand?”
“Yes, suh, cap’n; I’ll parboil him if you’ll look out he don’t carve me
when he’s done recuperated.”
The cook descended to his realm of pots and pans while Captain
O’Shea reflected that the voyage might be even livelier than he had
anticipated. With calm weather his forty passengers would recover their
appetites and demand three meals per day. They might whine and grumble
over the shortage, but without a leader they were fairly harmless.
“I will have to lock horns with the big nigger before he gets any more
headway,” soliloquized Captain O’Shea.
For once he heartily desired high winds and rough seas, but the
following morning brought weather so much smoother, that the pangs
of hunger took hold of the reviving patriots, who arose from the
coal-sacks and crowded to the galley windows. The cook toiled with one
eye warily lifted lest the formidable negro from Colombia should board
him unawares.
Captain O’Shea leaned over the rail of his bridge and surveyed the
scene. Black Jiminez was making loud complaint in his guttural
Spanish patois, but his following was not eager to encounter the
rough-and-tumble deck-hands of the _Fearless_, besides which the
prudent cook hovered within easy distance of the steaming tea-kettle.
To the amusement of Captain O’Shea, it was that lathy sharp-shooter of
the serious countenance, Jack Gorham, who took it upon himself to read
the riot act to the big negro. He regarded himself and his duty with a
profound, unshaken gravity. Jiminez overtopped him by a foot, but pride
of race and self-respect would not permit him to knuckle under to the
black bully.
“Will ye look at the Gorham man?” said Captain O’Shea to the chief
engineer who had joined him. “He is bristlin’ up to the nigger like a
terrier pup. And Jiminez would make no more than two bites of him.”
“How can the soldier do anything else?” exclaimed Johnny Kent. “He’s
the only white man in the bunch.”
“I may as well let him know that I am backin’ his game,” observed the
other. He sang out to Gorham, and the veteran infantryman climbed
to the bridge, where he stood with heels together, hat in hand. His
pensive, freckled countenance failed to respond to the captain’s
greeting smile.
“Unless I am mistaken, Gorham, ye have it in mind to tackle a job that
looks a couple of sizes too large for you. Will ye start a ruction with
Jiminez?”
“Until the colonel gets on his legs I’m the man to take charge of the
party, sir,” answered the soldier, reflectively rubbing the bald spot
which shone through his thinning thatch of sandy hair.
“But I expect to take a hand,” petulantly declared the captain. “This
is my ship.”
“Excuse me, sir,” and Gorham’s accents were most apologetic. “This
is your ship, but it ain’t your party. The patriots are a separate
command. The big nigger belongs to me. If I don’t discourage him, I
lose all chance of winnin’ promotion in the Cuban army. If he downs me,
I’ll be called a yellow dog from one end of the island to the other. I
intend to earn my shoulder-straps.”
“And you will climb this big, black beggar, and thank nobody to
interfere?” asked the admiring Captain O’Shea.
“It is up to me, sir.”
“You strain me patience, Gorham. If ye have any trinkets and messages
to send to your friends, better give them to me now.”
Said the chief engineer when the soldier was out of ear-shot:
“Does he really mean it, Cap’n Mike? He’ll sure be a homely-lookin’
corpse.”
“Mean it? That lantern-jawed lunatic wouldn’t know a joke if it hit him
bows on.”
“Will you let him be murdered?”
“We will pry the big nigger off him before it goes as far as that. Have
ye not learned, Johnny Kent, that it is poor business to come between a
man and his good intentions, even though they may be all wrong?”
Later in the day Captain O’Shea sought the state-room of the prostrate
Colonel Calvo. The sea was a relentless foe and showed him no mercy.
Feebly moving his hands, he turned a ghastly face to the visitor and
croaked:
“I have no interes’ in my mens, in my country, in nothings at all. I am
dreadful sick. I will not live to see my Cuba. She will weep for me.
The ship, she will sink pretty soon? I hope so.”
“Nonsense, colonel,” bluffly returned O’Shea. “The weather couldn’t be
finer. A few days more of this and ye will be wading in Spanish gore to
your boot-tops. I want to ask about your stores. Your men are growlin’.
Who is in charge of the commissary?”
