Frank Brown, Sea Apprentice

by Frank Thomas Bullen

The bottle was taken aft and opened. Its contents stunk of all the foul things imaginable, while as for the taste, no description of it would be adequate.

“And this was the stuff those unspeakable asses forward have been poisoning themselves with after buying it at such a rate. Well, well!” said the skipper, “the folly of sailors is surely without limit. But, thank God, that infernal devil will never poison a poor fool of a sailor any more.”

“Indeed I don’t know so much about that,” said Mr. Cope. “It’s harder to kill a Chinaman than a cat, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that fellow isn’t about again plying his vile business in a day or two. But at any rate we know now, thanks to Frank’s keeping his weather eye lifting, and others are not likely to come along here any more without getting their due.”

“Yes,” went on Mr. Jacks, “that boy gets smarter and better every day. I never saw a more likely lad, or one that shaped for a first-class seaman more steadily than he does.”

“I’ll have a talk to him presently,” said the skipper; “meanwhile let’s go and have a look at those poor fools in the forecastle, they seem to have quieted down a bit now.”

So they went forward to the forecastle, and hearing only groans and heavy breathing went in, to find the place a very slaughter-house, reminding one more of a Roman arena after a gladiatorial show than anything else. Fortunately no knives had been used, so that although blood had flowed in a ghastly manner the wounds were only superficial. But the bodies were nearly all naked, the clothes having been torn off them in shreds, beards and hair had been torn out by handfuls, and—but you can imagine what would happen if a dozen homicidal maniacs were suddenly turned loose upon one another, and further attempts at description would be disgusting.

Captain Jenkins turned away from the miserable spectacle with a sigh, feeling that he could do literally nothing at present until the fumes of that horrible poison had died out of its victims. But he went and found Frank and thanked him warmly for his help in locating the source of the evil.

Then, as a sudden idea came to him, he led the young man forward and showed him the forecastle, “Look at that, Frank,” he said, “and remember it all your life. The poor sailor has many drawbacks to a comfortable existence, but he has none greater than himself. And yet he is much to be pitied. Don’t forget this when you come to be in command, as I feel sure you will be; always remember that a sailor, in a ship like this at any rate, needs to be protected against himself in spite of himself, and, if you find a man who is all right, he deserves and should get every encouragement that you can safely give him, and you needn’t patronise him, which is of all things the treatment which disgusts him. Now go and turn in, and don’t forget that what you have done to-night has saved more trouble and suffering than you have any idea of, to say nothing of the expense to the ship.”

And so they parted for the night, Frank feeling at least an inch taller. But when Johnson asked him what on earth the old man had been gassing about for so long and he told him, Johnson replied discontentedly, “Some people have all the blessed luck.” As if luck could have anything to do with the matter.

Oh, but she was a sad ship the next day. The condition of the crew was too pitiful for words. Their injuries, severe as they were in many cases, were as nothing compared with the state of their brains and stomachs from the poison. The doctor paid his usual visit in the morning when the forecastle had been cleansed a little and the sufferers had got into their bunks. He gave it as his opinion that, despite the proverbial toughness of the sailor, it would be fully a week before any of them were fit for work again.