It was the second dog-watch; that time at sea when, the day’s work being over, decks swept up, and supper eaten, all hands bring out their pipes and gather in groups to discuss passing events, or to while away the twilight hour in telling stories.
Job, the negro cook, sat in the galley door singing one of the plaintive melodies of his race. An old banjo, played as only a darky can play that instrument, furnished the accompaniment. The singer’s voice was rich and mellow, and the simple notes floated out on the still evening air with a soothing charm that went straight to the heart, and struck many a forgotten chord in the breasts of the four rough seamen who comprised his audience. Near the booby hatch were gathered the mate, the bo’s’un and the steward; each relating in turn some reminiscence or bit of adventure connected with his past life. Many of these provoked roars of laughter, while the conclusion of a few was followed by a period of silence rendered more eloquent by a shake of the head or a sigh. That was the way these hardy men received the narration of some half-forgotten ocean tragedy.
“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” the steward was saying, “I recollect hearing of those two gales off Cape Flattery, now you speak of it. About ’87, wasn’t it?”
The mate thought a moment before he answered: “It was in the spring of ’87, in the first of those gales, that the ship St. Lawrence went to the bottom. If I live to be a hundred I’ll never forget it; but if I should happen to, here’s something that’ll make me remember.”
He pushed back the thick hair from his forehead and revealed an ugly-looking scar of a peculiar reddish-brown color. “Now you know why I wear my hair long even in the tropics,” he said. “I’ve not got much beauty to boast of, maybe, but I’m a little sensitive about that cursed mark all the same. I hate to think of it!”
The steward seemed astonished. “The St. Lawrence! You were on that ship, Mr. Morgan?” he exclaimed, in accents that betrayed his incredulity.
“I was mate of her on her last four voyages.”
“We were in Antwerp at the time, but I always understood that all hands were lost with her.”
“All but the carpenter and me.”