A Master of Fortune: Being Further Adventures of Captain Kettle

  CHAPTER V

  THE LOOTING OF THE "INDIAN SHERIFF."

  Captain Kettle dived two fingers into the bowl of odorous,orange-colored palm-oil chop, and fished out a joint suspiciously like anigger baby's arm. He knew it was a monkey's; or at least he was nearlycertain it was a monkey's; but he ate no more from that particular bowl.The tribe he was with were not above suspicion of cannibalism, andthough their hospitality was lavish, it was by no means guaranteed asto quality.

  The head-man noticed his action, and put a smiling question: "You nolike dem climb-climb chop? Tooth him plenty sore?"

  "No," said Kettle, "my teeth are all in good working order, daddy,thanks. But now you mention it, the monkey is a bit tough. Not beenstewed long enough, perhaps."

  The head-man gave an order, and presently a woman at the cooking fireoutside brought another calabash into the hut, and set it at the littlesailor's feet. The head-man examined and explained: "Dem's dug chop,too-plenty-much fine. You fit?"

  "I fit," said Kettle; "that'll suit me down to the ground, daddy. Stewedduck is just the thing I like, and palm-oil sauce isn't half bad whenyou're used to it. I'll recommend your pub to my friends, old one-eye,when I get home."

  He dipped his digits into the stew, and drew forth a doubtful limb. Heregarded it with a twitching nose and critical eye.

  "Thundering heavy-boned duck this, of yours, daddy."

  "Me no savvy?" said his host questioningly.

  "I say dem dug he got big bone. He no fit for fly. He no sayquack-quack."

  "Oh, I savvy plenty," said the one-eyed man, smiling. "Dem notquack-quack dug, dem bow-wow dug. You see him bow-wow dis morning. Youhit him with foot, so."

  "Ugh," said Kettle, "dog stew, is it? Yes, I know the animal, if you sayhe's the one I kicked. I had watched the brute eating garbage about thevillage for half an hour, and then when he wanted to chew my leg, I hithim. Ugh, daddy, don't you bring on these delicacies quite so sudden, orI shall forget my table manners. African scavenger dog! And I saw himmake his morning meal. Here, Missis, for Heaven's sake take thisdish away."

  The glistening black woman stepped forward, but the head-man stoppedher. There was some mistake here. He had killed the best dog in thevillage for Captain Kettle's meal, and his guest for some fastidiousreason refused to eat. He pointed angrily to the figured bowl. "Dugchop," said he. "Too-much-good. You chop him." This rejection ofexcellent food was a distinct slur on his menage, and he was workinghimself up into passion. "You chop dem dug chop one-time," he repeated.

  The situation was growing strained, and might well culminate infisticuffs. But Captain Kettle, during his recent many months' sojournas a lone white man in savage Africa, had acquired one thing which hadnever burdened him much before, and that was tact. He did not openlyresent the imperative tone of his host, which any one who had known himpreviously would have guessed to be his first impulse. But neither atthe same time did he permit himself to be forced into eating the noxiousmeal. He temporized. With that queer polyglot called Coast English, andwith shreds from a score of native dialects, he made up a tatteredfabric of speech which beguiled the head-man back again into good humor;and presently that one-eyed savage squatted amicably down on his heels,and gave an order to one of his wives in attendance.

  The lady brought Kettle's accordion, and the little sailor propped hisback against the wattle wall of the hut, and made music, and lifted uphis voice in song. The tune carried among the lanes and dwellings of thevillage, and naked feet _pad-padded_ quickly up over dust and the grass;the audience distributed itself within and without the head-man's hut,and listened enrapt; and the head-man felt the glow of satisfaction thata London hostess feels when she has hired for money the most populardrawing-room entertainer of the day, and her guests condescend to enjoy,and not merely to exhibit themselves as _blases_.

  But Captain Kettle, it must be confessed, felt none of the artist'spride in finding his art appreciated. He had always the South Shieldschapel at the back of his mind, with its austere code and creed, and hefelt keenly the degradation of lowering himself to the level of theplay-actor; even though he was earning his bare existence--and had beendoing all through the heart of barbarous Africa--by mumming andcarolling to tribes whose trade was murder and cannibalism.

  He felt an infinite pity for himself when he reflected that many a timenothing but a breakdown, or a loudly bawled hymn, or a series of twistedfaces, had been the only thing which stood between him and the cookingfires. But there was no help for it. He was a fighting man, but he couldnot do battle with a continent; and so he had either to take the onlycourse which remained, and lower himself (as he considered it) to thelevel of the music-hall pariah, and mouth and mow to amuse the mob, orelse accept the alternative which even the bravest of men might wellshrink from in dismay.