“Talk to me nothings about eats,” moaned the sufferer. “Why do anybody
want eats? Come to-morrow, nex’ day, nex’ week. Now I have the wish to
die with peace.”
“The sooner, the better,” said the visitor, and departed.
The _Fearless_, with explosives in the hold and inflammable humanity
above-decks, pursued her hard-driven way through another night and
turned to double Cape San Antonio and enter the storied waters of
the Caribbean. Black Jiminez had failed to play the rôle expected of
him and the discontent of the patriots focussed itself in no open
outbreak. Captain O’Shea was puzzled at this until the mate came to
him and announced that the Cubans had broken through a bulkhead in the
after-hold and were stealing the ship’s stores. This accounted for
their good behavior on deck. The leader of the secret raiding party was
the big negro from Colombia.
“It seems to me that this is _my_ business,” softly quoth the skipper,
and his gray eyes danced while he pulled his belt a notch tighter. “But
I must play fair and ask permission of the melancholy sharp-shooter
before I proceed to make a vacancy in the Jiminez family.”
The interview with Gorham was brief. The captain argued that by
breaking through a bulkhead and pilfering the crew’s provisions, the
large black one had invaded the O’Shea domain. The soldier held to it
with the stubbornness of a wooden Indian that his own self-respect was
at stake. O’Shea lost his temper and burst out:
“If ye are so damned anxious to commit suicide, go and get him and put
him in irons. I will give you a decent burial at sea, though ye don’t
deserve it, you pig-headed old ramrod.”
“The moral effect will be better if I get him,” mildly suggested the
soldier.
The Cubans had learned that trouble was in the wind. Their stolen
supplies were to be cut off and this meant short rations again. Angry
and rebellious, only a spark was needed to set them ablaze. When eight
bells struck the noon hour they surged toward the galley, making a
great noise, displaying their sea-rusted machetes and rifles. In the
lead was Jiminez, a half-clad, barbaric giant who waved a heavy blade
over his head and shouted imprecations. The purpose of the mob was to
rush the galley and carry off all the food in sight.
The crew of the _Fearless_ liked not the idea of going dinnerless. When
the excited patriots charged forward, there quickly rallied in front of
the deck-house fourteen earnest-looking men equipped with Mauser rifles
broken out of the cargo. In a wheel-house window appeared the head
and shoulders of Captain O’Shea. His fist held a piece of artillery
known as a Colt’s forty-five. In the background of the picture was
the resourceful Johnny Kent, who was coupling the brass nozzle of the
fire-hose.
Jiminez had decided to declare war. He appealed to the patriots to
use their weapons, but they showed a prudent reluctance to open the
engagement. One of them, by way of locating the responsibility for the
dispute, pulled a revolver from a holster and took a snap-shot at the
cook.
“I guess I’d better turn loose this hose and wash ’em aft, Cap’n Mike,”
sung out the chief engineer. “George is a darned good cook and it
ain’t right to let these black-and-tans pester him.”
Captain O’Shea bounded from the bridge to the deck, and the crew of
the _Fearless_ welcomed him with joyous yelps. Instead of giving them
the expected order to charge the Cubans hammer-and-tongs, he made for
Jiminez single-handed. His intention was thwarted. Between him and
the burly negro appeared the spare figure of Jack Gorham, who moved
swiftly, quietly. With courteous intonation and no sign of heat he
affirmed:
“This is my job, sir. It’s about time to put a few kinks in him.”
The manner of the man made Captain O’Shea hesitate and feel rebuked,
as though he had been properly told to mind his own business. With a
boyish grin he slapped Gorham on the back and said:
“I beg your pardon for intrudin’. ’Tis your funeral.”
Although the mob behind Jiminez failed to catch the wording of this bit
of dialogue, they comprehended its import. The extraordinary composure
of the two men impressed them. They felt more fear of them than of the
embattled deck-hands. The tableau lasted only a moment, but a singular
silence fell upon the ship.
Big Jiminez nervously licked his lips and his bloodshot eyes roved
uneasily. It was apparent that he had been singled out as the leader,
and that the sad-featured American soldier in the sea-stained khaki
viewed him as no more than an incident in the day’s work.
Captain O’Shea had stepped back to join his own men. Jack Gorham stood
alone in a small cleared space of the deck, facing the truculent negro.
