Читать книгу The Land of Frozen Suns - Bertrand William Sinclair - Страница 5

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The door of the pilot-house swung open and the captain himself stepped out as Bilk reached for the knob. The eyes of this river autocrat fell inquiringly on me. I daresay I was not a prepossessing figure in the dull glimmer of a deck lamp.

“What the devil’s this?” he demanded.

“Feller picked up alongside us, hangin’ on by an unstowed line, sir.” Bilk explained.

“Huh!” the captain grunted.

“See here, sir,” I began. “I’m much obliged for being picked up. And I’ll be much more obliged if you’ll put me in the way of getting into some clothes and landing as soon as possible. I was to have taken the Memphis Girl down-river to-night. Mr. Bolton, of the Bolton and Kerr bank will make it all right with you.”

The captain guffawed coarsely in my face. “God bless me, that’s all right. Hey, Tupper,”—to the mate, who came up while I was speaking—“here’s a lad with a black eye, a skinned nose, and no clothes on, who wants us to put about—and his banker will make it all right. Ha—ha—ha!” And he laughed till my cheeks burned.

“I don’t ask anything of you only to get ashore, first stopping-place,” I spluttered, trembling with anger; his patent disbelief of my statement was hard to swallow. “I’m not to blame for getting robbed and tumbled into the river, and I don’t want my people to think I’ve been drowned.”

“There’s the shore,” he jerked his thumb backward significantly. “Swim for it, if the deck o’ the Moon don’t suit you.”

That silenced me for the time. I knew I could never make shore, weary as I was. The inhospitable atmosphere was better than the unquiet bosom of the Mississippi. I had no stomach for further natatory stunts that night. And I knew that it depended on the good-will of this grouchy individual as to when and where I should set foot on land. He squinted calculatingly at me for a second or two, then addressed the mate.

“Take ’im below, Tupper,” he said. “Dig ’im up some jeans an’ a pair o’ shoes, an’ let ’im roost somewhere forrad. We can use ’im, I reckon.”

“Look here,” I remonstrated anxiously; he was overlooking my voice in the matter in a way that didn’t suit me at all. “I want to know when I’m going to get a chance to go back to St. Louis? You don’t seem to understand the fix I’m in.”

“Got passage-money about you?” he asked coolly.

“Why, of course not,” I replied. “A fellow doesn’t usually carry money in his underclothes.”

“He don’t, hey?” He stepped nearer to me and suddenly thrust a hairy fist under my nose. “Who the hell are you, t’ howl about gettin’ ashore? You look t’ me like a man that’s broke jail or somethin’ o’ the kind. As tough a lookin’ citizen as you are ought t’ be damn thankful for a chance t’ climb aboard. You’ll earn your keep while you’re on the Moon—an’ no questions asked. See? Take him along, Tupper. Kick his ribs in, if he makes a roar. Get forrad, there.”

That was all the satisfaction I got out of Captain Speer; and truth to tell I followed the mate with proper meekness. I knew enough of the river-boat way to avoid open clashing with sternwheel folk. Deep-water men paint lurid pictures of hell-ships, but I have my doubts, from what I’ve seen and heard, of any wind-jammer that ever sailed the seven seas being worse that some of the flat-bottomed craft that bucked the Missouri and Mississippi in the year of our Lord eighteen eighty-one.

The mate, a sullen, red-whiskered brute, hustled me down ’tween decks, rummaged in a locker and brought forth a frayed suit of cotton overalls, and a pair of brogans two sizes too large for my feet—and they are not small by any means.

“Get into them, if you feel the need o’ clothes,” he growled. “You camp on that pile o’ sacks an’ stay there till you’re wanted.”

Much as I resented his overbearing speech and manner I didn’t think it good policy to row with him just then. My face ached from the punching it had already received; physical weariness, bruises, the strangeness and palpable belligerence that confronted me on the Moon, all served to cow me, that had never been a fighting-man, nor thrown among the breed. My knowledge of the genus river-rat was sufficient to tell me that the mate would rather enjoy carrying out the captain’s order in regard to my ribs. I wanted none of his game at that time and place. So I donned the overalls and kept my mouth closed.

He wasted no more time on me, and when he was gone I settled myself philosophically on the sack-pile, wondering how long it would be till the Moon would make a landing. The wisest plan seemed to consist of dodging trouble while aboard, and stepping ashore at the first tie-up. Otherwise, I judged myself slated to enact the role of roustabout at the pleasure of the rude gentleman in command.

