Sea Urchins

“Well, I’ll do what I can for you if the worst comes to the worst,” said the skipper. “You’d better not say anything about this to anybody else.”

“Not me,” said George fervently, as he rose, “an’ o’ course you—”

“You can rely on me,” said the skipper in his most stately fashion.

He thought of the seaman’s confidence several times during the evening, and, being somewhat uncertain of the law as to bigamy, sought information from the master of the Endeavour as they sat in the tetter’s cabin at a quiet game of cribbage. By virtue of several appearances in the law courts with regard to collisions and spoilt cargoes this gentleman had obtained a knowledge of law which made him a recognised authority from London Bridge to the Nore.

It was a delicate matter for the master of the John Henry to broach, and, with the laudable desire of keeping the hero’s secret, he approached it by a most circuitous route. He began with a burglary, followed with an attempted murder, and finally got on the subject of bigamy, via the “Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill.”

“What sort o’ bigamy?” inquired the master of the brig.

“Oh, two wives,” said Captain Thomsett.

“Yes, yes,” said the other, “but are there any mitigating circumstances in the case, so that you could throw yourself on the mercy o’ the court, I mean?”

“My case!” said Thomsett, glaring. “It ain’t for me.”

“Oh, no, o’ course not,” said Captain Stubbs.

“What do you mean by ‘o’ course not’?” demanded the indignant master of the John Henry.

“Your deal,” said Captain Stubbs, pushing the cards over to him.

“You haven’t answered my question,” said Captain Thomsett, regarding him offensively.

“There’s some questions,” said Stubbs slowly, “as is best left unanswered. When you’ve seen as much law as I have, my lad, you’ll know that one of the first principles of English law is, that nobody is bound to commit themselves.”

“Do you mean to say you think it is me?” bellowed Captain Thomsett.

“I mean to say nothing,” said Captain Stubbs, putting his huge hands on the table. “But when a man comes into my cabin and begins to hum an’ haw an’ hint at things, and then begins to ask my advice about bigamy, I can’t help thinking. This is a free country, and there’s no law ag’in thinking. Make a clean breast of it, cap’n, an’ I’ll do what I can for you.”

“You’re a blanked fool,” said Captain Thomsett wrathfully.

Captain Stubbs shook his head gently, and smiled with infinite patience. “P’raps so,” he said modestly. “P’raps so; but there’s one thing I can do, and that is, I can read people.”

“You can read me, I s’pose?” said Thomsett sneeringly.

“Easy, my lad,” said the other, still preserving, though by an obvious effort, his appearance of judicial calm. “I’ve seen your sort before. One in pertikler I call to mind. He’s doing fourteen years now, pore chap. But you needn’t be alarmed, cap’n. Your secret is safe enough with me.”

Captain Thomsett got up and pranced up and down the cabin, but Captain Stubbs remained calm. He had seen that sort before. It was interesting to the student of human nature, and he regarded his visitor with an air of compassionate interest. Then Captain Thomsett resumed his seat, and, to preserve his own fair fame, betrayed that of George.

“I knew it was either you or somebody your kind ‘art was interested in,” said the discomfited Stubbs, as they resumed the interrupted game. “You can’t help your face, cap’n. When you was thinking about that pore chap’s danger it was working with emotion. It misled me, I own it, but it ain’t often I meet such a feeling ‘art as yours.”

Captain Thomsett, his eyes glowing affectionately, gripped his friend’s hand, and in the course of the game listened to an exposition of the law relating to bigamy of a most masterly and complicated nature, seasoned with anecdotes calculated to make the hardiest of men pause on the brink of matrimony and think seriously of their position.

“Suppose this woman comes aboard after pore George,” said Thomsett. “What’s the best thing to be done?”

“The first thing,” said Captain Stubbs, “is to gain time. Put her off.”

“Off the ship, d’ye mean?” inquired the other.

“No, no,” said the jurist “Pretend he’s ill and can’t see anybody. By gum, I’ve got it.”

He slapped the table with his open hand, and regarded the other triumphantly.

“Let him turn into his bunk and pretend to be dead,” he continued, in a voice trembling with pride at his strategy. “It’s pretty dark down your foc’sle, I know. Don’t have no light down there, and tell him to keep quiet.”

Captain Thomsett’s eyes shone, but with a qualified admiration.

“Ain’t it somewhat sudden?” he demurred.

