A QUESTION OF POLICY.
The _Thomas Doane_ was at her dock in New York, and Bradley, now twenty
years old and a “sure enough” second mate, was on her deck, watching
the foremast hands clearing up the coal dust that begrimed everything.
The schooner had carried coal for over a year now, and her latest
occupation had not improved her appearance. She was old enough before,
and patched and mended enough, and to turn her into a collier seemed a
final humiliation. Captain Titcomb had felt it keenly, and his disgust
was outspoken.
“Well, by crimustee!” he had ejaculated, when his flat-footed
rebellion had been smothered by another raise in salary; “I used to
dream about commandin’ a Australian clipper some day or ’nother, but
I never dreamed that I’d come to be skipper of a coal-hod, and a
second-hand, rusted out coal-hod, at that. Blessed if it ain’t enough
to make the old man--dad, I mean--turn over in his grave! Come on,
Brad; let’s go to the theatre. I want to forgit it.”
His self-respect compelled him to scrub and scour more than ever, and
his crews earned their wages. However, coal carrying seemed to be
profitable, and Williams Brothers kept the old schooner at it, winter
and summer.
And Bradley was second mate. The promotion had been gradual, from
“roustabout and cabin boy” to green hand and then able seaman, and, at
the beginning of his third year, to the coveted officer’s position.
He had studied his profession with the care he gave to anything that
particularly interested him. Captain Titcomb was giving him lessons
in navigation, for, as the Captain said, “You ain’t goin’ to make the
mistake I made, Brad, and stick to shallow water all your life. I
learned to lay out a course and take a reck’nin’ years ago, and, though
I ain’t made much use of my learnin’, I hope to see you on a steamer’s
bridge one of these days; not runnin’ a floatin’ fire-shovel like this
derelict;” by which collection of pet names he meant the _Thomas Doane_.
The Captain had another project in his mind, a sort of secret hobby
that he hinted at every little while, but never told. These hints
usually followed a particularly disagreeable trip, or when the rickety
_Thomas Doane_ behaved even more like a cantankerous old maid than was
her wont. Then, when he and Bradley were alone, the Captain would wake
from a day-dream to say:
“Brad, I git more and more sick of this bein’ somebody else’s errand
boy every minute. Some of these days I’m goin’ to take a whack at
somethin’ diff’rent, and I have a notion what ’twill be, too. I guess
likely I may ask you to come in with me. I b’lieve it’s a good notion.
Tell you ’bout it some day.”
But he never did.
Bradley had grown tall and broad during his term of cruising. He had
learned self-reliance, and his voice had a masterful ring. When he went
back to Orham nowadays the “old maids” took special delight in having
him escort them to church, and Miss Tempy’s eyes during the sermon were
more often fixed upon him than upon the minister. The money that he
sent the sisters amounted to something now, and he had an account in
the savings bank.
Now, as he stood by the rail, with his hands in his pockets, he heard
a step on the wharf behind him and turned to see Captain Titcomb jump
from the stringpiece, catch the shroud and swing aboard. The Captain’s
usually good-natured face had a scowl on it, and he was plainly not
happy.
Bradley touched his cap. “How are things going up at the office?” he
asked.
“Plumb to the devil,” was the short reply. Then, glancing up at the
young man’s face and looking hurriedly away again, he added, “Come
aft; I want to talk to you.”
Seated in the dingy cabin, the Captain took a cigar from his pocket,
bit off the end with a jerk and smoked in great puffs. Bradley waited
for him to speak; the skipper’s ill-humor and obvious discontent had
come upon him the afternoon of the day the _Thomas Doane_ reached port
and had grown steadily worse. Each morning Captain Titcomb had spent at
the office of Williams Brothers, and when he returned to the schooner
he had done little but smoke, scowl and pace the deck. The second mate
was worried, but he asked no questions.
“Brad,” said the Captain, looking at the shabby carpet on the cabin
floor, “we’re goin’ to have a new mate.”
Bradley was surprised. “Is Mr. Bailey going to leave?” he asked. The
old first mate had been as much a part of the _Thomas Doane_ as her
mainmast.
“They’ve given him the _Arrow_--the new schooner. He’s goin’ to run
her.”
“Why, why! Cap’n Ezra! I thought she was promised to you.”
“I thought so, too, but I missed my reck’nin’, it seems. Williams--he
ain’t ha’f the man his brother was--he wants me to wait till the other
one--the four-master--’s off the ways. Then I can have her--if I want
her.”
