CHAPTER IV
"BARBARISM"
The bosun now appeared with the handcuffs, and they were speedily sent aloft with a bosun's chair. And now every eye was turned on the topsail yard to see Black Davis put the handcuffs on his prisoner.
To go up on to that yard, with a raging dago waiting to knife you as you stepped on to the footrope, required nerve, and the mate knew that he was in a ticklish position, and that he could expect no help from the other men on the yard.
Yet there was no hesitation about Black Davis; the man was so made constitutionally that he really did not know what fear was.
"Git the dago's knife an' sling it overboard," he sang out to Broncho, as he climbed out of the top.
At this Pedro bared his teeth like a tiger at bay, and turned upon the cowpuncher with knife ready.
"He shore has me treed," said Broncho to Jack. "I ain't organisin' to bluff that bowie o' his, or he has me p'inting out on the heavenly trail too prompt for words."
It was evident that Broncho was helpless against the desperate southerner, and was more than likely to get killed in his turn if he made the slightest attempt to wrest Pedro's knife from him.
"The dago has me out-held, sir; he's due to cut me open a whole lot if I makes a move," called Broncho to the mate.
At this, Black Davis, who was half-way up the topmast rigging, pulled out his gun, and pointing it at Pedro, sang out:
"Heave thet knife overboard, or I'll fill yew full of holes, yew dogasted West Coast beachcomber."
Quick as a flash Pedro turned and launched his knife full at the mate. It stuck quivering and shaking between the strands of the wire shroud, which, as Black Davis leant forward, was touching the top button of his waistcoat.
It was a close call!
Pedro, helpless without his weapon, snarled round like a wild beast; then, with wonderful agility, drew himself up on to the yard, and stepping on Broncho's hand, before any one could divine his intention, he sprang into the rigging on the opposite side to Black Davis, and in a moment was up over the crosstrees and running up the ratlines to the topgallant yard.
"Come de-own outer that!" roared the enraged and baffled mate. "Come down, or I'll perforate yew."
The Chilian gave a wild laugh as he reached over before swinging himself on to the topgallant yard.
The bosun sprang into the rigging and hurried aloft to support his superior officer.
Meanwhile, the old man looked on impatiently from the poop, fingering his rifle nervously, evidently debating what to do.
Then up went his Winchester. There was a heavy report, and the wretched Pedro, straddled with one foot on the ratlines and one on the footrope, spun suddenly round, threw up his hands, and dropped.
Just below him were the crosstrees, and on to these he fell, and, held there, lay senseless with head and feet dangling.
For a moment there was a deadly silence over the ship; then a low, menacing growl of rage rose from the crowd of men on the maindeck.
"Silence there, yew mutinous dogs! Silence, or, sure as my name's Bob Riley, I'll pump some lead into yew!" roared the old man, bringing the gun up to his shoulder again.
As he spoke the canvas began to shake; the helmsman had let the ship run up into the wind. Little wonder if, in the excitement of the moment, Angelino could find no time for glancing at the compass.
In a moment the ship was all aback.
"Darn my dogbasted skin!" raged the old man, turning upon the unfortunate Portuguee. "Hard up thet wheel! Quick, yew infernal lunkhead!"
Then, rushing to the rail, he roared:
"Down from aloft there. On ter the foc's'le head, some er yew. Don' stand gazin' round, yew moon-struck, mongrel crowd o' Bowery slush! Clap on to them weather jib sheets! Let go to loo'ard! Neow, then, round with them fore-yards—round with 'em!"
For a few minutes terrific confusion reigned. Excited men ran hither and thither, braces were thrown off the pins, and a medley of cries resounded over the ship, half drowned in the thunderous clatter of the flapping canvas.
Jack, Broncho, Sam, and Curly came sliding down backstays, leaving Bedrock Ben still with the dead man in his arms.
By this time the old man was half mad with fury, and dancing a regular war-jig aft. Words poured in a torrent from his mouth, cut off, distorted, and half senseless as they burst from his stuttering lips.
Certainly the facts of the case were enough to try the temper of any man as full of bile and ginger as a down-east skipper. His ship aback; a crew of lunatics running wildly about the deck, letting go sheets, lifts, spilling-lines, anything in their craziness; two dead men aloft, and with them his only remaining officers; last, but not least, two half-bent fair-weather topsails flogging angrily in the strengthening breeze, with every chance of splitting from top to bottom.
"Carpenter!" he yelled. "Carpenter, get them headsheets over! Sakes alive—bust me purple—what er mess! Hyeh, y' ravin' idiots, what y' doin'? Get on ter thet fore-brace. Come down, bosun. Jeerusalem, look at them t'p'sls! Hell an' damnation, who let go that sheet? Carpenter, ye mouldy wood-sawyer, can't yew thump 'em? Beat 'em, kill 'em, jump on 'em, man. Wal, I swow! What the blazin' flames o' hell d'yew think y' doin', yew bean-swillin', lop-eared Dutch swab——" and so he raged on.
