Chapter 13

She stood holding the captain’s hand and stroking it, and whenever his feelings became too much for her put her head down on his waistcoat. At such times the captain glared fiercely at the ex-pilot, who, being of a weak nature, was unable, despite his anxiety, to give his risible faculties that control which the solemnity of the occasion demanded.

The afternoon wore slowly away. Miss Winthrop, who disliked scandal, had allowed something of the affair to leak out, and several visitors, including a local reporter, called, but were put off till the morrow, on the not unnatural plea that the long-separated couple desired a little privacy. The three sat silent, the ex-pilot, with wrinkled brows, trying hard to decipher the lip-language in which the captain addressed him whenever he had an opportunity, but could only dimly guess its purport, when the captain pressed his huge fist into the service as well.

Mrs. Pepper rose at length, and went into the back room to prepare tea. As she left the door open, however, and took the captain’s hat with her, he built no hopes on her absence, but turned furiously to the ex-pilot.

“What’s to be done?” he inquired in a fierce whisper. “This can’t go on.”

“It’ll have to,” whispered the other.

“Now, look here,” said Crippen menacingly, “I’m going into the kitchen to make a clean breast of it. I’m sorry for you, but I’ve done the best I can. Come and help me to explain.”

He turned to the kitchen, but the other, with the strength born of despair, seized him by the sleeve and held him back.

“She’ll kill me,” he whispered breathlessly.

“I can’t help it,” said Crippen, shaking him off. “Serve you right.”

“And she’ll tell the folks outside, and they’ll kill you,” continued Pepper.

The captain sat down again, and confronted him with a face as pale as his own.

“The last train leaves at eight,” whispered the pilot hurriedly. “It’s desperate, but it’s the only thing you can do. Take her for a stroll up by the fields near the railway station. You can see the train coming in for a mile off nearly. Time yourself carefully, and make a bolt for it. She can’t run.”

The entrance of their victim with the tea-tray stopped the conversation; but the captain nodded acceptance behind her back, and then, with a forced gaiety, sat down to tea.

For the first time since his successful appearance he became loquacious, and spoke so freely of incidents in the life of the man he was impersonating that the ex-pilot sat in a perfect fever lest he should blunder. The meal finished, he proposed a stroll, and, as the unsuspecting Mrs. Pepper tied on her bonnet, slapped his leg, and winked confidently at his fellow-conspirator.

“I’m not much of a walker,” said the innocent Mrs. Pepper, “so you must go slowly.”

The captain nodded, and at Pepper’s suggestion left by the back way, to avoid the gaze of the curious.

For some time after their departure Pepper sat smoking, with his anxious face turned to the clock, until at length, unable to endure the strain any longer, and not without a sportsmanlike idea of being in at the death, he made his way to the station, and placed himself behind a convenient coal-truck.

He waited impatiently, with his eyes fixed on the road up which he expected the captain to come. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to eight, and still no captain. The platform began to fill, a porter seized the big bell and rang it lustily; in the distance a patch of white smoke showed. Just as the watcher had given up all hope, the figure of the captain came in sight. He was swaying from side to side, holding his hat in his hand, but doggedly racing the train to the station.

“He’ll never do it!” groaned the pilot. Then he held his breath, for three or four hundred yards behind the captain Mrs. Pepper pounded in pursuit.

The train rolled into the station; passengers stepped in and out; doors slammed, and the guard had already placed the whistle in his mouth, when Captain Crippen, breathing stertorously, came stumbling blindly on to the platform, and was hustled into a third class carriage.

“Close shave that, sir,” said the station-master as he closed the door.

The captain sank back in his seat, fighting for breath, and turning his head, gave a last triumphant look up the road.

“All right, sir,” said the station-master kindly, as he followed the direction of the other’s eyes and caught sight of Mrs. Pepper. “We’ll wait for your lady.”

Jackson Pepper came from behind the coal-truck and watched the train out of sight, wondering in a dull, vague fashion what the conversation was like. He stood so long that a tender hearted porter, who had heard the news, made bold to come up and put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll never see her again, Mr. Pepper,” he said sympathetically.

The ex-pilot turned and regarded him fixedly, and the last bit of spirit he was ever known to show flashed up in his face as he spoke.

“You’re a blamed idiot!” he said rudely.

A CASE OF DESERTION

The sun was just rising as the small tub-like steamer, or, to be more correct, steam-barge, the _Bulldog_, steamed past the sleeping town of Gravesend at a good six knots per hour.

