THE TRIPLE ALLIANCE
Two men walked side by side down the steps of the Criminal Court Building. They were dressed in "store clothes"; and, while they were alike in type, yet they were unlike: one could not be mistaken for the other. But they had the same facial angle; they were of about the same age, thirty-five; each was tall, square-shouldered, and erect, and each had the same curious gait that betokens long experience in the saddle. The man to the right had gray eyes; the one to the left black. The one to the right was jubilant of face; the other downcast and chagrined. As they reached the sidewalk a man hurried out of the crowd and confronted them. His face was perspiring, and he breathed hard.
"I've got you, Bill!" he said, laying his hand on the shoulder of the downcast man to the left. "You're my prisoner!"
"Not much, he isn't!" answered the man to the right. "He's mine. Here's proof." He half turned, disclosing the butt of a large pistol under his coat.
"Oh, I've got that kind of proof, too," rejoined the newcomer, stepping back and eying them with anger and disgust in his face. It was a face that must have been unused to such emotional expressions; it was smooth shaved, pink, and healthy, with keen blue eyes, the face of a man not yet grown up, or of a boy matured before his time. He was of about the same age, size, and build as the other two, and with the same horseman's gait.
"Who are you," he asked, "and what have you got that man for?"
"I'm Jack Quincy, Deputy Sheriff of Maricopa County, Arizona; and I've got this man, Bill Rogers, for stage robbery. Who are you?"
"I'm Walter Benson, of the Northwest Mounted Police, and I want this man for murder. I've just come from Washington with extradition papers, and I don't see how you can hold him."
"Possession is nine points of the law in this country, Mr. Benson, and, while I only went to Albany for extradition papers, they're good. Left 'em inside with the Judge."
"I'll contest this case. I've come down from Manitoba for this man. My chief put the New York police onto him, and he's our meat. Why, man, we want him for murder, a capital offense!"
"But I've got him for robbing the Wickenburg stage, a capital offense, too."
While this confab was going on the prisoner had been keenly and furtively looking about, and had caught the eye of a nearby policeman, then had significantly reached his hand behind him and patted his hip pocket while nodding almost imperceptibly toward the disputants. The officer summoned another policeman by the same sign language, and at this juncture they approached.
"What you two chewin' the rag about?" demanded one, passing his hands rapidly up and down and around the rear clothing of Quincy, while the other as quickly "frisked" Benson. "Got a gun, I see! Got a license?"
"Here's another gun man," said the second policeman, his hand on Benson's collar. "Got a license?"
"Yes, where's yer license?" repeated the first officer, reaching for Quincy's collar.
And now a surprising thing happened. First, Bill Rogers, wanted for stage robbery and murder, took to his heels and sped down the street. Then Benson wriggled under the policeman's grasp, and by some lightning-like trick of jiu jitsu, sent him sprawling on his back, his limbs waving in the air like the legs of a turtle similarly upset. Then Benson started after Rogers. Quincy tried no jiu jitsu: instead he whipped out his gun, a long, heavy Colt's forty-five, and jammed it into the policeman's face before the hand had reached his collar. Involuntarily the officer started back, away from that murderous blue tube, and before he could recover from his surprise Quincy had started after Benson. Then the policeman followed Quincy, and his fallen compatriot, picking himself up, followed after; but neither for long; they were fat, and these men of the West could run as well as ride.
Down Centre Street went the chase, pursued and pursuers bowling over pedestrians who got in the way, dodging in front of and around trolley cars as Rogers led the way diagonally across the street. He turned into the first cross street and reached Park Row, Benson about a hundred feet behind, and Quincy as far in the rear of Benson. Across Park Row went Rogers, and down the eastern walk to Catharine Street, into which he turned, Benson after him, and Quincy keeping Benson in sight. Rogers seemed to know where he was going. He raced down Catharine Street into Cherry, and when halfway to the next corner burst into a small saloon, whose proprietor, a large, beetle-browed man, stood behind the bar.
"Sailors' boarding-house, isn't it?" panted Rogers. "Hide me and ship me! I've been to sea. North America's too hot for me."
"Yes," responded the proprietor, with quick comprehension. "Into that back room and up the stairs. Hide anywhere. I'll stall the police."
But before Rogers could reach the back room Benson burst in, his blue eyes flashing with excitement, and in his hand a revolver as large and heavy as Quincy's.
"Hold on, Bill!" he snapped. "Hands up! I've got a bead on you!"
Rogers halted and turned, his hands over his head and his features drooping in despair. Benson, still covering him, advanced and laid hold of his collar. Then in burst Quincy, also with drawn revolver.
"Got him, have you? Good enough! I'll take him."
"Oh, no, you won't," answered Benson. "He's mine. Possession's nine points of the law, you say." With his hand still on Rogers's collar he covered Quincy with his weapon.
Quincy had not raised his; and he stood still, leaning forward, his pistol pointed to the floor, while he glared at Benson.
"Now, then, stop this!" said the proprietor, sternly, as he leveled a bright, nickel-plated revolver at Benson. "Lower that gun—quick! Lower it—"
Benson saw out of the corner of his eye, and slowly lowered the pistol.
"You, too," he said to Quincy, as he looked at him. "Don't you raise that shootin' iron! I'm boss here. Put 'em both on the bar, handles first, both of you!"
There was deadly earnestness in the big man's voice, and they obeyed him. Handles first the weapons were placed on the bar. Then Quincy said:
"You're makin' trouble for yourself. This man is my prisoner, and you're interfering with an officer."
"You a p'liceman?" asked the big man, as he placed the weapons under the bar.
"I'm Deputy Sheriff of Maricopa County, Arizona."
"And I'm a member of the Northwest Mounted Police," said Benson.
"You're a long way from home, and you've got no friends here. This man has. He says he's a sailor, and I'm a friend o' sailors. Been one myself, and I make my livin' off 'em. And when a sailor runs into my place askin' to hide from anyone, police or not, I'm on his side every time."
"He's no sailor," said Quincy. "He's Bill Rogers, an outlaw I came East for."
"How about it?" asked the proprietor, turning to Rogers. "You a sailor?"
"Have been. Can be again," answered Rogers calmly.
"Box the compass."
"North, nor'-an'-by-east, nor'-nor'east, nor'east-an'-by—"
"That's good. Which side does the main topgallant halyards lead down?"
"Port side. Fore and mizzen to starboard."
"This man's a sailor, all right. And he's not goin' out o' my place under any man's gun, 'less he's a policeman with a warrant."
"Well, we'll get the policeman with a warrant," said Quincy, "unless this will do." He drew forth a receipt made out by the clerk of the court for extradition papers.
Benson stiffened up. "Here's something better," he said: "Extradition papers issued by the authorities at Washington. It's a warrant, if anything is." He drew forth his evidence of official integrity.
The big man examined both. "Beyond me, just now," he commented. "However, I'm not goin' to see a sailor railroaded out o' my place till I'm sure it's all right. Come into the back room. We'll all have a drink and talk it over. Casey!" he yelled at the top of his voice, and when a voice from upstairs answered he added: "Come down here an' tend bar."
Casey, a smaller edition of the proprietor, appeared, and the three men were led to the back room, where they seated themselves at a round table, while the proprietor himself took their orders. The drinks were soon served, the big man bringing one for himself, and joining them.
"Now, then," he said, lifting his glass, "we'll drink to a good-natured settlement o' this job. What's this man done out West?"
