Breen, scarcely able to move, held to his bunk for a few days; then, the first mild skirts of the trade-wind being reached, the mate drove him to the wheel, to steer one-handed through the day, while all hands (in the afternoon) worked in the rigging. But the trade-wind freshened, and his strength was not equal to the task set for it. With the men all aloft and the two mates forward, the ship nearly broached to one day, and only the opportune arrival of Captain Bacon on deck saved the spars. He seized the wheel, ground it up, and the ship paid off; then a whole man was called to relieve him, and the incompetent helmsman was promptly and properly punished. He was kicked off the poop, and his arm, as a consequence, needed resetting.
Johnson had been aloft, but there was murder in his dark eyes when he came down at supper-time. Yet he knew its futility, and while bandaging the broken arm earnestly explained, as Breen’s groans would allow, that if he killed one the other two would kill him, and nothing would be gained. “For they’ve brass knuckles in their pockets, sir,” he said, “and pistols under their pillows. We haven’t even sheath-knives, and the crew wouldn’t help.”
Whereupon, an inspired Russian Finn of the watch remarked: “If a man know his work an’ do his work, an’ gif no back lip to te mates, he get no trupple mit te mates. In my country ships—” The dissertation was not finished. Johnson silently knocked him down, and the incident closed.
But they found work which the crippled man could do, after a short “lying up.” With the steward’s washboard, he could wash the captain’s soiled linen, which the steward would afterward wring out and hang up. He refused at first, but was duly persuaded, and went to work in the lee scuppers amidships. Johnson made a detour on his way to the main-rigging, and muttered: “Say the word, sir, and I’ll chance it. No jury’d convict.”
“No, no; go aloft, Johnson. I’m all right,” answered Breen, as he bent over the distasteful task.
Johnson climbed the rigging to the main-royalyard, which he was to scrape for reoiling, and had no sooner reached it than he sang out:
“Sail oh! Dead ahead, sir. Looks like an armored cruiser o’ the first class.”
“Armored cruiser o’ the first class?” muttered the captain, as he carried his binoculars to the weather rail and looked ahead. “More ’n I can make out with the glasses.”
If three funnels, two masts, two bridges, and two sets of fighting-tops indicate an armored cruiser of the first class, Johnson was right. These the oncoming craft showed plainly even at seven miles’ distance. Fifteen minutes later she was storming by, a half-mile to windward; a beautiful picture, long and white, with an incurving ram-bow, with buff-colored turrets and superstructure, and black guns bristling from all parts of her. The Stars and Stripes flew from the flagstaff at the stern; white-clad men swarmed about her decks, and one of them, on the forward bridge, close to a group of officers, was waving by its staff a small red-and-white flag. Captain Bacon brought out the American ensign, and with his own hands hoisted it to the monkey-gaff on the mizzen, dipped it three times in respectful salute, and left it at the gaff-end. Then he looked at the cruiser, as every man on board was doing except the man washing clothes in the lee scuppers. His business was to wash clothes, not to cross a broad deck and climb a high rail to look at passing craft; but, as he washed away, he looked furtively aloft, with eyes that sparkled, at the man on the mainroyalyard. Johnson was standing erect on the small spar, holding on with his left hand to the royal-pole—certainly the most conspicuous detail of the whole ship to the eyes of those on board the cruiser—and with his right hand he was waving his cap to the right and left, and up and down. There was method in his motions, for when he would cease, the small red-and-white flag on the cruiser’s bridge would answer, waving to the right and left, and up and down.
A secondary gun spoke from a midship sponson, and Captain Bacon exclaimed enthusiastically, “Salutin’ the flag,” and again dipped his ensign. Then, after an interval, during which it became apparent that the cruiser had altered her course to cross the ship’s stern, there was seen another tongue of flame and cloud of smoke, and something seemed to rush through the air ahead of the ship. But it was a splash of water far off on the lee bow which really apprised them that the gun was shotted. At the same time a string of small flags arose to the signal-yard, and when Captain Bacon had found this combination in his code-book, he read with amazement: “Heave to or take the consequences.” By this time the cruiser was squarely across his wake, most certainly rounding to for an interview.
