The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea

“Well, Will, old fellow, we’ve made a day of it!”

“That we have – a rousing, jolly day. I don’t think I ever enjoyed one more in my life.”

“Only for its drawbacks.”

“You mean our affair with those fellows? Why, that was the best part of it – so far as fun. To see the one in the sky-blue wrap, after I’d dirked his horse, go off like a ship in a gale, with nobody at the helm! By Jove! it was equal to old Billy Button in the circus. And then the other, you bundled over in the road, as he got up looking like a dog just out of a dust-bin! Oh! ’twas delicious! The best shore adventure I’ve had since leaving home – something to talk about when we get aboard the ship.”

“Ay, and something to do besides talking. We’ve got a little writing to do; at least I have – a bit of a letter to this swaggerer, Mr Francisco de Lara.”

“But, surely, you don’t intend challenging him – after what’s happened?”

“Surely I do. Though, to say the truth, I’ve no great stomach for it, seeing the sort he is. It’s infra dig having to fight one’s inferior, though it be with sword or pistol. It feels like getting into a row with roughs in some slum of a seaport.”

“You’re right there; and as to calling the fellow out, I’d do nothing of the kind, Ned. He’s a bad lot; so is the other. Blackguards both, as their behaviour has shown them. They don’t deserve to be treated as gentlemen.”

“But we’re in California, Will; where the code of the duello takes in such as they. Here even thieves and cut-throats talk about protecting their honour, as they term it; ay, and often act up to their talk. I’ve been told of a duel that took place not long since between two professional gamblers, in which one of them was shot dead in his tracks. And only the other day a judge was called out by a man he had tried, and convicted, of some misdemeanour! Well, the judge not only went, but actually killed the cad who’d stood before him as a criminal! All that seems very absurd, but so it is. And if this scarlet-cloaked cavalier don’t show the white-feather, and back out, I’ll either have to kill, or cripple him; though like as not he may do one or the other for me.”

“But don’t you think, Ned, you’ve had enough out of him?”

“In what way?”

“Why, in the way of revanche. For my part, I should decidedly say you had by far the best of it. After your first encounter in the morning, I thought differently; and would have so counselled you. Then the insult offered you remained unpunished. The other has put a different face on the affair; and now that he’s got more than he gave, I think you should rest satisfied, and let things stand as they are – if he do. Certainly, after that knock and tumble, it’s his place to sing out.”

“There’s something in what you say, Will. And now, on reflection, I’m not so sure that I’ll take further trouble about the fellow, unless he insist on it; which he may not, seeing he’s unquestionably base coin – as you say, a blackguard. He appears a sort of Californian bravo; and if we hadn’t secured his pistol, I suppose he’d have done some shooting with it. Well, we’ll see whether he comes to reclaim it. If he don’t, I shall have to send it to him. Otherwise, he may have us up before one of these duelling justices on a charge of robbing him!”

“Ha, ha, ha! That would be a rare joke; an appropriate ending to our day’s fun.”

“Quite the contrary. It might be serious, if it should reach the ears of Bracebridge. The old disciplinarian would never believe but that we’d been in the wrong – taken the fellow’s pistol from him for a lark, or something of that sort. True, we could have the thing explained, both to the San Francisco magistrate, and the frigate’s captain; but not without an exposure of names and circumstances. That, though it might be proper enough, would be anything but a pleasant finale to our day’s fun, as you call it.”

“Well, I know what will,” rejoins Cadwallader, after listening patiently to his comrade’s explanatory speech, “and that’s a glass of something good to drink. Those sweet Spanish wines of Don Gregorio have made me thirsty as a fish. Besides, parting with dear Iñez has got my heart down, and I need something to stir it up again.”

“All right, my hearty!” exclaims Crozier; for the jest’s sake, talking sailor-slang – “I’m with you in that way. For this day at least we’ve had enough of war, and, shall I say, women?”

“No – no!” protests Cadwallader; “that would be an ungallant speech, after what’s passed. We could never have enough of them – at least, not I.”

“Why, Will, we’ve grown wonderfully sentimental, and in such a short time! Well, let’s drop the subject of woman, and end our day with the third of three w’s – wine.”

