CHAPTER VI
"THE FATAL RED LEAD"
The trades failed close to the line, and all the troubles and trials of the doldrums began. They were a fine opportunity for Black Davis to take the steam out of his watch, for the wind, when there was any, came in short puffs from every quarter of the compass, and never blew for more than an hour or two in any given direction.
"Weather crossjack brace!" was the continual cry, and at night on the advent of each black squall there was a roar of:
"Stand by your skysail halliards!"
At one moment the rain would be coming down like a waterspout until the scuppers were full, and the next minute the wet ship would be glistening in the sunshine.
For five days the Higgins did not average twenty miles a day, and the whole of one baking Sunday she swung idly on her heel in the clutches of a Paddy's hurricane, whilst a stick of wood floating at her side would be sometimes ahead, sometimes astern.
Several of the men in their day watches below fished indefatigably from the jibboom, and Broncho soon had his first taste of albacore.
The flying-fish attracted him immensely, and he seemed never to tire of watching them as they flashed in and out of the water in glittering streaks of silver.
"I allows them fish has a high an' lavish time of it, a-pirootin' round permiscuous that-away. I shore wonders it don't exhaust them none, the way they hustles around," observed the cowboy to Jack Derringer, as they reclined lazily on the foc's'le head one afternoon watch below.
"A good time? Not much! Why, the albacore and bonita chase them out of the water, and the bosun-birds swoop down upon them in the air; they spend all their time flying from one enemy into the clutches of another."
"You don't say? It's shore some mean the way Providence cold-decks them fish that-away; yet they seem plenty numerous, notwithstandin' the way they're up agin the iron," drawled Broncho, as he slowly cut up some tobacco and refilled his corncob.
When within a few miles of the line the Higgins was put about for the first time.
This piece of seamanship was not executed without a vast amount of belaying-pin soup, even Broncho, the notorious desperado, getting his share in the heat of the moment.
The crew were raw and undrilled, and soon were worried into a hopeless tangle.
As the bosun had to attend to the crossjack and main braces in charge of the starboard watch, Jack was placed in command on the foc's'le, with Hank and Pat to aid him. This post is always reserved for the best men in the ship, for in a fresh breeze the men on the foc's'le have a most lively time.
From the moment that the helm was put down, the ship was in an indescribable uproar. The maindeck, littered with ropes'-ends, coils of braces, and handspikes, was soon in hopeless confusion. Braces jammed, tackles got foul, and the men ran aimlessly about, chased by Black Davis, who, like an avenging demon, was swearing as only a ship's mate can swear, whilst he fairly surpassed himself with his fist and boot work.
At the break of the poop the old man almost foamed at the mouth with fury. With clenched fists he raged up and down, roaring like a bull.
"Let go them royal an' skysail braces, yew mongrel rip thar, what in hell'r yew doin' of? Gol darn my etarnal skin if ever I see'd sech a inseck. Neow y've gone an' fouled thet brace! Snakes, yew ain't more use than a lot o' cawpses. Hyeh, bosun! Jump across an' thump thet hayseed, will yew?"
At the critical moment Sam, at the wheel, nearly had the ship in irons.
With one rush the old man was upon him.
"What in thunder air yew doin'? Y'll have her aback in a second, yew durned, sooty-faced heathen!"
And he gave the darkey a cuff on the side of the head which would have sent him to the deck if he had not clung to the wheel.
At last the yards were braced up on the other tack and the old man went below. Whilst the port watch cleared up the decks, the other retired to repair damages.
"I shore thinks I've been in some elegant skirmishes afore now," remarked Broncho, as he felt himself over for breakages in the foc's'le; "but I'm an Apache if I'm ever into a fight that's more stirrin' an' eventful, not to say toomultuous. At one time I'm that tangled up in my rope I allows it's a whirlwind."
"I believe you, my bye," said the cockney, as he limped painfully across to the water-barrel for a drink. "I drors h'it mild when h'I sez it's chucks ahead of a bloomin' 'urricane."
