The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (155 page)

Finally a dark boat came plashing over the waves. As it came very near, the captain leaned forward, and perceived that the men in her rowed like seamstresses, and at the same time a voice hailed him in bad English. “It’s a dead sure connection,” said he to himself.

At sea, to load two hundred thousand rounds of rifle ammunition, seven hundred and fifty rifles, two rapid-fire field guns with a hundred shells, forty bundles of machetes, and a hundred pounds of dynamite, from yawls, and by men who are not born stevedores, and in a heavy ground swell, and with the searchlight of a United States cruiser sometimes flashing like lightning in the sky to the southward, is no business for a Sunday school class. When at last the
Foundling
was steaming for the open, over the gray sea, at dawn, there was not a man of the forty come aboard from the Florida shore, nor of the fifteen sailed from Boston, who was not glad, standing with his hair matted to his forehead with sweat, smiling at the broad wake of the
Foundling
and the dim streak on the horizon which was Florida.

But there is a point of the compass in these waters which men call the northeast. When the strong winds come from that direction they kick up a turmoil that is not good for a
Foundling
stuffed with coal and war stores, In the gale which came, this ship was no more than a drunken soldier.

The Cuban leader, standing on the bridge with the captain, was presently informed that of his men thirty-nine out of a possible thirty-nine were seasick. And in truth they were seasick. There are degrees in this complaint, but that matter was waived between them. They were all sick to the limits. They strewed the deck in every posture of human anguish; and when the
Foundling
ducked and water came sluicing down from the bows, they let it sluice. They were satisfied if they could keep their heads clear of the wash; and if they could not keep their heads clear of the wash, they didn’t care. Presently the
Foundling
swung her course to the southeast, and the waves pounded her broadside. The patriots were all ordered below decks, and there they howled and measured their misery one against another. All day the
Foundling
plopped and foundered over a blazing bright meadow of an ocean whereon the white foam was like flowers.

The captain on the bridge mused and studied the bare horizon. “Hell!” said he to himself, and the word was more in amazement than in indignation or sorrow. “Thirty-nine seasick passengers, the mate with a broken arm, a stoker with a broken jaw, the cook with a pair of scalded legs, and an engine likely to be taken with all these diseases, if not more! If I get back to a home port with a spoke of the wheel gripped in my hands, it’ll be fair luck!”

There is a kind of corn whiskey bred in Florida which the natives declare is potent in the proportion of seven fights to a drink. Some of the Cuban volunteers had had the forethought to bring a small quantity of this whiskey aboard with them; and being now in the fireroom and seasick, and feeling that they would not care to drink liquor for two or three years to come, they gracefully tendered their portions to the stokers. The stokers accepted these gifts without avidity, but with a certain earnestness of manner.

As they were stokers and toiling, the whirl of emotion was delayed, but it arrived ultimately and with emphasis. One stoker called another stoker a weird name; and the latter, righteously inflamed at it, smote his mate with an iron shovel, and the man fell headlong over a heap of coal, which crashed gently, while piece after piece rattled down upon the deck.

A third stoker was providentially enraged at the scene, and assailed the second stoker. They fought for some moments, while the seasick Cubans sprawled on the deck watched with languid, rolling glances the ferocity of the scuffle. One was so indifferent to the strategic importance of the space he occupied that he was kicked in the shins.

When the second engineer came to separate the combatants, he was sincere in his efforts, and he came near to disabling them for life.

The captain said, “I’ll go down there and — —”

But the leader of the Cubans restrained him. “No, no,” he cried; “you must not. We must treat them like children, very gently, all the time, you see, or else when we get back to a United States port they will — what you call — spring? — yes, spring the whole business. We must — jolly them. You see?”

“You mean,” said the captain, thoughtfully, “they are likely to get mad and give the expedition dead away when we reach port again, unless we blarney them now?”

“Yes, yes,” cried the Cuban leader; “unless we are so very gentle with them they will make many troubles afterward for us in the newspapers, and then in court.”

“Well, but I won’t have my crew — —” began the captain.

“But you must,” interrupted the Cuban. “You must. It is the only thing. You are like the captain of a pirate ship. You see? Only you can’t throw them overboard like him. You see?”

“Hum,” said the captain, “this here filibustering business has got a lot to it when you come to look it over.”

He called the fighting stokers to the bridge, and the three came, meek and considerably battered. He was lecturing them soundly, but sensibly, when he suddenly tripped a sentence and cried: “Here! Where’s that other fellow? How does it come he wasn’t in the fight?”

