Many Cargoes

“Good evening, Captain Polson,” he said, crossing the road.

“Oh,” said the captain, stopping, “I wanted to speak to you. I suppose you wanted to marry my daughter while I was out of the way, to save trouble. Just the manly thing I should have expected of you. I’ve stopped the banns, and I’m going to take her for a voyage with me. You’ll have to look elsewhere, my lad.”

“The ill feeling is all on your side, captain,” said Metcalfe, reddening.

“Ill feeling!” snorted the captain. “You put me in the witness-box, and made me a laughing-stock in the place with your silly attempts at jokes, lost me five hundred pounds, and then try and marry my daughter while I’m at sea. Ill feeling be hanged!”

“That was business,” said the other.

“It was,” said the captain, “and this is business too. Mine. I’ll look after it, I’ll promise you. I think I know who’ll look silly this time. I’d sooner see my girl in heaven than married to a rascal of a lawyer.”

“You’d want good glasses,” retorted Metcalfe, who was becoming ruffled.

“I don’t want to bandy words with you,” said the captain with dignity, after a long pause, devoted to thinking of something worth bandying. “You think you’re a clever fellow, but I know a cleverer. You’re quite welcome to marry my daughter—if you can.”

He turned on his heel, and refusing to listen to any further remarks, went on his way rejoicing. Arrived home, he lit his pipe, and throwing himself into an armchair, related his exploits. Chrissie had recourse to her handkerchief again, more for effect than use, but Miss Polson, who was a tender soul, took hers out and wept unrestrainedly. At first the captain took it well enough. It was a tribute to his power, but when they took to sobbing one against the other, his temper rose, and he sternly commanded silence.

“I shall be like—this—every day at sea,” sobbed Chrissie vindictively, “only worse; making us all ridiculous.”

“Stop that noise directly!” vociferated the captain.

“We c-c-can’t,” sobbed Miss Polson.

“And we d-don’t want to,” said Chrissie. “It’s all we can do, and we’re going to do it. You’d better g-go out and stop something else. You can’t stop us.”

The captain took the advice and went, and in the billiard-room of the “George” heard some news which set him thinking, and which brought him back somewhat earlier than he had at first intended. A small group at his gate broke up into its elements at his approach, and the captain, following his sister and daughter into the room, sat down and eyed them severely.

“So you’re going to run off to London to get married, are you, miss?” he said ferociously. “Well, we’ll see. You don’t go out of my sight until we sail, and if I catch that pettifogging lawyer round at my gate again, I’ll break every bone in his body, mind that.”

For the next three days the captain kept his daughter under observation, and never allowed her to stir abroad except in his company. The evening of the third day, to his own great surprise, he spent at a Dorcas. The company was not congenial, several of the ladies putting their work away, and glaring frigidly at the intruder; and though they could see clearly that he was suffering greatly, made no attempt to put him at his ease. He was very thoughtful all the way home, and the next day took a partner into the concern, in the shape of his boatswain.

“You understand, Tucker,” he concluded, as the hapless seaman stood in a cringing attitude before Chrissie, “that you never let my daughter out of your sight. When she goes out you go with her.”

“Yessir,” said Tucker; “and suppose she tells me to go home, what am I to do then?”

“You’re a fool,” said the captain sharply. “It doesn’t matter what she says or does; unless you are in the same room, you are never to be more than three yards from her.”

“Make it four, cap’n,” said the boatswain, in a broken voice.

“Three,” said the captain; “and mind, she’s artful. All girls are, and she’ll try and give you the slip. I’ve had information given me as to what’s going on. Whatever happens, you are not to leave her.”

“I wish you’d get somebody else, sir,” said Tucker, very respectfully. “There’s a lot of chaps aboard that’d like the job.”

“You’re the only man I can trust,” said the captain shortly. “When I give you orders I know they’ll be obeyed; it’s your watch now.”

He went out humming. Chrissie took up a book and sat down, utterly ignoring the woebegone figure which stood the regulation three yards from her, twisting its cap in its hands.

“I hope, miss,” said the boatswain, after standing patiently for three-quarters of an hour, “as ‘ow you won’t think I sought arter this ‘ere little job.”

“No,” said Chrissie, without looking up.

“I’m just obeying orders,” continued the boatswain. “I always git let in for these ‘ere little jobs, somehow. The monkeys I’ve had to look arter aboard ship would frighten you. There never was a monkey on the Monarch but what I was in charge of. That’s what a man gets through being trustworthy.”