They all drank.
"Robbed the Wickenburg stage of the first cleanup of Jim Mahar's placer mine. About ten thousand dollars he got away with."
"Jim Mahar!" said Benson. "Why, that's the name of the man he murdered in Manitoba."
"How about it, mate?" said the big man, turning to Rogers.
"Same man," he said quietly. "I shot him; but I never robbed him."
"You didn't?" answered Quincy, derisively. "You were recognized!"
"The mine was mine, and the dust I took I had washed out with my own hands. He got that mine away from me on a technicality, Quincy, and you know it."
"Oh, I know there was some dispute; but that's not my business. I'm here to take you back, and I've got to do it."
"What's the use," said Benson, "if you haven't got a clear case against him? Now, I have. He shot Mahar on sight, in the presence of a dozen witnesses."
"You mean," said Rogers, "that I was quickest. He pulled first; but I beat him to it, that's all."
"Well," said the big proprietor, "we'll have to think on this a little. So, let's do a little thinking."
They responded to the extent of doing no more talking. Yet it could hardly be said that they were thinking. A fog closed down on their faculties, the room and its fittings grew misty, and in a few moments Benson's head sagged to the table, Quincy lay back in his chair, and Rogers slid to the floor.
"Casey," called the big man, and Casey appeared. "You needn't go to South Brooklyn for the three men we need for the crew to-morrow mornin'. Here's three. One's a sure sailorman, anxious to ship, and the other two'll do. Get Tom to help you upstairs with 'em and get 'em ready. You know the trick. Change their clothes, give 'em a bagful each, and dip their hands in that tar bucket, then wipe most of it off with grease. Get some from the kitchen."
And so were shanghaied a Deputy Sheriff of Arizona, a member of the Northwest Mounted Police, and a desperate outlaw and fugitive from justice.
They wakened about ten next morning with throbbing headaches, and clad in greasy canvas rags, each stretched out in a forecastle bunk with a bag of other greasy rags for a pillow. Rogers was the first to roll out, and after a blear-eyed inspection of the forecastle, which included the other two, he ejaculated, "Well, I'll be blanked!" Then he shook each into sitting posture, listened to their groaning protests, and sat down on a chest, shaking with silent laughter, while the other two resumed the horizontal.
But he did not laugh long. Certain sounds from on deck indicated that he would soon be wanted, and certain indications of wintry weather in the shape of snow flurrying into the forecastle reminded him of his raiment. He hauled out the clothes bag from his bunk and opened it. To his surprise he found, neatly folded, his suit of store clothes; but as this would not do for shipboard wear he sought farther, and found a warm monkey jacket and guernsey, the property, no doubt, of some sailor who had died in the boarding-house or run away from his board bill. He also found a note addressed to Bill Rogers, which he read, and again ejaculated, "I'll be blanked!" adding to it, however, the comment, "A square boarding master." Then he punched and felt of the bag's contents, and smiled.
Donning the guernsey and jacket, he went on deck just in time to meet a big, bearded man who was hurrying to the forecastle door.
"So, you've sobered up, have you?" he said. "Got the whisky out o' you?"
"Wasn't whisky, Sir," answered Rogers, recognizing an officer. "I was doped and shanghaied, even though willing to ship. I'm an able seaman, Sir."
"You don't look it."
"Fifteen years at sea, Sir, though the last ten ashore. I'm a bit tender; but I know my work."
"How about the other two? Are they sailors?"
"I don't think they are, Sir," answered Rogers, with a slight grin. "They were with me when I was doped; but I don't know much about them."
"Go aft and take the wheel. There's a farmer there that can't steer. Let's see what you can do. I'll tend to your friends."
Rogers went to the wheel, received the spokes and the course from the rather distressed incumbent, and, even though the ship was riding along before a stiff quartering breeze and following sea, steered a course good enough to win silence from the skipper—another big, bearded man—when he next looked into the binnacle. Silence, on such occasions, is a compliment.
The cold, fresh breeze soon cleared Rogers's head of its aches and throbs, and he took stock of the ship and her people. She seemed to be about twelve hundred tons' register, with no skysails, stunsails, or other kites to make work for her crew, an easy ship, as far as wind and weather were concerned. Rogers counted her crew—sixteen men scattered about the decks and rigging, lashing casks, stowing lines and fenders, and securing chafing gear aloft. The big man that had spoken to him was undoubtedly the first mate, as was evidenced by his louder voice. The second mate, a short, broad, square-jawed man with a smooth face, spoke little to the men, but struck them often. Rogers saw three floored before six bells. As for the crew, they were of all nations and types, and by these signs he knew that she was an American ship; but nothing yet of her name or destination. Astern was a blue spot on the horizon which he recognized as the Highlands of Navesink, and scattered about at various distances were out- and in-bound craft, sail and steam. But none was within hailing range.
Just before noon he saw two men thrown out of the forecastle by the huge first mate, and in spite of their canvas rags he recognized his two enemies. Involuntarily Rogers smiled; but the smile left his face when he saw that they were showing fight, and that in the fight they were being sadly bested by the mate, aided by his confrère, the second officer. Yet they fought as they could, and as the whirl of battle drifted aft Rogers could hear their voices.
"I want to see the Captain!" they each declared explosively, whenever a moment's respite enabled them to speak, and in time the reiterated demand bore results. The Captain himself appeared, watched the conflict for a moment, then roared out:
"Mr. Billings, that'll do! Send those men up here, and let's see what they want."
The two mates stood back, and the disfigured Sheriff of Maricopa and the almost unrecognizable mounted policeman climbed the poop steps and faced the Captain in the weather alley. They were game—still full of fight, and in no way abashed by the autocrat of the ship.
"You the Captain o' this boat?" demanded Quincy, his eyes flaming green from the rage in his soul. "If you are, put me ashore, or I'll make you sweat!"
"Steady as you go," answered the Captain, quietly. "I'm too big a man to sweat. It's dangerous to make me sweat. What's on your mind?"
"Put us ashore!" yelled Benson, insanely. "Those fellows that hammered us just now said we shipped in this boat. We did not. We were drugged and abducted."
"Whew!" whistled the big skipper, turning his back on them for the moment. Then he turned back and said, "What d'you want?"
"To go ashore and take our prisoner with us. We'll settle between ourselves as to which one gets him."
"Your prisoner? Where is he?"
"That fellow standing there—steering, I suppose," answered Quincy.
The skipper turned toward Rogers. "You a prisoner?" he asked, with the good humor coming of size and self-confidence.
"I'm wanted, Sir," said Rogers, grimly, "in Arizona and in Manitoba. These men are what they say, officers of the law."
"What crime have you committed?"
"None, Sir," answered Rogers; "though I'm indicted in one place for stage robbery and in the other place for murder."
"Well, well!" commented the big man. "You seem to be a dangerous character. What are you doing aboard my ship?"
"These fellows chased me, and I went to a boarding master to get a ship. They followed and were shanghaied with me—though I do not see why he drugged me, Sir; I was willing to ship."
"But did you," demanded the skipper, his voice growing tense and forceful, "rob a stage and kill a man, somewhere in the West?"
"I robbed a stage of what I owned—my own gold-dust. I killed the man who thought I robbed him; but he pulled his gun first, and I shot in self-defense."
"And I've come all the way from Arizona," interrupted Quincy, "to bring this man back for trial. And—I want him!"
"And I've come from Manitoba," added Benson, "where he's wanted for murder."
