Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
Captains Courageous
“And the old man gave me ten and a half a month; he’s paid me half now; and I took hold with Dan and pitched right in. I can’t do a man’s work yet. But I can handle a dory ’most as well as Dan, and I don’t get rattled in a fog – much; and I can take my trick in light winds – that’s steering, dear – and I can ’most bait up a trawl, and I know my ropes, of course; and I can pitch fish till the cows come home, and I’m great on old Josephus, and I’ll show you how I can clear coffee with a piece of fish-skin, and – I think I’ll have another cup, please. Say, you’ve no notion what a heap of work there is in ten and a half a month!”
“I began with eight and a half, my son,” said Cheyne.
“That so? You never told me, sir.”
“You never asked, Harve. I’ll tell you about it some day, if you care to listen. Try a stuffed olive.”
“Troop says the most interesting thing in the world is to find out how the next man gets his vittles. It’s great to have a trimmed-up meal again. We were well fed, though. Best mug on the Banks. Disko fed us first-class. He’s a great man. And Dan – that’s his son – Dan’s my partner. And there’s Uncle Salters and his manures, an’ he reads Josephus. He’s sure I’m crazy yet. And there’s poor little Penn, and he is crazy. You mustn’t talk to him about Johnstown, because – And, oh, you must know Tom Platt and Long Jack and Manuel. Manuel saved my life. I’m sorry he’s a Portugee. He can’t talk much, but he’s an everlasting musician. He found me struck adrift and drifting, and hauled me in.”
“I wonder your nervous system isn’t completely wrecked,” said Mrs. Cheyne.
“What for, mamma? I worked like a horse and I ate like a hog and I slept like a dead man.”
That was too much for Mrs. Cheyne, who began to think of her visions of a corpse rocking on the salty seas. She went to her stateroom, and Harvey curled up beside his father, explaining his indebtedness.
“You can depend upon me to do everything I can for the crowd, Harve. They seem to be good men on your showing.”
“Best in the Fleet, sir. Ask at Gloucester,” said Harvey. “But Disko believes still he’s cured me of being crazy. Dan’s the only one I’ve let on to about you, and our private cars and all the rest of it, and I’m not quite sure Dan believes. I want to paralyze ’em to-morrow. Say, can’t they run the ‘Constance’ over to Gloucester? Mamma don’t look fit to be moved, anyway, and we’re bound to finish cleaning out by to-morrow. Wouverman takes our fish. You see, we’re first off the Banks this season, and it’s four twenty-five a quintal. We held out till he paid it. They want it quick.”
“You mean you’ll have to work to-morrow, then?”
“I told Troop I would. I’m on the scales. I’ve brought the tallies with me.” He looked at the greasy notebook with an air of importance that made his father choke. “There isn’t but three – no – two ninety-four or five quintal more by my reckoning.”
“Hire a substitute,” suggested Cheyne, to see what Harvey would say.
“Can’t, sir. I’m tally-man for the schooner. Troop says I’ve a better head for figures than Dan. Troop’s a mighty just man.”
“Well, suppose I don’t move the ‘Constance’ tonight, how’ll you fix it?”
Harvey looked at the clock, which marked twenty past eleven.
“Then I’ll sleep here till three and catch the four o’clock freight. They let us men from the Fleet ride free, as a rule.”
“That’s a notion. But I think we can get the ‘Constance’ around about as soon as your men’s freight. Better go to bed now.”
Harvey spread himself on the sofa, kicked off his boots, and was asleep before his father could shade the electrics. Cheyne sat watching the young face under the shadow of the arm thrown over the forehead, and among many things that occurred to him was the notion that he might perhaps have been neglectful as a father.
“One never knows when one’s taking one’s biggest risks,” he said. “It might have been worse than drowning; but I don’t think it has – I don’t think it has. If it hasn’t, I haven’t enough to pay Troop, that’s all; and I don’t think it has.”
Morning brought a fresh sea breeze through the windows, the “Constance” was side-tracked among freight-cars at Gloucester, and Harvey had gone to his business.