“Just so,” said Chrissie, putting down her book. “Well, I’m going into the kitchen now; come along, nursie.”

“‘Ere, I say, miss!” remonstrated Tucker, flushing.

“I don’t know how Susan will like you going in her kitchen,” said Chrissie thoughtfully; “however, that’s your business.”

The unfortunate seaman followed his fair charge into the kitchen, and, leaning against the door-post, doubled up like a limp rag before the terrible glance of its mistress.

“Ho!” said Susan, who took the state of affairs as an insult to the sex in general; “and what might you be wanting?”

“Cap’n’s orders,” murmured Tucker feebly.

“I’m captain here,” said Susan, confronting him with her bare arms akimbo.

“And credit it does you,” said the boatswain, looking round admiringly.

“Is it your wish, Miss Chrissie, that this image comes and stalks into my kitchen as if the place belongs to him?” demanded the irate Susan.

“I didn’t mean to come in in that way,” said the astonished Tucker. “I can’t help being big.”

“I don’t want him here,” said her mistress; “what do you think I want him for?”

“You hear that?” said Susan, pointing to the door; “now go. I don’t want people to say that you come into this kitchen after me.”

“I’m here by the cap’n’s orders,” said Tucker faintly. “I don’t want to be here—far from it. As for people saying that I come here after you, them as knows me would laugh at the idea.”

“If I had my way,” said Susan, in a hard rasping voice, “I’d box your ears for you. That’s what I’d do to you, and you can go and tell the cap’n I said so. Spy!”

This was the first verse of the first watch, and there were many verses. To add to his discomfort he was confined to the house, as his charge manifested no desire to go outside, and as neither she nor her aunt cared about the trouble of bringing him to a fit and proper state of subjection, the task became a labour of love for the energetic Susan. In spite of everything, however, he stuck to his guns, and the indignant Chrissie, who was in almost hourly communication with Metcalfe through the medium of her faithful handmaiden, was rapidly becoming desperate.

On the fourth day, time getting short, Chrissie went on a new tack with her keeper, and Susan, sorely against her will, had to follow suit. Chrissie smiled at him, Susan called him Mr. Tucker, and Miss Polson gave him a glass of her best wine. From the position of an outcast, he jumped in one bound to that of confidential adviser. Miss Polson told him many items of family interest, and later on in the afternoon actually consulted him as to a bad cold which Chrissie had developed.

He prescribed half-a-pint of linseed oil hot, but Miss Polson favoured chlorodyne. The conversation then turned on the deadly qualities of that drug when taken in excess, of the fatal sleep in which it lulled its victims. So disastrous were the incidents cited, that half an hour later, when, her aunt and Susan being out, Chrissie took a small bottle of chlorodyne from the mantel-piece, the boatswain implored her to try his nastier but safer remedy instead.

“Nonsense!” said Chrissie, “I’m only going to take twenty drops—one—two—three—”

The drug suddenly poured out in a little stream.

“I should think that’s about it,” said Chrissie, holding the tumbler up to the light.

“It’s about five hundred!” said the horrified Tucker. “Don’t take that, miss, whatever you do; let me measure it for you.”

The girl waved him away, and, before he could interfere, drank off the contents of the glass and resumed her seat. The boatswain watched her uneasily, and taking up the phial carefully read through the directions. After that he was not at all surprised to see the book fall from his charge’s hand on to the floor, and her eyes close.

“I knowed it,” said Tucker, in a profuse perspiration, “I knowed it. Them blamed gals are all alike. Always knows what’s best. Miss Polson! Miss Polson!”

He shook her roughly, but to no purpose, and then running to the door, shouted eagerly for Susan. No reply forthcoming he ran to the window, but there was nobody in sight, and he came back and stood in front of the girl, wringing his huge hands helplessly. It was a great question for a poor sailor-man. If he went for the doctor he deserted his post; if he didn’t go his charge might die. He made one more attempt to awaken her, and, seizing a flower-glass, splashed her freely with cold water. She did not even wince.

“It’s no use fooling with it,” murmured Tucker; “I must get the doctor, that’s all.”

