Books: Many Cargoes
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W.W. Jacobs >> Many Cargoes
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Greenwich, with its white-fronted hospital and background of trees, was
passed. The air got sensibly cooler, and to Mrs. Bunker it seemed that
the water was not only getting darker, but also lumpy, and she asked two
or three times whether there was any danger.
The skipper laughed gaily, and diving down into the cabin fetched up a
shawl, which he placed carefully round his fair companion's shoulders.
His right hand grasped the tiller, his left stole softly and carefully
round her waist.
"How enjoyable!" said Mrs. Bunker, referring to the evening.
"Glad you like it," said the skipper, who wasn't. "Oh, how pleasant to
go sailing down the river of life like this, everything quiet and
peaceful, just driftin'"--
"Ahoy!" yelled the mate suddenly from the bows. "Who's steering? Starbud
your hellum."
The skipper started guiltily, and put his helm to starboard as another
barge came up suddenly from the opposite direction and almost grazed
them. There were two men on board, and the skipper blushed for their
fluency as reflecting upon the order in general.
It was some little time before they could settle down again after this,
but ultimately they got back in their old position, and the infatuated
Codd was just about to wax sentimental again, when he felt something
behind him. He turned with a start as a portly retriever inserted his
head under his left arm, and slowly but vigorously forced himself
between them; then he sat on his haunches and panted, while the
disconcerted Codd strove to realise the humour of the position.
"I think I shall go to bed now," said Mrs. Bunker, after the position
had lasted long enough to be unendurable. "If anything happens, a
collision or anything, don't be afraid to let me know."
The skipper promised, and, shaking hands, bade his passenger good-night.
She descended, somewhat clumsily, it is true, into the little cabin, and
the skipper, sitting by the helm, which he lazily manoeuvred as
required, smoked his short clay and fell into a lover's reverie.
So he sat and smoked until the barge, which had, by the help of the
breeze, been making its way against the tide, began to realise that that
good friend had almost dropped, and at the same time bethought itself of
a small anchor which hung over the bows ready for emergencies such as
these.
"We must bring up, Bill," said the skipper.
"Ay, ay!" said Bill, sleepily raising himself from the hatchway. "Over
she goes."
With no more ceremony than this he dropped the anchor; the sail, with
two strong men hauling on to it, creaked and rustled its way close to
the mast, and the Sir Edmund Lyons was ready for sleep.
"I can do with a nap," said Bill. "I'm dog-tired."
"So am I," said the other. "It'll be a tight fit down for'ard, but we
couldn't ask a lady to sleep there."
Bill gave a non-committal grunt, and as the captain, after the manner of
his kind, took a last look round before retiring, placed his hands on
the hatch and lowered himself down. The next moment he came up with a
wild yell, and, sitting on the deck, rolled up his trousers and fondled
his leg.
"What's the matter?" inquired the skipper.
"That blessed dog's down there, that's all," said the injured Bill.
"He's evidently mistook it for his kennel, and I don't wonder at it. I
thought he'd been wonderful quiet."
"We must talk him over," said the skipper, advancing to the hatchway.
"Poor dog! Poor old chap! Come along, then! Come along!" He patted his
leg and whistled, and the dog, which wanted to get to sleep again,
growled like a small thunderstorm.
"Come on, old fellow!" said the skipper enticingly. "Come along, come
on, then!"
The dog came at last, and then the skipper, instead of staying to pat
him, raced Bill up the ropes, while the brute, in execrable taste, paced
up and down the deck daring them to come down. Coming to the conclusion,
at last, that they were settled for the night, he returned to the
forecastle and, after a warning bark or two, turned in again. Both men,
after waiting a few minutes, cautiously regained the deck.
"You call him up again," said Bill, seizing a boat-hook, and holding it
at the charge.
"Certainly not," said the other. "I won't have no blood spilt aboard my
ship."