The skipper turned to Rogers and said calmly, "By your own admission you are a fugitive from justice; hence, entitled to no sympathy from me." Then he turned to the two others and said, "You men put up a plausible story of being shanghaied. If you told it at the dock where I could get two men to replace you, I might put you ashore. As it is, fifty miles outside of Sandy Hook, I can do nothing of the kind. This ship's time is valuable, worth about a hundred dollars a day, and I can't stop to signal and put you aboard an inbound craft. You're signed on my articles—John Quincy and Walter Benson; though I don't know which is which. But the fact is that here you stay, and you work, and earn your grub and what pay I choose to put you on."
"But we did not agree," yelled Quincy. "You have no warrant in law for this procedure."
"I have my articles. I did not ship you, as I was not in the shipping office; but I bargained with a crimp for sixteen men, and he gave me fourteen and you two."
"Well," said Quincy, quietly, "you seem to be in power here, and responsible to no one that we can reach. But I'll tell you that the State of Arizona will swarm about your ears, and that you'll sweat, big as you are!"
"And I'll tell you," spoke up Benson, "that the Secretary of State at Washington will hear from the Governor General at Ottawa!"
"Get out o' this!" exploded the Captain. "Get off the poop, you four-legged farmers! Sweat, will I? All right; but you'll sweat, the both of you, before you see your friends again! Here, Mr. Billings," he roared to the first mate amidships, "and Mr. Snelling! Come up here, and turn these men to!"
The two mates answered and appeared.
"Turn them to," said the Captain, speaking slowly and softly. "Take the starch out of 'em, and make 'em sweat."
The scene that ensued was too painful even for Rogers to witness or describe, except in its salient points. Billings and Snelling pounced upon the two insurgents, struck, buffeted, kicked, and vilified them with foul-mouthed abuse, until they had borne them off the poop, forward along the main deck, and to the vicinity of the forecastle, where the two victims, subdued and quiescent, were willing to dart for cover, when the two mates gave over and went aft.
Rogers at the wheel had watched the scene, at first with a smile; but the smile grew less as he saw the battered men hurled right and left under the blows of the mates, and when at last the punishment was ended his face was serious and resentful. Some criminals do not lose the qualities of forgiveness and mercy. His mood was increased when the big skipper faced him and said:
"A fugitive from justice, are you? Well, I'll see that the Consul at Melbourne gets you. I want no jailbirds in my ship."
Which gave Rogers occasion to think.
Rogers was relieved at one bell (half-past twelve), and went forward to his dinner. As he descended the poop steps he met the big first mate, coming out of the forward companion picking his teeth.
"So," he said to Rogers, "you're a bad man from the West, I hear. Held up a stage and then killed the man you robbed!"
"You've got things wrong, Sir," answered Rogers respectfully.
"None o' your lip!" thundered the officer. "You may be a bad man from the West; but I'm a bad man from the East, and I'm here to take the badness out o' bad men!"
Then, before Rogers could dodge, he launched forth his fist and struck him. The blow knocked him off his feet, and he rose with nose bleeding and eyes closing.
"Just to show you," commented the mate, "that I'm a badder man than you."
Rogers did not answer; in fact, no answer was necessary or wise. He walked forward, and, partly from his half-blindness, partly from his disorganized state of mind, passed to windward of Snelling, the second mate, who was coming aft to dinner. Snelling said nothing in the way of prelude, but crashed his fist on Rogers's already mutilated face, and sent him again to the deck. As Rogers struggled to his feet he said:
"You pass to looward o' me when we meet, or I'll make you jump overboard!"
And again Rogers saw the wisdom of silence and went on to the forecastle.
The watches had not yet been chosen; but half the crew had eaten, and he joined the other half, finding in his clothes bag a new sheath knife and belt, a tin pan, pannikin, and spoon, which articles are always furnished to a shipped man by the boarding masters, no matter how he has been shipped. To his surprise, as he attacked the dinner, he found Quincy and Benson, each with a similar outfit of tinware, toying with the food, and paying no attention to the polyglot discourse of the other men regarding the ship, the mates, and the food. But they glared menacingly at Rogers as he entered.
"This your work, Rogers?" demanded Quincy. "Were you in cahoots with that saloonkeeper?"
"Shut up!" answered Rogers, stabbing at a piece of salt beef with his knife.
"We won't shut up!" said Benson, spooning up pea soup with his brand new tin spoon. "This increases your sentence to the extent of a shorter shrift."
"Go to the devil, the pair of you! I was doped and shanghaied myself, and I've run foul o' the mates, same as you did—and for less reason, too."
"Well, they'll sweat for this, and you, too, Rogers!" said Quincy.
"Shut up! You're up against something now that gunplay doesn't figure in. You're aboard a Yankee hell ship, and you've got to make the best of it."
"I wouldn't if I had my gun," said Quincy, moodily.
"Yes," added Benson, "with a gun I could have my own way."
Rogers straightened back, looked them steadily in their faces, and said, "If you had your guns, what would you do?"
"Make this ship put back and land us," answered Quincy.
"Benson," said Rogers, "what would you do with a gun?"
"Shoot 'em full of holes until they turned this boat back."
"Are you game?" said Rogers. "Understand that you'll be alone. I wouldn't help you; for, having been a sailor, I know what mutiny means in the courts. I'd rather go back with either of you to stand trial than to engage in open mutiny."
"Hang your mutiny!" said Quincy. "We're not sailors; we never agreed to make this voyage. I'm an officer of the law."
"Feel the same way, Benson?" asked Rogers.
"The same. Give me a gun, and I'll make that Captain and his two assistants walk a chalkline."
The rest of the men, engaged with their dinner, had paid no attention to this discourse, and Rogers rose up, reached into his bag, and produced the note he had found there on wakening. "Listen," he said:
"'Bill Rogers:—You seem to be a square fellow and up against it. I had to dope you because you would not have signed if you knew the other two would have gone along. But I needed just three men; so I doped you all. You'll find their guns and belts in your bag. Of course, you will know what to do if you get in trouble. Good luck.'
"'Bill Rogers:—You seem to be a square fellow and up against it. I had to dope you because you would not have signed if you knew the other two would have gone along. But I needed just three men; so I doped you all. You'll find their guns and belts in your bag. Of course, you will know what to do if you get in trouble. Good luck.'
"Now," said Rogers, "those guns are not now in my bag, and you can't find them without my say-so; but, if I put you onto them, will you call it off? Will you let up, and go back reporting that I had escaped? If you get ashore by any means, will you take me with you and turn me loose?"
They each looked steadily at Rogers for a moment or two; then Quincy spoke.
"If you can furnish me my gun, Bill, it's all off. I'll resign my job, if necessary; but I won't hunt you any more."
"Benson?" asked Rogers.
"The Canadian Mounted Police and the whole Colonial Government can go hang. Give me a gun, Rogers, and I'll trouble you no more!"
Rogers was about to speak, when the big first mate appeared at the forecastle door, and said in the forceful manner of deep-water mates:
"Turn to. Where's that bloody-minded stage robber? Hey! Here you are! Get aft to the wheel again. You can steer, if you are a murderer."
"All right, Sir," answered Rogers, deferentially, and then, in a whisper to the two, he said, "In my bag, halfway down. Two guns and two belts."
Then Bill Rogers, desperado, outlaw, and fugitive from justice, went to the wheel, and as he steered he smiled again, grimly and painfully, for his nose hurt.