“Then he’ll fall overboard again and be drowned,” the mother said bitterly.
“We’ll go and look, ready to throw him a rope in case. You’ve never seen him working for his bread,” said the father.
“What nonsense! As if any one expected – ”
“Well, the man that hired him did. He’s about right, too.”
They went down between the stores full of fishermen’s oilskins to Wouverman’s wharf, where the We’re Here rode high, her Bank flag still flying, all hands busy as beavers in the glorious morning light. Disko stood by the main hatch superintending Manuel, Penn, and Uncle Salters at the tackle. Dan was swinging the loaded baskets inboard as Long Jack and Tom Platt filled them, and Harvey, with a notebook, represented the skipper’s interests before the clerk of the scales on the salt-sprinkled wharf-edge.
“Ready!” cried the voices below. “Haul!” cried Disko. “Hi!” said Manuel. “Here!” said Dan, swinging the basket. Then they heard Harvey’s voice, clear and fresh, checking the weights.
The last of the fish had been whipped out, and Harvey leaped from the string-piece six feet to a ratline, as the shortest way to hand Disko the tally, shouting, “Two ninety-seven, and an empty hold!”
“What’s total, Harve?” said Disko.
“Eight sixty-five. Three thousand six hundred and seventy-six dollars and a quarter. Wish I’d share as well as wage.”
“Well, I won’t go so far as to say you hevn’t deserved it, Harve. Don’t you want to slip up to Wouverman’s office and take him our tallies?”
“Who’s that boy?” said Cheyne to Dan, well used to all manner of questions from those idle imbeciles called summer boarders.
“Well, he’s a kind o’ supercargo,” was the answer. “We picked him up struck adrift on the Banks. Fell overboard from a liner, he sez. He was a passenger. He’s by way o’ bein’ a fisherman now.”
“Is he worth his keep?”
“Ye-ep. Dad, this man wants to know ef Harve’s worth his keep. Say, would you like to go aboard? We’ll fix up a ladder for her.”
“I should very much, indeed. ’Twon’t hurt you, mamma, and you’ll be able to see for yourself.”
The woman who could not lift her head a week ago scrambled down the ladder, and stood aghast amid the mess and tangle aft.
“Be you anyways interested in Harve?” said Disko.
“Well, ye-es.”
“He’s a good boy, an’ ketches right hold jest as he’s bid. You’ve heard haow we found him? He was sufferin’ from nervous prostration, I guess, ’r else his head had hit somethin’, when we hauled him aboard. He’s all over that naow. Yes, this is the cabin. ’Tain’t anyways in order, but you’re quite welcome to look around. Those are his figures on the stovepipe, where we keep the reckonin’ mostly.”
“Did he sleep here?” said Mrs. Cheyne, sitting on a yellow locker and surveying the disorderly bunks.
“No. He berthed forward, madam, an’ only fer him an’ my boy hookin’ fried pies an’ muggin’ up when they ought to ha’ been asleep, I dunno as I’ve any special fault to find with him.”
“There weren’t nothin’ wrong with Harve,” said Uncle Salters, descending the steps. “He hung my boots on the main-truck, and he ain’t over an’ above respectful to such as knows more’n he do, especially about farmin’; but he were mostly misled by Dan.”
Dan, in the meantime, profiting by dark hints from Harvey early that morning, was executing a war-dance on deck. “Tom, Tom!” he whispered down the hatch. “His folks has come, an’ dad hain’t caught on yet, an’ they’re pow-wowin’ in the cabin. She’s a daisy, an’ he’s all Harve claimed he was, by the looks of him.”
“Howly Smoke!” said Long Jack, climbing out covered with salt and fish-skin. “D’ye belave his tale av the kid an’ the little four-horse rig was thrue?”
“I knew it all along,” said Dan. “Come an’ see dad mistook in his judgments.”
They came delightedly, just in time to hear Cheyne say: “I’m glad he has a good character, because – he’s my son.”
Disko’s jaw fell, – Long Jack always vowed that he heard the click of it, – and he stared alternately at the man and the woman.
