The Ruling Passion

T was back in the days of the old wooden navy, when only a few of the bigger ships, frigates, and sloops carried auxiliary steam power. My ship, a gun-deck sloop, did not. We depended altogether upon the wind, hence our passage out to Sydney was long and tiresome, bringing the inevitable consequence, desertions among the crew. When ready to sail for Shanghai, finding difficulties in the way of filling our complement, the captain negotiated with the local authorities, to the result that about twenty-four men, sailors all, in prison for various offenses, signed in the American Navy as an alternative to their serving out their sentences, and were delivered on board. After a few days of drill they found their places, and we went to sea.

They were a hard lot; and, though we knew that no liquor had come aboard with them, yet, in a few days, a couple, or three or four at a time, were found intoxicated and confined in the brig. Even there the drunkenness continued, and a strict watch was placed to prevent demoralizing fluids being passed in to them; but, before the original crowd had sobered up, their number had increased to twelve; and by this time we were well up toward the Loyalty group, where, across a fairly calm sea, we sighted a square-rigged merchantman, with braces adrift, yards swinging wildly, and rolling idly in the trough. As we came up, we noticed, through the glasses, that there was no sign of life aboard; even the wheel was deserted.

“We'll back the main yards and send a boat,” said the captain. “And Mr. Springer”—this to me—“you go along and investigate.”

I was fourth lieutenant, a young fellow eager for adventure, and I cheerfully followed the men into the boat at the gangway. We pulled toward the wallowing craft, and noticed that she had been freshly painted outside, and her standing rigging newly tarred, while her masts were scraped bright and recently varnished. Though palpably a middle-aged ship, she shone and sparkled in the sunlight as if fresh from the shipbuilders.

Pulling under the stern, we made out her name, East Wind, of Bangkok; and I surmised that she was one of those American-built and foreign-owned ships that ply up and down the China Sea.

At the mizzen chains, the bowman made fast; and I climbed on board, going aft by the alley to the space abaft the house. Here, prone upon his back, lay a man with his head crushed in. Dead and cold, I found by a touch of his hand. I called for half the crew to come up; and, when they had climbed the rail, we went down the steps to the main deck.

Here was horror intensified. The deck was dotted with dead men. One, just forward of the companion door, showed a face marred beyond human similitude, and beside him lay a pistol, its hammer down upon the nipple, and one chamber discharged. A few feet away lay another, with a bullet hole in his forehead, evidently caused by the bullet missing from the pistol. He was roughly dressed, with a sheath knife strapped to him, undoubtedly a sailor, while the other two were better clad, and seemed to be of the afterguard. And over toward the starboard rail lay another well-dressed man with a crushed skull, completing the trio of captain and two mates.

And there were others. The steward, as was evidenced by his white apron, lay close to the booby hatch, and his head also had been crushed; but these four were all that showed marks of violence. Scattered along the deck and in forecastle bunks we counted sixteen dead men, not one of whom showed a wound, or contusion, or mark of any kind to indicate what killed him. But, as they were all in a good state of preservation, the tragedy could not have occurred more than a few days before, and had occurred in the midst of work; for along the newly scraped pinrail were pots of varnish and paint, while the deck was littered with handspikes—used on the officers, no doubt—and nearly all the running gear was cast off the pins.

I descended into the cabin, finding it deserted, and overhauled the log book and the captain's papers. The last entry in the log had been made two days before; and in the “remarks column” was only reference to insolence to the mate by one man of the crew—nothing that bore upon the tragedy or its beginnings. The captain's papers showed that the ship was nineteen days out from Adelaide, bound for Hongkong.

Returning to the deck, I mustered my men into the boat and returned to the ship, where, surrounded by my fellow officers, I reported to the captain.

“Mutiny, no doubt,” he grunted; “and murder; but, as to what killed the rest, you'll have to figure out, Mr. Springer. Want to take that ship into port? Can't spare you many men.”

“I'll take her, sir,” I answered. “Give me the twelve men in the brig. I'll get along. Where shall I take her, sir?”

“Back to Sydney. Discharge the men at the consul's office, and follow us to Shanghai. You may get there before we do.”

