CHAPTER I
In Which I Shield a Friend and Make an Enemy
The after port anchor had come inboard before I stepped over the rail of the Gullwing, and leaped to the deck. The starboard and port bowers were both catted and fished and the stay-fore-sail had filled to pay off her head.
The wind was blowing directly on shore; the current ran parallel with the land; there was no choice of direction in getting the big four-master under weigh, and she was headed into the stream.
A clarion voice shouted from the poop:
“Haul main-tack!
“Come aft with that sheet!
“Set jib and spanker! Look alive there!
“Mr. Gates! see if you can’t get some action out of your watch!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” from the mate.
“Helm a-lee! hard a-lee!”
“Hard a-lee she is!” growled the helmsman, a great, hairy, two-fisted salt, with an enormous quid of tobacco in one cheek, a cast in his eye, and his blue shirt so wide open at the throat that we could catch a glimpse of a dashing looking mermaid, in blue and red, upon his chest.
“Set fore-sail! Be alive, there, Mr. Barney. Those men of yours act as stiff as Paddy’s father—and him nine days dead!”
The stamping of the men on the deck as they hauled on the ropes, a confusion of cries from those in the tops, the squeal of the cables running over the drum, the coughing of the donkey-engine amidships by which the huge anchors had been started from the bottom of Valpariso roadstead, and the general bustle and running about, kept Thankful Polk—who had followed me aboard the big, four-stick schooner—and I right there by the rail, where we would be out of the way. Thankful gave me a sly glance, as he whispered:
“I reckon we’ve caught a Tartar in Cap’n Joe Bowditch—what?”
But I had noted the lines about the skipper’s mouth and the wrinkles at the corners of his quick, gray eyes. Those lines and wrinkles had not been graved in the old sea-captain’s face by any long-standing grouch. Captain Bowditch was a man who liked his joke; and even his voice as he bawled orders from the quarter had a tang of good-nature to it that was not to be mistaken.
“I reckon we’ll get along all right with him, if we play the game straight,” I observed to my chum, and turned then to wave my cap to Cap’n Hi Rogers, of the whaling bark Scarboro, who was now being rowed back to his own ship after leaving us to the tender mercies of Cap’n Bowditch.
“By hickey!” exclaimed the boy from Georgia, glancing now along the deck, “ain’t she a monster? Looks a mile from the wheel to the break of the fo’castle.”
It was the largest sailing vessel I had ever been aboard of myself. The Scarboro was a good sized bark, but as we crossed her stern we could look down upon the whaler’s deck and wave our hats to the friendly crew that had been so kind to us. Only a single scowling face was raised to ours as the Gullwing swept on, a creamy wave breaking either side of her sharp bow. This face belonged to my cousin, Paul Downes, who scowled at me and shook his fist. But I merely smiled back at him. I thought that—at length—I could afford to laugh at my cousin’s threats. I was bound straight for home aboard the Gullwing; he had eighteen months, or more, to serve aboard the whaling bark.
Seeing that both the captain and the mates were too busy just then to bother with us, Thank and I strolled forward. It was a long, long deck—and the boards were as white as stone and water could make them. There was some litter about just now, of course; but from the look of the whole ship I made up my mind right then and there that if Captain Bowditch was a martinet in anything, it was in the line of neatness and order. The slush tub beside the galley door was freshly painted and had a tight cover; there was no open swill bucket to gather flies; the cook’s wiping towels had been boiled out and were now hung upon a patent drying rack fastened to the house, and were as white and clean as the wash of a New England housewife. Every bit of brightwork shone and where paint was needed it had been newly put on with no niggard hand. As the sails were broke out and spread to catch the light wind, many of them were white-new, while those that were patched had been overboard for a good sousing before being bent on again. Oh, the Gullwing was a smart ship, with a smart skipper, and a smart crew; one could appraise these facts with half an eye.
