Bahama Bill, Mate of the Wrecking Sloop Sea-Horse

by T. Jenkins Hains

"Make it three hundred at the limit," said James with more decision than his employer had ever given him credit for.

"Er—er, well, let it go at that, then. You'll attend to stowing 'em, give 'em plenty of grub—it's only a couple of days with good weather, and they can stand on deck for that time."

"All right, then," said the sailor with a sigh. He was not a bad man, only weakened by misfortune. Had he lived a little differently, had better luck and governed his thirst, he would have compared favourably with many of the best skippers in the West India trade. He arose, clapped on his grass hat and mopped his red face, squared his fat shoulders under his dirty white linen coat, and strode forth into the glaring sunshine. He went down the street, stopped at a saloon, took several drinks, and after that went aboard, rousing the chief engineer and ordering steam for five o'clock that afternoon.

"We will get to sea before dark," said he to the mate Mr. McDuff. "Don't get too drunk, we've got a big job—I'll tell you later."

A week later the Enos was steaming over the calm and beautiful Caribbean. The sky was a tropical blue dotted with the lumpy trade clouds, and the sea was that beautiful tint only seen during perfect weather. She was running along smoothly down past the Quita-suena Bank, between it and the Serrano Cays, and so far all had gone well. Jones had proved an agent worthy of Mr. Booker's best expectations. He had managed to get together three hundred and ten strapping fellows who were destined to dig for the good of maritime commerce, and he had held out inducements which, while models of veracity, were also works of art. He had made even the most sordid details of life upon the Isthmus appear in the garb of most attractive romance, and money—why, money was the thing the Canal cared less for than anything in the world. Three hundred and ten men were destined to be rich in this world's goods. He had convinced even the most skeptical of this, and the only thing that kept the rest of the population upon the Cayman was the size of the Enos. He wished to ship five hundred, but James was sturdy enough to stop him. Under the influence of six copious drinks of rum and cola, he had managed to put up a determined opposition. He finally threatened to go ashore and get very drunk if another man was sent him, and Jones knowing him to be quite capable of keeping his word in this respect, desisted at three hundred and ten.

"You fat sea-scutt, I'd fry the grease out o' you if I could get another man to take the ship," said Jones in a fury. "I get a dollar a head for those niggers, an' you've done me to the tune of two hundred—but you can bet I won't forget you, you lobster, you blamed fat lobster—"

Captain James contented himself with calling the agent every name he could remember that carried disgrace or disrespect along with it, and after that stood upon the bridge storming and fuming, every now and then bursting forth when some new and especially choice adjective happened to reach his memory.

By the time the Enos reached the vicinity of Quita-suena Bank, the skipper had cooled both mentally and physically, the evaporation of the rum with which he supplied himself producing a revivifying effect only to be appreciated by one who is addicted to rum and cola. His wrath had subsided until he scarcely mumbled his disdain for the energetic Jones, and his face, always red and swollen from both the fierce sunshine and his diet, now took on a more natural hue.

"Let her go well to the westward of the Roncador," said he to McDuff as the mate came on the bridge that evening. "The current is very strong, and I ain't quite certain of the rate of our chronometer. Got a jolt last voyage and seems to be going wrong ever since. Get your lights burning brightly to-night—there'll be some ships passing and there's no use saving five cents' worth of oil for that buzzard, Booker—and tell the chief to hustle her along, toss in the coals, and if the second is drunk, turn the hose on him, for we'll have to drive her through. The niggers will have to go below at eight bells; can't have 'em lying about the deck all night getting in the way. It's cool enough with the blowers on—keep 'em turned to the wind, that's your business. South five east by Standard, and that'll be about south two by the binnacle—keep your eye peeled. That's all."

Captain James retired to his room while the Enos rolled slowly down the Caribbean, dipping her gray sides alternately into the smooth sea which rolled lazily. The gathering darkness still showed the forms of many big coloured men lying upon the now silent deck, but when eight bells struck off they were told to go below, and after that the deck was deserted save by the men of the watch.