Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  He handed the paper back to the cook and turned away grinning as George, unable to control himself any longer, got up with an oath and went below to nurse his wrath in silence. A little later the mate of the brig, after a very confidential chat with his own crew, lit his pipe and, with a jaunty air, went ashore.

  For the next hour or two George alternated between the fo’c’sle and the deck, from whence he cast harassed glances at the busy wharves ashore. The skipper, giving it as his own suggestion, acquainted him with the arrangements made in case of the worst, and George, though he seemed somewhat dubious about them, went below and put his bed in order.

  “It’s very unlikely she’ll see that particular newspaper though,” said the skipper encouragingly.

  “People are sure to see what you don’t want ’em too,” growled George. “Somebody what knows us is sure to see it, an’ show ‘er.”

  “There’s a lady stepping into a waterman’s skiff now,” said the skipper, glancing at the stairs. “That wouldn’t be her, I s’pose?”

  He turned to the seaman as he spoke but the words had hardly left his lips before George was going below and undressing for his part.

  “If anybody asks for me,” he said, turning to the cook, who was regarding his feverish movements in much astonishment, “I’m dead.”

  “You’re wot?” inquired the other.

  “Dead,” said George, “Dead. Died at ten o’clock this morning. D’ye understand, fathead?”

  “I can’t say as ‘ow I do,” said the cook, somewhat acrimoniously.

  “Pass the word round that I’m dead,” repeated George hurriedly. “Lay me out, cookie. I’ll do so much for you one day.”

  Instead of complying the horrified cook rushed up on deck to tell the skipper that George’s brain had gone; but, finding him in the midst of a hurried explanation to the men, stopped with greedy ears to listen. The skiff was making straight for the schooner, propelled by an elderly waterman in his shirt-sleeves, the sole passenger being a lady of ample proportions, who was watching the life of the river through a black veil.

  In another minute the skiff bumped alongside, and the waterman standing in the boat passed the painter aboard. The skipper gazed at the fare and, shivering inwardly, hoped that George was a good actor.

  “I want to see Mr. Cooper,” said the lady grimly, as she clambered aboard, assisted by the waterman.

  “I’m very sorry, but you can’t see him, mum,” said the skipper politely.

  “Ho! carn’t I,” said the lady, raising her voice a little. “You go an’ tell him that his lawful wedded wife, what he deserted, is aboard.”

  “It ‘ud be no good, mum,” said the skipper, who felt the full dramatic force of the situation, “I’m afraid he wouldn’t listen to you.”

  “Ho! I think I can persuade ‘im a bit,” said the lady, drawing in her lips. “Where is ‘e?”

  “Up aloft,” said the skipper, removing his hat.

  “Don’t you give me none of your lies,” said the lady, as she scanned both masts closely.

  “He’s dead,” said the skipper solemnly.

  His visitor threw up her arms and staggered back. The cook was nearest, and, throwing his arms round her waist, he caught her as she swayed. The mate, who was of a sympathetic nature, rushed below for whisky, as she sank back in the hatchway, taking the reluctant cook with her.

  “Poor thing!” said the skipper.

  “Don’t ‘old ‘er so tight, cook,” said one of the men. “There’s no necessity to squeeze ‘er.”

  “Pat ‘er ‘ands,” said another.

  “Pat ’em yourself,” said the cook brusquely, as he looked up and saw the delight of the crew of the Endeavour, who were leaning over their vessel’s side regarding the proceedings with much interest.

  “Don’t leave go of me,” said the newly-made widow, as she swallowed the whisky, and rose to her feet.

  “Stand by her, cook,” said the skipper authoritatively.

  “Ay, ay, sir,” said the cook.

  They formed a procession below, the skipper and mate leading; the cook with his fair burden, choking her sobs with a handkerchief, and the crew following.

  “What did he die of?” she asked in a whisper broken with sobs.

  “Chill from the water,” whispered the skipper in response.

  “I can’t see ‘im,” she whispered. “It’s so dark here. Has anybody got a match? Oh! here’s some.”