There had been a little discussion on the way between her crew and the engineer, who, down in his grimy little engine-room, did his own stoking and everything else necessary. The crew, consisting of captain, mate, and boy, who were doing their first trip on a steamer, had been transferred at the last moment from their sailing-barge the _Witch_, and found to their discomfort that the engineer, who had not expected to sail so soon, was terribly and abusively drunk. Every moment he could spare from his engines he thrust the upper part of his body through the small hatchway, and rowed with his commander.

“Ahoy, bargee!” he shouted, popping up like a jack-in-the-box, after a brief cessation of hostilities.

“Don’t take no notice of ’im,” said the mate. “’E’s got a bottle of brandy down there, an’ he’s ’alf mad.”

“If I knew anything o’ them blessed engines,” growled the skipper, “I’d go and hit ’im over the head.”

“But you don’t,” said the mate, “and neither do I, so you’d better keep quiet.”

“You think you’re a fine feller,” continued the engineer, “standing up there an’ playing with that little wheel. You think you’re doing all the work. What’s the boy doing? Send him down to stoke.”

“Go down,” said the skipper, grinning with fury, and the boy reluctantly obeyed.

“You think,” said the engineer pathetically, after he had cuffed the boy’s head and dropped him down below by the scruff of his neck, “you think because I’ve got a black face I’m not a man. There’s many a hoily face ’ides a good ’art.”

“I don’t think nothing about it,” grunted the skipper; “you do your work, and I’ll do mine.”

“Don’t you give me none of your back answers,” bellowed the engineer, “’cos I won’t have ’em.”

The skipper shrugged his shoulders and exchanged glances with his sympathetic mate. “Wait till I get ’im ashore,” he murmured.

“The biler is wore out,” said the engineer, re-appearing after a hasty dive below. “It may bust at any moment.”

As though to confirm his words fearful sounds were heard proceeding from below.

“It’s only the boy,” said the mate, “he’s scared—natural.”

“I thought it was the biler,” said the skipper, with a sigh of relief. “It was loud enough.”

As he spoke the boy got his head out of the hatchway, and, rendered desperate with fear, fairly fought his way past the engineer and gained the deck.

“Very good,” said the engineer, as he followed him on deck and staggered to the side. “I’ve had enough o’ you lot.”

“Hadn’t you better go down to them engines?” shouted the skipper.

“Am I your _slave?_” demanded the engineer tearfully. “Tell me that. Am I your slave?”

“Go down and do your work like a sensible man,” was the reply.

At these words the engineer took umbrage at once, and, scowling fiercely, removed his greasy jacket and flung his cap on the deck. He then finished the brandy which he had brought up with him, and gazed owlishly at the Kentish shore.

“I’m going to have a wash,” he said loudly, and, sitting down, removed his boots.

“Go down to the engines first,” said the skipper, “and I’ll send the boy to you with a bucket and some soap.”

“Bucket!” replied the engineer scornfully, as he moved to the side. “I’m going to have a proper wash.”

“Hold him!” roared the skipper suddenly. “Hold him!”

The mate, realising the situation, rushed to seize him, but the engineer, with a mad laugh, put his hands on the side and vaulted into the water. When he rose the steamer was twenty yards ahead.

“Go astarn!” yelled the mate.

“How can I go astarn when there’s nobody at the engines?” shouted the skipper, as he hung on to the wheel and brought the boat’s head sharply round. “Git a line ready.”

The mate, with a coil of rope in his hand, rushed to the side, but his benevolent efforts were frustrated by the engineer, who, seeing the boat’s head making straight for him, saved his life by an opportune dive. The steamer rushed by.

“Turn ’er agin!” screamed the mate.

The captain was already doing so, and in a remarkably short space of time the boat, which had described a complete circle, was making again for the engineer.

“Look out for the line!” shouted the mate warningly.

“I don’t want your line,” yelled the engineer. “I’m going ashore.”

“Come aboard!” shouted the captain imploringly, as they swept past again. “We can’t manage the engines.”

“Put her round again,” said the mate. “I’ll go for him with the boat. Haul her in, boy.”

The boat, which was dragging astern, was hauled close, and the mate tumbled into her, followed by the boy, just as the captain was in the middle of another circle—to the intense indignation of a crowd of shipping, large and small, which was trying to get by.

