CAPTAIN BALAAM OF THE 'CORMORANT'

AND OTHER SEA COMEDIES

BY MORLEY ROBERTS

AUTHOR OF 'THE PROMOTION OF THE ADMIRAL,' ETC.

LONDON EVELEIGH NASH 1905

Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty

CONTENTS

I. THE OWNER OF THE PATRIARCH

II. THE ORDER OF THE WOODEN GUN

III. CAPTAIN BALAAM OF THE CORMORANT

IV. JACK-ALL-ALONE

V. THE MUTINOUS CONDUCT OF MRS. RYDER

VI. THE COMEDY OF THE ORIANA

THE OWNER OF THE PATRIARCH

If any one cares to look up the Patriarch in Lloyd's List, it will be discovered that the line given to her reads thus:—

And all these hieroglyphics mean something to the initiated, of whom, as a matter of fact, there are more ashore than at sea. But the main point is that the owner of her was T. Tyser, and it matters very little whether she was built of heavier plating than the rules required, or whether she was cemented, or built under special survey, or what not. For T. Tyser, otherwise Mr. Thomas Tyser, was not only the owner of the Patriarch, but also the owner of a dozen other vessels all beginning with a P. He was, moreover, the owner of a large block of land in the heart of Melbourne; he had several streets, of which the biggest was Tyser Street, S.E., in London, and his banking account was certainly of heavier metal than he had any personal use for. He was a rough dog from the north country, and in the course of half a century's fight in London he came out top-dog in his own line, and was more or less of a millionaire.

'And he's my uncle,' said Geordie Potts; 'his sister was my mother, and here I am before the stick in one of his old wind-jammers, and gettin' two-pun-ten in this here Patriarch of his, and hang me if I believe the old bloke has another relative in the world. It's hard lines, mates, it's hard lines. Don't you allow it's hard lines?'

It was Sunday morning in the South-East Trades, and every sail was drawing, 'like a bally droring-master,' as Geordie once said, and the 'crowds' of the Patriarch were all fairly easy in their minds and ready for a discussion.

'If so be you are 'is nevvy, as you state,' said the port watch cautiously, 'we allows it's 'ard lines.'

'I've stated it frequent,' said Geordie, 'and it's the truth, the whole truth, and nothin' but it, so help me. D'ye think I'd claim to be old Tyser's sister's son if I wasn't? I'd scorn to claim it.'

'Any man would scorn to be Tyser's sister's son,' said the starboard watch; 'he'd scorn to be 'im unless 'e was, for Tyser's a mean old dog, ain't 'e, Geordie?'

Geordie thanked his watch-mates for backing him up so. 'That's right, chaps. There 's no meaner in the north of England, or the south for that matter, and the way this ship's found is scandalous.'

'The grub's horrid,' said both watches.

'And look at the gear,' said Geordie; 'everything ready to part a deal easier than my uncle is. I never lays hold of a halliard but I'm thinking I'll go on my back if I pulls heavy. Oh, he's a fair scandal!'

He considered the scandal soberly, and with some sadness.

'He might leave you some dibs, Geordie,' suggested his mate, Jack Braby; 'he might, after all.'

'Not a solitary dime,' said Geordie; 'him and me quarrelled because my father fought him in the street, and I hit the old hunks with a bit of a brick because he got my dad down.'

'Wot was the row about?' asked the others eagerly.

'Nothin' to speak of,' said George; 'my old man said he was a blood-sucker, and that led to words. And I never hurt him to speak of. And yet I've shipped in one of his ships, and am as poor as he's rich. He allowed none of us would get a farthing: he shouted it out in the market-place, and said hospitals would get it, because, when one of his skippers that he'd sacked cut him up awful with a stay-sail hank, they sewed him up very neat at one of 'em.'

'There's nothin' so good in a fight as a stay-sail 'ank,' said Jack Braby, contemplatively. 'I cut a polisman all to rags wiv one once.'