"And you calls the play kerrect, Hollins. What with that old he-wolf a-howlin' in a mighty unmelodious way on the poop, an' Black Davis a-swarmin' all over me like a wild-cat, I shore reckons it's a heap thrillin'. Them two sports throws no end of sperit into their play."
"And thet ain't fosterin' no delusions; they're hot stuff, pard, an' they earns their reputations," said Bedrock Ben. "That 'ere Black Davis jumps me offen my mental reservation complete every time."
"When he gets a ship he ought to make a most successful master, if his training goes for anything," put in Curly. "I notice all the American deep-water skippers have the reputation of having been regular Western Ocean buckos in their time."
"That bloomin' roustabout'll never live to command a ship," grunted Red Bill from the opposite bunk. "He's too successful with his fists to live long. He'll get cut up one o' these days, like that other New Jersey tough."
"Yes, success isn't all jam," remarked Jack slowly. "It's got a remarkable habit of turning sour in your mouth, just as you are beginning to put on frills and throw out your chest."
"Them remyarks o' yours is shore wisdom, Jack," drawled Broncho in his musical Texan, as he blew a cloud of tobacco-smoke slowly through his nose. "What you-alls calls success don't always pan out so rich as you calculated it would. Often the kyards stacks up mighty contrary, an' when you're just about callin' for drinks round, blandly surmisin' in your sublime ignorance that you makes a winnin' an' is shore due to scoop the pot, that 'ere gent 'Providence,' who's sittin' some quiet an' unobstrusive whilst you raises the bet to the limit, just steps in an' calls your hand. Then it is that your full house goes down like an avalanche before his four of a kind, an' you, some sore an' chagrined, meanders off an' ponders on this vale of tears."
"You're some long-winded, Broncho," said old Ben Sluice, "but you're dead right. I've seen a hell's slew o' minin' pards go under just 'coss they'd struck it rich. They rakes in their dinero an' away they goes, playin' it high an' standin' the crowd, all the time a-consumin' o' nosepaint unlimited; an' the next thing you knows is they done jumped the track."
"H'I knew a real bang-up toff once," joined in the cockney. "'E wos a genelman, too, boiled shirt, shiny pants an' h'all, an' a dead smooth job 'e 'ad—just raked in the quids for doin' nuffin' but loaf 'round. You've all 'eard of the Scotch 'Ouse—leastways, h'any that's been to the little village h'I come from. Well, 'e was wot they calls 'shopwalker' there. H'I goes in there one day (h'I'd got a big payday comin', an' h'I thinks, thinks h'I, I'll be cute this time an' lay in a bang-up outfit). Well, h'in I goes an' h'up 'e comes as h'affable an' perlite as you please an' sez:
"'And what's yours, sir?'
"Well, h'I wos h'all took aback, gettin' sich a question from a puffect stranger. At last h'I stammers out:
"''Arf-an'-'arf, an' thank ye kindly, mister.'
"Well, 'e just smiles superior-loike, an' sez,
"'I mean, what do you want to buy?'
"Well, I thinks to myself, 'That's comin' it low on a chap.' It weren't the friendly touch, wos h'it? But h'I don' sye nuffin' 'bout it, but gets a rig-out an' skips.
"Next v'yage h'I comes into the West Indy Docks. I thinks as h'I loafs round, mebbe I'll go an' see if my rorty toff is still on top. Well, 'e ain't there, so I asts the cove wot I bought the duds from, when did 'e cut 'is 'ook? Well, wot d'you think, byes: 'e'd been an' committed sooicide. Stroike me good an' blind, but you could a' knocked me down wiv a feaver when I 'ears it."
"What's a dead cinch to one gent is jest an ornery layout to another," commented Broncho.
"I allows that 'shopwalker' o' yours don't accoomilate no joys from his duties. Mebbe he reckons them mighty low, not to say debasin', an' finally he gets that fretful an' peevish he jest throws up his deal in disgust, jumps on his war-pony, an' lights out on the death trail."
