Fourteen months out, as the Casilda was cruising northward, intending to touch at one of the Navigator's Islands (Samoa) to refresh, the first trouble occurred. Cheyne, Frewen's boatsteerer, who was a splendidly built, handsome young fellow of twenty-four years of age, received a rather severe injury to his right foot whilst a heavy baulk of timber was being “fleeted” along the deck. Frewen, who was much attached to him, dressed his foot as well as the rough appliances on board would allow, and then reported him to the captain as unfit for duty.
Keller growled something about all “darned half-breeds” being glad of any excuse to shirk duty.
Frewen took him up sharply: “This man is no shirker, sir. He is as good a man as ever 'stood up' to strike a whale. Did you ever see a better one?”
Keller looked at his second officer with fourteen months' repressed brutality glowering in his savage eyes.
“I'm the captain of this ship. Just you mind that. I reckon I can't be taught much by any college buster.”
Frewen's hands clenched, but he replied quietly, though he was inwardly raging at Keller's contemptuous manner—
“Just so. You are the captain of this ship, and I know my duty, sir. But I am not the man to be insulted by any one. And I say that my boatsteerer is not fit for duty.”
Keller's retort was of so insulting a character that in another moment the two men—to the intense delight of the crew—were fighting on the after-deck. Lopes and the cooper, as in duty bound, sprang forward and seized their fellow-officer, but the captain, with an oath, bade them stand aside.
“I'll pound you first,” he cried hoarsely to Frewen, “then I'll kick you into the foc'sle.”
The fight lasted for fifteen minutes, and then Lopes and the third mate forced themselves between and separated them. Both men were terribly punished.