'Was that the time you done three months' 'ard?' asked the port watch.

'Six,' said Braby proudly, 'and I told the beak I could do it on my 'ead. But, Geordie, if you was owner yourself what would you do?'

'Yes, wot?' asked the rest.

Geordie shook his head and sighed.

'I'd make my ships such that sailormen would be wanting to pay to go in 'em,' said Geordie. 'I've laid awake thinkin' of it.'

'Oh, tell us,' said all hands, with as much unanimity as if they were tailing on to the halliards under the stimulus of 'Give us some time to blow the man down!' 'Tell us, Geordie.'

'I'd be friends with all my men for one thing,' said Geordie, 'and I'd not have a single Dutchman in a ship of mine.'

The three 'Dutchmen' on board—one of whom was a Swede, another a German, and the third a Finn—shifted uneasily on their chests, but said nothing.

'And not a Dago,' continued the 'owner,' 'and I'd give double wages, and grog three times a day, and tobacco throwed in. And the cook shouldn't be a hash-spoiler but what Frenchies calls a chef.'

'We never heard of that. How d'ye spell it, Geordie?'

'S, h, e, double f,' said Geordie; 'and it means a man that is known not to spoil vittles, as most sea-cooks does, by the very look of him. And when it was wet or cold the galley fire should be alight all night. And the skipper and the mates should be told by me, and told very stern, that if they vallied their billets a continental they'd behave like gents and not cuss too much. And there shouldn't be no working up, and any officer of mine that was dead on dry pulls on the halliards should have the sack quick. And every time a ship of mine came into dock I'd be there, and I'd see what the crowds' opinion was of the skipper and the mates. Oh, I'd make my ships a paradise, I would!'

Most of the men nodded approval, but Braby wasn't quite satisfied.

'And would there be grog every time of shortenin' sail, Geordie?'

'Oh, of course,' said George, 'and every time you made sail too.'

But an old seaman shook his head.

''Tis mighty fine, mates, to 'ear Geordie guff as to what 'e'd do,' he growled, 'but I ain't young, and I've seed men get rich and they wasn't in the least what they allowed they'd be. Geordie 'ere is one of hus now, and 'e feels where the shoe pinches, but if so be 'e got rotten with money 'e'd be for callin' sailormen swine as like as not. And 'e'd wear a topper.'

'You're a liar, I wouldn't,' roared Geordie.

'Maybe I am a liar,' said the old chap, 'but I've seen what I've looked at. If you was to learn as your huncle was dead now, you'd go aft and set about on the poop and see hus doin' pulley-hauley, with a seegar in your teeth. Riches spoils a man, and it can't be helped: it 'as to, somehow. I've no fault to find with you now, Geordie Potts; for so young a man you're a good seaman and a good shipmate (though you 'ave called me a liar), but, you take my word for it, money would make an 'og of you.'

And here was matter for high debate, which lasted all through the Trades, through the Horse Latitudes, and into the region of the brave west winds, till the Patriarch had made more than half her easting.

'So I'm to be a mean swab, and a real swine, when I'm rich,' said Geordie. 'Eh, well, have it your own way. There's times some of you makes me feel I'd like to make you sit up.'

''Ear, 'ear,' said the old fo'c'sleman, 'there's the very thought of 'aughty richness workin' in 'is mind, shipmates. What'll the real thing do if 'is huncle pegs out sudden?'

It was curious to note that a certain subdued hostility rose up between most of the men and Geordie. They sat apart and discussed him. Even Jack Braby threw out dark and melancholy hints that they wouldn't be chums any more if old Tyser's money came to his nephew. There were at times faint suggestions that Geordie was getting touched with his possible prosperity.

'I'll live ashore and have a public-house,' said Geordie Potts.