“But she won’t be ready for six months, though I guess from what I hear
she’ll be worth waiting for. Who’ll have the old _Doane_ then?”
Captain Titcomb crossed his legs, but didn’t answer. Instead he
asked: “Brad, how would you like to sail under Bailey? You and him
got ’long first rate. I wouldn’t wonder if I could git you the second
mate’s berth on the _Arrow_. She’s bran-new and clean; not like this
hen-coop,” and he kicked a stateroom door with emphasis.
Bradley did not hesitate. “I guess if you can stand the hen-coop, I
can,” he said, decisively. “I’d rather wait with you, thank you.”
“I don’t know’s you’d better. Look here,” and for the first time the
Captain raised his eyes. “You know I wouldn’t try to influence you if
’twan’t for your own good. I honestly think ’twould be better for you
if you sailed on the _Arrow_.”
“But why?”
“Oh! because. Bailey’s a good man and an A1 sailor.”
“He isn’t half the sailor you are; nor half the man, either.”
“Much obliged. I’ll stand for the sailor part, but I ain’t so sure
about the rest. Brad, sometimes I wish I hadn’t stuck so close to
‘owners’ orders’ and had took a few observations on my own hook. Maybe
then---- But it’s hard for an old dog to learn new tricks. I s’pose I’m
a fool to worry. Money’s ’bout all there is in this world, ain’t it?”
“A good many folks seem to think it is.”
“And other folks don’t think any the less of ’em for it. Well, I’ve
laid my course and I’ll stick to it till all’s blue. Brad, will you, as
a favor to me, chuck up your berth here and ship ’board the _Arrow_?”
“Cap’n Ez, if you want me to quit this packet, you’ll have to heave me
overboard; that’s all.”
The skipper looked at the clear eyes and the firm jaw of the young
six-footer opposite.
“That goes, does it?” he asked.
“That goes. Cap’n Ez, you’ve been the best friend I’ve ever had, except
the old maids, and--maybe, one more. I don’t want you to think I’m
not ambitious, because I am. I’m just as anxious to make something of
myself as you can be to have me, but I’ve made up my mind, and, for the
present, anyway, while you sail a vessel, I sail with you--unless you
really _order_ me to quit.”
The older man hesitated. “Well,” he said, after two or three puffs at
the cigar, “I _ought_ to order it, p’raps, but I’ll be hanged if I can.
Brad Nickerson, I think as much of you as I would of a son, and your
good opinion’s wuth--I don’t b’lieve you know how much it’s wuth to me.
But--shake hands, will you?”
Puzzled and troubled, Bradley extended his hand, and the Captain
clasped it firmly in his own. For a moment it seemed that he was about
to say something more, but he did not. Giving the second mate’s hand
a squeeze, he dropped it, and settled back in his chair, smoking and,
apparently, thinking hard. As he thought, his lips tightened and the
scowl settled more firmly between his brows. Five minutes of silence,
and then the skipper threw the half-finished cigar into a corner and
rose to his feet. His tone was sharp, and there was no trace of the
feeling so recently manifested.
“We sail to-morrer mornin’,” he said, stepping to the companion ladder.
“The new first mate’ll be here to-night. His name’s Burke.”
Bradley did not move. “Just a minute, Cap’n Ez,” he faltered.
“You--you--I know it’s none of my business, but---- Well, you
understand, I guess. You’re in trouble--anybody can see that. Won’t you
let me help you out?”
The Captain paused with his foot on the ladder. “My troubles are my
own,” he answered, without looking back. “You be thankful you ain’t got
any. And here!” the tone was almost savage; “you take my advice and
obey orders and don’t ask questions.”
He went on deck immediately and, after a moment, Bradley followed him.
The rebuff was so unexpected and so undeserved, the circumstances
considered, that it hurt the young man keenly. His pride was touched,
and he made up his mind that Captain Titcomb should have no further
cause for complaint, so far as interference by his second officer was
concerned. As for the Captain, he kept to himself and said little to
anyone during the afternoon.
The new first mate came on board that evening. He was a thick-set,
heavy man, who talked a great deal, swore profusely and laughed loudly
at his own jokes. He seemed to know his business and, as the Captain
would have said, “caught hold” at once.