So the twelve culprits, sober now, were mustered on deck and lined up. All were willing to go; all promised to work and obey orders as faithfully as though regularly signed; and all were glad to get out of the navy. So their bags were given them, and a list of their names given me. I tallied them off as they went down the gangway—Kenyon, Kellar, Macintosh, Wilson, O'Hara, Thompson, Devlin, Taylor, Mulligan, Brown, Miller, and Gall. The last was a giant of a man, worth retaining in the navy; but the exigencies demanded his release.

We were pulled to the derelict, and when aboard the boat put back; and I was left to my task. The first part of it was to get rid of the bodies, which we did with no service of prayer; for there was neither time nor sentiment for it. But big Gall and a few others uttered comments of recognition as they handled this old shipmate or that.

Then followed the clearing up of the decks. We tossed over the paint and varnish pots—for I did not feel called upon to polish up that ship for her owners—straightened the yards, and, under a mild, quartering breeze, squared away for Sydney on a course which I workced out from our own craft's position at noon.

I watched my men for a while as they toiled about the deck, washing off the blood and coiling up ropes, deciding at last that Gall was the most competent. I called him aft, questioned him, found that he knew something of navigation, and appointed him first mate.

Kenyon seemed next best, and I rated him second; while two cooks that I found among them, Kellar and Wilson, I relieved from standing watch. Kellar would cook for the crew, Wilson would care for the cabin and myself. As it was nearly dark now, the watches were chosen, four men to a side—a small force; but, as I only expected a few days' sail to Sydney, and as the weather was mild, I considered it enough.

But I had made one mistake. I should have retained those pots on board and kept the men at work.

All went well that first night, and the next day. There was no wind to speak of; and, beyond the morning washing down of the deck, no work was done, except the occasional bracing of yards, and once taking off the hatches so that I might inspect the cargo. I found nothing but hides—packed to the beams; nothing of a nature to emit poisonous gases and kill sixteen men. I was puzzled over the mystery, but could find no solution. It was futile to think that they had all committed suicide after murdering the officers; for, though one or two might feel remorseful enough, sixteen would not. Something in the nature of poison had killed them undoubtedly; but where, and how, aboard ship, could there be found enough poison for the job?

I overhauled the medicine chest, however, but got no light. Not a bottle nor package had been opened. I went through the steward's storeroom, and, besides the usual stores, found two cases of brandy, and two of whisky—unopened; but I found no stray bottles; and in our first inspection of the ship had found no empty ones. Overdrinking of brandy or whisky might kill, I knew; but not a whole crew, without leaving some sign behind. No, there had been no looting of stores for sixteen men to drink to death and toss overboard the bottles before dying.

I gave it up for the time, and for the rest of the day watched closely my men as they lounged around the forehatch and went in and out of the forecastle. They were the typical merchant-sailor kind of men; and, though dressed in the working ducks of the navy, they lacked the smartness of the man-of-war's man, but possessed what the navy sailor does not—the curious expression of face, no matter what the type, due to the struggle of strong intelligence against ignorance. Merchant sailors need not be able to read or write, but they must be intelligent, or they could not survive. In their natural environment at sea they are like boys; ashore, like children.

Gall and Kenyon occupied the two mates' rooms at the forward end of the cabin. I occupied the captain's quarters in the after end; and I turned in that evening to a good night's sleep, troubled only by the unsolved mystery of the sixteen deaths. In the morning, I was wakened by the sounds of the watch washing down the deck, and by the clamor of angry voices.

Going up, I found Kenyon enforcing his position as second mate against the insolent derision of the others, to which was added the profane comments of the man at the wheel.

This would not do, I thought; and, after I had silenced the outbreak, I called Gall, and directed him to search for, or contrive, four clean paint pots. These men must be kept at work, I explained, and he agreed with me. The scraped pinrail had been but partly varnished, and there were several stanchions and a few “holidays”—bare spots—up aloft that would keep the watch on deck busy until I contrived other work.

So Gall produced the paint pots, and broached a new ten-gallon can of varnish in the paint locker, from which he filled the pots, and after breakfast the four on deck went to work scowlingly.

