CAPTAIN HOWARD
I might as well say in the beginning that, while I have a sailor’s taste
for liquor, I’m not especially noted as a drunkard or spirit-wholloper.
By the latter I mean given to ruffianism or brawling while under its
influence. It is because of a naturally refined and peaceful disposition
that I am so constituted, and I take no glory on that account. It is
nonsense to suppose all sailors ruffians and all tales of the sea
coarse, because some swabs have found that the hand of a knowing mate or
skipper lies heavy upon an empty pate. The story of many voyages on
American ships is gentle and uneventful as the daily run of a lady’s
carriage. For evidence, read their logs. We entered the den of our
little ferret-faced companion, and had no sooner sat at a table to order
the ale than I was aware of the tall, dour man who had followed us from
the pier-head. My second mate was too much taken up with the inmates of
the place to notice anything else. I might as well confess Richards was
a very pious fellow, and it must have been much against his wish to have
been where he was. The tall man paid little attention to him, but looked
at me.
He did not come into the room, but stood in the doorway, his fierce eyes
fixed upon my face, and his long, drooping moustache hanging below his
jowls, giving him a most sinister appearance. Our companion appeared not
to perceive his presence at first, and only when he tilted his mug and
threw his head back did his weasel eyes seem to fall in with those of
the stranger.
“Come in, you terrier!” I cried. “Come in and have a mug to soak your
whiskers in. Sink me, but barbers must be scarce around here. Soldier o’
the guard, hey? No one but a Voltigeer-r-r o’ the guard-r-rd would wear
such hangers.”
“Young man,” said the stranger, quietly, “your language is rather
unseemly, and should not be applied to one of the cloth. Hark ye! I am a
man of peace, sir. I am Richard Raymond, chaplain of the _Guerrière_
frigate. I never indulge.” He raised a lean, sinewy hand and shook his
head gently at the proffered ale.
“May the devil seize me if you ain’t the holy joe I’m looking for!” I
cried. “Sit down, man, sit down.”
“Not in such a place. I but came to plead with you not to fill yourself
with that liquid. It is ruinous.” Here he looked across the room where
the proprietor was attending to a group of sailors who were about a
table. “It is ruinous, I say, and here I implore you not to drink too
much. As a man of God, I ask you, and the chaplain of the _Guerrière_,”
and he raised his eyes aloft and clasped his hands as if in prayer. I
now noticed his clothes were somewhat clerical in cut, though shabby. At
this moment, a buxom maid brought some fresh mugs, foaming full, and I
tossed her a piece of money. She looked at me and smiled, saying
something I failed to understand. Then casting a look at the tall man in
the door, she laughed and went her way.
“And why not on the frigate now?” I asked Mr. Raymond, who still seemed
to be absorbed in prayer.
“Lost, man, lost!” said my little companion, taking a fresh mug. “Don’t
you know she was lost?”
“Well,” I cried, “what difference? Should a holy man desert his ship any
the sooner for being holy, hey? Answer me that. Why didn’t you get lost
in her? Sink me, but I like a man who will do something more than talk
for the good of a soul. I like a bit o’ sacrifice now and again to show
the meaning true. I’d like to see our friend drink this mug of ale to
save me from the devil, for, if he’ll drink it, I vow I’ll not buy
another for myself.”
“Deliver us from evil,” moaned Raymond. “Oh, Henry, I couldn’t do it,”
and his eyes rolled up.
“So your name is Henry, is it?” I asked my little companion.
He looked queerly at me.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” I asked, roughly.
“You never asked me,” said he. “The chaplain has known me many years.”
“Well,” I cried, rising and advancing upon Mr. Raymond, “you’ll either
drink this ale or get it in the face, for I’ll not be badgered by every
hairy heaven-yelper I run against. Drink!” and I held the mug toward
him.
His fierce eyes gleamed curiously, and he reached for the tankard. Then
he raised it to his lips, and the long moustache was buried half a foot
in the foam. When he let it down it was empty. The next instant
something crashed against my head, and I saw many stars. Then came a
blank. It must have been some minutes before I came to, and, when I did,
I found myself lying upon the floor with my Mr. Henry and the barmaid
wiping the blood from my face. The tall man had disappeared, and I
struggled to my feet, my head whirling. Upon the floor lay pieces of the
mug.
“Did that sky-pilot do it?” I asked, feebly.
Henry grinned.
“Ah, ah, pauvre garçon, pauvre, pauvre--what eet is, boy? Pauvre boy.
C’est poar boy, poar boy,” said the stout girl, wiping my clothes gently
and laying a hand on my shoulder.
The effect of a little sympathy was strange, especially from a woman.
“Never mind,” I said, taking her hand from my shoulder and holding it a
moment. “Get some fresh ale. There is no damage done. If that fellow was
a man of peace, I should not like to come across his breed as man of
war. Sit down, you son of a fox,” I continued to Henry, “and let’s have
your yarn, and if I see you so much as grin, this shop will be unlucky.”
We drew up again to the table.
“I should think,” said Richards, “you have had your say long enough now,
and would listen to reason. Steady yourself and get back into some ship
before you get in jail. I don’t care any more for the hooker you just
left than you do, and wouldn’t go back in her if there was any other
vessel wanting hands.”
