“We sail at ten o’clock, and it’s now past midnight,” I remarked, thoughtfully “Yes, sir; I’ll go any time you say.”
“But you can’t swim, Joe.”
“Never mind. Don’t let me be a bother to you. You’ll want to turn in,” casting a wistful look around my pleasant room, “and so I’ll find my way on deck and you needn’t give me another thought.”
“Very good,” said I, nodding. “I think I’ll turn in this minute.”
He rose up, slowly. “Just climb into that upper berth, Joe, and go to sleep. There’ll be work for you tomorrow, and you’ll need to get rested.”
He stared into my smiling face a moment with a startled look that soon became radiant. Then broke down and cried like a baby.
“Here, no snivelling!” I growled, savagely. “Pile into that berth; but see you get your shoes off first.”
He obeyed, still blubbering but evidently struggling to restrain his sobs. Indeed, his privations of the past two days, half starved and hunted like a dog, had completely unnerved the poor fellow, When he had tumbled into the berth I locked the door, put out the light, and rolled myself in my own blanket.
A few moments later I heard Joe stirring. He leaned over the edge of the bunk and murmured: “God bless you, Sam Steele! I’ll never forget, sir, the way you — ”
“Oh, shut up and go to sleep, Joe,” I cried. “You’ve kept me awake long enough already.”
“Yes sir.” And after that he was silent.
CHAPTER TWO
OUR VENTURE
THOSE WHO WERE present at the launching of our beautiful new Seagull were unanimous in declaring her the trimmest, daintiest, most graceful craft that had ever yet floated in the waters of old Chelsea bay. Her color was pure white, her brass work brilliant as gold. She was yacht built, on the lines of the fast express boats, and no expense had been spared in her construction or fittings.
My father, Captain Steele, one of the ablest and best known sailors on the Atlantic coast, had personally supervised the building of the Seagull and watched every step of progress and inspected every bit of timber, steel, or brass, so that nothing might be slighted in any way. She was one hundred and eighty-seven feet in length, with a thirty-six foot beam and a depth of twenty-one feet, and her net tonnage was close to fourteen hundred. We had her schooner rigged, because Captain Steele believed in sailing and had designed his ship for a merchantman of the highest class, but of the old school.
Uncle Naboth and I, who were also part owners of the ship — the firm being Steele, Perkins & Steele — had begged earnestly to convert her into a modern steamer; but my father angrily resented the suggestion.
“Her name’s the Seagull,” he declared, “an’ a seagull without wings ‘ud be a doggone jack-rabbit; so wings she mus’ have, my lads, ef Dick Steele’s goin’ to sail her.”
We had really put a fortune into the craft, and Uncle Naboth — a shrewd old trader who marked the world as it moved and tried to keep pace with it — was as anxious to have the ship modern in every respect as I was. So we stood stubbornly side by side and argued with the Captain until he finally granted a partial concession to our wishes and consented to our installing an auxiliary equipment of a screw propeller driven by powerful engines, with the express understanding that they must only be used in case of emergency.
“It’s a rank waste o’ money, an’ takes up vallyble room,” he growled; “but ef so be you ain’t satisfied with decent spars an’ riggin,’ why, git your blarsted ol’ machinery aboard — an’ be hanged to ye both!”
This consent was obtained soon after my return from Panama, but Uncle Naboth and I had ordered the engines months previously, having been determined to install them from the day the Seagull was first planned; so no time was lost in getting them placed.
You will know the Seagull more intimately as my story progresses, so I will avoid a detailed description of it just now, merely adding that the ship was at once the envy and admiration of all beholders and the pride and joy of her three owners.
My father had sailed for forty years and had at one time lost his right leg in a shipwreck, so he stumped around with a cork substitute. But he was as energetic and active as in his youth, and his vast experience fully justified his reputation as one of the ablest and shrewdest seamen in the merchant service. Indeed, Captain Steele was universally known and respected, and I had good reason to be proud of the bluff old salt who owned me as his son. He had prejudices, it is true, acquired through many strange adventures at sea and in foreign parts; but his heart was simple and frank as that of a child, and we who knew him best and loved him well had little fear of his stubborn temperament.