They sailed the next morning, and, by the time the tug left them,
Bradley fancied that he noticed a difference in the state of affairs
aboard the schooner. The usual rigid discipline seemed to be lacking.
There was no rebellion or sign of mutiny, but merely a general
shiftlessness that Mr. Burke did not seem to notice. Strange to say,
Captain Titcomb did not notice it, either, or, if he did, said nothing.
Bradley did not interfere; he had not forgotten the advice to “obey
orders and ask no questions.”
There was a good wind and a smooth sea, and the Captain drove the
_Thomas Doane_ for all she was worth. By the afternoon of the following
day they were in Vineyard Sound. Bradley’s suspicions had, by this
time, come to be almost certainties. For two or three sailors to show
signs of drunkenness on the first morning out of port was nothing
strange, but to have those symptoms more pronounced the evening of
the second day was proof that there were bottles in the fo’castle.
But Captain Titcomb, usually the first to scent the presence of these
abominations and to punish their owners, now, apparently, was unaware
of their presence. And the first mate, too, either did not see or did
not care.
Bradley was standing by the fo’castle just at dusk that evening when
a sailor bumped violently into him in passing. The second mate spoke
sharply to the offender, and the answer he received was impudent and
surly.
“Here, you!” exclaimed Bradley, seizing the man by the shoulder and
whirling him violently around. “Do you know who you’re talking to?
Speak to me again like that and I’ll break you in two.”
The man--he was a new hand--mumbled a reply to the effect that he
“hadn’t meant to say nothin’.”
“Well, don’t say it again. Stand up. You’re drunk. Now, where did you
get your liquor?”
“Ain’t got none, sir.”
“You’re a liar. Stand up, or you’ll lie down for a good while. Anybody
with a nose could smell rum if you passed a mile to wind’ard. Where did
you get it?”
The sailor began a further protestation, but Bradley choked it off and
shook him savagely. The first mate, hearing the scuffle, came hurrying
up.
“What’s the row, Mr. Nickerson?” he asked.
“This man’s drunk, and I want to know where the rum came from.”
Mr. Burke scowled fiercely. “Look here!” he shouted, “is that so? Are
you drunk?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re mighty close to it. Why----,” and here the first mate swore
steadily for a full minute. “Do you know what I’d do to a man that
brought rum aboard a vessel of mine? I’d use his blankety-blanked hide
for a spare tops’l and feed the rest of his carcass to the dogfish. Git
out of here, and remember I’m watchin’ you sharp.”
He gave the fellow a kick that sent him flying, and, turning to
Bradley, said in a confidential whisper: “Ain’t it queer how a shore
drunk’ll stick to a man? I’ve seen ’em come aboard so full that they
stayed so for a week afterwards.”
“I think they’ve got the liquor down for’ard here.”
“I guess not. If I thought so I’d kill the whole”--half dozen
descriptive adjectives--“lot. They can’t play with me, blank, blank
’em!”
But, in spite of Mr. Burke’s fierceness, Bradley wasn’t satisfied. He
believed that if the first mate had let him alone he would have found
the liquor. However, he thought, if neither the skipper nor Mr. Burke
cared it was none of his business. But he was uneasy, nevertheless.
By nine o’clock the signs of drunkenness were so plain that even the
first mate had to admit the fact. Only a very few of the men were
strictly sober. One of these was the big Swede, Swensen. Oddly enough,
this man had stuck to Captain Titcomb’s schooner every voyage since the
skipper had knocked the fight out of him. The novelty of a good sound
thrashing was, apparently, just what the giant had needed, and for the
man who had “licked” him, he entertained tremendous respect and almost
love.
“Cap’n Ez, he knock the tar out of me,” said Swensen. “He stand no
foolin’. He’s a man. Hey?”
He liked Bradley, too, and had presented the latter with a miniature
model of a three-masted schooner in a bottle, beautifully done, and
such “puttering” work that it was a wonder how his big, clumsy fingers
could have made it.
But though Swensen and the Portuguese cook and one or two more were
sober, the rest of the crew were not. Mr. Burke confessed as much to
Bradley.
“They’ve got rum with ’em, all right,” he whispered. “But we’ll be to
Boston to-morrer, and there ain’t no use startin’ a row till daylight.
Then some of these smart Alecs’ll find out who’s who in a hurry, or
my fist don’t weigh what it used to. Better not say nothin’ to the
skipper,” he added. “No use to worry him.”