  His travel through the black heart of this black continent may have beenparalleled by that of other obscure heroes who voyaged from grimnecessity and not for advertisement, but the history of it, as it wastold me in his simple log-book style, far surpasses the wonder of any ofthose travels which find a place in published volumes. He had started, acompletely destitute man, from a spot far up on the Haut Congo, amidsttreacherous hostile population. He had not a friend in Africa, black orwhite. He had no resources save his tongue, his thews, an emptyrevolver, and his mother wit, and yet he had won a slow way down to thewestern seaboard through a hundred hostile tribes, where an army wouldhave been eaten up, and a Marco Polo might well have failed.

  It would suit my pleasure finely to write of this terrific journey, withits dangers, its finesses, and its infinite escapes; it would gratify meto the quick if I might belaud to the full of my appreciation theendurance, and the grand resourcefulness, of this little sailor cast sodesperately out of his more native element; but the account of thetravel is reserved for the pen of Captain Kettle himself, and so themore professional scribe may not poach upon his territory.

  I had it from his own lips that the perils of the way made him see thepoetry of it all, and he said to himself that here was the theme forthat great epic, which would be the _chef d'oeuvre_ of his literarylife. It is to be written in blank verse, with the hymns and secularsongs he sang at each stop given in an appendix, and he confidentlyhopes that it will stand out as something conspicuous and distinctagainst the sombre background of prosaic travel books.

  His arrival at the coast was an achievement that made him almost faintwith joy. Xenophon and his ten thousand Greeks hailed the sea, we aretold, with a mighty shout. But to them Thalassa was merely a way-mark, asign that they were nearing home. To Kettle it was more, far more,although he could not define the relationship. He had dwelt upon the seathe greater part of his days; he had got his meagre living from her; andalthough at all times she had been infinitely hard and cruel to him, andhe had cursed her day in and day out with all a seaman's point andfluency, she had wrapped herself into his being in a way he littleguessed, till separation showed him the truth.

  He had seen the glint of her through the trees as he entered this lastvillage of his march, but the air was too dull with heat for him tocatch so much as a whiff of her refreshing saltness, and for the presenthe could not go down to greet her. He was still the lonely troubadour,dressed in a native cloth around the loins, with a turban of rags uponhis head, and a battered accordion slung from his back, come in fromafar to sing and pull faces for a dinner.

  The meal, for reasons which have been stated, was not a success, butpayment had to be rendered all the same. He sang with noise, and madeantics such as experience had taught him would be acceptable; and theaudience, to whom a concert of this kind was a rarity, howled to him togo on. There was no escape. He had to sing till he could sing no more.It was far on into the night when a couple of native _tom-tom_ playersrescued him. The musical appetites of the village had been whettedrather than appeased, and as no more could be got out of this wanderingminstrel, why then they were quite ready to listen to local instrumentsand melody.

  Dancing com
menced, and the heat and the noise grew, and presently Kettlemanaged to slip away and walk out through the yam and manioc gardens,and the banana groves, to the uproarious beach beyond. He threw himselfwearily down on the warm white sand, and when the great rollers swept inand crashed into noisy bellowing surf, the spindrift from it drove onhim, and refreshed him luxuriously. It was almost worth going throughall he had suffered to enjoy the pleasures of that greeting.

  For long-enough he filled his eye on the creaming fringes of the surf,and then he glanced over it at the purple plain of ocean which lay leveland unruffled beyond. A great African moon glowed above it in the night,and the lonely vastness of it all gratified him like the presence of afriend. "You are a decent old puddle," he murmured to himself, "though Isay it that's got precious little from you beyond mud and slashing.It's good to be back in reach of the stink of you again."

  He lay on where he was deep into the night, revelling in thecompanionship of the sea, till the many-colored land-crabs began toregard him as mere jetsam. He was not consciously thinking. He wasletting his mind rest in an easy torpor; but from time to time he lethis eyes range through the purple dark with a seaman's mechanicalwatchfulness. The noise of the _tom-toms_ and the dancing from thevillage behind him had died away, and nothing but the sounds from thebush, and the din of the surf, remained to show that the world wasalive. The moon, too, had been smothered by a cloud bank, and night layhuddled close round him, with a texture like black velvet.

  Then, with a jump he was on his feet, and trembling violently. Anotherold friend was in his neighborhood--a steamer. Her masthead light hadjust twinkled into view. He got up and began walking nervously towardher along the hard, white sands. He saw her first in the northwest,coming from some port in the Bight of Biafra probably, and the odds wereshe was heading south along the Coast.

  Presently he picked up her red port light. Yes, he admitted to himselfwith a sigh, she was making for one of the ports to southward, for SetteCamma perhaps, or Loango, or Landana, or Kabenda, and he calmed himselfdown with the discovery. Had she been heading north, he had it in him tohave swum out to her through the surf and the sharks, and chanced beingpicked up. He was sick of this savage Africa which lay behind him. Thesight of those two lights, the bright white, and the duller red, let himknow how ravenous was his hunger to see once more a white man and awhite man's ship, and to feel the sway of a deck, and to smell thesmells of oil, and paint, and Christian cookery, from which he had beenfor such a weary tale of days divorced.

