Moran of the Lady Letty | Page 9

Wilbur crawled forward on the reeling deck, holding on now to a mast,
now to a belaying-pin, now to a stay, watching his chance and going on
between the inebriated plunges of the schooner.
He descended the fo'c'sle hatch. The Chinamen were already there,
sitting on the edges of their bunks. On the floor, at the bottom of the
ladder, punk-sticks were burning in an old tomato-can.
Charlie brought in supper--stewed beef and pork in a bread-pan and a
wooden kit--and the Chinamen ate in silence with their sheath- knives
and from tin plates. A liquid that bore a distant resemblance to coffee
was served. Wilbur learned afterward to know the stuff as Black Jack,
and to be aware that it was made from bud barley and was sweetened
with molasses. A single reeking lamp swung with the swinging of the
schooner over the centre of the group, and long after Wilbur could
remember the grisly scene-- the punk-sticks, the bread-pan full of
hunks of meat, the horrid close and oily smell, and the circle of silent,
preoccupied Chinese, each sitting on his bunk-ledge, devouring stewed
pork and holding his pannikin of Black Jack between his feet against
the rolling of the boat.
Wilbur looked fearfully at the mess in the pan, recalling the chocolate
and stuffed olives that had been his last luncheon.
"Well," he muttered, clinching his teeth, "I've got to come to it sooner
or later." His penknife was in the pocket of his waist- coat, underneath
his oilskin coat. He opened the big blade, harpooned a cube of pork,
and deposited it on his tin plate. He ate it slowly and with savage
determination. But the Black Jack was more than he could bear.
"I'm not hungry enough for that just now," he told himself. "Say, Jim,"
he said, turning to the Chinaman next him on the bunk-ledge, "say,
what kind of boat is this? What you do--where you go?"
The other moved away impatiently.
"No sabe, no sabe," he answered, shaking his head and frowning.
Throughout the whole of that strange meal these were the only words

spoken.
When Wilbur came on deck again he noted that the "Bertha Millner"
had already left the whistling-buoy astern. Off to the east, her sails just
showing above the waves, was a pilot-boat with the number 7 on her
mainsail. The evening was closing in; the Farallones were in plain sight
dead ahead. Far behind, in a mass of shadow just bluer than the sky, he
could make out a few twinkling lights--San Francisco.
Half an hour later Kitchell came on deck from his supper in the cabin
aft. He glanced in the direction of the mainland, now almost out of
sight, then took the wheel from one of the Chinamen and commanded,
"Ease off y'r fore an' main sheets." The hands eased away and the
schooner played off before the wind.
The staysail was set. The "Bertha Millner" headed to southwest,
bowling easily ahead of a good eight-knot breeze.
Next came the order "All hands aft!" and Wilbur and his mates betook
themselves to the quarterdeck. Charlie took the wheel, and he and
Kitchell began to choose the men for their watches, just as Wilbur
remembered to have chosen sides for baseball during his school days.
"Sonny, I'll choose you; you're on my watch," said the Captain to
Wilbur, "and I will assoom the ree-sponsibility of your nautical
eddoocation."
"I may as well tell you at once," began Wilbur, "that I'm no sailor."
"But you will be, soon," answered the Captain, at once soothing and
threatening; "you will be, Mister Lilee of the Vallee, you kin lay to it as
how you will be one of the best sailormen along the front, as our dear
friend Jim says. Before I git throo with you, you'll be a sailorman or
shark-bait, I can promise you. You're on my watch; step over here,
son."
The watches were divided, Charlie and three other Chinamen on the
port, Kitchell, Wilbur, and two Chinamen on the starboard. The men
trooped forward again.
The tiny world of the schooner had lapsed to quiet. The "Bertha
Millner" was now clear of the land, that lay like a blur of faintest purple
smoke--ever growing fainter--low in the east. The Farallones showed
but their shoulders above the horizon. The schooner was standing well
out from shore--even beyond the track of the coasters and passenger
steamers--to catch the Trades from the northwest. The sun was setting

royally, and the floor of the ocean shimmered like mosaic. The sea had
gone down and the fury of the bar was a thing forgotten. It was
perceptibly warmer.
On board, the two watches mingled forward, smoking opium and
playing a game that looked like checkers. Three of them were washing
down the