Читать книгу The Voyage Of The "Pulo Way" - Carlton Dawe - Страница 5

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TEN o’clock of the following morning saw me aboard the Pulo Way, amid the accustomed bustle of a ship preparing for sea. An hour later we had cleared the Ly-ee-moon Pass, and were steaming into the full swell of the ocean. Though the captain had professed his inability to provide me with any decent accommodation, I nevertheless found that one of the most commodious of the saloon cabins had been placed at my disposal, and this gave me a better opinion of Captain Macshiel. I fear my shore life had given me rather a liking for creature comforts. At all events, I had none of that desire for roughing it which some fellows seem to fancy.

I was the only saloon passenger, and as I wandered aimlessly about the decks I had many opportunities of quizzing the officers and crew. The latter, as is usual on the coast boats, was Chinese, while Chinese greasers were to be seen skipping about among the pistons in the engine-room. Our mate, who was away forward cursing at the men, was a man of good breadth, with a flabby, yellow face and a thin ginger moustache which shot clean out above his mouth like a fringe of bristles. An old badge cap was stuck on the back of his head, showing a patch of ginger hair just under the peak, and every now and again, between his voluminous oaths, he turned to the side and expectorated freely sundry streams of tobacco juice.

But it was only at dinner that I saw how singular the mate really was, for in the middle of his wide, flabby face he had two dark, narrow slits of eyes which might have been fathered by a Chinaman. These lent to his big, yellow face such a curious aspect of malevolence and piggish flabbiness that I could not bear to look at him. Which, I think, concerned him little; for he ate like a hog, never lifting his head from his plate, unless it was to grunt out a request that some one would pass him something.

The second mate was of an entirely different mould, broad of shoulder and elegant of build, with an extremely fine face, which, though more grimly honest than handsome, had in its dark, rugged outlines the beauty of strength and character. He was only a very young man, not more, I should say, than nine-and-twenty; yet his face showed signs of the wear and tear of many harder years.

I spoke to him after dinner, and found him, like so many sailors, extremely reserved—almost shy; but before we parted I had accepted an invitation to smoke a pipe with him in his room that evening, and, lonely as I was, I waxed curiously impatient until the time came round.

He received me with much civility, though with something of the dignity of an archbishop. But when we had warmed a little he fished out a bottle of whisky from his locker, and while he smoked some exceedingly black tobacco in an exceedingly big black pipe, we talked of Manila, the ship, and our fellow-voyagers. I soon learnt from him that this was his first voyage in the Pulo Way; and, though, like a wise man, he showed a commendable reticence whenever the captain’s name was mentioned, he was more communicative once the conversation turned to the chief mate. Indeed, he seemed to regard the latter with a considerable amount of distrust, and hinted in a mysterious sort of way at sundry curious conversations which that worthy had already had with him—hints which then seemed of such little moment that they slipped in at one ear and out at the other, but which, viewed in the light of after events, bear a most significant meaning.

Under the insidious influence of the whisky and the aforementioned black pipe, the second mate gradually began to thaw. His reserve vanished; the dark, brooding face grew soft, until I thought there was never an ugly line upon it. Little by little he gave me a few particulars of himself, and how he came to join the Pulo Way—particulars of little moment, but which seemed interesting enough as he told them. Among other things I learnt that he was a native of the Hawkesbury district of New South Wales, which accounted for his great height and long, loose limbs; for I had heard before of the splendid growth of the Hawkesbury men. I learnt, too, that his name was Hayling; that off and on, he had been to sea since he was fourteen, though there were few things to which he had not put his hand. In turn he had been gold-digger, sheep-farmer, bushman, telegraphic operator, and, I doubt not, much more than he cared to admit. Of gold-digging or sheep-farming I knew nothing; but I could talk to him of telegraphy, as I had once studied that latter-day marvel.