  Before anybody could interfere she took a box from a locker, and, striking one, bent over the motionless George, and gazed at his tightly-closed eyes and open mouth in silence.

  “You’ll set the bed alight,” said the mate in a low voice, as the end of the match dropped off.

  “It won’t hurt ‘im,” whispered the widow tearfully.

  The mate, who had distinctly seen the corpse shift a bit, thought differently.

  “Nothing ‘ll ‘urt ‘im now,” whispered the widow, sniffing as she struck another match. “Oh! if he could only sit up and speak to me.”

  For a moment the mate, who knew George’s temper, thought it highly probable that he would, as the top of the second match fell between his shirt and his neck.

  “Don’t look any more,” said the skipper anxiously; “you can’t do him any good.”

  His visitor handed him the matches, and, for a short time, sobbed in silence.

  “We’ve done all we could for him,” said the skipper at length. “It ‘ud be best for you to go home and lay down a bit.”

  “You’re all very good, I’m sure,” whispered the widow, turning away. “I’ll send for him this evening.”

  They all started, especially the corpse.

  “Eh,” said the skipper.

  “He was a bad ‘usband to me,” she continued, still in the same sobbing whisper, “but I’ll ‘ave ‘im put away decent.”

  “You’d better let us bury him,” said the skipper. “We can do it cheaper than you can, perhaps?”

  “No. I’ll send for him this evening,” said the lady. “Are they ‘is clothes?”

  “The last he ever wore,” said the skipper pathetically, pointing to the heap of clothing. “There’s his chest, poor chap, just as he left it.”

  The bereaved widow bent down, and, raising the lid, shook her head tearfully as she regarded the contents. Then she gathered up the clothes under her left arm, and, still sobbing, took his watch, his knife, and some small change from his chest while the crew in dumb show inquired of the deceased, who was regarding her over the edge of the bunk, what was to be done.

  “I suppose there was some money due to him?” she inquired, turning to the skipper.

  “Matter of a few shillings,” he stammered.

  “I’ll take them,” she said, holding out her hand.

  The skipper put his hand in his pocket, and, in his turn, looked inquiringly at the late lamented for guidance; but George had closed his eyes again to the world, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he slowly counted the money into her hand.

  She dropped the coins into her pocket, and, with a parting glance at the motionless figure in the bunk, turned away. The procession made its way on deck again, but not in the same order, the cook carefully bringing up the rear.

  “If there’s any other little things,” she said, pausing at the side to get a firmer grip of the clothes under her arm.

  “You shall have them,” said the skipper, who had been making mental arrangements to have George buried before her return.

  Apparently much comforted by this assurance, she allowed herself to be lowered into the boat, which was waiting. The excitement of the crew of the brig, who had been watching her movements with eager interest, got beyond the bounds of all decency as they saw her being pulled ashore with the clothes in her lap.

  “You can come up now,” said the skipper, as he caught sight of George’s face at the scuttle.

  “Has she gone?” inquired the seaman anxiously.

  The skipper nodded, and a wild che
er rose from the crew of the brig as George came on deck in his scanty garments, and, from behind the others, peered cautiously over the side.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  The skipper pointed to the boat.

  “That?” said George, starting. “That? That ain’t my wife.”

  “Not your wife?” said the skipper, staring. “Whose is she, then?”

  “How the devil should I know,” said George, throwing discipline to the winds in his agitation. “It ain’t my wife.”

  “P’r’aps it’s one you’ve forgotten,” suggested the skipper in a low voice.

  George looked at him and choked. “I’ve never seen her before,” he replied, “s’elp me. Call her back. Stop her.”

  The mate rushed aft and began to haul in the ship’s boat, but George caught him suddenly by the arm.

  “Never mind,” he said bitterly; “better let her go. She seems to know too much for me. Somebody’s been talking to her.”

