THE CAPTAIN SHOWS HIS METTLE
Before the light of the early morning filtered below, we were aroused by
the entrance of the liberty crew.
“Youst look at the mess,” cried Bill, staggering down the companion.
“Jump below, friend Martin, an’ see the horsepittle they’ve made in this
fo’c’sle.”
“Hoot, ye Scandinavian imp, is any one hurt? Mark ye, if there’s any
fighting to be done, I’ll do it! Ye ken that? I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”
And he followed Bill below, and after him trooped Big Jones, Ernest, and
the rest. There was noise enough when we told our yarn of the evening
before, and all except Anderson took a peep from the hatch seaward to
try and raise the brig, which had cleared during the night. She was out
of sight, however, and they came swarming below again, where the surly
Swede was thanking the fates the barque had been robbed, and only
mourned because none of her officers were killed or wounded.
Jennings and Jorg, the Finn, were about the only men who had received no
hurt from the fracas, except myself. Even Heligoland had received a bad
scratch from a stray bullet, and all of Gull’s crew were more or less
bruised and banged about by the villains. One of the boat’s crew took a
crack over the head that had put him out for many minutes, and another a
stab from a knife that rendered his hand useless for the time being.
Owing to the darkness, no one had received a bullet from the long
skipper’s fire.
Before we had time to speculate upon what we would do, Hawkson’s voice
bawled out for all hands, and Henry appeared at the hatch.
We turned out and saw smoke flying from the galley-pipe, and heard the
voice of the Doctor singing off the effects of shore grog while he
hustled the breakfast. In a few minutes we had eaten, and were manning
the windlass to heave short.
There was a gentle breeze blowing, and the topsails were loosened, the
canvas falling from the yards and hanging hauled up at the clews, ready
to sheet home at the word. Far away seaward, the Desertas--the barren
rocks infested only by wild goats--stood out sharply against the
southern sky. Nothing white like a royal, however, broke the line of
blue, and it was evident that our friend, the brig, had made a good
offing during the night, in spite of the lack of wind. While Jim and
Tom, our two Liverpool cockneys, squeaked out a song, to which Gus and
Ernest added their guttural grunts, the starboard watch hove on the
windlass brakes, and began to take the slack out of our cable. Before we
had taken twenty feet, however, we noticed a boat coming from the shore,
and soon recognized Yankee Dan, the trader. In a few minutes he was
alongside bawling for Captain Howard. Then he climbed over the side,
and, without stopping to pay his fare, started aft.
“It’s a nice mess he’s made ashore,” he said, as Hawkson appeared on the
poop. “Don’t he know he’ll have to fight? What’s he afraid of, anyway?”
“Who?” asked the mate.
“The old man, of course. Who else? Hasn’t he insulted that Guinea
officer ashore there? Don’t he know he’s playing mighty strange, not
showin’ up when time’s called? Where is he?”
“Below,” said Hawkson, “but he’ll be on deck if he hears you, fast
enough. What’s the trouble?”
I had reached the starboard quarter gun by this time, and saw a smooth
poll, like the knob of a door, poked up the companion.
“Who’s making that racket?” growled a voice, and Howard’s face appeared
over the coamings.
“Ain’t you goin’ to meet your man?” bawled the trader.
“What man, you nigger-thief?” growled Howard.
“I’ll settle with you afterward,” said the trader, coming close to him.
“You better attend to one quarrel at a time. Are you goin’ to fight or
not? You know the man well enough, the officer you insulted yesterday.”
“Where is he?” growled the old villain.
“On the beach, waitin’ for you. Are ye blind?”
“That’ll do the anchor. Get the small boat ready,” said he to the mate.
“I reckon we’ll wait a bit and see what’s up ashore.”
In a moment after, he had disappeared down the companion. Howard came
stiffly on deck again, buckling on a cutlass. His face expressed
nothing, and, as he went toward the gangway, he called for his steward
to bring him a glass of grog. The effect of this was instantaneous.
He limbered up, and, as Holmberg, Bill, and myself brought the boat to
the steps, he was pacing fore and aft, cursing at our delay.
“I’ll have my breakfast when I come back,” he growled to Watkins. “No
fear, I’ll take the stiffness out of somebody.”
Then he climbed down the side ladder and sprang into the boat, followed
by Yankee Dan.
“Shove off!” he growled. Then he turned to the trader. “Where’s this
fracas to be, and what’s it about? What am I fighting for, you
nigger-thief?” And he broke into a high, cackling laugh, while his face
hardly changed in expression, his fishy eyes roving in their gaze toward
the beach.
We gave way with a will, and were out of hailing distance of the barque
before Hicks appeared on deck. I could see him waving, but, as the
captain sat with his back facing aft steering, I thought it was little
use to call his attention to the matter.
We were heading, under the trader’s guidance, to a spot on the shore out
of sight of the town, and in a little cove where there was no surf from
the heave of the swell. Here the craft was beached, and we sprang out to
drag her up. Then the trader and our skipper stepped ashore. Out from a
thicket of laurel sprang a trio of men, all wearing the Portuguese
uniform, and then I recognized one of them as the dago officer who had
been talking to the trader the evening before, and whom our old captain
had cursed so villainously. Under the arm of a younger man was a bunch
of swords, such as were used at the time for fencing in the
army,--little long, thin blades of the rapier pattern, and sharp as
needles.
“Sorry to have kept you folks waitin’ so long,” said Yankee Dan, “but
the old man had overslept himself. I reckon he’ll fight fast enough.
We’re ready when you say the word.”
The younger officer passed him the hilts of a couple of rapiers, and
politely begged that he try their temper and make a choice.