"Who's going to spill blood?" asked the Jesuitical Bill; "but if he
likes to run hisself on to the boat-hook "--
"Put it down," said the skipper sternly, and Bill sullenly obeyed.
"We'll have to snooze on deck," said Codd.
"And mind we don't snore," said the sarcastic Bill, "'cos the dog
mightn't like it."
Without noticing this remark the captain stretched himself on the
hatches, and Bill, after a few more grumbles, followed his example, and
both men were soon asleep.
Day was breaking when they awoke and stretched their stiffened limbs,
for the air was fresh, with a suspicion of moisture in it. Two or three
small craft were, like them selves, riding at anchor, their decks wet
and deserted; others were getting under way to take advantage of the
tide, which had just turned.
"Up with the anchor," said the skipper, seizing a handspike and
thrusting it into the windlass.
As the rusty chain came in, an ominous growling came from below, and
Bill snatched his handspike out and raised it aloft. The skipper gazed
meditatively at the shore, and the dog, as it came bounding up, gazed
meditatively at the handspike. Then it yawned, an easy, unconcerned
yawn, and commenced to pace the deck, and coming to the conclusion that
the men were only engaged in necessary work, regarded their efforts with
a lenient eye, and barked encouragingly as they hoisted the sail.
It was a beautiful morning. The miniature river waves broke against the
blunt bows of the barge, and passed by her sides rippling musically.
Over the flat Essex marshes a white mist was slowly dispersing before
the rays of the sun, and the trees on the Kentish hills were black and
drenched with moisture.
A little later smoke issued from the tiny cowl over the fo'c'sle and
rolled in a little pungent cloud to the Kentish shore. Then a delicious
odour of frying steak rose from below, and fell like healing balm upon
the susceptible nostrils of the skipper as he stood at the helm.
"Is Mrs. Bunker getting up?" inquired the mate, as he emerged from the
fo'c'sle and walked aft.
"I believe so," said the skipper. "There's movements below."
"'Cos the steak's ready and waiting," said the mate. "I've put it on a
dish in front of the fire."
"Ay, ay!" said the skipper.
The mate lit his pipe and sat down on the hatchway, slowly smoking. He
removed it a couple of minutes later, to stare in bewilderment at the
unwonted behaviour of the dog, which came up to the captain and
affectionately licked his hands.
"He's took quite a fancy to me," said the delighted man.
"Love me love my dog," quoted Bill waggishly, as he strolled forward
again.
The skipper was fondly punching the dog, which was now on its back with
its four legs in the air, when he heard a terrible cry from the
fo'c'sle, and the mate came rushing wildly on deck.
"Where's that -------- dog?" he cried.
"Don't you talk like that aboard my ship. Where's your manners?" cried
the skipper hotly.
"---- the manners!" said the mate, with tears in his eyes. "Where's that
dog's manners? He's eaten all that steak."
Before the other could reply, the scuttle over the cabin was drawn, and
the radiant face of Mrs. Bunker appeared at the opening.
"I can smell breakfast," she said archly.
"No wonder, with that dog so close," said Bill grimly. Mrs. Bunker
looked at the captain for an explanation.
"He's ate it," said that gentleman briefly. "A pound and a 'arf o' the
best rump steak in Wapping."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Bunker sweetly, "cook some more. I can wait."
"Cook some more," said the skipper to the mate, who still lingered.
"I'll cook some bloaters. That's all we've got now," replied the mate
sulkily.
"It's a lovely morning," said Mrs. Bunker, as the mate retired, "the air
is so fresh. I expect that's what has made Rover so hungry. He isn't a
greedy dog. Not at all."
"Very likely," said Codd, as the dog rose, and, after sniffing the air,
gently wagged his tail and trotted forward. "Where' she off to now?"
"He can smell the bloaters, I expect," said Mrs. Bunker, laughing. "It's
wonderful what intelligence he's got. Come here, Rover!"
