The Mutineers by Charles Boardman Hawes

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"As I've heard the story, young Webster was waiting by the river for his
boat, with a face as long as you'd hope to see, when a Chinese who'd been
watching him from a little distance came up and addressed him in such
pidgin English as he could muster and asked after his father. Of course
young Webster was taken by surprise, but he returned a civil answer, and
the two fell to talking together. It seemed that, once upon a time, when
the Chinese was involved, head and heels, with some rascally down-east
Yankee, old man Webster had come to the rescue and had got him out of the
scrape with his yellow hide whole and his moneybags untapped.

"The Chinaman seemed to suspect from the boy's long face that all was not
as it should be, and he squeezed more or less of the truth out of the
young fellow, had him up to the Hong again, gave him various gifts, and
sent him back to America with five teak-wood chests. Just five ordinary
teak-wood chests--but in those teak-wood chests, Ben, was the money that
put the Websters on their feet again. The hundred thousand dollars below
is for that Chinese merchant."

It was a strange tale, but stranger tales than that were told in the old
town from which we had sailed.

"And Captain Falk--?" I began questioningly.

"Captain Falk was never thought of as a possible master of this ship."

"Will he try to steal the money?"

Roger raised his brows. "Steal it? Steal is a disagreeable word. He thinks
he has a grievance because he was not given the chief mate's berth to begin
with. He says, at all events, that he will not hand over any such sum to a
yellow heathen. He thinks he can return it to the owners two-fold. Although
he seldom reads his Bible, I believe he referred to the man who was given
ten talents."

"But the owners' orders!" I exclaimed.

"The owners' orders in that respect were secret. They were issued to
Captain Whidden and to me, and Captain Falk refuses to accept my version of
them."

"And you?"

Roger smiled and looked me hard in the eye. "I am going to see that they
are carried out," he said. "The Websters would be grievously disappointed
if this commission were not discharged. Also--" his eyes twinkled in the
old way--"I am not convinced that Captain Falk is in all respects an
honest--no, let us not speak too harshly--let us say, a _reliable_ man."

"So there'll be a fight," I mused.

"We'll see," Roger replied. "In any case, you know the story. Are you with
me?"

After fifty years I can confess without shame that I was frightened when
Roger asked me that question, for Roger and I were only two, and Falk, by
hook or by crook, had won most of the others to his side. There was Bill
Hayden, to be sure, on whom we could count; but he was a weak soul at best,
and of the cook's loyalty to Roger and whatever cause he might espouse I
now held grave doubts. Yet I managed to reply, "Yes, Roger, I am with you."

I thought of my sister when I said it, and of the white flutter of her
handkerchief, which had waved so bravely from the old wharf when Roger and
I sailed out of Salem harbor. After all, I was glad even then that I had
answered as I did.

"I'll have more to say later," said Roger; "but if I stay here much longer
now, Falk and Kipping will be breaking in upon us." And, turning, he coolly
walked aft.

Falk and Kipping were still watching us with sneers, and not a few of the
crew gave us hostile glances as we separated. But I looked after Roger with
an affection and a confidence that I was too young fully to appreciate. I
only realized that he was upright and fearless, and that I was ready to
follow him anywhere.

More and more I was afraid of the influence that Captain Falk had
established in the forecastle. More and more it seemed as if he actually
had entered into some lawless conspiracy with the men. Certainly they
grumbled less than before, and accepted greater discomforts with better
grace; and although I found myself excluded from their councils without any
apparent reason, I overheard occasional snatches of talk from which I
gathered that they derived great satisfaction from their scheme, whatever
it was. Even the cook would have none of me in the galley of an evening;
and Roger in the cabin where no doubt he was fighting his own battles, was
far away from the green hand in the forecastle. I was left to my own
devices and to Bill Hayden.

To a great extent, I suppose, it counted against me that I was the son of a
gentleman. But if I was left alone forward, so Roger, I learned now and
then, was left alone aft.

Continually I puzzled over the complacency of the men. They would nod and
smile and glance at me pityingly, even when I was getting my meat from the
same kids and my tea from the same pot; and chance phrases, which I caught
now and then, added to my uneasiness.

Once old Blodgett, prowling like a cat in the night, was telling how he was
going to "take his money and buy a little place over Ipswich way. There's
nice little places over Ipswich way where a man can settle snug as you
please and buy him a wife and end his days in comfort. We'll go home by way
of India, too, I'll warrant you, and take each of us our handful of round
red rubies. Right's right, but right'll be left--mind what I tell you."
Another time--on the same day, as I now recall it--I overheard the
carpenter saying that he was going to build a brick house in Boston up on
Temple Place. "And there'll be fan-lights over the door," he said, "their
panels as thin as rose-leaves, and leaded glass in a fine pattern." The
carpenter was a craftsman who aspired to be an artist.