And now a pitiful incident occurred. That poor ship's drudge, the kid, with the exception of Jack Derringer, who was in the other watch, had but one friend and chum, which was the almost equally disreputable ship's cat—a gaunt, thin tabby.
These two shared their blankets and shared their grub. Scanty as the fare was, the kid always saved enough out of his daily whack to give the cat a good square meal.
As Broncho remarked,
"It's shore an example to humanity, the way that 'ere despised an' put-upon urchin hugs an' cherishes that cat; it's plumb touchin' as a spectacle."
Since the mysterious voice episode, Jack's friendliness with the ragged boy had caused some comment in the foc's'le.
Often these two were to be seen seated together talking in the second dog-watch. A notable change was beginning to show itself in the small urchin. He was no longer the dirty ragamuffin of yore; his shrill speech was not so full of oaths, and he ceased to shirk his work whenever he could conveniently do so.
The rolling-stone seemed to possess a wonderful influence over the boy, and in the dog-watch he grew into the way of giving the kid a short lecture.
These strange lectures proved a wonderful education to the suppressed urchin, who drank in every word of them.
"Jim," the rover would say, as he smoked lazily on the fore-hatch, "your language is a sight too foul for a kid of your age. You just take a turn with that small tongue of yours, and go easy on swearing. I know it's hard, specially at sea, but I'll give you a tip. Now you've seen the Spanish inscriptions on cigar-boxes, haven't you? Yes? Well, suppose something happens—you stub your toe over a ring-bolt, or slip up on some slush by the galley—you want a harmless, inoffensive word to express your feelings. Well, there's your word in top-weight Spanish on the cigar-box. 'Claro!' you say, short and quick in an annoyed way, 'Claro!' Well, you do it again; this time you're feeling a bit hotter, and you want something the least bit stronger. 'Maduro!' you say, and put your feeling into the 'u.' But you go and stub your toe a third time; it's getting to be a bad habit of yours, and you really want something strong this time to get the proper flavour in your mouth. There's the word ready for you on the cigar-box. 'Colorado!' and the worse you feel the more you roll the 'r,' until you can make the word howl with pain. Listen——"
Jack frowned ferociously, and then from the back of his throat threw out the terrible oath:
"Color-r-r-r-a-a-a-do!!!"
The rolling-stone's lectures were certainly original, to say the least of them, and they generally had their amusing side.
One Saturday night Jack lay on his back watching his beloved stars, whilst the boy was busy at the pump washing off his weekly allowance of dirt in preparation for Sunday.
This was a new habit of his, set going by his star-gazing friend, who, finding that the boy did not possess any soap, had presented him with a dozen pieces, saying,
"Jim, here's some soap for you. If there's any of it left by the time we're in the North Atlantic, there'll be trouble."
As the boy finished his toilet the rover called to him, and pointing upwards, said:
"Do you see that star, Jim? That's 'Aldebaran,' the eye of Taurus, the bull, the second sign of the zodiac. Doesn't he shine plain? He's easy to see, isn't he? But suppose he was all coal-dust and dirt! We shouldn't be able to see him, should we? In the same way, if you're all dirty and covered with coal-dust, instead of being well polished by soap and water, how do you expect your guardian angel to watch over you? Why, he'd lose you amongst all the other specks of dirt on this earth, and never find you again; then you'd be an easy thing for the old gentleman with a forked tail, eh, sonny?"
"I'm afeard then, Jack, my guardian angel ain't never see'd me since I was born, for I don' ever remember bein' clean 'ceptin' lately," said the boy mournfully.
"Well, cheer up, old son! I expect he's got his eye on you all right all the same," declared the other heartily, alarmed by the seriousness with which Jim took his remarks.
Then, searching round for an idea whereby to soften his statements, he spied Sam.
