The Sea-Story Megapack: 30 Classic Nautical Works

by Jack Williamson

  “Jus’ a nip,” says he. “Jus’ a wee nip o’ the best Jamaica afore I goes t’ bed.”

  I pour the dram.

  “For the stomach’s sake, Dannie,” says he, with a gravity that twinkles against his will, “accordin’ t’ the Apostle.”

  And we are glad that he has that wee nip o’ rum t’ comfort him.…

  * * * *

  ’Twas blowing high today. Tumm, of the Quick as Wink, beat into harbor for shelter. ’Twas good to know that the genial fellow had come into Twist Tickle. I boarded him. ’Twas very dark and blustering and dismally cold at that time. The schooner was bound down to the French shore and the ports of the Labrador. I had watched the clouds gather and join and forewarn us of wind. ’Twas an evil time for craft to be abroad, and I was glad that Tumm was in harbor. “Ecod!” says he, “I been up t’ see the fool. They’ve seven,” says he. “Ecod! Think o’ that! I ’low Walrus Liz o’ Whoopin’ Harbor got all she wanted. Seven!” cries he. “Seven kids! Enough t’ stock a harbor! An’ they’s talk o’ one o’ them,” says he, “bein’ trained for a parson.” I think the man was proud of his instrumentality. “I’ve jus’ come from the place,” says he, “an’ he’ve seven, all spick an’ span,” says he, “all shined an’ polished like a cabin door-knob!” I had often thought of it, and now dwelt upon it when I left him. I remembered the beginnings of our lives, and I knew that out of the hopelessness some beauty had been wrought, in the way of the God of us all: which is the moral of my tale.

  “Think o’ that!” cries Tumm, of the Quick as Wink.

  I did think of it.

  “Think o’ that!” he repeated.

  I had left Tumm below. I was alone. The night was still black and windy; but of a sudden, as I looked up, the clouds parted, and from the deck of the Quick as Wink I saw, blind of vision as I was, that high over the open sea, hung in the depth and mystery of space, there was a star.…

  14 ’Twas really “damned t’ port an’ weather” my uncle would have me say; but I hesitate to set it down, lest the more gentle readers of my simple narrative think ill of the man’s dealings with a child, which I would not have them do.

  15 Of course, the frequent recurrence of this vulgarity in my narrative is to be regretted. No one, indeed, is more sensible of the circumstance than I. My uncle held the word in affectionate regard, and usefully employed it: ’tis the only apology I have to offer. Would it not be possible for the more delicate readers of my otherwise inoffensive narrative to elide the word? or to supply, on the spur of the moment, an acceptable equivalent, of which, I am told, there is an infinite variety? or (better still) to utter it courageously? I am for the bolder course: ’tis a discipline rich in cultural advantages. But ’tis for the reader, of course, to choose the alternative.

  16 My uncle would instantly have thrashed me had I approached an oath (or any other vulgarity) in conversation upon ordinary occasions.

  17 I am informed that there are strange folk who do not visualize after the manner of Judith and me. ’Tis a wonder how they conceive, at all!

  18 This Sir Harry Airworthy, K.C.M.G., I must forthwith explain, was that distinguished colonial statesman whose retirement to the quiet and bizarre enjoyments of life was so sincerely deplored at the time. His taste for the picturesque characters of our coast was discriminating and insatiable. ’Twas no wonder, then, that he delighted in my uncle, whose familiar companion he was in St. John’s. I never knew him, never clapped eyes on him, that I recall; he died abroad before I was grown presentable. ’Twas kind in him, I have always thought, to help my uncle in his task of transforming me, for ’twas done with no personal responsibility whatsoever in the matter, but solely of good feeling. I owed him but one grudge, and that a short-lived one, going back to the year when I was seven: ’twas by advice o’ Sir Harry that I was made to tub myself, every morning, in the water of the season, be it crusted with ice or not, with my uncle listening at the door to hear the splash and gasp.

  “WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD,” by Morgan Robertson

  “I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of each; and I believe they both get paid in the end, but the fools first.”

