Bill took the pack and shuffled it. “I orter be able to beat seven,” he said slowly. He handed the pack to Ned, drew a card, and the other three sat back and laughed boisterously.
“Three!” said Simpson. “Bravo, Bill! Ill write your letter for you; he’d know your writing. What shall I say?”
“Say what you like,” retorted Bill, breathing hard as he thought of the hold.
He sat back, sneering disdainfully, as the other three merrily sat down to compose his letter, replying only by a contemptuous silence when Simpson asked him whether he wanted any kisses put in. When the letter was handed over for his inspection he only made one remark.
“I thought you could write better than that, George,” he said haughtily.
“I’m writing it for you,” said Simpson.
Bill’s hauteur vanished, and he became his old self again. “If you want a plug in the eye, George,” he said feelingly, “you’ve only got to say so, you know.”
His temper was so unpleasant that half the pleasure of the evening was spoiled, and instead of being conducted to his hiding-place with quips and light laughter, the proceedings were more like a funeral than anything else. The crowning touch to his ill-nature was furnished by Tommy, who upon coming up and learning that Bill was to be his room-mate, gave way to a fit of the most unfeigned horror.
“There’s another letter for you this morning,” said the mate, as the skipper came out of his state-room buttoning up his waistcoat.
“Another what?” demanded the other, turning pale.
The mate jerked his thumb upwards. “Old Ned has got it,” he continued, “I can’t think what’s come over the men.”
The skipper dashed up on deck, and mechanically took the letter from Ned and read it through. He stood for some time like a man in a dream, and then stumbled down the foc’sle, and looked in all the bunks and even under the table, then he came up and stood by the hold with his head on one side. The men held their breath.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded at length, sitting limply on the hatch, with his eyes down.
“Bad grub, sir,” said Simpson, gaining courage from his manner; “that’s what we’ll have to say when we get ashore.”
“You’re not to say a word about it?” said the other, firing up.
“It’s our dooty, sir,” said Ned impressively.
“Look here now,” said the skipper, and he looked at the remaining members of the crew entreatingly. “Don’t let’s have no more suicides. The old meat’s gone now, and you can start the other, and when we get to port I’ll ship in some fresh butter and vegetables. But I don’t want you to say anything about the food being bad, or about these letters when we get to port. I shall simply say the two of ‘em disappeared, an’ I want you to say the same.”
“It can’t be done, sir,” said Simpson, firmly.
The skipper rose and walked to the side. “Would a fi’pun note make any difference?” he asked in a low voice.
“It ‘ud make a little difference,” said Ned cautiously.
The skipper looked up at Simpson. On the face of Simpson was an expression of virtuous arithmetical determination.
The skipper looked down again. “Or a fi’pun note each?” he said, in a low voice. “I can’t go beyond that.”
“Call it twenty pun and it’s a bargain, ain’t it, mates?” said Simpson.
Ned said it was, and even the cook forgot his nervousness, and said it was evident the skipper must do the generous thing, and they’d stand by him.
“Where’s the money coming from?” inquired the mate as the skipper went down to breakfast, and discussed the matter with him. “They wouldn’t get nothing out of me!”
The skylight was open; the skipper with a glance at it bent forward and whispered in his ear.
“Wot!” said the mate. He endeavoured to suppress his laughter with hot coffee and bacon, with the result that he had to rise from his seat, and stand patiently while the skipper dealt him some hearty thumps on the back.
With the prospect of riches before them the men cheerfully faced the extra work; the cook did the boy’s, while Ned and Simpson did Bill’s between them. When night came they removed the hatch again, and with a little curiosity waited to hear how their victims were progressing.
“Where’s my dinner?” growled Bill hungrily, as he drew himself up on deck.
“Dinner!” said Ned, in surprise; “why, you ain’t got none.”
“Wot?” said Bill ferociously.
“You see the skipper only serves out for three now,” said the cook.
“Well, why didn’t you save us some?” demanded the other.
“There ain’t enough of it, Bill, there ain’t in-deed,” said Ned. “We have to do more work now, and there ain’t enough even for us. You’ve got biscuit and water, haven’t you?”