"Don't you be down-hearted, Jim," he went on. "Look at Sam. How would you expect his guardian angel to see him? Yet he does, notwithstanding his colour."
"But Sam do shine be-e-autiful when he's hot," declared the boy.
This last was too much for Jack; he lay back and roared, whilst Jim's big brown eyes watched him in wonder.
But the men forward were rather huffed by Jack's friendship with the boy.
"Fust time h'I ever see'd the cock o' the foc's'le pal up with the ship's boy," grunted the cockney one day.
"You just be keerful what you say, Hollins," said Red Bill. "I just gave the little nipper a clout on the jaw t'other day for giving me sauce, when up jumps Derringer.
"'Leave that kid alone,' sezzee.
"'Mind yer own bloomin' bizness,' sez I; an' before I knows where I am, I'm lyin' on my back on the deck with a bump the size of a two-sheave block on the side of my head."
"'E calls 'im Jim, too," went on the scandalised cockney. "Might be bruvers, the way Jack spiles 'im. Kids want kickin'—h'it's the on'y way ter teach 'em."
But to return to the cat.
It was close on eight bells in the afternoon watch. The Higgins lay rolling in a heavy swell, with her courses hauled up; the sun was obscured, and heavy rain-clouds hung over the horizon.
There was not the slightest breath of wind, and the ship echoed with the slating and flogging of her sails as she rolled.
A continuous stream of water gushed in through her ports, and poured in a cascade first one way and then the other across the maindeck.
The port watch were on deck, busy "sand and canvassing" the main and fore fife-rails, preparatory to revarnishing.
The fore-hatch had just been chipped, and was resplendent in bright patches of red lead. The fates were rapidly arranging a holocaust for poor puss, for, as if obeying some unseen hand, he suddenly roused and stretched himself where he had been coiled up asleep on the foc's'le head; then, with the slow, graceful movement of his tribe, he descended the ladder and deliberately went up and rubbed himself against the fore-hatch. But alas! the eagle eye of Black Davis was upon him, and the red lead betrayed him, for it had left its marks upon his brindled coat; too late he tried to lick it off.
"Terantulars, yew dirty sneakin' beast. Rub my paint off, would yew?" roared the mate.
With remarkable swiftness he clutched poor puss in his iron fist, and a second later the cat was adrift on the swell and hidden from sight.
With a scream of fury and distress, the kid, who had been at work on the fore fife-rail, flung himself upon the bully, biting, kicking, and scratching.
Broken words burst from his mouth in a torrent, and, Jack's lecture forgotten, he raved and swore as only a boy bred to the sea can swear, raining a very shower of blows with his little fists upon the big mate.
Catching him by the scruff of his neck, Black Davis flung him aside.
The poor boy was hurled across the deck, to be brought up by the iron combing of the hatch, which caught him upon the left brow as he fell.
Jim dropped stunned, and lay motionless, bleeding copiously, whilst the fatal red lead with sardonic irony smeared itself in mockery upon his cheek and shoulder.
There was a low growl of suppressed anger from the watch, and if looks could have killed, Black Davis would not have lived long.
"Git on with your work, yew scrapin's o' hell, or I'll soon knock the bile out o' your gizzards," he roared; then, walking up to the senseless body of the boy, he kicked it twice heavily on the ribs.
"No shamming, yew little devil! Up yew get, or I'll make yew smell hell."
But before he could lift his foot again the stalwart form of the rolling-stone stood between the mate and his victim.
"Drop that, you d——d child-murderer! Come on and hit a man your own size."
The words fairly hissed from Jack's firm mouth, and there was a devil in his flashing eyes no one on board had ever seen there before.
Planted lightly but firmly on his legs, he squared up to the bucko with clenched fists and furious, quivering lips.
"Come on!" he raged, taking a step forward. "Come on, you devil!"
The port watch stared, open-mouthed, half expecting the heavens to fall in their amazement at Jack's daring.
