“Take him off the man, some of you,” cried Captain Gillespie, who had not made any effort to stop the combat until now that it bad arrived at such an unsatisfactory stage for the steward. “Don’t you see that yellow devil’s murdering him? He looks more than half dead already!”
Tim Rooney hereupon stepped forwards; but Ching Wang did not need any force to compel him to quit his powerless foe.
Disengaging his pigtail from Pedro’s limp fingers, he arose with a sort of native dignity from his prostrate position over the Portuguese, his round face all one bland smile—although it bore sundry scratches on its otherwise smooth surface, whose oiliness had probably saved it from greater hurt.
“Him no sabbey,” he exclaimed, pointing down to the still prostrate Pedro, who, now that the Chinaman’s grip had been released from his throat, began to show signs of returning life, “what me can do. Him more wanchee, Ching Wang plenty givee chop chop!”
“I tell ye what, me joker,” cried “Old Jock” after him as the victorious cook retired into his galley on making this short speech, with all the honours of war—the hands raising a cheer, which the presence of the captain could not drown, at the result of the encounter; for all of them looked on the steward as one opposed to their interests, and who cheated them in their provisions when serving them out, regarding the Chinaman, on the other hand, as their friend and ally, he always taking their part in this respect. “I tell ye what, me joker, I’ll stop your wages and make ye pay for my fowls when we get to Shanghai! I don’t mind your basting the steward, for a thrashing will do him good, as he has wanted one for some time; but I do mind your knocking those fine birds of mine about with your confounded ‘one piecee cock-fightee.’ Look at this one, now; he’s fit for nothing but the pot, and the sooner you cook him the better.”
Ching Wang only smiled more blandly than ever as the captain, who had picked up the two cocks, flung the silver and gold one into the galley, taking the other aft and restoring it to its coop; while Pedro, rising presently to his feet, amidst the grins of the men around, sneaked after “Old Jock,” saying never a word but looking by no means amiable. His departure ended the incident of the morning, and we immediately finished sluicing the decks, the cook and steward fight having somewhat delayed this operation, as it was getting on for “eight bells” and nearly breakfast-time.
Towards noon, on the same day, we passed by the island of Tristan da Cunha, the land bearing on our port quarter sou’-west by south when seen; and, on the thirteenth day after turning our backs on the Martin Vas Rocks, we crossed the meridian of Greenwich in latitude 46 degrees 58 minutes south, steering almost due east so as to weather the Cape of Good Hope. The westerly wind was dead aft, which made us roll a bit; but we “carried on,” with the ship covered with sail from truck to kelson and stu’n’sails all the way up both on our weather side and to leeward, as well as spinnakers and a lot of other things in the sail line whose names I can’t remember.
Proceeding thus gaily along, with our yards squared and every stitch of canvas drawing fore and aft, in another couple of days or so the Cape pigeons and shearwaters began to come about the ship, showing that we were approaching the stormy region Mr Mackay had warned me of; and on the fourth night the sky ahead of us became overcast, while a lot of sheet and zig-a-zaggy “chain lightning,” as sailors call it, told us to look out for squalls.
This was a true portent; for the wind freshened during the first watch, causing us to take in all of our stu’n’sails before midnight. Then followed the royals and topgallants in quick succession, the main-sail and inner and outer jibs being next furled and the foresail reefed, the vessel at “four bells” being only under topsails and fore-topgallant staysail and reefed foresail.
As I had noticed previously, when crossing the Bay of Biscay, the sea got up very quickly as the wind increased, only with much more alarming rapidity now than then; for, while at sunset the ocean was comparatively smooth, it became covered with big rolling waves by the time that we began to reduce sail, the billows swelling in size each moment, and tossing and breaking against each other as the wind shifted round dead in our teeth to the north-east, the very quarter where we had seen the lightning.