But where did old Blodgett or the carpenter hope to get the money to
indulge the tastes of a prosperous merchant? I suspected well enough the
answer to that question, and I was not far wrong.

The cook remained inscrutable. I could not fathom the expressions of his
black frowning face. Although Captain Falk of course had no direct
communication with him openly, I learned through Bill Hayden that
indirectly he treated him with tolerant and friendly patronage. It even did
not surprise me greatly to be told that sometimes he secretly visited the
galley after dark and actually hobnobbed with black Frank in his own
quarters. It was almost incredible, to be sure; but so was much else in
which Captain Falk was implicated, and I could see revealed now in the game
that he was playing his desire to win and hold the men until they had
served his ends, whatever those ends might be.

"Yass, sah," black Frank would growl absently as he passed me without a
glance, "dis am de most appetizin' crew eveh Ah cooked foh. Dey's got no
mo' bottom to dey innards dan a sponge has. Ah's a-cookin' mah head off to
feed dat bunch of wuthless man-critters, a-a-a-a-h!" And he would stump to
the galley with a brimming pail of water in each hand.

I came sadly to conclude that old Frank had found other friends more to his
taste than the boy in the forecastle, and that Captain Falk, by trickery
and favoritism, really was securing his grip on the crew. In all his petty
manoeuvres and childish efforts to please the men and flatter them and make
them think him a good officer to have over them, he had made up to this
point only one or two false steps.

Working our way north by west to the Straits of Singapore, and thence on
into the China Sea, where we expected to take advantage of the last weeks
of the southwest monsoon, we left far astern the low, feverous shores of
Sumatra. There were other games than a raid on India to be played for
money, and the men thought less and less now of the rubies of Burma and the
gold mohurs and rupees of Calcutta.

CHAPTER XIII

TROUBLE FORWARD

In the starboard watch, one fine day when there was neither land nor sail
in sight, Davie Paine was overseeing the work on the rigging and badly
botching it. The old fellow was a fair seaman himself, but for all his deep
voice and big body, his best friend must have acknowledged that as an
officer he was hopelessly incompetent. "Now unlay the strands so," he would
say. "No, that ain't right. No, so! No, that ain't right either. Supposing
you form the eye so. No, that ain't right either."

After a time we were smiling so broadly at his confused orders that we
caught the captain's eye.

He came forward quickly--say what you would against Captain Falk as an
officer, no one could deny that he knew his business--and instantly he took
in the whole unfortunate situation. "Well, _Mister_ Paine," he cried,
sarcastically stressing the title, "are n't you man enough to unlay a bit
of rope and make a Flemish eye?"

Old Davie flushed in hopeless embarrassment, and even the men who had been
chuckling most openly were sorry for him. That the captain had reason to be
dissatisfied with the second mate's work, we were ready enough to admit;
but he should have called him aside and rebuked him privately. We all, I
think, regarded such open interference as unnecessary and unkind.

"Why--y-yes, sir," Davie stammered.

"To make you a Flemish eye," Captain Falk continued in cold sarcasm, "you
unlay the end of the rope and open up the yarns. Then you half-knot some
half the inside yarns over that bit of wood you have there, and scrape the
rest of them down over the others, and marl, parcel, and serve them
together. That's the way you go to make a Flemish eye. Now then, _Mister_
Paine, see that you get a smart job done here and keep your eyes open, you
old lubber. I thought you shipped for able seaman. A fine picture of an
able seaman you are, you doddering old fool!"

It is impossible to reproduce the meanness with which he gave his little
lecture, or the patronizing air with which he walked away. Old Davie was
quite taken aback by it and for a time he could not control his voice
enough to speak. It was pitiful to see him drop all the pretensions of his
office and, as if desiring only some friendly word, try to get back on the
old familiar footing of the forecastle.

"I know I ain't no great shakes of a scholar," he managed to mutter at
last, "and I ain't no great shakes of a second mate. But he made me second
mate, he did, and he hadn't ought to shame me in front of all the men, now
had he? It was him that gave me the berth. If he don't like me in it, now
why don't he take it away from me? I didn't want to be second mate when he
made me do it, and I can't read figures good nor nothing. Now why don't he
send me forrard if he don't like the way I do things?"