Captain Stubbs regarded him with a look of supreme artfulness, and slowly closed one eye.

“He got a chill going in the water,” he said quietly.

“Well, you’re a masterpiece,” said Thomsett ungrudgingly. “I will say this of you, you’re a masterpiece. Mind this is all to be kept quite secret.”

“Make your mind easy,” said the eminent jurist. “If I told all I know there’s a good many men in this river as ‘ud be doing time at the present moment.”

Captain Thomsett expressed his pleasure at this information, and, having tried in vain to obtain a few of their names, even going so far as to suggest some, looked at the clock, and, shaking hands, departed to his own ship. Captain Stubbs, left to himself, finished his pipe and retired to rest; and his mate, who had been lying in the adjoining bunk during the consultation, vainly trying to get to sleep, scratched his head, and tried to think of a little strategy himself. He had glimmerings of it before he fell asleep, but when he awoke next morning it flashed before him in all the fulness of its matured beauty.

He went on deck smiling, and, leaning his arms on the side, gazed contemplatively at George, who was sitting on the deck listening darkly to the cook as that worthy read aloud from a newspaper.

“Anything interesting, cook?” demanded the mate.

“About George, sir,” said the cook, stopping in his reading. “There’s pictures of ‘im too.”

He crossed to the side, and, handing the paper to the mate, listened smilingly to the little ejaculations of surprise and delight of that deceitful man as he gazed upon the likenesses. “Wonderful,” he said emphatically. “Wonderful. I never saw such a good likeness in my life, George. That’ll be copied in every newspaper in London, and here’s the name in full too—‘George Cooper, schooner John Henry, now lying off Limehouse.’”

He handed the paper back to the cook and turned away grinning as George, unable to control himself any longer, got up with an oath and went below to nurse his wrath in silence. A little later the mate of the brig, after a very confidential chat with his own crew, lit his pipe and, with a jaunty air, went ashore.

For the next hour or two George alternated between the foc’sle and the deck, from whence he cast harassed glances at the busy wharves ashore. The skipper, giving it as his own suggestion, acquainted him with the arrangements made in case of the worst, and George, though he seemed somewhat dubious about them, went below and put his bed in order.

“It’s very unlikely she’ll see that particular newspaper though,” said the skipper encouragingly.

“People are sure to see what you don’t want ‘em to,” growled George. “Somebody what knows us is sure to see it, an’ show ‘er.”

“There’s a lady stepping into a waterman’s skiff now,” said the skipper, glancing at the stairs. “That wouldn’t be her, I s’pose?”

He turned to the seaman as he spoke, but the words had hardly left his lips before George was going below and undressing for his part.

“If anybody asks for me,” he said, turning to the cook, who was regarding his feverish movements in much astonishment, “I’m dead.”

“You’re wot?” inquired the other.

“Dead,” said George. “Dead. Died at ten o’clock this morning. D’ye understand, fat-head?”

“I can’t say as ‘ow I do,” said the cook somewhat acrimoniously.

“Pass the word round that I’m dead,” repeated George hurriedly. “Lay me out, cookie. I’ll do as much for you one day.”

Instead of complying the horrified cook rushed up on deck to tell the skipper that George’s brain had gone; but, finding him in the midst of a hurried explanation to the men, stopped with greedy ears to listen. The skiff was making straight for the schooner, propelled by an elderly waterman in his shirt-sleeves, the sole passenger being a lady of ample proportions, who was watching the life of the river through a black veil.

In another minute the skiff bumped alongside, and the waterman standing in the boat passed the painter aboard. The skipper gazed at the fare and, shivering inwardly, hoped that George was a good actor.

“I want to see Mr. Cooper,” said the lady grimly, as she clambered aboard, assisted by the waterman.

“I’m very sorry, but you can’t see him, mum,” said the skipper politely.

“Ho! carn’t I?” said the lady, raising her voice a little. “You go an’ tell him that his lawful wedded wife, what he deserted, is aboard.”

“It ‘ud be no good, mum,” said the skipper, who felt the full dramatic force of the situation. “I’m afraid he wouldn’t listen to you.”

“Ho! I think I can persuade ‘im a bit,” said the lady, drawing in her lips. “Where is ‘e?”

“Up aloft,” said the skipper, removing his hat.

“Don’t you give me none of your lies,” said the lady, as she scanned both masts closely.

