Light Freights. William Wymark Jacobs
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frustrate.
The frenzy of the skipper as Ted assisted him to his feet and he saw his antagonist struggling in the arms of the crew was terrible to behold. Strong men shivered at his words, but Mr. Bliss, addressing him as “Whiskers,” told him to call his crew off and to come on, and shaping as well as two pairs of brawny arms round his middle would permit, endeavoured in vain to reach him.
“This,” said the skipper, bitterly, as he turned to the mate, “is what you an’ me have to pay to keep up. I wouldn’t let you go now, my lad, not for a fi’ pun’ note. Deserter, that’s what you are!”
He turned and went below, and Private Bliss, after an insulting address to the mate, was hauled forward, struggling fiercely, and seated on the deck to recover. The excitement passed, he lost his colour again, and struggling into his tunic, went and brooded over the side.
By dinner-time his faintness had passed, and he sniffed with relish at the smell from the galley. The cook emerged bearing dinner to the cabin, then he returned and took a fine smoking piece of boiled beef flanked with carrots down to the forecastle. Private Bliss eyed him wistfully and his mouth watered.
For a time pride struggled with hunger, then pride won a partial victory and he descended carelessly to the forecastle.
“Can any o’ you chaps lend me a pipe o’ baccy?” he asked, cheerfully.
Bill rummaged in his pocket and found a little tobacco in a twist of paper.
“Bad thing to smoke on a empty stomach,” he said, with his mouth full.
“‘Tain’t my fault it’s empty,” said Private Bliss, pathetically.
“Tain’t mine,” said Bill.
“I’ve ‘eard,” said the cook, who was a tenderhearted man, “as ‘ow it’s a good thing to go for a day or so without food sometimes.”
“Who said so?” inquired Private Bliss, hotly.
“Diff’rent people,” replied the cook.
“You can tell ‘em from me they’re blamed fools,” said Mr. Bliss.
There was an uncomfortable silence; Mr. Bliss lit his pipe, but it did not seem to draw well.
“Did you like that pot o’ six-half I stood you last night?” he inquired somewhat pointedly of Bob.
Bob hesitated and looked at his plate.
“No, it was a bit flat,” he said at length.
“Well, I won’t stop you chaps at your grub,” said Private Bliss, bitterly, as he turned to depart.
“You’re not stopping us,” said Ted, cheerfully. “I’d offer you a bit, only—”
“Only what?” demanded the other.
“Skipper’s orders,” said Ted. “He ses we’re not to. He ses if we do it’s helping a deserter, and we’ll all get six months.”
“But you’re helping me by having me on board,” said Private Bliss; “besides, I don’t want to desert.”
“We couldn’t ‘elp you coming aboard,” said Bill, “that’s wot the old man said, but ‘e ses we can ‘elp giving of him vittles, he ses.”
“Well, have I got to starve?” demanded the horror-stricken Mr. Bliss.
“Look ‘ere,” said Bill, frankly, “go and speak to the old man. It’s no good talking to us. Go and have it out with him.”
Private Bliss thanked him and went on deck. Old Thomas was at the wheel, and a pleasant clatter of knives and forks came up through the open skylight of the cabin. Ignoring the old man, who waved him away, he raised the open skylight still higher, and thrust his head in.
“Go away,” bawled the skipper, pausing with his knife in his fist as he caught sight of him.
“I want to know where I’m to have my dinner,” bawled back the thoroughly roused Mr. Bliss.
“Your dinner!” said the skipper, with an air of surprise; “why, I didn’t know you ‘ad any.”
Private Bliss took his head away, and holding it very erect, took in his belt a little and walked slowly up and down the deck. Then he went to the water-cask and took a long drink, and an hour later a generous message was received from the skipper that he might have as many biscuits as he liked.
On this plain fare Private Bliss lived the whole of that day and the next, snatching a few hours’ troubled sleep on the locker at nights. His peace of mind was by no means increased by the information of Ted that Bystermouth was a garrison town, and feeling that in spite of any explanation he would be treated as a deserter, he resolved to desert in good earnest at the first opportunity that offered.
By the third day nobody took any notice of him, and his presence on board was almost forgotten, until Bob, going down to the forecastle, created a stir by asking somewhat excitedly what had become of him.
“He’s on deck, I s’pose,” said the cook, who was having a pipe.
“He’s not,” said Bob, solemnly.
“He’s not gone overboard, I s’pose?” said Bill, starting up.
Touched by this morbid suggestion they went up on deck and looked round; Private Bliss was nowhere to be seen, and Ted, who was steering, Had heard no splash. He seemed to have disappeared by magic, and the cook, after a hurried search, ventured aft, and, descending to the cabin, mentioned his fears to the skipper.
“Nonsense!” said that gentleman, sharply, “I’ll lay I’ll find him.”
He came on deck and looked round, followed at a respectful distance by the crew, but there was no sign of Mr. Bliss.
Then an idea, a horrid idea, occurred to the cook. The colour left his cheeks and he gazed helplessly at the skipper.
“What is it?” bawled the latter.
The cook, incapable of speech, raised a trembling hand and pointed to the galley. The skipper started, and, rushing to the door, drew it hastily back.
Mr. Bliss had apparently finished, though he still toyed languidly with his knife and fork as though loath to put them down. A half-emptied saucepan of potatoes stood on the floor by his side, and a bone, with a small fragment of meat adhering, was between his legs on a saucepan lid which served as a dish.
“Rather underdone, cook,” he said, severely, as he met that worthy’s horror-stricken gaze.
“Is that the cabin’s or the men’s he’s eaten?” vociferated the skipper.
“Cabin’s,” replied Mr. Bliss, before the cook could speak; “it looked the best. Now, has anybody got a nice see-gar?”
He drew back the door the other side of the galley as he spoke, and went out that way. A move was made towards him, but he backed, and picking up a handspike swung it round his head.
“Let him be,” said the skipper in a choking voice, “let him be. He’ll have to answer for stealing my dinner when I get ‘im ashore. Cook, take the men’s dinner down into the cabin. I’ll talk to you by and by.”
He walked aft and disappeared below, while Private Bliss, still fondling the handspike, listened unmoved to a lengthy vituperation which Bill called a plain and honest opinion of his behaviour.
“It’s the last dinner you’ll ‘ave for some time,” he concluded, spitefully; “it’ll be skilly for you when you get ashore.”
Mr. Bliss smiled, and, fidgeting with his tongue, asked him for the loan of his toothpick.
“You won’t be using it yourself,” he urged. “Now you go below all of you and start on the biscuits, there’s good men. It’s no use standing there saying a lot o’ bad words what I left off when I was four years old.”
He filled his pipe with some tobacco he had thoughtfully borrowed from the cook before dinner, and dropping into a negligent attitude on the deck, smoked