Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 75, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 March 1914 — A Man in the Open [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Man in the Open

by Roger Pocock

SYNOPSIS. ' The story opens with Jesse Smith relating the story of his birth, early life in Labrador and of the death of his father. Jesse becomes a sailor. CHAPTER ll.—Continued. I disremember which port—somewheres up the St Lawrence where we loaded lumber for the Gulf o’ Mexico, but the captain and me was away fishing. Mother had come from the Labrador to find me, old gray mother. She put on her round horn spectacles to smile at the mate aft, and the second mate forward, the or’nary seaman painting in the name board, and Bill in his bos’n’s chair a-tarring down the

rigging, and the bumboat laundress who’d i been tearing the old man’s shirt-fronts. She just sat happy at the sight of the Pawnticket, and she surely admired everything, from Old Glory to Blue Peter—until our nigger cook came and spilled slops overside. Seems he’d had news of the lady, and came to grin’ but was back in his galley, like a rabbit to his borrow, while she marched up the gangway. “Can’t abide dirt,” says mother, and even the new boy heard not a word else ’cept the splash. For mother just escorted that nigger right through the galley, out at the other end, over the port rail, and boosted him into the blue harbor, for the first and only bath he'd ever had. Then she took off her horn spectacles, her old buckskin gloves, and her bonnet, and sot to cleaning a galley which hadn’t teen washed since the days of President Lincoln. She hadn't time to listen to the wet nigger or the mate, and narry a man on board could get more than yea or nay out of mother. She cooked them a supper too good to be eaten and spoilt, then set the dishes ito rights, got the lamp a-shining, and axed to be shown round the ship. ’ The cap’n and me comes back along ■with the dinghy, makes fast, and climbs aboard. There’s old gray mother, with the horn specs, ealm in her own kitchen, just tellin' us to' set right down to supper. Cap’n lives aft, and I belongs up forrard, joeing ordinary seaman, and less important aboard than the old man’s pig. Yet somehow another knew, feeding us both in the galley, and standing by while we fed. Never a word, but mother had a light lor Captain Smith’s cigar, and her •yes looking hungry at me for fear •he’d be sent ashore.

“Well, ma’am," says the captain, “‘■ent your baggage aft? Oh, well ■-Bool~“get your baggagS’abbard.” T~ Theh I heard him on deck seeing another's dunnage Into the spare berth est, and the nigger’s turkey thrown out on the wharf.

Sort of strange to me remembering another, gaunt, bitter-hard, always In the right, with lots to say. And here Iwas little mother sobbing her heart out ota the breast of my jersey. Just the same mother changed. Said she •was fed up with the Labrador, coming laway to see the world, meet folks, and (have a good time; but would 1 be lashamed of having her with me at lepa? Shamed? All the ways down to Jee Beef’s clear to Rimouski you’ll [hear that yarn today, of how the old isea custom of winning a berth m fair tight was practiced by a lady, aboard of the Pawnticket. You’ve heard of ship’s husbands, font we’d the first ship's mother. And

the way she erep' In was surely insidious. Good word that She’s got to Ibe queen, and the schooner's a sea palace. when we suddenly discovered she only signed as cook. Now we're asleep at eleven knots on a beam wind, and Key West wide on the starboard bow, the same being |ln the second dog-watch when I'm inIvttsd aft There's the old man setting In the captain's palace, there's mother at the head of the table sewing, and she asks me to sit in the mate's seat as if I was chief officer instead of master's dog. "Son,** says she—queer, little, soft (chuckle, “son. Ton'll never guess.'* ' I was sort of sulky at having riddles Im Then the old man gets red to the (gills. giggling. He slaps hisaeU on

his fat knees and wriggles. Then he up and kisses mother with a big emack right on the lips. “Can’t guess?” says mother. "I’m the old man,” he giggles, "she’s the old woman.” Then he reached out his paw. “Hht her there, son!” says he; “what’s yer name, boy?” He’d a hand like a- bear trap “Smith!” I squealed. "Smith!" "Fast,” says he. "Fill yourself a goblet of that ’ere sherry wine, with Home sugar. Drink, you cub, to Captain and Mrs. Smith. Now off with ye, and pass the bottle forrard.” Next day, or next week, or maybe the Monday following, the ship's got a headache, with the sky sitting down on the mastheads, the sea like oil, the sheets slapping the shadows on the deck, where the tar boils, and our feet is like overdone toast. f