“He’s dead,” said the skipper solemnly.

His visitor threw up her arms and staggered back. The cook was nearest, and, throwing his arms round her waist, he caught her as she swayed. The mate, who was of a sympathetic nature, rushed below for whisky, as she sank back on the hatchway, taking the reluctant cook with her.

“Poor thing,” said the skipper.

“Don’t ‘old ‘er so tight, cook,” said one of the men. “There’s no necessity to squeeze ‘er.”

“Pat ‘er ‘ands,” said another.

“Pat ‘em yourself,” said the cook brusquely, as he looked up and saw the delight of the crew of the Endeavour, who were leaning over their vessel’s side regarding the proceedings with much interest.

“Don’t leave go of me,” said the newly-made widow, as she swallowed the whisky, and rose to her feet.

“Stand by her, cook,” said the skipper authoritatively.

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the cook.

They formed a procession below, the skipper and mate leading; the cook with his fair burden, choking her sobs with a handkerchief, and the crew following.

“What did he die of?” she asked in a whisper broken with sobs.

“Chill from the water,” whispered the skipper in response.

“I can’t see ‘im,” she whispered. “It’s so dark here. Has anybody got a match? Oh! here’s some.”

Before anybody could interfere she took a box from a locker, and, striking one, bent over the motionless George, and gazed at his tightly-closed eyes and open mouth in silence.

“You’ll set the bed alight,” said the mate in a low voice, as the end of the match dropped off.

“It won’t hurt ‘im,” whispered the widow tearfully.

The mate, who had distinctly seen the corpse shift a bit, thought differently.

“Nothing ‘ll ‘urt ‘im now” whispered the widow, sniffing as she struck another match. “Oh! if he could only sit up ‘and speak to me.”

For a moment the mate, who knew George’s temper, thought it highly probable that he would, as the top of the second match fell between his shirt and his neck.

“Don’t look any more,” said the skipper anxiously; “you can’t do him any good.”

His visitor handed him the matches, and, for a short time, sobbed in silence.

“We’ve done all we could for him,” said the skipper at length. “It ‘ud be best for you to go home and lay down a bit.”

“You’re all very good, I’m sure,” whispered the widow, turning away. “I’ll send for him this evening.”

They all started, especially the corpse.

“Eh?” said the skipper.

“He was a bad ‘usband to me,” she continued, still in the same sobbing whisper, “but I’ll ‘ave ‘im put away decent.”

“You’d better let us bury him,” said the skipper. “We can do it cheaper than you can, perhaps?”

“No. I’ll send for him this evening,” said the lady. “Are they ‘is clothes?”

“The last he ever wore,” said the skipper pathetically, pointing to the heap of clothing. “There’s his chest, pore chap, just as he left it.”

The bereaved widow bent down, and, raising the lid, shook her head tearfully as she regarded the contents. Then she gathered up the clothes under her left arm, and, still sobbing, took his watch, his knife, and some small change from his chest, while the crew in dumb show inquired of the deceased, who was regarding her over the edge of the bunk, what was to be done.

“I suppose there was some money due to him?” she inquired, turning to the skipper.

“Matter of a few shillings,” he stammered.

“I’ll take them,” she said, holding out her hand.

The skipper put his hand in his pocket and, in his turn, looked inquiringly at the late lamented for guidance; but George had closed his eyes again to the world, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he slowly counted the money into her hand.

She dropped the coins into her pocket, and, with a parting glance at the motionless figure in the bunk, turned away. The procession made its way on deck again, but not in the same order, the cook carefully bringing up the rear.

“If there’s any other little things,” she said, pausing at the side to get a firmer grip of the clothes under her arm.

“You shall have them,” said the skipper, who had been making mental arrangements to have George buried before her return.

Apparently much comforted by this assurance, she allowed herself to be lowered into the boat, which was waiting. The excitement of the crew of the brig, who had been watching her movements with eager interest, got beyond the bounds of all decency as they saw her being pulled ashore with the clothes in her lap.

“You can come up now,” said the skipper, as he caught sight of George’s face at the scuttle.

“Has she gone?” inquired the seaman anxiously.

The skipper nodded, and a wild cheer rose from the crew of the brig as George came on deck in his scanty garments, and from behind the others peered cautiously over the side.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

The skipper pointed to the boat.

