Читать книгу Raw Gold - James B. Hendryx - Страница 9

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Matthew Blunt awakened and lay for a long time conscious only of a terrible nausea and of the fact that his head ached as though it would split. He had the feeling of being borne up, up, up—and then down, down, down—only to begin the upward motion again. It reminded him of the long swell of the Pacific that had so sickened him on the voyage up from the Isthmus. But there was no clanking of machinery, no steady throbbing of engines. And, anyway, he and Jake had left the ship at San Francisco. He remembered the mushroom city of shanties and tents and mud—of Jake fighting with a teamster—of the saloon, and bullets coming up through the floor, of Modoc Billings, and the Gold Ledge Mining Company, of Sam Sprowl’s shack down on the waterfront. They were going to have a supper or something. He remembered taking a drink of liquor—but had he got drunk? And had the men left him there in Sprowl’s shack to sleep it off? In vain he cudgeled his brain to recollect what had taken place. Try as he would, he could remember nothing beyond that one drink. The room had been hot—and he was beginning to get sleepy.

Gradually his brain cleared. But he could not rid himself of the sensation of steadily and persistently rising and falling; nor could he remember a single event of the night beyond that one first drink. His mouth was dry, and he was conscious of a burning thirst. In vain he sought to penetrate the thick blackness. He reached about him. On one side his groping hand encountered a wall—on the other side, nothing. Evidently he was in a bunk of some sort—but where? And where was Jake Valentine? And where were the others? The air he sucked into his lungs was stale and reeked with fetid odors.

He called in a hoarse, croaking voice: “Jake!” And again, “Where are you, Jake?”

Out of the blackness came a hollow groan: “Oh, Gawd, I’m sick! That you, Matt? Who in hell’s rockin’ this shanty? It’s even worse than the boat.”

“Yes, it’s me—an’ I’m sick, too. I’ve got to have water. What in hell came off last night, or tonight, or whenever it was?”

“I don’t know—an’ I don’t give a damn. I went to sleep. Give me some water, too. I’m burnin’ up! An’ for Gawd’s sake, hold still!”

“I am still. Wait till I find a light.” Matthew Blunt fumbled through his pockets. “My God, Jake, I’ve be’n robbed! Even my watch an’ barlow are gone! An’ what money I had left, along with ’em!”

After a moment of silence the voice of Jake cut through the darkness: “Me, too! D’you s’pose them Gold Ledgers done it? I’m goin’ to git out of here! Where in hell’s the door? By Gawd, I believe we’re on a ship! Light a locofoco!”

“I can’t. I ain’t got one. Come on—let’s find the door. We’ll die in here, it stinks so!”

“Stink can’t kill a man—but my head an’ guts feels like somethin’s goin’ to. Where in hell’s the door?”

Matthew’s feet touched the floor, and as he stood erect he bumped his head sharply. “Ouch,” he groaned. “We’re in a kind of an alley, an’ we can’t stand up straight. There’s bunks along the side. Come on, Jake. I found a door! An’ it ain’t locked!”

The door swung inward, and as Matthew pulled it open, dim light percolated the foul-smelling interior. Passing through the door, the two found themselves in a narrow passageway. There was no doubt in their minds now that they were on board a ship. Daylight filtered down the companionway, and they made their way toward it. A grinning face greeted them from an aperture that gave into the cook’s galley.

“For God’s sake give us some water!” implored Matthew.

The face disappeared, and a moment later a large tin of water was thrust into his hands. Matthew drained it in great gulps, and again the face disappeared, to thrust a like pannikin into Jake’s eager hands.

“What time is it? An’ where are we?” asked Matthew.

“Two bells of the forenoon watch——”

“What’s that by the clock?” interrupted Jake. “They talked about bells comin’ up on the ship from the Is’mus, but I couldn’t never figger it out.”

“Nine o’clock—but don’t worry, cully, you’ll know yer bells ’fore you set foot ashore.”

“But—we ain’t goin’ no place! What ship is this? An’ why’re we on her?”