The old man ran on in a pathetic monologue, for none of us felt exactly at
liberty to put in our own oars, and he could find relief only in his
incoherent talk. It had been a needless and unkind thing and the men almost
unanimously disapproved of it. Why indeed should Captain Falk not send
Davie back to the forecastle rather than make his life miserable aft? The
captain was responsible only to himself for the appointment, and its tenure
depended only on his own whims; but that, apparently, he had no intention
of doing.

"'Tain't right," old Blodgett murmured, careful not to let Captain Falk see
him talking. "He didn't ought to use a man like that."

"No, he didn't," Neddie Benson said in his squeaky voice, turning his face
so that neither Davie nor Captain Falk should see the motion of his lips.
"I didn't ought to ship for this voyage, either. The fortune teller--she
was a lady, she was, a nice lady--she says, 'Neddie, there'll be a dark man
and a light man and a store of trouble.' She kind of liked me, I think. But
I up and come. I'm always reckless."

A ripple of low, mild laughter, which only Kipping could have uttered,
drifted forward, and the men exchanged glances and looked furtively at old
Davie.

The murmur of disapproval went from mouth to mouth, until for a time I
dared hope that Captain Falk had quite destroyed the popularity that he had
tried so hard to win. But, though Davie was grieved by the injustice and
though the men were angry, they seemed soon to forget it in the excitement
of that mysterious plot from which Roger and I were virtually the only ones
excluded.

Nevertheless, like certain other very trivial happenings aboard the Island
Princess, Captain Falk's unwarrantable insult to Davie Paine--it seems
incongruous to call him "mister"--was to play its part later in events that
as yet were only gathering way.

We had not seen much of Kipping for a time, and perhaps it was because he
had kept so much to himself that to a certain extent we forgot his sly,
tricky ways. His laugh, mild and insinuating, was enough to call them to
mind, but we were to have a yet more disagreeable reminder.

All day Bill Hayden had complained of not feeling well and now he leaned
against the deck-house, looking white and sick. Old Davie would never have
troubled him, I am sure, but Kipping was built by quite another mould.

Unaware of what was brewing, I turned away, sorry for poor Bill, who seemed
to be in much pain, and in response to a command from Kipping, I went aloft
with an "Ay, ay sir," to loose the fore-royal. Having accomplished my
errand, I was on my way down again, when I heard a sharp sound as of
slapping.

Startled, I looked at the deck-house. I was aware at the same time that the
men below me were looking in the same direction.

The sound of slapping was repeated; then I heard a mild, gentle voice
saying, "Oh, he's sick, is he? Poor fellow! Ain't it hard to be sick away
from home?" Slap--slap. "Well, I declare, what do you suppose we'd better
do about it? Shan't we send for the doctor? Poor fellow!" Slap--slap. "Ah!
ah! ah!" Kipping's voice hardened. "You blinking, bloody old fool. You
would turn on me, would you? You would give me one, would you? You would
sojer round the deck and say you're sick, would you? I 'll show you--take
that--I'll show you!"

Now, as I sprang on deck and ran out where I could see what was going
forward, I heard Bill's feeble reply. "Don't hit me, sir. I didn't go to do
nothing. I'm sick. I've got a pain in my innards. I _can't_ work--so help
me, I _can't_ work."

"Aha!" Again Kipping laughed mildly. "Aha! _Can't_ work, eh? I'll teach you
a lesson."

Bill staggered against the deck-house and clumsily fell, pressing his hands
against his side and moaning.

"Hgh!" Kipping grunted. "Hgh!"

At that moment the day flashed upon my memory when I had sat on one side of
that very corner while Kipping attempted to bully Bill on the other side of
it--the day when Bill had turned on his tormentor. I now understood some of
Kipping's veiled references, and a great contempt for the man who would use
the power and security of his office to revenge himself on a fellow seaman
who merely had stood up bravely for his rights swept over me. But what
could I or the others do? Kipping now was mate, and to strike him would be
open mutiny. Although thus far, in spite of the dislike with which he and
Captain Falk regarded me, my good behavior and my family connections had
protected me from abuse, I gladly would have forfeited such security to
help Bill; but mutiny was quite another affair.

We all stood silent, while Kipping berated Bill with many oaths, though
poor Bill was so white and miserable that it was almost more than we could
endure. I, for one, thought of his little girl in Newburyport, and I
remember that I hoped she might never know of what her loving, stupid old
father was suffering.

Enraged to fury by nothing more or less than Bill's yielding to his
attacks, Kipping turned suddenly and reached for the carpenter's mallet,
which lay where Chips had been working nearby. With a round oath, he
yelled, "I'll make you grovel and ask me to stop."

