The Pilot and His Wife

by Jonas Lie

Salvé stood alone. The Americans and Irish had at first reckoned upon having him with them, but had gradually turned against him. They had taken offence at his apparent disinclination to associate with them more than he could help. He seemed to think himself too good for them; and in addition to that, the seaman-like qualities which he displayed made them dislike him out of envy. But their hostility was perhaps mainly due to the boatswain, who encouraged the idea among the rest of the crew that he was favoured by the officers. Federigo came out now in an unexpectedly friendly light; and Salvé perceived that it was only owing to him that all the Portuguese were not against him also. The result was that the two gradually approached such other again.

There were of course in such a collection of riff-raff, individual bullies whose hands were against every man, but who to some extent kept each other in check. The one most feared of these was a huge, copper-coloured, scarred Irishman, who seemed periodically to be possessed by a very demon of violence, and to be actually running over with bad blood. He had been in irons for some time before the vessel arrived at Rio, for having one day sworn on deck that he would murder the captain. It was with this ruffian that Salvé had first to measure himself, the boatswain being the immediate cause.

One day when the large bell forward had rung for dinner, the boatswain gave an order which detained Salvé for some time after the others had taken their places at the long table in the round-house, and when he came in everything was eaten up, and he lost his dinner. The following day exactly the same thing happened, and he had to content himself with his breakfast and supper rations for the day. He perfectly understood the meaning of it. In smartness and activity he was so far beyond comparison superior to any of the other foretop hands, that the boatswain had not been able to find any excuse for subjecting him to punishment: he was going to try and hit him in another way. On his lonely watch that night Salvé decided what he should do if the trick was practised a third time upon him. It would be better to bring things to a crisis at once than have his strength gradually exhausted by continued insufficiency of food.

The same order being given at the same time next day, he carried it out as speedily as he could, and hurried on then to the round-house, where the others were already at their dinner, with a bowl of meat and soup to every two men.

He sat down by the side of the Irishman, who he saw had a bowl to himself.

"Put the bowl this way," he said, coolly.

The Irishman merely looked at him contemptuously. He was evidently astonished at his audacity, but went on eating composedly.

Salvé felt that he must not be beaten.

"Life for life, Irishman," he cried, springing to his feet, and as the other also rose, giving him a blow in the face that sent him backwards on the bench against the wall.

A fierce conflict now ensued. The Irishman got up like a bleeding ox, and catching up a marline-spike that was hanging from the beam, gave Salvé a deep wound in the cheek, the scar of which he carried his whole life through. They drew their knives then; and Salvé's coolness and activity soon gave him the superiority over his furious and unwieldy opponent. His movements were like those of a steel spring; and pale and smiling, he delivered every blow with such well-calculated effect, that the affair ended with the Irishman, bleeding profusely and half-unconscious, tumbling out of the narrow doorway to save himself.