"Bill!" cried the skipper warningly, as the dog continued on his way.
"Look out! He's coming!"
"Call him off!" yelled the mate anxiously. "Call him off!"
Mrs. Bunker ran up, and, seizing her chaperon by the collar, hauled him
away.
"It's the sea air," said she apologetically; "and he's been on short
commons lately, because he's not been well. Keep still, Rover!"
"Keep still, Rover!" said the skipper, with an air of command.
Under this joint control the dog sat down, his tongue lolling out, and
his eyes fixed on the fo'c'sle until the breakfast was spread. The
appearance of the mate with a dish of steaming fish excited him again,
and being chidden by his mistress, he sat down sulkily in the skipper's
plate, until pushed off by its indignant owner.
"Soft roe, Bill?" inquired the skipper courteously, after he had served
his passenger.
"That's not my plate," said the mate pointedly, as the skipper helped
him.
"Oh! I wasn't noticing," said the other, reddening.
"I was, though," said the mate rudely. "I thought you'd do that. I was
waiting for it. I'm not going to eat after animals, if you are."
The skipper coughed, and, after effecting the desired exchange,
proceeded with his breakfast in sombre silence.
The barge was slipping at an easy pace through the water, the sun was
bright, and the air cool, and everything pleasant and comfortable, until
the chaperon, who had been repeatedly pushed away, broke through the
charmed circle which surrounded the food and seized a fish. In the
confusion which ensued he fell foul of the tea-kettle, and, dropping his
prey, bit the skipper frantically, until driven off by his mistress.
"Naughty boy!" said she, giving him a few slight cuffs. "Has he hurt
you? I must get a bandage for you."
"A little," said Codd, looking at his hand, which was bleeding
profusely. "There's a little linen in the locker down below, if you
wouldn't mind tearing it up for me."
Mrs. Bunker, giving the dog a final slap, went below, and the two men
looked at each other and then at the dog, which was standing at the
stern, barking insultingly at a passing steamer.
"It's about time she came over," said the mate, throwing a glance at the
sail, then at the skipper, then at the dog.
"So it is," said the skipper, through his set teeth.
As he spoke he pushed the long tiller hastily from port to starboard,
and the dog finished his bark in the water; the huge sail reeled for a
moment, then swung violently over to the other side, and the barge was
on a fresh tack, with the dog twenty yards astern. He was wise in his
generation, and after one look at the barge, made for the distant shore.
"Murderers!" screamed a voice; "murderers! you've killed my dog."
"It was an accident; I didn't see him," stammered the skipper.
"Don't tell me," stormed the lady; "I saw it all through the skylight."
"We had to shift the helm to get out of the way of a schooner," said
Codd.
"Where's the schooner?" demanded Mrs. Bunker; "where is it?"
The captain looked at the mate. "Where's the schooner?" said he.
"I b'leeve," said the mate, losing his head entirely at this question,
"I b'leeve we must have run her down. I don't see her nowhere about."
Mrs. Bunker stamped her foot, and, with a terrible glance at the men,
descended to the cabin. From this coign of vantage she obstinately
refused to budge, and sat in angry seclusion until the vessel reached
Ipswich late in the evening. Then she appeared on deck, dressed for
walking, and, utterly ignoring the woebegone Codd, stepped ashore, and,
obtaining a cab for her boxes, drove silently away.
An hour afterwards the mate went to his home, leaving the captain
sitting on the lonely deck striving to realise the bitter fact that, so
far as the end he had in view was concerned, he had seen the last of
Mrs. Bunker and the small but happy home in which he had hoped to
install her.
A HARBOUR OF REFUGE
A waterman's boat was lying in the river just below Greenwich, the
waterman resting on his oars, while his fare, a small, perturbed-looking
man in seaman's attire, gazed expectantly up the river.
"There she is!" he cried suddenly, as a small schooner came into view
from behind a big steamer. "Take me alongside."