  It was the same thought that was troubling the skipper, and he looked searchingly from one to the other for an explanation. He fancied that he saw it when he met the eye of the mate of the brig, and he paused irresolutely as the skiff reached the stairs, and the woman, springing ashore, waved the clothes triumphantly in the direction of the schooner and disappeared.

  AN INTERVENTION

  There was bad blood between the captain and mate who comprised the officers and crew of the sailing-barge “Swallow”; and the outset of their voyage from London to Littleport was conducted in glum silence. As far as the Nore they had scarcely spoken, and what little did pass was mainly in the shape of threats and abuse. Evening, chill and overcast, was drawing in; distant craft disappeared somewhere between the waste of waters and the sky, and the side-lights of neighbouring vessels were beginning to shine over the water. The wind, with a little rain in it, was unfavourable to much progress, and the trough of the sea got deeper as the waves ran higher and splashed by the barge’s side.

  “Get the side-lights out, and quick, you,” growled the skipper, who was at the helm.

  The mate, a black-haired, fierce-eyed fellow of about twenty-five, set about the task with much deliberation.

  “And look lively, you lump,” continued the skipper.

  “I don’t want none of your lip,” said the mate furiously; “so don’t you give me none.”

  The skipper yawned, and stretching his mighty frame laughed disagreeably. “You’ll take what I give you, my lad,” said he, “whether it’s lip or fist.”

  “Lay a finger on me and I’ll knife you,” said the mate. “I ain’t afraid of you, for all your size.”

  He put out the side-lights, casting occasional looks of violent hatred at the skipper, who, being a man of tremendous physique and rough tongue, had goaded his subordinate almost to madness.

  “If you’ve done skulking,” he cried as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, “come and take the helm.”

  The mate came aft and relieved him; and he stood for a few seconds taking a look round before going below. He dropped his pipe, and stooped to recover it; and in that moment the mate, with a sudden impulse, snatched up a handspike and dealt him a crushing blow on the head. Half blinded and stunned by the blow, the man fell on his knees, and shielding his face with his hands strove to rise. Before he could do so the mate struck wildly at him again, and with a great cry he fell backwards and rolled heavily overboard. The mate, with a sob in his breath, gazed wildly astern, and waited for him to rise. He waited: minutes seemed to pass, and still the body of the skipper did not emerge from the depths. He reeled back in a stupor; then he gave a faint cry as his eye fell on the boat, which was dragging a yard or two astern, and a figure which clung desperately to the side of it. Before he had quite realised what had happened, he saw the skipper haul himself on to the stern of the boat and then roll heavily into it.

  Panic-stricken at the sight, he drew his knife to cut the boat adrift, but paused as he reflected that she and her freight would probably be picked up by some passing vessel. As the thought struck him he saw the dim form of the skipper come towards the bow of the boat and, seizing the rope, begin to haul in towards the barge.

  “Stop!” shouted the mate hoarsely; “stop! or I’ll cut you loose.”

  The skipper let the rope go, and the boat pulled up with a jerk.

  “I’m independent of you,” the skipper shouted, picking up one of the loose boards from the bottom of the boat and brandishing it. “If there’s any sea on I can keep her head to it with this. Cut away.”

  “If I let you come aboard,” said the mate, “will you swear to let bygones be bygones?”

  “No!” thundered the other. “Whether I come aboard or not don’t make much difference. It’ll be about twenty years for you, you murdering hound, when I get ashore.”

  The mate made no reply, but sat silently steering, keeping, however, a wary eye on the boat towing behind. He turned sick and faint as he thought of the consequences of his action, and vainly cast about in his mind for some means of escape.

  “Are you going to let me come aboard?” presently demanded the skipper, who was shivering in his wet clothes.

  “You can come aboard on my terms,” repeated the mate doggedly.

  “I’ll make no terms with you,” cried the other. “I hand you over to the police directly I get ashore, you mutinous dog. I’ve got a good witness in my head.”

