Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  “All turned in,” said the captain, gazing owlishly at the deserted deck. “Well, there’s a good hour an’ a half afore we start; I’ll turn in too.”

  He walked slowly aft, and sliding back the companion-hatch, descended into a small evil-smelling cabin, and stood feeling in the darkness for the matches. They were not to be found, and, growling profanely, he felt his way to the state-room, and turned in all standing.

  It was still dark when he awoke, and hanging over the edge of the bunk, cautiously felt for the floor with his feet, and having found it, stood thoughtfully scratching his head, which seemed to have swollen to abnormal proportions.

  “Time they were getting under weigh,” he said at length, and groping his way to the foot of the steps, he opened the door of what looked like a small pantry, but which was really the mate’s boudoir.

  “Jem,” said the captain gruffly.

  There was no reply, and jumping to the conclusion that he was above, the captain tumbled up the steps and gained the deck, which, as far as he could see, was in the same deserted condition as when he left it. Anxious to get some idea of the time, he staggered to the side and looked over. The tide was almost at the turn, and the steady clank, clank of neighbouring windlasses showed that other craft were just getting under weigh. A barge, its red light turning the water to blood, with a huge wall of dark sail, passed noiselessly by, the indistinct figure of a man leaning skilfully upon the tiller.

  As these various signs of life and activity obtruded themselves upon the skipper of the Smiling Jane, his wrath rose higher and higher as he looked around the wet, deserted deck of his own little craft. Then he walked forward and thrust his head down the forecastle hatchway.

  As he expected, there was a complete sleeping chorus below; the deep satisfied snoring of half-a-dozen seamen, who, regardless of the tide and their captain’s feelings, were slumbering sweetly, in blissful ignorance of all that the Lancet might say upon the twin subjects of overcrowding and ventilation.

  “Below there, you lazy thieves!” roared the captain; “tumble up, tumble up!”

  The snores stopped. “Ay, ay!” said a sleepy voice. “What’s the matter, master?”

  “Matter!” repeated the other, choking violently. “Ain’t you going to sail to-night?”

  “To-night!” said another voice, in surprise. “Why, I thought we wasn’t going to sail till Wen’sday.”

  Not trusting himself to reply, so careful was he of the morals of his men, the skipper went and leaned over the side and communed with the silent water. In an incredibly short space of time five or six dusky figures pattered up on to the deck, and a minute or two later the harsh clank of the windlass echoed far and wide.

  The captain took the wheel. A fat and very sleepy seaman put up the side-lights, and the little schooner, detaching itself by the aid of boat-hooks and fenders from the neighbouring craft, moved slowly down with the tide. The men, in response to the captain’s fervent orders, climbed aloft, and sail after sail was spread to the gentle breeze.

  “Hi! you there,” cried the captain to one of the men who stood near him, coiling up some loose line.

  “Sir?” said the man.

  “Where is the mate?” inquired the captain.

  “Man with red whiskers and pimply nose?” said the man interrogatively.

  “That’s him to a hair,” answered the other.

  “Ain’t seen him since he took me on at eleven,” said the man. “How many new hands are there?”

  “I b’leeve we’re all fresh,” was the reply. “I don’t believe some of ’em have ever smelt salt water afore.”

  “The mate’s been at it again,” said the captain warmly, “that’s what he has. He’s done it afore and got left behind. Them what can’t stand drink, my man, shouldn’t take it, remember that.”

  “He said we wasn’t going to sail till Wen’sday,” remarked the man, who found the captain’s attitude rather trying.

  “He’ll get sacked, that’s what he’ll get,” said the captain warmly. “I shall report him as soon as I get ashore.”

  The subject exhausted, the seaman returned to his work, and the captain continued steering in moody silence.

  Slowly, slowly darkness gave way to light. The different portions of the craft, instead of all being blurred into one, took upon themselves shape, and stood out wet and distinct in the cold grey of the breaking day. But the lighter it became, the harder the skipper stared and rubbed his eyes, and looked from the deck to the flat marshy shore, and from the shore back to the deck again.