When the varnishing was done, I had Gall get out holystones, and kept the watch up in the afternoon at this most unpleasant of seamanly work. Their scowls increased, but there was no complaining; and, until a sailor complains, there is no danger of revolt. “Growl you may, but work you must,” is the motto of the forecastle; and on this I depended.

They obeyed Kenyon's orders now without objection, and worked hard; it was what they were accustomed to, only Kenyon, one of themselves, had not been able to impress them. But next morning when I came on deck I found Gall leaning against the house with a puzzled, anxious, and doubtful expression of face, and two men stretched out on the main hatch.

“Dead,” said Gall, when I inquired.

“Dead!” I repeated. “What killed them?”

“Don't know, sir,” he answered. “I saw them tumble down about one bell, and when I called for buckets and brooms they didn't answer. I found 'em dead.”

As he spoke, I thought, though I could not be sure, that I smelled liquor on his breath; but I most certainly smelled it when I passed to leeward of the man at the wheel. He looked stupid, and only by the aid of the wheel box could he hold himself erect.

I stepped down to the main deck and stood over the silent figures on the hatch. They were still warm, but emanated no fumes of alcohol. Their eyes were closed, and their faces peaceful, showing nothing of the expression of men who have died in pain.

The other man of the watch stood near the windlass, looking as anxious and doubtful as had Gall, and I questioned him. He, too, as he said, knew nothing about it; and, though I sought diligently for a whiff of his breath, I found no odor of alcohol. Still, I was convinced that there was liquor in the forecastle, and that these two men had overdrunk.

“Mr. Gall,” I said, when I joined him, “after breakfast, clean out both forecastles, spread bedding, and overhaul dunnage. There is liquor forward.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” he answered respectfully; “but if there is, I didn't know it.”

“The man at the wheel is drunk now,” I exclaimed hotly.

“If he is, sir, he didn't seem so to me. I haven't noticed it.”

“You have been drinking yourself.”

“No, sir,” answered Gall, straightening up. “I haven't. Where could I get it, sir?”

“We'll know after breakfast.”

As the wind was still light, and the steering not beyond the limited powers of the helmsman, I did not have him relieved, but went to breakfast. I was up at eight bells, however, and, when he was relieved, watched him stagger forward. He tumbled down the poop steps; but picked himself up and went on until he had reached the forecastle door; and here, with a gurgling groan that reached me on the poop, he flung up his arms, turned around in his tracks, and fell headlong to the deck.

I ran forward and joined the group of men surrounding him. I put my hand on his lips, on his chest; there was no breathing, nor heart action. He was dead.

“Put him on the main hatch beside the others,” I commanded sternly, “and go to breakfast the watch.”

After Gall had eaten his breakfast, there was not a trace of liquor on his breath; and he aided me mightily in my inspection of every bag, blanket, and receptacle, as well as every bunk and shelf in the two forecastles. We found nothing; and I sternly questioned each man separately as to what he knew of the matter. None knew anything. They were as troubled apparently as myself, and I sent the watch below, angry and rebellious against myself, in that I could not solve this problem.

We buried the three men at noon; and for a few days, though we made little progress toward Sydney, all went well. Once, however, I heard Gall's angry voice forward of the forecastle declaiming to the men. I thought I heard the word “fools.”

The three men gone were Miller, O'Hara, and Thompson; and, in view of the limited number left, I sent Kenyon to the forecastle and stood his watch myself. It seemed to affect him beyond reason. He grumbled audibly, engaged in a fist fight with Devlin, and, being thrashed, voiced his opinion of me, of the ship and her crew, the navy, and all things in the heavens above and the earth beneath. Then he came aft at midnight to take the wheel, so drunk that he could hardly climb the poop steps. I watched him at the wheel a few moments, then called a man to relieve him.

Kenyon went forward in a staggering track, cursing furiously; but did not get past the main rigging. Here he reeled, and fell; and when I reached the spot he was dead.

We laid him out on the hatch, and ï inspected the steward's storeroom again, with the idea that Kenyon, while aft, had raided it; but nothing was missing; the cases had not been opened.