What with the old man's scathing remarks and his own confused brain, the carpenter got in such a flurry that he hardly knew what he was doing.
Slowly things were straightened out, with the headsheets over to windward. On the advent of Jack and his gang from aloft, the foreyard was swung, and gradually the ship began to pay off under the influence of the backed headyards.
With the appearance of the huge bosun, calm and collected in the midst of the chaos, something like order began to prevail on deck. The Higgins was got on to her course, the yards trimmed, and whilst some of the hands were sent aloft to finish bending the two topsails, Ben Sluice and the body of the second mate were lowered to the deck in the bosun's chair.
The captain's bullet proved to have only grazed the forehead of the dago and stunned him, upon discovering which the mate had the senseless man roughly lowered down in a running bowline from the gantline block.
As Black Davis reached the deck, the old man, who was still fuming like a smouldering volcano, turned upon him with a withering glare.
"Hm, mister mate, an' a nice bunglin' yew made of it up aloft, lettin' a miserable little deck-swab of er Chilanean make a fool er yew like that. Ain't yew ever put the bracelets on a man before? Y'll have ter hustle round considerable mor'n this, or yew won't suit Cappen Bob Riley"; and with a final snort the irate skipper disappeared down the companion.
Mr. Bucko Davis turned back to his work in no very sweet frame of mind.
The body of the second mate had been placed on the main-hatch, and alongside it was laid the senseless form of Pedro.
"Hyeh, boy!" growled the mate to the kid, who was at work outside the galley, peeling potatoes for the cabin dinner. "Git er bucket er water an' see if yew can't wake thet dago up."
The boy drew a bucket over the side, and then, with shaking hands, tilted it gently over the face of the South American; but with his big brown eyes dilating with fright, the kid went very gingerly to work.
"Thet won't do, thet won't do," grunted Black Davis. "Give it ter me! Can't yew throw water yet?"
Seizing the bucket, with a true bosun's swing the mate hove the water over the unconscious man, with such skill that not one square inch of him from head to heel escaped the deluge.
"More water! more water! Neow then, jump around lively," called the angry demon impatiently.
With the sousing the mate gave him, Pedro could only do one of two things, either lie there and be drowned or come to his senses.
This latter he proceeded to do whilst the kid was drawing a fourth bucketful.
"Thought thet'd rouse the skunk," commented Black Davis; then, grabbing hold of the wretched man by the scruff of his neck, he dragged him off the hatch, and, dropping him on the deck, gave him three terrific kicks over the ribs.
"P'raps thet'll learn yew who's mate o' this ship, yew knifing beast; ther's one fer the second mate an' two fer me, 'count of all the trouble y've given me."
The miserable Pedro now broke out into low moans.
"Hm! Just like er dago! Cuts er man up an' then whines," went on the bucko, as he picked up the handcuffs off the hatch; then for a moment he stood hesitating, evidently turning something over in his mind.
Meanwhile the bosun had all hands busily engaged bending the main course. As the sail was stretched and the rovings passed, a subdued muttering went on, which in the present ugly humour of the men the bosun wisely took no notice of.
Presently there was a hail from the deck.
"Bosun, send me down er couple er them jailbirds o' yours."
A low, sibilant hiss of deadly venom ran along the yard at the sound of the mate's voice.
"Hm!" thought the bosun as he listened, "there's some of 'em pretty near ready for a word spelt with a big M."
He scanned the men on the yard for a moment in silence, and then carefully picked out two harmless ones.
"Pinto an' you, Green, get down on deck an' see what the mate wants."
With ludicrous haste these two worthies hurried down the ratlines, for they knew by experience what it meant to keep Black Davis waiting.
"Neow, yew two," said the mate, "skip forrard, an' if yew ain't got thet bosun's locker cleared out in two jiffs, thar'll be all-fired trouble."
They dashed off like a pair of frightened colts, and in record time reappeared with the statement that the locker was entirely bare.
"Left no blocks an' marlin-spikes behind, have yew?" asked the mate suspiciously.
"No, sir," came the reply in a hasty duet.
"Wall, I guess yew know what'll happen if yew have," he said with meaning.
"Neow, pick up the body of the second mate, take it forrard, an' lay it on the shelf," he went on.
"Aye, aye, sir!" came the hurried duet again.
As the two men rolled staggering off with the heavy form of the dead bucko, Black Davis turned to the dago on the deck.
"Know what I'm goin' ter do with yew, Mister Mate-killer? No? Wall, y'll soon find out. I reckon I'll have yew some tamed before I done with yew! Neow then, up yew git."
Except for a deep groan Pedro took no notice. At this the mate seized him by his shirt-collar and dragged him on to his feet.