The Cubans began to edge away from Jiminez as if comprehending that
here was an issue between two men. The soldier had for a weapon that
beloved old Springfield rifle, but he made no motion to shoot.
Presently he sprang forward, with the heavy butt upraised. The negro
swung his machete at the same instant and the blade was parried
by the steel barrel. The mob had become an audience. It lost its
menacing solidarity and drifted a little way aft to make room for
the combatants. Instead of riot or mutiny, the trouble on board the
_Fearless_ had defined itself as a duel.
The veteran regular handled the clubbed rifle with amazing ease and
dexterity. The wicked machete could not beat down his guard, and he
stood his ground, shifting, ducking, weaving in and out, watching for
an opening to smash the negro’s face with a thrust of the butt. Once
the blade nicked Gorham’s shoulder and a red smear spread over the
khaki tunic.
Jiminez was forced back until he was cramped for room to swing. His
machete rang against a metal stanchion and the galley window was at
his elbow. His black skin shining with sweat, his breath labored, the
splendid brute was beginning to realize that he had met his master.
From the tail of his eye he observed that the Cubans no longer
thronged the passageway between the deck-house and guard-rail. He
turned and ran toward the stern.
Gorham was after him like a shot. In his wake scampered the crew of
the _Fearless_ intermingled with the Cubans, all anxious to be in at
the finish. Jiminez wheeled where the deck was wide. He was not as
formidable as at first. Fear was in his heart. He had never fought
such a man as this insignificant-looking American soldier, who was
unterrified, unconquerable. Gorham ran at him without an instant’s
hesitation, the rifle gripped for a downward swing. The machete grazed
his head and chipped the skin from the bald spot.
Before Jiminez could strike again, the butt smote his thick skull and
he staggered backward. Caught off his balance, his machete no longer
dangerous, he was unable to avoid the next assault. Gorham moved a step
nearer and deftly tapped his adversary with the rifle-butt. It was a
knock-out blow delivered with the measured precision of a prize-ring
artist. The machete dropped from the negro’s limp fingers and he
toppled across two sacks of coal with a sighing grunt.
The crew of the _Fearless_ broke into a cheer. The mate on duty in
the wheel-house let the vessel steer herself and scrambled to the
bridge, where he was clumsily dancing a jig. The Cubans chattered among
themselves in subdued accents, and from the state-room door peered
the wan countenance of Colonel Calvo, who was wringing his hands and
sputtering commands to which nobody paid the slightest attention.
Jack Gorham stood swaying slightly, leaning upon his Springfield, and
wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand. A moment later
Captain O’Shea had both arms around him and was bellowing in his ear:
“We will hoist ye into a bunk, Jack. Oh, but you are the jewel of a
fightin’ man! I hope ye were not hurt bad.”
“Nothing to speak of, sir, but my wind isn’t what it was,” panted
Gorham. “Better look after the nigger first. I didn’t plan to kill him.”
The chief engineer was dragging the hose aft with the praiseworthy
intention of washing down the combatants, and the captain told him to
turn the cool salt-water on the prostrate bulk of the negro.
“I’ll play nurse to him if you haven’t spoiled him entirely,” said
Johnny Kent. “I need more help down below and he’ll make a dandy hand
with a coal-shovel when his head is mended.”
Just then the mate, who had returned to the wheel, yelled to Captain
O’Shea and jerked the whistle-cord. The skipper ran forward and bolted
into the wheel-house. With a flourish of his arm the mate indicated a
small boat lifting and falling on the azure swells no more than a few
hundred yards beyond the bow of the tug. The occupants were vigorously
signalling by means of upraised oars and articles of clothing.
The captain rang the engine-room bell to slacken speed and stared at
the boat-load of castaways which had none of the ear-marks of shipwreck
and suffering. The white paint of the boat was unmarred by the sea
and the handsome brass fittings were bright. Two seamen in white
clothes were at the oars, and in the stern-sheets were two women and
a young man who could not be mistaken for the ordinary voyagers of a
trading-vessel’s cabin.
“I ought to have called you sooner, sir,” sheepishly confessed the mate
of the _Fearless_, “but I was watching the shindy on deck, same as all
hands of us. What do you make of it?”