The grin widened. “Yer goin’ places, all right. This ship was the Sassy Kate when we cleared port. God knows what she’ll be when the new paint dries. An’ yer on her, ’cause you was prob’ly crimped.”

“What’s crimped? We didn’t take passage on any ship!”

“You ain’t passengers. Yer part of the crew——”

“But—we ain’t sailors!”

“You will be, when Mate Swile an’ his Sidney Ducks gits through with you.” The cook thrust his face closer and lowered his voice. “Git up on deck ’fore the mate comes down an’ kicks you up. An’ fer God’s sake make the best of it. Do as yer told—an’ no back talk. Mate Swile’s got a reputation—an’ it ain’t bad enough! He brained a sea lawyer last year with a belayin’ pin. An’ the captain’s worse. Don’t tell ’em I told you.”

The man turned abruptly and disappeared within his domain, and Matthew led the way toward the companionway.

On deck the two paused and gazed about them in bewilderment. By the sun, the ship, with all sail set, was plowing northward. Far to the eastward a dim coast line showed. A voice bellowed at them from the bridge:

“Woke up, did ye? Well, turn to, an’ lend a hand with them paint buckets!”

Matthew turned to look upward into the face of the huge bear of a man who was glowering down at them. “There’s some mistake,” he explained, raising his voice to carry above the singing of the stiff breeze through the rigging. “We want to see the captain.”

“Mistake! Aye, mistakes aplenty!” roared the man, and turning gave an order to the man at the wheel. A moment later he was facing them on the deck. “What’s the mistake? Cut it short! An’ it’s ‘Mister’ when ye speak to me!”

Matthew met the blaze of the pig-like eyes steadily. “It’s a mistake that we’re on board this ship, Mister. We want to see the captain.”

Evidently, either the prompt use of the word “Mister” or the lack of belligerence in Matthew’s eyes somewhat mollified the man. “Ye want to see the cap’n,” he repeated with a sneer. “Well—see him ye shall. Foller me, an’ ye might tell him to send what’s left of ye back on deck.”

The man led back down the companionway, and aft to the closed door of a cabin where he rapped sharply. “Couple of gents to see ye, Cap’n,” he said, with an evil grin. “Sort of like to pass the time o’ day, social.”

“Send ’em in,” snapped a squeaky voice, “an’ go back to the bridge.”

The door swung open, and the two entered a tiny cabin to face a small, weasel-faced man whose greenish eyes stared at them through the lenses of his square steel-rimmed spectacles. The man had half turned from a desk littered with papers. “Well, what do you want?”

“There’s be’n some mistake made, sir. We don’t know how we come to be here, nor where we’re supposed to be goin’, nor anything about it.”

“Don’t know how you come to be here! What do you mean? You’re here because you signed on for the voyage!”

“We didn’t sign anything. We ain’t sailors. I worked in a lumber yard, an’ Jake here’s a farmer. We came to California to dig gold.”

“You ain’t sailors!” The voice sounded shrill with anger. “An’ do you mean to tell me you signed on as able seamen, an’ you ain’t sailors! It’s cheatin’! It’s downright skullduggery! I ought to have you clapped in irons. It’s an outrage.”

“But I tell you we didn’t sign on!” insisted Matthew. “Did we, Jake?”

“No, ’course not! How could we be sailors? We never even seen an ocean till we started fer Californy! Ships makes us sick.”

For answer the captain motioned them closer and pointed to a document on the desk before him. “Is that yer handwritin’ er ain’t it?”

Both Matthew and Jake stared aghast as their own signatures appeared before them on the paper. “I—I don’t understand,” stammered Matthew. “I don’t remember of signin’ that paper. We must have be’n awful drunk or somethin’. An’ we only had one drink.”

“That’s what shippin’ articles is fer,” sneered the captain. “To make sailors remember they signed on. An’ drunk er sober, one drink er a thousan’—it don’t make no difference. You didn’t look drunk, er act drunk, er talk drunk when you come up to me an’ Mr. Swile an’ shipped with us—an’ you claimed you was able seamen. An’ there’s yer names, black on white—right wher’ you put ’em.”