Bill swore at him.
“I ‘ve ‘ad enough o’ this,” he said fiercely. “I’m coming up, let the old man do what he likes. I don’t care.”
“Don’t do that, Bill,” said the old man persuasively. “Everything’s going beautiful. You was quite right what you said about the old man. We was wrong. He’s skeered fearful, and he’s going to give us twenty pun to say nothing about it when we get ashore.”
“I’m going to have ten out o’ that,” said Bill, brightening a little, “and it’s worth it too, I get the ‘orrors shut up down there all day.”
“Ay, ay,” said Ned, with a side kick at the cook, who was about to question Bill’s method of division.
“The old man sucked it all in beautiful,” said the cook. “He’s in a dreadful way. He’s got all your clothes and things, and the boy’s, and he’s going to ‘and ‘em over to your friends. It’s the best joke I ever heard.”
“You’re a fool!” said Bill shortly, and lighting his pipe went and squatted in the bows to wrestle grimly with a naturally bad temper.
For the ensuing four days things went on smoothly enough. The weather being fair, the watch at night was kept by the men, and regularly they had to go through the unpleasant Jack-in-the-box experience of taking the lid off Bill. The sudden way he used to pop out and rate them about his sufferings and their callousness was extremely trying, and it was only by much persuasion and reminder of his share of the hush-money that they could persuade him to return again to his lair at daybreak.
Still undisturbed they rounded the Land’s End. The day had been close and muggy, but towards night the wind freshened, and the schooner began to slip at a good pace through the water. The two prisoners, glad to escape from the stifling atmosphere of the hold, sat in the bows with an appetite which the air made only too keen for the preparations made to satisfy it.
Ned was steering, and the other two men having gone below and turned in, there were no listeners to their low complaints about the food.
“It’s a fool’s game, Tommy,” said Bill, shaking his head.
“Game?” said Tommy, sniffing. “‘Ow are we going to get away when we get to Northsea?”
“You leave that to me,” said Bill. “Old Ned seems to ha’ got a bad cough,” he added.
“He’s choking, I should think,” said Tommy, leaning forward. “Look! he’s waving his hand at us.”
Both sprang up hastily, but ere they could make any attempt to escape the skipper and mate emerged from the companion and walked towards them.
“Look here,” said the skipper, turning to the mate, and indicating the culprits with his hand; “perhaps you’ll disbelieve in dreams now.”
“‘Strordinary!” said the mate, rubbing his eyes, as Bill stood sullenly waiting events, while the miserable Tommy skulked behind him.
“I’ve heard o’ such things,” continued the skipper, in impressive tones, “but I never expected to see it. You can’t say you haven’t seen a ghost now, Bob.”
“‘Strordinary!” said the mate, shaking his head again. “Lifelike!”
“The ship’s haunted, Ned,” cried the skipper in hollow tones. “Here’s the sperrits o’ Bill and the boy standing agin the windlass.”
The bewildered old seaman made no reply; the smaller spirit sniffed and wiped his nose on his cuff, and the larger one began to whistle softly.
“Poor things!” said the skipper, after they had discussed these extraordinary apparitions for some time. “Can you see the windlass through the boy, Bob?”
“I can see through both of ‘em,” said the mate slyly.
They stayed on deck a little longer, and then coming to the conclusion that their presence on deck could do no good, and indeed seemed only to embarrass their visitors, went below again, leaving all hands a prey to the wildest astonishment.
“Wot’s ‘is little game?” asked Simpson, coming cautiously up on deck.
“Damned if I know,” said Bill savagely.
“He don’t really think you’re ghosts?” suggested the cook feebly.
“O’ course not,” said Bill scornfully. “He’s got some little game on. Well, I’m going to my bunk. You’d better come too, Tommy. We’ll find out what it all means tomorrer, I’ve no doubt.”
On the morrow they received a little enlightenment, for after breakfast the cook came forward nervously to break the news that meat and vegetables had only been served out for three. Consternation fell upon all.
“I’ll go an’ see ‘im,” said Bill ravenously.