He quitted the room, and, dashing hastily downstairs, had already opened the hall door when a thought struck him, and he came back again. Chrissie was still asleep in the chair, and, with a smile at the clever way in which he had solved a difficulty, he stooped down, and, raising her in his strong arms, bore her from the room and downstairs. Then a hitch occurred. The triumphant progress was marred by the behaviour of the hall door, which, despite his efforts, refused to be opened, and, encumbered by his fair burden, he could not for some time ascertain the reason. Then, full of shame that so much deceit could exist in so fair and frail a habitation, he discovered that Miss Polson’s foot was pressing firmly against it. Her eyes were still closed and her head heavy, but the fact remained that one foot was acting in a manner that was full of intelligence and guile, and when he took it away from the door the other one took its place. By a sudden manoeuvre the wily Tucker turned his back on the door, and opened it, and, at the same moment, a hand came to life again and dealt him a stinging slap on the face.

“Idiot!” said the indignant Chrissie, slipping from his arms and confronting him. “How dare you take such a liberty?”

The astonished boatswain felt his face, and regarded her open-mouthed.

“Don’t you ever dare to speak to me again,” said the offended maiden, drawing herself up with irreproachable dignity. “I am disgusted with your conduct. Most unbearable!”

“I was carrying you off to the doctor,” said the boatswain. “How was I to know you was only shamming?”

“SHAMMING?” said Chrissie, in tones of incredulous horror. “I was asleep. I often go to sleep in the afternoon.”

The boatswain made no reply, except to grin with great intelligence as he followed his charge upstairs again. He grinned at intervals until the return of Susan and Miss Polson, who, trying to look unconcerned, came in later on, both apparently suffering from temper, Susan especially. Amid the sympathetic interruptions of these listeners Chrissie recounted her experiences, while the boatswain, despite his better sense, felt like the greatest scoundrel unhung, a feeling which was fostered by the remarks of Susan and the chilling regards of Miss Poison.

“I shall inform the captain,” said Miss Polson, bridling. “It’s my duty.”

“Oh, I shall tell him,” said Chrissie. “I shall tell him the moment he comes in at the door.”

“So shall I,” said Susan; “the idea of taking such liberties!”

Having fired this broadside, the trio watched the enemy narrowly and anxiously.

“If I’ve done anything wrong, ladies,” said the unhappy boatswain, “I am sorry for it. I can’t say anything fairer than that, and I’ll tell the cap’n myself exactly how I came to do it when he comes in.”

“Pah! tell-tale!” said Susan.

“Of course, if you are here to fetch and carry,” said Miss Polson, with withering emphasis.

“The idea of a grown man telling tales,” said Chrissie scornfully. “Baby!”

“Why, just now you were all going to tell him yourselves,” said the bewildered boatswain.

The two elder women rose and regarded him with looks of pitying disdain. Miss Polson’s glance said “Fool!” plainly; Susan, a simple child of nature, given to expressing her mind freely, said “Blockhead!” with conviction.

“I see ‘ow it is,” said the boatswain, after ruminating deeply. “Well, I won’t split, ladies. I can see now you was all in it, and it was a little job to get me out of the house.”

“What a head he has got,” said the irritated Susan; “isn’t it wonderful how he thinks of it all! Nobody would think he was so clever to look at him.”

“Still waters run deep,” said the boatswain, who was beginning to have a high opinion of himself.

“And pride goes before a fall,” said Chrissie; “remember that, Mr. Tucker.”

Mr. Tucker grinned, but, remembering the fable of the pitcher and the well, pressed his superior officer that evening to relieve him from his duties. He stated that the strain was slowly undermining a constitution which was not so strong as appearances would warrant, and that his knowledge of female nature was lamentably deficient on many important points. “You’re doing very well,” said the captain, who had no intention of attending any more Dorcases, “very well indeed; I am proud of you.”

“It isn’t a man’s work,” objected the boatswain. “Besides, if anything happens you’ll blame me for it.”

“Nothing can happen,” declared the captain confidently. “We shall make a start in about four days now. You’re the only man I can trust with such a difficult job, Tucker, and I shan’t forget you.”

“Very good,” said the other dejectedly. “I obey orders, then.”

The next day passed quietly, the members of the household making a great fuss of Tucker, and thereby filling him with forebodings of the worst possible nature. On the day after, when the captain, having business at a neighbouring town, left him in sole charge, his uneasiness could not be concealed.

“I’m going for a walk,” said Chrissie, as he sat by himself, working out dangerous moves and the best means of checking them; “would you care to come with me, Tucker?”

“I wish you wouldn’t put it that way, miss,” said the boatswain, as he reached for his hat.