And they picked up Cape Otway light in due time, and ran through Port Phillip Heads by and by, and came to an anchor off Sandridge. Presently they berthed alongside the pier, and began to discharge their cargo; and one hot day went by like another till they were empty and began to fill up again with wool. In six weeks they were almost ready for sea once more. And the very night before they hauled out from their berth and lay at anchor in the bay, Geordie went ashore at six o'clock 'all by his lonesome,' as he and Jack Braby had fought over the job which Braby was to get from his mate when old Tyser died intestate. And as he got to the end of the pier he met a young clerk from the agents' office who knew him by sight.

'I say, I'm in a great hurry,' said the boy, 'my girl's waiting for me. Will you take these letters to Captain Smith, or I'll miss my train back? I'll give you a bob.'

'Right oh!' said Geordie, and he pouched the shilling and the letters, and the young fellow ran for his train.

'The letters can wait,' said Geordie Potts, 'but the bob can't, and I've five more besides. Jack might have had his whack out of it if he hadn't wanted to be my manager, when he ain't fit for it.'

He put the letters into his pocket and made his way to the Sandridge Arms, where he sat and drank by himself. It was seven o'clock, and he was by then tolerably 'full,' before it occurred to him to see if he still had the letters. He took them out, and the very first his eyes lighted on was one in a long envelope addressed to

George Potts, Esq., c/o Captain Smith, Patriarch.

'Blimy,' said Geordie, 'this can't be me! Esq. is what they puts after names of gents. Even the skipper don't have it after his.'

He fingered the long envelope and took another drink to consider the matter on.

'Holy Sailor, it must be me!' he said as he drew confidence out of his glass, 'there's no other Potts but me.'

He was over-full by now, and he opened the letter and began to read it.

'My dear Sir——'

'By the holy frost,' said Geordie, 'me My dear Sir!'

He went on reading.

'MY DEAR SIR,—We regret to inform you of the sudden death of your uncle, Mr. Thomas Tyser, on the 10th inst. He left no will, and you, as the next of kin and the heir-at-law, are entitled to all his real and personal estate, which is, as you are doubtless aware, very large. According to our present estimate it will amount to at least half a million sterling, and as we have been his legal advisers for the last twenty years, and know all his affairs, we can assure you that, with proper management of certain undertakings at present in our hands, it may be much more than our estimate. In order that you may return at once, we enclose you a draft on the Union Bank of Australia for £200, and have instructed Captain Smith to give you your discharge, which he will of course do at once.

'We hope, as we have been so long in the confidence of Mr. Tyser, that you will see no reason to complain of our care for your interests.—We are, my dear Sir, your obedient servants,

THOMAS WIGGS & Co.'

'Holy Sailor!' said Geordie. And he stared aghast at a square piece of paper which he had reason to believe represented £200. 'Holy Sailor, what a pot o' money!' He gasped, and took another drink.

'I'm the owner of the Patriarch,' he said, and grasping all the letters and his £200 draft he rammed them down into the bottom of his inside breast-pocket. 'I'm the owner of—hic—the—hic—Patriarch.'

He came out of his corner and went to the bar.

'Gimme a drink, an expensive drink, one that'll cost five bob,' he demanded of the barman.

'You'd better have a bottle o' brandy,' said the barman.

'I wants the best.'

'This is Hennessy's forty-star brandy,' said the liar behind the bar. 'There's no better in the world.'

And Geordie retreated with the bottle to his corner, and took a long drink of a poisonous compound which contained as much insanity in it as a small lunatic asylum. He came back to the bar presently, and told the barman that he was a millionaire.

'I own half Newcastle and a lot of Bourke Street, Melbourne, and a baker's dozen of ships, and lumps of London!' said Geordie.

'Lend me a thousand pounds till to-morrow,' said the barman.

'I like you—hic—I'll do it,' said Geordie; and with that he fell headlong and forgot his wealth. They dragged him outside on the verandah, and let him lie in the cool of the evening. He was picked up there two hours later by Jack Braby and some of the starboard watch, and taken on board.

