CHAPTER XIII
"THE MAN WITH THE GUN"
"Seven bells! Tumble up, starbowlines, an' show a leg. There's burgoo for breakfast."
It was Jim calling the watch at 7.20 a.m., so that they could get their breakfast before going on deck at eight bells.
"Burgoo? Who said burgoo?" cried Red Bill, sitting up excitedly at the announcement of this luxury.
"I've just seen Lung cooking it," declared Jim. "The steward says there's to be burgoo for breakfast from forty to forty."
"Then we're in the Roaring Forties all right," observed Jack.
"Did you see that ere chink a-cookin' of it, did you say, kid?" inquired old Ben Sluice.
"Yes, I did," replied the boy.
"Well, I'm glad I didn't, or I couldn't have ate it, for sure," returned the ex-miner with a grunt. Like many westerners, he considered the pig-tail tribe as "rank p'ison," and he never lost an opportunity of deriding the Higgins' cook.
"How's that ere boisterous party, the weather, a-conductin' himself this maunin'?" asked Broncho. "I'm hopin' he's got his fur some smoothed since last night, when he's shore more pesky than a croger[8] with the indigestion."
"She's hummin' pretty strong yet," Jim replied; and then inquired softly, "How you feelin' this mornin', Jack?"
"Fit enough to put the gloves on with Sullivan, and as hungry as fifty Siwash Indians," replied the latter gaily, vaulting out of his bunk.
"Fur a bloke as wos as near drowned as you wos, h'I bloomin' well thinks you tyke the cyke," exclaimed the cockney. "W'y, my gills is still flappin' fur air an' me stomich gurglin' wi' salt water after that ere washin' around we gets squarin' 'er in las' night."
"Be Jasus, ye're roight, me son o' London Town, an' I've been after dramin' I was a fish an' couldn't get into the wather. Shure, it were a crool drame after spendin' the blitherin' night sprainin' me nose with tryin' to get it out of the wet. Ah, the wather! I ain't after havin' no use for it onless it's a weak solution in a glass of ould Oirish," said Pat in disgust.
"'Allo, Pat, 'old 'ard! I'm a bloomin' swot if you ain't given yer jibboom a bigger hoist," burst out the cockney with a note of concern in his voice.
Pat's nose was very much what society papers call tip-tilted.
"Arrah, now, with yer bamboozlin'," cried Pat.
"Wot you sye, byes?" pursued the cockney. "Ain't 'e been an' cock-billed that yard of 'is?"
"You shore has her p'intin' so as an angel with a spy-glass can look down your nostrils," remarked Bedrock Ben, solemnly, amidst laughter.
"Fetch the grub along, there's a good chap," said Curly, whose duty it was, but who was vainly struggling to get a pair of wet rubbers on over damp socks, to Jim.
"Right you are," said the boy cheerily, and he started off cautiously for the galley for two reasons—the one to avoid the succession of dollops which poured over the rail, the other to escape the vigilant eye of the mate.
He found the industrious Lung busy burnishing up his pots and pans, and though several inches of water were washing over the floor of the galley, it was as clean as a new pin.
"Starboard watch's breakfast ready yet, Lung?" asked Jim.
"You wait one quallah minit; burgoo no done yet," returned the celestial.
"What kind of a time did you have in the galley last night?" inquired the boy.
"Me heap 'flaid. Tink-um dlown chop-chop. Plenty muchee water top-side galley. Big sea come, tink all smash, China boy tink-um all-e-same dead. No can see, no can do, no likee, velly bad time."
"I don't wonder. The water must have poured in through the chimney-hole and nearly filled you up," Jim admitted.
"Water him come, heap big flood; bime-by him go 'way, hey? Lung no savvy nuttin' plenty long time——"
"Nearly drowned, eh?"
"Lung tink-um pletty soon dlown. Plenty muchee solly! Want um first-chop coffin, no have got; no loast pig, no China blandy, no funelel. Tink-um lose face, heap 'shamed. Bime-by come one-piecee boss, him talkee-talkee.
