The Cruise of the Dry Dock

T >> T. S. Stribling >> The Cruise of the Dry Dock

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Caradoc stared toward the coast, frowning, with the old familiar look of
pain coming into his eyes. His hearer and his extemporaneous lecture
plainly slipped out of his mind.

"You've been along here before," suggested Madden with a hope of
diverting Smith's mind.

"Oh, yes," replied the Englishman gloomily.

"Sailor, perhaps?"

"Yes."

"Not another dry dock, I trust," laughed Madden, turning to work.

"No."

"Windjammer?"

"Yes."

Leonard nodded at his painting. "Fishing smack, I'll bet."

The cross-questioning was interrupted by a raucous voice overhead, and
both boys looked up to see the mate's thick torso hanging over the rail.
He was shaking his fist at the tall Englishman.

"W'ot you think we brought you along for?" he bawled savagely. "To give
lectures? If you don't paint and quit blowin', you win' bag, I'll ship
you at Penzance!"

Caradoc's face went white, leaving threadlike purple veins showing on
nose and cheeks. "I'm willing to do my duty," he said with a quiver in
his tone. He glanced at his empty paint bucket. "If I'm to work, bring
me paint--I'm out!"

Caradoc seemed to be able to make the mate madder and do it quicker than
anyone else.

"Paint! Bring you paint!" roared Malone, apoplectic. "Git out an' git
your paint, or I'll put a longer, uglier head than that on your
shoulders."

Caradoc gave a shrug, stooped for the bucket, then began composedly
climbing the ladder straight at the sputtering officer.

"Be careful there, Smith," warned Madden in an undertone; "he'd as soon
as not slug you without giving you a dog's chance."

Caradoc said nothing but continued his climbing. The men on the platform
fore and aft ceased work, watching the mate and the climbing man
intently. The silence following the usual drone of conversation was
noticeable.

Caradoc was just reaching up to climb into Malone, when at that moment
something happened that drew and held everybody's attention.

The whole face of the sea around the dock broke into a sort of
sputtering. The ocean seemed to boil. To his astonishment, Madden saw
the commotion was caused by millions of small fishes leaping and running
along the surface.

Cries came from all over the dock at once: "Pilchards! Pilchards are
shoaling! Pilchards are shoaling!"

The few gulls in the sky now seemed to multiply and settled in a
fluttering cloud to strike such easily captured food. Among the press of
little fish leaped cod, hake, dog fish, all feasting on the annual
migration of the pilchards. The crew on the dock scrambled up and over
the sides, flung down boxes, buckets, anything and scooped the fish from
the sea.

The diversion saved the Englishman from any bellicose intention of the
mate, who hurried off to take a hand in the sport. Madden sat on his
platform watching the fun, for it was a remarkable sight. Caradoc swung
around on the ladder facing Leonard.

"There, Madden," he cried, "is a sight characteristic of no other sea.
Every season Cornish fisheries capture millions of these fish. They
pickle 'em, can 'em. They even sell them to you Yankees for sardines.
You are fortunate to have seen this phenomenon."

Leonard studied the novel sight. Hundreds of fishing smacks converged on
the area where the pilchards were breaking, their red sails glowing
warmly against the green of the land and the blue of the sea. Gulls
whirled about the tall dock, filling the air with thin creakings. Madden
admired the sudden picturesque activity. Some of the smacks were so
close now that he could see their long trawls stringing out behind, and
little figures running about their decks, winding in nets, bringing in a
flood of silver fishes.

The metallic noise of the gulls grew so loud as to blanket all else. In
the midst of this fluttering and shrieking, Leonard heard the shouting
of human voices. He paid little attention. Then some of the men on top
of the dock's side began yelling. At that moment, Caradoc shouted down
Madden's name. Madden looked up. On the instant the swinging platform
under him tipped violently.

Next moment, Madden saw right beneath him a smack. The vessel was
floating by, and the peak of its boom scraped the high iron wall of the
dock. This boom had struck his platform.

Madden clutched impotently at the blank iron wall, then flung an arm for
one of the supporting ropes and missed.

"Jump to me!" yelled Smith. The Englishman was still on the rope ladder,
but had climbed down rapidly when he saw his mate in distress. The boom
was tilting the platform straight up and down. The deck of the smack
below promised to mash the American into a pulp. The fishermen were
shouting. Leonard made a falling leap toward Caradoc's extended hand. He
caught it in both his own. The Englishman's other hand gripped the rope
rung. Unfortunately Madden's body flung out with a twisting motion, and
he could feel Smith's arm grow tense in an effort to keep from being
wrenched.