“I got his telegram in San Diego four days ago, and we came over.”
“In a private car?” said Dan. “He said ye might.”
“In a private car, of course.”
Dan looked at his father with a hurricane of irreverent winks.
“There was a tale he tould us av drivin’ four little ponies in a rig av his own,” said Long Jack. “Was that thrue now?”
“Very likely,” said Cheyne. “Was it, mamma?”
“He had a little drag when we were in Toledo, I think,” said the mother.
Long Jack whistled. “Oh, Disko!” said he, and that was all.
“I wuz – I am mistook in my jedgments – worse’n the men o’ Marblehead,” said Disko, as though the words were being windlassed out of him. “I don’t mind ownin’ to you, Mister Cheyne, as I mistrusted the boy to be crazy. He talked kinder odd about money.”
“So he told me.”
“Did he tell ye anything else? ’Cause I pounded him once.” This with a somewhat anxious glance at Mrs. Cheyne.
“Oh, yes,” Cheyne replied. “I should say it probably did him more good than anything else in the world.”
“I jedged ’twuz necessary, er I wouldn’t ha’ done it. I don’t want you to think we abuse our boys any on this packet.”
“I don’t think you do, Mr. Troop.”
Mrs. Cheyne had been looking at the faces – Disko’s ivory-yellow, hairless, iron countenance; Uncle Salters’s, with its rim of agricultural hair; Penn’s bewildered simplicity; Manuel’s quiet smile; Long Jack’s grin of delight; and Tom Platt’s scar. Rough, by her standards, they certainly were; but she had a mother’s wits in her eyes, and she rose with outstretched hands.
“Oh, tell me, which is who?” said she, half sobbing. “I want to thank you and bless you – all of you.”
“Faith, that pays me a hunder time,” said Long Jack.
Disko introduced them all in due form. The captain of an old-time Chinaman could have done no better, and Mrs. Cheyne babbled incoherently. She nearly threw herself into Manuel’s arms when she understood that he had first found Harvey.
“But how shall I leave him dreeft?” said poor Manuel. “What do you yourself if you find him so? Eh, wha-at? We are in one good boy, and I am ever so pleased he come to be your son.”
“And he told me Dan was his partner!” she cried. Dan was already sufficiently pink, but he turned a rich crimson when Mrs. Cheyne kissed him on both cheeks before the assembly. Then they led her forward to show her the fo’c’sle, at which she wept again, and must needs go down to see Harvey’s identical bunk, and there she found the nigger cook cleaning up the stove, and he nodded as though she were some one he had expected to meet for years. They tried, two at a time, to explain the boat’s daily life to her, and she sat by the pawl-post, her gloved hands on the greasy table, laughing with trembling lips and crying with dancing eyes.
“And who’s ever to use the We’re Here after this?” said Long Jack to Tom Platt. “I feel it as if she’d made a cathedral av ut all.”
“Cathedral!” sneered Tom Platt. “Oh, ef it had bin even the Fish C’mmission boat instid o’ this bally-hoo o’ blazes. Ef we only hed some decency an’ order an’ side-boys when she goes over! She’ll have to climb that ladder like a hen, an’ we – we ought to be mannin’ the yards!”
“Then Harvey was not mad,” said Penn, slowly, to Cheyne.
“No, indeed – thank God,” the big millionaire replied, stooping down tenderly.
“It must be terrible to be mad. Except to lose your child, I do not know anything more terrible. But your child has come back? Let us thank God for that.”
“Hello!” said Harvey, looking down upon them benignly from the wharf.
“I wuz mistook, Harve. I wuz mistook,” said Disko, swiftly, holding up a hand. “I wuz mistook in my jedgments. Ye needn’t rub it in any more.”
“Guess I’ll take care o’ that,” said Dan, under his breath.
“You’ll be goin’ off naow, won’t ye?”
“Well, not without the balance of my wages, ’less you want to have the We’re Here attached.”
“Thet’s so; I’d clean forgot”; and he counted out the remaining dollars. “You done all you contracted to do, Harve; and you done it ’baout’s well as ef you’d been brought up – ” Here Disko brought himself up. He did not quite see where the sentence was going to end.
