Where Angels Fear to Tread | Page 4

on the deck lay three
moaning men, while two others clung to the fife-rail, draining blood
from limp, hanging arms. But eleven sound and angry men were
left--and the officers had more ammunition. They entered their rooms,
mopped their faces with wet towels, reloaded the firearms, pocketed the
remaining cartridges, and returned to the deck, the mate carrying a
small ensign.
"We'll run it up to the main, Becker," he said thickly,--for he
suffered,--ignoring in his excitement the etiquette of the quarter-deck.
"Aye, aye," said the other, equally unmindful of his breeding. "Will we
go for 'em again?" The problem had defined itself to Mr. Becker. These
men would fight, but not shoot.
"No, no," answered the mate; "not unless they go for us and it's
self-defense. They're not sailors--they don't know where they are. We
don't want to get into trouble. Sailors don't act that way. We'll wait for
the captain or the police." Which, interpreted, and plus the slight shade
of anxiety showing in his disfigured face, meant that Mr. Jackson was
confronted with a new phase of the problem: as to how much more
unsafe it might be to shoot down, on the deck of a ship, men who did
not know where they were, than to shoot down sailors who did. So,
while the uninjured men were assisting the wounded five into the
forecastle, the police flag was run up to the main-truck, and the two
mates retired to the poop to wait and watch.

In a few moments the eleven men came aft in a body, empty-handed,
however, and evidently with no present hostile intention: they had
merely come for their clothes. But that dunnage had not been searched;
and in it might be all sorts of dangerous weapons and equally
dangerous whisky, the possession of which could bring an unpleasant
solution to the problem. So Mr. Jackson and Mr. Becker leveled their
pistols over the poop-rail, and the chief mate roared: "Let those things
alone--let 'em alone, or we'll drop some more o' you."
The men halted, hesitated, and sullenly returned to the forecastle.
"Guess they've had enough," said Mr. Becker, jubilantly.
"Don't fool yourself. They're not used to blood-letting, that's all. If it
wasn't for my wife and the kids I'd lower the dinghy and jump her; and
it isn't them I'd run from, either. As it is, I've half a mind to haul down
the flag, and let the old man settle it. Steward," he called to a
mild-faced man who had been flitting from galley to cabin, unmindful
of the disturbance, "go forrard and find out how bad those fellows are
hurt. Don't say I sent you, though."
The steward obeyed, and returned with the information that two men
had broken arms, two flesh-wounds in the legs, and one--the big
man--suffered from a ragged hole through the shoulder. All were
stretched out in bedless bunks, unwilling to move. He had been asked
numerous questions by the others--as to where the ship was bound, who
the men were who had shot them, why there was no bedding in the
forecastle, the captain's whereabouts, and the possibility of getting
ashore to swear out warrants. He had also been asked for bandages and
hot water, which he requested permission to supply, as the wounded
men were suffering greatly. This permission was refused, and the
slight--very slight--nautical flavor to the queries, and the hopeful
condition of the stricken ones, decided Mr. Jackson to leave the police
flag at the masthead.
When dinner was served in the cabin, and Mr. Jackson sat down before
a savory roast, leaving Mr. Becker on deck to watch, the steward
imparted the additional information that the men forward expected to

eat in the cabin.
"Hang it!" he mused; "they can't be sailor-men."
Then Mr. Becker reached his head down the skylight, and said: "Raisin'
the devil with the cook, sir--dragged him out o' the galley into the
forecastle."
"Are they coming aft?"
"No, sir."
"All right. Watch out."
The mate went on eating, and the steward hurried forward to learn the
fate of his assistant. He did not return until Mr. Jackson was about to
leave the cabin. Then he came, with a wry face and disgust in his soul,
complaining that he had been seized, hustled into the forecastle, and
compelled, with the Chinese cook, to eat of the salt beef and pea-soup
prepared for the men, which lay untouched by them. In spite of his
aches and trouble of mind, Mr. Jackson was moved to a feeble grin.
"Takes a sailor or a hog to eat it, hey, Steward?" he said.
He relieved Mr. Becker, who ate his dinner hurriedly, as became a good
second mate, and the two resumed their watch on the poop, noticing
that the cook was