'He let on he was a millionaire,' said the barman contemptuously.

Braby shook his head.

'Ah, he's liable to allow that when he's full, sir,' said Braby.

But that fatal bottle kept Geordie Potts wholly insensible till they were outside the Heads again and on their way to England with the smoke of the tugboat far astern. And presently the second mate, Mr. Brose, who was a very rough sort of dog and had sweated his way up to his present exalted rank from that of a fore-mast hand, hauled Geordie out by the collar of his coat and had him brought to by means of a bucketful of nice Bass's Strait water. Geordie gasped like a dying dolphin, but came to rapidly.

'I'll teach you to get drunk, you swab,' said Brose. 'Take those wet things off and turn to.'

And Geordie obeyed like a child in the presence of force majeure.

'Oh, Lord, I've a head,' he told his mates, 'and it seems to me that I had a most extro'r'nary dream.'

'Wot did you dream of, old Cocklywax?' asked Braby, 'did you dream you'd come in for old Tyser's money?'

And Geordie gasped.

'S'elp me,' he murmured, 's'elp me, did I dream?'

He dropped his marlinspike as if it were red-hot, and made a break for the fo'c'sle and his wet coat.

'Now if so be I dreamed,' he said, 'there'll be nought in this pocket. And if I didn't, I'm jiggered.'

He put his hand in and brought out a handful of damp and crushed letters, and came out upon deck staggering. Mr. Brose saw him, and was in his tracks like a fish-hawk on a herring-gull. Geordie saw him coming, and stood open-mouthed.

'Oh, sir,' said Geordie, 'oh, sir——'

'Oh, blazes,' said Brose, 'what's your damned shenanakin' game? Get to work, or I'll have you soused till you're half-dead.'

But Geordie could explain nothing.

'Oh, sir,' he stammered, and held up his papers, shaking them feebly. And Brose shook him, anything but feebly, so that Geordie's teeth chattered.

'If you please, sir,' he cried out at last, 'if you please, sir, don't. I owns her.'

'You owns wot?' demanded Brose. And the rest of the men edged as near as they dared.

'He's drunk still,' said Braby, as Brose shook his mate once more.

'I owns the bally Patriarch,' screamed Geordie, 'and all the rest of 'em, and all my uncle's richness; and I won't be shook, I won't!'

And Brose let him go.

'You're mad,' said Brose, 'you're mad.'

'I ain't,' roared Geordie, who was fast recovering from the shock. 'I ain't. Take these, read 'em, read 'em out. Let the skipper read 'em. I owns the Patriarch, and the Palermo, and the Proosian, and the whole line. The lawyers says so!'

He put the lot of damp letters into Mr. Brose's hands, and sat down on the spare top-mast lashed under the rail.

'There's letters for the captain 'ere,' said Brose suspiciously. ''Ow did you get 'em?'

''Twas a youngster from the office gave 'em me,' replied Geordie, 'and I took a drink first and there was one for me, and it said so, said I was the owner, said it plain.'

And when Brose had read the opened letter he gasped too, and went aft to see the skipper. The rest of the watch gathered round Geordie, and spoke in awestruck whispers.

'Is it true, Geordie?'

'Gospel,' said Geordie, 'it's swore to. They sends me two hundred quid in a paper.'

'Show us,' said the starbowlines, 'show us.'

'It's in the paper the second greaser has,' said Geordie, 'it's wrote "Pay George Potts, Esq., two hundred quid on the nail."'

'I'd never 'ave let Brose 'ave it,' said Braby, 'like as not 'e'll keep it.'

'Then I'll sack him,' said Geordie firmly. 'Let him dare try to keep it, and I'll sack him and not pay him no wages."

'This is a very strange game, this is,' said Braby. 'I never 'eard tell of the likes. Did they put "Esk" on your letter?'

'They done so,' said Geordie. 'I've seen uncle's letters, and they done so to him.'