The sky’s like copper edged with sheet lightning, then there’s scud in a hurry overhead, the horizon folding in, and a funnel-shaped cloud to the southard wrapping up the sky. There’s no air, and I noticed the binnacle alight, so it must have been nigh dark under that fuimel cloud. Just as it Btrpck, some one called out “All aboard!” and I heard the mate yell, “You mean, all overboard!" Couldn’t see much at first, as 1 was busy getting mother out of the drowned cabin. When I’d passed a halyard round her and the stump of the mizzen, I’d just breathing time. The eea was flattened, white under black sky, and what was left of us was mostly blowing about. Dad was just taking command again of what remained. No use shouting either, so he hung on and beckoned. The masts overside were battering holes in us, until we cut adrift. Then to the pumps, but that was sort of ex officio just to keep us warm. WorkIn’s warmer than waiting. Being timber-laden we couldn’t sink, which was convenient. But, as mother said, there wasn’t any grub on the roof, and we couldn’t go down-stairs. For Instance, we wanted a drink of water.

Well, now, we been three days refreshing our parched mouths with beer stories, when a fishing vessel comes along smelling salvage. Happens he’s one of them felucca-rigged dago swine out of Invicta, Texas. His charges was quite moderate, too, for a breaker of water and some fancy grub—until We seen the bill. I never knew till then that our old man was owner. Of course that’s all fight, only b6’d run astern with his Insurance. That’s why he’d stay with the ship, so it’s no good talking. As to mother, she come aboard the felucey, ship’s cat in her arms, and a sort of cold, dumb, golng-to-be-good-and-lt's-killln’-me sort of smile. She bore up brave until she struck the number-one smell in the dago’s cabin. "It’s too much,” she says, handing me the cat, “too much. I’m going back to drown clean.”

But I was to stay with eur sailors aboard the dago, to fetch Invicta quick, and bring a tug. Dad trusted me, even to play the coward and quit him. I dread to think back on the passage of four days to the port of Invicta. Now In them days I was fifteen, and considered homely. The mouth I got would be large for a -dog, smile —six and three-quarters. Thar ashore at Invicta, I’d still look sort of cheerful, so all them tug skippers tooknjte for a joke. It was four days’ and three nights since I’d slept, so I suppose I’d look funny wanting to hire a tug. I showed, power of attorney, wrote In indelible pencil on dad’s old dicky cravat, but the tugs expected cash, and the agents went back on me. Nothin* doing Saturday nights at the office, tug crews all ashore, but the port will get a move on Monday. Trust grown men to know moren a mere boy. The glass is down the gulls is flying Inland, thar’s weather brewing. I seen tn my mind the sprays lash over the wreck.

It was dark when I went to the wharves with Captain McGaw to see the Plurlbus Unum. He’d show me a tug cheap at ten thousand cash—stores all complete, steam up, engineer on the premises, though he’d stepped ashore for a drink. Cute cabin he’d got on the bridge, cunning little gloryhole forrard. Why, everything was real handy, so that I only had to bat him behind the ear with a belayingpin, and he dropped right down the fore hatch. All I wanted now was a navigating officer I could trust. Which brings me to Mr. McMlUan, our own second mate, buying a dozen fried oysters in a card box with a wire handle, all for twenty-five cents, though the girl seemed expecting a kiss. “Hello, Frankie,” says I, slapping him on the back. A foremast hand can make his officer act real dignified with less. "Say, Mac! D'ye know what Greed done?” .1 grabbed bis oysters. "Greed, he choke puppy.” says I, and in my mind I seen the gulls wheel around the wreck, where something's lying huddled. "Come on. puppy!" says I, waving Frankie down the street with them oysters, so all the traffic pauses to admire, and our second officer is running good. More

things I said, escorting him mayne a mile aboard of the Pluribus (Jnum. And there I ate them oysters while he was being coarse and rude, but all the time I seen the wreck heave sick and sodden on the swell of the gulf, the circling gulls, and how they drove down, pecking at a huddle of torn clothes beside the wheel. Up thar on the tug’s masthead I was owning to being in the wrong, while Frankie Mac was promising faithful to tear my hide off over my ears when I’m caught. “Please, sir,” says I, "it ain’t so much the oysters worries me. It’s this yer Cap’n McGaw I done embezzled. Cayn’t call it kidnaped ’cause he’s over sixty, but I stunned him Illegal with a belaying-pin, and 1 hears him groaning—times when you stops to pant.” Frankie Mac wouldn’t believe one word until he went down in the fore peak to inquire, while I applied the hatch, and battened down. So you see I’d got a tug, and the crew aboard, so the next thing was to take in the hawsers, shove off, and let her drift on the ebb. It’s a caution to see how many Ups and things besets an engine-room, all of ’em heaps efficient The first thing I handled proved up plenty steam, for jny left arm was pink and blisters for a week. Next I found a tap called bllgervalve Injection, which lets in the

sea when you wants to sink the ship. 1 turned him full, and went to sit on the fore hatch while I sucked my arm, and had a chat with the crew.