“Ahoy!” yelled the master of a tug which was towing a large ship. “Take that steam roundabout out of the way. What the thunder are you doing?”

“Picking up my engineer,” replied the captain, as he steamed right across the other’s bows, and nearly ran down a sailing-barge, the skipper of which, a Salvation Army man, was nobly fighting with his feelings.

“Why don’t you stop?” he yelled.

“’Cos I can’t,” wailed the skipper of the _Bulldog_, as he threaded his way between a huge steamer and a schooner, who, in avoiding him, were getting up a little collision on their own account.

“Ahoy, _Bulldog!_ Ahoy!” called the mate. “Stand by to pick us up. We’ve got him.”

The skipper smiled in an agonised fashion as he shot past, hotly pursued by his boat. The feeling on board the other craft as they got out of the way of the _Bulldog_, and nearly ran down her boat, and then, in avoiding that, nearly ran down something else, cannot be put into plain English, but several captains ventured into the domains of the ornamental with marked success.

“Shut off steam!” yelled the engineer, as the _Bulldog_ went by again. “Draw the fires, then.”

“Who’s going to steer while I do it?” bellowed the skipper, as he left the wheel for a few seconds to try and get a line to throw them.

By this time the commotion in the river was frightful, and the captain’s steering, as he went on his round again, something marvellous to behold. A strange lack of sympathy on the part of brother captains added to his troubles. Every craft he passed had something to say to him, busy as they were, and the remarks were as monotonous as they were insulting. At last, just as he was resolving to run his boat straight down the river until he came to a halt for want of steam, the mate caught the rope he flung, and the _Bulldog_ went down the river with her boat made fast to her stern.

“Come aboard, you—you lunatic!” he shouted.

“Not afore I knows ’ow I stand,” said the engineer, who was now beautifully sober, and in full possession of a somewhat acute intellect.

“What do you mean?” demanded the skipper.

“I don’t come aboard,” shouted the engineer, “until you and the mate and the bye all swear as you won’t say nothing about this little game.”

“I’ll report you the moment I get ashore,” roared the skipper. “I’ll give you in charge for desertion. I’ll”—

With a supreme gesture the engineer prepared to dive, but the watchful mate fell on his neck and tripped him over a seat.

“Come aboard!” cried the skipper, aghast at such determination. “Come aboard, and I’ll give you a licking when we get ashore instead.”

“Honour bright?” inquired the engineer.

“Honour bright,” chorused the three.

The engineer, with all the honours of war, came on board, and, after remarking that he felt chilly bathing on an empty stomach, went down below and began to stoke. In the course of the voyage he said that it was worth while making such a fool of himself if only to see the skipper’s beautiful steering, warmly asseverating that there was not another man on the river that could have done it. Before this insidious flattery the skipper’s wrath melted like snow before the sun, and by the time they reached port he would as soon have thought of hitting his own father as his smooth-tongued engineer.

OUTSAILED

It was a momentous occasion. The two skippers sat in the private bar of the “Old Ship,” in High Street, Wapping, solemnly sipping cold gin and smoking cigars, whose sole merit consisted in the fact that they had been smuggled. It is well known all along the waterside that this greatly improves their flavour.

“Draw all right?” queried Captain Berrow—a short, fat man of few ideas, who was the exulting owner of a bundle of them.

“Beautiful,” replied Captain Tucker, who had just made an excursion into the interior of his with the small blade of his penknife. “Why don’t you keep smokes like these, landlord?”

“He can’t,” chuckled Captain Berrow fatuously. “They’re not to be ’ad—money couldn’t buy ’em.”

The landlord grunted. “Why don’t you settle about that race o’ yours an’ ha’ done with it,” he cried, as he wiped down his counter. “Seems to me, Cap’n Tucker’s hanging fire.”

“I’m ready when he is,” said Tucker, somewhat shortly.

“It’s taking your money,” said Berrow slowly; “the _Thistle_ can’t hold a candle to the _Good Intent_, and you know it. Many a time that little schooner o’ mine has kept up with a steamer.”

“Wher’d you ha’ been if the tow rope had parted, though?” said the master of the _Thistle_, with a wink at the landlord.

At this remark Captain Berrow took fire, and, with his temper rapidly rising to fever heat, wrathfully repelled the scurvy insinuation in language which compelled the respectful attention of all the other customers and the hasty intervention of the landlord.

“Put up the stakes,” he cried impatiently. “Put up the stakes, and don’t have so much jaw about it.”

