And now you know all of us on the quarter deck, and I’ll just say a word about our two blacks, Nux and Bryonia. They are South Sea Islanders, picked up by Uncle Naboth years ago and devoted now to us all—especially to my humble self. We’ve been together in many adventures, these ebony skinned men and I, and more than once I have owed my life to their fidelity. Nux is cabin master and steward; he’s the stockiest of the big fellows. Bryonia is ship’s cook, and worthy the post of chef at Sherry’s. He can furnish the best meal from the least material of any one I’ve ever known, and with our ample supplies you may imagine we live like pigs in clover aboard the Seagull.
Our crew consists of a dozen picked and tested men, all but one having sailed with us ever since the ship was launched. We lost a man on the way back from China a while ago, and replaced him in San Francisco with a stalwart, brown-skinned Mexican, Pedro by name. He wasn’t one of the lazy, “greaser” sort, but an active fellow with an intelligent face and keen eyes. Captain Hildreth of the Anemone gave us the man, and said he had given good service on two long voyages. But Pedro had had enough of the frozen north by that time and when he heard we were short a man begged to join us, knowing we were headed south. Captain Hildreth, who is our good friend, let us have him, and my father is pleased with the way the Mexican does his work.
The Seagull was built for commerce and has been devoted mainly to commerce; yet we do not like the tedium of regular voyages between given ports and have been quite successful in undertaking “tramp” consignments of freight to be delivered in various far-off foreign lands. During these voyages we have been led more than once into dangerous “side” adventures, and on our last voyage Joe, Archie and I had barely escaped with our lives—and that by the merest chance—while engaged in one of these reckless undertakings. It was this incident that caused Uncle Naboth and my father to look grave and solemn whenever their eyes fell upon us three, and while we lay anchored in San Francisco harbor they announced to me their decision to avoid any such scrapes in the future by undertaking to cover a regular route between Cuba and Key West, engaging in the tobacco and cigar trade.
I did not fancy this arrangement very much, but was obliged to submit to my partners and superiors. Archie growled that he would “quit us cold” at the first Atlantic port, but intended to accompany us around the Horn, where there might be a “little excitement” if bad weather caught us. Joe merely shrugged his shoulders and refrained from comment. And so we started from the Golden Gate en route for Cuba, laden only with our necessary stores for ballast, although our bunkers were full of excellent Alaska coal.
The stop in Magdalena Bay would be our last one for some time; so, being at anchor, with no duties of routine confronting us, we sat on deck enjoying the beautiful tropical evening and chatting comfortably while the sailors grouped around the forecastle and smoked their pipes with unalloyed and unaccustomed indolence.
The lights of the near-by torpedo fleet were beginning to glimmer in the gathering dusk when a small boat boarded us and we were surprised to see Lieutenant Allerton come on board again and approach our company. This time, however, he wore civilian’s clothes instead of his uniform.
Greeting us with quiet respect he asked:
“May I sit down, gentlemen? I’d like a little talk with you.”
Captain Steele pointed to a chair at his side.
“You are very welcome, sir,” he answered.