  “Here, come here,” he cried, beckoning to one of the crew.

  “Yessir,” said the man, advancing.

  “There’s something in one of my eyes,” faltered the skipper. “I can’t see straight; everything seems mixed up. Now, speaking deliberate and without any hurry, which side o’ the ship do you say the cook’s galley’s on?”

  “Starboard,” said the man promptly, eyeing him with astonishment.

  “Starboard,” repeated the other softly. “He says starboard, and that’s what it seems to me. My lad, yesterday morning it was on the port side.”

  The seaman received this astounding communication with calmness, but, as a slight concession to appearances, said “Lor!”

  “And the water-cask,” said the skipper; “what colour is it?”

  “Green,” said the man.

  “Not white?” inquired the skipper, leaning heavily upon the wheel.

  “Whitish-green,” said the man, who always believed in keeping in with his superior officers.

  The captain swore at him.

  By this time two or three of the crew who had over-heard part of the conversation had collected aft, and now stood in a small wondering knot before their strange captain.

  “My lads,” said the latter, moistening his dry lips with his tongue, “I name no names — I don’t know ’em yet — and I cast no suspicions, but somebody has been painting up and altering this ‘ere craft, and twisting things about until a man ‘ud hardly know her. Now what’s the little game?”

  There was no answer, and the captain, who was seeing things clearer and clearer in the growing light, got paler and paler.

  “I must be going crazy,” he muttered. “Is this the SMILING JANE, or am I dreaming?”

  “It ain’t the SMILING JANE,” said one of the seamen; “leastways,” he added cautiously, “it wasn’t when I came aboard.”

  “Not the SMILING JANE!” roared the skipper; “what is it, then?”

  “Why, the MARY ANN,” chorused the astonished crew.

  “My lads,” faltered the agonised captain after a long pause. “My lads—” He stopped and swallowed something in his throat. “I’ve been and brought away the wrong ship,” he continued with an effort; “that’s what I’ve done. I must have been bewitched.”

  “Well, who’s having the little game now?” inquired a voice.

  “Somebody else’ll be sacked as well as the mate,” said another.

  “We must take her back,” said the captain, raising his voice to drown these mutterings. “Stand by there!”

  The bewildered crew went to their posts, the captain gave his orders in a voice which had never been so subdued and mellow since it broke at the age of fourteen, and the Mary Ann took in sail, and, dropping her anchor, waited patiently for the turning of the tide.

  The church bells in Wapping and Rotherhithe were just striking the hour of mid-day, though they were heard by few above the noisy din of workers on wharves and ships, as a short stout captain, and a mate with red whiskers and a pimply nose, stood up in a waterman’s boat in the centre of the river, and gazed at each other in blank astonishment.

  “She’s gone, clean gone!” murmured the bewildered captain.

  “Clean as a whistle,” said the mate. “The new hands must ha’ run away with her.”

  Then the bereaved captain raised his voice, and pronounced a pathetic and beautiful eulogy upon the departed vessel, somewhat marred by
an appendix in which he consigned the new hands, their heirs, and descendants, to everlasting perdition.

  “Ahoy!” said the waterman, who was getting tired of the business, addressing a grimy-looking seaman hanging meditatively over the side of a schooner. “Where’s the Mary Ann?”

  “Went away at half-past one this morning,” was the reply.

  “‘Cos here’s the cap’n an’ the mate,” said the waterman, indicating the forlorn couple with a bob of his head.

  “My eyes!” said the man, “I s’pose the cook’s in charge then. We was to have gone too, but our old man hasn’t turned up.”

  Quickly the news spread amongst the craft in the tier, and many and various were the suggestions shouted to the bewildered couple from the different decks. At last, just as the captain had ordered the waterman to return to the shore, he was startled by a loud cry from the mate.

  “Look there!” he shouted.

  The captain looked. Fifty or sixty yards away, a small shamefaced-looking schooner, so it appeared to his excited imagination, was slowly approaching them. A minute later a shout went up from the other craft as she took in sail and bore slowly down upon them. Then a small boat put off to the buoy, and the Mary Ann was slowly warped into the place she had left ten hours before.