“Heave to or take the consequences!” he exclaimed. “And he’s firin’ on us. Down from aloft, all hands!” he roared upward; then he seized the answering pennant from the flag-locker and displayed it from the rail, begrudging the time needful to hoist it. The men were sliding to the deck on backstays and running-gear, and the mates were throwing down coils of rope from the belaying-pins.
“Man both main clue-garnets, some o’ you!” yelled the captain. “Clue up! Weather main-braces, the rest o’ you! Slack away to looward! Round wi’ the yards, you farmers—round wi’ ’em! Down wi’ the wheel, there! Bring her up three points and hold her. Hell an’ blazes, what’s he firin’ on me for?”
Excitedly, the men obeyed him; they were not used to gun fire, and it is certainly exciting to be shot at. Conspicuous among them was Johnson, who pulled and hauled lustily, shouting exuberantly the formless calls which sailors use in pulling ropes, and smiling sardonically. In five minutes from the time of the second gun the yards were backed, and, with weather leeches trembling, the ship lay “hove to,” drifting bodily to leeward. The cruiser had stopped her headway, and a boat had left her side. There were ten men at the oars, a cockswain at the yoke-ropes, and with him in the stern-sheets a young man in an ensign’s uniform, who lifted his voice as the boat neared the lee quarter, and shouted: “Rig a side-ladder aboard that ship!”
He was hardly more than a boy, but he was obeyed; not only the side-ladder, but the gangway steps were rigged; and leaving the cockswain and bow oarsman to care for the boat, the young officer climbed aboard, followed by the rest—nine muscular man-of-war’s-men, each armed with cutlass and pistol, one of them carrying a hand-bag, another a bundle. Captain Bacon, as became his position, remained upon the poop to receive his visitor, while the two mates stood at the main fife-rail, and the ship’s crew clustered forward. Johnson, alert and attentive, stood a little in the van, and the man in the lee scuppers still washed clothes.
“What’s the matter, young man?” asked the captain from the break of the poop, with as much of dignity as his recent agitation would permit. “Why do you stop my ship on the high seas and board her with an armed boat’s crew?”
“You have an officer and seaman of the navy on board this ship,” answered the ensign, who had been looking about irresolutely. “Produce them at once, if you please.”
“What—what—” stuttered the captain, descending the poop steps; but before more was said there was a sound from forward as of something hard striking something heavy, and as they looked, they saw Captain Bacon’s bucket of clothes sailing diagonally over the lee rail, scattering a fountain of soapy water as it whirled; his late laundryman coming toward them with head erect, as though he might have owned the ship and himself; and Johnson, limping slightly, making for the crowd of blue-jackets at the gangway. With these he fraternized at once, telling them things in a low voice, and somewhat profanely, while the two mates at the fife-rail eyed him reprovingly, but did not interrupt.
Breen advanced to the ensign, and said, as he extended his hand: “I am Lieutenant Breen. Did you bring the clothing? This is an extremely fortunate meeting for me; but I can thank you—you and your brother officers—much more gracefully aboard the cruiser.”
The officer took the extended hand gingerly, with suspicion in his eyes. Perhaps, if it had not been thoroughly clean from its late friction with soap and water, he might have declined taking it; for there was nothing in the appearance of the haggard, ragged wreck bef
ore him to indicate the naval officer.
“There is some mistake,” he said coldly. “I am well acquainted with Lieutenant Breen, and you are certainly not he.”
Breen’s face flushed hotly, but before he could reply, the captain broke in.
“Some mistake, hey?” said he, derisively. “I guess there is—another mistake—another bluff that don’t go. Get out o’ here; and I tell you now, blast yer hide, that if you make me any more trouble ’board my ship yer liable to go over the side feet first, with a shackle to yer heels. And you, young man,” he stormed, turning to the ensign, “you look round, if you like. There’s my crew. All the navy officers you find you can have, and welcome to ’em.” He turned his back, stamped a few paces along the deck, and returned, working himself into a fury.