The night was warm; my wet underclothing not uncomfortable. Curled in an easy posture on the folded sacks I fell asleep, undisturbed by the monotonous beat of the Moon’s mechanical heart. The blast of her whistle, long-drawn, a demoniac, ear-splitting cross between a scream and a bellow, wakened me; and while I sat up, rubbing my sleepy eyes and wondering how long I’d slept, the boorish mate yelled from a gangway.

“Here you. Come along—an’ be quick about it.”

When I sensed the fact that he was directing his remarks at me, my first impulse was to lay hold of something and heave it at his bewhiskered face. But upon second thought I refrained, and ascended resentfully to the upper deck, grinding my teeth at the broad back of him as I went. A half dozen other men, roustabouts I judged from their general unkemptness, were gathered amidships by the rail. Off in the east day was just breaking; from which I gathered that I had slept seven hours or more. The speed of the Moon slackened perceptibly. Out of the grayness ahead a slip loomed ghostly in the dawn, tier on tier of cordwood stacked on the rude wharf; upreared on rows of piling, it seems to my juvenile fancy like a monster centipede creeping out to us over the smooth water.

Somewhere in the depths of the Moon a bell tinkled. Immediately the great paddle reversed, churning the river surface into dirty foam, and we began to sidle against the pier-end. Fore and aft, lines were run out and made fast by a dim figure that flitted from behind the woodricks. The mate growled an order, and a gangplank joined the Moon’s deck to the wharf. Down this we filed, his Sorrel Whiskers glanced over one shoulder at me.

At once my grimy companions, Bilk among the number, fell upon the pile of wood. For a moment I stood undecided—then made to walk boldly past the mate. Back of the wharf I saw the land, a sloping rise dotted with farmhouses, take form in the growing light; and I was for St. Louis whether or no. But Tupper forestalled me. I did not get past him. He seemed to be paying little attention, yet when I came abreast of him, heart somewhat a-flutter he lurched and struck out—with marvellous quickness for a stodgy-built man. There was no escaping the swing of his fist. I was knocked down before I knew it, for the second time in twelve hours. Satisfaction gleamed in his small, blue eyes. He stepped back, and when I got to my feet, something dazed and almost desperate, he was facing me with a goodly billet in one hand.

“Dig in there, blast yuh!” he roared. “Grab a stick an’ down below with it, or I’ll fix yuh good an’ plenty, yuh——”

The fierceness of him, the futility of pitting myself against a club, much less his ponderous fists, quelled me once more. I hoisted a length of cordwood upon my shoulder and passed aboard. Another trip I made, and some of the murderous rage that seethed inside me must have shown upon my countenance; for Bilk lagged, and, edging near as we trod the gangway together, muttered a word of advice.

“Fergit it, kid,” he warned. “Don’t go agin’ him. He’s a killer—he’s got more’n one man’s scalp a’ready. An’ it’s the calaboose for you if yuh do lay him out. See?”

Bilk was right. I was aware that while falling short of mutiny on the high seas, a good smash at Mr. Tupper would land me in jail right speedily—providing the captain and the other mate left enough of me to lock up—and seeing that St. Louis and my friends were already far astern, I might find myself in a worse pickle than aboard the Moon. This, coupled with a keen sense of shame for blows received and not yet returned, was galling. But cowardly or not, just as you choose, I could not cope with sluggers of that heavy calibre, and I knew it. So, temporarily, I subsided, and sullenly became a satellite of the New Moon.

The empty space behind the boilers, and a good share of the lower deck space was duly filled with wood; the Moon got under way again, and then I had a breathing spell, which I spent turning over in my mind certain plans that suggested a way out of the difficulty. Going to Montana, when my destination was Texas, was not to my liking, and the manner of my going I liked least of all. While I pondered Bilk drew near.

“First trip on a sternwheeler, huh?” he asked, in a not unfriendly tone.

“Yes—like this,” I answered, and he grinned understandingly.

“I should have jumped and made a swim for it,” I mourned. That had not occurred to me while we were tied up at the wood-wharf; in fact, my thinking was none too coherent about that time—Tupper’s fist had jarred me from head to heel.

“He’d likely ’a’ plugged yuh quick’s yuh hit the water,” Bilk observed indifferently. “He’s noway backward about usin’ a pistol, if he takes a notion.”

“Do you mean to say they’d dare shoot a man for quitting the steamer?” I uttered incredulously.

“Sure.” Bilk’s positive answer was distressingly matter of fact.

With exceeding bitterness I aired my opinion of such a state of affairs. Bilk merely shrugged his shoulders.

