Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)

by Rudyard Kipling

  There was a burst of spray as the hatch opened, and Disko, in yellow oilskins, descended.

  “Ye’re just in time, Disko. Fwhat’s she doin’ outside?”

  “Jest this!” He dropped on to the lockers with the push and heave of the We’re Here.

  “We’re singin’ to kape our breakfasts down. Ye’ll lead, av course, Disko,” said Long Jack.

  “Guess there ain’t more’n ‘baout two old songs I know, an’ ye’ve heerd them both.”

  His excuses were cut short by Tom Platt launching into a most dolorous tune, like unto the moaning of winds and the creaking of masts. With his eyes fixed on the beams above, Disko began this ancient, ancient ditty, Tom Platt flourishing all round him to make the tune and words fit a little:

  “There is a crack packet — crack packet o’ fame,

  She hails from Noo York, an’ the Dreadnought’s her name.

  You may talk o’ your fliers — Swallowtail and Black Ball —

  But the Dreadnought’s the packet that can beat them all.

  “Now the Dreadnought she lies in the River Mersey,

  Because of the tug-boat to take her to sea;

  But when she’s off soundings you shortly will know

  (Chorus.)

  She’s the Liverpool packet — O Lord, let her go!

  “Now the Dreadnought she’s howlin’ crost the Banks o’ Newfoundland,

  Where the water’s all shallow and the bottom’s all sand.

  Sez all the little fishes that swim to and fro:

  (Chorus.)

  ‘She’s the Liverpool packet — O Lord, let her go!’”,

  There were scores of verses, for he worked the Dreadnought every mile of the way between Liverpool and New York as conscientiously as though he were on her deck, and the accordion pumped and the fiddle squeaked beside him. Tom Platt followed with something about “the rough and tough McGinn, who would pilot the vessel in.” Then they called on Harvey, who felt very flattered, to contribute to the entertainment; but all that he could remember were some pieces of “Skipper Ireson’s Ride” that he had been taught at the camp-school in the Adirondacks. It seemed that they might be appropriate to the time and place, but he had no more than mentioned the title when Disko brought down one foot with a bang, and cried, “Don’t go on, young feller. That’s a mistaken jedgment — one o’ the worst kind, too, becaze it’s catchin’ to the ear.”

  “I orter ha’ warned you,” said Dan. “Thet allus fetches Dad.”

  “What’s wrong?” said Harvey, surprised and a little angry.

  “All you’re goin’ to say,” said Disko. “All dead wrong from start to finish, an’ Whittier he’s to blame. I have no special call to right any Marblehead man, but ‘tweren’t no fault o’ Ireson’s. My father he told me the tale time an’ again, an’ this is the way ‘twuz.”

  “For the wan hundredth time,” put in Long Jack under his breath

  “Ben Ireson he was skipper o’ the Betty, young feller, comin’ home frum the Banks — that was before the war of 1812, but jestice is jestice at all times. They fund the Active o’ Portland, an’ Gibbons o’ that town he was her skipper; they fund her leakin’ off Cape Cod Light. There was a terr’ble gale on, an’ they was gettin’ the Betty home ‘s fast as they could craowd her. Well, Ireson he said there warn’t any sense to reskin’ a boat in that sea; the men they wouldn’t hev it; and he laid it before them to stay by the Active till the sea run daown a piece. They wouldn’t hev that either, hangin’ araound the Cape in any sech weather, leak or no leak. They jest up stays’l an’ quit, nat’rally takin’ Ireson with ‘em. Folks to Marblehead was mad at him not runnin’ the risk, and becaze nex’ day, when the sea was ca’am (they never stopped to think o’ that), some of the Active’s folks was took off by a Truro man. They come into Marblehead with their own tale to tell, sayin’ how Ireson had shamed his town, an’ so forth an’ so on, an’ Ireson’s men they was scared, seein’ public feelin’ agin’ ‘em, an’ they went back on Ireson, an’ swore he was respons’ble for the hull act. ‘Tweren’t the women neither that tarred and feathered him — Marblehead women don’t act that way — ’twas a passel o’ men an’ boys, an’ they carted him araound town in an old dory till the bottom fell aout, and Ireson he told ‘em they’d be sorry for it some day. Well, the facts come aout later, same’s they usually do, too late to be any ways useful to an honest man; an’ Whittier he come along an’ picked up the slack eend of a lyin’ tale, an’ tarred and feathered Ben Ireson all over onct more after he was dead. ‘Twas the only tune Whittier ever slipped up, an’ ‘tweren’t fair. I whaled Dan good when he brought that piece back from school. You don’t know no better, o’ course; but I’ve give you the facts, hereafter an’ evermore to be remembered. Ben Ireson weren’t no sech kind o’ man as Whittier makes aout; my father he knew him well, before an’ after that business, an’ you beware o’ hasty jedgments, young feller. Next!”