It was odd advice from a mate, but, as Bradley could see, to his
astonishment, there was no need of telling Captain Titcomb. It was
plain enough that the latter knew his crew’s condition and deliberately
ignored it. Men stumbled past him and he looked the other way. Simple
orders were bungled and he did not reprove. Only once that evening did
his wrath blaze out in the old manner. A sailor was ordered by him to
do something and, instead of the dutiful “Aye, aye, sir,” he replied
with a muttered curse.
The next instant Captain Ezra’s fist was between his eyes and he fell,
to be jerked to his feet again and back to the rail with the skipper’s
hand twisted in his shirt collar.
“Damn you!” said the Captain, between his teeth. “I’ll--I swear
I’ll----”
Mr. Burke came running and whispered eagerly in his commander’s ear.
Captain Titcomb’s arm straightened and the sailor was thrown across the
deck.
“Go for’ard!” roared the skipper, “and if you want to live, you keep
out of my sight. I can’t help it, Burke; I’ve got some self-respect
left yit.”
That was all, and Bradley wondered.
Under such circumstances accidents were bound to occur. But the one
that did occur was serious. Bradley was below when it happened. He
usually took the first watch, but to-night Captain Titcomb said he
would take it, and Mr. Burke would stay up with him for awhile. So the
second mate “turned in.” He was awakened by a racket on deck, and the
sound of voices and footsteps on the companion ladder. Opening his
stateroom door he saw four men descending the ladder carrying a fifth
in their arms.
“What’s the matter?” asked Bradley. “Who’s hurt?”
“It’s the skipper,” replied one of the men, in a frightened voice. “He
fell and hurt his head. He----”
Bradley sprang into the cabin and saw Captain Titcomb, unconscious, and
with the blood running from an ugly cut on his forehead.
“For God’s sake----” he began, but was interrupted by Burke, who, with
a very white face, was descending the ladder.
“Hush up!” commanded the first mate. “Don’t make a row. ’Tain’t nothin’
serious, I guess. Jest cussed foolishness. Put him on the locker there,
you.”
This is what had happened: The schooner was passing out of the Sound
and, as the night was black and hazy, they were using the lead
frequently. The _Thomas Doane_ had a high after-deck and to reach the
waist one must descend a five-foot ladder. A sailor, not too sober, had
thrown the lead and, in passing aft with the line, had fouled it at
the ladder. Captain Titcomb, losing his temper at the man’s clumsiness,
had run toward him, tripped in the line and pitched head-first over the
fellow’s shoulder to the main deck. The sailor’s body had broken the
fall, somewhat, and the skull was not fractured, but it was bad enough.
They bathed and bandaged the bleeding forehead, hurriedly pulled off
the Captain’s clothes and got him into his berth. He came to himself
a little as they did so, but was too weak to talk and did not seem to
realize what was going on. Mr. Burke was the most agitated man aboard.
He swore steadily, and cursed the foremast hand who was responsible,
beginning with his remote ancestors and ending with any grand-children
that he might have later on.
“This is a devil of a mess!” he growled. “Just now, too. I’d have
rather broke my own neck twice over. Nickerson, you’ll have to stay
below here and look after him. I’ve got to be on deck.”
The cook, who had helped bring the Captain into the cabin, lingered
after the first mate had gone. Bradley questioned him about the
accident.
“Thoma, he done it,” said the cook. “The line, she git mess up by
the----”
“He was drunk,” broke in Bradley. “He’s been drunk all the afternoon.
Isn’t that so”?
The cook looked hastily at the ladder, then at the Captain. Then,
nodding emphatically, he whispered: “Ya-as, sir. They most all drunk. I
never seen so much drink on schooner; not on Cap’n Titcomb’s schooner,
anyway, and I sail with him for five year.”
Together they watched the Captain as the hours passed. He spoke now
and then and seemed better, but, for the most part, he slept. Bradley
changed the bandages on his forehead, and gave him stimulants when he
woke. Mr. Burke came below every little while to make inquiries. He was
very nervous.
“He’s all right,” he said, as he was leaving for the third time. “It
knocked him silly, but his skull’s whole, near’s I can find out, and
he’ll be feelin’ good in a day or two. You turn in, Mr. Nickerson. The
doctor here’ll look out for the skipper.”