“But we got to get back to San Francisco!” exclaimed Jake. “We belong to a minin’ company. We’ve got shares! An’ we’re goin’ to start fer the mountains today er tomorrow!”

The captain laughed mockingly. “Jest speak to Mr. Swile,” he said. “It’s his watch. Mebbe he’ll about-ship an’ take you back to port. He’s an accommodatin’ man, is Mr. Swile.”

Matthew Blunt spoke, and his words came short-clipped and hard: “All right, you’ve got us. I see a lot of things now. We ain’t sailors, but we’ll do the best we can. This voyage can’t last forever. An’ when it’s over there’ll be hell to pay, for some folks.”

Something in the narrowed, steel-gray eyes gave the captain pause as Matthew turned to go. “Come back here!” he piped, in his high squeaky voice. As Matthew again faced him, the captain leaned back against the bulkhead and placed the tips of his fingers together. “Yer smarter’n the common run of sailormen we get—quite a bit smarter.”

“There’s others that’ll find that out, too,” snapped Matthew.

The captain ignored the retort, as an ingratiating note crept into his voice. “Why not let bygones be bygones? You lads say you ain’t sailors, after shippin’ as able seamen. But I’ll fergit that. There’s other work to be done on this ship.” He leaned forward, and one greenish eye winked knowingly behind its square lens. “Work that ain’t hard, but it’s partic’lar—an’ it’ll pay ye better’n any gold-diggin’ you could do in them mountains.”

“What do you mean?” asked Matthew.

“Know anything about gunnery?” countered the captain. “Ever handle a gun?”

“Sure. We’ve shot squirrels. An’ one year I went over to Virginia an’ shot a deer.”

“Rifles is handy fer close work,” admitted the captain. “But I mean big guns—cannon.”

“Cannon!” exclaimed Jake, his eyes bulging. “Hell, I never even seen one! What would a man be shootin’ at with a cannon—whales?”

“Ships!” snapped the captain. “Rooshian fur ships. Ever hear of sea otter an’ seals?”

“I’ve heard of seals,” admitted Matthew. “But what’s that got to do with shootin’ at Rooshian ships with cannons?”

“Like this. Them damn Rooshians owns the country north of here, an’ the Rooshian Fur Company is cleanin’ up millions shippin’ seal an’ sea otter skins to China. Them’s the most valuable skins in the world. They load their holds from the warehouses in Sitka, an’ every cargo’s worth half a million!”

“You mean,” asked Matthew, “that you’re goin’ to capture those ships and steal the fur? Why, it’s like the old pirates!”

Captain Bascomb smiled and shook his head in pious resignation. “No, no, no! Nothin’ like piracy—oh, dear, no! It is merely administering just retribution on the Rooshians for their treatment of the poor Indians. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you that every one of those skins have been stolen from the Indians who catch these animals—but such is the truth. It is criminal, an’ truly deplorable. I have witnessed it myself. I know how the poor savages are robbed. I spent four years in the Rooshian waters as mate of a whaler, an’ I vowed a vow that if ever I commanded a ship of my own, I’d make those Rooshians pay—an’ pay dearly for their infamous exploitation of the poor Indians! ‘An eye for an eye, an’ a tooth for a tooth,’ the Good Book says. An’ I thank the Almighty that He has at last permitted me to become the humble tool to wreak His vengeance.” The captain paused and rolled his green eyes piously. “Remember—‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’ an’ now that vengeance is about to be visited upon the heads of the wicked. The infamous Rooshians, proud in their iniquity, will sail out of Sitka, with their ships laden with spoils—but we’ll be the ones who will reap the rich harvest. Ours will be the pockets that will ring with Chinese gold!”

“But,” asked Matthew, his brows drawing into a puzzled frown, “how’s that goin’ to help the Indians? Do we carry the gold back an’ give it to ’em?”

“Oh, dear, no! My, my! That would never, never do—even if it were possible. Gold is the curse of the red man. No sooner does he get it than he spends it for strong drink—to the utter damnation of his soul! No, our duty is to place the noble Indian where he was before suffering the exploitation of the Rooshians—a simple, happy savage, content to kill only what he needs for food an’ clothing. The only way to accomplish this is to drive the Rooshian out of business, by rendering that business unprofitable—then he will return to his own country, and the red men will be left as God intended them to be left, simple children of the wilderness.

