"I quit my cabin sweating big drops, and somehow my hand shut on my six-shooter. The grip of the handle soothes a man when he is afraid. I heard the whole ship 'tween-decks rustling under me like all the woods of Maine when the wind's up. The lamp over the 'tween-decks was out. The steerage watchman was lying on the ground, and the whole hive of Celestials were on the tramp—soft-footed hounds. A lantern came down the alley-way. Behind it was the passenger that had spoken to me, and all the rest of the crowd, except the half-caste.
"'Are you homesick any now?' said my passenger. The 'tween-decks woke up with a yell at the light, and some one fired up the hatch-way. Then we began our share of the fun—the ten passengers and I. Eleven six-shooters. That cleared the first rush of the pigtails, but we continued firing on principle, working our way down the steps. No one came down from the spar-deck to assist, though I heard considerable of a trampling. The pigtails below were growling like cats. I heard the lookout man shout, 'Junk on the port bow,' and the bell ring in the engine-room for full speed ahead. Then we struck something, and there was a yell inside and outside the ship that would have lifted your hair out. When the outside yell stopped, our pigtails were on their faces. 'Run down a junk,' said my passenger—'their junk.' He loosed three shots into the steerage on the strength of it. I went up on deck when things were quiet below. Some one had run our Dahlgren signal-gun forward and pointed it to the break of the fo'c'sle. There was the balance of a war junk—three spars and a head or two on the water, and the first mate keeping his watch in regular style.
"'What is your share?' he said. 'We've smashed up a junk that tried to foul us. Seems to have affected the feelings of your friends below. Guess they wanted to make connection.' 'It is made,' said I, 'on the Glassy Sea. Where's the watch?' 'In the fo'c'sle. The half-caste is sitting on the signal-gun smoking his cigar. The watch are speculatin' whether he'll stick the business-end of it in the touch-hole or continue smoking. I gather that gun is not empty.' 'Send 'em down below to wash decks. Tell the quartermaster to go through their boxes while they are away. They may have implements.'
"The watch went below to clean things up. There were eighteen stiff uns and fourteen with holes through their systems. Some died, some survived. I did not keep particular count. The balance I roped up, and it employed most of our spare rigging. When we touched port there was a picnic among the hangmen. Seems that Erastasius had been yowling down the cabins all night before he came to me, and kept the passengers alive. The man that spoke to me said the old man's eyes were awful to look at. He was dying to tell his fear, but couldn't. When the passengers came forward with the light, the half-caste quit for topside and got the quartermaster to load the signal-gun with handspikes and bring it forward in case the fo'c'sle wished to assist in the row. That was the best half-caste I ever met. But the fo'c'sle didn't assist. They were sick. So were the men below—horror-sick. That was the way the old man saved the Whanghoa."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] "Turnovers," Vol. VII.
[HER LITTLE RESPONSIBILITY][2]
And No Man May Answer for the Soul of His Brother