REMINISCENCES OF OLD CLIPPER DAYS
One could see from the yawn and grunt that Captain Kane gave, that if
the pilot went on talking he would disregard all rules of the road and
make it a head-on collision. How could he respect this thing, that
called itself captain and pilot, when all he commanded was an open boat
with a few black oarsmen; "It is practice you want," said Captain Kane,
raising his glass and draining the last dregs from Mrs. Fagan's
highball, setting the glass down on the bar with a bang that seemed to
further derange Mrs. Fagan's red hair.
She turned around exclaiming, "May the Lord save us and what was that?"
"Let me tell you," said Captain Kane to the pilot, wiping his mouth,
"that I don't think you know Hell about doing your duty. Here's a
man"--patting me on the shoulder--"that squared away and ran the reef
while you were asleep, yes, damn you, asleep. You talk about duty!" The
little wisp of hair on Captain Kane's head no longer lay in quiet
repose, but started to ascend as if controlled by the angular motions of
his hands and feet. The illuminating light in his bleary eyes continued,
and he said in a voice that sounded like the rolling surf, "Fifty years
ago, running between Ceylon and the United Kingdom, in the old tea
clippers where our topsails and top-gallant sheets were locked with a
padlock, and where we got a bonus from the owners whenever we carried
away a sail. Those were the days!"
He brought his clubbed fist down on the bar with such force that he
jarred many of the glasses that were arranged around the beer pump
handles. Mrs. Fagan whispered to me that the Captain was not himself
today at all, at all, that he seldom gave way like this. "You talk about
duty to me," Captain Kane continued, "but I've seen the time when every
damned man of us were tied to the rigging during a typhoon. Never a reef
nor a furled sail, while the Captain held the padlock keys. Oh, boys,
those were the days, and you come around here talking to me about your
duty. Go on with you now before I forget that I am Captain of His
Majesty's ship 'Pongon.'"
The pilot was much distressed by this outburst of anger from Captain
Kane. As he adjusted his monocle with trembling fingers before replying,
a side door opened and Mr. Tim Fagan, proprietor of the Pier Hotel,
greeted us with a grin, saying, "'Tis a foine day we be havin', men, and
how are you all this morning?"
The contrast between Mr. and Mrs. Fagan was interesting, and one could
see that the eugenic situation had not yet reached south of
twenty-three.
His costume was that which is worn by the English lodge gate-keeper. He
stood about five feet four, in the long stockings and the knee pants,
the spiral legs, the number ten boots. This rig was coupled with the
fringe of a beard extending from ear to ear, partly displaying a small
chin and upper lip. Such an upper lip is seldom seen outside South
Africa, but with him it had assumed such vast proportions that there was
little to see of the face. The wart or button that was intended for a
nose was pushed up the face and in line with the gray eyes. The mouth
was in contrast to the upper lip, but its expansion was lost in the
sandy stubble of the side whiskers.
Mrs. Fagan looked adoringly at her beloved spouse and said, "Tim, it's
yourself that will treat the gintlemen."
It was with great difficulty that Captain Kane reached a small shack
made of bamboo poles and palm leaves. On entering we were confronted
with a sight long to be remembered, for there, sitting around in a
circle were fourteen natives of the Solomon Islands chewing kara root,
which, after much masticating, they spit into a large earthen-ware dish.
The kara root when properly masticated is then collected, put through a
sort of churning process and made into a drink which is known as Fiji
grog. It resembles oatmeal water, which is a familiar drink among our
northern harvest hands, but lacks its obvious peculiarities. The natives
greeted the Captain with a salaam-san and proffered him a cup of the
thick and slimy substance. The Captain refused, saying that it was near
his lunch hour and he preferred not to indulge on an empty stomach,
which I was pleased to see, for if he had taken aboard some of this
mysterious looking cargo and mixed it in his watertight compartment
there would have been a vacant chair at lunch on board His Majesty's
ship "Pongon."