“It looks like a pleasure party,” said Captain O’Shea. “I am puzzled
for fair.”
He ordered the engines stopped and the _Fearless_ drifted slowly toward
the boat. The ship’s company flocked to the rail to see the castaways,
who gazed in their turn at the picturesque throng of twentieth-century
buccaneers--the swarthy, unshaven Cubans with their flapping straw
hats, bright handkerchiefs knotted at the throat, their waists girded
with cartridge-belts, holsters, and machete-scabbards--and the
sunburnt, reckless rascals of the crew.
There were symptoms of consternation in the small boat as it danced
nearer the crowded rail of the _Fearless_, also perceptibly less
eagerness to be rescued. This was making a choice between the devil
and the deep sea. It was now possible to discern that of the two women
in the stern of the boat one was elderly and the other girlishly
youthful. Both wore white shirt-waists and duck skirts, and the young
man was smartly attired in a blue double-breasted coat, of a nautical
cut, and flannel trousers. One might have supposed that the party was
being set ashore from a yacht instead of tossing adrift in a lonely
stretch of the Caribbean beyond sight of land.
Captain O’Shea surveyed them with a dismayed air. He was not equipped
for the business of rescuing shipwrecked people of such fashionable
appearance; and as for taking two women on board the _Fearless_, here
was a complication to vex the soul of an industrious, single-minded
filibuster. However, he was a sailor and an Irishman, and his honest
heart responded to the appeal of femininity in distress. The steps were
hung over the tug’s side to make the transfer from the boat as easy as
possible, and a deck-hand stood ready with a coil of heaving-line. From
the bridge Captain O’Shea hailed the derelicts.
“For the love of heaven, who are you and where do ye come from, so
spick and span? What is it all about, anyhow?”
The young man in the stern answered in somewhat nettled tones:
“It seems more to the point to ask who you are. We are in a deucedly
bad fix, and these ladies ought to be taken aboard; but do you mind if
I ask whether you intend to make us walk the plank? My word, but you
are a frightfully hard-looking lot. Is Captain Kidd with you?”
It was O’Shea’s turn to be ruffled, and he flung back:
“You seem mighty particular about your company. ’Tis a nuisance for me
to bother with ye at all.”
“Oh, the ladies can’t drift about in this open boat any longer,” the
young man hastened to exclaim. “I shall pay you handsomely to set us
ashore at the nearest port.”
“And what would I be doing in the nearest port?” the skipper muttered
with a grin. “Well, there is no sense in slingin’ words to and fro. Let
them come aboard and find out for themselves.”
Running to the rail to assist these unwelcome guests, he called to the
self-possessed young man in the boat:
“How long have ye been adrift?”
“Since midnight. Our yacht ran on a reef and broke her back. Before
daylight we lost sight of the other boats.”
Captain O’Shea said nothing more. His interest veered to the girl,
who had been shielding her face from the blistering glare of sun and
sea. Now, as she looked up at the tug which towered above the boat,
the impressionable skipper perceived that her face was fair to see,
and that she smiled at him with friendly confidence. Presently he was
lending her a steadying hand as she clung to the swaying rail of the
tug and found foothold on the steps over which the waves washed.
“You are a plucky one and no mistake!” exclaimed Captain O’Shea. “A
man might think ye enjoyed it.”
“I do,” said she, shaking the water from her skirt as she gained the
deck. “Now please get my aunt aboard as carefully as you can. She has a
touch of rheumatism.”
Without mishap the elderly lady was assisted to accomplish the
acrobatic feat of forsaking the bobbing boat, after which the young
man and the sailors were allowed to shift for themselves. Leather
hand-bags, steamer-rugs, and canned provisions were tossed to the deck
and the boat was turned adrift, for there was no room to stow it on
board. Immediately the _Fearless_ forged ahead and picked up her course
at full speed.
To an elderly spinster of refinement whose years had been spent in a
sheltered, effete civilization, mostly bounded by Massachusetts, the
deck of the _Fearless_ was an environment shocking beyond words. The
chief engineer had resumed his interrupted task of playing the hose
on the senseless, half-naked bulk of black Jiminez. Jack Gorham, more
or less ensanguined, was stretched upon a hatch, where the surgeon of
the Cuban party had detained him to sponge and stitch his shoulder and
bandage his head. Near by hovered the disreputable patriots, begrimed
with coal-dust and bristling with deadly weapons.