Your sailor is like that, extremely confidential if he thinks you are in sympathy with him; and though my new friend was not what one would call a talker, still a little genial interest in his doings paved the way for an excellent understanding. He had seen a good deal of life, and I am inclined to think the show had wearied him. At any rate, his face was older, harder, and more grimly set than a face of twenty-nine should be. From the bitter scraps of conversation dropped by him, I gathered that he had led a hard life, and that he saw little hope of bettering himself. Of course I smiled. Was not the non-fulfilment of youthful dreams one of the saddest reflections of after-life? No doubt my good friend often saw himself the master of a big mail-boat, a sort of perambulating salt-water deity, the oracle divine of the gushing lady passenger. What glory! Even I had thought of other things than Hong Kong and twenty dollars a week when I used to write poetry in Burnham Beeches, or dream in the solemn stillness of Westminster Abbey.

It was close on ten o’clock when I left him, though I must confess I would have obtruded a little longer on his patience had I not known that he had to be up again in two hours to keep his watch.

The night was very dark and threatening, the wind coming across the water in fitful gusts. Now and again a great wave was flung back from our bows with an ominous crash, and leaning over the bulwarks I watched with a dreamy sort of interest the white line of froth form, lift itself above the black water, and then subside in infinite darkness. Something in the air told me that a storm was brewing away in the south-west, and I immediately thought of the poor opinion expressed by the captain of the sea-going qualities of his ship; but as I believed him to be indulging in a little pessimistic exaggeration, I listened with comparative indifference to the fitful soughing of the wind as it played round the stays of the funnel.

Motionless I leant against the bulwarks, thinking of nothing in particular, or perhaps of a certain Sunday afternoon which I had spent in a punt just above Sunbury; of a crimson cushion and a gold-headed girl. Certes, it was a strange contrast, and Sunbury was a long stretch to bridge. Then all at once I seemed to hear voices a little aft of me, and peering intently into the darkness I discovered a darker shadow. Well, that was nothing. Other people had as much right on deck as I. This I fully recognised; but as this shadow began imperceptibly to draw near, and as it continued to whisper in a way incomprehensible, I thought it better to make my presence known. This I did by stamping hard upon the deck as I stepped out from the side.

The shadow immediately resolved itself into two figures, which seemed to shrink in closer to the bulwarks; but there being no way of escaping me I saw that one was the captain and that the other was a Chinaman, evidently one of our coolie passengers forward—a fellow who towered head and shoulders above Macshiel.

Though thinking it strange, I passed on, apparently oblivious of their proximity, and getting to the leeward of the deck-house, filled and lit a pipe. Here, a minute or so after, the captain joined me.

“Glass is going down,” he began, in his civilest manner. “I think we shall have a blow before morning. Listen;” and he pointed aloft, as though to locate the strange whistling of the wind. “Isn’t that a warning as plain as any spoken word?”

“True, to the ear that understands the language.”

He laughed rather brusquely.

“A man can’t spend twenty years on the coast and not understand the lingo.”

“Have you been out here so long?”

“So long that the cursed stink of China has got into my blood. You don’t know what that is—eh? When did you come out?”

“Three years ago.”

“Ah! Then you can still smell a Chinaman in the dark?”

I admitted as much, but with an intonation which might easily have been questioned. He, failing to notice it, continued—

“Yes, twenty years of coast work, sailing these seas till I sometimes wish they’d open and swallow me up. Twenty years of toil, and twenty—forty fortunes made for other men, and devil a stick or stone of my own. That’s the story of my life, young man. What do you think of it?”

“Candidly, not much.”

He laughed almost boisterously. It was a mad, reckless laugh, which set me wondering.

“No, one could hardly call it successful. A dog’s life aboard, and a fool’s life ashore. A drunken bout and a bad woman: then carry him on board and make the brute work. And so he works for months, with but one object in view—the drunken bout and the bad woman once again. That’s the romance of the sea, my young friend—this hell-pond of the devil’s making.”

Needless to say I was much amazed at this outburst, for not alone were the words strangely fierce and incongruous, but his manner of uttering them had all the snarling savageness of a snapping beast.

“Fate,” said I sententiously, “has dropped us underneath. We may grumble, and scratch, and howl; but if we don’t behave ourselves, the man above will probably kick out our brains.”

“I intend to have a kick, nevertheless,” said he, his voice sounding strangely desperate.

“Well, be careful. The man above is shod with iron.”

“Damn him, yes! But I’ll tear the iron from his heel and fling it in his face. I’m sick of it, I tell you—sick of working for other people.”