  The steamer drew on till she came a-beam, and the red port light waseclipsed, and "carrying no stern light," was Captain Kettle's comment.There was a small glow from her deck and two or three of her ports werelit, but for the most part she crept along as a mysterious black shipvoyaging into a region of blackness. It was too dark to make out morethan her bare existence, but Kettle took a squint at the Southern Cross,which hung low in the sky like an ill-made kite, to get her bearings,and so made note of her course, and from that tried to deduce hernationality.

  From the way she was steering he reckoned she came from Batanga orCameroons, which are in German territory, and so set her down as sailingoriginally from Marseilles or Hamburg, and anyway decided that she wasnot one of the Liverpool boats which carry all the West Coast trade toEngland. But as he watched, she seemed to slew out of her course. Shelengthened out before him across the night, as her bows sheered intoward the land, till he saw her broadside on, and then she hungmotionless as a black blot against the greater blackness beyond.

  Captain Kettle summed the situation: "Rounded up and come to an anchor.There'll be a factory somewhere on the beach there. But I don't know,though. That one-eyed head-man said nothing about a factory, and ifthere was one, why doesn't she whistle to raise 'em up so's they'd beready to bring off their bit o' trade in the surf-boats whenday breaks?"

  A cloud slid away in the sky, and the moon shone out like the suddenlyopened bulb of a dark lantern. The oily surface of the sea flashed upinto sight, and on it sat the steamer--a picture in black and silver.She lay there motionless as the trees on the beach, and the reason forher state was clear. Her forefoot soared stiffly aloft till it wasalmost clear of the water; her stern was depressed; her decks listed toport till it was an acrobatic feat to make passageway along them.

  Captain Kettle whistled to himself long and dismally. "Piled her up," hemuttered, "that's what her old man has done. Hit a half-ebb reef, andfairly taken root there. He's not shoved on his engines astern either,and that means she's ripped away half her bottom, and he thinks she'llfounder in deep water if he backs her off the ground." A tiny spit offlame, pale against the moonlight, jerked out from under the awnings ofthe steamer's upper bridge. The noise of the shot came some timeafterward, no louder than the cracking of a knuckle. "By James!somebody's getting his gun into use pretty quick. Well, it's some oneelse's trouble, and not mine, and I guess I'm going to stay on thebeach, and watch, and not meddle." He frowned angrily as though some onehad made a suggestion to him. "No, by James! I'm not one of those thatseeks trouble unnecessarily."

  But all the same he walked off briskly along the sand, keeping his eyesfixed on the stranded steamer. That some sort of a scuffle was going onaboard of her was clear from the shouts and the occasional pistol shots,which became louder as he drew more near; and Captain Kettle,connoisseur as he was of differences of this sort on the high seas,became instinctively more and more interested. And at last when he cameto a small canoe drawn up on the beach above high-water mark, he pausedbeside it with a mind loaded with temptation as deep as it would carry.

  The canoe was a dug-out, a thing of light cotton-wood, with washboardsforward to carry it through a surf. A couple of paddles and a calabashformed its furniture, and its owner probably lived in the village wherehe had sung for his dinner over-night. Of course, to borrow her--merelyto borrow her, of course--without permission was--

  Another splatter of pistol shots came from the steamer, and a yelping ofnegro voices. Captain Kettle hesitated no longer. He laid hands on thecanoe's gunwale, and ran her down into the edge of the surf. He hadbarely patience to wait for a smooth, but, after three rollers hadroared themselves into yeast and quietude, he ran his little craft outtill the water was arm-pit deep, and then scrambled on board and paddledfuriously.

  But it is not given to the European to equal the skill of the black onAfrican surf beaches, and, as might be expected, the next roller thatswooped in overended the canoe, and sent it spinning like a toy throughthe broken water. But Captain Kettle had gained some way; and if hecould not paddle the little craft to sea, he could at least swim herout; and this he proceeded to do. He was as handy as an otter in thewater, and besides, there was something here which was dragging him toseaward very strongly. His soul lusted for touch with a steamer againwith a fierceness which he did not own even to himself. Even a wreckedsteamer was a thing of kinship to him then.

  He swam the dug-out through the last drench and backtow of the surf,rocked her clear from part of her watery load, and then, with a feelingof relief, clambered gingerly on board and baled the rest over thegunwale with his hands. It is not good to stay over-long in these seaswhich fringe the West African beaches, by reason of the ground sharkwhich makes them his hunting-ground. And then he manned the paddle,knelt in the stern, and went the shortest way to the steamer whichperched on the rock.