  But while all this was going on, she was boarded by her captain and mate. They were met by Captain Bing, supported by his mate, who had hastily pushed off from the Smiling Jane to the assistance of his chief. In the two leading features before mentioned he was not unlike the mate of the Mary Ann, and much stress was laid upon this fact by the unfortunate Bing in his explanation. So much so, in fact, that both the mates got restless; the skipper, who was a plain man, and given to calling a spade a spade, using the word “pimply” with what seemed to them unnecessary iteration.

  It is possible that the interview might have lasted for hours had not Bing suddenly changed his tactics and begun to throw out dark hints about standing a dinner ashore, and settling it over a friendly glass. The face of the Mary Ann’s captain began to clear, and, as Bing proceeded from generalities to details, a soft smile played over his expressive features. It was reflected in the faces of the mates, who by these means showed clearly that they understood the table was to be laid for four.

  At this happy turn of affairs Bing himself smiled, and a little while later a ship’s boat containing four boon companions put off from the Mary Ann and made for the shore. Of what afterwards ensued there is no distinct record, beyond what may be gleaned from the fact that the quartette turned up at midnight arm-in-arm, and affectionately refused to be separated — even to enter the ship’s boat, which was waiting for them. The sailors were at first rather nonplussed, but by dint of much coaxing and argument broke up the party, and rowing them to their respective vessels, put them carefully to bed.

  CONTRABAND OF WAR

  A small but strong lamp was burning in the fo’c’sle of the schooner Greyhound, by the light of which a middle-aged seaman of sedate appearance sat crocheting an antimacassar. Two other men were snoring with deep content in their bunks, while a small, bright-eyed boy sat up in his, reading adventurous fiction.

  “Here comes old Dan,” said the man with the anti-macassar warningly, as a pair of sea boots appeared at the top of the companion-ladder; “better not let him see you with that paper, Billee.”

  The boy thrust it beneath his blankets, and, lying down, closed his eyes as the new-comer stepped on to the floor.

  “All asleep?” inquired the latter.

  The other man nodded, and Dan, without any further parley, crossed over to the sleepers and shook them roughly.

  “Eh! wha’s matter?” inquired the sleepers plaintively.

  “Git up,” said Dan impressively, “I want to speak to you. Something important.”

  With sundry growls the men complied, and, thrusting their legs out of their bunks, rolled on to the locker, and sat crossly waiting for information.

  “I want to do a pore chap a good turn,” said Dan, watching them narrowly out of his little black eyes, “an’ I want you to help me; an’ the boy too. It’s never too young to do good to your fellow-creatures, Billy.”

  “I know it ain’t,” said Billy, taking this as permission to join the group; “I helped a drunken man home once when I was only ten years old, an’ when I was only—”

  The speaker stopped, not because he had come to the end of his remarks, but because one of the seamen had passed his arm around his neck and was choking him.

  “Go on,” said the man calmly; “I’ve got him. Spit it out, Dan, and none of your sermonising.”

  “Well, it’s like this, Joe,” said the old man; “here’s a pore chap, a young sojer from the depot here, an’ he’s cut an’ run. He’s been in hiding in a cottage up the road two days, and he wants to git to London, and git honest work and employment, not shooting, an’ stabbing, an’ bayoneting—”

  “Stow it,” said Joe impatiently.

  “He daren’t go to the railway station, and he dursen’t go outside in his uniform,” continued Dan. “My ‘art bled for the pore young feller, an’ I’ve promised to give ‘im a little trip to London with us. The people he’s staying with won’t have him no longer. They’ve only got one bed, and directly he sees any sojers coming he goes an’ gits into it, whether he’s got his boots on or not.”

  “Have you told the skipper?” inquired Joe sardonically.

  “I won’t deceive you, Joe, I ‘ave not,” replied the old man. “He’ll have to stay down here of a daytime, an’ only come on deck of a night when it’s our watch. I told ‘im what a lot of good-’arted chaps you was, and how—”

  “How much is he going to give you?” inquired Joe impatiently.