But Bradley would not go to bed. He was worried about the Captain, and
even more worried about the schooner. He did not like Mr. Burke, and he
was by no means sure--judging by what he had seen--that the mate knew
how to handle a crew. About two o’clock he decided to go on deck.
It was a black night, with clouds covering the sky and a haze low
down on the horizon. It was not thick enough for the fog-horns to be
sounding, but the shore was invisible. There was almost a fair wind,
and the schooner, heeled well over, was pushing through the quiet sea
in good shape.
Bradley leaned on the rail and looked over the water toward where the
shore should be. As he stood there the haze blew aside for a moment and
he saw, not more than two miles away and ahead of the schooner, the
twinkle of a light. Then it disappeared again. He walked aft. One of
the new hands was at the wheel, and there was a distinct smell of rum
in that vicinity.
“Where’s the mate?” asked Bradley.
“For’ard, sir.”
“Who gave you that course?”
“Mr. Burke, sir.”
Burke was standing by the foreshrouds, looking over the side. He
started when Bradley touched his arm.
“Excuse me, Mr. Burke,” said the second mate. “Where are we?”
“Turned the Rip an hour or so ago.” Burke’s tone was distinctly
unpleasant. “What are you doin’ here? Thought I told you to stay with
the skipper or turn in.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I came on deck a minute. Isn’t she pretty close
in? I thought I saw the Skakit Light just now.”
“Saw nothin’! Skakit Light’s away off yonder. Water enough here to
float a Cunarder. What’s the matter with you? ’Fraid I ain’t on to
my job? When I want your help I’ll ask you for it; I’ve sailed these
waters when you was a kid.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to----”
“Then shut up! You go below and ’tend to the skipper.”
Bradley bit his lip and turned away. If Burke was right he had no
business to interfere. If he wasn’t right the _Thomas Doane_ was
shaving the shoals altogether too close. He went below, found Captain
Titcomb sleeping quietly and, a little later came on deck again to
lean on the rail amidships, and, once more, stare at the foggy darkness.
A big figure loomed close beside him. It was Swensen, and he obviously
wanted to speak.
“Well, Swensen,” said Bradley, “what is it?”
The Swede leaned forward and, shading his mouth with his hand,
whispered, hoarsely: “Mr. Neekerson, you know ’bout the fust mate? He
all right? What?”
Bradley had been brought up to discourage familiarity with men before
the mast.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, sharply.
“Nawthin’, sir. Only, he know this course? Ah see Skakit Light twice
yust now, and only a mile’n ’half off. That not ’nough--not here.”
“Are you sure you saw it?”
“Yas, sir.”
Bradley turned away. He hated to risk another snub from the mate, and
he fully realized the danger of interfering with a superior officer,
but Captain Titcomb was not in command, and here was Swensen’s
testimony to back his own that the schooner was running too close to
the dangerous Cape Cod beaches. The course she was on was taking her
still closer in and the fog was growing thicker.
This time Burke was standing by the man at the wheel. He swore when the
second mate approached, and snarled: “Well, what’s the matter now?”
“Mr. Burke, are you sure that wasn’t the Skakit Light I saw? Swensen
says he’s seen it twice, and not more than a mile and a half away.
If that’s so, we’re running into shoal water. Hadn’t I better try
soundings?”
In a blast of profanity, Burke consigned both Bradley and Swensen to
the lowest level in the brimstone future.
“Go below!” he yelled. “Go below and stay below, or I’ll find out why.”
Then, as if he realized that he was showing too much temper, he added,
in a milder tone: “It’s all right, Nickerson. We’re three mile off
shore, and Skakit’s astern of us. Go below; ain’t the skipper enough to
make me nervous without you shovin’ your oar in?”
And then from somewhere forward came a frightened yell, and the sound
of some one running. Swensen came bounding up the ladder from the main
deck.
“Breakers ahead!” he shouted. “Breakers ahead! Put her over! Keep her
off, quick!”
Burke’s face went white and then crimson.
“Breakers be hanged!” he cried. “Keep her as she is!”
But the Swede was dancing up and down. There were confused cries
forward, and other men came running.
“Starboard your helm!” bellowed Swensen. “Put her over! You can hear
’em! Listen!”
He held up both hands to enforce silence, and for a moment every soul
on deck stood listening. The waves clucked along the schooner’s side,
the wind sang in the rigging, the masts creaked. And then another sound
grew, as it were, into Bradley’s ears. A low, steady murmur, now
rising, now sinking. He sprang toward the wheel.