  The moon was still riding in the sky, but burnt with a pale light now,as dawn had jumped up from behind the shore forests. All things wereshown clearly. Among other matters, Kettle noted from trifles in hergarnishing, which read clear as print to a seaman's eye, that thesteamer was not French or German as he had guessed before, but hailedfrom his own native islands. Moreover, her funnel told him that she wasnot one of the two regular lines from Liverpool, which do all thecommerce of the coast. But he had no time for fresh speculations justthen as to her business. The scuffling on board had been growing moreand more serious, and it was clear that the blacks of her complementwere giving the white
s more than they cared about.

  Kettle knew enough of the custom of the Coast to be able to sum thesituation. "Her Krooboys have broken out of hand," he commented. "That'swhat's the trouble. You come down here from England with just enoughwhite men to handle your vessel to Sierra Leone, and then you shipKrooboys to work cargo and surf-boats, and do everything except steer,and as long as nothing happens, your Krooboy is a first-class hand. Twocupfuls of rice and a bit offish is all the grub he wants; he'll worksixteen hours a day without a grunt; and he'll handle a winch or a steamcrane with any Geordie donkey-man that has been grounded in the shops.But just put your steamboat on the ground where he thinks she can't getoff, and there's a different tune to play. He's got a notion that theship's his, and the cargo's his, to loot as he likes, and if he doesn'tget 'em both, he's equal to making trouble. Seems to me he's making badtrouble now."

  By this time it was plain that the black men had got entire possessionof the lower parts of the ship. The small handful of whites were on thetop of the fiddley, and while most were fighting to keep the Africansback, a couple were frenziedly working to get a pair of davits swungoutboard, and a lifeboat which hung from them lowered into the water. Itwas clear they had given up all hope of standing by the ship; andpresently they got the boat afloat, and slid down to her in hurriedclusters by the davit falls, and then unhooked and rowed away from thesteamer's side in a skelter of haste. Coals and any other missile thatcame handy were showered upon them by the Krooboys who manned the rail,to which they replied with a few vicious revolver shots; and then theboat drew out of range.

  Captain Kettle, in his clumsy canoe, paddled up close to her and nodded,and gave the boat's people a "good-morning." The greeting was quaintlyenough out of place, but nobody seemed to notice that. Each party wastoo occupied in staring at the other. Those in the lifeboat saw a littlelean European, naked to the waist, clad only in a turban and nativecloth, and evidently (from the color of his skin) long inured to thatstate. Kettle saw a huddle of fugitives, all of them scared, and many ofthem bloody with wounds.

  The man who was steering the white boat, the steamer's mate he was,according to the gold lace on his cuff, spoke first.

  "Well," he said, "you're a funny enough looking beachcomber. What do youwant, anyway?"

  Captain Kettle felt himself to redden all over under the tan of hisskin. Neatness in clothes was always a strong point with him, and heresented the barbarism of his present get-up acutely. "If I wanted a jobat teaching manners, I could find one in your boat, that's certain," washis prompt retort. "And when I'd finished with that, I could give someof you a lesson in pluck without much harm being done. I wonder if youcall yourselves white men to let a crowd of niggers clear you out ofyour ship like that?"

  "Now, look here, Robinson Crusoe," said the man at the steering oar,"our tempers are all filed up on the raw edge just now, and if you givemuch lip, this boat will be rowed over the top of your Noah's ark beforeyou know what's hit it. You paddle back to your squaw and piccaninnieson the beach, Robinson, and don't you come out here to mock your betterswhen they're down on their luck. We've nothing to give you except uglywords, and you'll get them cheap."

  "Well, Mr. Mate," said Kettle, "I haven't heard white man's English fora year, but if you can teach me anything new, I'm here to learn. I'vecome across most kinds of failure in my time, but a white man who letshimself be kicked off his ship by a parcel of Krooboys, and whodisgraces Great Britain by being a blooming Englishman, is a specimenthat's new to me. But perhaps I'm making a mistake? Perhaps you're aDutchman or a Dago that's learnt the language? Or perhaps, to judge fromthat cauliflower nose of yours, you're something that's escaped out of afreak museum? You haven't a photo about you by any chance? I'd like tosend one home to South Shields. My Missis is a great hand at collectingcuriosities which you only see in foreign parts."

  The mate bent on the steering gear with sudden violence, turned thelifeboat's head with a swirl, and began sculling her toward the canoe.But a tall, thin man sitting beside him in the stern-sheets saidsomething to him in an undertone, and the Mate reluctantly let the oardrag limp in the water, and sat himself down, and ostentatiously madeready to roll a cigarette.

  "Now, look here," said the tall man, "I don't suppose you want toquarrel."

  "I've been in quarrels before for the sheer fun of the thing," saidKettle, who was determined that at any rate no apology should comefrom his side.

  "So have I," said the tall man, "but I've no time for empty amusementjust now. I'm down here on business. I'm trying to start a new steamerline to work this Coast and get away the monopoly from the othercompanies. That boat stuck yonder--the _Indian Sheriff_ she's called--ismy venture, and she represents about all I've got, and she isn'tunderwritten for a sixpence. I've been going nap or nothing on thisscheme, and at present it looks uncommon like nothing. What I'm anxiousabout now, is to see if I can't make some arrangement for salvage."