He found the skipper laughing heartily over something with the mate. At the seaman’s approach he stepped back and eyed him coolly.
“Mornin’, sir,” said Bill, shuffling up. “We’d like to know, sir, me an’ Tommy, whether we can have our rations for dinner served out now same as before?”
“Dinner?” said the skipper in surprise. “What do you want dinner for?”
“Eat,” said Bill, eyeing him reproachfully.
“Eat?” said the skipper. “What’s the good o’ giving dinner to a ghost? Why you’ve got nowhere to put it.”
By dint of great self-control Bill smiled in a ghastly fashion, and patted his stomach.
“All air,” said the skipper turning away.
“Can we have our clothes and things then?” said Bill grinding his teeth. “Ned says as how you’ve got ‘em.”
“Certainly not,” said the skipper. “I take ‘em home and give ‘em to your next o’ kin. That’s the law, ain’t it, Bob?”
“It is,” said the mate.
“They’ll ‘ave your effects and your pay up to the night you committed suicide,” said the skipper.
“We didn’t commit sooicide,” said Bill; “how could we when we’re standing here?”
“Oh, yes, you did,” said the other. “I’ve got your letters in my pocket to prove it; besides, if you didn’t I should give you in charge for desertion directly we get to port.”
He exchanged glances with the mate, and Bill, after standing first on one leg and then on the other, walked slowly away. For the rest of the morning he stayed below setting the smaller ghost a bad example in the way of language, and threatening his fellows with all sorts of fearful punishments.
Until dinner time the skipper heard no more of them, but he had just finished that meal and lit his pipe when he heard footsteps on the deck, and the next moment old Ned, hot and angry, burst into the cabin.
“Bill’s stole our dinner, sir,” he panted unceremoniously.
“Who?” inquired the skipper coldly.
“Bill, sir, Bill Smith,” replied Ned.
“Who?” inquired the skipper more coldly than before.
“The ghost o’ Bill Smith,” growled Ned, correcting himself savagely, “has took our dinner away, an’ him an’ the ghost o’ Tommy Brown is a sitting down and boltin’ of it as fast as they can bolt.”
“Well, I don’t see what I can do,” said the skipper lazily. “What’d you let ‘em for?”
“You know what Bill is, sir,” said Ned. “I’m an old man, cook’s no good, and unless Simpson has a bit o’ raw beef for his eyes, he won’t be able to see for a week.”
“Rubbish!” said the skipper jocularly. “Don’t tell me, three men all afraid o’ one ghost. I sha’n’t interfere. Don’t you know what to do?”
“No, sir,” said Ned eagerly.
“Go up and read the prayer-book to him, and he’ll vanish in a cloud of smoke,” said the skipper.
Ned gazed at him for a moment speechlessly, and then going up on deck leaned over the side and swore himself faint. The cook and Simpson came up and listened respectfully, contenting themselves with an occasional suggestion when the old man’s memory momentarily failed him.
For the rest of the voyage the two culprits suffered all the inconvenience peculiar to a loss of citizenship. The skipper blandly ignored them, and on two or three occasions gave great offence by attempting to walk through Bill as he stood on the deck. Speculation was rife in the fo’c’sle as to what would happen when they got ashore, and it was not until Northsea was sighted that the skipper showed his hand. Then he appeared on deck with their effects done up neatly in two bundles, and pitched them on the hatches. The crew stood and eyed him expectantly.
“Ned,” said the skipper sharply.
“Sir,” said the old man.
“As soon as we’re made fast,” said the other, “I want you to go ashore for me and fetch an undertaker and a policeman. I can’t quite make up my mind which I want.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” murmured the old man.
The skipper turned away, and seizing the helm from the mate, took the ship in. He was so intent upon his business that he appeared not to notice the movements of Bill and Tommy as they edged nervously towards their bundles, and waited impatiently for the schooner to get alongside the quay. Then he turned to the mate and burst into a loud laugh as the couple, bending suddenly, snatched up their bundles, and, clambering up the side, sprang ashore and took to their heels. The mate laughed, too, and a faint but mirthless echo came from the other end of the schooner.