Billings had followed him aft, up on the poop, and to the vicinity of the after companion, where he stood, waiting for the Captain. Snelling, having finished his dinner, had gone forward to oversee the men, all of whom were now on deck and scattering to their various tasks. That is, all but two. Quincy and Benson, each one girdled with a beltful of cartridges, each carrying a heavy revolver, each scowling wickedly, were marching up to Snelling.
"Hands up!" said Quincy, sternly. "Up with 'em and go back to the other end of the boat!"
Involuntarily, it seemed, the second mate obeyed. Up went his hands over his head. Then, remembering that he was second mate, he answered, "What's this? Mutiny! Put them guns down!"
Quincy's gun spat out a red tongue, and Snelling's cap left his head.
"Next time I'll aim lower," said Quincy. "Right about face! March!"
Snelling was impressed. With his hands aloft he wheeled and preceded them to the poop steps, up which he climbed.
But Billings had noticed, and acted. With a shout down the companion to the Captain, he whipped out a pocket revolver and hurried forward in the alley to meet the procession. But he did not use that revolver. Benson took quick aim and fired, and coincident with the report the nickel-plated weapon left his hand, whirling high in air before falling overboard. Billings whinnied in pain, and, rubbing his benumbed hand, backed aft before the advancing Snelling.
Then, up the companion on a run, came the Captain, a fat cigar in his mouth and a look of wonder and astonishment on his face. Benson and Quincy were now in the alley, and again a pistol spoke—Quincy's, this time—and the fat cigar left the Captain's mouth in two pieces.
"Hands up, all three of you," yelled Quincy, "or we'll shoot to kill! Found out, haven't you, that we can shoot—some? That's our trade. Up with your hands!"
Both Captain and mate raised their hands, but the former protested.
"This is mutiny, you scoundrels! D'you know the penalty? Ten years!"
"It won't be ten minutes," answered Quincy. "Call it what you like, mutiny, burglary, or pistol practice. But I'll tell you what it sure will be, if you don't come to time. It'll be a pig killing, and justifiable manslaughter in the courts. I know something about law, and I've got you for abduction. A man abducted has a right to defend himself, and I'll kill you if you don't head this boat for land and put us ashore."
"Yes," added Benson, "and we'll take our prisoner with us, too!"
"Sure," said Quincy. "Bill Rogers goes, too. Come, now, what do you say?"
"I say, by Gawd," roared the Captain, red in the face with rage and the strain on his muscles, "that I won't! If this ship goes back, you'll take her back yourself, with me and my mates under duress. It's ruinous to agree to such a proposition. I'd lose this ship and never get another."
"Very well," said Quincy, quietly. "Then we'll put you fellows under arrest. And if you resist we'll shoot you to pieces. Rogers," he turned to the smiling helmsman, "can you steer this boat back to the United States?"
"I can't find New York," answered Rogers; "but the United States is due west."
"Can you steer due west?"
"Yes; but the yards must be braced. The wind is hauling to the north, and we could make a fair wind of it."
"Can you attend to this—bracing of the yards?"
"Yes. I've been second mate."
"Right, Benson, go through them all and take away their guns, if they have any!" Then he raised his voice and called forward to the men, who had stopped work and were watching curiously the strange scene on the poop. "One of you fellows get a piece of small rope cord. Bring it up here and tie these fellows' hands behind their backs."
While Benson searched the pockets of the trio—finding no weapons, however—a man had secured a ball of spun yarn from the booby hatch and ran up the poop steps with it. Then, under the influence of those long, blue tubes, the Captain and the two mates lay down on their faces, while the sailor securely bound their wrists behind them.
"Now, then," said Quincy, "you're in command, Rogers. We'll police this boat, and make these men obey all your orders."
"Take the wheel here!" said Rogers to the sailor. "Stand by to wear ship!" Then he mounted the cabin, and emitted a sailorly yell to the crew. "All hands down from aloft! Weather main and lee crowjack braces!"
In the dawn of the following morning some early rising fishermen of the Jersey coast saw a black ship with all canvas set resting quietly on the sands about two hundred yards from the beach, a white boat, empty of everything but oars, hauled out above high-water mark, and on boarding the ship they found and released three chilled, hungry, and angry men from the lazaret. But not a sign of her crew did they see.
SHOVELS AND BRICKS
Mr. John Murphy, boarding master, was on bad terms with himself. He had been kicked off the poop-deck of Captain Williams's big ship, theAlbatross, lying off Tompkinsville, waiting to dock, thence to the gangway, and from there shoved, struck in the face, and further kicked and maltreated until he had flopped into the boat at the foot of the steps. Williams was a six-footer, a graduate "bucko" now in charge of this big skysail-yarder, and he had resented Murphy's appearance on board with whisky and kind words for his men before he was through with them. Not caring to dock his ship with the help of riggers at five dollars a day, he had called Murphy aft, lectured him on the ethics and proprieties of seafaring, and then had punished him for an indiscreet reference to the rights of boarding masters who must needs solicit boarders in order to make a living. All that Murphy could do under the circumstances was to shout up from the boat his defiance of Captain Williams, and a threat to prevent his getting a new crew when ready to sail—which was clearly within his power as a member of the Association of Boarding and Shipping Masters. But Williams, red-bearded, angry-faced, and victorious, replied with injunctions to descend to the infernal regions and remain there, and Murphy pulled ashore and took the boat to New York, bent upon vengeance.
At the door of his boarding-house in Front Street he met Hennesey, his runner. Hennesey was a small man, sly, shrewd, and persuasive, and so far had given satisfaction in the difficult business of soliciting incoming crews to board at Murphy's house instead of the Sailors' Home, the Provident Seamen's Mission, and other like institutions. But Murphy's mood was strong upon him, and he asked, peremptorily:
"Well, what did ye git?"
"Nothin'; the Mission launch wuz on hand and the bunch wint in a body."
"Dom yer soul, what do I pay ye fur, anyhow?" stormed Murphy. "Are ye no good? Tell me thot. Are ye no good at all? What are ye takin' my money fur?"
"To git sailors to come to yer house on commission," retorted Hennesey, hotly; "an' fur fear I'd be makin' too much, ye sind me to a bloody coaster, whose min are in the union, while you go down to theAlbatross, in from deep water."
"I got no wan from theAlbatross."
"No fault o' yours or mine. I'd ha' got 'em."
"None o' yer shlack."
"To hill wi' ye."
"Ye're discharged. Come in an' I'll pay ye off."
"Right ye are. From this on I'll work fur mesilf and git your business, ye skin."
Hennesey's estimate of Murphy was not far wrong, though it might also apply to himself. The profits of a sailors' boarding-house depend not upon the cash paid in by men with money, who choose their own ship and come and go as they please, but upon the advance or allotment of pay which the law allows to deep-water seamen in order that they may purchase an outfit of clothing before sailing. To get this allotment, Murphy and others of his kind would take in and feed any penniless sailor long enough to run up an inflated bill for board, money lent, and clothing, then find him a ship and walk him to the shipping-office, more or less drugged or drunk. Here the penniless sailor dared not, even if suspicious, contest the claim, for, should he do so, he would find himself not only out of a ship, but out of a boarding-house; so he would sign away his allotment, and go aboard with what clothing his benefactor had allowed him. As deep-water men on shore are invariably drunk, drugged, or penniless, the boarding-masters, to whom the skippers must apply for men, easily control the situation. And, as machinery for such control, nearly all boarding-houses have the front ground floor divided into barroom and clothing-store, while in the rear is the dining-room and upstairs the bedrooms, each with as many beds as there is room for. Thus, a man may be housed, fed, clothed, drugged, and shipped from the same address. The remedy for this has no place in this story.