“Makes you think you ought to have wiped your feet on the mat before stepping in, eh?” chuckled Thank. “I bet we got to a place at last, Sharp, where we’re bound to work. That old feller with the whiskers up there could spot a fly-speck on the flying jib-boom. I wonder he don’t have brass cuspidors setting ’round for the deck-watch!”
Compared with the frowzy old vessels, captained and manned by foreigners, that make American ports, this American ship, American skippered, and American manned, was a lady’s parlor. “She’s a beauty,” I said. “We may work for our pay—whatever it is to be—but thank’s be ’tis no sealing craft. The stench of the old Gypsey Girl will never be out of my nostrils.”
We stood about for a few minutes longer, trying to keep out of the way of the busy crew; but one husky, red faced fellow came sliding down the backstays and landed square on Thank’s head and shoulders, pitching him to the deck.
“Get out o’ the way, you two young sawneys!” growled this fellow. “Don’t you know enough to keep out from under foot?”
Thank had picked himself up quickly and turned with his usual good-natured grin. It was hard for anybody to pick a quarrel with Thankful Polk.
“My law-dee, Mister” he exclaimed. “Is that the way you us’ally come from aloft? Lucky I was right here to cushion ye, eh?”
The red faced fellow, without a word, swung at him with his hard fist doubled. I was a pretty sturdy fellow myself, with more weight than my chum, and I saw no reason for letting him receive that blow when interference was so easy. I stepped in and the bully crashed against my shoulder, his blow never reaching Thank. Nor did he hurt me, either. His collision with my shoulder threw him off his balance and he sprawled upon the deck, striking his head hard. He rolled over and blinked up at me for half a minute, too stunned to realize what had happened to him.
The encounter was seen by half a dozen of the men, but none of the officers spied us. The spectators laughed as though they hugely enjoyed the discomfiture of the bully.
“Sarves ye right, Bob Promise,” muttered one of the A. B.s; “I bet ye got more than ye bargained for in that youngster.”
“Caught a Tartar, eh, Bob?” scoffed another man.
The fellow on the deck “came to” then, and sprang up with every apparent intention of attacking me. I had shielded my chum, but it was plain that I had made an enemy.
“I’ll teach ye, ye young swab!” Bob ejaculated, and started for me.
But the others interfered. Several hustled the bully back.
“None o’ that, Bob Promise!” exclaimed the first speaker. “We’ll have the old man down here in a second.”
“I’ll break that feller’s neck!” cried Bob.
“I dunno whether ye will or not—in a stand up fight,” drawled another of his shipmates. “He looks like he could take care of himself.”
I had involuntarily fallen into an attitude of self-defense. That is where I had the advantage of Thank; I knew something about boxing, and although the bully was heavier and older than I, it was pretty certain that he had no science. At any rate I wasn’t going to let him think I was afraid of him.
“You wait!” growled Bob Promise. “You stand up to me in the watch below, and I’ll eat you alive.”
I had an idea that if he did I should disagree with his stomach badly; but I did not say this. I don’t think I am naturally a quarrelsome fellow, if I am impulsive. Nor did I wish to get in bad with the captain and officers of the ship by being mixed up in a fight.
“Oh, pshaw!” I said, mildly. “I don’t want to fight you, Mister. Thank didn’t intentionally get in your way, and I didn’t mean——”
“You struck me, you white livered——”
“I didn’t,” I denied. “You ran against me.”
“Don’t you give me no back talk,” snarled the fellow, but looking out watchfully for the officers now.
“Don’t be mad,” I said, with a smile. “I’m sorry if I hurt you——”
I guess that wasn’t a wise thing to say, although I did not mean to heap fuel on the flames of his wrath. He gave me a black look as he turned away, muttering:
“Wait till I git you a-tween decks, my lad. I’ll do for you!”
Thank and I looked at each other, and I guess my countenance expressed all the chagrin I felt, for my chum did not smile, as usual.
“You butted in for me, Sharp,” he said, gloomily, “and now that big bruiser will beat you up, as sure as shooting.”