The elderly lady stared with eyes opened very wide. Her lips moved, but
made no sound, and her delicately wrinkled cheek grew pale. At length
she managed to whisper to her niece that dread saying familiar to many
generations of New England spinsters:
“Mercy! We shall all be murdered in our beds.”
Captain O’Shea joined them, to speak his earnest reassurances.
“You are as safe as if you were in Sunday-school, ladies. This bunch of
patriots is perfectly harmless. There was an argument just before we
sighted ye, and the best man won.”
“And what is this voyage of yours, captain?” asked the girl.
“Oh, we are just romancin’ around the high-seas. ’Tis nothing that
would interest a lady.”
“Do you kill each other every day?”
“You mean the big nigger yonder?” and Captain O’Shea looked a trifle
embarrassed. “No, his manners had to be corrected. But will you come
for’ard, please, and make yourselves at home in my room? ’Tis yours as
long as ye are on board.”
“I am quite sure you have no intention of murdering us,” smilingly
quoth the girl. “And we shall ask you no more questions for the
present. Come along, Aunt Katharine.”
The young man of the castaways was fidgeting rather sulkily in the
background. He wished to interview the captain at once, but the
gallant O’Shea had eyes only for the ladies. Overlooked and apparently
forgotten, the shipwrecked young man picked his way across the deck to
accost Johnny Kent, whose first-aid-to-the-injured treatment with a
hose-nozzle had proved efficacious. The vanquished negro was rubbing
his head and sputtering salt-water and Spanish.
“There, you’re what I call recussitated in bang-up good style,” cried
the engineer, proud of his handiwork. “If you were a white man, your
block ’ud have been knocked clean off. You ought to be thankful for
your mercies.”
The castaway touched his arm and exclaimed:
“I say, my good man, I need something to eat, and a place to sleep. I
was awake all night in an open boat.”
The stout person in the greasy overalls turned to survey the speaker
with mild amusement on his broad, red face.
“By the look of your party you must have suffered something awful. The
skipper will attend to you pretty soon and he’ll do his best to make
you happy. But this ain’t no gold-plated yacht, and it ain’t no table
dote hotel.”
“So I see, but I’ll pay for the best on board. Really, money is no
object----”
Johnny Kent chuckled and turned to wave the nozzle at the negro, who
was sitting up.
“You subside, Jiminez, or I’ll dent this over your head. It ain’t
healthy for you to get well too darned fast.”
He scrutinized the castaway with a tolerant, fatherly air and answered
him:
“Better stow that you-be-damned manner of yours, young man. We’re
outlaws, liable to be blown out of water any blessed minute. Those
tarriers for’ard had just as soon throw you overboard as not if
they don’t like your style. You ain’t a shipwrecked hero. You’re an
unavoidable nuisance aboard this hooker. We’ve got other fish to fry.”
The young man flushed angrily. He was pleasant-featured, fair-haired,
of athletic build, his accent suggesting that he had imported it from
England. He was conscious of his own importance in the world whose
idols were money and social position. Grizzled old Johnny Kent, who had
diced with fortune and looked death between the eyes on many seas, knew
only one distinction between men. They were “good stuff” or they were
“quitters.” As for money, to have a dollar in one’s pocket after a week
ashore argued a prudence both stingy and unmanly. Wherefore he wholly
failed to grasp the view-point of the young man who had been wrecked in
a sea-going yacht.
Fortunately Captain O’Shea came back to divert the chief engineer’s
outspoken opinions. He called the castaway aside to say:
“Come to the galley with me and the cook will do his best for ye. I
will sit down there and hear your yarn. If you want some clothes, maybe
I can fit you out. My men are looking after your sailors.”
“This is a filibustering expedition, I take it,” exclaimed the other as
they went forward.
“I do not admit it,” judicially replied Captain O’Shea. “I will not
turn state’s evidence against meself.”
When they had perched themselves upon stools at the galley table the
young man handed the skipper his card, which read:
“_Mr. Gerald Ten Eyck Van Steen._”
The recipient eyed the card critically and commented:
“Dutch? I had a Dutchman as bos’n once and, saving your presence, he
was an oakum-headed loafer. Now, how did ye come to be in these waters
and whose yacht was it?”