“Outside of a private car?” suggested Dan, wickedly.
“Come on, and I’ll show her to you,” said Harvey.
Cheyne stayed to talk to Disko, but the others made a procession to the depot, with Mrs. Cheyne at the head. The French maid shrieked at the invasion; and Harvey laid the glories of the “Constance” before them without a word. They took them in in equal silence – stamped leather, silver door-handles and rails, cut velvet, plate-glass, nickel, bronze, hammered iron, and the rare woods of the Continent inlaid.
“I told you,” said Harvey; “I told you.” This was his crowning revenge, and a most ample one.
Mrs. Cheyne decreed a meal; and that nothing might be lacking to the tale Long Jack told afterwards in his boardinghouse, she waited on them herself. Men who are accustomed to eat at tiny tables in howling gales have curiously neat and finished table-manners; but Mrs. Cheyne, who did not know this, was surprised. She longed to have Manuel for a butler; so silently and easily did he comport himself among the frail glassware and dainty silver. Tom Platt remembered great days on the Ohio and the manners of foreign potentates who dined with the officers; and Long Jack, being Irish, supplied the small talk till all were at their ease.
In the We’re Here’s cabin the fathers took stock of each other behind their cigars. Cheyne knew well enough when he dealt with a man to whom he could not offer money; equally well he knew that no money could pay for what Disko had done. He kept his own counsel and waited for an opening.
“I hevn’t done anything to your boy or fer your boy excep’ make him work a piece an’ learn him how to handle the hog-yoke,” said Disko. “He has twice my boy’s head for figgers.”
“By the way,” Cheyne answered casually, “what d’you calculate to make of your boy?”
Disko removed his cigar and waved it comprehensively round the cabin. “Dan’s jest plain boy, an’ he don’t allow me to do any of his thinkin’. He’ll hev this able little packet when I’m laid by. He ain’t noways anxious to quit the business. I know that.”
“Mmm! Ever been West, Mr. Troop?”
“Bin’s fer ez Noo York once in a boat. I’ve no use for railroads. No more hez Dan. Salt water’s good enough fer the Troops. I’ve been ’most everywhere – in the nat’ral way, o’ course.”
“I can give him all the salt water he’s likely to need – till he’s a skipper.”
“Haow’s that? I thought you wuz a kinder railroad king. Harve told me so when – I was mistook in my jedgments.”
“We’re all apt to be mistaken. I fancied perhaps you might know I own a line of tea-clippers – San Francisco to Yokohama – six of ’em – iron-built, about seventeen hundred and eighty tons apiece.”
“Blame that boy! He never told. I’d ha’ listened to that, instid o’ his truck abaout railroads an’ pony-carriages.”
“He didn’t know.”
“Little thing like that slipped his mind, I guess.”
“No, I only capt – took hold of the ‘Blue M.’ freighters – Morgan and McQuade’s old line – this summer.”
Disko collapsed where he sat, beside the stove.
“Great Caesar Almighty! I mistrust I’ve bin fooled from one end to the other. Why, Phil Airheart he went from this very town six year back – no, seven – an’ he’s mate on the San José now – twenty-six days was her time out. His sister she’s livin’ here yet, an’ she reads his letters to my woman. An’ you own the ‘Blue M.’ freighters?”
Cheyne nodded.
“If I’d known that I’d ha’ jerked the We’re Here back to port all standin’, on the word.”
“Perhaps that wouldn’t have been so good for Harvey.”
“Ef I’d only known! Ef he’d only said about the cussed Line, I’d ha’ understood! I’ll never stand on my own jedgments again – never. They’re well-found packets, Phil Airheart he says so.”
“I’m glad to have a recommend from that quarter. Airheart’s skipper of the San José now. What I was getting at is to know whether you’d lend me Dan for a year or two, and we’ll see if we can’t make a mate of him. Would you trust him to Airheart?”
“It’s a resk taking a raw boy – ”
“I know a man who did more for me.”