A boarding-master, or crimp, without the machinery, becomes a shipping-master, a go-between between the skipper and the boarding-master, whose income is the blood-money paid by skippers for men. Murphy, strolling along South Street a few days later, saw a new sign over a doorway—Timothy Hennesey, Shipping-Master. He ascended the wooden stairs, and in a dingy room with one desk and chair found his former aid.
"Well, what the hill is this, Hennesey—tryin' to take the brid out of honest min's mouths?"
"I've me livin' to make, Murphy, an' I'm a-doin' it. I got the crew of theAlbatross."
"An' what did ye do wid 'em?"
"Put 'em wid Stillman, over beyant. Ye might ha' had 'em had ye played fair."
Stillman was Murphy's most important rival, and the news did not cheer him. He glared darkly at Hennesey.
"An' I've got the shippin' o' Williams's new crew whin he sails," continued Hennesey, "an' I'll not go to you for 'em, Murphy."
"Ye'll not?" responded Murphy, luridly. "After all the wark I've given ye."
"I'll not. I told ye I'd git yer business, an' I'll do it."
Murphy's fist shot out and Hennesey went down. Arising with bleeding nose, he shook his small fist at his chuckling assailant passing sidewise out of his door.
"I'll not forgit thot, John Murphy," he spluttered.
"I don't want ye to. Remember it while ye live; an' there's more where thot cum from, too, ye scab."
At a meeting of the brotherhood that evening, Murphy posted the name of Timothy Hennesey, scab, and Captain Williams, outlaw; then, somewhat easier in his mind, took account of the immediate business situation. It was bad; he had three cash boarders, of no use when their money was gone, as they signed in coasters, and there was but one ship in port, theAlbatross, and none expected for a fortnight. So, leaving orders with his wife to watch the cash register in the bar, and to evict the boarders when they asked for trust, he took the train for Chicago, where lived a prosperous brother, for whom he had a sincere regard, and to whom he owed a long-promised visit. Brother Mike welcomed him, and under the softening influence of brotherly love he forgave Hennesey, but not Williams. It is so much easier to warm toward a fellow man you have punched than toward one who has punched you.
Mike took John down to his coal-docks, with which he was amassing a fortune, and explained their workings. A schooner lay at one, and his gang was unloading her. It was a cold day in November, and their warm overcoats felt none too warm; yet down in the hold of the schooner were men bare to the waist, black as negroes with coal dust, save where the perspiration cleared white channels as it ran down their backs and breasts—keeping themselves warm with the violence of their exertions. There were two to each of the three hatches; and there were six others on the dock runway, wheeling the coal away; they had nearly unloaded the schooner, having cleared away the coal directly under the hatch, and were now loading their buckets at the two piles farther back, between the hatches. These buckets stood as high as their waists, and held, according to Brother Mike, five hundred pounds when full. But a man, having filled it to the brim, would seize the bale and drag it along the flooring to the hatch, unhook a descending bucket, hook on the full one, sing out an inarticulate cry, and drag the empty back to the coal to be filled in its turn—all with a never-lessening display of extravagant muscular force.
"Heavens! what wark!" said John, as they peered down the hatch. "An' how long do they kape this up?"
"Tin hours a day, and not a minute longer," answered Mike; "that is, barrin' fifteen minutes at tin in the mornin' and three in the afternoon, whin they knock off for a bite and a drink up at me place on the corner. They go up and ate up me free lunch and soak in about a pint of whisky at one drink."
"The divil! and don't it kill thim?"
"Naw. They come back and sweat it out. They couldn't wurruk like this widout it."
"It's great work, Mike. Look at the devilopment. Did ye iver see a prize-fighter with such muscles?"
"A prize-fighter!" said Mike. "Jawn Murphy, luk at them. They're all sizes, big and little, in my two gangs; but give the littlest a month's trainin' in the science o' boxin' and he'd lick any heavyweight in the wurruld. Ye see, ye simply can't hurt 'em."
"Can't hurt 'em?"
"Ye can't hurt 'em. They're not human. They're wild beasts. They come from the hills and bogs of Limerick and Galway, and they can't speak the language, but call themselves Irishmin. Well, Jawn, they're Irish, mebbe, as the American Injun's an American; but they're not like you and me, dacent min from Dublin."
"But if they can't speak the language, how do ye git on wid 'em?"
"Once in a while, when they're cool and tranquil, I get on to a word or two, but usually I fall back on moral suasion and the sign language."
"Moral suasion?"
"I swear at 'em. And thin, whin that fails, I use the sign language. That's good in talkin' to any foreigner, Jawn."
"But what is it, the sign language?"
"A brick. See this, Jawn?" Mike held up one side of his coat, and John felt of an oblong protuberance in the right-hand pocket. "I carry a brick at all times, Jawn, for it's the only thing that appeals to their sinsibilities. I used to carry a club, but it didn't wurruk; they'd get back at me wid their shovels, and it's domned inconvanient, Jawn, to be sliced up wid a shovel. So, I carry a brick."
"Do they git that way often?"
"Yis; it's their natural condition. They'd rather fight than ate, and I don't dare hire a man from another county in one gang, for fear they'll kill him; so this is the Galway gang, and up the dock a bit is the Limerick gang, twilve min to each. They're all alike, but think they're different, so I have to be careful. But, while they'd rather fight than ate, they'd rather wurruk than fight, and that's where I come in. I kape 'em apart, and stir up their jealousy. Each gang 'll wurruk like hill to bate the other."
"And what do ye pay thim?"
"By the job. They stick to factory hours, and won't wurruk overtime, but at tin hours a day they make about eight dollars."
"The divil! But that's big pay."
"Yis; but I have to pay it, for no other class o' min can do the wurruk. Why, it 'ud kill an American or a Dootchman!"
"They must have money saved up."
"All that they don't spind at me bar up on the corner. They have to save some, for in the nature o' things I can't git it all back. And they're all goin' back to the old sod whin navigation closes—in about two weeks. This'll be about their last job."
"They'll come to New York and take passage, I suppose."
"Yis; and I'll have to buy their tickets and ship thim. They don't know much about American money, and wid a new man I have to pay him in English money at first, until he finds it's no good; thin I exchange at a discount."
"Fine, Mike; ye'll be rich before long."
"That I will, if the supply of bog-trottin' savages holds out."
At this juncture one of the men in the hold lifted his sooty countenance and, with the vehemence of a lunatic, delivered this:
"Whythilldonye'veaharseut'lldothwark?"
"Dry up," said Mike, pulling the brick from his pocket. "Dry up or I'll hurt yer feelin's."
The man shrank back out of sight, and Mike put the brick back in his pocket.
"What did he say?" queried John.
"He objicts to the speed o' the harse on the dock. He can fill buckets, ye see, faster than the harse can h'ist 'em. That's what ails him."
"And he's afraid o' the brick?"