Arming myself—for I had in mind those four broken heads on the after-deck—I called Gall from his berth, and we made a casual inspection forward. I had an idea that there might be a secret passage into the hold from the forecastle; but there was none, and the forehatch was battened down tightly. It would be a noisy half hour's job to open and close it, so I was convinced that it had not been disturbed. Under the topgallant forecastle we found nothing suspicions. There was no hatchway, and no hiding places but the paint and “bos'n's” lockers. These contained no liquor.

I sent Gall below; and in the morning, after breakfast, we gave Kenyon sea burial. Then I addressed the men, standing gloomy and anxious-faced before me.

“Men,” I said, “you have seen four of your number go under from some deadly drink that you have found for ward. Whatever it is, it must be what caused the mutiny by the former crew, and killed every one of the mutineers. I do not know what it is, and possibly you do not, either; but I appeal to your common sense and your love of life to let it alone. We will be in port in a few days, where you will be discharged with money; and if you want to drink you can do so without dying from the effects. I can say no more.”

Then they declaimed, one and all—even my mate swearing vehemently with them that they had found no liquor, that they were as much in the dark as myself in regard to the deaths, and that even had they found any liquor they would not drink at sea. To which I replied that I smelled it on their breaths; but this they denied as vehemently. Utterly disgusted and discouraged, I dismissed them.

We were now so short-handed that I sent Wilson, my steward, forward to stand watch and work on deck; but there was no outbreak on his part, and the days went on quietly, with no more reeling and dying of poisoned men. Kellar, the cook, brought my meals to me; and I served out the stores myself, keeping him out of the storeroom, for I knew that men who would drink bad liquor would go farther to drink good.

Gall seemed to have assumed a position of armed neutrality. While he did his work faithfully, and in respect for me, and efficiency, was all that I could ask in a mate, yet I knew that he was in the secret—that he would not betray his friends, though he cautioned them continually. He was forward a good deal in his watch below; and I could hear his angry voice, but not what he said. So I could only hope that his influence would prevail; but when Macintosh came aft to the wheel one midnight, staggering a little, and emanating fumes of alcohol, I knew that it had not.

I said nothing to Macintosh, but watched him. Though drunk, he steered well, and I waited. Then, as the watch wore on, I noticed, when I called the other two—Brown and Mulligan—to the braces, that they, too, staggered in their movements.

We were now about abreast of Brisbane; and I would have squared away before the rising easterly breeze for this port had not the breeze shown such signs of continuance as to warrant me in going on to Sydney, only a couple of days' sail. So I held on; and at eight bells put all hands at the work of taking in royals and topgallant sails, for the breeze promised to become a gale. Brown and Mulligan had steadied somewhat under the influence of work and wind, while Macintosh, at the wheel, sobered more slowly, while steering a good trick; and, when the work was done, I sent them below, merely informing Gall that the drinking was resumed, and. that I depended upon him to stop it.

Whatever he did in that morning watch I do not know; but when I came up at seven bells, I found the ship heeling over to a whole gale of wind; Taylor, at the wheel, making bad work of it, and an uproarious crowd forward, among which was Gall, staggering about, shouting and quarreling. I saw Gall hit one man, and separate two others who had begun to fight; so, judging that he had them in hand, I turned my attention to Taylor. He reeked with the fumes, and could hardly stand up.

“Steady,” I commanded, as the ship yawed wildly up into the wind. “Up with your wheel, man.”

“Up it is,” he growled, in answer, withholding the “sir” which age-old custom has decreed a sailor must accord an officer.

“Mr. Gall,” I shouted. “If you've got a sober man forward, send him aft to the wheel.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” answered Gall; and he drove Devlin, who reeled but little, aft and up the steps, following a little unsteadily himself.

“What's this?” shouted Devlin, as he came aft by the alley. “I've shteered wan trick a'riddy this watch. Do I shteer 'em all?”

“Take the wheel,” I ordered, as he drew near.

“An' what if I say no?” he demanded, scowling truculently at me.

I was reduced to my lowest terms. I was not on board a man-of-war with a squad of marines at my back; but I knew the merchant mate's remedy for insubordination, and in a second had launched forth my fist, catching Devlin on the chin, and sending him staggering back into the arms of the mate, who had followed close.