Madden was scrambling with his legs for a foothold on the ladder when
the boom dragged past the platform and the whole thing swung back on the
distressed boys. A flying end caught Madden in the side. The blow
sickened him. He clung desperately to Caradoc's hand, his grip
weakening, his senses swimming with the feeling of an awful void beneath
him. The strength in his fingers gave way, and he felt a chill sensation
before the coming downward plunge. But even in his twisted, straining
position, the Englishman's long fingers did not loose Madden's wrist. A
moment later, Leonard had lost consciousness completely, swung in
midair, limp as a bag.

The American had a dim impression of being drawn to the top of the side
wall, and the crew clustering about him. Someone splashed water in his
face and the world cleared up before his eyes. The young fellow called
Greer was whisking on the water, but when Madden opened his eyes, he set
the bucket down and returned silently to his work.

"There, ye're bether now," grinned Hogan stooping over the wounded man.
"That platform caught yez a little love lick in the slats--break any of
'em?"

Leonard reached across and felt his side. "How came the smack there?" he
inquired weakly. "Why didn't I see it?"

"Ye was lookin' astern, an' th' vissil barely turned the bow of th' dock
an' her boom kissed us all th' way down. I yilled at ye, so did
Dashalong an' th' silent man. Thin I got so interested in l'arnin' he
could say a worrd, I quit lookin' at you complately."

"I couldn't hear for the gulls--I'll be all right in a minute."

Leonard looked around and saw Caradoc massaging his twisted arm. He had
an impulse to thank the Briton, but he changed it to, "I hope your arm
isn't badly wrenched, Smith."

"Quite all right," assured the tall fellow cheerfully.

The men began to scatter to work again.

That day at lunch the ship's fare was garnished with an abundance of
delicious pilchards. The whole crew wore a holiday air. During the
afternoon the men sang at their work and labored so merrily and so well
that a broad wash of paint was added to the outside wall.

Leonard, whose side was sore enough from the thump, did not work. Even
the mate suggested that he take a leave of absence, and stay in his bunk
if he would.

The boy went at once to his cabin and began hunting in his suit case for
a little medicine chest which he always carried. He wanted arnica for
his bruised side. To his surprise he could not find it. He gave his bag
a thorough search, tumbling garments, trinkets, souvenirs, curiosities,
helter skelter over his bunk, but failed to find his case.

The loss of the medical carry-all distressed Madden. It had proved
useful in the past. However, he hunted up the mate and begged a
liniment, which must have had a wonderful virtue if a powerful odor was
any indication.

Leonard rubbed the stuff on his side and turned into his bunk. His side
grew so sore he wondered whether or not his ribs really were broken
after all. In his dark den he could still hear the gulls wailing,
although the tug had passed the major portion of the shoaling pilchards.
There also came to him the constant creaking of the dock, the slow dull
recurrence of the ground swell against her bow. The boy's mind centered
fretfully on his lost medicine chest. No doubt it was stolen, and he
began wondering which of the crew had taken it. His suspicion played
idly over the crew, and then settled on the youth called Greer. His
reason for this was that Greer said very little. Madden thought this
must be the sign of a guilty conscience.

He did not brood long, however, as the monotonous sounds exerted a
hypnotic effect on his senses. Once or twice as he was almost falling
asleep, he felt himself clinging desperately to Caradoc's hand, his grip
weakening, the fearsome void gaping under him, then he would awake with
a start that sent a knife of pain through his bruised ribs. After that
he would be forced to feel once more to test his costal region for
broken bones. Finally the vision failed to paint itself, or did not
rouse him, and he slept.

After an indeterminate interval, he was awakened by someone entering the
room. It was fairly dark now and by lifting a head over the side of his
berth, he saw the outline of the Frenchman standing by the door. Madden
thought of the stolen medicine chest and remained silent.

The Gaul was about to withdraw when Madden called out.

"What is it, Deschaillon?"

"I just came by to say your frien' ees in trouble. Zay play cards in zee
salon. Smeeth he win _beaucoup_. Zay quarrel, perhaps zay fight. He
ees your frien', and--"

Leonard smiled when he heard the mess hall dignified into a salon; but
at the latter end of the sentence he sat up suddenly in his bunk and
began pulling on his jacket despite the twinges in his side.

"Eh, how's that--fight?"

At that instant Hogan lolled against the jamb and announced his entrance
with a laugh.

"What's this Deschaillon's telling me, Mike--the men fighting over
cards?"