  —Robert Louis Stevenson.

  PART I

  The first man to climb the Almena’s side-ladder from the tug was the shipping-master, and after him came the crew he had shipped. They clustered at the rail, looking around and aloft with muttered profane comments, one to the other, while the shipping-master approached a gray-eyed giant who stood with a shorter but broader man at the poop-deck steps.

  “Mr. Jackson—the mate here, I s’pose?” inquired the shipping-master. A nod answered him. “I’ve brought you a good crew,” he continued; “we’ll just tally ’em off, and then you can sign my receipt. The captain’ll be down with the pilot this afternoon.”

  “I’m the mate—yes,” said the giant; “but what dry-goods store did you raid for that crowd? Did the captain pick ’em out?”

  “A delegation o’ parsons,” muttered the short, broad man, contemptuously.

  “No, they’re not parsons,” said the shipping-master, as he turned to the man, the slightest trace of a smile on his seamy face. “You’re Mr. Becker, the second mate, I take it; you’ll find ’em all right, sir. They’re sailors, and good ones, too. No, Mr. Jackson, the skipper didn’t pick ’em—just asked me for sixteen good men, and there you are. Muster up to the capstan here, boys,” he called, “and be counted.”

  As they grouped themselves amidships with their clothes-bags, the shipping-master beckoned the chief mate over to the rail.

  “You see, Mr. Jackson,” he said, with a backward glance at the men, “I’ve only played the regular dodge on ’em. They’ve all got the sailor’s bug in their heads and want to go coasting; so I told ’em this was a coaster.”

  “So she is,” answered the officer; “round the Horn to Callao is coasting. What more do they want?”

  “Yes, but I said nothin’ of Callao, and they were all three sheets i’ the wind when they signed, so they didn’t notice the articles. They expected a schooner, too, big enough for sixteen men; but I’ve just talked ’em out of that notion. They think, too, that they’ll have a week in port to see if they like the craft; and to make ’em think it was easy to quit, I told ’em to sign nicknames—made ’em believe that a wrong name on the articles voided the contract.”

  “But it don’t. They’re here, and they’ll stay—that is, if they know enough to man the windlass.”

  “Of course—of course. I’m just givin’ you a pointer. You may have to run them a little at the start, but that’s easy. Now we’ll tally ’em off. Don’t mind the names; they’ll answer to ’em. You see, they’re all townies, and bring their names from home.”

  The shipping-master drew a large paper from his pocket, and they approached the men at the capstan, where the short, broad second mate had been taking their individual measures with scowling eye.

  It was a strange crew for the forecastle of an outward-bound, deep-water American ship. Mr. Jackson looked in vain for the heavy, foreign faces, the greasy canvas jackets and blanket trousers he was accustomed to see. Not that these men seemed to be landsmen—each carried in his face and bearing the indefinable something by which sailors of all races may distinguish each other at a glance from fishermen, tugmen, and deck-hands. They were all young men, and their intelligent faces—blemished more or less with marks of overnight dissipation—were as sunburnt as were those of the two mates; and where a hand could be seen, it showed as brown and tarry as that of the ablest able seaman. There were no chests among them, but the canvas clothes-bags were the genuine article, and they shouldered and handled them as only sailors can. Yet, aside from these externals, they gave no sign of being anything but well-paid, well-fed, self-respecting citizens, who would read the papers, discuss politics, raise families, and drink more than is good on pay-nights, to repent at church in the morning. The hands among them that were hidden were covered with well-fitting gl
oves—kid or dog-skin; all wore white shirts and fashionable neckwear; their shoes were polished; their hats were in style; and here and there, where an unbuttoned, silk-faced overcoat exposed the garments beneath, could be seen a gold watch-chain with tasteful charm.

  “Now, boys,” said the shipping-master, cheerily, as he unfolded the articles on the capstan-head, “answer, and step over to starboard as I read your names. Ready? Tosser Galvin.”

  “Here.” A man carried his bag across the deck a short distance.

  “Bigpig Monahan.” Another—as large a man as the mate—answered and followed.