He was not knocked out, though he lay quiet against the mate for a moment, blinking his eyes; then, with a long, deep breath, he stepped toward the wheel and took the spokes from Taylor. My blow seemed not only to have subdued, but sobered him; and I had a passing thought that the remedy, with the help of the mate, might work upon the rest. But in a moment the hope left me. The mate spoke, thickly and angrily, while his breath belched alcohol fumes into my face.

“Whatcha hit 'im fur?” he asked, steadying himself against the house. “That's no way to treat men. Leave 'em to me. I'll do the hittin', an' do it where it doesh mos' good. Hear me?”

A drunken sailor was one thing, a drunken mate another. I drew my revolver and leveled it at his face.

“Mr. Gall,” I said sternly, “you're drunk yourself, but may not know it. Take this man Taylor forward and drive the cook into the galley to get breakfast. Quickly, or I'll shoot you dead.”

He answered respectfully at once, and turned toward Taylor, who had reached the lee alley, and how clung to the rail, unable to proceed. As Gall touched him, he let go the rail, and, sagging backward, stretched out at full length, his features twitching convulsively, and his fingers closing and unclosing. He uttered no sound, and in a moment was still.

“Another!” said the mate, mentally, if hot physically, sobered by the sight. “Another! This won't do—won't do at all. Lay aft here two hands,” he roared to the men, “and carry this man for'ard.”

They all came—Wilson, Kellar, Mulligan, Brown, and Macintosh—more or less staggering and noisy. But the sight of Taylor quieted them down, and they lifted him off the poop to the now familiar laying-out spot—the main hatch. Then Gall, who had accompanied them, drove Kellar, the cook, into the galley, and the others to the forecastle. The four went in, and two came out; for, when Kellar announced breakfast, only Wilson and Mulligan answered; Brown and Macintosh remained in their bunks until carried out to lie beside Taylor on the hatch.

We buried them after breakfast, and I took stock. My crew was now reduced to Gall, the mate; Kellar, the cook, and Devlin, Wilson, and Mulligan, sailors. Mulligan had taken the wheel; and his breakfast had apparently sobered him, for he steered well.

The ship was spinning along on her side; and if all went well we would make Sydney by daylight next morning; but should things not go well—should the wind increase or should more men die, I could foresee nothing but disaster. We were under upper and lower topsails, two headsails, and reefed spanker; but any farther shortening down would be past the powers of the few men left; while furling sail—except for the spanker and jibs—was out of the question.

But another job requiring men and muscle was the getting ready the anchors. I went forward and examined them. The best anchor was to port, the lighter one to starboard; and both were swung inboard on the topgallant forecastle, and lashed together.

The ship carried a patent windlass—an innovation in those days—and on each topgallant rail a grooved casting, which I knew was intended to catch and hold the fluke of the anchor as it rested without the rail, ready for dropping.

With this contrivance one man could let go anchor. So, without allowing the dazed men more than their after-breakfast smoke, I had them up, mate, cook, and all, to haul, and heave, and pry those anchors over to the rails until they hung outside; the flukes in the chocks, and the heavy weights held from slipping by one turn of the shank painter—a small chain passed around the shank, and belayed to a cleat. They worked sullenly but quietly, perhaps because at the beginning I had reminded them that cold lead was quicker in its results than bad whisky.

“Now, then, you drunken dogs,” I said when the work was done. “Down on the main deck with you all, and get at that holystoning. You, too, Gall, I said. And you, too, Kellar. There'll be no drinking this day, for I'll have you under my eye, and there'll be no more cooking. You'll eat hard-tack and drink cold water.”

They grumbled and muttered, but obeyed me; and all day long, with an hour's intermission at noon, when they nibbled hard bread on deck while I watched them, they worked the holystones, with no respite except when, every two hours, one would relieve the wheel. I nibbled hard bread myself, and kept a lookout. There were many craft on the horizon, but none near enough to signal, else I might have been tempted to appeal for help. But to do so would have advertised my helplessness, and I was satisfied to keep my course.

When darkness closed down, I sent Kellar to the galley to cook supper, but kept them grinding away until it was cooked. Then they put away the stones and ate it. They were thoroughly tired out; and I hoped that their fatigue would induce sleep that would endure until morning; for I intended to remain awake all night myself, and ignore watch and watch, except that every two hours the wheel would be relieved. I cared little if canvas blew away, provided enough was left to keep steerage-way when we reached Sydney in the morning

A heavy sea was making, and we rode along, sinking bodily in the trough, and rising to the crests on a fairly even keel, except for the heavy list to starboard.