They was talkative, and battering at the hatch with an ax, so I’d hardly a word in edgeways. Then they got scared we’d blow up before we drowned. Alius In my mind I’d see them gulls squawkin’ around the wreck, and mother fighting them. That heaped thing by the wheel was dad, for I seen the whites of his eyes as the ship lurched him. An* the gulls— Cap’n McGaw was pleadin’ with me, then Mr. McMillan. They swore they’d take me to the wreck for nothin’, they’d give their Bible oath, they’d sign agreements. McGaw had a wife and family ashore. McMillan was in love.

I turned off the bilge-val ve injection, opened the fore hatch, and set them two to work. They was quite tame, and that night I slept—only to wake up screechin* at the things I seen In dreams. Seven days we searched for the wreck before we gave up and quit, at least the captains did. Then night came down black overhead, with the swell all phosphorescent I alius think of mother in a light sea under a black sky, like It was that night, when our tug run into the wreck by accident I jumped first on board. The poor hulk lay flush with the swell, lifting and falling just enough to roll the thin green water, all bright epecks, across and across the deck. Mother -was. there, her bare arm reaching out, her left hand lifting her skirt her face looking up, dreaming as she turned.

and turned, and swayed, in dance. It’s what they calls a waltz, and seems, as I stood watching. I’d almost see the music swaying her as she wove circles, water of stars pouring over her bare feet. Seems though the music stopped, and she came straight to me. Speaks like a 111* small girl. "Oh, mummy,” she says, "look,” and draws her hands apart so, just as if she was showing a long ribbon, “watered silk,” she mutters, “only nine cents a yard. Oh, mayn't I, mayn't I, mummy?” And there was dad, with all that water of stars, washing across qnd across him.

CHAPTER 111. Youth. A dog sets down In his skin, tail handy for wagging—all bls possessions right thar. Same with me, setting on the beach, with a cap, jersey, overalls, sea boots, paper bag of peanuts, beached wreck of the old Pawnticket in front, and them two graves astern. Got more’n

a dog has to think about, more to remember, nothin’ to Two days I been there, and the peanuts is getting few. Little gray mother, dau. the Happy Ship, just dead, that’s all. dead. I didn’t hear the two horses come, but there’s a young person behind me sort of attracting attention. When he moves there’s a tinkle of iron, creaking leather, horsy smell, too, and presently he sets down along of me. crosslegged. I shoved him the peanuts, but he lit a cigarette, offering me qne. Though he wasn’t, he just felt same as a seafaring man, so I didn’t mind him being there.

He wanted to look at my sheath knife, and when I handed it he seen the lettering “Green River" on the Blade. He’d been along Green River and there’s no knives like that. Then I’d got to know about them iron things on his heels—spurs. We threw peanuts, my knife agin his spurs, and he won qasy. Queer how all the time he’s wanting to show himself off. never seen salt water before. So we went in swimming, and afterward there’s a lunch he’d got with him—quart of pickled onions, and cigarettes. This stranger begins to throw me horse Ulk and cow stories. It seems cow-punchers is sort of sailors of the plains, only it’s different Seafaring men gets wet and cold, and wrecked, but cow-boys had adventures instead, excitement, red streaks of life. Following the sea, I been missing life. Why, this guy ain’t no more’n two years older’n me—say, seventeen, but he’s had five years ridin’ for one man, four years for another, six years in Arizona, then three in Oregon, until he’s added up about half a century. Says his name’s Bull Durham. Well, his talk made me small and mean as a starved cat, but that was nothing to the emotions at the ether end of me when he got me on one of them horses. I wanted to walk. Walk! The most shameful things he knew was walking and telling lies. If I walked he’d have nothing more to do with me. I rode till we got to the ferry. You know in books how there’s a line of stars acrost the page to show the author’s grief. I got ’em bad by the time we rode into Invicta City. Draw the line right thar:

We’re having supper at the Palladium, and I’m pretty nigh scared. There’s a menu to say what’s coming, in French so you don’t know what you're eating, and durned if I can find out whether to tackle an a la mode with fingers or a spoon. Bull eays it’s only French for puckeroo, a sort of four-legged burrowing bird which inhabits silver mines, but if I don’t like that, the lady will fetch me a foe par Well, I orders one, and by the lady’s face I see I done wrong, even before she complains to the manager. I’m surely miserable to think I’ve insulted a lady.