  “Moccasey Gill.”

  “Good God!” muttered the mate, as this man responded.

  “Sinful Peck.” An undersized man, with a cultivated blond mustache, lifted his hat politely to Mr. Jackson, disclosing a smooth, bald head, and passed over, smiling sweetly. Whatever his character, his name belied his appearance; for his face was cherubic in its innocence.

  “Say,” interrupted the mate, angrily, “what kind of a game is this, anyhow? Are these men sailors?”

  “Yes, yes,” answered the shipping-master, hurriedly; “you’ll find ’em all right. And, Sinful,” he added, as he frowned reprovingly at the last man named, “don’t you get gay till my receipt’s signed and I’m clear of you.”

  Mr. Jackson wondered, but subsided; and, each name bringing forth a response, the reader called off: “Seldom Helward, Shiner O’Toole, Senator Sands, Jump Black, Yampaw Gallagher, Sorry Welch, Yorker Jimson, General Lannigan, Turkey Twain, Gunner Meagher, Ghost O’Brien, and Poop-deck Cahill.”

  Then the astounded Mr. Jackson broke forth profanely. “I’ve been shipmates,” he declared between oaths, “with freak names of all nations; but this gang beats me. Say, you,” he called, “you with the cro’-jack eye there—what’s that name you go by? Who are you?” He spoke to the large man who had answered to “Bigpig Monahan,” and who suffered from a slight distortion of one eye; but the man, instead of civilly repeating his name, answered curtly and coolly:

  “I’m the man that struck Billy Patterson.”

  Fully realizing that the mate who hesitates is lost, and earnestly resolved to rebuke this man as his insolence required, Mr. Jackson had secured a belaying-pin and almost reached him, when he found himself looking into the bore of a pistol held by the shipping-master.

  “Now, stop this,” said the latter, firmly; “stop it right here, Mr. Jackson. These men are under my care till you’ve signed my receipt. After that you can do as you like; but if you touch one of them before you sign, I’ll have you up ’fore the commissioner. And you fellers,” he said over his shoulder, “you keep still and be civil till I’m rid of you. I’ve used you well, got your berths, and charged you nothin’. All I wanted was to get Cappen Benson the right kind of a crew.”

  “Let’s see that receipt,” snarled the mate. “Put that gun up, too, or I’ll show you one of my own. I’ll tend to your good men when you get ashore.” He glared at the quiescent Bigpig, and followed the shipping-master—who still held his pistol ready, however—over to the rail, where the receipt was produced and signed.

  “Away you go, now,” said the mate; “you and your gun. Get over the side.”

  The shipping-master did not answer until he had scrambled down to the waiting tug and around to the far side of her deck-house. There, ready to dodge, he looked up at the mate with a triumphant grin on his shrewd face, and called:

  “Say, Mr. Jackson, ’member the old bark Fair Wind ten years ago, and the ordinary seaman you triced up and skinned alive with a deck-scraper? D’ you ’member, curse you? ’Member breakin’ the same boy’s arm with a heaver? You do, don’t you? I’m him. ’Member me sayin’ I’d get square?”

  He stepped back to avoid the whirling belaying-pin sent by the mate, which, rebounding, only smashed a window in the pilot-house. Then, amid an exchange of blasphemous disapproval between Mr. Jackson and the tug captain, and derisive jeers from the shipping-master—who also averred that Mr. Jackson ought to be shot, but was not worth hanging for—the tug gathered in her lines and steamed away.

  Wrathful of soul, Mr. Jackson turned to the men on the deck. They had changed their position; they were now close to the fife-rail at the mainmast, surrounding Bigpig Monahan (for by their names we must know them), who, with an injured expression of face, was shedding outer garments and voicing his opinion of Mr. Jackson, which the others answered by nods and encouraging words. He had dropped a pair of starched cuffs over a belaying-pin, and was rolling up his shirt-sleeve, showing an arm as large as a small man’s leg, and the mate was just about to interrupt the discourse, when the second mate called his name. Turning, he beheld him beckoning violently from the cabin companionway, and joined him.