“They’re short-handed, that’s why they froze t’ you,” he explained. “She’ll lose time every wood-loadin’ if there ain’t men enough to pack it aboard. Then the freight’s slow, the passengers kick, an’ the owners pry up hell with the captain. Lord, was yuh never rung in like this before? It’s nothin’ t’ bein’ shanghaied onto a wind-jammer that’s due round the Horn—months of it yuh get then, an’ it’s tough farin’, too. You ain’t got no call t’roar on this. We’ll be in Benton in ten days or so. What’s that amount to?”

“It amounts to quite a lot with me,” I responded. “I’m not going to Benton if I can help it. I’ll fool that red-whiskered bully yet.”

“Don’t let him catch yuh at it, kid,” Bilk observed. “He’ll give yuh worse’n ten days’ steam-boatin’ if yuh mix with him.”

But I did go to Benton, in spite of my intention to the contrary. The Moon, as Bilk had told me, was a through freight, a fast boat, passengers and cargo billed direct to the head of navigation, and carrying mail for but one or two places between. Towns along the Missouri were few and far apart those days, once north of Sioux City, and for none did the Moon slow up. Wood-slips were her only landing; since food for the hungry monster that droned in the bowels of the ship was a prime necessity. For the next three days Tupper, and Bailey, the second mate, gave me no chance to quit my involuntary servitude. Their fists I avoided by submission. When we had progressed that far up-river I ceased to look for opportunity to take French leave, reasoning that I would have more trouble retracing my steps through that thinly settled land than if I stuck to the Moon and made the round trip; besides this, my anger at the dirty treatment had settled to cold malevolence. I wanted to stay with the Moon, to be forced to stay with her—for I had promised to make the captain and the mate dance to sad music once we tied to a St. Louis dock and I could get the ear of my guardian. That prospect was my only joy for many dolorous days.

Meantime I unwillingly carried wood, slushed decks, and performed such other tasks as were gruffly allotted me; always under a protest which I dared not voice. I suppose one would eventually become accustomed to being cursed every time one turned around, but it never failed to set me plotting reprisals; I can easily understand the psychology of a mutineer, I think. Once or twice I had it in mind to make some sort of appeal to one of the passengers—a prosperous-looking individual who, Bilk informed me, was a St. Louis fur merchant, and whom I thought might possibly know my father. But the sleek one transfixed me with such a palpably contemptuous air when I was in the act of approaching him that I hadn’t the heart to face a rebuff. A sternwheel deckhand is not an attractive person, as a rule, and I suppose I looked the part, aggravated considerably by my discolored optic and bruised face. My failure to get speech with one of the elect, and being scowled at as if I were a mangy dog into the bargain, didn’t tend to make me feel kindly toward the well-fed, well-clothed mortals who lounged on the after deck smoking Havana cigars. Of the hide man I took particular note, hoping to meet him some time in the future, when I’d settled with Tupper, Speer et al, and tell him what a damned snob he was. There was a woman or two aboard, but they stuck to their cabins and concerned me not—until a day when I was fool enough to show a trace of the soreness that always bubbled within.

I do not know why I tackled the captain. I did not want wages, for Bilk had made it clear to me that if I signed the steamer’s roll I thereby precluded the possibility of hauling the Moon’s commander over the coals for refusing to set me ashore and keeping me in practical peonage, and I would not have missed making it warm for that coarse ruffian for half the cattle my dad had left me. I dare say it was a flickering up of the smoldering fires of hostility. Neither Tupper nor Speer ever came close to me that I did not have to fight down an impulse to club them with whatever was nearest my hand. And this day I unthinkingly baited Captain Speer, much as I feared the weight of his ready fists. I was coiling a rope just aft of the wheel-house, when the captain paced along the deck, and turned a cold eye upon me. I dropped the rope.

“Say,” I asked bluntly, and perhaps more belligerently than was wise, “do I get paid wages for the work I’m doing?”

“Hey? Get paid?” he growled. Then he lifted up his voice and swore: “By God, you pay for the grub you eat and the clothes you got on an’ we’ll talk about wages. You—you double-dyed, gilt-edged, son-of-a-feather-duster!”

This is not a literal transcription of Captain Speer’s expletives, but it will have to serve. His rendering was of the sort frowned upon in polite literature, being altogether unprintable. Never did the captain sacrifice force to elegancy of expression. I have heard it said, and the statement is indubitably true, that he could swear louder and faster and longer than any two men between Benton and New Orleans. With the full tide of his reviling upon me, he lurched forward, his big-knuckled fingers reaching for my throat. I turned to dart around the wheel-house; Tupper, grinning maliciously, showed up from that quarter. And when I swung about to go the other way I tripped and Speer nailed me before I could dodge again. Like a cat pawing a helpless mouse, he slammed me against a deck-house wall, and I should doubtless have had my head well worked over but for a timely interruption.