Breen had not moved, but, with a slight sparkle to his eyes, said to the young officer:
“I think, sir, that if you take the trouble to investigate, you will be satisfied. There are two Breens in the navy. You know one, evidently; I am the other. Lieutenant William Breen is on shore duty at Washington, I think. Lieutenant John Breen, lately in command of the torpedo-boat Wainwright, with his signalman Thomas Johnson, are shanghaied on board this ship. There is Johnson talking to your men.”
The young man’s face changed, and his hand went to his cap in salute; but the mischief was done. Captain Bacon’s indignation was at bursting-pressure, and his mind in no condition to respond readily to new impressions. He was captain of the ship, and grossly affronted. Johnson, noting his purple face, wisely reached for a topsail-brace belaying-pin, and stepped toward him; for he now towered over Breen, cursing with volcanic energy.
“Didn’t I tell you to go forrard?” he roared, drawing back his powerful fist.
Breen stood his ground; the officer raised his hand and half drew his sword, while the blue-jackets sprang forward; but it was Johnson’s belaying-pin which stopped that mighty fist in mid-passage. It was an iron club, eighteen inches long by an inch and a half diameter; and Johnson, strong man though he was, used it two-handed. It struck the brawny forearm just above the wrist with a crashing sound, and seemed to sink in. Captain Bacon almost fell, but recovered his balance, and, holding the broken bones together, staggered toward the booby-hatch for support. He groaned in pain, but did not curse; for it requires a modicum of self-respect for this, and Captain Bacon’s self-respect was completely shocked out of him.
But Mr. Knapp and Mr. Hansen still respected themselves, and were coming.
“You keep back, there—you two,” yelled Johnson, excitedly. “Stand by here, mates. These buckoes’ll kill someone yet. Look out for their brass knuckles and guns.”
And the two officers halted. They had no desire to assert themselves before nine scowling, armed men, an angry and aggressive mutineer with a belaying-pin, and a rather confused, but wakening, young officer with drawn sword. Johnson backed toward the latter.
“Don’t you know me, Mr. Bronson,” he said—“Tom Johnson, cocks’n o’ the gig on your practice-cruise? ’Member me, sir? This is Lieutenant Breen—take my word, sir.”
“Yes—yes—I understand,” said the ensign, with a face redder than Breen’s had been. “I really beg your pardon, Mr. Breen. It was inexcusable in me, I know—but—I had expected to see a different face, and—and—we’re three months out from Hong-Kong, you see—”
Breen smiled, and interrupted with a gesture.
“No time for explanations, Mr. Bronson,” said he, kindly. “Did you bring the clothes? Thoughtful of Johnson to ask for them, wasn’t it? It really would be embarrassing to join your ship in this rig. In the grip and bundle? All right. Form your men across the deck, please, forward of the cabin. Keep these brutes away from us while we change. Come, Johnson.”
Taking the hand-bag and the bundle, they brazenly entered the cabin by the forward door. In ten minutes they emerged, Johnson clad in the blue rig of a man-of-war’s-man, Breen in the undress uniform of an officer, his crippled arm buttoned into the coat. As they stepped toward the gangway, Captain Bacon, pale and perspiring, wheezing painfully, entered the cabin and passed out of their lives. The steward followed at his heels, and the two mates, with curiously working faces, approached Breen.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Mr. Knapp, “but I want to say that I had no notion o’ this at all; and I hope you won’t make no trouble for me ashore.”
Breen, one foot on the steps while he waited for the blue-jackets to file over the side, eyed him thoughtfully.
“No,” he said slowly. “I hardly think, Mr. Knapp, that I shall exert myself to make trouble for you personally, or for the other two. There is a measure now before Congress which, if it passes, will legislate brutes like you and your captain off the American quarter-deck by its educational conditions. This, with a consideration for your owners, is what permits you to continue this voyage, instead of going back to the United States in irons. But if I had the power,” he added, looking at the beautiful flag still flying at the gaff, “I would lower that ensign, and forbid you to hoist it. It is the flag of a free country, and should not float over slave-ships.”