Black Davis's glance fell before the fury of Jack's eyes. His big fist, half-raised, dropped to his side again; he took a step backward, then, muttering something indistinctly between his teeth, he slowly turned on his heel and walked aft.
Jack stared, the anger in his eyes changing to a look of blank surprise.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered.
A half-muffled cheer broke from the port watch and many of the starboard who had jumped from their bunks in anticipation of a royal set-to.
The rover turned and snapped out,
"Fetch a bucket of water, one of you."
A dozen men rushed to obey.
Bending over the senseless urchin, Jack gently wiped the blood and red lead from the little white face; then, with the tenderness of a woman, he picked the boy up in his arms and carried him to his bunk.
There he skilfully doctored the long cut on the boy's forehead, first washing it, and then drawing the edges together with sticking-plaister zigzagged across it, whilst the starboard watch looked on in admiration of his handiwork.
Luckily for the poor little waif, his short life of hardship and want had so toughened him that, with the exception of a bad bruise, his ribs were intact.
"Poor old Dandy!" were the first words the kid spoke after coming to, and the tears rushed to his eyes as the lonely feeling of his loss came over him.
"Never mind the cat, sonny. I reckon Jack Derringer's done saved your life; if it hadn't been for Jack, you'd a' been hittin' the trail after Dandy yourself," said old Bedrock Ben.
"And that ain't no bloomin' josh. Jack put the skybosh on the 'ulkin' bully, and no mistyke. Crikey, if it weren't the 'ighest old rig to see Black Davis spifflicated.
"''Ow's that, umpire?' sez I.
"'W'y, h'out, er course!' and away walks 'is bloomin' lordship, fairly 'oodooed."
Thus the cockney, with a chuckle of delight.
"Did Derringer save me from the mate? I don' remember nothink. Black Davis slugged me, didn't he?" the boy asked faintly.
"If standing up between the mate an' you lying senseless, and daring Black Davis to touch you, isn't saving you, I don't know what is," said Curly hotly.
"Oh, shut up, you fellows, and leave the boy alone," growled Jack. "It's just eight bells, and Jim's going to lie quiet and get some sleep.
"Do you hear that, Jim?" he continued; "you're not to stir from your bunk till I give you leave. Green'll do your 'peggy' for you, eh, Green?"
The man nodded nervously in assent.
"That's bueno! Now shut your eyes, sonny, and take a siesta."
The boy's brown eyes glowed with a wealth of gratitude and a dog-like look of adoration as they rested upon Jack's stalwart figure; but the rolling-stone was a martinet of a doctor—not a word would he allow above a whisper in the foc's'le until the kid was asleep.
It was the cockney's wheel when the watch changed, and at four bells, six o'clock, he came forward, his face eloquent with news.
"H'I've found 'im out, byes, h'I've found 'im out!" he shouted incoherently to the group of men seated yarning on the fore-hatch and spare spars, and he pointed wildly at the rolling-stone.
"What's he done now?" rumbled half a dozen deep voices.
"Wyte, me bloomin' ole shellbacks, lemme tell the yarn."
"Well, pipe ahead; we ain't stoppin' ye," growled Red Bill.
"Jack," said the cockney, suddenly darting upon the rover—"Jack, me bloomin' lovy-duck, does you know w'y Black Dyvis wouldn't stan' up to yer?"
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," laughed Jack.
"Well, h'I do, then, so now. I 'eard the ole man spin the bosun the whole blessed yarn; an' believe me, byes, h'I wos that tickled to death, before I knoo where h'I wos the bally 'ooker wos two p'ints off 'er course."
"Heave ahead, mate, heave ahead; you're all aback. Swing yer fore-yards an' get sail on to yer yarn," broke in the impatient Red Bill again.
"Orl right, cocky, orl right. Dye yer 'air. That red 'ead o' yours mykes ye in sich a blawsted 'urry, you'll get jumpin' inter yer coffin one fyne dye afore ye're dead."
There was a laugh, for Red Bill was notoriously hasty and impulsive in his actions.