“Put her over!” he shouted. “There _are_ breakers. Starboard your helm!
Starboard!”
“Keep her as she is!” bellowed Burke, bending forward with his fists
clenched. “Don’t turn a spoke!”
“But, for heaven’s sake, Mr. Burke! Are you crazy? We’ll be ashore in
ten minutes!”
The first mate’s eyes shone in the dim light. His teeth showed white
between his opened lips.
“By the livin’ God A’mighty!” he gasped, chokingly, “I’ll show you
who’s runnin’ this craft. _Keep her as she is!_”
Bradley forgot his duty as second officer, forgot that half the crew
were watching him, forgot everything except that his best friend lay
helpless in a berth below, while his schooner was being run into
certain destruction. He leaped to the wheel and the mate leaped to meet
him.
Bradley stooped as he sprang forward, and it was lucky for him that
he did so. Burke’s fist whizzed past his ear, and the next moment the
two mates were clinched and struggling in the little space between
the deck-house and the after-rail. Bradley did not attempt to strike;
his sole idea was to get to the wheel. Therefore, he merely warded
off the furious blows aimed at his head and struggled silently. But
the one-sided fight could not last long. Burke gradually backed his
opponent to the rail, and then, without turning his head, he shouted:
“Thoma, pass me a handspike. _Lively_, you----”
The man Thoma--he was half drunk and naturally stupid--obediently
placed the handspike in the first mate’s hand.
“Now then!” panted Burke, “by----”
And then Bradley struck--a half-arm upper cut--right under the ugly,
protruding chin. Burke’s teeth clicked together; he seemed to rise from
the deck and fell backward, at full length, almost under the feet of
Swensen. Bradley shoved the sailor from the wheel and gave the latter
a whirl. The schooner shivered, turned slowly, the booms swept across
her deck, and she heeled over on the other tack, with her nose pointing
well away from the beach and toward the open sea.
Burke lay still for an instant, spread-eagled on the deck; then he
rose to his feet. Bradley stooped and picked up the handspike. The
first mate glared at the man who had knocked him down. Also he looked
respectfully at the handspike. But if he had been angry before he was
crazy now.
“You mutineer!” he shouted, with an oath between every word; “just wait
a minute! I’ll show you how I treat mutineers.”
He ran to the cabin companion and jumped down. Bradley, trying to
appear calm before the crew, glanced at the sails and then out over
the side. Suddenly, so close that their ear-drums throbbed with it,
there boomed out of the dark a thuttering, shaking roar, that swelled
to a shriek and died away--the voice of the great steam foghorn of the
Skakit Light.
“Lawd Gawd!” muttered Swensen. “Ve vos that near!”
Burke came bounding up the companion ladder. Something bright and shiny
gleamed in his hand.
“Now then!” he cried, “we’ll see what----”
But two mammoth paws clasped his wrists, the hand with the revolver was
turned backward till the barrel pointed at the end of the gaff, and big
Swensen’s voice said, calmly:
“Yah, I guess not. Yust vait a minute, Mr. Burke. Mr. Neekerson, vat I
do vit him, hey?”
It was mutiny, of course, mutiny pure and simple, but Bradley had gone
too far to back out now.
“Take him below and lock him in his stateroom,” he said. “Tell the
doctor to see that he doesn’t break out. Then come back to me. Yes, you
may give me the revolver.”
Swensen twisted the pistol from the first mate’s hand and then, picking
him up as he would a ten-year-old boy, started for the cabin. Burke
struggled furiously and swore like a wild man, but he couldn’t break
away. The shouts grew fainter and then were muffled almost entirely by
the closing of the stateroom door.
Bradley put the revolver in his pocket.
“Now, then, men,” he said; “I’m skipper of this schooner for the rest
of this voyage. Is there anybody here that doesn’t understand it? No?
All right. O’Leary, go for’ard on lookout. Peterson, heave the lead.
Swensen,” as the big Swede came up the ladder, “take the wheel and keep
her as she is.”
All that morning, until daybreak sent the fog rolling to the north
in tumbled clouds, the lead was going, and the crew were busy on the
_Thomas Doane_. Bradley stood close at Swensen’s elbow and edged her
out, feeling his way with the lead, and listening to the calls of the
foghorns. The schooner’s own foot-power horn was kept tooting, and, by
and by, as they got out into the ship channel, it was answered by other
horns and bells, some close aboard, some distant.