Naboth Perkins, my dead mother’s brother, was also a remarkable man in his way. He knew the sea as well as did my father, but prided himself on the fact that he “couldn’t navigate a ferry-boat,” having always sailed as supercargo and devoted his talents to trading. He had been one of my earliest and most faithful friends, and although I was still a mere boy at the time the Seagull was launched, I had encountered some unusual adventures in company with quaint, honest Uncle Naboth, and won certain bits of prize money that had proved the foundation of our fortunes.
These prize-winnings, converted into hard cash, had furnished the funds for building our new ship, in which we purposed beginning a conservative, staid career as American merchantmen, leaving adventures behind us and confining ourselves to carrying from port to port such merchandise as might be consigned to our care. You will hear how well our modest intention was fulfilled.
The huge proportions and staunch construction of the Seagull would enable her to sail in any known sea with perfect safety, and long before she was completed we were besieged with proposals from shippers anxious to secure our services.
Uncle Naboth, who handled all such matters for our firm, finally contracted with a big Germantown manufacturer of “Oriental” rugs to carry a load of bales to Syria, consigned to merchants there who would distribute them throughout Persia, Turkey, and Egypt, to be sold to American and European tourists and carried to their homes as treasures of Oriental looms.
It was not so much the liberal payment we received as the fact that the long voyage to the Syrian port would give us an opportunity of testing the performances of the Seagull that induced Mr. Perkins to accept the contract and undertake the lengthy voyage.
“If she skims the Atlantic an’ the Mediterranean all right,” said he, “the boat’ll weather any sea on earth; so we may as well find out at the start what she’s good for. ‘Sides that, we’re gittin’ a thunderin’ price fer cartin’ them rags to Syria, an’ so the deal seems a good one all ‘round.”
My father gravely approved the transaction. He also was eager to test the powers of our beautiful new ship, and this would not be his first voyage to the Orient, by any means. So the papers were made out and signed and as soon as our last fittings and furnishings were installed and our crew aboard we were to voyage down the coast in sunny September weather and anchor in the Chesapeake, there to load our cargo.
Our ship’s company had been carefully selected, for the fame of my father’s new vessel and the popularity of the Captain himself attracted to us the best seamen available; so we had the satisfaction of signing a splendid company of experienced men. In addition to these sailors we shipped a first and second engineer, clever young fellows that became instantly unpopular with my father, who glared at the poor “mechanics” as if he considered them interlopers, if not rank traitors. Some of the seamen, it was arranged, would act as stokers if the engines were called into requisition, so with the addition of a couple of oilers who were also carpenter’s assistants we were satisfied we might at any time steam or sail, as the occasion demanded.
I am sure Captain Steele had already acknowledged in his heart that we were justified in equipping the Seagull with engines, since any old salt fully realizes the horror of being becalmed and knows the loss such a misfortune is sure to entail in time, wages, and grub. B
ut he would not admit it. Instead, he persisted in playing the part of a much injured and greatly scandalized seaman. It would be time enough to “take water” when the value of the propeller was fully proved.
Ned Britton was Captain’s Mate, of course. Ned had sailed with my father for years; he had also sailed two exciting voyages with Uncle Naboth and me, and we all admired and respected this strong, gallant fellow as much as we had come to trust in his ability.
Two other curious characters were established fixtures of any craft that the firm of Steele, Perkins & Steele might own. These were two stalwart black men named Nux and Bryonia, South Sea Islanders whom Uncle Naboth had rescued from death years before and attached to his service. Since then they had become my own trusted friends, and more than once had I owed my life to their intelligence and faithfulness. Bryonia, or Bry, as we called him, was a famous cook, and always had charge of our ship’s galley. With Bry aboard we were never in want of a substantial, well cooked meal; for, as Uncle Naboth was wont to declare: “Thet Bry could take a rope’s end an’ a bit o’ tarpaulin an’ make a Paris tubble-de-hoot out’n ‘em.”
Nux was cabin steward and looked after our comforts aft with a deftness and skill that were wholly admirable. These blacks were both of them shrewd, loyal, and brave, and we knew we might always depend upon their fidelity.