  Harvey had never heard Disko talk so long, and collapsed with burning cheeks; but, as Dan said promptly, a boy could only learn what he was taught at school, and life was too short to keep track of every lie along the coast.

  Then Manuel touched the jangling, jarring little machette to a queer tune, and sang something in Portuguese about “Nina, innocente!” ending with a full-handed sweep that brought the song up with a jerk. Then Disko obliged with his second song, to an old-fashioned creaky tune, and all joined in the chorus. This is one stanza:

  “Now Aprile is over and melted the snow,

  And outer Noo Bedford we shortly must tow;

  Yes, out o’ Noo Bedford we shortly must clear,

  We’re the whalers that never see wheat in the ear.”

  Here the fiddle went very softly for a while by itself, and then:

  “Wheat-in-the-ear, my true-love’s posy blowin,

  Wheat-in-the-ear, we’re goin’ off to sea;

  Wheat-in-the-ear, I left you fit for sowin,

  When I come back a loaf o’ bread you’ll be!”

  That made Harvey almost weep, though he could not tell why. But it was much worse when the cook dropped the potatoes and held out his hands for the fiddle. Still leaning against the locker door, he struck into a tune that was like something very bad but sure to happen whatever you did. After a little he sang, in an unknown tongue, his big chin down on the fiddle-tail, his white eyeballs glaring in the lamplight. Harvey swung out of his bunk to hear better; and amid the straining of the timbers and the wash of the waters the tune crooned and moaned on, like lee surf in a blind fog, till it ended with a wail.

  “Jimmy Christmas! Thet gives me the blue creevles,” said Dan. “What in thunder is it?”

  “The song of Fin McCoul,” said the cook, “when he wass going to Norway.” His English was not thick, but all clear-cut, as though it came from a phonograph.

  “Faith, I’ve been to Norway, but I didn’t make that unwholesim noise. ‘Tis like some of the old songs, though,” said Long Jack, sighing.

  “Don’t let’s hev another ‘thout somethin’ between,” said Dan; and the accordion struck up a rattling, catchy tune that ended:

  “It’s six an’ twenty Sundays sence las’ we saw the land,

  With fifteen hunder quintal,

  An’ fifteen hunder quintal,

  ‘Teen hunder toppin’ quintal,

  ‘Twix’ old ‘Queereau an’ Grand!”

  “Hold on!” roared Tom Platt. “D’ye want to nail the trip, Dan? That’s Jonah sure, ‘less you sing it after all our salt’s wet.”

  “No, ‘tain’t, is it, Dad? Not unless you sing the very las’ verse. You can’t learn me anything on Jonahs!”

  “What’s that?” said Harvey. “What’s a Jonah?”

  “A Jonah’s anything that spoils the luck. Sometimes it’s a man — sometimes it’s a boy — or a bucket. I’ve known a splittin’-knife Jonah two trips till we was on to her,” said Tom Platt. “There’s all sorts o’ Jonahs. Jim Bourke was one till he was drowned on George
s. I’d never ship with Jim Bourke, not if I was starvin’. There wuz a green dory on the Ezra Flood. Thet was a Jonah, too, the worst sort o’ Jonah. Drowned four men, she did, an’ used to shine fiery O, nights in the nest.”

  “And you believe that?” said Harvey, remembering what Tom Platt had said about candles and models. “Haven’t we all got to take what’s served?”

  A mutter of dissent ran round the bunks. “Outboard, yes; inboard, things can happen,” said Disko. “Don’t you go makin’ a mock of Jonahs, young feller.”

  “Well, Harve ain’t no Jonah. Day after we catched him,” Dan cut in, “we had a toppin’ good catch.”

  The cook threw up his head and laughed suddenly — a queer, thin laugh. He was a most disconcerting nigger.

  “Murder!” said Long Jack. “Don’t do that again, doctor. We ain’t used to ut.”

  “What’s wrong?” said Dan. “Ain’t he our mascot, and didn’t they strike on good after we’d struck him?”

  “Oh! yess,” said the cook. “I know that, but the catch iss not finish yet.”

  “He ain’t goin’ to do us any harm,” said Dan, hotly. “Where are ye hintin’ an’ edgin’ to? He’s all right.”

  “No harm. No. But one day he will be your master, Danny.”

  “That all?” said Dan, placidly. “He wun’t — not by a jugful.”