But by breakfast time it was clear and fine and, before a cracking
wind, the schooner walked along as if she realized her escape and was
trying to show her gratitude. Through that day Bradley stood by the
wheel, only leaving to eat a mouthful and to inquire after Captain
Titcomb, who was much improved and beginning to ask questions. And just
at dusk the gilt dome of the Boston State House shone dimly in the
dying light, and the _Thomas Doane_, resting from her labors, moved
easily behind the tug up to her dock. She had made splendid time, but
Bradley was far from happy. There was trouble coming, and he knew it.
He sent word to the cook, ordering the latter to unlock the stateroom
door and release the imprisoned first mate. A minute later the cook
came on deck, his eyes shining with excitement.
“Mr. Burke, he go right into the skipper’s room and shut the door,”
whispered the Portuguese. “And now they talk, talk, talk. And Mr. Burke
he swear _all_ the time.”
When the first mate appeared he did not speak to any one, but jumped to
the wharf and hurried away. A doctor was sent for and Captain Titcomb’s
wound was dressed. The physician said the injury was not serious. There
was no concussion of the brain, and the patient would be all right in a
couple of days.
Bradley didn’t sleep much that night. Next morning the Captain sent for
him. When the second mate entered the stateroom he found the skipper
sitting on the edge of the berth with a big bandage on his head, but
looking very bright and like himself.
He seemed oddly embarrassed when Bradley came in. For a moment or two
he did not speak. The second mate, who had expected a scorching rebuke
and was prepared to meet it, was surprised at the mildness of his first
remark.
“Now then, Brad,” said Captain Titcomb, “set down. What’s this about
you and the mate? Tell the whole yarn, first and last.”
So Bradley told it, just as it happened--the crew’s behavior, his
suspicions, the sighting of the Light and what followed.
“Humph!” Captain Ezra nodded. “Yup, that’s about what Burke said. Now,
Brad, I s’pose you knew that Mr. Burke was your superior officer, and
that what he said was law for you, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir; but----”
“Never mind the ‘buts’ now. Taking command by force is serious--mighty
serious.”
“I did what I thought was right, Cap’n Ez--what I b’lieved you’d think
was right. The schooner would have been aground in ten minutes if I
hadn’t.”
“Well, s’pose she would. There’d have been no lives lost. Plenty of
boats and a smooth sea.”
“But Mr. Burke _knew_ she was headed for the shoals. He _must_ have
known it. The owners would have----”
“What do you know about the owners and their affairs?”
“But the schooner?”
“She’s a hulk, that’s all--and insured.”
The reply was an odd one, but the tone in which it was made was odder
still. Strange things had happened during the past week; Captain
Titcomb’s silent ill-humor, the interview the day before leaving New
York, the sudden change of mates, the skipper’s studied indifference
to the demoralization among the crew, Burke’s frantic determination to
keep on the course set by him even after the proximity to the shoals
had been proven beyond a doubt--all these were fingers pointing in one
direction. Bradley, however, had not looked in that direction. But now
the last wisp of fog blew away and he saw clearly.
“Cap’n Ez!” he gasped. “Cap’n Ez! Were you going to wreck her on
purpose?”
The Captain shifted in his seat, but did not look at his companion.
“Orders are orders,” he said. “Mr. Burke was your skipper--with me
out of the way--and you ought to have minded him, just as I should my
owners.”
“Wreck a vessel for her insurance!” groaned Bradley. “I didn’t think
you’d do it, Cap’n Ez. I didn’t think you’d do it!”
The dismay, the grieved disappointment and horror in his friend’s tone,
seemed to hurt Captain Titcomb sorely. He glanced at Bradley, and then
looked away again.
“I’ve heard all sorts of yarns about you in Orham,” went on Bradley.
“They say you’re too smart and that you’ll bear watching and all that.
