“Did ye ever see such a mess in all your born days?” disgustedly observed Captain O’Shea. “And we will have to live with this menagerie for a week or so, Johnny.”
“It’ll be a whole lot worse when all of ’em are took sea-sick,” was the discouraging reply. “Doggone ’em, they ain’t even stowed their kits away. They just flopped and died in their tracks. Why don’t you make their colonel kick some savvey into ’em, eh, Cap’n Mike?”
“Colonel Calvo?” and O’Shea spat to leeward with a laugh. “He is curled up in the spare state-room, and his complexion is as green as a starboard light. There is one American in the lot. Wait till I fetch him up.”
A deck-hand was sent into the dismal chaos, and there presently returned in his wake a lean, sandy man in khaki who clutched an old-fashioned Springfield rifle. At a guess his years might have been forty, and his visage had never a trace of humor in it. Much drill had squared his shoulders and flattened his back, and he stiffly saluted Captain O’Shea.
“Who are you, and what are ye doing in such amazin’ bad company?” asked the latter.
“My name is Jack Gorham, sir. I served four enlistments in the Fifth Infantry, and I have medals for marksmanship. The Cubans took me on as a sharp-shooter. They promised me a thousand dollars for every Spanish officer I pick off with this old gun of mine. I have a hundred and fifty rounds. You can figure it out for yourself, sir. I’ll be a rich man.”
“Provided ye are not picked off first, me hopeful sharp-shooter. Are there any more good men in your crowd?”
The old regular dubiously shook his head as he answered:
“There’s a dozen or so that may qualify on dry land. The rest ain’t what you’d call reliable comrades-in-arms.”
“Oh, they may buck up,” exclaimed Captain O’Shea. “Look here, Gorham, you can’t live on deck with those sea-sick swine. Better go for’ard and bunk with my crew.”