"Sure now I heard him and told him not to be wakin' a sick man up for
sich trifles. They was a few raymarks ixchanged, but nawthin' ser'us."
He turned reproachfully on the Gaul. "Nixt time be advised by me and
don't be wakin' a sick man for nawthin'."

The two walked away and Leonard leaned back in his bunk, quite sleepless
now. He stared into the blackness, his mind a moving picture show of the
last three days. The Englishman was chief actor on this stage, and his
disagreeably mixed character puzzled and disturbed the American.
Caradoc's language and manners showed him to be a man of breeding, but
he was full of contradictory habits. His uncosmopolitan moodiness, his
vulgar quarreling over cards, were typical instances.

Leonard almost regretted that he had formed an uncomfortable intimacy
with the fellow, but he could not very well break it off now since Smith
had saved him from a fall that might easily have proved fatal.

Just then the Englishman entered the cabin silently. He lighted the
bracket lamp quietly and looked about to satisfy himself that his mate
was asleep. Later Madden heard him open his big kit bag and take
something out. A moment after, the odor of alcohol scented the little
cabin.

Leonard lifted his head and saw the fellow under the lamp, just lifting
the silver cap to his lips. A disagreeable smile moulded the long face,
wrinkled the nostrils and slid away under the choppy blond mustache. The
strong light from the overhead lamp brought out an almost sinister
countenance.

The thought that such a man had probably saved his life filled Madden
with a kind of repulsion. He turned in his bunk with a little disgusted
grunt.

Caradoc dropped the little cap and came to the bunk.

"Side hurt, old man?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes--no--nothing the matter."

"Oh, maybe you don't like this odor--forgot you didn't drink." He
stepped quickly to the kit bag, replaced the bottle and cap inside and
closed it. Like many alcohol users he labored under the delusion that
alcohol was not offensive on his _breath_.

"Nervous shock you received seemed to upset you more than the punch," he
diagnosed in a concerned voice. "You Americans are a high-strung
nation." He paused a moment philosophically. "I daresay you're right
about not drinking spirits. With your nervous organism, it would set you
on fire. But our foggy English climate and stodgy people call for it.
Sets our pulses going. A thought just here--Climate and Alcoholism. Not
a bad subject for a scientific investigation, is it?"

Madden grunted.

"I'll blow out the light unless you'll have me rub some more of that
villainous stuff on your ribs?"

The patient declined this.

"Need water or medicine during the night throw your boots at me--I'm
hard to wake,"

Then he puffed out the light.

[Illustration: Out There Lay Adventure, Mystery--More Than Either
Dreamed.]

CHAPTER III

THE LAST OF THE _VULCAN_

A temporary rudder had been installed on the unwieldy dry dock, and each
twenty-four hours Mate Malone detailed seven men to stand watch, which
gave the regulation dog watch, although there was no need of it with a
double complement of men. Thanks to his bruised ribs, the American had
thus far escaped duty at the wheel. About a week after the pilchard
incident, he reported ready for this service, when a twist of
circumstance rendered it unnecessary.

A long stretch of fair weather had been enjoyed by the dock painters on
a steadily dropping barometer. On this particular day a cold puffy wind
developed out of the northeast, bringing with it a rack of clouds and
spreading a choppy sea below.

From where Madden painted on the corner of the dock, he had a good view
of these chasing waves that rose a moment in the gray seascape, nodded a
white cap, then dropped back into the waste of water.

"Wonder if a storm would affect this old box much?" he queried of
Caradoc.

"Probably have a chance to see," opined Smith, looking out with a
speculative eye. "By the by, what's that?"

Caradoc pointed toward the _Vulcan_, which already exhibited the
motion of the rollers.

Madden looked. A sailor stood on the tug's round stern waving two flags
toward the dock.

The American arose from his work, funneled his hands before his lips and
called to the man, but the spitting wind whisked away his words, and the
sailor went on with his flag.

Madden regarded it attentively a few moments. "He's wig-wagging--wants
to speak to the mate. I'll go for him." He trotted aft.

Leonard found the officer in his cabin and told his mission. The mate
arose at once and came out with the lad. "Don't know w'ot 'e wants, do
you?" he inquired.

"I only spelled his message till I found he wanted you."

"Huh--understand flag signals, do ye?" grunted Malone, shifting his
inflamed eyes to Madden's face.

"Learned it in my engineering course," explained the lad.

The two passed on to the bow, when the sailor on the tug starting waving
once more. Mate Malone watched the man until he had finished spelling
out the message, then he turned to Leonard and asked:

"Know w'ot 'e said?"

"Parker's sick and they need you," translated the American.

