Where Angels Fear to Tread | Page 3

signed.
"Away you go, now," said the mate; "you and your gun. Get over the
side."
The shipping-master did not answer until he had scrambled down to the
waiting tug and around to the far side of her deck-house. There, ready

to dodge, he looked up at the mate with a triumphant grin on his
shrewd face, and called:
"Say, Mr. Jackson, 'member the old bark Fair Wind ten years ago, and
the ordinary seaman you triced up and skinned alive with a
deck-scraper? D' you 'member, curse you? 'Member breakin' the same
boy's arm with a heaver? You do, don't you? I'm him. 'Member me
sayin' I'd get square?"
He stepped back to avoid the whirling belaying-pin sent by the mate,
which, rebounding, only smashed a window in the pilot-house. Then,
amid an exchange of blasphemous disapproval between Mr. Jackson
and the tug captain, and derisive jeers from the shipping-master,--who
also averred that Mr. Jackson ought to be shot, but was not worth
hanging for,--the tug gathered in her lines and steamed away.
Wrathful of soul, Mr. Jackson turned to the men on the deck. They had
changed their position; they were now close to the fife-rail at the
mainmast, surrounding Bigpig Monahan (for by their names we must
know them), who, with an injured expression of face, was shedding
outer garments and voicing his opinion of Mr. Jackson, which the
others answered by nods and encouraging words. He had dropped a
pair of starched cuffs over a belaying-pin, and was rolling up his
shirt-sleeve, showing an arm as large as a small man's leg, and the mate
was just about to interrupt the discourse, when the second mate called
his name. Turning, he beheld him beckoning violently from the cabin
companionway, and joined him.
"Got your gun, Mr. Jackson?" asked the second officer, anxiously, as
he drew him within the door. "I started for mine when the
shippin'-master pulled. I can't make that crowd out; but they're lookin'
for fight, that's plain. When you were at the rail they were sayin': 'Soak
him, Bigpig.' 'Paste him, Bigpig.' 'Put a head on him.' They might be a
lot o' prize-fighters."
Mr. Becker was not afraid; his position and duties forbade it. He was
simply human, and confronted with a new problem.

"Don't care a rap what they are," answered the mate, who was
sufficiently warmed up to welcome any problem. "They'll get fight
enough. We'll overhaul their dunnage first for whisky and knives, then
turn them to. Come on--I'm heeled."
They stepped out and advanced to the capstan amidships, each with a
hand in his trousers pocket.
"Pile those bags against the capstan here, and go forrard," ordered the
mate, in his most officer-like tone.
"Go to the devil," they answered. "What for?--they're our bags, not
yours. Who in Sam Hill are you, anyhow? What are you? You talk like
a p'liceman."
Before this irreverence could be replied to Bigpig Monahan advanced.
"Look here, old horse," he said; "I don't know whether you're captain or
mate, or owner or cook; and I don't care, either. You had somethin' to
say 'bout my eyes just now. Nature made my eyes, and I can't help how
they look; but I don't allow any big bull-heads to make remarks 'bout
'em. You're spoilin' for somethin'. Put up your hands." He threw
himself into an aggressive attitude, one mighty fist within six inches of
Mr. Jackson's face.
"Go forrard," roared the officer, his gray eyes sparkling; "forrard, all o'
you!"
"We'll settle this; then we'll go forrard. There'll be fair play; these
men'll see to that. You'll only have me to handle. Put up."
Mr. Jackson did not "put up." He repeated again his order to go forward,
and was struck on the nose--not a hard blow; just a preliminary tap,
which started blood. He immediately drew his pistol and shot the man,
who fell with a groan.
An expression of shock and horror over-spread every face among the
crew, and they surged back, away from that murderous pistol. A

momentary hesitance followed, then horror gave way to furious rage,
and carnage began. Coats and vests were flung off, belaying-pins and
capstan-bars seized; inarticulate, half-uttered imprecations punctuated
by pistol reports drowned the storm of abuse with which the mates
justified the shot, and two distinct bands of men swayed and zig-zagged
about the deck, the center of each an officer fighting according to his
lights--shooting as he could between blows of fists and clubs. Then the
smoke of battle thinned, and two men with sore heads and bleeding
faces retreated painfully and hurriedly to the cabin, followed by
snarling maledictions and threats.
It was hardly a victory for either side. The pistols were empty and the
fight taken out of the mates for a time; and