A DISCIPLINARIAN
“There’s no doubt about it,” said the night watchman, “but what dissipline’s a very good thing, but it don’t always act well. For instance, I ain’t allowed to smoke on this wharf, so when I want a pipe I either ‘ave to go over to the ‘Queen’s ‘ed,’ or sit in a lighter. If I’m in the ‘Queen’s ‘ed,’ I can look arter the wharf, an’ once when I was sitting in a lighter smoking, the chap come aboard an’ cast off afore I knew what he was doing, and took me all the way to Greenwich. He said he’d often played that trick on watchmen.
“The worst man for dissipline I ever shipped with was Cap’n Tasker, of the Lapwing. He’d got it on the brain bad. He was a prim, clean-shaved man except for a little side whisker, an’ always used to try an’ look as much like a naval officer as possible.
“I never ‘ad no sort of idea what he was like when I jined the ship, an’ he was quite quiet and peaceable until we was out on the open water. Then the cloven hoof showed itself, an’ he kicked one o’ the men for coming on deck with a dirty face, an’ though the man told him he never did wash becos his skin was so delikit, he sent the bos’en to turn the hose on him.
“The bos’en seemed to take a hand in everything. We used to do everything by his whistle, it was never out of his mouth scarcely, and I’ve known that man to dream of it o’ nights, and sit up in his sleep an’ try an’ blow his thumb. He whistled us to swab decks, whistled us to grub, whistled us to every blessed thing.
“Though we didn’t belong to any reg’ler line, we’d got a lot o’ passengers aboard, going to the Cape, an’ they thought a deal o’ the skipper. There was one young leftenant aboard who said he reminded him o’ Nelson, an’ him an’ the skipper was as thick as two thieves. Nice larky young chap he was, an’ more than one o’ the crew tried to drop things on him from aloft when he wasn’t looking.
“Every morning at ten we was inspected by the skipper, but that wasn’t enough for the leftenant, and he persuaded the old man to drill us. He said it would do us good an’ amuse the passengers, an’ we ‘ad to do all sorts o’ silly things with our arms an’ legs, an’ twice he walked the skipper to the other end of the ship, leaving twenty-three sailormen bending over touching their toes, an’ wondering whether they’d ever stand straight again.
“The very worst thing o’ the lot was the boat-drill. A chap might be sitting comfortably at his grub, or having a pipe in his bunk, when the bos’en’s whistle would scream out to him that the ship was sinking, an’ the passengers drownding, and he was to come an’ git the boats out an’ save ‘em. Nice sort o’ game it was, too. We had to run like mad with kegs o’ water an’ bags o’ biscuit, an’ then run the boats out an’ launch ‘em. All the men were told off to certain boats, an’ the passengers too. The only difference was, if a passenger didn’t care about taking a hand in the game, he didn’t, but we had to.
“One o’ the passengers who didn’t play was Major Miggens. He was very much agin it, an’ called it tomfoolery; he never would go to his boat, but used to sit and sneer all the time.
“‘It’s only teaching the men to cut an’ run,’ he said to the skipper one day; ‘if there ever was any need they’d run to the boats an’ leave us here. ‘Don’t tell me.’
“‘That’s not the way I should ha’ expected to hear you speak of British sailors, major,’ ses the skipper rather huffy.
“‘British swearers? ses the major, sniffing. ‘You don’t hear their remarks when that whistle is blown. It’s enough to bring a judgment on the ship.’
“‘If you can point ‘em out to me I’ll punish em,’ says the skipper very warmly.
“‘I’m not going to point ‘em out,’ ses the major. ‘I symperthise with ‘em too much. They don’t get any of their beauty sleep, pore chaps, an’ they want it, every one of ‘em.’
“I thought that was a very kind remark o’ the major to make, but o’ course some of the wimmin larfed. I s’pose they think men don’t want beauty sleep, as it’s called.
“I heard the leftenant sympathising with the skipper arter that. He said the major was simply jealous because the men drilled so beautifully, an’ then they walked aft, the leftenant talking very earnest an’ the skipper shaking his head at something he was saying.