"Good," grinned the mate with more fellowship than he had ever shown
before. "Now, lookee here, young chap. They're going to send a cutter
for me to come and take Parker's place. You strike me as a decent sort,
so I'll leave you in my berth till I get back. You won't have nothin' to
do hexcept tell off th' watches an' keep th' boys paintin'. Softer'n
your fo'cs'l job, though you won't git no hextra pay--wot about it?"

"That goes with me," agreed Madden readily.

"All right, you signal me about anything you don't understand. Make the
men step, lively, same as if you was me."

By this time the tug had slowed down a trifle and a boat put out from
her. While it came bobbing over the water, Malone bawled his men
together and briefly explained his transfer of authority.

"Be back jest as soon as Parker's all right," he said as he climbed from
dock to dancing boat below. "And, by the way, Mr. Madden, you will bunk
in my cabin."

That "Mister Madden" from the mate was the great seal of authority. The
men looked at him with new eyes.

Somehow, Malone's confidence pleased Madden. That uncouth, bullet-headed
officer had not spent his whole life on the high seas, belaboring all
classes of men into serviceableness, without being able to judge the
genus homo pretty shrewdly.

The navvies accepted the new officer in stolid submission, but Hogan
clapped his hands. "Hey, a spache fr-rom th' new boss!" he grinned.

Leonard laughed. "My speech is to get back to work, and I'll do the
same," said the boy, returning to his bucket.

This appealed to the cockneys, who gave a dull English cheer, and then
everybody settled back to their tasks once more.

"What's the use in your painting, Madden?" asked Caradoc, "You don't
have to."

Leonard was amused, "They tell me a chap whose work is no bigger than
his contract, never gets a contract for bigger work."

"What's that?" frowned Smith. "That sounds like Yankee smartness to
me--seems to make a great deal more sense than it really does."

"Anyway, I don't want to rat on you fellows, just because Malone left me
in charge for a day or so."

Caradoc made no answer, but stared after the rowboat which was just
rounding into the tug. "If I'd played up to that officer a bit," he
smiled dourly, "I could have had the mate's berth, Madden."

The American glanced up. The Englishman's smile recalled the look
Leonard had seen under the bracket lamp.

"Well, there's very little in it for anyone, I'm thinking."

"Certainly, certainly," Smith shrugged a broad shoulder and the subject
was dismissed.

The blustery weather increased steadily, and by lunch time the wind was
blowing half a gale. Regiments of waves marched against the dock and
snapped spray high up the red sides. Their constant blows rang through
the big iron structure. A feeling of security came to Madden as he saw
the gray-green waves break white, and yet not shake the huge barge
sufficiently to tip the paint from the men's buckets. Certainly the dock
was monstrous.

The sea grew rougher as evening wore on and finally the boy went to the
mate's cabin to pick out his men for the night's work. After his own
cramped quarters, Malone's room proved delightful. Three glass ports
admitted light. A table in the center of the room spread over with a
Mercator's projection showed that Malone dutifully pricked the
_Vulcan's_ course on the chart, although it was not required of
him. A sextant and quadrant told the American that the stolid Briton
worked out his own reckonings. The sight of these things filled the boy
with a respect for the uncouth fellow. He understood how doggedly Malone
must have labored to acquire mastery over the instruments of navigation.
Beyond this there were a number of flaring chromos on the walls, a
decanter of wine and glasses in a chest. He found what he was looking for
in the desk drawer, a roll of men checked off for watches. The coming
night was arranged for, but for morning, the names of Heck Mulcher, Ben
Galton and Caradoc Smith stood in order. Madden was just marking these
men when there was a tap at the door.

Upon call, Gaskin, the cook, entered, bearing a big tray of dishes, "Yer
dinner, sir," he said, very respectfully.

Madden had not anticipated having the mate's meals served to him, and
for a moment he came near asking the cook if he had not made a mistake;
but the steaming tray and the pleasant odors kept the question unspoken.
Only with this diet before him did he realize that he had been fairly
starving on the poor ship's rations.

When Gaskin placed the soup on the table, Madden became aware that the
dock was rolling rather heavily, for the liquid spilled over the side of
the plate, while dishes and tureens went coasting up and down the
boards.

"Getting rough outside," remarked the lad to the servant, who was
lighting a lamp.

"A bit 'eavier, sir," replied Gaskin self effacingly.

Madden held the soup plate in his hand for steadiness, and sipped the
hot, satisfying liquid while the great dock rose and fell. The fact that
he was really in command of the vast iron fabric put the American in a
serious humor. He ate dinner slowly, listening to the heavy clang of the
waves against the iron hull, and to the wind whining and sobbing over
the great metal sides.