On the morning following my adoption of Joe Herring I left the runaway locked up in my stateroom and went on deck to watch the final preparations for our departure. A fair breeze swept down the bay, so at ten o’clock we hoisted anchor, spread our main and foresails and, slowly gathering way, the Seagull slipped through the water on her maiden trip amid the shouts of hundreds who stood on the shore to watch and bid us God speed.
We fired a shot from our small howitzer as a parting salute to our friends, dipped our pennants in gallant fashion, showed our heels, and sped away so swiftly that the harbor was soon left far behind.
We passed the old Gonzales soon after leaving our anchorage. It was still waiting to recapture its absconding cabin-boy, though why Captain Marrow should attach so much importance to the youth I could not then understand.
As soon as we were well at sea I liberated Joe and told him he was to be my special servant and assistant, but must also help Nux to look after the cabin during his spare time — which was likely to be plentiful enough. Knowing that the sooner I established the lad’s footing aboard the easier it would be for us both, I sent him on an errand that would take him past my father’s station on the deck. His sharp eye encountered the boy at once, as I had expected, and he promptly roared out an order for him to halt.
Joe stopped and saluted respectfully. He was looking cheery and bright this morning; indeed, a different boy from the one I had pulled from the sinking dinghy the night before. Life bore a new aspect for Joe and his heart was light as a feather. He looked honest and wholesome enough in the fresh blue suit I had given him, and he had been duly warned that his only remaining danger lay in not winning the countenance of the skipper.
“Who are you? ‘n’ where ‘n’ thunder ‘d you come from?” demanded Captain Steele.
“Joe Herring, sir. Master Sam’s assistant, sir,” answered the boy, in his quiet tones.
“Assistant! Bungs an’ barnacles! Assistant to Sam! What doin’? Loafin’ an’ a-killin’time?”
“I beg to refer you to Master Sam, sir,” was the composed answer, although from where I watched the scene I could see that Joe was badly frightened.
“What Sam needs is suthin’ to do, more ‘n a grub-devourin’ assistant,” pursued my father, sternly. “Look here; did my son lug you aboard?”
“He did, sir,” replied Joe, truthfully.
“Send him to me, then,” ordered my father.
I stepped forward at once, saluting the Captain with my usual deference. When we were at sea I had been taught to put by the fact that this was my father, bearing in mind only the immediate fact that he was my commander. Still, in my capacity as secretary to Uncle Naboth I was in a measure independent of ship’s discipline.
“What tricks are you up to now, Sam?” demanded the Captain, scowling at me.
“Father, this boy was the runaway from the Gonzales, whom Captain Marrow has been seeking so earnestly. He was so abused by the Mexican that he would rather die than return to his slavery. So he threw himself on my mercy, and knowing he would surely be retaken if I left him ashore, I brought the lad with us. Don’t blame him, sir. I’ll take all the responsibility.”
The Captain stared at me a moment.
“See that you do, then,” he grumbled. “Sam, it’s a illegal an’ unperfessional act to harbor a runaway.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Usually no good ever comes of it.”
“He’s an honest lad, sir.”
The Captain eyed him closely.
“It’s no affair o’ mine,” he muttered, half turning away. “The boy belongs now to the Perkins outfit, mind you. I’ll have no runaways ner stowaways in my crew.”
I knew then the battle was won, and that my father would refuse to surrender Joe to his old captain under any circumstances. The “Perkins outfit,” so sneeringly referred to, meant Uncle Naboth and myself, and although it was evident the mission of the Seagull was dependent on the “Perkins outfit” to manage and arrange its commerce in a profitable manner, it pleased my father to denominate us landlubbers and consider us of “no ‘count” in the sailing of the ship.
Uncle Naboth wasn’t aboard yet. He had gone by rail some days before to Philadelphia to attend to the business of our cargo, and it was not until we anchored in the placid waters of the Chesapeake that my uncle appeared, smiling and cheery as ever.