  “Got your gun, Mr. Jackson?” asked the second officer, anxiously, as he drew him within the door. “I started for mine when the shippin’-master pulled. I can’t make that crowd out; but they’re lookin’ for fight, that’s plain. When you were at the rail they were sayin’: ‘Soak him, Bigpig.’ ‘Paste him, Bigpig.’ ‘Put a head on him.’ They might be a lot o’ prize-fighters.”

  Mr. Becker was not afraid; his position and duties forbade it. He was simply human, and confronted with a new problem.

  “Don’t care a rap what they are,” answered the mate, who was sufficiently warmed up to welcome any problem. “They’ll get fight enough. We’ll overhaul their dunnage first for whisky and knives, then turn them to. Come on—I’m heeled.”

  They stepped out and advanced to the capstan amidships, each with a hand in his trousers pocket.

  “Pile those bags against the capstan here, and go forrard,” ordered the mate, in his most officer-like tone.

  “Go to the devil,” they answered. “What for?—they’re our bags, not yours. Who in Sam Hill are you, anyhow? What are you? You talk like a p’liceman.”

  Before this irreverence could be replied to Bigpig Monahan advanced.

  “Look here, old horse,” he said; “I don’t know whether you’re captain or mate, or owner or cook; and I don’t care, either. You had somethin’ to say ’bout my eyes just now. Nature made my eyes, and I can’t help how they look; but I don’t allow any big bull-heads to make remarks ’bout ’em. You’re spoilin’ for somethin’. Put up your hands.” He threw himself into an aggressive attitude, one mighty fist within six inches of Mr. Jackson’s face.

  “Go forrard,” roared the officer, his gray eyes sparkling; “forrard, all o’ you!”

  “We’ll settle this; then we’ll go forrard. There’ll be fair play; these men’ll see to that. You’ll only have me to handle. Put up.”

  Mr. Jackson did not “put up.” He repeated again his order to go forward, and was struck on the nose—not a hard blow; just a preliminary tap, which started blood. He immediately drew his pistol and shot the man, who fell with a groan.

  An expression of shock and horror over-spread every face among the crew, and they surged back, away from that murderous pistol. A momentary hesitance followed, then horror gave way to furious rage, and carnage began. Coats and vests were flung off, belaying-pins and capstan-bars seized; inarticulate, half-uttered imprecations punctuated by pistol reports drowned the storm of abuse with which the mates justified the shot, and two distinct bands of men swayed and zig-zagged about the deck, the center of each an officer fighting according to his lights—shooting as he could between blows of fists and clubs. Then the smoke of battle thinned, and two men with sore heads and bleeding faces retreated painfully and hurriedly to the cabin, followed by snarling maledictions and threats.

  It was hardly a victory for either side. The pistols were empty and the fight taken out of the mates for a time; and on the deck lay three moaning men, while two others clung to the fife-rail, draining blood from limp, hanging arms. But eleven sound and angry men were left—and the officers had more ammunition. They entered their rooms, mopped their faces with wet towels, reloaded the firearms, pocketed the remaining cartridges, and retu
rned to the deck, the mate carrying a small ensign.

  “We’ll run it up to the main, Becker,” he said thickly—for he suffered—ignoring in his excitement the etiquette of the quarter-deck.

  “Aye, aye,” said the other, equally unmindful of his breeding. “Will we go for ’em again?” The problem had defined itself to Mr. Becker. These men would fight, but not shoot.

  “No, no,” answered the mate; “not unless they go for us and it’s self-defense. They’re not sailors—they don’t know where they are. We don’t want to get into trouble. Sailors don’t act that way. We’ll wait for the captain or the police.” Which, interpreted, and plus the slight shade of anxiety showing in his disfigured face, meant that Mr. Jackson was confronted with a new phase of the problem: as to how much more unsafe it might be to shoot down, on the deck of a ship, men who did not know where they were, than to shoot down sailors who did. So, while the uninjured men were assisting the wounded five into the forecastle, the police flag was run up to the main-truck, and the two mates retired to the poop to wait and watch.