“Agreed!” responds the young Welshman. “But, for my part, I’d prefer ending it with a different tipple, which has also a w for its initial letter – that’s whisky. If we could only get a glass of good Scotch or Irish malt in this mushroom city, it would make a new man of me – which just now I need making. As I tell you, Ned, my heart’s down – dead down to the heels of my boots. I can’t say why, but there it is; and there I suppose, it’ll stay, unless Dutch courage come to the rescue.”

“Well, you’ll soon have an opportunity of getting that. As you see, we are in the suburbs of this grand city, partly constructed of canvas; where, though food may be scarce, and raiment scanty, there’s liquor in abundance. In the Parker House, which is, I believe, its best hotel, we’ll be sure of finding almost every beverage brewed upon the earth – among them your favourite whisky, and mine – ‘Bass’s Bitter.’”

“Again the Spanish saw, ‘Cada uno a su gusto,’ as just now my sweetheart said, after I had kissed the dear girl six times in succession. But let us step out.”

“Don’t be in such hot haste. You forget we’ve something to do; which must be done first – before everything else.”

“What?”

“Look up Harry Blew; find him, if we can; and coax him to take service in this Chilian ship.”

“He won’t require much coaxing, once you say the word. The old salt is anything but ungrateful. Indeed, his regard for you, ever since you saved him from that shark, is more like real gratitude than anything I ever saw. He fairly worships you, Ned. He told me the day before he left the Crusader, that parting with you was the only thing which greatly grieved him. I saw the tears trickling down his cheeks, as you shook hands with him over the rail. Even then, if you’d said stay, I believe he’d have turned back into his old berth.”

“I didn’t, because I wished him to do better. You know he’d have a splendid chance here in California – to get rich by gold-digging, which no doubt he might, like a great many other humble sailors as himself. But now, this other chance has turned up in his favour, which I should say is surer. Don Gregorio has told us he can get from the Chilian captain almost any pay he may please to ask; besides, a fair likelihood of being made his first mate. That would suit Harry to a hair; in my opinion, answering his purpose far better than any gold-washing speculation. Though a man of first rating aboard ship, he’s a mere child when ashore; and would be no more able to protect himself against the land-sharks of San Francisco, than he was to get out of the way of that sea-skimmer at Guaymas. Even if he should succeed in growing rich up the Sacramento River, I’d lay large odds, he’d be back here in port, and poor as ever, within a week. We must save him from that if we can. His natural element is the ocean. He has spent the greater part of his life on it, and here’s a fine opportunity for him to return to, and stay upon it. That for life, if he likes, with better prospects than he could ever have had on board a man-o’-war. The question is, how we shall be able to find him in this rookery of a place. Did he say anything, when you saw him, about where he was sojourning!”

“By Jove! he just did. Now, I recall our conversation, I remember him telling me that he was staying at a sort of a boarding-house, or restaurant, called the ‘Sailor’s Home,’ though he made no mention of the street. But, if I mistake not, I know the place, and can steer pretty straight for it.”

“Straight or crooked, let’s set head for it at once. We’ve plenty of time, if that were all. I told the coxswain not to come for us till well after eleven. I want to see something of this queer Californian life, of which I haven’t had much experience yet.”

“The same with myself.”

“Well, we may never again get such a chance. Indeed, it’s not likely we’ll be allowed another night ashore, before the Crusader sails. Therefore, let us make hay while the sun shines, or, to speak less figuratively, a little merriment by the light of the moon. We’ve been either savage, or sentimental, all the day, and need changing our tune.”

“You’re right about that; but the music is not likely to be made by moonlight – not much of it. See those great clouds rolling up yonder! They’ll be all over the sky in ten minutes’ time, making it black as a pot of pitch.”

“No matter; for what we want, gas-light will serve as well; and there’s plenty of that in San Francisco. Now for Harry Blew. After him, whisky punches at the Parker.”

“And after that?”

“A Hell, if you feel that way inclined.”

“Surely, Ned, you don’t want to go gambling!”

“I want to see life in San Francisco, as I’ve said; and, as you know, gambling’s an important part of it. Yes; I wish to inspect the elephant, and I don’t mind making an attempt to draw the teeth of the tiger. Allons! or, as I should say, in the softer language of Andalusia, Nos vamos!”

Thus jocosely terminating the conversation, the young officers continue on at increased speed, and are soon threading the streets of San Francisco in search of the “Sailor’s Home.”