When he had finished his meal, the youth arose with the intention of
going to the sailors' mess house to see about the watches. He had no
sooner stuck his head out of the door, however, than a whisk of spray
leaped at him out of the darkness and drove him inside. He was preparing
to venture out again, when Gaskin opened a locker and brought out an
oilskin.

"Hit'll 'elp you keep dry, sir," holding up the garment.

Swathed in its folds, Madden made a new start and walked out on the
heaving, shifting pontoon.

Outside a renewed noise smote his ears. The air was full of flying spume
that whipped in through the stern of the dock. Malone had planked up
this open gateway to a height of thirty feet, which made it forty-two
feet above the salt water line, but the spray already leaped this
barrier and pelted throughout the dark heavy iron canyon.

The dock was made in three huge sections, in order that it might be
self-docking when fouled. Now in the darkness, the groaning of these
joints smote the blustering gale in a sort of vast distress. The many
iron stanchions for the shoring of vessels began thrumming a devil's
tattoo against the high iron walls, like a myriad giant fingers.

In the corners of the bow pontoon, Madden could see the signal lights
heaving and dropping with the motion of the vast fabric. Now and then he
caught a glimmer of the tug's light, and its erratic motions told how
the staunch little vessel fared.

There was a faint radiance around the shut door of the mess hall, and
Madden walked toward it rather unsteadily, with the spumy brine dashing
into his face.

A signal lantern was attached to one of the shoring stanchions near the
mess hall, and as Madden moved into its dull glow, another bundled form
entered from the other side. The figure stopped and saluted.

"If you please, sor," he bawled in Madden's ear, "th' nixt watch is
sick."

"Sick! The whole watch sick? What do you mean, Mike?"

The Irishman grinned in the dim light, "Yis, sor, they're in their bunks
wishin' to die. They've niver been in a blow before. It's say-sick they
ar-re."

Both men were holding to the stanchion.

"Seasick!" ejaculated Madden. "How about Heck Mulcher and Ben Galton?"
he recalled the names on the list.

"The whole sit of navvies, sor, ar-re down on their backs, not carin' at
all, at all, whether we float, sink, swim, or go to Davy Jones' locker."

"Well, Caradoc's next--come with me."

They took hold of each other and went sliding and slipping along the
iron deck, now skating down hill, now climbing a sharp tilt, shoulders
hunched against the gusty spume, until they reached Smith's little cabin
past the mess hall. Here they paused and rapped on the door. As this
could not have been heard inside for the wind and the waves and the
groaning of the dock, they pushed open the shutter.

Madden no sooner entered than his nostrils caught a pervading odor of
alcohol. The Englishman's long figure lounged fully dressed on a bunk; a
demijohn was jammed behind his kit bag to keep it from rolling.

"Smith!" called Madden, "I'll have to ask you to stand watch to-night;
nearly all the navvies are sick."

Caradoc lifted his head from the bunk and blinked at the two men in the
door. "What?" he asked vacantly.

"You're to stand watch to-night," Madden raised his voice.

"Stand watch!" cried the Englishman, sitting up, his face flushing
darkly under the bracket lamp. "You _have_ turned master, haven't
you--bootlicker ordering me to stand watch!"

"It's your turn on the list!" commanded Madden brusquely, with
ill-concealed disgust that Smith should be maudlin just when needed.

"My turn--Bah! I'd have been mate myself if I had toadied and flattered
that upstart Malone as you did!" He laughed sarcastically. "Then I could
have had decent dinners, been wearing the mate's sou'wester, been--"

"Cut it out!" snapped Madden. "Will you do your duty or not?"

The dock gave a great lurch that flattened both men against the door,
juggled Caradoc in his berth and sent kit bag and demijohn sliding
toward the visitors.

"Not!" bawled Smith. "I, Caradoc Smith-Wentworth, can't think of going
to stand watch for a gang of siz-seasick navvies an' a t-toady American
Yankee--Not!" he reiterated and laughed in tipsy irony.

A flush of anger went over Madden. He reached down suddenly and caught
up the demijohn.

"You--you bet' not drink th-that, y-you little bossy Yankee; it-it'll
m-make _you_ d-drunk."

"You sot!" trembled Madden. "Whiskey will not be your excuse next time!"
He caught the Irishman's arm, "Come on!" And before Smith realized what
had happened, the two men and his liquor were out of the door and gone.

Madden slammed the shutter viciously, and the tilt of a wave helped give
it a loud bang. Then he gave the jug a wrathful swing and smashed it
against the nearest stanchion.

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