“It was just two nights arter this. I’d gone below an’ turned in when I began to dream that the major had borrowed the bosen’s whistle an’ was practising on it. I remember thinking in my sleep what a comfort it was it was only the major, when one of the chaps give me a dig in the back an’ woke me.
“‘Tumble up,’ ses he, ‘the ship’s a-fire.’
“I rushed up on deck, an’ there was no mistake about who was blowing the whistle. The bell was jangling horrible, smoke was rolling up from the hatches, an’ some of the men was dragging out the hose an’ tripping up the passengers with it as they came running up on deck. The noise and confusion was fearful.
“‘Out with the boats,’ ses Tom Hall to me, ‘don’t you hear the whistle?’
“‘What, ain’t we going to try an’ put the fire out?’ I ses.
“‘Obey orders,’ ses Tom, ‘that’s what we’ve got to do, an’ the sooner we’re away the better. You know what’s in her.’
“We ran to the boats then, an’, I must say, we got ‘em out well, and the very fust person to git into mine was the major in his piejammers; arter all the others was in we ‘ad ‘im out agin. He didn’t belong to our boat, an’ dissipline is dissipline any day.
“Afore we could git clear o’ the ship, however, he came yelling to the side an’ said his boat had gone, an’ though we prodded him with our oars he lowered himself over the side and dropped in.
“Fortunately for us it was a lovely clear night; there was no moon, but the stars were very bright. The engines had stopped, an’ the old ship sat on the water scarcely moving. Another boat was bumping up against ours, and two more came creeping round the bows from the port side an’ jined us.
“‘Who’s in command?’ calls out the major.
“‘I am,’ ses the first mate very sharp-like from one of the boats.
“‘Where’s the cap’n then?’ called out an old lady from my boat o’ the name o’ Prendergast.
“‘He’s standing by the ship,’ ses the mate.
“‘Doing what?’, ses Mrs. Prendergast, looking at the water as though she expected to see the skipper standing there.
“‘He’s going down with the ship,’ ses one o’ the chaps.
“Then Mrs. Prendergast asked somebody to be kind enough to lend her a handkerchief, becos she had left her pocket behind aboard ship, and began to sob very bitter.
“‘Just a simple British sailor,’ ses she, snivelling, ‘going down with his ship. There he is. Look! On the bridge.’
“We all looked, an’ then some o’ the other wimmin wanted to borrer handkerchiefs. I lent one of ‘em a little cotton waste, but she was so unpleasant about its being a trifle oily that she forgot all about crying, and said she’d tell the mate about me as soon as ever we got ashore.
“‘I’ll remember him in my prayers,’ ses one o’ the wimmin who was crying comfortable in a big red bandana belonging to one o’ the men.
“‘All England shall ring with his deed,’ ses another.
“‘Sympathy’s cheap,’ ses one of the men passengers solemnly. ‘If we ever reach land we must all band together to keep his widow an’ orphans.’
“‘Hear, hear,’ cries everybody.
“‘And we’ll put up a granite tombstone to his memory,’ ses Mrs. Prendergast.
“‘S’pose we pull back to the ship an’ take him off,’ ses a gentleman from another boat. ‘I’m thinking it ‘ud come cheaper, an’ perhaps the puir mon would really like it better himself.’
“‘Shame,’ ses most of ‘em; an’ I reely b’leeve they’d worked theirselves up to that pitch they’d ha’ felt disappointed if the skipper had been saved.
“We pulled along slowly, the mate’s boat leading, looking back every now and then at the old ship, and wondering when she would go off, for she’d got that sort of stuff in her hold which ‘ud send her up with a bang as soon as the fire got to it; an’ we was all waiting for the shock.
“‘Do you know where we’re going, Mr. Bunce,’ calls out the major.
“‘Yes,’ ses the mate.
“‘What’s the nearest land?’ asks the major.
“‘Bout a thousand miles,’ ses the mate.