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Tar of the Olden Type

Harry Blew is a tar of the true man-o’-war type; this of the time when sailors were sailors, and ships were oak, not iron. Such ships are scarce now; but scarcer still the skilled men who handled their ropes, and kept everything taut and trim – in short, the true tars.

Than Harry, a finer specimen of the foremast-man never reefed topsail, or took his glass of grog according to allowance. Of dark complexion naturally, exposure to sun, sea, and storm has deepened it, till his cheeks and throat are almost copper-coloured; somewhat lighter in tint upon Sundays, after they have had their hebdomadal shave. His face is round, with features fairly regular, and of cheerful cast, their cheerfulness heightened by the sparkle of keen grey eyes, and two rows of sound white teeth, frequently, if not continuously shown in smile. A thick shock of curling brown hair, with a well-greased ringlet drooping down over each eyebrow, supports a round-rimmed, blue-ribboned hat, well aback on his head. His shaven chin is pointed and prominent, with a dimple below the lip; while the beardless jaws curve smoothly down to a well-shaped neck, symmetrically set upon broad shoulders, that give token of strength almost herculean. Notwithstanding an amplitude of shirt-collar, which falls back full seven inches, touching the shoulder-tips, the throat and a portion of the expansive chest are habitually exposed to view; while on the sun-browned skin of the latter may be seen a tattooed anchor. By its side, but not so openly exhibited, is the figure of a damsel done in dark blue – no doubt a souvenir, if not the exact similitude, of a sweetheart – some Poll of past time, or perhaps far-off port.

But there is a doubt whether Harry’s heart has been true to her. Indeed, a suspicion of its having been false cannot fail to strike any one seeing him with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, since upon the flat of his right fore-arm is the image of another damsel, done more recently, in lighter blue, while on the left is a Cupid holding an unbent bow, and hovering above a pair of hearts, which his arrow has just pierced, impaling them through and through!

All those amorous emblems would seem to argue our true tar inconstant as the wind, with which he has so oft to contend. But no, nothing of the kind. Those well acquainted with him and his history can vouch for it, that he has never had a sweetheart save one – she represented in that limning of light blue; and to her he has been true as steel, up to the hour of her death, which occurred just as she was about to become Mrs Blew.

And that sad event has kept him a bachelor up to the present hour of his life. For the girl on his breast in dark blue is a merely mythical personage, though indelibly stained into his skin by a needle’s point and a pinch of gunpowder – done by one of his man-o’-war shipmates while he was still only a sailor-lad.

He is now forty years of age, nearly thirty of which he has passed upon the sea, being off it only in short spells while his ship lay in port. And he has seen service on several vessels – corvettes, frigates, double and treble deckers – all men-of-war, in which he has thrice circumnavigated the globe.

For all, he is yet hale, hearty, and in the perfect plenitude of his strength; only with a slight stoop in the shoulders, as if caught from continually swarming up shrouds, or leaning over the yard while stowing sails. This gives him the appearance of being shorter than he really is: for when straightened up, with back well braced, he stands six feet in his stockings. And his limbs show symmetrical proportion. His duck trousers, fitting tightly over the hips, display a pair of limbs supple and muscular, with thighs that seem all sinew from skin to bone.

In spite of his sterling qualities as a seaman, and noble character as a man, Harry has never risen to any rank in the service. With him has it been literally true, “Once a sailor, still a sailor;” and though long ago rated an A.B. of the first order, above this he has not ascended a single step. Were he to complain, which he rarely ever does, he would in all probability say, that his non-promotion has been due to independence of spirit, or, shaping it in his own phraseology, owing to his not having “bootlicked the swabs above him.” And there is some truth in this, though another reason might be assigned by those disposed to speak slightingly of him; this, that although liking salt water, he has a decided antipathy to that which is fresh, unless when taken with an admixture of rum. Then he is too fond of it. But it is his only fault, barring which, a better man than Harry Blew – and, when sober, a steadier – never trod the deck of ship.

As already said, he has trod many, the latest being that of the Crusader, in which vessel he has spent five years of his life. His engagement terminating almost on the very day she dropt anchor before San Francisco, he has been set free, either to stay in the ship, by entering his name upon her books for a fresh period of service, or step out of her, and go cruising on his own account, whithersoever he may wish.

