Читать книгу Under Sail - Felix Riesenberg - Страница 14

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An undercurrent of trouble had been running for some time, finding expression in much subdued comment and criticism, at odd moments, when small groups of the watch would foregather about the fo'c'sle during the dog watch below. These dog watch hours were, during fine weather, given over largely to yarning, smoking, reading, or playing cards, or checkers, and to the performance of such odd jobs as sailors do during their few leisure moments. Big George, or Scouse, as we called him, had become something of a bully, and Joe, the most independent of his subjects, had on several occasions taken pains to let Scouse understand that he resented the way in which the big fellow carried on among the farmers of the watch. Of course Scouse never dared open his mouth to any of the real sailors, but he had gradually set himself up as a sort of autocrat among the pushers of the "bear."

The development of this condition was so long in process of evolution, that several times Frenchy and Brenden threatened to clean things up and put an end to the stumbling block that threatened our fo'c'sle democracy. Always, however, Jimmy Marshall intervened. "Leave 'em alone. Things will break, see if they don't, an' 'e'll get it good, 'e will."

Following our siege of paint-scrubbing, we started to tar down the standing rigging, work that devolved largely upon Scouse and his gang of understrappers, making them the bright particular stars in the firmament of wrath whenever, by any chance, they happened to drop so much as a pin point of tar on the immaculate paintwork or deck.

The mate on these occasions outdid himself, and by the fluency of his language and the surprising richness of his imagery he afforded a certain amusement to those of us who were the listeners. The targets of these profane outbursts had no redress, and, if they lost none of their self respect, it was simply because none of that useless commodity was left clinging to their devoted hides. Scouse, Fred and Martin had received recent broadsides, and with half an eye we could see that Mr. Zerk was watching Joe with a view to exercising a few new epithets.

It was our afternoon watch on deck; we turned out at seven bells to get our dinner, and Joe, who was mess carrier for that week, turned out lively to get the "kids" of cracker hash from the galley. A gentle sea was rolling in on our quarter and Joe entered the fo'c'sle door, the kid of cracker hash under his arm, the bread bag full of hard tack in one hand, and a large can of steaming hot tea in the other, the Fuller gave one of her corkscrew twists, and Joe stumbled over the sill, dousing Scouse with about half of the hot tea.

Scouse was furious, and at the same time half of our whack of tea was running in the scuppers.

Little things assume monstrous proportions after a group of men have been in close quarters for a long time. This is particularly so when they have to live in such intimate and trying proximity as that in the fo'c'sle of a sailing ship. On a deepwaterman, months at sea without even a smell of land, let alone a sight of it, the community life is bound to wear thin the edges of daily intercourse. Every small incident is magnified far beyond its worth, and only a trifle is needed to start a racket of some kind. Brenden and Frenchy cursed the luckless Joe for a clumsy lout. Jimmy called him a "bloody rum cat," a favorite expression of the little sailor, and Scouse, foaming with rage, was only restrained by the rest of us from sailing right into Joe, regardless of the cracker hash, the remaining tea, or anything else. Joe was equally furious. He refused to touch the tea, saying he had spilled his whack, and the rest of us might shut up our talk about it.

At this Australia and Fred insisted that Joe have his tea, sharing with the rest. Talk became loud, and in the midst of the whole affair eight bells struck and we tumbled on deck, our dinner half finished. Scouse and Joe went to their work in the main rigging; some were to leeward of the deckhouse stitching sails, while I passed a ball of marline for Frenchy, who was serving the wire bolt rope of the foot of an old lower tops'l that we were repairing.

He was facing aft toward the main shrouds, when suddenly he started, his eyes seemed to bulge from his head, and he dropped his serving mallet, while at the same time there was a bump behind me on the deck, and Frenchy gasped, "Ma foi! Look, Felix!"

I turned quickly and there on the white deck below the main rigging was a big black greasy splotch of tar, and Joe's tar pot rolling into the scupper.

The silence that followed was painful. Mr. Zerk came forward from the weather quarterbitt where he was smoking his after dinner pipe, and Joe dropped down the Jacob's ladder to the deck under a fire of insulting profanity from the mate. Whipping off his dungaree jacket, he started to swab up the defiling tar before it could soak well into the deck planks.

Scouse, whom Frenchy saw unhitch the lanyard of the pot as he worked above Joe, went on with his tarring without batting an eye. Trouble was on foot, however, in the port watch.

We went below at eight bells, four o'clock in the afternoon, but Joe remained on deck to remove the last vestiges of tar, and Scouse entered the fo'c'sle, speaking to no one. The trick played on Joe was so contemptible that, so far as the common feeling went, Scouse had placed himself beyond the pale, and no man cared to break the ice by addressing him. That big Scouse felt this was certain, and the fact that it hurt at least attested a few remaining embers of decent feeling.