Frank Brown, Sea Apprentice

by Frank Thomas Bullen

The mate flushed and clenched his fist, but he would probably have swallowed the insult if it had not been for the skipper’s mocking laugh just behind him, one of those devilish inspirations that have been the cause of so many murders. It decided the mate, who sprang at Müller’s throat, and the pair came heavily to the deck. Almost as if by preconcerted signal the watch below rushed out, it being nine in the morning, and flung themselves at the pair, evidently intent on murdering the mate. But the three boys with one impulse hurled themselves into the fray, fighting like wild cats, not that they loved the mate, but because their instincts were on the side of law and order.

There was a very pretty scrum for a few minutes, the old man looking on from the poop with an amused air as if he were enjoying himself, until the second mate, who had been busy in his cabin, rushed to the rescue, armed with an iron belaying-pin, and almost immediately settled the business by giving the foreigners some reminders of authority that they did not forget in a long while.

Helping the mate to rise, and finding that although considerably pumped, he was not hurt, the big German having only clawed at him like an old woman, the second mate roared, “Get forrard, you curs, or I’ll shoot some of you,” producing at the same moment a revolver from his jacket pocket.

He did not have to speak twice, the motley crowd recognised their master, and hustled forrard out of his way on the instant.

Then turning to the mate he said, “Hope you’re all right, Mr. Jenkins, those brutes didn’t seem to do much but fumble.”

“Yes, thanks, Cope,” growled the mate, “I’m all right enough; but I’ve got a score to settle with one man that won’t wait any longer, and if it costs me my life I’m going to put it through now.”

And at the word he rushed up the poop-ladder and straight at the grinning skipper, who, unable to get away, put up both arms to guard his head and cowered before the mate’s mad rush at him. With a blow like a blacksmith’s the mate’s fist smashed through his feeble guard and brought him to his knees, then another crashing punch flattened his purple nose, from which a stream of dark blood spirted over his straggly beard. Again that vengeful fist was raised, but it did not fall, for the second mate and the three boys had by this time reached the furious mate, and clinging to him, implored him to desist. While they held him the crestfallen skipper crawled away below, and gradually Mr. Jenkins calmed down, only expressing the fervent hope that he had put a mark on his commanding officer that he would carry to his dishonoured grave.

“I’m all right now, Cope,” he said in almost jubilant tones, “and from this out I’ll run this ship on different lines, I’ll swear. Just a minute,” he continued, and he dived below, returning with a revolver in his hand and brandishing a fistful of cartridges.

“Now,” he said, as he loaded the weapon, “we’ll have a change. Go below, Mr. Cope, and thank you for your help. I think I can manage now. Lay aft the watch!”

The last words, uttered in a tremendous voice, brought the four members of his watch along in a hurry, the first one being Müller. As they came up to the break of the poop, the mate looking down upon them with the utmost scorn, said, “Get the slush-pots and lay aloft an’ grease down, you dirty scum. I’ll show you who’s boss of this packet. You’ll do what you like, will you? Think the skipper’ll back y’ up, do ye? I’ll look out for all of ye and get plenty of sleep, and if one of you so much as whimpers, d’ye see this?” brandishing the revolver, “I’ll shoot ye as soon as wink.”