I’ve called those that said it liars, and I’ve stood by you through
thick and thin. But now---- What do you think they’d say if they knew
of this? What do you think Miss Prissy and Miss Tempy would say? Why,
they b’lieve you’re the best----”
The Captain broke in testily. “Never mind all that,” he said. “As for
Squealer Wixon and Jabe Bailey’s talk, I don’t care a snap. And the
old maids ain’t exactly up to date in this world’s way of lookin’ at
things. S’pose the old _Doane_was booked for thunderation by the shoal
route--what of it? Mind, I only say _s’pose_. Better to go that way
on a smooth night, with all hands saved, than to bust up in a squall
and drown us all, as was likely to happen any minute. Nobody loses but
the insurance folks, and they’d lose quick enough, anyhow. Why, it’s
done a hundred times a year all along this coast. ’Member when the
_Bay Queen_ piled up on the beach off Setuckit last summer? Everybody
was as sartin as could be that ’twas done a-purpose, but you couldn’t
prove nothin’. So with the _Rhoda Horton_ and the _Banner_, and any
quantity more. S’pose--mind, I’m only s’posin’--that you’d got orders
from your owners--_orders_, you understand--to do somethin’ you didn’t
like? S’pose you’d always stuck to owners’ orders a good deal closer’n
you had to the Bible? You talk a lot--so do other folks--but what would
_you_ have done?”
“I’d have been honest, and said ‘No.’”
“Humph! Well, I guess _you_ would. You’re the nearest thing to an
honest man that I’ve run across yit. Honesty is the best policy, they
say. But was it honesty that made ha’f the millionaires? Are Williams
Brothers rich because they’ve always been honest? Josh Bangs is in the
poorhouse, and he’s the most honest critter in Orham, while his brother
Sol is chairman of school committee, deacon in the church, has money in
the bank, and would skin the eye-teeth out of a Down-East horse jockey.
Why----”
“Cap’n Ez,” interrupted Bradley, “stop talkin’ that way. You don’t
believe a word of it. I know you too well. The trouble with you is
that everlasting ‘owners’ orders.’ I almost think that that accident
last night was, as Miss Tempy would say, ‘sent’ to keep you from doing
something you’d be sorry for all the rest of your days.”
The Captain looked at the speaker oddly. “Then you cal’late,” he said,
“that I ought to thank God A’mighty and a tipsy fo-mast hand for savin’
what the book folks would call my honor? That’s all right; only wait
till Williams Brothers send me _their_ thanks on a clean plate, with
gilt doodads ’round the edges. Williams Brothers and your particular
friend, Mr. Burke, ain’t been heard from yet, my son. Well, Brad, I
s’pose you’ll be packin’ up to-night, anyway. An honest man, ’cordin’
to your log, ain’t needed on the _Thomas Doane_. I told you you ought
to ship ’board the _Arrow_.”
“I didn’t ship on the _Arrow_ because I’d rather be with you than
anybody else on the earth. I wouldn’t sail with a rascal that would
wreck a schooner, and I don’t believe--I _know_ you’re not really a
rascal. Oh, can’t you _see_? It isn’t myself I’m thinking about--it’s
you--_you_!”
The Captain took his knife from his pocket and whittled a corner off
the cabin table before replying. Then he said, slowly:
“Much obliged, Brad. But what do you s’pose Williams Brothers will want
me to do when they give me orders for this liner’s next trip?”
“I don’t know.”
“S’pose those orders are the same as the last; what then?”
“Then say ‘No,’ like an honest man.”
Captain Ezra gave a short laugh. “Honesty, my son, is like di’monds,
sometimes--it’s pretty, but it comes high. You turn in. I’m goin’ to
set up a while and smoke.”
Bradley reluctantly went to bed, but when he awoke, several hours
later, he heard the Captain stirring in his stateroom.
Next morning the skipper received a telegram.
“Williams Brothers, havin’ heard from friend Burke, want to have a
little chat with the commander of the clipper _Thomas Doane_,” he
remarked to Bradley. “That doctor squilgeein’ my maintop with his
physic stuff has made me feel A1 again. I’m goin’ to New York to-night
on the Fall River Line.”
And he went, leaving Mr. Burke in command of the schooner, a state of
affairs not too delightful to Bradley. But the Captain’s stay was a
short one. He was back on board early the second morning, and called
the second mate into the cabin.
“Well, Brad,” he said, “I got my orders.”
“Yes, sir,” anxiously. “What were they?”
“’Bout the same as the last.”
“And--and--what did you say?”
Captain Titcomb leaned over and deliberately knocked his cigar ash into
the centre of a carpet flower. Then he looked up quickly and answered,
with a quizzical smile:
“If you want to know, I told Williams Brothers to go to hell, and,
honesty bein’ the best policy, you and me’s out of a job!”
[Illustration]