  “It’s only fit and proper he should pay a little for the passage,” said Dan.

  “How MUCH?” demanded Joe, banging the little triangular table with his fist, and thereby causing the man with the antimacassar to drop a couple of stitches.

  “Twenty-five shillings,” said old Dan reluctantly; “an’ I’ll spend the odd five shillings on you chaps when we git to Limehouse.”

  “I don’t want your money,” said Joe; “there’s a empty bunk he can have; and mind, you take all the responsibility — I won’t have nothing to do with it.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” said the old man, with a sigh of relief; “he’s a nice young chap, you’re sure to take to him. I’ll go and give him the tip to come aboard at once.”

  He ran up on deck again and whistled softly, and a figure, which had been hiding behind a pile of empties, came out, and, after looking cautiously around, dropped noiselessly on to the schooner’s deck, and followed its protector below.

  “Good evening, mates,” said the linesman, gazing curiously and anxiously round him as he deposited a bundle on the table, and laid his swagger cane beside it.

  “What’s your height?” inquired Joe abruptly. “Seven foot?”

  “No, only six foot four,” said the new arrival, modestly. “I’m not proud of it. It’s much easier for a small man to slip off than a big one.”

  “It licks me,” said Joe thoughtfully, “what they want ’em back for — I should think they’d be glad to git rid o’ such” — he paused a moment while politeness struggled with feeling, and added, “skunks.”

  “P’raps I’ve a reason for being a skunk, p’raps I haven’t,” retorted Private Smith, as his face fell.

  “This’ll be your bunk,” interposed Dan hastily; “put your things in there, and when you are in yourself you’ll be as comfortable as a oyster in its shell.”

  The visitor complied, and, first extracting from the bundle some tins of meat and a bottle of whiskey, which he placed upon the table, nervously requested the honour of the present company to supper. With the exception of Joe, who churlishly climbed back into his bunk, the men complied, all agreeing that boys of Billy’s age should be reared on strong teetotal principles.

  Supper over, Private Smith and his protectors
retired to their couches, where the former lay in much anxiety until two in the morning, when they got under way.

  “It’s all right, my lad,” said Dan, after the watch had been set, as he came and stood by the deserter’s bunk; “I ‘ve saved you — I’ve saved you for twenty-five shillings.”

  “I wish it was more,” said Private Smith politely.

  The old man sighed — and waited.

  “I’m quite cleaned out, though,” continued the deserter, “except fi’pence ha’penny. I shall have to risk going home in my uniform as it is.”

  “Ah, you’ll get there all right,” said Dan cheerfully; “and when you get home no doubt you ‘ve got friends, and if it seems to you as you ‘d like to give a little more to them as assisted you in the hour of need, you won’t be ungrateful, my lad, I know. You ain’t the sort.”

  With these words old Dan, patting him affectionately, retired, and the soldier lay trying to sleep in his narrow quarters until he was aroused by a grip on his arm.

  “If you want a mouthful of fresh air you ‘d better come on deck now,” said the voice of Joe; “it’s my watch. You can get all the sleep you want in the daytime.”

  Glad to escape from such stuffy quarters, Private Smith clambered out of his bunk and followed the other on deck. It was a fine clear night, and the schooner was going along under a light breeze; the seaman took the wheel, and, turning to his companion, abruptly inquired what he meant by deserting and worrying them with six foot four of underdone lobster.

  “It’s all through my girl,” said Private Smith meekly; “first she jilted me, and made me join the army; now she’s chucked the other fellow, and wrote to me to go back.”

  “An’ now I s’pose the other chap’ll take your place in the army,” said Joe. “Why, a gal like that could fill a regiment, if she liked. Pah! They’ll nab you too, in that uniform, and you’ll get six months, and have to finish your time as well.”

  “It’s more than likely,” said the soldier gloomily. “I’ve got to tramp to Manchester in these clothes, as far as I can see.”