He mounted the steps, and, assisted by the young officer and Johnson, descended to the boat; but before Johnson went down, he peered over the rail at the two mates, grinning luridly.
“And I’ll promise you,” he said, “that I’m always willing to make trouble for you, ashore or afloat, and wish I had a little more time for it now. And you can tell your skipper, if you like, in case he don’t know it, that he got smashed with the same club that he used on Mr. Breen, and I’m only damned sorry I didn’t bring it down on his head. So long, you bloody-minded hell-drivers. See you again some day.”
He descended, and Mr. Knapp gave the order to brace the yards.
“Give a good deal,” he mused, as the men manned the braces, “to know just how they got news to that cruiser. Homeward bound from Hong-Kong—three months out. Couldn’t ha’ been sent after us.”
But he never learned.
THE TRADE-WIND, by Morgan Robertson
The orgy was finished. The last sea-song had resounded over the smooth waters of the bay; the last drunken shout, oath, and challenge were voiced; the last fight ended in helplessness and maudlin amity, and the red-shirted men were sprawled around on the moonlit deck, snoring. Though the barrel of rum broached on the main-hatch was but slightly lowered, their sleep was heavy; scurvy-tainted men at the end of a Cape Horn passage may not drink long or deeply. Some lay as they fell—face upward; others on their sides for a while, then to roll over on their backs and so remain until the sleep was done; for in no other position may the human body rest easy on a hard bed with no pillow. And as they slept through the tropic night the full moon in the east rose higher and higher, passed overhead and disappeared behind a thickening haze in the western sky; but before it had crossed the meridian its cold, chemical rays had worked disastrously on the eyes of the sleeping men.
Captain Swarth, prone upon the poop-deck, was the first to waken. There was pain in his head, pain in his eyes—which were swollen—and a whistling tumult of sound in his ears coming from the Plutonian darkness surrounding him, while a jarring vibration of the deck beneath him apprised his awakening brain that the anchor was dragging. As he staggered to his feet a violent pressure of wind hurled him against the wheel, to which he clung, staring into the blackness to windward.
“All hands, there!” he roared! “Up with you all! Go forward and pay out on the chain!”
Shouts, oaths, and growls answered him, and he heard the nasal voice of his mate repeating his order. “Angel,” he called, “get the other anchor over and give her all of both chains.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” answered the mate. “Send a lantern forrard, Bill. Can’t see our noses.”
“Steward,” yelled the captain, “where are you? Light up a deck-lantern and the binnacle. Bear a hand.”
He heard the steward’s voice close to him, and the sound of the binnacle lights being remov
ed from their places, then the opening and closing of the cabin companionway. He could see nothing, but knew that the steward had gone below to his store-room. In a minute more a shriek came from the cabin. It rang out again and again, and soon sounded from the companionway: “I’m blind, I’m blind, capt’n. I can’t see. I lit the lantern and burned my fingers; but I can’t see the light. I’m blind.” The steward’s voice ended in a howl.
“Shut up, you blasted fool,” answered Captain Swarth; “get down there and light up.”
“Where’s that light?” came the mate’s voice in a yell from amidships. “Shank-painter’s jammed, Bill. Can’t do a thing without a light.”
“Come aft here and get it. Steward’s drunk.”
The doors in the forward part of the cabin slammed, and the mate’s profanity mingled with the protest of the steward in the cabin. Then shouts came from forward, borne on the gale, and soon followed by the shuffling of feet as the men groped their way aft and climbed the poop steps.
“We’re stone-blind, cappen,” they wailed. “We lit the fo’c’sle lamp, an’ it don’t show up. We can’t see it. Nobody can see it. We’re all blind.”
“Come down here, Bill,” called the mate from below.
As Captain Swarth felt his way down the stairs a sudden shock stilled the vibrations caused by the dragging anchor, and he knew that the chain had parted.
“Stand by on deck, Angel; we’re adrift,” he said. “It’s darker than ten thousand black cats. What’s the matter with you?”
“Can you see the light, Bill? I can’t. I’m blind as the steward, or I’m drunker.”
The Sea-Story Megapack: 30 Classic Nautical Works Page 116