“Here’s mine,” said Berrow, sturdily handing over a greasy fiver. “Now, Cap’n Tucker, cover that.”

“Come on,” said the landlord encouragingly; “don’t let him take the wind out of your sails like that.”

Tucker handed over five sovereigns.

“High water’s at 12.13,” said the landlord, pocketing the stakes. “You understand the conditions—each of you does the best he can for hisself after eleven, an’ the one what gets to Poole first has the ten quid. Understand?”

Both gamblers breathed hard, and, fully realising the desperate nature of the enterprise upon which they had embarked, ordered some more gin. A rivalry of long standing as to the merits of their respective schooners had led to them calling in the landlord to arbitrate, and this was the result. Berrow, vaguely feeling that it would be advisable to keep on good terms with the stakeholder, offered him one of the famous cigars. The stakeholder, anxious to keep on good terms with his stomach, declined it.

“You’ve both got your moorings up, I s’pose?” he inquired.

“Got ’em up this evening,” replied Tucker. “We’re just made fast one on each side of the _Dolphin_ now.”

“The wind’s light, but it’s from the right quarter,” said Captain Berrow, “an’ I only hope as ’ow the best ship’ll win. I’d like to win myself, but, if not, I can only say as there’s no man breathing I’d sooner have lick me than Cap’n Tucker. He’s as smart a seaman as ever comes into the London river, an’ he’s got a schooner angels would be proud of.”

“Glasses o’ gin round,” said Tucker promptly. “Cap’n Berrow, here’s your very good health, an’ a fair field an’ no favour.”

With these praiseworthy sentiments the master of the _Thistle_ finished his liquor, and, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, nodded farewell to the twain and departed. Once in the High Street he walked slowly, as one in deep thought, then, with a sudden resolution, turned up Nightingale Lane, and made for a small, unsavoury thoroughfare leading out of Ratcliff Highway. A quarter of an hour later he emerged into that famous thoroughfare again, smiling incoherently, and, retracing his steps to the waterside, jumped into a boat, and was pulled off to his ship.

“Comes off to-night, Joe,” said he, as he descended to the cabin, “an’ it’s arf a quid to you if the old gal wins.”

“What’s the bet?” inquired the mate, looking up from his task of shredding tobacco.

“Five quid,” replied the skipper.

“Well, we ought to do it,” said the mate slowly; “’t won’t be my fault if we don’t.”

“Mine neither,” said the skipper. “As a matter o’ fact, Joe, I reckon I’ve about made sure of it. All’s fair in love and war and racing, Joe.”

“Ay, ay,” said the mate, more slowly than before, as he revolved this addition to the proverb.

“I just nipped round and saw a chap I used to know named Dibbs,” said the skipper. “Keeps a boarding-house for sailors. Wonderful sharp little chap he is. Needles ain’t nothing to him. There’s heaps of needles, but only one Dibbs. He’s going to make old Berrow’s chaps as drunk as lords.”

“Does he know ’em?” inquired the mate.

“He knows where to find ’em,” said the other. “I told him they’d either be in the ‘Duke’s Head’ or the ‘Town o’ Berwick.’ But he’d find ’em wherever they was. Ah, even if they was in a coffee pallis, I b’leeve that man ’ud find ’em.”

“They’re steady chaps,” objected the mate, but in a weak fashion, being somewhat staggered by this tribute to Mr. Dibbs’ remarkable powers.

“My lad,” said the skipper, “it’s Dibbs’ business to mix sailors’ liquors so’s they don’t know whether they’re standing on their heads or their heels. He’s the most wonderful mixer in Christendom; takes a reg’lar pride in it. Many a sailorman has got up a ship’s side, thinking it was stairs, and gone off half acrost the world instead of going to bed, through him.”

“We’ll have a easy job of it, then,” said the mate. “I b’leeve we could ha’ managed it without that, though. ’Tain’t quite what you’d call sport, is it?”

“There’s nothing like making sure of a thing,” said the skipper placidly. “What time’s our chaps coming aboard?”

“Ten thirty, the latest,” replied the mate. “Old Sam’s with ’em, so they’ll be all right.”

“I’ll turn in for a couple of hours,” said the skipper, going towards his berth. “Lord! I’d give something to see old Berrow’s face as his chaps come up the side.”

“P’raps they won’t git as far as that,” remarked the mate.

“Oh, yes they will,” said the skipper. “Dibbs is going to see to that. I don’t want any chance of the race being scratched. Turn me out in a couple of hours.”