'Then it must be true,' said Braby; 'they on'y puts "Esk" on gents' letters.'

And Williams the steward was observed coming for'ard scratching his head.

'Where the 'ell am I?' asked Williams, 'and wot's the game? I'm sent by the captain to say will "Mr." Potts step into the cabin.'

They all looked at Geordie.

'Mr. Potts—why, that's you, Geordie.'

'I s'pose it must be,' said the owner. 'Must I go, mates?'

'Of course,' cried Braby.

But Geordie fidgeted.

'I could go in if we was painting of her cabin,' he murmured, 'but to talk with the skipper——'

That evidently disgruntled him.

''Tis your own cabin any'ow,' said Braby. 'I'd walk in like a lord.'

'Well, I s'pose I must,' said Geordie reluctantly, and he went aft with Williams.

'And you're the owner?' asked Williams.

Geordie sighed.

'So it seems, stoo'ard,' he admitted.

'It beats the devil,' said Williams.

'So it does,' said Geordie, and the next moment he found himself announced as Mr. Potts, and he stood before the captain with his cap in his hand, looking as if he was about to be put in irons for mutiny. But as a matter of fact, the old skipper was a deal more nervous than he was.

'This seems all correct, Mr. Potts,' said Smith.

'Does it, sir?' asked Geordie, 'I'm very sorry, sir; but it ain't my fault, sir. I never meant—at least, I never allowed my uncle would do it, because my father, sir, said he was a blood-sucker, and they fought and I hit uncle with a brick, sir, to make him let go of father's beard.'

'Ah, yes, to be sure,' said the captain nervously, 'but I'm thinking what to do. It's a very anomalous situation for you to be here, Potts—Mr. Potts, I mean.'

But Geordie held up his hand.

'I'd much rather be Potts, sir, thanking you all the same.'

'I couldn't do it,' replied the skipper. 'I was thinking that you might like me to put back to Melbourne?'

'Wot for, sir?' demanded the owner.

'So that you could go home in a P. & O. boat,' said old Smith.

'Thanking you kindly, sir,' replied Geordie, 'I'd rather stay in the Patriarch. I don't like steamers, and never did.'

He had a vague notion that the skipper wanted him to go home before the mast in one.

'Then you wish me not to put back, Mr. Potts?' said Smith.

'I'd very much rather not, sir,' replied Geordie. 'I'm very happy here, sir, and takin' it all round, the Patriarch's a comfortable ship, sir. May I go for'ard now, sir?'

He made a step for the cabin door.

'Oh dear, oh dear,' said old Smith, 'you mustn't. You must have a berth here, and be a passenger.'

The skipper's obvious nervousness was not without its effect upon the new owner. For old Smith knew that if he lost his present billet he was not likely to find another one, and he had nothing saved to speak of. So somehow, and without knowing why, Geordie, without being in the least disrespectful, was more decided in his answer than he would have been if the 'old man' had showed himself as hard and severe as usual.

'Not me,' said Geordie, 'not me, sir. I wouldn't, and I couldn't. I'd be that uncomfortable—oh, a passenger, good Lord, no!'

'But bein' owner, you can't stay for'ard,' urged the skipper.

'Oh yes, I can, sir,' said Geordie, 'I'd prefer it.'

Smith sighed.

'If you prefer it, of course you must. But if you change your mind, you'll let me know.'

'Right, I will—sir,' said Geordie.

The skipper walked with him to the cabin door.

'And if you don't want to work, Mr. Potts, I dare say we can get on without your services, though we shall miss them,' he said anxiously.

'I couldn't lie about and do nix,' replied Geordie, 'I'd die of it.'

And away he went for'ard, while the skipper and Mr. Brose, and Mr. Ware, waked out of his watch below to hear the extraordinary news, discussed the situation.

'And 'ave I to call 'im Mr. Potts?' asked Brose with a pathetic air of disgust.