“Then the major went into figures, an’ worked out that it ‘ud take us about ten days to reach land and three to reach the bottom o’ the water kegs. He shouted that out to the mate; an’ the young leftenant what was in the mate’s boat smoking a big cigar said there’d be quite a run on granite tombstones. He said it was a blessed thing he had disinherited his children for marrying agin his wishes, so there wouldn’t be any orphans left to mourn for him.
“Some o’ the wimmin smiled a little at this, an’ old Mrs. Prendergast shook so that she made the boat rock. We got quite cheerful somehow, and one of the other men spoke up and said that owing to his only having reckoned two pints to the gallon, the major’s fingers wasn’t to be relied, upon.
“We got more cheerful then, and we was beginning to look on it as just a picnic, when I’m blest if the mate’s boat didn’t put about and head for the ship agin.
“There was a commotion then if you like, everybody talking and laughing at once; and Mrs. Prendergast said that such a thing as one single-handed cap’n staying behind to go down with his ship, and then putting the fire out all by himself after his men had fled, had never been heard of before, an’ she said it never would be again. She said he must be terribly burnt, and he’d have to be put to bed and wrapped up in oily rags.
“It didn’t take us long to get aboard again, and the ladies fairly mobbed the skipper. Tom Hall swore as ‘ow Mrs. Prendergast tried to kiss him, an’ the fuss they made of him was ridiculous. I heard the clang of the telegraph in the engine-room soon as the boats was hoisted up, the engines started, and off we went again.
“‘Speech,’ yells out somebody. ‘Speech.’ “‘Bravo!’ ses the others. ‘Bravo!’ “Then the skipper stood up an’ made ‘em a nice little speech. First of all he thanked ‘em for their partiality and kindness shewn to him, and the orderly way in which they had left the ship. He said it reflected credit on all concerned, crew and passengers, an’ no doubt they ‘d be surprised when he told them that there hadn’t been any fire at all, but that it was just a test to make sure that the boat drill was properly understood.
“He was quite right about them being surprised, Noisy, too, they was, an’ the things they said about the man they’d just been wanting to give granite tombstones to was simply astonishing. It would have taken a whole cemetery o’ tombstones to put down all they said about him, and then they’d ha’ had to cut the letters small.
“‘I vote we have an indignation meeting in the saloon to record our disgust at the cap’n’s behaviour,’ ses the major fiercely. ‘I beg to propose that Mr. Macpherson take the chair.’
“‘I second that,’ ses another, fierce-like.
“‘I beg to propose the major instead,’ ses somebody else in a heavy off-hand sort o’ way; ‘Mr. Macpherson’s boat not having come back yet.’
“At first everybody thought he was joking, but when they found he was really speaking the truth the excitement was awful. Fortunately as Mrs. Prendergast remarked, there was no ladies in the boat, but there was several men passengers. We were doing a good thirteen knots an hour, but we brought up at once, an’ then we ‘ad the most lovely firework display I ever see aboard ship in my life. Blue lights and rockets and guns going all night, while we cruised slowly about, and the passengers sat on deck arguing as to whether the skipper would be hung or imprisoned for life.
“It was daybreak afore we sighted them, just a little speck near the skyline, an’ we bore down on them for all we was worth. Half an hour later they was alongside, an’ of all the chilly, miserable-looking men I ever see they was the worst.
“They had to be helped up the side a’most, and they was so grateful it was quite affecting, until the true state o’ things was explained to them. It seemed to change ‘em wonderful, an’ after Mr. Macpherson had had three cups o’ hot coffee an’ four glasses o’ brandy he took the chair at the indignation meeting, an’ went straight off to sleep in it. They woke him up three times, but he was so cross about it that the ladies had to go away an’ the meeting was adjourned.
“I don’t think it ever came to much after all, nobody being really hurt, an’ the skipper being so much upset they felt sort o’ sorry for ‘im.
“The rest of the passage was very quiet an’ comfortable, but o’ course it all came out at the other end, an’ the mate brought the ship home. Some o’ the chaps said the skipper was a bit wrong in the ‘ed, and, while I’m not gainsaying that, it’s my firm opinion that he was persuaded to do what he did by that young leftenant. As I said afore, he was a larky young chap, an’ very fond of a joke if he didn’t have to pay for it.”