"'You allee-lightee, Lung?' him say.
"'No can tell,' me say. 'Tink-um China boy plenty muchee sick, plaps him die pletty soon.'
"'No sick, no dead if can chin-chin,' him say, an' go 'way."
"Was that the bosun?" asked Jim.
"Yass, him bosun," replied Lung, as he handed Jim a kid of steaming burgoo and a big tin of a coloured concoction known at sea by the name of "ship's coffee."
Jim started warily for the foc's'le, but the eagle eye of Black Davis was upon him, and he was fairly caught.
"Hyeh, yew kid! What yew doin'? Is this y'r watch on deck or ain't it?" roared the mate from aft.
"Come hyeh, yew whelp!" he bellowed.
Jim went bravely up on to the poop and faced the bully, expecting nothing less than a knockdown; but Black Davis, though boiling with rage, controlled himself with an effort.
Shaking his fist in the boy's face, he burst forth:
"Yew little skunk, I'll half kill yew one o' these days, loafin' an' sodgerin' around! Git out quick, or I'm liable to let fly an' jump your ribs in."
Then, as Jim moved hurriedly away, he roared,
"Wait, doggone ye! Who told yew ter go, yew Whitechapel mudlark? Jump up, overhaul an' stop them main-tops'l buntlines, an' turn to at one bell on the poop brasswork. I'll teach yew, yew Bowery refuse, thar ain't goin' ter be no skulkin' while Davis is mate o' this packet. Away with ye!"
On coming on deck at eight bells the starboard watch were all sent aloft, each man with a bundle of rovings and rope-yarns.
Now that the Higgins was getting near the stormy cape, all preparations had to be made for the tempestuous weather which is always encountered whilst turning the last corner of the world, as rounding the Horn is sometimes called.
For great "Cape Stiff" never disappoints one. He keeps an unlimited supply of bad weather about him, dealing out his great sixty-foot greybeards, his terrific hail-squalls, and his furious southern blasts with no niggard hand.
To withstand the boisterous southern wind, the sails had to be lashed as securely as possible to the jackstays, which run along the top of the yards. This the watch were sent aloft to do.
As the Higgins tore along before the gradually slacking westerlies, a swarm of Cape pigeons, molly-mawks, and Cape black hens swooped about her stern, whilst three or four majestic albatrosses sailed in their stately manner in the wake of the clipper, occasionally with a graceful sweep stooping to pick some tit-bit off the water.
Presently a sail was sighted right ahead, and the Higgins overhauled her hand over hand.
In an hour the stranger was close alongside. She turned out to be one of those famous craft, which are fast disappearing—a South Sea whaler.
She was truly an interesting sight as she rolled heavily on the long westerly swell, lying hove-to under bare poles, with nothing but a tarpaulin in the mizzen rigging.
She was evidently a real old-timer, for as she rolled you could see that she was as round as a barrel, with a square sawed off stern and an apple-cheeked bow, surmounted by a long jibboom with a great hoist to it.
She had no yard above the main-topgallant but the crow's-nest—a huge barrel from which the look-out, with skinned eyes, searches the ocean for the longed-for blow of the whale—hung on the main-topgallant mast, looking heavy and bulky enough at that height to carry away the slender spar.
But this same crow's-nest was empty. The whaler had a well-seasoned and weather-stained appearance. As she heeled over she showed a bottom covered with long weed and barnacles. Her rigging had a slack and unkempt look about it, being a mass of bights and Irish pennants; whilst her yards were badly braced and cocked at all angles.
Only two men could be seen on her decks, and they seemed to pay little attention to the Higgins.
There was no one at her wheel, but as she was hove-to a helmsman was not necessary; for all that, she had a strange appearance of desolation about her.
The two men visible seemed busily occupied, whilst squatting on their hams, at some mysterious work, and an object stood on the deck between them which was too small to be distinguished, but seemed to be giving them a great deal of thought, for they looked to be both staring fixedly at it.