“I want exercise,” said Chrissie; “I’ve been cooped up long enough.”

She set off at a good pace up the High Street, attended by her faithful follower, and passing through the small suburbs, struck out into the country beyond. After four miles the boatswain, who was no walker, reminded her that they had got to go back.

“Plenty of time,” said Chrissie, “we have got the day before us. Isn’t it glorious? Do you see that milestone, Tucker? I’ll race you to it; come along.”

She was off on the instant, with the boatswain, who suspected treachery, after her.

“You CAN run,” she panted, thoughtfully, as she came in second; “we’ll have another one presently. You don’t know how good it is for you, Tucker.”

The boatswain grinned sourly and looked at her from the corner of his eye. The next three miles passed like a horrible nightmare; his charge making a race for every milestone, in which the labouring boatswain, despite his want of practice, came in the winner. The fourth ended disastrously, Chrissie limping the last ten yards, and seating herself with a very woebegone face on the stone itself.

“You did very well, miss,” said the boatswain, who thought he could afford to be generous. “You needn’t be offended about it.”

“It’s my ankle,” said Chrissie with a little whimper. “Oh! I twisted it right round.”

The boatswain stood regarding her in silent consternation

“It’s no use looking like that,” said Chrissie sharply, “you great clumsy thing. If you hadn’t have run so hard it wouldn’t have happened. It’s all your fault.”

“If you don’t mind leaning on me a bit,” said Tucker, “we might get along.”

Chrissie took his arm petulantly, and they started on their return journey, at the rate of about four hours a mile, with little cries and gasps at every other yard.

“It’s no use,” said Chrissie as she relinquished his arm, and, limping to the side of the road, sat down. The boatswain pricked up his ears hopefully at the sound of approaching wheels.

“What’s the matter with the young lady?” inquired a groom who was driving a little trap, as he pulled up and regarded with interest a grimace of extraordinary intensity on the young lady’s face.

“Broke her ankle, I think,” said the boatswain glibly. “Which way are you going?”

“Well, I’m going to Barborough,” said the groom; “but my guvnor’s rather pertickler.”

“I’ll make it all right with you,” said the boatswain.

The groom hesitated a minute, and then made way for Chrissie as the boatswain assisted her to get up beside him; then Tucker, with a grin of satisfaction at getting a seat once more, clambered up behind, and they started.

“Have a rug, mate,” said the groom, handing the reins to Chrissie and passing it over; “put it round your knees and tuck the ends under you.”

“Ay, ay, mate,” said the boatswain as he obeyed the instructions.

“Are you sure you are quite comfortable?” said the groom affectionately.

“Quite,” said the other.

The groom said no more, but in a quiet business-like fashion placed his hands on the seaman’s broad back, and shot him out into the road. Then he snatched up the reins and drove off at a gallop.

Without the faintest hope of winning, Mr. Tucker, who realised clearly, appearances notwithstanding, that he had fallen into a trap, rose after a hurried rest and started on his fifth race that morning. The prize was only a second-rate groom with plated buttons, who was waving cheery farewells to him with a dingy top hat; but the boatswain would have sooner had it than a silver tea-service.

He ran as he had never ran before in his life, but all to no purpose, the trap stopping calmly a little further on to take up another passenger, in whose favour the groom retired to the back seat; then, with a final wave of the hand to him, they took a road to the left and drove rapidly out of sight. The boatswain’s watch was over.

LOW WATER

It was a calm, clear evening in late summer as the Elizabeth Ann, of Pembray, scorning the expensive aid of a tug, threaded her way down the London river under canvas. The crew were busy forward, and the master and part-owner—a fussy little man, deeply imbued with a sense of his own importance and cleverness—was at the wheel chatting with the mate. While waiting for a portion of his cargo, he had passed the previous week pleasantly enough with some relatives in Exeter, and was now in a masterful fashion receiving a report from the mate.

“There’s one other thing,” said the mate. “I dessay you’ve noticed how sober old Dick is to-night.”

“I kept him short o’ purpose,” said the skipper, with a satisfied air.

“Tain’t that,” said the mate. “You’ll be pleased to hear that ‘im an’ Sam has been talked over by the other two, and that all your crew now, ‘cept the cook, who’s still Roman Catholic, has j’ined the Salvation Army.”

“Salvation Army!” repeated the skipper in dazed tones. “I don’t want none o’ your gammon, Bob.”

