“I thought he would be company for you,” explained the sailor. “We are off in half an hour,” pointing to the Blue Peter at the fore. “And we’re loaded to the hatches. Mr. Kelly here will show you your quarters.”
As I followed the chief officer, I was astonished at the dimensions of the Star; it was a considerable distance from the captain’s snug cabin, near the bridge, to the poop. We made our way below, into a long saloon with tables and seats intact, but the aft part piled high with bales. There was a strange, musty, mouldy smell; it felt damp and vault-like, and afforded a sharp contrast to the blazing sun and cobalt sky on deck.
As my eye became used to the gloom, I noticed the lavish carving, the handsome mahogany and brass fittings, the maple-wood doors and panels—the remains of better days!
My cabin contained two bunks, and in one of these my servant, a Madras butler, called “Sawmy,” had already arranged my bedding.
“I wonder you don’t carry passengers?” I remarked to Mr. Kelly. “What a fine saloon! I should have thought it would have paid well.”
“She carried hundreds in her day,” he said complacently. “You see there is where the piano was hitched, and there the swinging lamps, and bookcase; but, all the same, it would never pay us to take passengers;” and he laughed—an odd sort of laugh. “We are not a regular liner, you know, trading between two ports. Regular liners look on us as dirt; but lots of ’em would give a good deal for our lines, and our engines. There’s some of them I would not send my old boots home in! We pick up cargo as we find it; one time we run to Zanzibar, another to Hong Kong, another to the Cape, or maybe Sydney. I’ve not been home this three years. I hope you’ll find your bunk comfortable; the youngster is opposite, just across the saloon—you know your way back!” and having done the honours, he left me.
Certainly, the Star was much above her present business, and bore the remains of having seen better days. Even my marble washstand was not in keeping with a cargo-steamer. I opened the next cabin; it was crammed to the door with freight—bird-cages in this instance. Every cabin was no doubt similarly packed. I was not sorry to exchange the earthy, chill atmosphere below for the bright sunshine on deck. Soon we had weighed anchor, and were moving smoothly down the rapid Irrawaddy, between high banks of tawny grass, gradually losing sight of the shipping, then of the golden Pagoda, then of Elephant Point; finally the Star put her nose straight out, to cross the Gulf of Martaban. The sea was calm, we were well fed and found, and made a pleasant party of six; the captain, first and second officers, the chief engineer, and two passengers. I slept like a top that night, and awoke next morning, and found we were anchored off Moulmein, with its hills covered with pagodas and palms. From Moulmein we put to sea, and still the weather once more favoured us. The captain was a capital companion, full of anecdotes and sea-stories; the chief engineer was a first-rate chess-player, and I began to think I had done rather a smart thing in securing a passage in this stray steamer. As the captain concluded a thrilling yarn apropos of a former ship, in which he had been third officer, I suddenly recalled the shipping clerk’s hint, and asked—
“Are there no stories about this one? has she no history?”
Captain Blane looked at the chief officer with a knowing grin, and then replied—
“History?—of course she has. What do you call the log-book? That’s her history. I suppose that chap at the office told you she was considered an unlucky ship? Eh? Come, now, own up!”