“SOLITAIRE” BILL
By Arthur Felix McEachern
Captain Billy MacDonald was one of those dour Highland Scotsmen; deep-water men; exhaling an unmistakable atmosphere of the sea. Past middle age, taciturn; yet there was that indescribable glimmer in his gray eyes betraying a sense of humor. If indications pointed to a “spell of weather,” Captain Billy habitually retired to his cabin, leaving orders with the mate to “call me if it breezes up,” and when the first puff of a squall bellied the sails of the Lizzie MacDonald—named after his daughter, and second only to her in his affections—heeling the bark in to her lee scuppers, Captain Billy would hastily leave his game of solitaire and bound on deck. One glance at the heavens sufficed for his decision. With him decision and action were synonymous; and when he bellowed the order, “All hands shorten sail,” every man-Jack jumped to the ratlines, for “Solitaire” Bill, as the captain was known to seafaring men from Glasgow to the Horn, was an Absolute Monarch when at sea.
For twenty years the bark Lizzie MacDonald had freighted hither and yon about the Atlantic, and was one of the few of her type which had managed to stay in the running against modern steam tramp competition. She lay in the roads at Kingston, Jamaica, having discharged a cargo of dry fish from Boston, and was all ready to clear for Liverpool with sugar and molasses. War conditions had boosted freight rates, and the Lizzie had been paying her owners as never before.
It was 102 degrees in the shade, and at ten o’clock in the forenoon “Solitaire Bill” sat in his cabin at a rickety table apparently oblivious to everything except the inevitable solitaire. It was not generally known that the captain could more clearly map out a course or think of foreign subjects to better advantage when thus engaged than at any other time, and when the Yankee mate came aboard in a bum-boat, he coughed apologetically before disturbing the skipper.
“Well,” said Captain Billy, looking up in the act of placing the ten of diamonds on the queen of spades, “what’s the good word?”
“Nothing stirring,” answered the mate, an angular, weather-beaten man with the unmistakable nasal twang of the New-Englander. “The cook’s the only one of the outfit of them with the spunk of a rabbit. It was as I anticipated. The crew were afraid of the German submarines, and they jumped north on the steam tramp that left for New York this morning.”
“So there’s no chance to get a crew,” ruminated the captain. “It is too bad that we are to be delayed at this time when freight rates are so high, but I suppose it cannot be helped. We can’t sail without men, that’s sure.”
“There ain’t a sailorman without a ship in Kingston,” averred the mate. “If we were steam we could ship a dozen or so of these niggers, but they won’t do on a square-rigger. They wouldn’t know the main’t’gall’n’s’l halyards from the bobstay,” and the mate went on deck leaving “Solitaire” Bill pursuing the pastime which was his hobby.
That afternoon when a slight breeze swept through the city from the mountain behind, “Solitaire” Bill had the cook put him ashore. He intended cabling his agents that he would be indefinitely delayed owing to lack of a crew. Mechanically he walked through the sun-blistered streets past the squat white houses with negroes lolling in the doorways, to the Custom House, where he found a cablegram awaiting him.
As he perused the typewritten sheet a smile flitted over his care-worn features. It was as he had hoped, although he had made it a point to never meddle in his daughter’s affairs. He had scrimped to give her the education which neither he nor her dead mother had enjoyed, and though he had seen her never more than twice yearly, he had known of her reciprocation to the love of Douglas MacGillis, and had approved of her choice. He reread the cablegram: “Douglas and I to be married March 30th. He leaves for the front early April. Expect you Liverpool before 30th.”
Since the death of his wife, fifteen years before, his daughter, Lizzie, had been the constant object of “Solitaire” Bill’s care and affection. She was to marry a Scotsman; a gentleman; and one who was going to the firing line to “do his bit” for King and country. Many a time since the outbreak of war had Captain Billy wished that he were younger. Gladly would he have donned the khaki to fight for Britain in the trenches. His was the indomitable spirit of the Highlander. But, though vigorous and keen of mind as are the majority of men of half his years, he was beyond the active service age limit, so he devoted himself to the equally patriotic task of bringing supplies to Britain to keep her wheels of commerce humming.
“If I had a crew,” he muttered, as he shuffled the dog-eared deck of cards in the solitude of his cabin while awaiting the evening meal, “I could make Liverpool, weather permitting, in time for the wedding. If I could do that—well, that’s all I ask——”
Suddenly Captain “Solitaire” Bill burst into a paroxysm of laughter. “By the Powers, I’ll try it,” he cried, as he bounded up the companionway with boyish light-heartedness.
“Supper’s ready,” called the cook from the door of the galley.
“Get supper ready for a full crew,” ordered the skipper, “and will you come ashore with me, Mr. Smith?” he said to the mate. “I want you to round up a crew of those niggers, while I go to the Custom House and clear. We sail as soon as you get them.”
The mate looked incredulously. “The niggers can’t box the compass even, and——”
“Never mind about that,” commanded “Solitaire” Bill, “you get them aboard and leave the rest to me.”
· · · · · · ·
“Well, I might as well explain now; it’s too good to keep a moment longer,” chuckled “Solitaire” Bill, as he ordered the driver of the taxi waiting in front of the church to drive to the Liverpool House.
“We are assuredly anxious to learn what you and Mr. Smith are laughing about,” chorused Lieut. Douglas MacGillis and his wife in unison. The mate, Mr. Smith, was obviously uncomfortable in what he termed his “moonlight clothes,” nevertheless he laughed immoderately as he indulged in retrospection.
“I’ve always been a fiend for solitaire,” said Captain Billy, “and after getting your cable I was in a quandary, and sought solace in a game with myself. I wanted to get to this wedding more than anything else, but I couldn’t get here without a crew to work the ship, and sailormen were about as plentiful as hen’s teeth in Kingston. But the cards gave me an inspiration. I shipped a crew of niggers who did not know one rope from another on a square-rigged ship—but they all knew how to play cards. I fastened a playing card to each of the principal ropes and sails, and those niggers were like cats aloft.
“When I shouted, ‘Clew up your ace of spades,’ they were after that mizzen-royal in a jiffy. Mr. Smith, the cook, and myself took turns at the wheel. ‘Double reef your deuce of diamonds,’ and they made snug the fores’l to a nicety. All’s well that ends well. I never had a smarter lot of sailors. I know the men all called me ‘Solitaire’ Bill behind my back, but henceforth and hereafter, every fo’c’sle hand and the cook calls me ‘Solitaire,’ or they don’t sign articles on the trimmest brig that sails the Atlantic.”