"Nice little thing she is too," said the waterman, watching the other
out of the corner of his eye as he bent to his oars. "Rides the water
like a duck. Her cap'n knows a thing or two, I'll bet."
"He knows watermen's fares," replied the passenger coldly.
"Look out there!" cried a voice from the schooner, and the mate threw a
line which the passenger skilfully caught.
The waterman ceased rowing, and, as his boat came alongside the
schooner, held out his hand to his passenger, who had already commenced
to scramble up the side, and demanded his fare. It was handed down to
him.
"It's all right, then," said the fare, as he stood on the deck and
closed his eyes to the painful language in which the waterman was
addressing him. "Nobody been inquiring for me?"
"Not a soul," said the mate. "What's all the row about?"
"Well, you see, it's this way," said the master of the Frolic, dropping
his voice. "I've been taking a little too much notice of a little craft
down Battersea way--nice little thing, an' she thought I was a single
man, dy'e see?"
The mate sucked his teeth.
"She introduced me to her brother as a single man," continued the
skipper. "He asked me when the banns was to be put up, an' I didn't like
to tell him I was a married man with a family."
"Why not?" asked the mate.
"He's a prize-fighter," said the other, in awe-inspiring tones; "'the
Battersea Bruiser.' Consequently when he clapped me on the back, and
asked me when the banns was to be, I only smiled."
"What did he do?" inquired the mate, who was becoming interested.
"Put 'em up," groaned the skipper, "an' we all went to church to hear
'em. Talk o' people walking over your grave, George, it's nothing to
what I felt--nothing. I felt a hypocrite, almost. Somehow he found out
about me, and I've been hiding ever since I sent you that note. He told
a pal he was going to give me a licking, and come down to Fairhaven with
us and make mischief between me and the missis."
"That 'ud be worse than the licking," said the mate sagely.
"Ah! and she'd believe him afore she would me, too, an' we've been
married seventeen years," said the skipper mournfully.
"Perhaps that's"--began the mate, and stopped suddenly.
"Perhaps what?" inquired the other, after waiting a reasonable time for
him to finish.
"H'm, I forgot what I was going to say," said the mate. "Funny, it's
gone now. Well, you're all right now. You'd intended this to be the last
trip to London for some time."
"Yes, that's what made me a bit more loving than I should ha' been,"
mused the skipper. "However, all's well that ends well. How did you get
on about the cook? Did you ship one?"
"Yes, I've got one, but he's only signed as far as Fairhaven," replied
the mate. "Fine strong chap he is. He's too good for a cook. I never saw
a better built man in my life. It'll do your eyes good to look at him.
Here, cook!"
At the summons a huge, close-cropped head was thrust out of the galley,
and a man of beautiful muscular development stepped out before the eyes
of the paralyzed skipper, and began to remove his coat.
"Ain't he a fine chap?" said the mate admiringly. "Show him your biceps,
cook."
With a leer at the captain the cook complied. He then doubled his fists,
and, ducking his head scientifically, danced all round the stupefied
master of the Frolic.
"Put your dooks up," he cried warningly. "I'm going to dot you!"
"What the deuce are you up to, cook?" demanded the mate, who had been
watching his proceedings in speechless amazement.
"Cook!" said the person addressed, with majestic scorn. "I'm no cook;
I'm Bill Simmons, the 'Battersea Bruiser,' an' I shipped on this ere
little tub all for your dear captin's sake. I'm going to put sich a 'ed
on 'im that when he wants to blow his nose he'll have to get a looking-
glass to see where to go to. I'm going to give 'im a licking every day,
and when we get to Fairhaven I'm going to foller 'im 'ome and tell his
wife about 'im walking out with my sister."
"She walked me out," said the skipper, with dry lips.
"Put 'em up," vociferated the "Bruiser."
"Don't you touch me, my lad," said the skipper, dodging behind the
wheel. "Go an' see about your work--go an' peel the taters."