“The common lot,” said I.

“But mine no longer.”

I laughed a little at this unexpected outburst. “Well, captain, we must make the best of our opportunities.”

“I mean to;” and he bound the declaration with a stupendous oath.

Thinking some strange things, I said—

“My dear captain, you were born a hundred years too late.”

“Perhaps;” and though I could not see his face, I knew he smiled grimly. “At any rate I’ve been too damned honest for this world!”

I did not altogether like this. There was an absence of modesty about the confession which robbed it of much of its value. A man complaining of his honesty is like a woman who grieves because she has never succumbed to temptation.

“Well, captain, I suppose honesty is a comparative quality, after all?”

“Very,” said he. “It all depends on how a thing’s done. I’ve come to the conclusion that the thing that pays best is best.”

“But will not honesty pay best in the long run?”

“My young friend,” said he impressively, “there is no such thing as honesty.”

“Yet there is something we call by that name.”

“A mere word—a played-out superstition. Did you ever know an honest man?”

It was curious, but when the question was put in this way I could not answer. Had I? I did know.

Noting my embarrassment, he added, with a chuckle—

“No, nor I either, nor anybody else.”

I might have retorted, but to little purpose; so he, accepting my silence as a sign of defeat, shuffled off with a laugh and disappeared below. Leaning against the rail, I smoked on in the darkness. Beneath me the screw swirled angrily, and gradually the wind increased. Occasionally we encountered a stray sea bigger than any of its fellows, and then the old boat gave a most unpleasant lurch—a disagreeable reminder that ours was a most unstable footing.

The captain’s words, too, seemed rather ominous; for when a man who has journeyed half-way through middle life comes to the conclusion that honesty is a decrepit superstition, there must be something radically wrong with the world—or with the individual. There was likewise a passionate regret in the man’s voice—a tone which by no possible process could be misinterpreted. It was genuine; the real regret of a man who has lost certain golden opportunities. Naturally, I could not then know the real state of his mind; and, truth to tell, his conversation did not particularly impress me. Yet I fancied I was not without an inkling of his inner thoughts. That the man rankled with envy was apparent; that he was grimly desperate was equally obvious. I thought, too, of his strange whispering with the big Chinaman, and wondered if he had a reason for not referring to it.

Yes, it’s all clear enough now—a sort of let me see the numbers go up and I’ll give you the name of the winner. At the time I laughed somewhat at the splutterings of the disappointed mariner; after that I forgot all about him as I listened to the sea and thought of my future.

“When I awoke the next morning it was with a jerk which nearly sent me flying out of my berth. The bulkheads groaned, and everything that was on the floor slid gaily from side to side of the cabin. Out against the port the water foamed angrily, while the incessant pitching and rolling proclaimed the presence of big seas. With the utmost difficulty I dressed and scrambled up on deck.

It was blowing a great gale. The sea had risen alarmingly during the night, and was now running with a loud, sullen roar. Away forward the big waves thumped heavily upon our decks, sending up clouds of spray which, borne by the wind, glistened on the deckhouse, the masts, and the rigging. Not a soul was to be seen upon the wet decks, though I knew that behind the weather-screen on the bridge the officer would be keeping his watch, possibly the captain also.

Sometimes I think I have an affinity with the wild swirling of waters, bred, perhaps, through a sense of security; for there is something grand in watching the baffled sea furiously fling itself upon the unyielding plates of a sturdy vessel. Indeed, so intent was I gazing at the curious contest, that for a time I did not notice that we were only going about half-speed.

The mate came up from below smothered in oilskins, his old sou’wester tied tightly under his chin. As he stepped out on deck and took a look round, he mumbled a surly “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I replied. “Nice weather!”

It was sarcastic, but unavoidable. The bad weather had got into me in some way.

“Yes,” he growled; “makes one in love with the ocean, don’t it?”

I admitted that such elemental eccentricities were conducive to extreme physical enjoyment. Then I asked him how the glass stood.

“Steady,” said he.

“That means a continuance of this agreeable weather?”

“That’s it. If I was a passenger I’d go below—and stick there.”

“But, you see, I am unaccustomed to this sort of thing, and this is a sensation.”

“It strikes me you’ll have a few more sensations before you see the last of this packet.”