"Yis; but o' nothin' else. Thim fellers don't fear a gun, so I don't carry one. Why, a while back, there was a bad time at the corner whin the two gangs got mixed up, and the police cum down. They used their guns, but—hill! the bullets just punctured their skins, and they picked thim out wid their fingers and wint for the coppers and done thim up. I tell ye, Jawn, that a wild Irishman, frish from the bogs and the hills, can outwork, outfight, and outeat any man alive."
"Outeat?"
"I give thim mate three times a day. If it wuzn't for the profits o' the bar, it wud brek me. And, say, Jawn, they can't say 'mate' whin they ask for more. They say 'mate.'"
"'Mate'? And can't they say 'mate,' whin they ate it so much?"
"No, Jawn, they sing out for mate. It's no use; they can't spake the language, and it's no use t'achin' thim. They're good min to wurruk—all bone and sole leather, but ye can't refine thim."
"You can't, Mike, but I kin."
"How, ye skeptic? Luk at 'em. Scratch 'em, and they won't bleed. Shoot 'em, and they'll pick out the bullets and paste ye wid 'em. Reason wid 'em, and they'll insult ye. Refine 'em, Jawn! Ye're crazy. Luk at thot felly down there under the hatch. He's here on his weddin' trip, but he lift his wife behind in the old country."
"That makes no difference," answered John, ruminatively; "I can refine 'em. Make sure, Mike, that whin they come to New York they come to my house in Front Street. I'll feed 'em mate three times a day again' the time they take the ship for the old sod. I'll be good to thim, Mike. Send thim to me."
"Ay, John, I will thot. But ye'll nade to square yerself wid yer butcher in advance if ye think to feed thim wolfs. They're hungry and they're thirsty be nature."
"Never mind. Send thim on, both factions. I'll take care o' thim. They're a fine lot o' min, and I'll be good to 'em."
John verified Mike's description of them when they met, both gangs, at their afternoon recess in Mike's barroom. They conversed in shouts and whoops, uttering words that, while they bore a slight resemblance to English, were in the main unintelligible. Murphy endeavored to find those whose sole-leather flesh had stopped a bullet, but could not. However, digging his fingers into the breasts and shoulders of a few of the quietest convinced him that the story could not be far wrong. The stiffened muscles felt like bones.
He treated them all, and was glad, when he saw them drink, that he had not promised them free whisky at his house; but he reiterated his promise of "mate" three times a day, and secured their promise to board at his house while waiting for sailing-day. This done, he finished his visit and returned to New York.
His first task was to estimate the business situation; it was the same, except that his boarders had gone at the request of Mrs. Murphy. This was good, almost as good as the news that Williams's old crew had scattered and that there was not a deep-water man in port to aid Hennesey in his first job in the shipping business. He cautiously hunted for Hennesey, meeting him by accident, as he said, in the street at daytime, safe from possible bricks or clubs coming out of the dark.
"And how are ye, Tim?" he said, exuberantly, as he extended his hand.
"So so," answered Hennesey, ignoring the greeting and eying his late employer suspiciously. "And how is it wid you?"
"Fine, Hennesey, fine. In a week I'll have as fine a crew of min in me house as iver ye laid eyes on. Lake sailors, every wan o' thim. And I'll be after havin' to find thim a ship."
"That's easier than to find the min," said Hennesey, still watching for a sudden demonstration of Murphy's fist. "I'll be goin' to Philadelphy, I think, or Boston."
"And it'll cost ye a hundred, Hennesey. I've done it. It takes a cool hundred to bring a crew on from either port. Don't be a fule, Hennesey. I'm domned sorry I slugged ye. I wuz put out, ye see, but I felt bad about it nixt day. I can't deal wid Williams, the dog, but I can wid you, and you can wid him."
"Speak up. What do ye want, John Murphy?"
"That we git together, Hennesey, for our mutual advantage. Give up this idee of gittin' me business away from me. Ye can't do it. I'm too well established, and the only skipper I've blacklisted is Williams, and he's all ye've got."
"What do I git out of it?"
"Ye git your blood-money from Williams, widout huntin' up yer min. I git the allotment agin' the expense I'm put to in feedin' thim. The regular thing, except thot ye make more than ye would as a runner—only ye've got to muster 'em into the shippin'-office and sign 'em. I can't appear. Williams might be there, and cold-deck the deal."
"Murphy, gimme me job back and I'm wid ye. But I want me priveleges—a drink whin I nade it, and access to the bar for me frinds."
"Right, Hennesey; let bygones be bygones. Put this job through as shippin'-master, and thin go on wid me as runner. Shake hands."
They shook, Murphy joyous and forgiving, Hennesey cold, suspicious, and unforgiving. A handshake is a poor auditing of a fist blow.
"Whin does Williams want his min?" asked Murphy.
"In two weeks, about. Twinty-four able seamen."
"Thot's good. I'll have to feed 'em a week, and thot's dead loss; but I'll be contint; yes, I'll be contint, Hennesey, if I can furnish Williams wid the right kind of a crew, God d—bliss him!"
"Ye're gittin' religion, are ye not?" asked Hennesey. "I heard he slugged ye around decks and bundled ye down into yer boat.'"
"Yes"—and Murphy's eyes shone—"but thot's all past, Hennesey. I'm not the man to hold a grudge. Ye know thot."
"But I am," muttered Hennesey, as they parted.
And thus did Murphy plan his dark vengeance upon Captain Williams. It went through without a hitch; the twenty-four wild men from Galway and Limerick, shipped on by Brother Mike, arrived at Murphy's house in a few days, and were housed and fed—"mate" with every meal—to the scandal of Mrs. Murphy, who averred that she "niver seed such min."
"Fur they have no table manners, John," she said. "What's the use givin' thim knives and forks, whin they don't know how to use thim? Foor o' thim cut their mouths."
"Niver mind, Norah," said Murphy, kindly. "Give thim spoons; for a spoon is like a shovel, ye know, and they're accustomed to shovels. And give 'em bafe stew and mashed praties."
"I'll give 'em rat pizen, if I have to sarve 'em much longer," responded the good lady. "I was a silf-respictin' woman before I married you, John Murphy, and didn't have to consort wid lunatics."
"Niver mind, Norah," answered Murphy, soothingly. "I'll be rid o' thim in a few days, and ye'll have a new driss out o' the proceeds."
The proceeds were secured. Murphy collected a week's board in advance from each, and induced them to deposit their money with him for safe-keeping. Then he got them drunk on his tried and true whisky, and kept them so; then he collected ten dollars from each for a ticket to Queenstown on the ship which would sail in a few days; and then he audited an account for each, charging them with money advanced as they asked for it. As he always trebled the amount that they asked for, and as they were too drunk and befuddled to contest the word of so good and kind a man, Murphy had a tidy sum due him when the allotments were signed.
This happened in due time and form. Captain. Williams, knowing by experience that no crew would sign with him if he showed himself, remained away from the shipping-office and took his ship down to the Horseshoe with the help of his two mates, cook, steward, and a tug, leaving his articles in the care of Hennesey, and trusting to him to sign the crew and bring them down in the tug that would tow him out past the light-ship.
Hennesey did his part. As theAlbatrosswas bound for LiverpoolviâQueenstown in ballast, there was only part deception in walking the twenty-four to the shipping-office to sign their names (or marks) on the ship's articles, which they cheerfully did, under the impression that it was a necessary matter of form connected with their purchase of tickets; and while the Shipping Commissioner marveled somewhat at the hilarity and the ingenuous self-assertiveness of this crew of sailormen, he forebore to express himself, and left the matter to Captain Williams and Providence. So, with all their allotment or advance signed away to Murphy against the entertainment they had received, and with their pockets depleted from their sublime trust in Murphy's bookkeeping, they went back to the boarding-house, the signed slaves of Bucko Bill Williams, a man they had not met.