  After this there was silence — silence unbroken through the long hours of the night as they slowly passed. Then the dawn came. The sidelights showed fainter and fainter in the water; the light on the mast shed no rays on the deck, but twinkled uselessly behind its glass. Then the mate turned his gaze from the wet, cheerless deck and heaving seas to the figure in the boat dragging behind. The skipper, who returned his gaze with a fierce scowl, was holding his wet handkerchief to his temple. He removed it as the mate looked, and showed a ghastly wound. Still, neither of them spoke. The mate averted his gaze, and sickened with fear as he thought of his position; and in that instant the skipper clutched the painter, and, with a mighty heave, sent the boat leaping towards the stern of the barge, and sprang on deck. The mate rose to his feet; but the other pushed him fiercely aside, and picking up the handspike, which lay on the raised top of the cabin, went below. Half an hour later he came on deck with a fresh suit of clothes on, and his head roughly bandaged, and standing in front of the mate, favoured him with a baleful stare.

  “Gimme that helm,” he cried.

  The mate relinquished it.

  “You dog!” snarled the other, “to try and kill a man when he wasn’t looking, and then keep him in his wet clothes in the boat all night. Make the most o’ your time. It’ll be many a day before you see the sea again.”

  The mate groaned in spirit, but made no reply.

  “I’ve wrote everything down with the time it happened,” continued the other in a voice of savage satisfaction; “an’ I’ve locked that hand-spike up in my locker. It’s got blood on it.”

  “That’s enough about it,” said the mate, turn-ing at last and speaking thickly. “What I’ve done I must put up with.”

  He walked forward to end the discussion; but the skipper shouted out choice bits from time to time as they occurred to him, and sat steer. ing and gibing, a gruesome picture of vengeance.

  Suddenly he sprang to his feet with a sharp cry. “There’s somebody in the water,” he roared; “stand by to pick him up.”

  As he spoke he pointed with his left hand, and with his right steered for something which rose and fell lazily on the water a short distance from them.

  The mate, following his outstretched arm, saw it too, and picking up a boat-hook stood ready, and they were soon close enough to distinguish the body of a man supported by a life-belt.

  “Don’t miss him,” shouted the skipper.

  The mate grasped the rigging with one hand, and leaning forward as far as possible stood with the hook poised. At first it seemed as though the object
would escape them, but a touch of the helm in the nick of time just enabled the mate to reach. The hook caught in the jacket, and with great care he gradually shortened it, and drew the body close to the side.

  “He’s dead,” said the skipper, as he fastened the helm and stood looking down into the wet face of the man. Then he stooped, and taking him by the collar of his coat dragged the stream-ing figure on to the deck.

  “Take the helm,” he said.

  “Ay, ay,” said the other; and the skipper disappeared below with his burden.

  A moment later he came on deck again. “We’ll take in sail and anchor. Sharp there!” he cried.

  The mate went to his assistance. There was but little wind, and the task was soon accomplished, and both men, after a hasty glance round, ran below. The wet body of the sailor lay on a locker, and a pool of water was on the cabin floor.

  The mate hastily swabbed up the water, and then lit the fire and put on the kettle; while the skipper stripped the sailor of his clothes, and flinging some blankets in front of the fire placed him upon them.

  Fora long time they toiled in silence, in the faint hope that life still remained in the apparently dead body.

  “Poor devil!” said the skipper at length, and fell to rubbing again.

  “I don’t believe he’s gone,” said the mate, panting with his exertions. “He don’t feel like a dead man.”

  Ten minutes later the figure stirred slightly, and the men talked in excited whispers as they worked. A faint sigh came from the lips of the sailor, and his eyes partly opened.

  “It’s all right, matey,” said the skipper; “you lie still; we’ll do the rest. Jem, get some coffee ready.”

  By the time it was prepared the partly drowned man was conscious that he was alive, and stared in a dazed fashion at the man who was using him so roughly. Conscious that his patient was improving rapidly the latter lifted him in his arms and placed him in his own bunk, and proffered him some steaming hot coffee. He sipped a little, then lapsed into unconsciousness again. The two men looked at each other blankly.