"Wot!" roared the "Bruiser."
"You've shipped as cook aboard my craft," said the skipper impressively.
"If you lay a finger on me it's mutiny, and you'll get twelve months."
"That's right," said the mate, as the pugilist (who had once had
fourteen days for bruising, and still held it in wholesome remembrance)
paused irresolute. "It's mutiny, and it'll also be my painful duty to
get up the shotgun and blow the top of your ugly 'ed off."
"Would it be mutiny if I was to dot YOU one?" inquired the "Bruiser," in
a voice husky with emotion, as he sidled up to the mate.
"It would," said the other hastily.
"Well, you're a nice lot," said the disgusted "Bruiser," "you and your
mutinies. Will any one of you have a go at me?"
There was no response from the crew, who had gathered round, and were
watching the proceedings with keen enjoyment.
"Or all of yer?" asked the "Bruiser," raising his eyebrows.
"I've got no quarrel with you, my lad," the boy remarked with dignity,
as he caught the new cook's eye.
"Go and cook the dinner,'" said the skipper; "and look sharp about it. I
don't want to have to find fault with a young beginner like you; but I
don't have no shirkers aboard--understand that."
For one moment of terrible suspense the skipper's life hung in the
balance, then the "Bruiser," restraining his natural instincts by a
mighty effort, retreated, growling, to the galley.
The skipper's breath came more freely.
"He don't know your address, I s'pose," said the mate.
"No, but he'll soon find it out when we get ashore," replied the other
dolefully. "When I think that I've got to take that brute to my home to
make mischief I feel tempted to chuck him overboard almost."
"It is a temptation," agreed the mate loyally, closing his eyes to his
chief's physical deficiencies. "I'll pass the word to the crew not to
let him know your address, anyhow."
The morning passed quietly, the skipper striving to look unconcerned as
the new cook grimly brought the dinner down to the cabin and set it
before him. After toying with it a little while, the master of the
Frolic dined off buttered biscuit.
It was a matter of much discomfort to the crew that the new cook took
his duties very seriously, and prided himself on his cooking. He was,
moreover, disposed to be inconveniently punctilious about the way in
which his efforts were regarded. For the first day the crew ate in
silence, but at dinner-time on the second the storm broke.
"What are yer looking at your vittles like that for?" inquired the
"Bruiser" of Sam Dowse, as that able-bodied seaman sat with his plate in
his lap, eyeing it with much disfavour. "That ain't the way to look at
your food, after I've been perspiring away all the morning cooking it."
"Yes, you've cooked yourself instead of the meat," said Sam warmly.
"It's a shame to spoil good food like that; it's quite raw."
"You eat it!" said the "Bruiser" fiercely; "that's wot you've go to do.
Eat it!"
For sole answer the indignant Sam threw a piece at him, and the rest of
the crew, snatching up their dinners, hurriedly clambered into their
bunks and viewed the fray from a safe distance.
"Have you 'ad enough?" inquired the "Bruiser," addressing the head of
Sam, which protruded from beneath his left arm.
"I 'ave," said Sam surlily.
"And you won't turn up your nose at good vittles any more?" inquired the
"Bruiser" severely.
"I won't turn it up at anything," said Sam earnestly, as he tenderly
felt the member in question.
"You're the only one as 'as complained," said the "Bruiser." "You're
dainty, that's wot you are. Look at the others--look how they're eating
theirs!"
At this hint the others came out of their bunks and fell to, and the
"Bruiser" became affable.
"It's wonderful wot I can turn my 'and to," he remarked pleasantly.
"Things come natural to me that other men have to learn. You 'd better
put a bit of raw beef on that eye o' yours, Sam."
The thoughtless Sam clapped on a piece from his plate, and it was only
by the active intercession of the rest of the crew that the sensitive
cook was prevented from inflicting more punishment.
