“You bet they’re good sailors,” said Mr. Reynolds with emphasis. “You’re a lucky fellow to start your life afloat with such a commander as Captain John Lansford. He’s easily the best commander your line possesses, and I rate him as the best sailing into Galveston. He wouldn’t be commodore of the Confederated Lines if he weren’t a crackerjack, you can bet, and he wouldn’t be in charge of their newest and finest boat. But his brother is a close second.”
Roy made no reply. He had no idea his commander ranked so high. Presently they said good-bye to Mr. Reynolds and continued on up the water-front. They visited a number of great warehouses, had a look inside a grain elevator, and went aboard several more ships. Altogether Roy met eight or ten wireless operators. He felt grateful to the purser for making him acquainted with these men. He foresaw that it would make his work much more pleasant. When they came back to the ship the day was almost ended. Roy noticed that the big boom was no longer working, but had been made fast again. Evidently the ship was unloaded. Next day they would begin to take on cargo. Excepting for a few small shipments of stuff from Mexican ports, the cargo would consist almost wholly of cotton.
The instant Roy set eyes on his commander the next morning, he knew something was wrong. From the purser he soon learned that the cotton train that was bringing the Lycoming’s cargo had been wrecked, and would be many hours late, if not indeed whole days behind time. There was considerable cotton in the warehouse, but nowhere nearly enough to fill the Lycoming’s capacious holds.
The Mexican stuff was put aboard first. There were logs of mahogany, bags of coffee, bundles of crude rubber, quantities of cocoanuts, and bales of hemp. These were stowed in the very nose of the ship. Then the colored roustabouts began to load the cotton.
Roy had been astonished at the work done by the stevedores in New York. He was simply amazed at the herculean labors of the dusky cotton handlers. From the far end of the great warehouse, they came trundling the huge cotton bales, each weighing approximately five hundred pounds, on their little barrel trucks. But what astonished Roy was the way they shot their great loads into the ship’s hold. The tide was at ebb, and the Lycoming’s open ports were far below the level of the wharf. Down a steep gangway cut into the pier itself went the roustabouts, one behind another in a constant stream, each riding the handles of his truck to lessen the speed as his heavy load fairly shot down the incline. By the time the truck plunged through the open port its momentum was terrific. Yet the roustabout regained his footing, and guided the fast-moving truck to one side with incredible skill, often turning it at a sharp angle. For a long time Roy watched the ceaseless procession of cotton bales shoot into the Lycoming’s hold. At first he hardly breathed for fear a truck would upset as it made the sharp turn, and those behind it come crashing into it, probably mutilating, if not killing outright, the roustabouts that guided them. But truck after truck came plunging down, one close behind another, while the returning freight handlers as ceaselessly pushed their empty trucks up the other side of the gangway. It seemed to Roy that an accident must happen. Yet minute after minute passed and the procession of cotton bales continued without interruption.
For an hour Roy watched the roustabouts, his wonder at their strength and skill increasing minute by minute. Finally he decided that he would ask Mr. Young to show him the wheel-house and the officers’ quarters. He had hardly reached the main stairway, however, before a revenue officer came bustling aboard and demanded to see the Lycoming’s commander. Sam, the steward, carried the officer’s message up to the captain’s cabin, and a moment later Captain Lansford came striding down the stairway.
The revenue officer greeted him with great politeness. “I’m sorry to tell you, Captain Lansford,” he said, “that we are in receipt of a tip that a quantity of whiskey has been smuggled into this port from Mexico in bales of hemp. I have traced the bales and find they have been loaded aboard the Lycoming. I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll have to examine those bales.”
The captain gave an exclamation of disgust. “Where are those bales stowed?” he asked, turning to the officer in charge of loading.
“Forrard, sir, in the very nose of the ship.”
“Can we get at them easily?”