"Where Angels Fear to Tread" and Other Stories of the Sea , livre ebook

Pub One Info - Morgan Robertson

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108 pages

English

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Contains: Where angels fear to tread - The brain of the battle-ship - The wigwag message -- The trade-wind - Salvage - Between the millstones - The battle of the monsters - From the royal-yard down - Needs must when the devil drives - When Greek meets Greek - Primordial

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819902874
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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PART I
The first man to climb the Almena's side-ladder from the tug was the shipping-master, and after himcame the crew he had shipped. They clustered at the rail, lookingaround and aloft with muttered profane comments, one to the other,while the shipping-master approached a gray-eyed giant who stoodwith a shorter but broader man at the poop-deck steps. "Mr. Jackson– the mate here, I s'pose?" inquired the shipping-master. A nodanswered him. "I've brought you a good crew," he continued; "we'lljust tally 'em off, and then you can sign my receipt. Thecaptain'll be down with the pilot this afternoon." "I'm the mate –yes," said the giant; "but what dry-goods store did you raid forthat crowd? Did the captain pick 'em out?" "A delegation o'parsons," muttered the short, broad man, contemptuously. "No,they're not parsons," said the shipping-master, as he turned to theman, the slightest trace of a smile on his seamy face. "You're Mr.Becker, the second mate, I take it; you'll find 'em all right, sir.They're sailors, and good ones, too. No, Mr. Jackson, the skipperdidn't pick 'em – just asked me for sixteen good men, and there youare. Muster up to the capstan here, boys," he called, "and becounted."
As they grouped themselves amidships with theirclothes-bags, the shipping-master beckoned the chief mate over tothe rail. "You see, Mr. Jackson," he said, with a backward glanceat the men, "I've only played the regular dodge on 'em. They've allgot the sailor's bug in their heads and want to go coasting; so Itold 'em this was a coaster." "So she is," answered the officer;"round the Horn to Callao is coasting. What more do they want?""Yes, but I said nothin' of Callao, and they were all three sheetsi' the wind when they signed, so they didn't notice the articles.They expected a schooner, too, big enough for sixteen men; but I'vejust talked 'em out of that notion. They think, too, that they'llhave a week in port to see if they like the craft; and to make 'emthink it was easy to quit, I told 'em to sign nicknames – made 'embelieve that a wrong name on the articles voided the contract.""But it don't. They're here, and they'll stay – that is, if theyknow enough to man the windlass." "Of course – of course. I'm justgivin' you a pointer. You may have to run them a little at thestart, but that's easy. Now we'll tally 'em off. Don't mind thenames; they'll answer to 'em. You see, they're all townies, andbring their names from home."
The shipping-master drew a large paper from hispocket, and they approached the men at the capstan, where theshort, broad second mate had been taking their individual measureswith scowling eye.
It was a strange crew for the forecastle of anoutward-bound, deep-water American ship. Mr. Jackson looked in vainfor the heavy, foreign faces, the greasy canvas jackets and blankettrousers he was accustomed to see. Not that these men seemed to belandsmen – each carried in his face and bearing the indefinablesomething by which sailors of all races may distinguish each otherat a glance from fishermen, tugmen, and deck-hands. They were allyoung men, and their intelligent faces – blemished more or lesswith marks of overnight dissipation – were as sunburnt as werethose of the two mates; and where a hand could be seen, it showedas brown and tarry as that of the ablest able seaman. There were nochests among them, but the canvas clothes-bags were the genuinearticle, and they shouldered and handled them as only sailors can.Yet, aside from these externals, they gave no sign of beinganything but well-paid, well-fed, self-respecting citizens, whowould read the papers, discuss politics, raise families, and drinkmore than is good on pay-nights, to repent at church in themorning. The hands among them that were hidden were covered withwell-fitting gloves – kid or dog-skin; all wore white shirts andfashionable neckwear; their shoes were polished; their hats were instyle; and here and there, where an unbuttoned, silk-faced overcoatexposed the garments beneath, could be seen a gold watch-chain withtasteful charm. "Now, boys," said the shipping-master, cheerily, ashe unfolded the articles on the capstan-head, "answer, and stepover to starboard as I read your names. Ready? Tosser Galvin.""Here." A man carried his bag across the deck a short distance."Bigpig Monahan." Another – as large a man as the mate – answeredand followed. "Moccasey Gill." "Good God!" muttered the mate, asthis man responded. "Sinful Peck." An undersized man, with acultivated blond mustache, lifted his hat politely to Mr. Jackson,disclosing a smooth, bald head, and passed over, smiling sweetly.Whatever his character, his name belied his appearance; for hisface was cherubic in its innocence. "Say," interrupted the mate,angrily, "what kind of a game is this, anyhow? Are these mensailors?" "Yes, yes," answered the shipping-master, hurriedly;"you'll find 'em all right. And, Sinful," he added, as he frownedreprovingly at the last man named, "don't you get gay till myreceipt's signed and I'm clear of you."