  "I can understand it would be useful to you."

  "It might be useful to others besides me. Now, there's you, forinstance. I dare say you've got a nice little establishment ashore, andsome simple comforts, and a bit of influence in your village. But youspoke about your wife at home in South Shields just now, and I make nodoubt that if you'd got a tidy sum of money in your pocket you'd be aspleased as not to get home to her again?"

  Captain Kettle was on the point of breaking out into explanations anddisavowals, but a thought came to him, and he refrained.

  "Well," he said, "I'm waiting to hear your offer."

  "Here it is, then. You go ashore now, raise your village, bring offevery nigger you can scare up, swamp the Krooboys on that steamboat andkeep her from being looted, and I solemnly promise you 25 per cent. ofher value and the value of what she has in her."

  "Yes," said Kettle thoughtfully. "That's a square enough offer, and it'smade before witnesses, and I believe the courts would make you stickto it."

  "Ho!" grunted the Mate, "Robinson's a sea lawyer, is he? Courts, hetalks about."

  Kettle ignored the suggestion. "Should I know your name, sir?" he askedof the tall man.

  "I'm Nicholson Sheriff. If you know Liverpool, you'll have heard of me."

  "You were with Kevendales?"

  "That's me. I left there two years ago, to start on my own."

  "H'm," said the little sailor in the canoe. "I was master of one ofKevendale's ships once. It was me that had misfortune with the_Armenia_."

  "By gum! are you Captain Kettle that piled up the old _Atrocity_ onthat iceberg? I'm sorry to see you come down to this, Captain."

  "Captain Kettle," said the sulky Mate, "that was in the Congo PilotService?"

  "Yes," said Kettle.

  "Then, Captain," said the Mate, "I take back what I said about you beingRobinson Crusoe. You may have met with misfortune, but, by the Lord,you're a man all the way through. You've made the ports down there onthe Congo just ring with the way you kept your end up with those beastlyBelgians. And now when any Englishman goes ashore at Boma or Matadi orany place on the river, they're fit to eat him."

  The compliment had its doubtful side, but Kettle bowed with pleasure."Mr. Mate," he said, "I should have been more polite to you. I forgotyou were a man who had just come through an anxious time."

  "Anxious time! My holy grandmother! You should have just seen. It was mywatch below when she took the ground, and I give you my word for it,there's deep water marked in the chart where she struck. Third mate hadthe bridge, and he rang for engines hard astern. Nothing happened. Fromthe first moment she hit, the Krooboys got the notion she was their shipby all the rules of the Coast, and they played up to that tune like men.They bashed in the heads of the two engineers who tried to handle thereversing gear, and fairly took the ship below; and when the old mancame out in his pyjamas and started his fancy shooting on deck, theyjust ran in on him and pulled him into kybobs.

  "The second mate pegged out a week ago with black-water fever. So therewas only me and Mr. Sheriff here, and the thi
rd left that were worthcounting." He wagged a stubby finger contemptuously at the rest of hisboat's crew. "Half this crowd don't know enough English to take a wheel,and the rest of them come from happy Dutchland, where they don't makesoldiers, bless their silly eyes. I can tell you I'm not feeling sweetabout it myself. I left a bran new suit of clothes and an Accrafinger-ring on that blame' ship."

  "Well, never mind the rest of the tale now," said Sheriff. "Here we arekicked overboard, and glad enough to save our bare skins, I'll own. Wewon't go into the question of manning British ships with foreigners justnow. What's interesting me is the fact that those Krooboys have gothatches off already, and are standing by the cranes and winches. I'veseen them work cargo before all up and down the coast, and know the pacethey can put into it, and if we don't move quick they'll scoff that shipclear down to the ceilings of her holds." A winch chain rattled, and asling load of cloth bales swung up to one of her derrick sheaves. "Myfaith, look at that! They've begun to broach cargo by now, and there aresome of the beggars setting to lower the surf-boats to ferry it on tothe beach."

  The Mate rapped out sulphurous wishes for the Krooboys' future state.

  "Yes, yes," said Sheriff, "but we're wasting time. Come now, Captain,you heard my offer, and you seemed to like it. I'm waiting for you tofill your part of the bargain. Away with you ashore, and bring off yourarmy and take possession."

  "I'm afraid, sir," said Kettle honestly, "you've been taking a littletoo much for granted. I've got no establishment ashore. I'm just whatyou see--a common tramp, or worse, seeing that I've been play-acting formy dinners of late. And as for any help those niggers ashore could give,why, I shouldn't recommend it. The one-eyed old son of a dog who'shead-man, has served on ships according to his own telling, and he'llhave the same notions about loot as your own Krooboys. The Coast niggerhereabouts has got a fancy that any ship on the beach is cumshaw forhimself, and you'll not knock it out of him without some hard teaching.No, Mr. Sheriff, to call in that one-eyed head-man and his friends--whoit makes me hot to think I had to sing and dance to not six hoursback--would only pile up the work ahead of us. Much best tackle the shipas she is."

