Where Angels Fear to Tread | Page 5

jabbering Chinese protest in the galley, and that the
men had climbed to the topgallant-forecastle--also watching, and
occasionally waving futile signals to passing tugs or small sailing-craft.
They, too, might have welcomed the police boat.
But, either because the Almena lay too far over on the Jersey flats for
the flag to be noticed, or because harbor police share the fallibility of
their shore brethren in being elsewhere when wanted, no shiny black
steamer with blue-coated guard appeared to investigate the trouble, and
it was well on toward three o'clock before a tug left the beaten track to
the eastward and steamed over to the ship. The officers took her lines
as she came alongside, and two men climbed the side-ladder--one, a

Sandy Hook pilot, who need not be described; the other, the captain of
the ship.
Captain Benson, in manner and appearance, was as superior to the
smooth-shaven and manly-looking Mr. Jackson as the latter was to the
misformed, hairy, and brutal second mate. With his fashionably cut
clothing, steady blue eye, and refined features, he could have been
taken for an easy-going club-man or educated army officer rather than
the master of a working-craft. Yet there was no lack of seamanly
decision in the leap he made from the rail to the deck, or in the tone of
his voice as he demanded:
"What's the police flag up for, Mr. Jackson?"
"Mutiny, sir. They started in to lick me 'fore turning to, and we've shot
five, but none of them fatally."
"Lower that flag--at once."
Mr. Becker obeyed this order, and as the flag fluttered down the captain
received an account of the crew's misdoing from the mate. He stepped
into his cabin, and returning with a double-barreled shot-gun, leaned it
against the booby-hatch, and said quietly: "Call all hands aft who can
come."
Mr. Jackson delivered the order in a roar, and the eleven men forward,
who had been watching the newcomers from the forecastle-deck,
straggled aft and clustered near the capstan, all of them hatless and
coatless, shivering palpably in the keen December air. With no
flinching of their eyes, they stared at Captain Benson and the pilot.
"Now, men," said the captain, "what's this trouble about? What's the
matter?"
"Are you the captain here?" asked a red-haired, Roman-nosed man, as
he stepped out of the group. "There's matter enough. We ship for a run
down to Rio Janeiro and back in a big schooner; and here we're put
aboard a square-rigged craft, that we don't know anything about, bound

for Callao, and 'fore we're here ten minutes we're howled at and shot.
Bigpig Monahan thinks he's goin' to die; he's bleedin'--they're all
bleedin', like stuck pigs. Sorry Welch and Turkey Twain ha' got broken
arms, and Jump Black and Ghost O'Brien got it in the legs and can't
stand up. What kind o' work is this, anyhow?"
"That's perfectly right. You were shot for assaulting my officers. Do
you call yourselves able seamen, and say you know nothing about
square-rigged craft?"
"We're able seamen on the Lakes. We can get along in schooners.
That's what we came down for."
Captain Benson's lips puckered, and he whistled softly. "The Lakes," he
said--"lake sailors. What part of the Lakes?"
"Oswego. We're all union men."
The captain took a turn or two along the deck, then faced them, and
said: "Men, I've been fooled as well as you. I would not have an
Oswego sailor aboard my ship--much less a whole crew of them. You
may know your work up there, but are almost useless here until you
learn. Although I paid five dollars a man for you, I'd put you ashore and
ship a new crew were it not for the fact that five wounded men going
out of this ship requires explanations, which would delay my sailing
and incur expense to my owners. However, I give you the choice--to go
to sea, and learn your work under the mates, or go to jail as mutineers;
for to protect my officers I must prosecute you all."
"S'pose we do neither?"
"You will probably be shot--to the last resisting man--either by us or
the harbor police. You are up against the law."
They looked at each other with varying expressions on their faces; then
one asked: "What about the bunks in the forecastle? There's no
bedding."

"If you failed to bring your own, you will sleep on the bunk-boards
without it."
"And that swill the Chinaman cooked at dinner-time--what about that?"
"You will get the allowance of provisions provided by law--no more.
And you will eat it in the forecastle. Also, if you have neglected to
bring pots, pans, and spoons, you will very likely eat it with your
fingers. This is not a lake vessel, where sailors eat at the