“That’s diff’runt. Look at here naow, I ain’t recommendin’ Dan special because he’s my own flesh an’ blood. I know Bank ways ain’t clipper ways, but he hain’t much to learn. Steer he can – no boy better, ef I say it – an’ the rest’s in our blood an’ get; but I could wish he warn’t so cussed weak on navigation.”
“Airheart will attend to that. He’ll ship as a boy for a voyage or two, and then we can put him in the way of doing better. Suppose you take him in hand this winter, and I’ll send for him early in the spring. I know the Pacific’s a long ways off – ”
“Pshaw! We Troops, livin’ an’ dead, are all around the earth an’ the seas thereof.”
“But I want you to understand – and I mean this – any time you think you’d like to see him, tell me, and I’ll attend to the transportation. ’Twon’t cost you a cent.”
“Ef you’ll walk a piece with me, we’ll go to my house an’ talk this to my woman. I’ve bin so crazy mistook in all my jedgments, it don’t seem to me this was like to be real.”
They went over to Troop’s eighteen-hundred-dollar, blue-trimmed white house, with a retired dory full of nasturtiums in the front yard and a shuttered parlor which was a museum of oversea plunder. There sat a large woman, silent and grave, with the dim eyes of those who look long to sea for the return of their beloved. Cheyne addressed himself to her, and she gave consent wearily.
“We lose one hundred a year from Gloucester only, Mr. Cheyne,” she said – “one hundred boys an’ men; and I’ve come so’s to hate the sea as if ’twuz alive an’ listenin’. God never made it fer humans to anchor on. These packets o’ yours they go straight out, I take it, and straight home again?”
“As straight as the winds let ’em, and I give a bonus for record passages. Tea don’t improve by being at sea.”
“When he wuz little he used to play at keeping store, an’ I had hopes he might follow that up. But soon’s he could paddle a dory I knew that were goin’ to be denied me.”
“They’re square-riggers, mother; iron-built an’ well found. Remember what Phil’s sister reads you when she gits his letters.”
“I’ve never known as Phil told lies, but he’s too venturesome (like most of ’em that use the sea). Ef Dan sees fit, Mr. Cheyne, he can go – fer all o’ me.”
“She jest despises the ocean,” Disko explained, “an’ I – I dunno haow to act polite, I guess, er I’d thank you better.”
“My father – my own eldest brother – two nephews – an’ my second sister’s man,” she said, dropping her head on her hand. “Would you care fer any one that took all those?”
Cheyne was relieved when Dan turned up and accepted with more delight than he was able to put into words. Indeed, the offer meant a plain and sure road to all desirable things; but Dan thought most of commanding watch on broad decks, and looking into far-away harbours.
Mrs. Cheyne had spoken privately to the unaccountable Manuel in the matter of Harvey’s rescue. He seemed to have no desire for money. Pressed hard, he said that he would take five dollars, because he wanted to buy something for a girl. Otherwise – “How shall I take money when I make so easy my eats and smokes? You will giva some if I like or no? Eh, wha-at? Then you shall giva me money, but not that way. You shall giva all you can think.” He introduced her to a snuffy Portuguese priest with a list of semi-destitute widows as long as his cassock. As a strict Unitarian, Mrs. Cheyne could not sympathize with the creed, but she ended by respecting the brown, voluble little man.
Manuel, faithful son of the Church, appropriated all the blessings showered on her for her charity. “That letta me out,” said he. “I have now ver’ good absolutions for six months”; and he strolled forth to get a handkerchief for the girl of the hour and to break the hearts of all the others.
Salters went West for a season with Penn, and left no address behind. He had a dread that these millionary people, with wasteful private cars, might take undue interest in his companion. It was better to visit inland relatives till the coast was clear. “Never you be adopted by rich folk, Penn,” he said in the cars, “or I’ll take’n break this checker-board over your head. Ef you forgit your name agin – which is Pratt – you remember you belong with Salters Troop, an’ set down right where you are till I come fer you. Don’t go taggin’ araound after them whose eyes bung out with fatness, accordin’ to Scripcher.”