For a moment the poor wretch swayed tottering, and then, with a great effort, collected his strength and retained his equilibrium.
"Oh, yew can stand, hey? Wall, neow, suppose yew walk forrard into thet bosun's locker."
Unsteadily Pedro lurched forward, dragging himself along slowly, followed by the bucko dangling the handcuffs.
The bosun's locker was small, and there was hardly room for the mate and his victim besides the dead man on the shelf; and as Black Davis entered, the miserable Chilian backed up against the bulkhead in doubt as to what was going to happen next.
"Hold out y'r hand," commanded the mate; and as Pedro obeyed, he snapped the handcuff on it; the other he slowly clasped upon the wrist of the dead bucko, whilst Pinto and Jimmy Green, standing hesitating what to do, watched him with eyes of horror from the doorway.
"I'll just see how yew like a night o' that, chained to a stiff of y'r own killing," said the demon, with a fiendish chuckle. "Wall, yew've got better company than yew ever had before. A pleasant night to yew!" and he retired, locking the door after him.
The bosun was now put at the head of the starboard watch, and the routine of the ship once more continued on its normal course.
Shifting sail was again in full swing, but the men worked listlessly in deadly silence; there was no chantying on the gantline, and they pulled and hauled without even the usual hee-hawing.
The bosun tried again and again to instil some life into the work, but in vain; all hands went at it steadily, but without a sound.
It is a very bad sign when a ship's crew work in silence, and even the mate ceased his hazing as he noticed the sullen humour of the men. You can bully and ill-treat a deep-sea crew as much as you like up to a certain point; but there is a limit mark, and if you step beyond that you begin playing pitch-and-toss with your own life.
The sea is not to blame for every missing ship. A steady-going, harmless man can be turned by continual brutality and ill-treatment into a desperate, iron-nerved assassin, and a good crew can be brought to such a condition that one accidental spark will set them afire; then, rendered half madmen, half fiends, they turn the ship into a shambles.
There is only one thing that protects the lives of American buckos, and that is that nowadays deep-water ships go to sea with such a mixed lot of nationalities in their foc's'les that they are totally unable to act together. The after-gang realise this fully, and work upon it, skilfully playing the men off against each other.
Whilst the ship's company were seething with passions which threatened to boil over at any moment, no sound came from the bosun's locker, where Pedro crouched alone with his victim.
At meal-times his food was passed in to him, in the presence of the mate; then the key was turned again, and he was left to brood anew with the blood-stained corpse attached to him like a Siamese twin.
At eight bells, 4 p.m., the decks were cleared up and the watches set once more.
At knock-off time all hands assembled on the foc's'le head, and a babble of wild, angry voices arose, in which the shrill squeal of Angelino, the Portuguee, Pedro's chum, mixed discordantly with the deep gutturals of the negro, the jerky sh's of the German, the twangy nasal accents of the Americans, and the misplaced h's of the cockney.
Grimy fists were waved and shaken furiously aft, and the venomous oratory of the long, vicious gambler, Studpoker Bob, was received with deep roars of approval.
Jack, Broncho, and Curly seated themselves apart from the wrangling crowd, and lit their pipes.
Curly, young, soft, and impressionable, was very indignant at the mate's callousness.
"It's enough to send Pedro off his head, chained in there all alone with that fearful corpse. It makes me creep to think of it. I shouldn't be surprised to hear screams from that bosun's locker before morning."
But Jack was not of his opinion.
"The dago's too near an animal for that. His nature's coarse-fibred, and though his blood is hot and excitable, his nerves are dull and only respond to the emotions of a brute."
"Which I concurs with them views entire," remarked Broncho. "I allows that dago's mighty familiar with corpses, an' no longer regyards them with respec'. That ain't no amature work, the way he uses his bowie; he weren't doin' no bluffin' on a four-card flush; the way he manip'lates his weepon shows he knows his game."
"Anyhow, it's a brutal shame, and from the way some of the men are talking I reckon Black Davis had better look out for squalls," cried Curly hotly.
"I don't think Davis is afraid of any man forrard; they talk too much. Listen to 'em now. He knows not one of them dare face him alone," said Jack.
"Still, I've seen marlin-spikes dropped from aloft, and on a dark night accidents easily happen," went on the ex-apprentice stubbornly.
"You bet, son, that ole pole-cat's got his ha'r-trigger fixed; he's plumb loaded with what you-alls call nerve, an' is due to make a mighty fervent play, however the kyards stacks up."
As Broncho spoke, the cockney's voice, loud and harsh, broke in upon them as he harangued his audience:
"H'it's a bloomin' shyme, byes, that's wot h'I calls it——" and the rest of his speech was drowned in the deep tones of the foc's'le bell, as the silent and suppressed kid, whose duty it was to keep time, sneaked up and struck eight bells.