He closed the door behind him, and the mate, having stuffed his clay with the coarse tobacco, took some pink note-paper with scalloped edges from his drawer, and, placing the paper at his right side, and squaring his shoulders, began some private correspondence.

For some time he smoked and wrote in silence, until the increasing darkness warned him to finish his task. He signed the note, and, having put a few marks of a tender nature below his signature, sealed it ready for the post, and sat with half-closed eyes, finishing his pipe. Then his head nodded, and, placing his arms on the table, he too slept.

It seemed but a minute since he had closed his eyes when he was awakened by the entrance of the skipper, who came blundering into the darkness from his stateroom, vociferating loudly and nervously.

“Ay, ay!” said Joe, starting up.

“Where’s the lights?” said the skipper. “What’s the time? I dreamt I’d overslept myself. What’s the time?”

“Plenty o’ time,” said the mate vaguely, as he stifled a yawn.

“Ha’-past ten,” said the skipper, as he struck a match, “You’ve been asleep,” he added severely.

“I ain’t,” said the mate stoutly, as he followed the other on deck. “I’ve been thinking. I think better in the dark.”

“It’s about time our chaps was aboard,” said the skipper, as he looked round the deserted deck. “I hope they won’t be late.”

“Sam’s with ’em,” said the mate confidently, as he went on to the side; “there ain’t no festivities going on aboard the _Good Intent_, neither.”

“There will be,” said his worthy skipper, with a grin, as he looked across the intervening brig at the rival craft; “there will be.”

He walked round the deck to see that everything was snug and ship-shape, and got back to the mate just as a howl of surprising weirdness was heard proceeding from the neighbouring stairs.

“I’m s’prised at Berrow allowing his men to make that noise,” said the skipper waggishly. “Our chaps are there too, I think. I can hear Sam’s voice.”

“So can I,” said the mate, with emphasis.

“Seems to be talking rather loud,” said the master of the _Thistle_, knitting his brows.

“Sounds as though he’s trying to sing,” said the mate, as, after some delay, a heavily-laden boat put off from the stairs and made slowly for them. “No, he ain’t; he’s screaming.”

There was no longer any doubt about it. The respectable and greatly-trusted Sam was letting off a series of wild howls which would have done credit to a penny-gaff Zulu, and was evidently very much out of temper about something.

“Ahoy, _Thistle!_ Ahoy!” bellowed the waterman, as he neared the schooner. “Chuck us a rope—quick!”

The mate threw him one, and the boat came alongside. It was then seen that another waterman, using impatient and deplorable language, was forcibly holding Sam down in the boat.

“What’s he done? What’s the row?” demanded the mate.

“Done?” said the waterman, in disgust. “Done? He’s ’ad a small lemon, an’ it’s got into his silly old head. He’s making all this fuss ’cos he wanted to set the pub on fire, an’ they wouldn’t let him. Man ashore told us they belonged to the _Good Intent_, but I know they’re your men.”

“Sam!” roared the skipper, with a sinking heart, as his glance fell on the recumbent figures in the boat; “come aboard at once, you drunken disgrace! D’ye hear?”

“I can’t leave him,” said Sam, whimpering.

“Leave who?” growled the skipper.

“Him,” said Sam, placing his arms round the waterman’s neck. “Him an’ me’s like brothers.”

“Get up, you old loonatic!” snarled the waterman, extricating himself with difficulty, and forcing the other towards the side. “Now, up you go!”

Aided by the shoulders of the waterman and the hands of his superior officers, Sam went up, and then the waterman turned his attention to the remainder of his fares, who were snoring contentedly in the bottom of the boat.

“Now, then!” he cried; “look alive with you! D’ye hear? Wake up! Wake up! Kick ’em, Bill!”

“I can’t kick no ’arder,” grumbled the other waterman.

“What the devil’s the matter with ’em?” stormed the master of the _Thistle_. “Chuck a pail of water over ’em, Joe!”

Joe obeyed with gusto; and, as he never had much of a head for details, bestowed most of it upon the watermen. Through the row which ensued the _Thistle’s_ crew snored peacefully, and at last were handed up over the sides like sacks of potatoes, and the indignant watermen pulled back to the stairs.

“Here’s a nice crew to win a race with!” wailed the skipper, almost crying with rage. “Chuck the water over ’em, Joe! Chuck the water over ’em!”