Gall had the wheel from eight to ten in the first watch, and he steered well, but was sullen in his answers to me. I did not take him up. In a few hours I hoped to be rid of them all; and any enforcement of sea etiquette in this exigency seemed to be a waste of effort. But I was forced to consider him when, at about three bells, oaths and shouts came from forward.

“In the name of Heaven, Gall,” I said, “what's this? Are they at it again?”

“You worked them too hard, sir,” he answered. “You'd take a drink yourself if you were as tired as we are.”

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I had overdone it, and induced a bodily fatigue that, more than anything else, will impel the average man to drink. But, in any case, the mischief was done. They were out on deck, yelling and cursing; and I dimly saw in the darkness that they were coming aft—Wilson, Kellar, Devlin, and Mulligan—though I could not distinguish one from another. I heard the rattle of capstan bars as they robbed the midship rack; and to meet this menace, I advanced to the break of the poop, and called to them.

“Stay forward,” I said. “The first man that climbs these steps goes back headfirst.”

They halted a moment, while they cursed me and reviled me for a slave driver, a brass-bound pet, a son of a shoemaker, and other things better imagined than described. Then they charged in a body; and I sent a bullet over their heads. It halted them for a moment, but they again came on. I sent another bullet, and they stopped at the foot of the steps.

“I will kill you all,” I said, you do not immediately put those handspikes away and go below.” Then I fired a third bullet, but not to hit.

It decided them. They backed away, flung the handspikes to the deck, and staggered forward, while I changed my partly emptied cylinder for a full one in my pocket. They disappeared in the port forecastle, and I heard no more of them that night, or later, though I saw one stagger out and pass forward of the house. They died that night. At daylight I found Kellar sprawled out on the forward deck beside the hatch, and the other three cold and quiet in their bunks.

Gall had steered all night, and huskily asked me to give him a “spell,” but I refused.

“I need you alive,” I said. “When I get this ship into the harbor, I'll take the wheel while you drop the anchor. Then you can do as you like—live, or die like the rest.”

He threatened to drop the wheel, but I showed him my pistol, and threatened to drop him in his tracks. He was sober enough to value his life, and steered on.

There was land under the lee, and I soon made out the light on Outer North Head. I shifted the course, and the ship sped on like a race horse. A pilot boat hove to in our path, and, signaling, was left behind. I could not stop that ship for a pilot, and did not feel that I needed one. I conned her in past the outer point, squared away dead before the gale, and, with a port wheel, rounded to under the lee of Inner North Head.

Then I took the wheel, and sent Gall forward to drop the anchor at my order. He went, dragging his. legs wearily, mounted the forecastle as the canvas caught aback, and cast off the shank painter of the big anchor. I watched the water, and, as the ship took on sternway, I called out: “Let go.”

He immediately let go the ring stopper, and the anchor slid off the rail and plunged, dragging the chain after it. Gall, an able seaman from his head to his heels, seized the friction lever, and stood ready to check it, looking back at me for instructions. I sang out to let it slip out, and leisurely joined him. I took the lever from his hands, and he said:

“Thank you, sir, I'm dead beat.”

Then, his work done, he went down the steps, while I paid out chain, checking it occasionally until with, fifty fathoms out, I felt that the anchor had bit.

Then I looked for Gall; and, as he was not in sight, I descended the forecastle steps. He was under the topgallant forecastle, half into the paint locker, with his back to me. He was pouring varnish from the big can into a pot, and I silently watched him. When the pot was full, he began stirring it vigorously, faster and faster, until, as I could see, the centrifugal force lifted the varnish to the rim of the pot. Then he suddenly raised the pot, and, from the hollow center of the still-revolving varnish, he drank deeply of the separated wood alcohol.

This was what they had drunk. This was what had killed them, even Gall. He raised up, looked at me with tired, weary eyes, then staggered past me. I could do nothing for him, except hope that he would survive. But, before he had reached the forecastle door, he gurgled, choked, and fell to the deck.