Mr. Jackson wondered, but subsided; and, each namebringing forth a response, the reader called off: "Seldom Helward,Shiner O'Toole, Senator Sands, Jump Black, Yampaw Gallagher, SorryWelch, Yorker Jimson, General Lannigan, Turkey Twain, GunnerMeagher, Ghost O'Brien, and Poop-deck Cahill."
Then the astounded Mr. Jackson broke forthprofanely. "I've been shipmates," he declared between oaths, "withfreak names of all nations; but this gang beats me. Say, you," hecalled, – "you with the cro'-jack eye there, – what's that name yougo by? Who are you?" He spoke to the large man who had answered to"Bigpig Monahan," and who suffered from a slight distortion of oneeye; but the man, instead of civilly repeating his name, answeredcurtly and coolly: "I'm the man that struck Billy Patterson."
Fully realizing that the mate who hesitates is lost,and earnestly resolved to rebuke this man as his insolencerequired, Mr. Jackson had secured a belaying-pin and almost reachedhim, when he found himself looking into the bore of a pistol heldby the shipping-master. "Now, stop this," said the latter, firmly;"stop it right here, Mr. Jackson. These men are under my care tillyou've signed my receipt. After that you can do as you like; but ifyou touch one of them before you sign, I'll have you up 'fore thecommissioner. And you fellers," he said over his shoulder, "youkeep still and be civil till I'm rid of you. I've used you well,got your berths, and charged you nothin'. All I wanted was to getCappen Benson the right kind of a crew." "Let's see that receipt,"snarled the mate. "Put that gun up, too, or I'll show you one of myown. I'll tend to your good men when you get ashore." He glared atthe quiescent Bigpig, and followed the shipping-master – who stillheld his pistol ready, however – over to the rail, where thereceipt was produced and signed. "Away you go, now," said the mate;"you and your gun. Get over the side."
The shipping-master did not answer until he hadscrambled down to the waiting tug and around to the far side of herdeck-house. There, ready to dodge, he looked up at the mate with atriumphant grin on his shrewd face, and called: "Say, Mr. Jackson,'member the old bark Fair Wind ten years ago, and theordinary seaman you triced up and skinned alive with adeck-scraper? D' you 'member, curse you? 'Member breakin' the sameboy's arm with a heaver? You do, don't you? I'm him. 'Member mesayin' I'd get square?"
He stepped back to avoid the whirling belaying-pinsent by the mate, which, rebounding, only smashed a window in thepilot-house. Then, amid an exchange of blasphemous disapprovalbetween Mr. Jackson and the tug captain, and derisive jeers fromthe shipping-master, – who also averred that Mr. Jackson ought tobe shot, but was not worth hanging for, – the tug gathered in herlines and steamed away.
Wrathful of soul, Mr. Jackson turned to the men onthe deck. They had changed their position; they were now close tothe fife-rail at the mainmast, surrounding Bigpig Monahan (for bytheir names we must know them), who, with an injured expression offace, was shedding outer garments and voicing his opinion of Mr.Jackson, which the others answered by nods and encouraging words.He had dropped a pair of starched cuffs over a belaying-pin, andwas rolling up his shirt-sleeve, showing an arm as large as a smallman's leg, and the mate was just about to interrupt the discourse,when the second mate called his name. Turning, he beheld himbeckoning violently from the cabin companionway, and joined him."Got your gun, Mr. Jackson?" asked the second officer, anxiously,as he drew him within the door. "I started for mine when theshippin'-master pulled. I can't make that crowd out; but they'relookin' for fight, that's plain. When you were at the rail theywere sayin': 'Soak him, Bigpig.' 'Paste him, Bigpig.' 'Put a headon him.' They might be a lot o' prize-fighters."
Mr. Becker was not afraid; his position and dutiesforbade it. He was simply human, and confronted with a new problem."Don't care a rap what they are," answered the mate, who wassufficiently warmed up to welcome any problem. "They'll get fightenough. We'll overhaul their dunnage first for whisky and knives,then turn them to. Come on – I'm heeled."
They stepped out and advanced to the capstanamidships, each with a hand in his trousers pocket. "Pile thosebags against the capstan here, and go forrard," ordered the mate,in his most officer-like tone. "Go to the devil," they answered."What for? – they're our bags, not yours. Who in Sam Hill are you,anyhow? What are you? You talk like a p'liceman."
Before this irreverence could be replied to BigpigMonahan advanced. "Look here, old horse," he said; "I don't knowwhether you're captain or mate, or owner or cook; and I don't care,either. You had somethin' to say 'bout my eyes just now. Naturemade my eyes, and I can't help how they look; but I don't allow anybig bull-heads to make remarks 'bout 'em. You're