THE SHOWDOWN--SWANSON TAKES THE COUNT
I dimmed the swivel light in the Captain's room, locked the door and
went on deck. Above, there was a fair breeze, and the sky was clear and
glittering with millions of stars.
"What course are you steering?" said I to the man at the wheel.
"South-southwest, sir."
"Let her go off to southwest." I was anxious to take advantage of the
wind by getting all sail on her.
"Where is the second mate?"
"He is forward, sir, setting the jibs."
Going forward, I shouted to Olsen: "Get the topsails and staysails on
her as fast as you can."
"Aye, aye, sir. I am short-handed; Swanson refuses to come on deck. I
sent Russian-Finn John down to tell him that we had a fine breeze, and
wanted him to come up and trim ship. Do you know, sir, he kicked him out
of the fo'c'sle?"
I took stock of myself. I was twenty-four years old, and weighed one
hundred and eighty pounds. The big brute in the forecastle, refusing to
work, whipping the second mate, and kicking his shipmates about, was
getting too much for me. I made up my mind that there would be two dead
captains or one damned live one.
Going aft to my room, I got a pair of canvas slippers that I had made,
for with this brute I should be handicapped in bare feet. With the
slippers on, and overalls well cinched up around me, I went to the
forecastle, past Olsen, who was sheeting home the fore-topsail.
Calling down the forecastle, I said: "Swanson, come on deck." When he
appeared: "I suppose you know that you are guilty of a crime on the high
seas?"
He answered me back, saying: "I tank about it," and took his stand
obstinately at the foot of the ladder.
The anger and passion of thousands of years was upon me. I forgot the
ship, forgot the dead captain. I skidded down the scuttle-hatch into the
forecastle, where he stood, awaiting me with a large sheath-knife in his
hand.
"Are you going on deck?" I shouted.
"You ----, ----, ----," flourishing the knife; "kap avay from me, I kill
you!"
I noticed an oilskin coat hanging on the bulkhead. I must say that my
mind was working overtime. My height was five feet eleven, and he
towered above me like a giant. I was aware of the powerful legs and arms
of this brute, conveying the suggestion of second money to me. If I were
to trim this gorilla, it would require tact and skill. Otherwise I felt
that the dead Captain would not have much start on me. He took a step
toward me, saying:
"You get on deck damn quick, or by Jiminy I cut your heart out!"
Quick as a flash I seized the oilskin coat. As he raised his arm to stab
me I threw it over his head and arm, then jumped for him. After some
minutes' hard work I succeeded in wresting the knife from him, but not
without marks on my legs, arms and hands. The forecastle was so small it
was hard to do much real fighting. It was more rough and tumble, and
this kind of a battle favored the Swede.
While slashing with the knife, he cut the belt that held up my overalls.
I was handicapped by these hanging around my feet, but fortunately
landed a right on his jaw, which sent him falling into his bunk. This
gave me a chance to kick free from the pants, and in so doing I kicked
one of the canvas shoes off. I can't remember when I lost the shirt, but
what was left of it was lying by the bench. He pulled himself from the
bunk saying, "I tank I go on deck."
"Well," thought I, "there is not much fight in him after all."
It was about twelve feet from the forecastle to the deck. When he
reached the deck I started up after him. When my head was even with the
deck, he stepped from behind the scuttle and kicked me in the forehead,
knocking me back to the forecastle. Had he followed up the blow I should
have indeed joined the dead Captain.
But no, he thought that he had finished me for good.
When I came to, I could hear strange noises around me. Some one was
washing my face, and saying: "And begorra, it is far from being
finished you are, me good man." It was Riley.
Old Charlie voiced in, saying: "That is a bad cut on his forehead."
Riley had no use for pessimists. "Ah, go wan with you, sure an it is
only a scratch he has. Now when I had me eye knocked out--"
Here I got upon my feet, dazed, but with no broken bones. "Where is
Swanson?"
"He is aft by the mainmast, sur, and be Hivins, it is a sight he is,
sur."
"Riley," said I, "come on deck and throw a few buckets of salt water on
me." There is nothing so invigorating as salt water when one is
exhausted.
After the bath, with its salty sting in my cuts and scratches, I was
ready for the cur again. He saw me coming up on the deck-load, and
straightened up as if he thought that there was still some fight left in
me. I noticed that he had a wooden belaying-pin in his hand. I took my
cue from that.
Stalling that I was all in, and crawling aft to my room, I gave him this
impression until I was abreast of him, and then I was on him with a
vengeance. I snatched the pin from him, and finished him in a hurry.
When he cried for mercy, and promised that he would work, and work with
a will, I decided that he had had as good a trimming as I could give
him, and let him up.
"Now, I want you to stay on deck, and work until I tell you that you can
have a watch below."
Calling all hands, I said, "Men, our Captain died during the middle
watch. We will bury him at nine o'clock this morning."
With the surprised and solemn look of the crew as they heard my
announcement, was mingled no mirth at my scant attire of one canvas
shoe. That was lost in their sympathy for him who was taking the long
sleep, and I doubt if they noticed it at all.
Death on board a ship creates a hushed stillness. Amongst the crew Old
Charlie looked up at the mast as if expecting another Bo'sun to appear.
He seemed satisfied with his predictions. But Riley took a different
view.
"Mother of God! It's fighting there has been going on with the poor dead
Captain laying aft there. Be Heavens, sir," pointing, "it's bad luck we
will be having for carrying on like this in the presence iv th' dead."
Sending him after my overalls and shoe, I went to my room to look myself
over. My eyes were black, face cut, arms, hands and body cut and
scratched, and worst of all, was my forehead where the brute had kicked
me. I still carry this scar. I was somewhat alarmed with these open
wounds, and knew that I must be careful of handling the Captain.
Hot breakfast, with its steaming coffee, did much to revive me, and for
the second time I was aware that the Socialist cook was a friend in
need.