“That?” said George, starting. “That? That ain’t my wife.”

“Not your wife?” said the skipper, staring. “Whose is she then?”

“How the devil should I know?” said George, throwing discipline to the winds in his agitation. “It ain’t my wife.”

“P’raps it’s one you’ve forgotten,” suggested the skipper in a low voice.

George looked at him and choked. “I’ve never seen her before,” he replied, “s’elp me. Call her back. Stop her.”

The mate rushed aft and began to haul in the ship’s boat, but George caught him suddenly by the arm.

“Never mind,” he said bitterly; “better let her go. She seems to know too much for me. Somebody’s been talking to her.”

It was the same thought that was troubling the skipper, and he looked searchingly from one to the other for an explanation. He fancied that he saw it when he met the eye of the mate of the brig, and he paused irresolutely as the skiff reached the stairs, and the woman, springing ashore, waved the clothes triumphantly in the direction of the schooner and disappeared.

AN INTERVENTION

There was bad blood between the captain and mate who comprised the officers and crew of the sailing-barge “Swallow”; and the outset of their voyage from London to Littleport was conducted in glum silence. As far as the Nore they had scarcely spoken, and what little did pass was mainly in the shape of threats and abuse. Evening, chill and overcast, was drawing in; distant craft disappeared somewhere between the waste of waters and the sky, and the side-lights of neighbouring vessels were beginning to shine over the water. The wind, with a little rain in it, was unfavourable to much progress, and the trough of the sea got deeper as the waves ran higher and splashed by the barge’s side.

“Get the side-lights out, and quick, you,” growled the skipper, who was at the helm.

The mate, a black-haired, fierce-eyed fellow of about twenty-five, set about the task with much deliberation.

“And look lively, you lump,” continued the skipper.

“I don’t want none of your lip,” said the mate furiously; “so don’t you give me none.”

The skipper yawned, and stretching his mighty frame laughed disagreeably. “You’ll take what I give you, my lad,” said he, “whether it’s lip or fist.”

“Lay a finger on me and I’ll knife you,” said the mate. “I ain’t afraid of you, for all your size.”

He put out the side-lights, casting occasional looks of violent hatred at the skipper, who, being a man of tremendous physique and rough tongue, had goaded his subordinate almost to madness.

“If you’ve done skulking,” he cried, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, “come and take the helm.”

The mate came aft and relieved him; and he stood for a few seconds taking a look round before going below. He dropped his pipe, and stooped to recover it; and in that moment the mate, with a sudden impulse, snatched up a handspike and dealt him a crashing blow on the head. Half-blinded and stunned by the blow, the man fell on his knees, and shielding his face with his hands, strove to rise. Before he could do so the mate struck wildly at him again, and with a great cry he fell backwards and rolled heavily overboard. The mate, with a sob in his breath, gazed wildly astern, and waited for him to rise. He waited: minutes seemed to pass, and still the body of the skipper did not emerge from the depths. He reeled back in a stupor; then he gave a faint cry as his eye fell on the boat, which was dragging a yard or two astern, and a figure which clung desperately to the side of it Before he had quite realised what had happened, he saw the skipper haul himself on to the stern of the boat and then roll heavily into it.

Panic-stricken at the sight, he drew his knife to cut the boat adrift, but paused as he reflected that she and her freight would probably be picked up by some passing vessel. As the thought struck him he saw the dim form of the skipper come towards the bow of the boat and, seizing the rope, begin to haul in towards the barge.

“Stop!” shouted the mate hoarsely; “stop! or I’ll cut you loose.”

The skipper let the rope go, and the boat pulled up with a jerk.

“I’m independent of you,” the skipper shouted, picking up one of the loose boards from the bottom of the boat and brandishing it. “If there’s any sea on I can keep her head to it with this. Cut away.”

“If I let you come aboard,” said the mate, “will you swear to let bygones be bygones?”

“No!” thundered the other. “Whether I come aboard or not don’t make much difference. It’ll be about twenty years for you, you murdering hound, when I get ashore.”

The mate made no reply, but sat silently steering, keeping, however, a wary eye on the boat towing behind. He turned sick and faint as he thought of the consequences of his action, and vainly cast about in his mind for some means of escape.

“Are you going to let me come aboard?” presently demanded the skipper, who was shivering in his wet clothes.

“You can come aboard on my terms,” repeated the mate doggedly.