Kipping had moved quickly, but old Bill moved more quickly still. Springing
to his feet like a flash, with a look of anguish on his face such as I hope
I never shall see again, he warded off a blow of the mallet with his hand
and, running to the side, scrambled clean over the bulwark into the sea.

We stood there like men in a waxwork for a good minute at the very least;
and if you think a minute is not a long time, try it with your eyes shut.
Kipping's angry snarl was frozen on his mean features,--it would have been
ludicrous if the scene had not been so tragic,--and his outstretched hand
still held the mallet at the end of the blow. The carpenter's mouth was
open in amazement. Neddie Benson, the first to move or break the silence,
had spread his hands as if he were about to clutch at a butterfly or a
beetle; dropping them to his side, he gasped huskily, "She said there'd be
a light man and a dark man--I--oh, Lord!"

It was the cook, as black as midnight and as inscrutable as a figurehead,
who brought us to our senses. Silently observing all that had happened, he
had stood by the galley, without lifting his hand or changing the
expression of a single feature; but now, taking his pipe from his mouth, he
roared, "Man ovehboa'd!" Then, snatching up the carpenter's bench with one
hand and gathering his great body for the effort, he gave a heave of his
shoulders and tossed the bench far out on the water.

As if waking from a dream, Mr. Kipping turned aft, smiling scornfully, and
said with a deliberation that seemed to me criminal, "Put down the helm!"

So carelessly did he speak, that the man at the wheel did not hear him, and
he was obliged to repeat the order a little more loudly. "Didn't you hear
me? I say, put down the helm."

"Put down the helm, sir," came the reply; and the ship began to head up in
the wind.

At this moment Captain Falk, having heard the cook's shout, appeared on
deck, breathing hard, and took command. However little I liked Captain
Falk, I must confess in justice to him that he did all any man could have
done under the circumstances. While two or three hands cleared away a
quarter-boat, we hauled up the mainsail, braced the after yards and raised
the head sheets, so that the ship, with her main yards aback, drifted down
in the general direction in which we thought Bill must be.

Not a man of us expected ever to see Bill again. He had flung himself
overboard so suddenly, and so much time had elapsed, that there seemed to
be no chance of his keeping himself afloat. I saw that the smile actually
still hovered on Kipping's mean, mild mouth. But all at once the cook, near
whom I was standing, grasped my arm and muttered almost inaudibly, "If dey
was to look behine, dey'd get ahead, yass, sah."

Taking his hint, I looked astern and cried out loudly. Something was
bobbing at the end of the log line. It was Bill clinging desperately.

When we got him on board, he was nearer dead than alive, and even the stiff
drink that the captain poured between his blue lips did not really revive
him. He moaned continually and now and then he cried out in pain.
Occasionally, too, he tried to tell us about his little girl at
Newburyport, and rambled on about how he had married late in life and had a
good wife and a comfortable home, and before long, God willing, he would be
back with them once more and would never sail the seas again. It was all so
natural and homely that I didn't realize at the time that Bill was
delirious; but when I helped the men carry him below, I was startled to
find his face so hot, and presently it came over me that he did not
recognize me.

Poor old stupid Bill! He meant so well, and he wished so well for all of
us! It was hard that he should be the one who could not keep out of harm's
way.

But there were other things to think of, more important even than the fate
of Bill Hayden, and one of them was an extraordinary interview with the
cook.

I heard laughter in the galley that night, and lingered near as long as I
dared, with a boy's jealous desire to learn who was enjoying the cook's
hospitality. By his voice I soon knew that it was the steward, and
remembering how black Frank once was ready to deceive him for the sake of
giving me a piece of pie, I was more disconsolate than ever. After a while
I saw him leave, but I thought little of that. I still had two more hours
to stand watch, so I paced along in the darkness, listening to the sound of
the waves and watching the bright stars.

When presently I again passed the galley I thought I heard a suspicious
sound there. Later I saw something move by the door. But neither time did I
go nearer. I had no desire for further rebuffs from the old negro.

When I passed a third time, at a distance of only a foot or two, I was
badly startled. A long black arm reached out from the apparently closed
door; a black hand grasped me, lifted me bodily from the floor, and
silently drew me into the galley, which was as dark as Egypt. I heard the
cook close the door behind me and bolt it and cover the deadlight with a
tin pan. What he was up to, I had not the remotest idea; but when he had
barricaded and sealed every crack and cranny, he lighted a candle and set
it on a saucer and glared at me ferociously.