The row of stokers cried at once, eagerly: “He’s hurt, sir. He’s got a broken jaw, sir.”

“So he has, so he has,” murmured the captain, much embarrassed.

And because of all these affairs, the
Foundling
steamed toward Cuba with its crew in a sling, if one may be allowed to speak in that way.

III

At night the
Foundling
approached the coast like a thief. Her lights were muffled so that from the deck the sea shone with its own radiance, like the faint shimmer of some kinds of silk. The men on deck spoke in whispers, and even down in the fireroom the hidden stokers, working before the blood-red furnace doors, used no words, and walked tiptoe. The stars were out in the blue velvet sky, and their light, with the soft shine of the sea, caused the coast to appear black as the side of a coffin. The surf boomed in low thunder on the distant beach.

The
Foundling
’s engines ceased their thumping for a time. She glided quietly forward until a bell chimed faintly in the engine room. Then she paused, with a flourish of phosphorescent waters.

“Give the signal,” said the captain. Three times a flash of light went from the bow. There was a moment of waiting. Then an eye like the one on the coast of Florida opened and closed, opened and closed, opened and closed. The Cubans, grouped in a great shadow on deck, burst into a low chatter of delight. A hiss from their leader silenced them.

“Well?” said the captain.

“All right,” said the leader.

At the giving of the word it was not apparent that any one on board the
Foundling
had ever been seasick. The boats were lowered swiftly — too swiftly. Boxes of cartridges were dragged from the hold and passed over the side with a rapidity that made men in the boats exclaim against it. They were being bombarded. When a boat headed for shore, its rowers pulled like madmen. The captain paced slowly to and fro on the bridge. In the engine room the engineers stood at their station, and in the stokehole the firemen fidgeted silently around the furnace doors.

On the bridge Flanagan reflected. “Oh, I don’t know,” he observed; “this filibustering business isn’t so bad. Pretty soon I’ll be off to sea again, with nothing to do but some big lying when I get into port.”

In one of the boats returning from shore came twelve Cuban officers, the greater number of them convalescing from wounds, while two or three of them had been ordered to America on commissions from the insurgents. The captain welcomed them, and assured them of a speedy and safe voyage.

Presently he went again to the bridge and scanned the horizon. The sea was lonely, like the spaces amid the suns. The captain grinned, and softly smote his chest. “It’s dead easy,” said he. It was near the end of the cargo, and the men were breathing like spent horses, although their elation grew with each moment, when suddenly a voice spoke from the sky. It was not a loud voice, but the quality of it brought every man on deck to full stop and motionless, as if they had all been changed to wax. “Captain,” said the man at the masthead, “there’s a light to the west’ard, sir. Think it’s a steamer, sir.”

There was a still moment until the captain called, “Well, keep your eye on it now.” Speaking to the deck, he said, “Go ahead with your unloading.”

The second engineer went to the galley to borrow a tin cup. “Hear the news, second?” asked the cook. “Steamer coming up from the west’ard.”

“Gee!” said the second engineer. In the engine room he said to the chief: “Steamer coming up to the west’ard, sir.”

The chief engineer began to test various little machines with which his domain was decorated. Finally he addressed the stokeroom: “Boys, I want you to look sharp now. There’s a steamer coming up to the west’ard.”

“All right, sir,” said the stokeroom.

From time to time the captain hailed the masthead. “How is she now?”

“Seems to be coming down on us pretty fast, sir.”

The Cuban leader came anxiously to the captain. “Do you think we can save all the cargo? It is rather delicate business. No?”

“Go ahead,” said Flanagan. “Fire away. I’ll wait for you.”

There continued the hurried shuffling of feet on deck, and the low cries of the men unloading the cargo. In the engine room the chief and his assistant were staring at the gong. In the stokeroom the firemen breathed through their teeth. A shovel slipped from where it leaned against the side, and banged on the floor. The stokers started, and looked around quickly.

Climbing to the rail and holding on to a stay, the captain gazed westward. A light had raised out of the deep. After watching this light for a time, he called to the Cuban leader, “Well, as soon as you’re ready now, we might as well be skipping out.”

Finally the Cuban leader told him: “Well, this is the last load. As soon as the boats come back you can be off.”

“Shan’t wait for the boats,” said the captain. “That fellow is too close.” As the last boat went shoreward the
Foundling
turned, and like a black shadow stole seaward to cross the bows of the oncoming steamer. “Waited about ten minutes too long,” said the captain to himself.

Suddenly the light in the west vanished. “Hum,” said Flanagan; “he’s up to some meanness.”