  "What!" said Sheriff. "Do you mean to say we can retake her? You don'tknow what those boys are like. I tell you they were fair demons when weleft, and they'll be worse now, because they are certain to have gotliquor inside them by this. It's not a bit of use your counting on thesedeckhands and stokers in the boat. They're not a penn'oth of use, thewhole lot of them."

  "Well," said Kettle diffidently, "I'd got my eye on that packet ofcartridge beside you on the thwart. If they were four-fiftys--"

  "They are--let's look--four--five--nought. Yes, well?"

  Captain Kettle pulled a well-cleaned revolver out of his waist-cloth."I've carried this empty for a whole year now, sir, but I don't thinkI've forgot my shooting."

  "I can speak here," said the Mate. "I've heard of his usefulness thatway on the Congo. When Captain Kettle lets off his gun, Mr. Sheriff,it's a funeral. By gum, if he's a way of getting the ship again, I'm onfor helping. Look! There's that steward's boy, Tins, going into my roomthis minute. I've a suit of clothes there that have never been put on,and he'll have them for a cert if we don't look quick."

  "Now then, Captain," said Sheriff, "if there's anything going to bedone, get a move on you."

  Kettle paddled the dug-out alongside, and stepped into the lifeboat. Hiseye glittered as he tore open the wrapping of the cartridges andreloaded his revolver. It was long since he had known the complacentfeel of the armed man.

  "Now," he said, "there's one more thing. I'm not in uniform, but I holda master's ticket, and I've got to be skipper."

  "You can take the berth for me," said the Mate. "I'll say outright it'sa lot above my weight."

  "And I've offered it to you already," said Sheriff. "Go on, man, andgive your orders."

  Captain Kettle's first desire was to get back to the steamer whence theboat had come, and this the mixed crew of foreigners at the oars hadscruples about carrying out. But Kettle and the Mate got furiously atwork on them with their hands, and in less than a minute the men weredoing as they were bidden, except, that is, a trio who were too badlywounded to sit up, and who were allowed to wallow on the floor gratings.

  The Mate straddled in the stern and steered her with an oar, and thewhite painted boat pulled heavily toward the stranded vessel. TheKrooboys in possession were quick to see her coming. A mob of themgathered on the bridge deck, gibbering and shouting, and threateningwith their hands; and even before the boat drew within range, theycommenced a vigorous fusilade of coal lumps. Kettle had all a cleanlyman's dislike for these dirty missiles, and he halted the boat justbeyond the limit of their fire, and stood up himself, and sighted therevolver over the crook of his left elbow.

  He dropped one man, and the others raged at him. He dropped a second,and still with an impotent courage they stood their ground. He brought athird shrieking to the deck, and then, and not before, did the othersturn to run, and he shot a fourth to hurry their going. Then he turnedto the rowers in the lifeboat. "Give way, you thieves," he shouted atthem; "set me aboard whilst the coast is clear.--Mr. Mate, round her upunder those davit tackles."

  Again the Krooboys tried to prevent the boarding, but again the fire ofthat terrible revolver drove them yelping to shelter, and the boat drewup with a bump and a swirl under the dangling ropes. Kettle clamberedforward along the thwarts, and swarmed up one fall with a monkey'squickness, and the Mate, a man of wooden courage, raced him up theother. Sheriff could not climb; they had to haul him up the ship's sideby brute force in a bowline; and providentially they were allowed to dothis uninterrupted. The foreign crew of the lifeboat, limp with scare,would have been mere slaughter-pigs on board even if they could havebeen lured there, which was improbable, and so they were bidden to hauloff out of shot, and wait till they were needed.

  Now there was no question here of risking a hand-to-hand encounter. TheKrooboys on board mustered quite fifty head, and most of them were menof enormous physical strength. So the three invaders went into thechart-house, from the ports of which they could command the bridge deckand the main fore deck, and shot the door-bolts by way of makingthemselves secure. The walls were of iron, and the roof was of iron; theplace was a perfect stronghold in its way; and as there was no chance ofits being stormed without due notice, they tacitly called a halt torecover breath.

  "Here," said Sheriff, "is the poor old skipper's whisky. I guess asecond mate's nip all round will do us no harm."

  "Here," said Kettle, "are the old man's Canary cigars, nice and blackand flavory, and I guess one of them's more in my line, sir, thankingyou all the same. I haven't come across a Christian smoke for moredreary months than I care to think about."

  The Mate was peering through one of the forward ports. "There's the doorof my room wide open," he grunted. "I bet those new clothes of mine aregone. They're just the thing to take a nigger's eye--good thick bluebroadcloth."