“It’s quite right,” said the other. “You can take it from me. How it was done I don’t know, but what I do know is, none of ‘em has touched licker for five days. They’ve all got red jerseys, an’ I hear as old Dick preaches a hexcellent sermon. He’s red-hot on it, and t’others follow ‘im like sheep.”

“The drink’s got to his brain,” said the skipper sagely, after due reflection. “Well, I don’t mind, so long as they behave theirselves.”

He kept silence until Woolwich was passed, and they were running along with all sails set, and then, his curiosity being somewhat excited, he called old Dick to him, with the amiable intention of a little banter.

“What’s this I hear about you j’ining the Salvation Army?” he asked.

“It’s quite true, sir,” said Dick. “I feel so happy, you can’t think—we all do.”

“Glory!” said one of the other men, with enthusiastic corroboration.

“Seems like the measles,” said the skipper facetiously. “Four of you down with it at one time!”

“It IS like the measles, sir,” said the old man impressively, “an’ I only hope as you’ll catch it yourself, bad.”

“Hallelujah!” bawled the other man suddenly. “He’ll catch it.”

“Hold that noise, you, Joe!” shouted the skipper sternly. “How dare you make that noise aboard ship?”

“He’s excited, sir,” said Dick. “It’s love for you in ‘is ‘eart as does it.”

“Let him keep his love to hisself,” said the skipper churlishly.

“Ah! that’s just what we can’t do,” said Dick in high-pitched tones, which the skipper rightly concluded to be his preaching voice. “We can’t do it—an’ why can’t we do it? Becos we feel good, an’ we want you to feel good too. We want to share it with you. Oh, dear friend—”

“That’s enough,” said the master of the Elizabeth Ann, sharply. “Don’t you go ‘dear friending’ me. Go for’ard! Go for’ard at once!”

With a melancholy shake of his head the old man complied, and the startled skipper turned to the mate, who was at the wheel, and expressed his firm intention of at once stopping such behaviour on his ship.

“You can’t do it,” said the mate firmly.

“Can’t do it?” queried the skipper.

“Not a bit of it,” said the other. “They’ve all got it bad, an’ the more you get at ‘em the wuss they’ll be. Mark my words, best let ‘em alone.”

“I’ll hold my hand a bit and watch ‘em,” was the reply; “but I’ve always been cap’n on my own ship, and I always will.”

For the next twenty-four hours he retained his sovereignty undisputed, but on Sunday morning, after breakfast, when he was at the wheel, and the crew below, the mate, who had been forward, came aft with a strange grin struggling for development at the corners of his mouth.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the skipper, regarding him with some disfavour.

“They’re all down below with their red jerseys on,” replied the mate, still struggling, “and they’re holding a sort o’ consultation about the lost lamb, an’ the best way o’ reaching ‘is ‘ard ‘eart.”

“Lost lamb!” repeated the skipper unconcernedly, but carefully avoiding the other’s eye.

“You’re the lost lamb,” said the mate, who always went straight to the point.

“I won’t have it,” said the skipper excitably. “How dare they go on in this way? Go and send ‘em up directly.”

The mate, whistling cheerily, complied, and the four men, neatly attired in scarlet, came on deck.

“Now, what’s all this nonsense about?” demanded the incensed man. “What do you want?”

“We want your pore sinful soul,” said Dick with ecstasy.

“Ay, an’ we’ll have it,” said Joe, with deep conviction.

“So we will,” said the other two, closing their eyes and smiling rapturously; “so we will.”

The skipper, alarmed, despite himself, at their confidence, turned a startled face to the mate.

“If you could see it now,” continued Dick impressively, “you’d be frightened at it. If you could—”

“Get to your own end of the ship,” spluttered the indignant skipper. “Get, before I kick you there!”

“Better let Sam have a try,” said one of the other men, calmly ignoring the fury of the master; “his efforts have been wonderfully blessed. Come here, Sam.”

“There’s a time for everything” said Sam cautiously. “Let’s go for’ard and do what we can for him among ourselves.”

They moved off reluctantly, Dick throwing such affectionate glances at the skipper over his shoulders that he nearly choked with rage.

“I won’t have it!” he said fiercely; “I’ll knock it out of ‘em.”

“You can’t,” said the mate. “You can’t knock sailor men about nowadays. The only thing you can do is to get rid of ‘em.”

“I don’t want to do that,” was the growling reply. “They’ve been with me a long time, and they’re all good men. Why don’t they have a go at you, I wonder?”