“I’ll make no terms with you,” cried the other. “I hand you over to the police directly I get ashore, you mutinous dog. I’ve got a good witness in my head.”

After this there was silence—silence unbroken through the long hours of the night as they slowly passed. Then the dawn came. The side-lights showed fainter and fainter in the water; the light on the mast shed no rays on the deck, but twinkled uselessly behind its glass. Then the mate turned his gaze from the wet, cheerless deck and heaving seas to the figure in the boat dragging behind. The skipper, who returned his gaze with a fierce scowl, was holding his wet handkerchief to his temple. He removed it as the mate looked, and showed a ghastly wound. Still, neither of them spoke. The mate averted his gaze, and sickened with fear as he thought of his position; and in that instant the skipper clutched the painter, and, with a mighty heave, sent the boat leaping towards the stern of the barge, and sprang on deck. The mate rose to his feet; but the other pushed him fiercely aside, and picking up the handspike, which lay on the raised top of the cabin, went below. Half an hour later he came on deck with a fresh suit of clothes on, and his head roughly bandaged, and standing in front of the mate, favoured him with a baleful stare.

“Gimme that helm,” he cried.

The mate relinquished it.

“You dog!” snarled the other, “to try and kill a man when he wasn’t looking, and then keep him in his wet clothes in the boat all night. Make the most o’ your time. It’ll be many a day before you see the sea again.”

The mate groaned in spirit, but made no reply.

“I’ve wrote everything down with the time it happened,” continued the other in a voice of savage satisfaction; “an’ I’ve locked that handspike up in my locker. It’s got blood on it.”

“That’s enough about it,” said the mate, turning at last and speaking thickly. “What I’ve done I must put up with.”

He walked forward to end the discussion; but the skipper shouted out choice bits from time to time as they occurred to him, and sat steering and gibing, a gruesome picture of vengeance.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet with a sharp cry. “There’s somebody in the water,” he roared; “stand by to pick him up.”

As he spoke he pointed with his left hand, and with his right steered for something which rose and fell lazily on the water a short distance from them.

The mate, following his outstretched arm, saw it too, and picking up a boat-hook stood ready, until they were soon close enough to distinguish the body of a man supported by a life-belt.

“Don’t miss him,” shouted the skipper.

The mate grasped the rigging with one hand, and leaning forward as far as possible stood with the hook poised. At first it seemed as though the object would escape them, but a touch of the helm in the nick of time just enabled the mate to reach. The hook caught in the jacket, and with great care he gradually shortened it, and drew the body close to the side.

“He’s dead,” said the skipper, as he fastened the helm and stood looking down into the wet face of the man. Then he stooped, and taking him by the collar of his coat dragged the streaming figure on to the deck.

“Take the helm,” he said.

“Ay, ay,” said the other; and the skipper disappeared below with his burden.

A moment later he came on deck again. “We’ll take in sail and anchor. Sharp there!” he cried.

The mate went to his assistance. There was but little wind, and the task was soon accomplished, and both men, after a hasty glance round, ran below. The wet body of the sailor lay on a locker, and a pool of water was on the cabin floor.

The mate hastily swabbed up the water, and then lit the fire and put on the kettle; while the skipper stripped the sailor of his clothes, and flinging some blankets in front of the fire placed him upon them.

For a long time they toiled in silence, in the faint hope that life still remained in the apparently dead body.

“Poor devil!” said the skipper at length, and fell to rubbing again.

“I don’t believe he’s gone,” said the mate, panting with his exertions. “He don’t feel like a dead man.”

Ten minutes later the figure stirred slightly, and the men talked in excited whispers as they worked. A faint sigh came from the lips of the sailor, and his eyes partly opened.

“It’s all right, matey,” said the skipper; “you lie still; we’ll do the rest. Jem, get some coffee ready.”

By the time it was prepared the partly drowned man was conscious that he was alive, and stared in a dazed fashion at the man who was using him so roughly. Conscious that his patient was improving rapidly, the latter lifted him in his arms and placed him in his own bunk, and proffered him some steaming hot coffee. He sipped a little, then lapsed into unconsciousness again. The two men looked at each other blankly.

“Some of ‘em goes like that.” said the skipper. “I’ve seen it afore. Just as you think they’re pulling round they slip their cable.”

“We must keep him warm,” said the mate. “I don’t see as we can do any more.”