  “Master!” said the cook, pointing to Harvey. “Man!” and he pointed to Dan.

  “That’s news. Haow soon?” said Dan, with a laugh.

  “In some years, and I shall see it. Master and man — man and master.”

  “How in thunder d’ye work that out?” said Tom Platt.

  “In my head, where I can see.”

  “Haow?” This from all the others at once.

  “I do not know, but so it will be.” He dropped his head, and went on peeling the potatoes, and not another word could they get out of him.

  “Well,” said Dan, “a heap o’ things’ll hev to come abaout ‘fore Harve’s any master o’ mine; but I’m glad the doctor ain’t choosen to mark him for a Jonah. Now, I mistrust Uncle Salters fer the Jonerest Jonah in the Fleet regardin’ his own special luck. Dunno ef it’s spreadin’ same’s smallpox. He ought to be on the Carrie Pitman. That boat’s her own Jonah, sure — crews an’ gear made no differ to her driftin’. Jiminy Christmas! She’ll etch loose in a flat ca’am.”

  “We’re well clear o’ the Fleet, anyway,” said Disko. “Carrie Pitman an’ all.” There was a rapping on the deck.

  “Uncle Salters has catched his luck,” said Dan as his father departed.

  “It’s blown clear,” Disko cried, and all the foc’sle tumbled up for a bit of fresh air. The fog had gone, but a sullen sea ran in great rollers behind it. The We’re Here slid, as it were, into long, sunk avenues and ditches which felt quite sheltered and homelike if they would only stay still; but they changed without rest or mercy, and flung up the schooner to crown one peak of a thousand gray hills, while the wind hooted through her rigging as she zigzagged down the slopes. Far away a sea would burst into a sheet of foam, and the others would follow suit as at a signal, till Harvey’s eyes swam with the vision of interlacing whites and grays. Four or five Mother Carey’s chickens stormed round in circles, shrieking as they swept past the bows. A rain-squall or two strayed aimlessly over the hopeless waste, ran down ‘wind and back again, and melted away.

  “Seems to me I saw somethin’ flicker jest naow over yonder,” said Uncle Salters, pointing to the northeast.

  “Can’t be any of the fleet,” said Disko, peering under his eyebrows, a hand on the foc’sle gangway as the solid bows hatcheted into the troughs. “Sea’s oilin’ over dretful fast. Danny, don’t you want to skip up a piece an’ see how aour trawl-buoy lays?”

  Danny, in his big boots, trotted rather than climbed up the main rigging (this consumed Harvey with envy), hitched himself around the reeling cross-trees, and let his eye rove till it caught the tiny black buoy-flag on the shoulder of a mile-away swell.

  “She’s all right,” he hailed. “Sail O! Dead to the no’th’ard, comin’ down like smoke! Schooner she be, too.”

  They waited yet another half-hour, the sky clearing in patches, with a flicker of sickly sun from time to time that made patches of olive-green water. Then a stump-foremast lifted, ducked, and disappeared, to be followed on the next wave by a high stern with old-fashioned wooden snail’s-horn davits. The snails were red-tanned.

  “Frenchmen!” shouted Dan. “No, ‘tain’t, neither. Da-ad!”

  “That’s no French,” said Disko. “Salters, your blame luck holds tighter’n a screw in a keg-head.”

  “I’ve eyes. It’s Uncle Abishai.”

  “You can’t nowise tell fer sure.”

  “The head-king of all Jonahs,” groaned Tom Platt. “Oh, Salters, Salters, why wasn’t you abed an’ asleep?”

  “How could I tell?” said poor Salters, as the schooner swung up.

  She might have been the very Flying Dutchman, so foul, draggled, and unkempt was every rope and stick aboard. Her old-style quarterdeck was some or five feet high, and her rigging flew knotted and tangled like weed at a wharf-end. She was running before the wind — yawing frightfully — her staysail let down to act as a sort of extra foresail, — ”scandalized,” they call it, — and her foreboom guyed out over the side. Her bowsprit cocked up like an old-fashioned frigate’s; her jib-boom had been fished and spliced and nailed and clamped beyond further repair; and as she hove herself forward, and sat down on her broad tail, she looked for all the world like a blouzy, frouzy, bad old woman sneering at a decent girl.

  “That’s Abishai,” said Salters. “Full o’ gin an’ Judique men, an’ the judgments o’ Providence layin’ fer him an’ never takin’ good holt He’s run in to bait, Miquelon way.”

  “He’ll run her under,” said Long Jack. “That’s no rig fer this weather.”

  “Not he, ‘r he’d’a done it long ago,” Disko replied. “Looks ‘s if he cal’lated to run us under. Ain’t she daown by the head more ‘n natural, Tom Platt?”

