THE TIN-PLATE FIGHT--ONE-EYED RILEY TRIUMPHS
It was my watch below, and only one hour and a half left to sleep.
Taking off my cap, I hopped into the bunk, and was just dozing off to
sleep when the Cook opened the door saying: "Have you anything to read?"
"No, I have not," I replied, impatiently.
"Well," said he, unheeding, "I wish you would read this book. It is 'The
Superman,' by Nietzsche. I also want you to read Karl Marx, in three
volumes. Then you will understand why I hate sharks and masters." With
the last remark he slammed the door behind him.
The watch from eight to twelve was wonderfully fascinating, and full of
romance. A full moon hung in the clear tropical sky. The waters rippled,
and the Southern Cross glimmered in the distant horizon. Occasionally a
block or boom squeaked, as if to say, "I, too, lend enchantment to the
night."
At ten-thirty the light went out in the Captain's room. I knew that,
tired by the excitement of the day, it would not be long before he would
be asleep. With instructions to the wheel-man to keep her on her course,
I went forward to see Old Charlie, and hear from him what happened next
aboard the bark "Mud Puddler."
"As I was saying last night, there I stood with my hand stretched out to
ring the bell, and, sir, I could not move a muscle."
"Charlie," said I, "you were just dozing and dreaming, and thought that
you heard the bell aft."
"Not at all, sir, not at all. For the mate came forward cursing and
swearing and telling me that if I slept again on watch he would dock me
a month's pay. I have sailed under flags of many nations, sir, and never
have I been caught dozing at the wheel or on the lookout."
"What about the Flying Bo'sun, did he visit your ship?"
Old Charlie was too solemn for one to think lightly of his story.
"Wait, sir, don't go too fast. At breakfast the next morning I was
telling my shipmates about the strange man on the foc's'le. In
describing how he looked and the clothes he wore, one old sailor seemed
much interested.
"You say he wore Wellington boots and a pea-jacket? What color did you
say his beard was?"
"Black and bushy," said I.
"That's very strange, very strange," said the old sailor.
One member of the crew laughed at the old man's last remark, and said:
"What is strange about it? One would really believe that you thought
that Charlie was awake. Ha, ha, the joke is on you."
Old John, for that was his name, pushed his hook-pot and plate over on
the bench and rising very slowly to his feet said, "Shipmates, I am
sixty-two years old. I have sailed the seas since I was fourteen. I want
to say that the apparition that Charlie saw last night is not a joke,
but a stern reality, and, shipmates, some one of us is going on the Long
Voyage."
Here Charlie stopped to fill and light his pipe.
"What happened next?" I asked.
"Well, sir, in the afternoon watch I was out on the jibboom reeving off
a new jib downhaul, and, sir, as true as I stand here, there, almost
within arm's length, sat the Flying Bo'sun. Three days later we ran into
a storm off the Cape,--you know the short, choppy, ugly sea we get off
there? It was during this storm that we lost three men, and one of them
was old Sailor John. So you see I have reason to believe in coming
disaster. With the Bo'sun waiting to alight, and sharks following the
ship, I tell you that something is going to happen soon."
As Charlie finished his story, the man at the wheel struck one bell, a
quarter to twelve. It is always customary to give the crew fifteen
minutes for dressing, that when eight bells is rung the watcher may be
promptly relieved. I called the second mate, got a sandwich, and went on
deck again to take the distance run by the log.
While I was waiting for Olsen to relieve me Old Charlie came running
aft. "They are killing each other in the foc's'le, sir."
"Who is it?" I asked.
"One-Eyed Riley and Swanson, sir."
"Who is getting the best of it?"
"Swanson, sir. He has Riley down, and is beating him over the head with
a tin plate."
Looking down into the forecastle I could see Swanson stretched out with
Riley standing over him, a marline-spike in his hand, cursing and
swearing.
"Bad luck to you for a big squarehead. It's trying to tear me good eye
out, you are. Mother of God, look at me tin plate that he bate me with,
it is all crumbled in. Sure and I can't use that agin, and divil another
this side of San Francisco."