It was a wild night, that last night in the boarding-house. The Galways and the Limericks got to fighting, and only Murphy's "pull" with the police prevented a raid. Mrs. Murphy quit the scene early in the evening, going back to her mother with unkind comments on the company that Murphy kept, and Murphy, with a brick in his pocket, and sometimes in his hand, was busy each minute in settling a dispute between this man and that. At last he and Hennesey agreed that it was time to quiet them; so Hennesey, behind the bar, filled twenty-four pint flasks, each with a moderate addition of "knockout drops," and with much flourish of oratory brought the crowd up to the bar for a last drink and the presentation of the flasks. The drinks were also seasoned, and soon Murphy and Hennesey had a long hour's work in lifting the twenty-four able seamen up to the bedrooms, to sleep until the express wagons came to take them and their dunnage to the tug. They came at ten o'clock, and the unconscious men were carried down with their grips and boxes, and loaded in like so many bags of potatoes.
"It's done, Hennesey," said Murphy, as, perspiring and fatigued, he fetched back into the barroom. "Now, Hennesey, let's you and me have a drink, and we'll drink to the health and the happiness of Bucko Bill Williams, the dog."
"Right," said Hennesey, going behind the bar and bringing out the bottle and the glasses; "but we'll need to hurry, Murphy, for I've got to go down wid the tug, ye know." As he spoke he passed his hand over the glass he had placed for Murphy, and Murphy, glancing out through the door at the departing express wagons, did not see.
But Hennesey had another express wagon in reserve, and when Murphy sagged down and sought the nearest chair and table, too stupefied to even wonder at his sleepiness, Hennesey called this wagon from the corner and, with the help of the driver, bundled Murphy into it, climbed in himself, and rode down to the dock and the waiting tug.
It was broad daylight when Murphy woke, in a forecastle bunk, with a dull, dragging pain in his head which he knew from experience was the after effects of a drug. He rolled out, noticing that each bunk held a sleeping man, and, examining a few, recognized his boarders. The plan had succeeded, but why was he there? Then he remembered that last drink, and calling down silent curses upon Hennesey, went out on deck.
The big ship was plowing along before the wind with not a rag set except the foretopmast-staysail and jib. Amidships was a man coiling up ropes, at the wheel was another man, and pacing the top of the after-house was Captain Williams, red-bearded, red-eyed, and truculent of gesture and expression. These three bore marks of hard usage, bruises, black eyes, swollen noses, and contusions. Murphy climbed the forecastle deck and looked astern. The land was a thin line of blue on the horizon.
He descended and went aft. The man coiling ropes, whom Murphy learned later was the first mate, looked furtively at him as he passed, and turned in his tracks so as not to show him his back. Murphy judged that he was nervous over something that had happened—something connected with his injuries. Climbing the poop steps, he was stopped by Captain Williams, who descended from the house and faced him.
"Well, Murphy, what the hell areyoudoing here? Are you in on this deal?"
"What deal, Captain?" asked Murphy, meekly, for it was no place for self-respect.
"This deal I got from your discharged runner, Hennesey. I only dealt with the fellow because he told me he had quit you. And look at what he gave me for a crew—twenty-four wild Micks that, let alone the ropes, can't speak English or understand it. Are you a party to this trick, Murphy?"
"I'm not," declared Murphy, stoutly. "The domned villain doped me last night, and must ha' put me aboard wid the crew he shipped for you. What for, I don't know. He had yer full count, as he told me."
"Guess you're the man he hoisted up himself, saying you were willing to work your passage without pay. So I let you come and sleep it off."
"He did!" stormed Murphy, "the dirty, ungrateful dog! I took him in and gave him wark, and I took him back after I'd discharged him. And now I git this! O' course, Captain, ye'll put me aboard the first ship me meet bound in."
"Not much, I won't. If you took Hennesey back you're in on this deal."
"I'm not in it. Where's Hennesey now, Captain Williams?"
"Went back in the tug, I suppose. He didn't stop to get his receipt signed for the men he delivered. So, he gets no money for this kind of a crew. They're not sailors, and he loses. Moreover, Murphy, you lose. Hennesey brought me the articles, and every man Jack o' them signed his allotment over to you as favored creditor. That means that Hennesey got this bunch out of your house. As they're not sailors, I mean to disrate them to boys at five dollars a month. That's the allotment you get, if you care to sue for it; but I told the tug captain to notify the owners to pay no allotment notes."
"Ye did?" spluttered Murphy. "Well, Williams, I'll sue, don't ye fear. I'll sue."
"That's as may be," said Williams, coldly. "Meanwhile, you'll sing small, do what you're told, and work your passage; and any time that you forget where you are, call on me and I'll tell you."
"Ye want me to wark me passage, do ye? And what'll I do? It's gone twinty years since I've been to sea. I can't go aloft, wi' the fat on me."
"I see," said the skipper, seriously, "that your displacement is more than your dimensions call for. Can you boss that bunch of Kollkenny cats?"
"I can," said Murphy, mournfully and hopelessly, "if ye'll do yer share. Give me a brick to carry in me pocket, and I'll make 'em wark. They're rival factions from Limerick and Galway, and each side'll wark like hill to bate the other. I can stir 'em up to this, but I can't control thim widout a brick."
"All right. Dig a brick out of the galley floor. Anything in reason to get sail on this ship. The topsails 'll do till they learn."
"All right, Captain," said Murphy, meekly. "I'm in for it, and I've got to make the best of it. Shall I rouse 'em out now?"
"No; they're no good till sober. But steal their bottles before they wake. You fitted them out with some pretty strong stuff, I take it. They wakened at daylight, just as the tug came, mobbed the faces off me and the two mates, and only manned the windlass at last when I told them it made the boat go. Well, I can understand the rivalry. They took sides, each gang together, and hove on the brakes, faster than I ever saw a windlass go round before. When they'd got the anchor apeak and the mate told them to stop it made no difference. They hove the anchor up to the hawse-pipes, and would have parted the chain if it had been weaker. Then they took another drink out of their bottles and went to sleep. The tug pushed us out past the light-ship and left us. So, here we are."
"Well, Captain," said the subdued Murphy, "I'll git me brick, and let me ask ye. If ye've any shovels lyin' loose, stow 'em away. A shovel is a deadly weapon in the hands o' wan o' these fellys."
Murphy went forward to the galley, and soon had pried out a solid, well-preserved brick from under the stove in the galley floor, against the aggrieved protest of the Chinese cook.
"Dry up, ye Chink," said Murphy. "Tell me, though, what's the bill o' fare for the forecastle. Mate three times a day?"
"Meat foul timey one week," answered the Chinaman.
"God help ye, doctor!" said Murphy, kindly. "Kape well widin yer galley, and have a carvin'-knife sharp; or better still, dig out another brick for yersilf. I've troubles o' me own."
Stepping out of the galley, Murphy met Hennesey emerging from the port forecastle door.
"Well, ye rakin's o' Newgate, and what areyoudoin' here?" he demanded, fiercely. "Ye doped me successfully, Hennesey, and here I am wid our account unsettled. But what bringsyouhere?"