“I feel flattered at your attentions, my dear Peter,” said I. “It is
good of you to follow me to take care of one so young. My morals are
pretty bad, and I need a nurse.”
“That is certain,” said the sailor, with conviction that angered me not
a little.
Richards’s manner was a bit trying to me at all times when I wanted to
have a say, and this time I lost patience. Yet, when I thought of it
afterward, I saw a steady head would have kept me out of much trouble.
He was a perfectly balanced man. He would neither lose his head with
joy, nor sink with despair at some seeming desperate trouble. He had
learned this by experience, and his steady eyes were not those of a
dullard. He felt as much as any one, as I soon learned when I gave him
the sharp edge of my tongue. He was not a large man, but rather small
and wiry. His size, I often thought, had governed his actions, for
aboard ship a small man cannot talk too loud. Since he had served with
me, I had reason to believe his body had little to do with his mind.
“Peter,” I said, acidly, “I’m looking for a ship. Will you go along in
her with me?”
“That I will,” he said, but I thought he was simply falling into my trap
to gain time.
“Then, my weasel,” said I, turning to Mr. Henry, “you have two bully
boys at your tow-line, for, sink me, I’ll hold my mate to his word if I
ship in nothing better than a West Indian sugar-boat. Sail in, my bully.
Let’s have the old tune I’ve heard so often.”
Henry drew up his chair and gloated over us. We were two good enough men
to tempt any sort of crimp, but, on account of my size, he addressed
himself to me as the leader. I have always had this happen when there
were others around, but I take no especial note of it, for it was
nothing that I was a well-put-up man. I had nothing whatever to do with
my birth.
“You see,” said he, “I don’t make any bones wot I’m up to. I’m after men
sech as you an’ me. My father were a Yankee sailor, though my mother
were sech as I have to break the commandment wot arguefies for a long
life every time I think of her.”
“You can honour her memory by keeping her name off your tongue,” I
growled.
“Perhaps so,” he assented; “maybe, but she were hung right here in this
town, and her property taken, so that’s why I’m lookin’ out fer men
wot’s men. I get ten shillings a head per sailormen, an’ I stands in
with the crowd. No shanghai business with me. It don’t pay. Why should a
man ruin his business just to shanghai one or two men who will turn
against him as soon as they come back, hey? A matter o’ a pound or two
an’ a good name fer fair dealin’ gone. Oh, no! I don’t run fer bad
ships. I only takes the clippers, an’ I give handsome.”
“What’s the hooker’s name?” I asked.
“That’s just what I’m coming to if you’ll only say the word to go in
her. They want a mate, and they’ll pay a big whack for a good man.”
“Name, you wolf,” I repeated, draining my mug. “Give the name, or pay
for this ale and clear.”
“I’ll take you to her--”
He was interrupted by the entrance of a small man who strode quickly
into the room and sat at once in an empty chair near the door. As the
newcomer entered, Henry half-rose and saluted, receiving a slight nod of
recognition in return.
“Who’s your friend?” I asked, gruffly.
“Sh-h! not so loud,” and he scowled at me. “That’s Captain Howard.”
“Who the saints is Captain Howard? Can he drink ale?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t ask him if I were you. He’s not a man of peace,” and he
looked at me slantwise.
“I see,” I answered, and I looked the stranger over carefully. He was
quite small in stature and his face was pale. His hands were soft,
white, and effeminate-looking. Upon one finger a huge diamond sparkled.
Just then he turned his gaze to meet mine, and I must admit his eyes
gave me quite a turn. They were as glassy and expressionless as those of
a fish. His whole smooth face, in fact, seemed to express nothing but
vacancy. I had never seen a human face so devoid of expression. There
was hardly a line in it save about the drooping corners of his mouth.
“He don’t look dangerous,” I said, with a chuckle. “However, I’m not
hunting trouble, and, if you think he’ll be offended at my acquaintance,
he can go without it.”
“He’s related to the great English house,--them--them ar’stocrats, ye
know. That’s the way he’s got the king’s pardon.”
“Pardon for what?” I asked.
He glanced sidewise at me with that ferret look upon his face. “You’ve
heard, sure? No? Well, then, that’s the skipper that held up the _Indian
Prince_.”
Then I remembered well enough. He was the little fellow with the pirate
crew that had held up the big East-Indianman in the China Sea some years
back. It was he who took the treasure and squandered it in mad riot in
the streets of Singapore, and defied the authorities. Here, indeed, was
the man feared by both whites and savages of the Eastern seas, sitting
in this little ale-house as unconcerned as though nothing unusual had
happened to excite curiosity. I was so taken up looking at him and
wondering at his foul crimes that he had received and drunk off his
liquor before I realized what had happened. As he left, I seized my mug
and drank it.
“Come along,” I said. “Show me your ship,” and Mr. Henry paid the score
and started for the door, while I followed. As I reached it, I turned to
see what Richards would do, but he was game.
“Here comes your nourse, sonny,” he said. “I was paid off yesterday, and
don’t mind a change if it’s for better,” and he looked so serious that I
burst out laughing.