"Mind you, boy," he said in a very low voice, "don't you think Ah'm any
friend of yo's. No, sah. Don't you think Ah'm doing nothin' foh you. No,
sah. 'Cause Ah ain't. No, sah. Ah'm gwine make a fo'tune dis yeh trip, Ah
am. Yass, sah. Dis yeh nigger's gwine go home putty darn well off. Yass,
sah. So don't you think dis yeh nigger's gwine do nothin' foh you. No,
sah."

For a moment I was completely bewildered; then, as I recalled the darky's
crafty and indirect ways, my confidence returned and I had the keenest
curiosity to see what would be forthcoming.

"Boys, dey's a pest," he grumbled. "Dey didn't had ought to have boys
aboa'd ship. No, sah. Cap'n Falk, he say so, too."

The negro was looking at me so intently that I searched his words for some
hidden meaning; but I could find none.

"No, sah, boys am de mos' discombobulationest eveh was nohow. Yass, sah.
Dey's been su'thin' happen aft. Yass, sah. Ah ain't gwine tell no boy,
nohow. No, sah. 'Taint dis nigger would go tell a boy dat Mistah Hamlin he
have a riot with Mistah Cap'n Falk, no sah. Ah ain't gwine tell no boy dat
Mistah Hamlin, he say dat Mistah Cap'n Falk he ain't holdin' to de right
co'se, no, sah; nor dat Mistah Cap'n Falk he bristle up like a guinea
gander and he say, while he's swearin' most amazin', dat he know what co'se
he's sailin', no, sah. Ah ain't gwine tell no boy dat Mistah Hamlin, he say
he am supercargo, an' dat he reckon he got orders f'om de owners; and
Mistah Cap'n Falk, he say he am cap'n and he cuss su'thin' awful 'bout dem
orders; and Mistah Roger Hamlin he say Mistah Cap'n Falk his clock am a
hour wrong and no wonder Mistah Kipping am writing in de log-book dat de
ship am whar she ain't; and Mistah Kipping he swear dre'ful pious and he
say by golly he am writer of dat log-book and he reckon he know what's what
ain't. No, sah, Ah ain't gwine tell a boy dem things 'cause Ah tell stew'd
Ah ain't, an' stew'd, him an' me is great friends, what's gwine make a
fo'tune _when Mistah Cap'n Falk git dat money_!"

He said those last words in a whisper, and stared at me intently; in that
same whisper, he repeated them, "When Mistah Cap'n Falk git dat money_!"

Then, in a strangely meditative way, as if an unfamiliar process of thought
suddenly occupied all his attention, he muttered absently, letting his eyes
fall, "Seem like Ah done see dat Kipping befo'; Ah jes' can't put mah
finger on him." It was the second time that he had made such a remark in my
hearing.

The candle guttered in the saucer that served for a candlestick, and its
crazy, wavering light shone unsteadily on the black face of the cook, who
continued to stare at me grimly and apparently in anger. A pan rattled as
the ship rolled. Water splashed from a bucket. I watched the drops falling
from the shelf. One--two--three--four--five--six--seven! Each with its
_pht_, its little splash. They continued to drip interminably. I lost all
count of them. And still the black face, motionless except for the wildly
rolling eyes, stared at me across the galley stove.

CHAPTER XIV

BILL HAYDEN COMES TO THE END OF HIS VOYAGE

I was ejected from the galley as abruptly and strangely as I had been drawn
into it. The candle went out at a breath from the great round lips; the big
hand again closed on my shoulder and lifted me bodily from my chair. The
door opened and shut, and there was I, dazed by my strange experience and
bewildered by the story I had heard, outside on the identical spot from
which I had been snatched ten minutes before.

In my ears the negro's parting message still sounded, "Dis nigger wouldn't
tell a boy one word, no sah, not dis nigger. If he was to tell a boy jest
one leetle word, dat boy, he might lay hisself out ready foh a fight. Yass,
sah."

For a long time I puzzled over the whole extraordinary experience. It was
so like a dream, that only the numbness of my arm where the negro's great
fist had gripped it convinced me that the happenings of the night were
real. But as I pondered, I found more and more significance in the cook's
incoherent remarks, and became more and more convinced that their
incoherence was entirely artful. Obviously, first of all, he was trying to
pacify his conscience, which troubled him for breaking the promise of
secrecy that he probably had given the steward, from whom he must have
learned the things at which he had hinted. Also he had established for
himself an alibi of a kind, if ever he should be accused of tattling about
affairs in the cabin.

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