“The gold that we shall receive in exchange for the fur will be our own—it is God’s way of repaying us for our disinterested carrying out of His will. For this undertaking involves vast expense. I purchased this ship—a good fast ship, she is—one that will show a clean pair of heels to any of the clumsy steam hookers that wallow the seas leaving a long black line of stinkin’ smoke for those who pursue to follow. I also purchased four East Indiamen guns—excellent pieces that will outshoot anything the Rooshians have aboard. Not only that—but there is the item of ammunition, ship’s stores, and the crew. I have counted not the expense, when once the Lord showed me the way. It is to man one of these guns that I have picked you two. We will select others from the crew to man the other guns.”

“But hell,” cried Jake, “we’re liable to kill someone—shootin’ at ’em with cannons. I don’t want to kill no one—an’ they might shoot back.”

The captain smiled benignly. “No, no! Dear, no! We will give them plenty of warning by shooting across their bows. When they see that our pieces will carry far beyond the range of theirs, they will heave to, and our victory will be bloodless. But should they presume to show fight, it is their own doing; then, my men, we must put away any petty qualms we may have in regard to human life, and battle right valiantly for the Lord. If they fight back,” cried the man, a wicked flash in his green eyes, “we’ll blow every mother’s son of ’em to hell! But shoot high; don’t strike their ship on the water line, and don’t send balls crashing in among those furs. Sweep their decks, cut off their masts an’ funnels, cripple their riggin’—but don’t sink ’em or damage the fur.”

“But we don’t know how to aim a cannon.”

“You’ll know—you’ll know! Mate Swile’s a capital good hand at gunnery. He’ll show ye the tricks. We’ll put into a deep harbor I know, an’ all hands will turn to an’ give the ship a coat of paint. We’ll change even her name. The Sassy Kate she is now, but that’s no name for a ship that sails under the banner of the Lord. The Avenger, that’s what I’m goin’ to call her. An’ by the time we hit the China ports, she’ll be the Sassy Kate again. That’ll put the fear of God in the hearts of them damn Rooshians! A ship with no registry—a ship that never cleared from any port, nor arrived at any—a ship straight from heaven, they’ll think—a mystery ship—that’s what she’ll be.

“ ‘God moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform.’

“Them Rooshians is religious, an’ after they’ve lost a few cargoes they’ll see it ain’t no use to try to fly in the face of the Almighty. We’ll break them guns out of the hold an’ mount ’em, an’ then Mate Swile’ll toll off crews for the other three guns, an’ start you in on yer practice. My information is that they’ll be shippin’ a cargo the first of April, an’ it’s the fourteenth of March today. We don’t want to let ’em slip past us. Go up on deck now, an’ lend a hand with mixin’ the paint. Tell Mr. Swile I want to see him. An’ don’t breathe a word of what I’ve told ye to anyone.”

“All right,” answered Jake.

“Say ‘aye, aye, sir.’ Not ‘all right,’ ” snapped the captain. “Ye might’s well start in right now to learn to do things shipshape. An’ when ye speak to Mate Swile, be sure to call him ‘Mister.’ ”

“Ki yi, sir,” grinned Jake. “Sounds like a dog, don’t it?”

The captain’s eyes seemed about to pop from their sockets; his face purpled with rage as he brought his fist crashing down on his desk. “Aye, aye! Aye, aye! Ye damn lubber! Not ‘ki yi.’ Who the hell d’ye think yer talkin’ to? Git along now, an’ remember to keep a civil tongue in yer head, er, by God, ye’ll wisht ye had!”

In the passageway, with the captain’s door closed behind them, Jake whispered, “Gits mad quick, don’t he? Swears easy, fer a pious man, too. I guess he learnt it off’n the mate. But he means all right. Gosh, he laid out a sight of money to help them pore Injuns.”

“He’s a damned pirate!” snapped Matthew. “I’d like to wring his neck!”