  “Ef it’s his style o’ loadin’ her she ain’t safe,” said the sailor slowly. “Ef she’s spewed her oakum he’d better git to his pumps mighty quick.”

  The creature threshed up, wore round with a clatter and raffle, and lay head to wind within ear-shot.

  A gray-beard wagged over the bulwark, and a thick voice yelled something Harvey could not understand. But Disko’s face darkened. “He’d resk every stick he hez to carry bad news. Says we’re in fer a shift o’ wind. He’s in fer worse. Abishai! Abi-shai!” He waved his arm up and down with the gesture of a man at the pumps, and pointed forward. The crew mocked him and laughed.

  “Jounce ye, an’ strip ye an’ trip ye!” yelled Uncle Abishai. “A livin’ gale — a livin’ gale. Yab! Cast up fer your last trip, all you Gloucester haddocks. You won’t see Gloucester no more, no more!”

  “Crazy full — as usual,” said Tom Platt. “Wish he hadn’t spied us, though.”

  She drifted out of hearing while the gray-head yelled something about a dance at the Bay of Bulls and a dead man in the foc’sle. Harvey shuddered. He had seen the sloven tilled decks and the savage-eyed crew.

  “An’ that’s a fine little floatin’ hell fer her draught,” said Long Jack. “I wondher what mischief he’s been at ashore.”

  “He’s a trawler,” Dan explained to Harvey, “an’ he runs in fer bait all along the coast. Oh, no, not home, he don’t go. He deals along the south an’ east shore up yonder.” He nodded in the direction of the pitiless Newfoundland beaches. “Dad won’t never take me ashore there. They’re a mighty tough crowd — an’ Abishai’s the toughest. You saw his boat? Well, she’s nigh seventy year old, they say; the last o’ the old Marblehead heel-tappers. They don’t make them quarterdecks any more. Abishai don’t use Marblehead, though. He ain’t wanted there. He jes’ drif’s araound, in debt, trawlin’ an’ cussin’ like you’ve heard. Bin a Jonah fer years an’
years, he hez. ‘Gits liquor frum the Feecamp boats fer makin’ spells an’ selling winds an’ such truck. Crazy, I guess.”

  “‘Twon’t be any use underrunnin’ the trawl to-night,” said Tom Platt, with quiet despair. “He come alongside special to cuss us. I’d give my wage an’ share to see him at the gangway o’ the old Ohio ‘fore we quit floggin’. Jest abaout six dozen, an’ Sam Mocatta layin’ ‘em on criss-cross!”

  The disheveled “heel-tapper” danced drunkenly down wind, and all eyes followed her. Suddenly the cook cried in his phonograph voice: “It wass his own death made him speak so! He iss fey — fey, I tell you! Look!” She sailed into a patch of watery sunshine three or four miles distant. The patch dulled and faded out, and even as the light passed so did the schooner. She dropped into a hollow and — was not.

  “Run under, by the Great Hook-Block!” shouted Disko, jumping aft. “Drunk or sober, we’ve got to help ‘em. Heave short and break her out! Smart!”

  Harvey was thrown on the deck by the shock that followed the setting of the jib and foresail, for they hove short on the cable, and to save time, jerked the anchor bodily from the bottom, heaving in as they moved away. This is a bit of brute force seldom resorted to except in matters of life and death, and the little We’re Here complained like a human. They ran down to where Abishai’s craft had vanished; found two or three trawl-tubs, a gin-bottle, and a stove-in dory, but nothing more. “Let ‘em go,” said Disko, though no one had hinted at picking them up. “I wouldn’t hev a match that belonged to Abishai aboard. Guess she run clear under. Must ha’ been spewin’ her oakum fer a week, an’ they never thought to pump her. That’s one more boat gone along o’ leavin’ port all hands drunk.”

  “Glory be!” said Long Jack. “We’d ha’ been obliged to help ‘em if they was top o’ water.”

  “‘Thinkin’ o’ that myself,” said Tom Platt.

  “Fey! Fey!” said the cook, rolling his eyes. “He haas taken his own luck with him.”

  “Ver’ good thing, I think, to tell the Fleet when we see. Eh, wha-at?” said Manuel. “If you runna that way before the ‘wind, and she work open her seams — ” He threw out his hands with an indescribable gesture, while Penn sat down on the house and sobbed at the sheer horror and pity of it all. Harvey could not realize that he had seen death on the open waters, but he felt very sick. Then Dan went up the cross-trees, and Disko steered them back to within sight of their own trawl-buoys just before the fog blanketed the sea once again.