Taking into consideration the state of things in San Francisco just at this time, it is not strange his having elected to leave the ship. It would be stranger if he had even hesitated about it, though this he had indeed done, for some days lingering with mind only half made up. But the golden lure proved at length too temptingly attractive, and, yielding to it, he took a last leave of his old shipmates, was rowed ashore, and has since been sojourning at the “Sailor’s Home” – for he is still there, as Cadwallader rightly surmised – there in a very miserable state of mind, not knowing how his wretchedness will be relieved.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Sailor’s Home

There is a “Sailor’s Home,” or “Snug Harbour” tavern in every seaport town, often anything but home, or harbour, in a pleasant sense. This of San Francisco, 1849, is a hostelry, half eating-house, half drinking-saloon, of somewhat unpretentious appearance – being a rough, weather-boarded building, without planing, or paint, and only two storeys in height. But if low in stature, it is high enough in its charges, as Harry Blew has learnt long since; these being out of all proportion to the outside appearance of the place, or its interior accommodation; though quite in keeping with the prices of other like houses of entertainment in the Pacific seaport.

Harry’s original intention was to make only a short stay at the “Sailor’s Home” – just long enough to put him through a bit of a spree; for which twelve months’ pay, received from the frigate’s purser at parting, had amply provided him. Then he would start off for the Feather River, or some other tributary stream of the Sacramento, where gold was being gathered, or dug for.

The first part of this programme he has already carried out, with something besides; that something being the complete expenditure of all his pay – every shilling he received from the ship, and in an incredibly short space of time. He had been scarcely six days ashore when he discovers his cash exchequer quite cleared out. As for credit, there is no such thing in San Francisco. A shop parcel sent home always comes conspicuously marked C.O.D. – “Cash on Delivery.”

Since landing, he has not very carefully kept his dead-reckoning, and is at first somewhat surprised to find himself so far out in it. He has plunged his hands into his pockets without encountering coin. He searches in his sea-chest and every other receptacle where he has been accustomed to carry, with similar disappointing result. What can have become of his twelve months’ wage, drawn on the day he left the Crusader? It has all disappeared!

No wonder he is unable to account for its disappearance; for ever since that day he has been anything but himself – in short, has given way to dissipation of longer continuance than ever before in his life. It has lasted six days, with most part of six nights, at the end of which time he has only pulled up for want of the wherewith to continue it – credit being denied him at the very counter over which he has passed all his pay.

Impecuniosity is an unpleasant predicament in any country, and at all times; but in the San Francisco of 1849 it was a positive danger – where six dollars were demanded, and obtained, for the most meagre of meals; the same for sleeping on a blanketless bed, in a chilly night, within a rough weather-boarded room, or under the yet thinner shelter of a canvas tent. It was a boon to be allowed to lie on the lee-side of a wooden-walled stable; but cost money for the privilege of sleeping in a stall, with straw litter for couch, and the radiating heat from the horses in lieu of coverlet.

In the necessity of seeking some such indifferent accommodation, Harry Blew finds himself, on the seventh night after having received his discharge from the Crusader. And as he has now got somewhat sobered, with brain clear enough to think, it occurs to him that the time is come for carrying out the second part of his programme – that is, going on to the gold-diggings.

But how to get off, and get there? These are separate questions, to neither of which can he give a satisfactory answer. Passage to Sacramento, by steamer, costs over a hundred dollars, and still more by stage-coach. He has not a shilling – not a red cent; and his sea-kit sold would not realise a sum sufficient to pay his fare, even if it (the kit) were free. But it is not. On the contrary, embargoed, “quodded,” by the keeper of the “Sailor’s Home,” against a couple of days’ unpaid board and lodging – with sundry imbibings across the counter, scored on the slate.

The discharged man-o’-war’s man sees himself in a nasty dilemma – all the more from its having a double horn. He can neither go to the gold-diggings, nor stay in the “Sailor’s Home.” Comparatively cheap as may be this humble hostelry, it is yet dear enough to demand ten dollars a day for indifferent bed and board. Both have been thought bad enough by Harry Blew, even though only a foremast-man. But he is threatened with a still worse condition of things. Inappropriate the title bestowed on his house, for the owner of the “Home” has not the slightest hospitality in his heart. He has discovered that his English guest is “dead broke,” drawing his deductions from the two days’ board, and as many nights’ bed, remaining unpaid.