The manager’s suspicious of me. but Bull talks French so rapid that even froggy can’t keep up, although he smiles and shrugs, and gives us sangfraws tp drink. This sort of cocktail I had, was the first liquor I’d tasted. It’s powerful as a harbor tug, dropping me out of the conversation, while the restaurant turns slowly round with a list to starboard, and Bull deals for a basket in the front window full of decorated eggs. Says they’re vintage eggs, all verd-antique and bookay. For years the millionaires of Invicta has shrunk from the expense. My job when we leaves Is to carry the basket, ’cause Bull’s toting a second-handed saddle. I dunnoj why Bull has to Introduce me to ths gentleman who keeps the peanut store down street —seeing I’d dealt there before. Anyway, I’m intro-

dueed to Affable Jones, and Tii the Markis of Worms —the same being a nom de plume. We proceeds to tne opery-house. climbs in through a little hind window, and finds a dressingroom. Affable Jones dresses up as a monk. Bull Durham claims he's rigged out already as a vice-bishop, and I’m to be a chicken, ’cause I’m ‘ dealing vintage eggs in the cotillon. All the same, I’y» left there alone'for hours, and it’s only when they comqs back with a cocktail that I'll consent to dressing up as a chicken —whicn in passing out through that HF window is some crowded. We proceeds up street, me toting eggs, and practicing chickentalk, and it seems the general public is surprised. So we comes to the Masonic Hall, which is all lights, and band, and fashionable persons rigged out in fancy dress, dancing the horse doover. I got the name from Bull, who says that the next turn is my day boo m the omlet cotillion. Seems it’s all arranged, too Affable Jones lines up the ladies on the left, the dudes on the right, all the length of the halt Bull marches up .the middle, spurs trailin' behind him, and there's me dressed as a chicken, with a basket of eggs, wondering whether this here cow-boy is two persons I eee, or only the one I can hear. Band’s playing soft, Affable serves out “tin spoons to the dudes, and 1 deals each a decorated egg, layihg it careful in the bowl of the spoon, till there's only a few left over, and I’m safe along with Bull, So far everybody seems pleased. Bull whispers in my ear. "Make for the back door, you son of a eea cook,” which offends me, being true; waves an egg at the band for silence, and calls out, “Ladies and gents.” From the back door I seen how all the dudes has to stand dead still for fear of dropping an egg. "Ladies," says Bull, “has any of you seen a live mouse? On the way up among you, seems I’ve dropped my mouse, and it’s climbing skirts for solitude.” -

Then there’s shrieks, screams, ladies throwing themselves into the arms of them dudes, eggs dropping squash, eggs going bang, Bull throwing eggs at every man not otherwise engaged, and such a stink that all the lights goes out. I’m grabbed by the scruff of the chicken, run out through the back door, and slung on the* back of a horse. Bull’s yelling “Ride! Ride! Git a move on!” He’s flogging the horse with his quirt, he’s yelling at me: “Ride, or we’ll be lynched!" My mouth’s full of feathers, chicken’s coming all to pieces—can’t r’de—daresn’t fall off. So on the whole I dug the chicken's spurs into Mr. Horse, and rode like a hurricane in a panic. All of which reminds me that the hinder parts of an Imitation bird is comforting whar she bumps. Still, draw them stars across.

I’m feeling better with twenty miles between me and Invicta City. The sun transpires over the eastern skyline, the horses is taking a roll, I’m seated on the remnants of the chicken, and Bull Durham says I’m his adopted orphan. Looking back it seems to me that the first night’s proceedings was calm. Thar was the fat German fire brigade pursuing an annual banquet across lots by moonlight, all on our way north, too, till the wagon capsized in a river.

Thar was the funeral obsequies of a pig, late deceased, with municipal honors, until we got found out. Then we was an apparition of angels at a revival camp, only Bull’s wings caught fire, and spoiled ths whole allusion.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

When He Moves, There’s a Tinkle of Iron.

Boosted Him Into the Blue Harbor.