His narrow, beady eyes glistened into mine, and something very like a sneer stole up from his ugly mouth. Then without more ado he slouched off forward, steadying himself from time to time by means of the bulwarks. I watched him duck to avoid the flying showers of spray—watched him carefully tread his way until he reached the bridge and disappeared.

This was my first conversation with the mate, and I must admit it did nothing to alter the opinion which I previously had formed of him. And, after all, what did it matter to me if that worthy officer were of the rough-and-ready order? Our acquaintanceship would last, at longest, until we reached Manila. So I thought. It was to last a little longer.

About ten minutes after the mate had disappeared forward, and while I yet clung to one of the mizzen stays watching the swirling of the sea, I became aware of an unusual presence near me, and turning round I beheld a big Chinaman standing in the doorway of the deck-house. I looked at him and he looked at me, and I saw a smile steal from his little black eyes right down to his ugly mouth. For a Chinaman he was an exceedingly well-built fellow, and though apparently approaching middle age and getting somewhat stout, was of an appearance which would command respect in any company. His dress was of the usual coolie pattern—a loose blouse, and short, wide breeches; though instead of being bare-footed he wore a pair of huge sea-boots which came right up to his knees. On his head was a soft, peaked cap, which completely hid his pigtail.

“Hullo!” said I, “what are you doing here?”

He shook his head and grinned, though he knew as well as I that he had no right aft.

“Nothin’, cap’n.”

“I suppose you know you’re not allowed here?”

“No sabbee, cap’n.”

I pointed forward.

“You sabbee forward?”

“No sabbee folward, cap’n,” said the fellow.

“You sabbee this?” and I pointed to the toe of my boot.

His brows contracted, and his upper lip came down.

“Sabbee.”

“Then if you don’t want to feel the weight of it—clear.”

Here I ought to confess that I am not a very formidable fellow to look at, though, in justice to myself, I must admit that my appearance rather belies me. But in this case it was moral rather than physical force which was necessary. It is, one might say, chiefly by moral force that the white man holds sway over his darker and less fortunate brother; though I don’t deny that it is absolutely necessary physically to drub that unfortunate brother first. It was on moral superiority I chiefly relied in my projected attack; yet the way the fellow’s hands went up as I approached bespoke an indifference to moral persuasion which was quite revolting. Still, if I may say so without boasting, I have a deceptive appearance; and, firmly believing in the inferiority of the yellow man, I would undoubtedly have kicked him had not the second mate at that moment stepped in between us.

“What’s the matter here?” cried he.

The chow smiled. I turned to explain.

“I fear this fellow is loafing about for no good purpose.”

Hayling laid his great hand on the Chinaman’s shoulder and swung him round, his face pointing forward.

“That’s your quarter of the ship,” he said —“get.” With that he caught the Celestial a kick that made the great fellow hop.

“Damn you!” howled the Chinaman, in the plainest English I ever heard in my life; and with an agility wonderful in such a big man he swung round and sprang at the second mate. But Hayling was as quick as he. He stepped back smartly, and like lightning his hands went up. The Chinaman paused, stared venomously at the Australian, then turned about and slunk away forward.

Hayling’s face, which in an instant had grown as hard as iron, relaxed immediately, and he turned to me with a smile.

“A nice customer! I wonder where he came from?”

“It seems absurd to say so, but I could swear he came from below.”

“From the saloon?” he asked incredulously.

“From the saloon.”

This seemed rather to puzzle him. He looked like a man troubled with thought.

“Any one down there?” he asked.

“Only the captain. The mate came up a few minutes ago.”

“Curious!” he muttered under his breath.

“What is?”

“Oh, nothing. I don’t think our Celestial friend will come aft again in a hurry.”

“Not while you’re about at any rate.”

He smiled, but it was a smile not altogether free of anxiety; as, indeed, it could hardly have been if he had seen the malevolent scowl on the big Chinaman’s face.

I watched him as he went forward along the slippery decks, and I thought of the way his hands went up and the iron look that leapt to his face. There was skill and there was knowledge in his quick postering, and a fierce will behind his prodigious muscle. Yes, assuredly Mr. Hayling was one whom it would be better not to offend.