  Captain Kettle wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a bare,sinewy arm. "Now," he said, "enough time's been wasted. We must keepthose toughs on the move, or they'll find leisure to think, and bestarting some fresh wickedness."

  "If we go out of this chart-house," said Sheriff doubtfully, "they'llswamp us by sheer weight. You must remember we've only got two pistols,yours and mine. The poor old skipper's is lost."

  "I'm going to try what a little quiet talking-to will do first, sir. Iused to be a bit useful with my tongue, if I haven't lost the trick. Butbefore that, I'm going to borrow this white drill coat and pants ofyour late old man's, if you don't mind. You'd hardly think it, sir, ifyou knew the trials I've gone through in that beastly Africa, but Ibelieve it's the want of a decent pair of trousers that's hurt me morethan anything."

  Captain Kettle dressed himself with care, and put on a white-covereduniform cap; and then, happening to see a pair of scissors, he took themup and trimmed his beard before the glass. Sheriff looked on at thesepreparation
s with fidgeting impatience, and from without there was aclamor of negro voices taking counsel. But the little sailor was not tobe hurried. He went through his toilet with solemn deliberation, andthen he opened the chart-house door and went out beneath the bakingsunshine of the bridge-deck beyond.

  A cluster of Krooboys stood at the further end of it, cackling withtalk, and at sight of him they called their friends on the main deckbelow, who began to come up as fast as they could get foot on theladders. They showed inclinations for a rush, but Kettle held up hisleft hand for them to keep back, and they obeyed the order. They sawthat vicious revolver gripped in his right fingers, and they respectedits powers.

  He addressed them with a fine fluency of language. He had a good commandof sailor's English, and also of Coast English, both of which arespecially designed for forcible comment; and he knew, moreover, scrapsfrom a score of native dialects, which, having Arabic for a groundwork,are especially rich in those parts of speech-which have the highestvituperative value. The black man is proverbially tough, and a whip,moral or physical, which will cut the most hardened of whites toribbons, will leave him unmoved. An artist in words may rail at him foran hour without making him flicker an eyelash, or a Yankee mate mighthammer him with a packing-case lid (always supposing there was no nailin it) for a like period without jolting from him so much as a cry or agroan. And so I think it speaks highly for Captain Kettle's powers when,at the end of three minutes' talk, he caused many of those Krooboys tovisibly wince.

  You cannot touch a Krooboy's feelings by referring insultingly to hismother, because he has probably very dim recollections of the lady; youcan not rile him by gibing comments on his personal appearance; butstill there are ways of getting home to him, and Kettle knew the secret."You make fight-palaver," he said, "you steal, you take ship, you drinkcargo gin, and you think your _ju-ju_ fine _ju-ju._ But my _ju-ju_too-plenty-much better, and I fit for show it you again if dissteal-palaver no stop one-time."

  They began to move threateningly toward him. "Very well," he said, "thenI tell you straight; you no fit to be called black boys. You bushmen.Bah! you be bushmen."

  The maddened Krooboys ran in, and the wicked revolver spoke out, andthen Kettle nipped into the deck-house and slammed the door to on hisheels. The black ape-like faces jabbered and mowed at the window ports,and brawny arms were thrust in, grappling viciously, but the Mate drewout camp-stools from a locker, and with these the three white menstabbed and hit at every face or arm which showed itself. There was nomore shooting, and there was no need for it. By sheer weight of blowsthe whites kept the enemy from climbing through the windows, and so longas the windows were not stormed, the iron house was safe to them. Andpresently one of the head-men blew his boatswain's whistle, and theattack drew off.

  Promptly Kettle reloaded his revolver and stepped out into the open."Now," he said, "you seen my _ju-ju?_ You savvy him too-big _ju-ju_? Youwant any more of it? No. Then get away aft with you. You hear? You libfor bottom deck back there, one-time." He rushed at them, one slight,slim, white-clad white man against all that reeking, shining mob, andthey struggled away before him in grotesque tumblings and jostlings,like a flock of sheep.

  But at the break of the deck he paused and looked below him, and thefight all dropped away from his face. No. 3 hatch lay open before him,with the covers thrown here and there. From it was creeping up a thinblue smoke, with now and then a scarlet trail of flame. Here was acomplication.

  "So you gluttonous, careless brutes have set fire to her, have you?Here, who was in the engine room?"

  Discipline was coming back. A man in black trousers, with a clout roundhis neck, stepped out.

  "You? Well, slip below, and turn steam into the donkey."

  "Steam no lib, sar. Cranes die when we try to work him just now."

  "Oh, you holy crowd of savages! Well, if we can't use the hose, you musthand buckets--and sharp, too. That fire's gaining. Now then, head-men,step out."

  "I second head-man, sar."

  "I head-man, sar."