Mr. Perkins was short and stout, with a round, chubby face, smoothly shaven, and a circle of iron-gray locks around his bald head. His eyes were small, light blue and twinkling; his expression simple and childlike; his speech inelegant and with a humorous twist that rendered him an agreeable companion. But as a trader Naboth Perkins was famed far and wide; his shrewdness was proverbial; his talent for bargaining fairly marvelous; his honesty undisputed. I have heard merchants say it was a pleasure to pay Mr. Perkins his demands, even though they could procure the same service elsewhere at less cost. For he was square as a die, faithful to the smallest detail, and his word was absolutely to be relied upon. The little old gentleman was known as a money-maker, and had been the partner of my father, his brother-in-law, for many years.
Such a character could not fail to be eccentric, and Uncle Naboth’s ways were at times puzzling; but I knew he was devoted to me, since he had proved this quality many times; and I naturally regarded my whimsical uncle with great affection.
When Mr. Perkins came aboard he announced that the bales of rugs were all on the dock and ready to load without delay. I was much interested in our queer cargo, for it seemed strange to me that Americans should ship “Oriental” rugs to the Orient, to be purchased there by Americans and brought back home again. But Uncle Naboth, who had been through the mills at Germantown, explained the matter very clearly.
“You see,” he said, “there ain’t enough genooine Oriental rugs left to supply the demand, now thet they’ve got to be sich a fad with rich people. When the Orient was fust diskivered there was a good many rugs there, but it had took years to make each one of ‘em, an’ some was so old they had holes wore in ‘em; but that made’ em the more vallyble ‘cause it proved they was antiques. They picked’ em up fast, an’ the Orientals was glad to sell ‘em an’ say nothin’. Ev’ry tourist thet goes to the East wants to buy rugs to send home, an’ he’ll pay ‘most any price that’s asked fer rare ol’ patterns an’ dim, washed-out colors. Ef there’s a few holes, badly mended, so much the better, fer they proves the rugs is old. So the clever Easterners an’ the cleverer Yankees hit on a scheme to supply the demand, an’ here in Germantown they makes thousands of rare ol’ Oriental rugs every year. They buy a few genooine ones to copy the patterns from, an’ they weave �
�em by machinery. Then the new rugs is put into a machine that beats dust an’ dirt into ‘em an’ beats it out again, till the new, fresh colors gits old an’ faded. After this they’re run through a rubbin’ machine that wears ‘em down some an’ makes a few holes, here an’ there; an’ then the menders take ‘em an’ darn the holes. In about a day’s time one o’ them rugs goes through about as much wear an’ tear by machinery as it would get in centuries of use; an’ fer my part I can’t tell the diff’rence atween a genooine Oriental an’ a imitation one. We’ve got a whole cargo to take to Syria, an’ in a few months they’ll mostly come back agin, an’ be laid on the floors of our millionaires. Queer traffic, ain’t it, Sam? But if you stops to think, there’s been enough Oriental rugs carted out’n the Orient, in the last hundred years, to carpet most of Asia an’ Africa with; so it stands to reason they ain’t all the real thing. If it wasn’t fer Yankee ingenooity an’ Oriental trickery the supply’d been exhausted years ago, an’ our people ‘d hev to carpet their floors with honest, fresh rugs instead o’ these machine worn imitations. That would break their hearts, wouldn’t it?”
But Uncle Naboth had arranged also to carry another queer line of merchandise on our voyage, consisting of several large cases consigned by a Connecticut manufacturer. These contained imitations of ancient Egyptian scarabs (a sort of mud beetle considered sacred by the old sun-worshippers), and a collection of funeral figures, tiny household gods and other articles supposed to be found only in the tombs of the primitive kings and nobles of Egypt.
“The Egyptian gov’ment,” explained Uncle Naboth, “won’t let any more genooine relics be taken out’n the country, ‘cause they wants’ em all fer the Cairo Museum; so the Yankees hev come to the front agin, an’ made mud relics by the bushel, so’s the eager tourists can buy what they wants to bring home an’ prove they’ve been there. These cases o’ goods is consigned to merchants in Luxor, a little town up the Nile, an’ I’ve agreed to run over to Alexandria, after we’ve unloaded our Syrian rugs, an’ dump the rubbish on the dock there. There ain’t many cases of it, but the profits is so big that we get well paid for job.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 668