While he did so, our old skipper tossed aside his coat, and stood forth
in a none too clean shirt and flowing trousers, held up by a broad
leathern sword-belt. This he began to unbuckle unconcernedly, and, as he
finished, he wrapped it around the scabbard of his hanger and drew forth
the blade.
“I haven’t much time to waste on these Guineas,” said he, breaking into
a sudden cackling laugh which ended abruptly. His face wore the same
mahogany mask-like look it always presented, and his eyes were
lustreless and fixed as those of a dead mackerel. “If there’s any game
goin’, let it start, for we’ve a job in the offing to attend to.”
“Here,” said the trader, presenting him the hilt of a rapier he had
chosen, “drop that meat-axe and bear a hand. We’ll settle our little
affair later.”
“I’ll settle you, if you don’t sheer off,” growled Howard. “If the dago
wants to fence, let him come in. This is the sword for me, and, if he’s
finky about it, I’ll chase him clean up his chimney before he’ll get
clear of it.”
Yankee Dan threw down his sword in disgust.
“Don’t let him worry on my account,” said the officer, in good English.
“Let him keep whatever weapon he chooses. Perhaps he would like to have
a pistol also.”
It seemed strange that the officer, who was a high official not far
below the governor himself, should want to fight a duel with a man like
Howard. He evidently intended to kill him, for he took no pains to
hinder his clearing with his ship, and appeared eager to come to a
personal settlement.
A line was drawn across the sand, and the two combatants advanced to it,
the officer not above middle age and graceful, his sword held in proper
manner before him and his feet set at the right distance apart, while
his left hand he held poised at a level with his shoulder in the rear.
Howard grasped his scabbard in his left hand, with its belt wrapped
about it, and, holding it high above him, advanced his cutlass’s point,
and proceeded to work with no more concern than if he were prodding a
lazy sailor.
The sun had risen, and the sea was a beautiful blue offshore, the gentle
rippling along the beach sounding musically. The breeze just rustled the
foliage overhead, and made a low, continuous clicking which blended with
the sound of the steel. The air was warm, but fresh with the odour of
the sea, and the two men facing each other felt its bracing influences,
for they were hard at it in an instant, the old skipper breaking forth
into a high, cackling laugh, as he swung his weapon with marvellous
quickness. It was evidently great sport for him, and he was enjoying it.
The dago’s glinting black eyes shone fiercely as he thrust and lunged,
with the black lust of murder in his heart, determined to rid the world
of a villain. He was an expert swordsman, and accounted Howard a dead
rascal. But the ways of Providence are strange. It won’t do to trust
that the wicked will be punished and the good go unscathed. The ways of
the Almighty Power are inscrutable, and to dictate a policy against
crime, with oneself as the avenger, is a dangerous undertaking. The
Almighty has a way of his own for dealing with all things, and the
fallible human being is not consulted with a view to proving who or
which is best.
The very confidence of the officer made me nervous. His fierce smile
seemed to hold contempt and disdain for his antagonist, who, with his
old scabbard held high in rear, ambled about the sandy shore like some
old reptile, the perspiration starting out on the top of his bald poll
and running down his expressionless face in little streams.
Once he was pricked sorely in the side, but the old fellow only laughed
in his high, cackling voice, and swung his cutlass with renewed vigour.
Four, five, ten minutes passed, and the conflict waxed hotter and the
men began to breathe heavily. The officer’s face was pale and calm with
a fixed resolution. His breath came in sharp, rasping jerks, but his eye
was bright and watchful, and he was much lighter and quicker on his
feet.
Suddenly he lunged out and pressed the old man fiercely. Howard’s
scabbard sank lower and lower behind him until he let it trail upon the
ground. He was getting tired, though his face showed nothing. The
officer stabbed him badly in the arm, and there was a look in his eyes
that told of the finish. With a movement quick as lightning, the sailor
transferred his sword to his left hand, and came on with his fresh
wrist, working with the precision of the trained fencer.
Then the old man stopped, stepped back a pace, evidently thoroughly
blown with the exertion. It looked like the end now, and I began to feel
sorry for him, standing there to be spitted by the implacable dago.
“To the death,” hissed the officer in good English, and lunged out with
a vigour that seemed to defy a parry.
It seemed to me his sword must go half a fathom beyond the old man’s
body, and I gave a little exclamation of sympathy. Then something
strange happened. Howard dropped his point and jerked his sword
backward. It sheered off the thrust to starboard, and, before the
officer could recover, the cutlass rose and fell like a flash in the
sunshine. The blade landed fairly on his antagonist’s head, and down he
went on the sand like a poleaxed bullock, while Howard broke forth into
his cackling laugh, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Then he
turned and strode toward the boat, where Bill held his coat and hat. The
rest crowded around the wounded man, and cried out in excited tones.
“Shove her off,” growled our captain; “he isn’t hurt much, but it’s too
hot for this kind of play. He, he, he! I’d a good notion to break his
head, Dan, he looked so wicked, hey! ’Twouldn’t do to hurt one of those
fellows if we want to come again. He’ll be all right in a week. Hi, hi,
hi! but he hated me right fairly, hey?”
“I’ll call it quits,” said Yankee Dan, smiling, as he climbed aboard. We
shoved off, and were soon on our way to _The Gentle Hand_.
As we sent the craft sheering through the clear water, I had a chance to
look shoreward, for I faced aft with the stroke oar. Upon the yellow
sand several forms now moved in a body, and, as they opened a bit, I saw
the wounded officer walking away leaning upon the arm of his young
comrade.
“Hi, hi, hi!” cackled Howard, “what an appetite a little play gives one,
hey? Would you like to try your hand, you man-eater, to-morrow?”
“I’m no butcher; the pistol is good enough for me,” said Yankee Dan.