"Come yew hyeh!" called the old man to Jim, who was busy polishing the compass case. "Come yew hyeh, boy, an' help me with these flags."
"Neow then," he went on, hauling the Stars-and-stripes out of the flag-locker, "run 'Old Glory' up to the monkey-gaff."
"Aye, aye, sir!" replied Jim.
But though the old man tried to have a flag-talk as he went by, the stranger made no response, the two men on her deck making no movement, much to his indignation.
"The infarnal son of a gun! Ain't he got the civility even to dip to the Stars-an'-stripes? Gaul bust my etarnal skin!"
"Kin yew read her name?" he sang out to the mate, who was ogling her stern with an ancient-looking ship's telescope.
"The Ocmulgee o' Nantucket, I make it, sir."
"Why, thet's ole Ebenezer Morgan's boat! Terant'lers, air they all asleep, er what? A goldarned, barnacle-backed South Seaman, an' he won't have a gam! Jeerusalem, but thet beats all my goin' to sea," growled Captain Bob Riley in tones half angry, half puzzled.
"Hyeh, yew boy," he went on, turning to Jim, "jump below an' ask the steward fur my gun. I'll poke his fire for him,[9] I'll wake up his oil-soaked intellec', I'll stir his blubber, or thar's no sech things as snakes an' pumpkins."
On Jim handing him the Winchester, he went to the break of the poop and let drive two or three shots through the rigging of the whaler.
As the sound of the report reached them and the whistle of the bullets went "Theu, theu!" overhead, the two men on the deck of the South Seaman jumped about six feet into the air, then rushed below and were seen no more.
"Seemed to scare 'em some, anyway," remarked the old man coolly, as he pumped another cartridge into the barrel.
At this moment Black Davis, spying round to see where he could find trouble, caught sight of Jack, Broncho, and Studpoker Bob all on the lee main lower-topsail yardarm, at work putting in rovings—at least, Jack and Broncho were at work, but the gambler on the inside was loafing as usual; and thinking that the old man and mate were too busy watching the other ship to notice him, whilst the bosun was forward with his back turned, he had calmly lit up a pipe, a most heinous offence during work hours at sea.
This was too much for the bucko mate altogether. For a second he glared at the delinquent as if mesmerised, for the man was out of reach of his terrible boot or even a well-aimed belaying-pin; then, with a roar of fury, he pulled out his ever-ready six-shooter and fired.
The shot narrowly missed the gambler and cut the lanyard of a marlin-spike, which he had slung round his neck.
The heavy spike dropped, and hitting Black Davis, who was standing just underneath, on the shoulder, felled him to the deck.
The incident, seen from the poop, looked as if Studpoker Bob had deliberately dropped the spike with intent to hit the mate, and such the old man believed to be the case.
Without a second's hesitation he brought his Winchester to the shoulder and fired at the card-sharper, who, hit clean through the back and lungs, threw up his hands and dropped forward over the yard; then, as the vessel pitched, he fell headlong to the deck.
The whole affair was so sudden and unlooked-for that it took Jack and Broncho, who were carelessly working with both hands, completely by surprise; and the jerk, caused by the sudden release of the gambler's weight on the footrope, upset their balance before they could catch a hold. At the same time the ship gave a heavy roll to leeward, and they both fell into the sea.
Immediately all was confusion. Whilst the old man thundered out orders from the poop, the bosun bellowed for all hands, and Jim rushed wildly to the stern, and, cutting loose the three life-buoys, sprang over with them into the swirling wake; and so quick was the boy, that Jack and Broncho, both good swimmers, came to the surface close to him.
The three scrambled into the life-buoys, and even in that short space of time the Higgins was nearly half a mile away.
Meanwhile on board of her there was trouble. As the port watch rushed wildly aft at the bosun's call, the first thing they saw was the broken body of Studpoker Bob, which, with crushed-in head, was lying crumpled up in a pool of blood, within a few feet of the senseless form of Black Davis.
The carpenter stood waving his arms at the door of his shop, shouting,
"Man ovairboard! Man ovairboard!"