From this time forth the "Bruiser" ruled the roost, and, his temper
soured by his trials, ruled it with a rod of iron. The crew, with the
exception of Dowse, were small men getting into years, and quite unable
to cope with him. His attitude with the skipper was dangerously
deferential, and the latter was sorely perplexed to think of a way out
of the mess in which he found himself.
"He means business, George," he said one day to the mate, as he saw the
"Bruiser" watching him intently from the galley.
"He looks at you worse an' worse," was the mate's cheering reply. "The
cooking's spoiling what little temper he's got left as fast as
possible."
"It's the scandal I'm thinking of," groaned the skipper; "all becos' I
like to be a bit pleasant to people."
"You mustn't look at the black side o' things," said the mate; "perhaps
you won't want to need to worry about that after he's hit you. I'd
sooner be kicked by a horse myself. He was telling them down for'ard the
other night that he killed a chap once."
The skipper turned green. "He ought to have been hung for it," he said
vehemently. "I wonder what juries think they're for in this country. If
I'd been on the jury I'd ha' had my way, if they'd starved me for a
month!"
"Look here!" said the mate suddenly; "I've got an idea. You go down
below and I'll call him up and start rating him. When I'm in the thick
of it you come and stick up for him."
"George," said the skipper, with glistening eyes, "you're a wonder. Lay
it on thick, and if he hits you I'll make it up to you in some way."
He went below, and the mate, after waiting for some time, leaned over
the wheel and shouted for the cook.
"What do you want?" growled the "Bruiser," as he thrust a visage all red
and streaky with his work from the galley.
"Why the devil don't you wash them saucepans up?" demanded the mate,
pointing to a row which stood on the deck. "Do you think we shipped you
becos we wanted a broken-nosed, tenth-rate prize-fighter to look at?"
"Tenth-rate!" roared the "Bruiser," coming out on to the deck.
"Don't you roar at your officer," said the mate sternly. "Your manners
is worse than your cooking. You'd better stay with us a few trips to
improve 'em."
The "Bruiser" turned purple, and shivered with impotent wrath.
"We get a parcel o' pot-house loafers aboard here," continued the mate,
airily addressing the atmosphere, "and, blank my eyes! if they don't
think they're here to be waited on. You'll want me to wash your face for
you next, and do all your other dirty work, you--"
"George!" said a sad, reproving voice.
The mate started dramatically as the skipper appeared at the companion,
and stopped abruptly.
"For shame, George!" said the skipper. "I never expected to hear you
talk to anybody like that, especially to my friend Mr. Simmons."
"Your WOT? demanded the friend hotly.
"My friend," repeated the other gently; "and as to tenth-rate prize-
fighters, George, the 'Battersea Bruiser' might be champion of England,
if he'd only take the trouble to train."
"Oh, you're always sticking up for him," said the artful mate.
"He deserves it," said the skipper warmly. "He's always run straight,
'as Bill Simmons, and when I hear 'im being talked at like that, it
makes me go 'ot all over."
"Don't you take the trouble to go 'ot all over on my account," said the
"Bruiser" politely.
"I can't help my feelings, Bill," said the skipper softly.
"And don't you call me Bill," roared the "Bruiser" with sudden ferocity.
"D'ye think I mind what you and your little tinpot crew say. You wait
till we get ashore, my friend, and the mate too. Both of you wait!"
He turned his back on them and walked off to the galley, from which,
with a view of giving them an object-lesson of an entertaining kind, he
presently emerged with a small sack of potatoes, which he slung from the
boom and used as a punching ball, dealing blows which made the master of
the Frolic sick with apprehension.
"It's no good," he said to the mate; "kindness is thrown away on that
man."
"Well, if he hits one, he's got to hit the lot," said the mate. "We'll
all stand by you."
"I can't always have the crew follering me about," said the skipper
dejectedly. "No, he'll wait his opportunity, and, after he's broke my
head, he'll go 'ome and break up my wife's 'art."
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