Aft from the wheel-house a promenade deck ran over the cabin roofs, whereon the passengers lounged when they cared to sun themselves. The captain, the mate, and myself were on the narrow deck below. From just over our heads came the voice of feminine disapproval; at which Captain Speer let go my throat, and Tupper paused with his foot drawn back to kick me.

“You’re a pretty pair of brutes, indeed you are!”

The girl, a small serious-faced thing, her brown hair standing out in wind-blown wisps from under a peaked cap, leaned over the rail and flung down the words hotly, stamping one small foot to lend emphasis to her observation.

“You may be typical ship’s officers,” she went on scornfully, “but you are certainly not men.”

The two of them stood abashed, like pickpockets taken in the act, and a man by the girl’s side put in a word.

“Miss Montell,” he drawled. “You shouldn’t interfere with the pastimes of our worthy skipper and mate. Let the good work go on.”

“Shame on you, Mr. Barreau!” she flashed, drawing away from him.

The man paid no heed to her quick retort, but himself leaned a bit forward and spoke directly to the captain.

“Go to it, Captain Speer,” he said indifferently—that is, his manner of speech was well simulated indifference; but I, staring up at him, saw the storm-clouds gathering in his dark eyes. “Go ahead. Beat the boy’s face to a jelly. Kick in a few ribs for good measure. Make a thorough job of it. You see, I know something of the river-boat way. But when you are done with that, Messrs. Speer and Tupper, you shall have some little entertainment at my expense, I promise you.”

There was a menace in the inflection.

“By the Lord, sir, I’m master on this vessel,” Captain Speer at length found his tongue. “If you don’t like this, come down and take a hand.”

“Now speaks the doughty mariner,” Barreau laughed mockingly. “I shall take a hand without troubling to come down, believe me. Colonel Colt shall arbitrate for us. If that is to your liking I am at your service, Captain Speer.”

“Another cowardly blow,” cried the girl, her dainty face flushing, “and my father shall see that you captain no more boats for the Benton and St. Louis Company—you barbarian. I promise you that for penalty, whatever Mr. Barreau sees fit to do.”

Whether the threat against his position carried weight, or if he simply had no hankering for an encountering with the cool individual on the upper deck, I do not know; but, at any rate, Captain Speer saw fit to sheath his claws at this juncture.

“Git t’ hell out o’ here, you,” he grunted, under his breath. And I made haste to “git.”

Looking back, I saw Tupper and Speer striding aft. Above, the girl stood by the rail, tucking in the flying locks with graceful movements of her hands. Barreau was staring after the retreating pair, smiling sardonically over a cigarette.

Later, I learned from Bilk that Miss Montell was the fur-merchant’s daughter, and straightway I forgave the portly one any grievance I held against him. But from none of the crew could I learn aught of Barreau. Nor did I see him again, except at ship-length. Like the girl, he kept close to his cabin and the passengers’ saloon—terra incognita to such lowly ones as I. I was grateful, even at a distance, for between them they had saved me a thumping—a thumping which I had reason to believe was merely postponed.

The Moon was now well into Dakota. Steadily she forged up the turbid river, thrumming past Pierre, and, farther on, Standing Rock reservation. At Bismark we made a brief stop. Then we turned The Great Bend and plunged into the Bad Lands. Through this gashed and distorted country the Moon plowed along an ever-narrowing channel. From her deck I had my first glimpse of the buffalo, already doomed to extinction. Wild cattle and deer scuttled back up the fearful slopes at our approach, or vanished into the yawning canyons. Unaccustomed to that altitude, I marveled at the clarity of the atmosphere, the wonderful stillness of the land. The high banks that shut us in slanted away like paint-daubed walls, what of the vari-colored strata. The ridges back of them were twisted and notched by ancient geologic contortions, washed by countless rains and bleached by unnumbered centuries of sun—a strange jumble of earth and rocks and stunted trees; a place to breed superstitious fears, and warp the soul of a man with loneliness.

In time the Moon left this monstrosity of landscape behind, emerging upon a more wholesome land. Grassy bottoms spread on either side the river, and the upper levels ran back in a vast unbroken sweep, the true prairie. And presently we swept around a bend into view of a cluster of houses lining the north shore, and the Moon’s whistle outdid all previous efforts in the way of ungodly sound. Twenty minutes later she was rubbing softly against a low wharf, her passengers were disembarked, and the back-breaking task of unloading cargo began.