"Well," began the cockney impressively, "h'it were this wye. The bosun wos a-leanin' agin the rail to windward er-scannin' o' things in general, an' allowin' mebbe 'e'd take a pull on the weather braces, w'en h'up comes the ole man from 'is grub. 'E goes over to ther bosun an' 'e sez:
"'What sort of er'and is that man Derringer?'
"'Best man wiv a marlin-spike h'I've see'd fer a long time,' sez the bosun.
"'Well,' goes on the ole man, speakin' slow an' solemn-loike, ''es the man as did up Slocum on the I.D. Macgregor!'
"Byes, h'I could er dropped. Slocum, mind you, the bigges'-fisted lump of a two 'undred an' fifty pound bucko sailin' the seas—the man as can 'old a six-foot Noo Orleans buck nigger, one in each 'and, lift 'em off the deck, an' bash their ugly black 'eads together; h'I've see'd 'im do it——"
"That's so, mate," broke in Hank. "I were in Iquique wi' him when he killed er man—picked him up an' kind er bumped 'im agin the boat skids an' broke his head; the ole man put some lie in the log, an' there weren't no more heard of it."
"Well," continued the cockney, "the skipper 'e spins the bosun the yarn, an' h'I jest absorbs h'it likewise. Seems Cappen Summers told 'im 'bout it, an' 'e spots you, Jack, from them tattoo-marks o' yourn.
"Well, byes, this ere grinnin' cuckoo 'ere, 'om I'm pra'd to shipmytes wiv, 'e 'as words or somethin' wiv Mister Bucko Slocum, syme wye mebbe as 'e 'ad wi' Dyvis, an' they ups an' 'as it out.
"Well, they fit an' fit an' fit, Cappen Summers an' the 'ole bloomin' ship's comp'ny er-lookin' on. My crikey, but it must er been the 'ighest ole rig! Fer two hours they fit by ole man Summers' ticker, till they wos h'all blood an' rags. Then Jack, 'e up wiv 'is fist an' lets drive. Oh Lord! Weren't it er knock-out! That swot Slocum, 'e just flies back'ards, lands on 'is 'ead on the quarter-bitts, an' lays there, reglar broke up; didn't come to till nex' mornin'.
"Ole man Summers tho't 'e were killed, an' gives Jack 'is job on ther spot.
"That's w'y Dyvis weren't 'avin' none!" concluded the cockney solemnly.
"'Sthat true, Jack, 'sthat true?" shouted half a dozen voices.
"Better ask the old man," laughed the rover.
In a moment Jack was circled by a crowd of eager men, all bawling at once.
"Lord lummy, Jack, you must be a bruiser," called one.
"Did Black Davis know this, d'you suppose?" asked Curly.
"'Course 'e did, you h'ass!" cried the cockney scornfully. "W'y, 'e ain't put a finger on 'im th'ole passage, not even towin' out."
"I reckon Black Davis was some scared he'd lose his job if Jack downs him, same as that other fire-eatin' miscreant," mused Broncho. "No, he were dead agin playin' your hand, Jack; he weren't hankerin' to be your beef—he's too keerful of his skin that away."
"Gaud blimy! Wot er scrap h'it would er been," lamented the cockney.
"It shore would ha' been some lurid, but I pities the mate. He was due to emerge a totterin' wreck. Jack was just a-moanin' for blood an' oozin' with f'rocity," asserted the cowpuncher.
"He did look a heap grim," remarked Bedrock Ben.
"But what if Black Davis had downed him?" inquired Pinto.
"Sich thoughts is figments," said Broncho contemptuously. "I'm puttin' up chips Jack'd have that rancorous hold-up too dead to skin. Jack weren't aimin' to put no delicacy into his play, that time."
"Green, if you don't tcha-tcha[6] and strike eight bells, you'll have the mate on your trail," broke in the bucko-downer, anxious to cut short the conversation.
And a few moments later the silvery note of the bell announced that the first watch had begun.