Young Mr. Van Steen proceeded to explain.
“She was the _Morning Star_, owned by my father, the New York
banker--the old house of Van Steen & Van Steen. You have heard of it,
of course. He decided to take a winter holiday-trip and asked me to go
along--that is to say, Miss Forbes and me. She is my fiancée----”
“You mean the young one. And she has signed on to marry you?” broke in
Captain O’Shea with marked interest.
“Yes. She invited her aunt, Miss Hollister, to make the voyage as a
sort of chaperon. We cruised to Barbadoes, where my father was called
home on business and took a mail-steamer in a hurry. We jogged along in
the _Morning Star_ until her captain lost his bearings, or something of
the kind, and you know the rest. We were ordered into a boat, but while
waiting for an officer and more sailors a rain-squall came along--a
nasty blow it was--and our boat broke loose, and we couldn’t get back
to the yacht. The wind was dead against us.”
“The other boats will be picked up,” observed O’Shea. “You were lucky
to have such an easy time of it. Now comes the rub. What am I going to
do with ye?”
“Chuck up your voyage,” cheerfully answered Mr. Van Steen. “We simply
can’t go knocking about with you and risking the ladies’ lives. And
think of the hardships. My dear man, this tug is no place for a
gentlewoman.”
“It is not,” agreed O’Shea, “nor was it meant to be. ’Tis not ladies’
work I have on hand. I have promised to deliver my cargo at a certain
place at a certain time, and there are men waitin’ that need it bad.
Shall I break me word to them?”
Van Steen made an impatient gesture. He was used to dealing with men
who had their price.
“But you are in this business for money,” cried he. “And I fancy you
must have been pretty hard up to take such a job and run all these
risks. Name your figure. I can understand the situation. Rescuing us is
deucedly awkward for you. You don’t know what to do with us. How much
do you stand to make on the voyage, and what is the cargo worth?”
Captain Michael O’Shea leaned across the table and his fist was
clenched. He did not strike, but the wrath that blazed in his eyes
caused Van Steen to draw back. The sailor was not much older in
years than the other man, but he had battered his way, not merely
sauntered through life, and virile experiences had so strongly stamped
his features that Van Steen looked effeminate beside him. It was
a masterful man that held himself steady under the provocation and
replied to the insulting proposition slowly and carefully, as though
choosing his words:
“You heard me say I had given me word to land this cargo as soon as
ever I could, Mr. Van Steen. And on top of that ye try to buy me to
leave good men in the lurch and break my word when this stuff of mine
means life or death to them. All the money your daddy has in his bank
could not make me put this ship one point off her course to set you
ashore until I am good and ready. Do I make meself clear? You and your
dirty money! This isn’t New York.”
Van Steen was honestly amazed. This lowering, flinty-faced young
skipper must be crazy. Professional filibusters were a kind of criminal
recruited from the roughest classes. They could have no morals, no
manners, none of the sentiments of a gentleman. He ventured a final
attempt and said with a nervous laugh:
“But what if I offer to buy the vessel outright, cargo and all, and
absolutely protect you personally against any loss whatever?”
“I do not like your company,” abruptly exclaimed O’Shea. “Ye fill me
with sorrow for the rich. I cannot be rid of you, but we will not be on
good terms.”
His sense of humor saved the situation, and he concluded with one of
his sunny, mischievous smiles:
“’Tis terrible inconvenient for both of us. Here we are, aboard a kind
of a Flying Dutchman that must go dancin’ and dodgin’ about the high
seas with every man’s hand against her. And you are no more anxious to
quit me than I am to see the last of you.”
“But--but--it is absolutely impossible,” stammered Van Steen. “Think of
the ladies----”
“They have my room, and the bit of an upper deck will be sacred to
them.”
O’Shea stepped to the galley door, but Van Steen detained him with a
question.
“What about me? Can I negotiate for a state-room?”
“Yes, indeed; it is on the overhang with two sacks of coal for a
mattress, and ye should be thankful ’tis soft coal and not anthracite.
Ye may find the suite a trifle crowded, but by kicking a few patriots
in the ribs you can make room for yourself.”