The starboard watch came sliding down backstays from aloft in frantic haste. All hands were speedily in a wild state of excitement and indignation.
"Steady, boys, steady! Stand by yer lee braces!" called the bosun quietly in his deep voice.
"Hard down the wheel!" roared the old man. "No, hold hard, as yew were! Hold on all! Keep her as she goes!"
"Ain't you goin' to try an' pick 'em up, sir?" asked the bosun indignantly.
"What kin I do, bosun, what kin I do? We ain't got no boats! Snakes, what a 'tarnal mess! But thar ain't nothin' ter do. Send the port watch below," cried the old man unsteadily.
There was a roar of indignation from the crew at these words, and a storm of groans, hoots, and hisses broke forth.
"It's murder, begorr, black, bloody murder!" screeched Pat.
"Ain't you goin' ter give 'em a chanst?" cried the cockney with his shrill squeak.
Things began to look nasty. The men gathered round the main-hatch. Some of them drew knives, others pulled belaying-pins from the rail, and fists were shaken wildly at the old man as he stood at the break of the poop, roaring:
"Git forrard, yew rakin's an' scrapin's o' hell an' Sing-sing, git forrard, or I'll blow the guts outer some o' yer," and he lifted his Winchester threateningly.
A belaying-pin whirled and nearly knocked it out of his hands, whilst Angelino's knife stuck quivering in the rail before him.
"Jump up hyeh, bosun!" he jerked rapidly. "Steward, whar' are yew?"
"Here, sir!" called the steward at his back.
"Fetch my pistols an' git the hell of a gait on yer."
"Here they be's, sir," said the steward meekly, thrusting them forward.
He was a well-trained steward, and had been through this sort of business with Captain Bob Riley before.
"Better get forrard, boys," said the bosun soberly. "It's too late to do anything now, an' you ain't foolish enough to go buckin' against guns, are ye? We're short-enough handed as it is, without any more lame ducks."
The bosun's sensible words had their effect, and so did the old man's glittering nickel-plated six-shooters.
There was a murmur of consultation amongst the men, and two or three of the cowards began to sneak to the rear of the group.
"Wot er we goin' ter do?" asked the cockney. "St'y w'ere we are an' get plugged, rush 'im, or retryte. I ain't afryde of 'im an' I'm feelin' dyngerous."
"He's got the drop on us, pard. It ain't no manner o' use that I ever see'd, takin' liberties wi' six-shooters," declared old Ben gloomily.
"I'm gyme ter sock it to 'im, any'ow. I'll stand in ter jump 'im. Wot you sye, fellers?"
The cockney was as pugnacious as a cock-sparrow, and far from lacking in courage.
"Bedad, an' I'm with ye!" sang out Pat.
"It vas too lade, anyway; der ole man vas too schmard vor us," grunted Muller heavily.
"Dat am what I done told you," put in Sam.
"Wot er you w'inin' 'bout there, you good-fer-nothin' nigger," sneered the cockney. "You ain't no bloomin' use, any'ow, so shut yer jaw."
"Brazen sarpints!" broke in the old man again, "what's all this powwow about? Air yer goin' ter git forrard, or shall I slam her loose?"
What the outcome of the matter would have been it is difficult to say, but at this interesting point a big sea interrupted the discussion most effectively. Toppling aboard amidships, it overwhelmed the mutineers and washed them helter-skelter in every direction. So the trouble finished, and Yankee discipline once more reigned supreme.
Black Davis was taken below with a badly broken collar-bone, whilst the remains of Studpoker Bob, the gambler and sea-lawyer, were got ready for burial.
For a few days the absent ones were discussed in the foc's'le, until the advent of Cape Horn weather drove all other thoughts out of the minds of the short-handed crew.
But Curly went heavily-hearted about his work, whilst the big bosun also felt their loss in his own fashion.
And before the westerly gale flew the Higgins, leaving two men, a boy, and three life-savers to the mercy of the great southern rollers.