  "Get buckets, tubs, tins--anything that'll hold water, and look sharp.If you boys work well now, I'll overlook a lot that's been done. If youdon't, I'll give you fits. Try and get below, some of you, and pull awaywhat's burning. Probably you'll find some of your dear relations downthere, drunk on gin and smoking pipes. You may knock them on the head ifyou like, and want to do a bit more murder. They deserve it."

  But though half a dozen of the Krooboys, who were now thoroughly tamed,tried to get down the hatch, the fire was too strong for them. Even thewater when it came did little to check the burning, for though it sentup great billows of steam, the flames shot out fiercer and higher everymoment. In that sweltering climate it does not take very much inducementto make a fire settle down thoroughly to work, once it gets anythinglike a tolerable start.

  To add to the trouble, news of the wreck had been carried to the villagebehind the beach where Captain Kettle had sung for his lodgingover-night, and the one-eyed head-man there and his friends were comingoff to share in the spoil as fast as canoes could bring them. They, too,would have their theories as to the ownership of wrecked cargoes on theWest African Coast, and as they were possessed of trade guns, they werenot like to forego what they considered their just rights withoutfurther fighting.

  But as it happened, a period was put to the scene on the steamer withconsiderable suddenness. Sheriff, who had been making sure that therewere no Krooboys lurking forward who could take them from the rear, cameup and looked upon the fire with a blanched face. "Excuse me, Skipper,"he said, and turned and bawled for the lifeboat to come alongside.

  "No hurry for that yet," said Kettle, angrily. "Don't scare the men,sir. And don't you give orders without my sanction. You made me Captainhere, and, by James! Captain I'll be. We're handicapped for want of thehose, but we're going to try and get this fire under without. Anyway,there's no question of leaving the ship yet."

  "Good God, man, don't niggle about that now. I know what I'm saying.There's eight tons of powder in that hold."

  "And we may be blown up against the sky as a thin kind of rain anyminute? Well, sir, you're owner, and as you seem to have acted as purseron board, you ought to know. But hadn't we better ask the Mate for hiscargo-book first, so as to make sure?"

  He turned and looked, but Sheriff had gone, and was sliding down intothe lifeboat which had come alongside. "Well, I don't like leaving theship, and I suppose for that matter he wouldn't either, being owner, andbeing uninsured. But as Mr. Sheriff's gone in such a blazing hurry, it'sprobably time for me to go too, if I'm to land home any time in SouthShields again." He hailed the lower deck with a sharp order. "You boys,there, knock off. Knock off work, I say, and throw down your buckets.There's powder stowed down below, and it'll be going off directly.Gunpowder, you savvy, shoot-powder, go _fizz--boosh--bang_!"

  There was a sharp clatter of understanding and explanation, but nomovement. The African is not great at making deductions. Captain Kettlehad to give a definite order. "Now, overboard with you, all hands, andlib for beach. No time for lower boats. You all fit for swim."

  They took the hint, and began leaping the bulwark rail like a swarm ofblack frogs. "Good-by, boys," he said, in valediction. "You'll find itcheaper to be good and virtuous next time. You haven't stay enough inyou for a real good fight." And then he went to where the davits dangledover the water, and slid down to the boat, while the frightened crewcursed him aloud for keeping them waiting.

  Not much was said as they rowed away. The all-nation rowers were openlyterrified; the Mate had all his attention used up in steering to a hair;and Sheriff sat with his shoulders humped beside his ears in theposition of a man who expects a blow. Captain Kettle held his peace. Heknew that mere words could not urge the sweating crew to heavier effort,and he puffed at his treasured cigar as any smoker would who had beendivorced from tobacco for so many a month, and does not know when hewill meet with his next indulgence.

  And in due time the powder was fired, and the ste
amer was turned into avast volcano of steam and smoke and flame, which vomited iron and humanlimbs, and which sent forth an air blast which drove the boat before itlike the hurricane of a tornado. And then the _debris_ from the skyfoamed down into the water, and then there was a long, long silence.Save for some inconsiderable flotsam, the steamer and all that was inher had vanished eternally. The canoes from the village were paddlingfor the beach again. They were alone on a lonely sea. No man seemed tohave a thought he wished to share.

  The Mate was the first to speak. He patted a bundle whose outer housingwas a pillow-case, which lay on the thwart beside him. "Well," he said,"it's been a close thing. I darn nearly lost those new clothes of mine."

  "It might have been worse," said Sheriff; "we might well all have beenkilled. But as it is," he added with a sigh, "we've merely got to startfresh from the bottom again. Anyway, Kettle, I'm obliged to you for whatyou have done."

  The little sailor frowned. "It's kind of you, sir, to say that. But Ihate being beaten. And it's no excuse to say I did my best. I hadn'tfigured on that fire and the powder, and that's a fact."

  "I wonder," said the Mate thoughtfully, "which of those beggars scoffedthat gold zodiac ring of mine. That steward's boy, Tins, I expect. Tookthe ring and left the new blue suit. Well, by gum, they're a funny lot,those boys."