"Kape yer hands off me, John Murphy, and I'll tell ye. The dope in the bottles was too strong for me, but not for thim. When they wakened at daylight they found me among 'em with the tug alongside, and insisted that I drink wid thim 'fore goin' aboard the tug."
"And ye did?"
"I did. They had their fingers at me throat, Murphy. So I drank. I git this for tryin' to help you out in your schemes, John Murphy."
"And I git this for not watchin' you, Tim Hennesey. Gwan aft; the old man 'll make ye a bosun like me; then come forrard and git yerself a brick agin' the time whin they wake up. Our lives are in danger whin they find out they've got to wark a wind-jammer across to the old sod. We'll settle our private account later on."
Murphy accompanied Hennesey aft and listened to his explanations to Captain Williams. They were glib and apologetic.
"I didn't know," he said, "that they weren't sailormin. And they were the only min in port, and Murphy had 'em; so I shipped 'em."
"Exactly," answered the captain, coldly; "and they shipped you. You two fellows are caught in the plant you prepared for me, and you've got to stand for it. Ever been to sea, Hennesey?"
"Tin years, Captain. I'm an able seaman, though not a heavy man."
"Heavy enough. Get a brick out of the galley, and I'll make you a bosun without pay. You two will make those tarriers work. Come aft to the wheel, the pair of you. Mr. Baker"—this to the man coiling ropes, who dropped his task and followed—"Mr. Baker," said the captain, "and Mr. Sharp"—he turned to the man at the wheel—"these two men have some influence over the crew, and I've made them acting bosuns. They've been to sea, and their part is to loose canvas and put ropes into the hands of the others. Your part is to see that they do it."
The two officers turned their swollen faces toward Murphy and Hennesey, and inspected them through closed and blackened eyelids. Then they nodded, and the introduction was complete.
"Come, Hennesey," said Murphy, briskly, now that the situation was defined. "We'll be gettin' a brick for ye, and wan each for the skipper and the mates. We'll need 'em. Thin we'll go through 'em for the dope, and then we'll loose the canvas."
For this short run across the Atlantic Captain Williams had shipped neither carpenter, sailmaker, nor boatswains, he and his two mates, a weakling steward and the Chinese cook representing the afterguard until the advent of Murphy and Hennesey. To properly equip this afterguard, Murphy pried out six more bricks from under the galley stove, solemnly distributed them with instructions as to their use, and then he and Hennesey replevined the half-empty bottles from the sleepers, an easy task for such skilled craftsmen.
About noon the twenty-four awakened and clamored for their dinner. It was served, and as it contained meat in plenty it was satisfactory; then, smoking their clay pipes, they mustered on deck and, more or less unconsciously, divided into two parts, the Galways separate from the Limericks.
"Loose the foretopsail, Hennesey," said Murphy, as he looked at them. "Overhaul the gear and stop it so ye can come down. Thin take the halyards to the fo'c'stle capstan. I'll take the main."
The first mate was content to remain out of the proceedings for the present. Murphy and Hennesey went aloft, performed their part, and came down; then, when the two falls of the halyards were led to the two capstans, Murphy, with his hand in his pocket and his heart in his mouth, went among them.
"I want," he said, sourly, "twilve good min, but I don't know that I can git them. Ye're a lot o' bog-trotters that don't know enough to heave on a capstan."
"The hill we don't!" uttered a Galway man close to him.
"We l'arned thot in Checa-a-go."
"Ye mane," said Murphy, "that the Limerick boystriedto l'arn, but they couldn't. The wark's too hard."
"Fwat's too ha-a-rd?" answered the Galway. "Ye domned murderer, fwat's too hard? D'y' think we can't wurruk?"
"D'ye think yecanwark?" said Murphy. "Thin git at that capstan, you Galway min. And git busy, quick, or I'll give the job to the Limerick boys. They're passably good min, I think."
"To hill wi' thim! Hurrah, here, b'ys. C'm'an and pull the mon's rope. Who says we can't wurruk?"
They joyously and enthusiastically surrounded the forecastle capstan, shipped the brakes, and began to heave, with black looks at the envious Limericks, to whom Murphy now addressed himself.
"Are yez lookin' for wark?" he demanded.
"Yis," they chorused.
"Man that 'midship capstan, thin. Beat these Galway sogers and I'll give ye wark right along."
With whoops and shouts they flocked to the capstan amidships, and began to compete, shoving on the bars, cheering and encouraging each other and deriding those on the forecastle deck, who responded. It was a tie; the Galways had about a minute start, but the Limericks finished only a minute behind. Murphy and Hennesey nippered the falls at the pinrail, and belayed when they slacked.
"It goes, Hennesey," said Murphy, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "By puttin' wan gang agin' the other, maybe we won't need to show the bricks."
"Yes," replied Hennesey, "that's all right; but I oncet heard an old, wise skipper say that any farmer can make sail, but it takes a sailor to take it in. What'll we do if it comes on to blow?"
"That's the least o' your troubles, and mine, Tim Hennesey. Put yer trust in Jasus and loose that mizzentopsail, while I get 'em to steady the braces."
But the demoralized first mate had so far aroused himself as to attend to the loosing of the mizzentopsail and topgallantsail; so Murphy with a little cajolery and ridicule induced the crew to sheet home and tauten the braces, then mustered them aft to the mizzentopsail halyards and asked them if they could, the whole lazy two dozen of them, masthead that yard by hand, without the aid of the capstan. They noisily averred that they could, and they did, nearly parting the halyards when the yard could go no higher. The chain-sheets they could not break, hard as they tried.
"It's not according to seamanship, Hennesey," said Murphy, "to man yer halyards before ye sheet home; but—any way at all with this bunch. Now git up to the foreto'gallant and the royal, while I take the main. The poor mate's done his stunt on the mizzen."
And so, by doing the seamanly work themselves and putting ropes into the hands of the crew, the mate and the two boatswains got sail on the ship, even to the jib-topsail and the mainroyal staysail. Captain Williams discreetly remained in the background, only asserting himself once, when he knocked an Irishman off the poop. For this indiscretion he was menaced by violent death, and only saved himself by an appeal to Murphy, respect for whose diplomacy was fast overcoming Captain Williams's dislike of him.
"What do ye think?" stormed Murphy, as he faced the angry men at the break of the poop. "Whin ye came over in the steamer did they allow ye up in the bridge, or aft o' the engine-room hatch? Stay forrard where ye belong, and don't git presumptions, just 'cause ye've been a year in a free country. Yer goin' back to Ireland now, to eat praties and drink water. There's no whisky on this boat, and no mate three times a day. No mate, d'ye understand?"
"No mate!" they vociferated. "No whusky!"
"No, ye bundle o' bad min, no whisky. Ye've drunk up what ye had, and that was in America. Yer not in America now, and ye'll git no whisky, nor mate, barrin' four times a week."
"We paid fur ut," they declaimed. "How kin a mon wurruk widout it?"
"Yecanwark widout it and ye will. Ye'll pull ropes as I tell you, and as ye l'arn ye'll steer the boat in yer turn."
"We'll shteer, will we?"
"Yes, ye'll steer, straight for old Ireland and praties."
"Hurrah! We'll git to the ould sod, will we?"
"Yes, but ye'll do it yerselves, mind ye. No kicks, no scraps. Ye'll do as yer told, and pull ropes, and wark."
"We'll wurruk," they declared, noisily. "It's not the loikes o' you th't'll foind the wurruk we can't do, nayther."