Under Sail 8

Under Sail 8

"If the silver turns black the fish is poison," explained Frenchy. In

this case the bonita was pronounced "good to eat," and a great feast

was on that night; however, I never cared much for fish anyway and

did not touch it. Chow had certainly made an ill looking mess of it,

garnished with broken tack, and basted with pork fat.

 

"You'll wisht you had a bit of this tucker afore we get to Honolulu,"

was the comment of Joe, who proceeded to help himself liberally.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV

 

THE FIGHT

 

 

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.

 

The first dog watch that day was unusually quiet, all hands mending and

reading and wondering what the outcome would be when Joe got the tar

cleaned up on deck. At five bells Joe returned to the fo'c'sle with

the supper, a kid of salt pork and cabbage. Martin, who had busied

himself in the galley, brought in a pan of "dandy funk," a baked mass

of hard tack and molasses, a great delicacy with us and only possible

at rare intervals when Chow would permit us to take up the space in

his galley range. However, the dandy funk went begging. Joe was sullen

and refused to touch it. Scouse ignored it, and so did everyone else

with the exception of Martin, who for once enjoyed a complete meal of

our favorite dessert. Conversation during supper was strained to the

breaking point, and we were all glad to be away as soon as possible and

get out on deck.

 

[Illustration: Skouse]

 

The second dog watch went by without incident, as we were rushed about

the braces, sweating up for the night, trimming yards, and laboring at

the bilge pumps. It was clear, but with no moon, and at eight bells

we went forward to the square under the fo'c'sle head. The starboard

watch were called aft by the second mate, to some task of horsing up

this yard or that, and everything was propitious for the coming battle.

Blood alone could wipe out the feud between Scouse and Joe.

 

"And I hope he gets a damn good lickin'," confided Martin to me as we

went forward, referring to Scouse.

 

"Too heavy, Mart," was my opinion.

 

"But Australia says as how Joe can handle his self. That boy ain't no

slouch, and he's mad. You bet he's mad," insisted Martin.

 

That Joe was mad, fighting mad, went without saying. He had the

stinging insults from the mate still ringing in his ears, and the vile

tactics of Scouse, culminating in the tar pot trick, had steeled Joe to

the point of desperation. Scouse, on the other hand, faced the question

of fighting for his right to exist in the fo'c'sle. For a man to be

ostracized by the crowd forward is a living hell, as has been proven on

other voyages.

 

Aggravated as the situation was by the hedging discipline of the ship,

the preparations for the battle were as secret as though we were

an illegal boxing club operating in some blue-stocking community.

Jimmy Marshall decided all the details, jumping around as busy as a

field louse at harvest time. He elected himself referee and told off

Australia and Brenden to look after Scouse, while Martin and myself

were detailed to take care of Joe.

 

Our men stripped to the waist, bare knuckles and bare feet, with the

"ring" bounded by the fore pinrail to leeward, the fife rail, the

knight heads, and the fore side of the fo'c'sle, all dimly lighted by

the fo'c'sle lamp, moved to the doorway by Jimmy, and shedding a faint

yellow gleam over the space on deck.

 

Aft, the watch under the second mate were going through the first half

hour of trimming yards, and the general shake up of things with which

the officers usually "woke up" their crowd. No time had been lost by

Jimmy, for he know just what to do, and Joe was facing Scouse with

blood in his eyes, a very few minutes after eight bells.

 

"Not much room, but good enough for a fight, if it's fight you want,"

said Jimmy, buzzing around the men to see that all was in order. Two

buckets were filled with water from over side, hand swabs were got from

the deck chest, and our men lined up for work.

 

Scouse weighed about two hundred pounds, topping Joe by twenty pounds,

but for all that they were well matched, as Joe had the advantage of

agility and the better chance to dodge the hard knocks of the very

substantial deck fixtures all about.

 

Jimmy brought out a big silver watch and announced that the rounds

would be three minutes, "An' no punchin' in a clinch, an' no noise.

These is the Mark o' Queensberry rules," said Jimmy with great emphasis.

 

The fo'c'sle lookout of the other watch came aft to the break of the

fo'c'sle head and stood by the mast, ready to warn us of a surprise

from aft. It was to be a silent fight, a desperate, uncompromising

battle for the freedom of the fo'c'sle slaves, and the general

edification of all hands, long wearied by the bickering between Joe and

the red head.

 

The men backed off in the gloom.

 

"Go to it!" cried Jimmy.

 

They clashed with the hard thuds of calloused fists. Both men were in

the prime of condition. Both were crazy to fight. Big Scouse swung at

Joe, landing a fraction before Joe connected with the big fellow's

wind. The blow brought blood spurting from Joe's nose and cut his lip.

"_Play for his wind, Joe! The bread basket, Joe! Bat 'im in the eye!

Kill him!_" The side lines, hid in the shadow of the fo'c'sle, were with Joe.