"Riley," said I, "have you killed this man?"
"Begorra, sir, me intintions was well-meanin'. I broke me spike on him."
"Turn him over," I commanded, "and see if there is any life in him."
"Now, throw some water on him."
"The divil a drop will I throw on him, sir, but if you will say the
word, I'll pitch him into the sea."
In a few minutes Swanson came to, terribly bruised about the head, and
no more fight in him.
"Riley," said I, "you beat this man, now you must bandage him up and
take care of him."
"Ah, sure, sir; it's murdher you'd be after wantin' me to do and it's
bandage him up you want. Heavenly Father, with me new tin plate all
spoiled, what in the divil am I going to ate off of?"
"Eight bells!" sang out the man on the lookout. It was Swanson's lookout
watch, and the Finn's wheel.
"Riley, you will have to keep the Swede's lookout this watch. He is
dazed and stupid from the beating you gave him. There is danger of him
walking overboard."
Swanson crawled over to the bench as if in terrible pain, muttering: "I
will get this Irish dog, and when I do, look out, I will kill him."
The other members of the watch below were too busy dressing to pay much
attention to the fight, but one could see that they were proud of
Riley's work.
"Ha, ha, an' it's kill me you would, me fine bucko, an' sure you might
if I had no eyes in me head. You dirty baste. Let me finish him, sir."
"Riley," said I, severely, "get up on deck, and relieve the man on the
lookout, or I will place you both in irons."
Riley went on duty very reluctantly, saying, "Begorra, sir, and it's
sorry you'll be for not letting me finish him."
"Swanson," I said, "you will be all right in the morning. You have a few
bad bumps on your head, but a hard and tough man like you should not
mind that."
I left him grumbling and whining and swearing vengeance, saying to
himself: "By Jiminy, I get even mit dem all."
On the forecastle head Riley was pacing up and down, evidently very
happy and pleased with the night's work. He was humming an old ditty,
and sometimes breaking out singing:
"Blow you winds while sails are spreading,
Carry me cheerily o'er the sea.
I'll go back, de dom, de dido,
To my sweetheart in the old countree."
In the cabin the Captain was looking through the nautical almanack to
find a star that was crossing our meridian.
"You know," speaking to me, "we must not allow sharks nor anything else
to interfere with the progress of the ship. I want to cross the Equator
about in 150° west. I believe that I shall have to keep her a little to
the westward now. Ah, here I have it, the star Draconis, it crosses our
meridian at 1 hr. 15 min. Just give me your latitude by dead reckoning."
"Here you are, sir," handing him the latitude. "With this moderate
breeze she has made 110 miles since noon today."
"It looks," said he, "as if she were going to beat her last trip to the
Equator. But, of course, there's the doldrums. One can never tell.
Sometimes a ship will run through and into the southeast trades, and
escape the doldrums. But that seldom happens to me."
The next few days were spent sewing sails, the crew rattling her down,
cleaning brass-work and chipping iron rust from the anchor chain. A ship
is like a farm, there is always work to be done, and a sailor must never
be idle. It is the mate's duty to find work to keep them going. A mate's
ability is usually measured by the amount of work that he gets out of
the crew, especially when she sails into her home port.
There the owners come aboard, and if they do not wring their hands, and
tear their hair, and sometimes tramp on their hats or caps, the mate is
indeed to be complimented. They will sometimes walk up to you and say:
"Well, you had a fine voyage, I see," looking around at the masts, and
yards, and paint-work. "Do you smoke? Here is a very fine cigar, three
for a dollar." (More often it is three for ten cents.)
I remember the old barque "Jinney Thompson." We were three weeks
overdue. When we finally arrived the owner was there on the dock and
fired every man aboard her. It seems that every day for three weeks he
had never failed to make his appearance at the wharf. On this day while
the tug-boat was docking us there he stood, white with rage.
"Get off my ship, you damned pirates, every man, woman and child of you!
To think that I should have lost one hundred and fifty dollars on this
trip. Get off, damn you, get off!"