There is a notice conspicuously posted above the bar that “scores must be settled daily.” And Harry having disregarded this, has received private, but positive, notice of another kind; to the effect that he is forthwith to discontinue taking a seat at the table-d’hôte, as also to surrender up his share of the bed he has been occupying, for he has not had a complete couch to himself. At this the discharged man-o’-war’s man has shown no anger, nor does he feel in any way affronted. He has that correct sense common to sailors, with most others trained by travel in strange lands, and knows that when cash is not forthcoming, credit cannot be expected. In California, as elsewhere, such is the universal and rigorous custom, to which man must resign himself. The English sailor is only a bit sorry to think he has expended his cash so freely; a little repentant at having done it so foolishly; and, on the whole, a good deal downhearted.

But there is a silver lining to the cloud. The Crusader is still in port, and not expected to sail for some days. He may once more place his name upon the frigate’s books, and rejoin her. He knows he will not only be received back by her commander, but welcomed by all his old officers and shipmates. A word spoken to the first boat coming ashore, and all will be well. Shall he speak such word? That has become the question. For in this, as every other step in life, there is a pro and contra. Humiliating the thought of going back to service on the ship, after taking leave of everybody aboard; returning to a dingy forecastle hard, and the handling of tarry ropes, after the bright dreams he had been indulging in; to forego the gathering of gold-dust, and the exchanging it for doubloons or dollars; in short, turning his back upon fortune – the prospect of a life competence, perhaps plenitude of wealth, with its resulting ease and idleness – and once more facing stormy seas, with only hard knocks and laborious work in store for him the remainder of his life!

While the sovereigns were still clinking in his pockets, this was the dark side of the picture – towards Sacramento, the bright one. Now that the pockets are empty, everything seems changed, and the golden sheen lies on the side of the ship.

Still the sailor hesitates how to decide. Despite the pressure upon him, he ponders and reflects; as he does so, plunging his hands into his pockets, apparently searching for coin. It is merely mechanical, for he knows he has not a shilling.

While thus occupied, he is seated in the little sanded bar-room of the “Home” alone with the bar-keeper; the latter eyeing him with anything but a sympathetic air. For the book is before him, showing that indebtedness for bed and board – to say nothing of the unsettled bar-score – and the record makes a bar-sinister between them. Another drink could not be added now, even though but a bottle of ginger-beer. The door of credit is closed, and only cash could procure an extension of that hospitality hitherto scant enough.

The sailor thinks. Must he surrender? Give up his dreams of fingering yellow gold, and return to clutching black shrouds? A glance at the grim, unrelaxed, and unrelenting visage of the bar-keeper decides him.

His decision is expressed in characteristic speech, not addressed to the drink-dispenser, nor aloud, but in low, sad soliloquy:

“Wi’ me, I see, the old sayin’s to stan’ good – ‘Once a sailor, still a sailor.’ Harry Blew, there be no help for’t, ye maun steer back for the Crusader!”

Chapter Twenty Six.

Opportune Visitors

Having resolved upon returning to his ship – and that very night, if he can but get a boat – Harry Blew is about to sally forth into the street, when his egress is unexpectedly prevented. Not by the landlord of the “Sailor’s Home,” nor his representative behind the bar. These would only be too glad to get rid of a guest with two days’ reckoning in arrear. For they have surreptitiously inspected his sea-chest, and found it to contain a full suit of “Sunday go-ashores,” with other effects, which they deemed sufficient collateral security for the debt. And as it has been already hypothecated for this, both Boniface and bar-keeper would rather rejoice to see their sailor-guest clear out of the “Home” for good, leaving the chest behind him. On this condition they would be willing to wipe out the debt, both boarding and bar-score. Harry has no thought of thus parting with his kit. Now that he has made up his mind to return to the Crusader, a better prospect is opened up to him. He has hopes that on his making appearance aboard, and again entering his name on the frigate’s books, the purser will advance him a sum sufficient to release his retained chattels. Or, he can in all likelihood collect the money among his old messmates. Not for this reason is he so anxious to reach the ship that night, but because he has no other chance of having any place to sleep in – save the street. The tavern-keeper has notified him, in plain terms, that he must peremptorily leave; and he is about to act upon the notification, and take departure, when prevented, as already said.