PAGE 2
When Greek Meets Greek
by
The wind died away during the night, and they awoke in the morning with their seasickness gone and appetites ravenous. Somber and ominous was their bearing as they silently ate of the breakfast in the forecastle and stepped out on deck with the rest in answer to the mate’s roar: “All hands spread dunnage.” Having no dunnage but what they wore, they drew off toward the windlass and conferred together while chests and bags were dragged out on deck and overhauled by the officers for whisky and sheath-knives. What they found of the former they pocketed, and of the latter, tossed overboard.
“Where are the canal-drivers?” demanded the chief mate, as he raised his head from the last chest. “Where are our seasick gentlemen, who sleep all night–what–what—-” he added in a stutter of surprise.
He was looking down three eight-inch barrels of three heavy Colt revolvers, cocked, and held by three scowling, sunburnt men, each of whom was tucking with disengaged left hand the corner of a shirt into a waistband, around which was strapped a belt full of cartridges.
“Hands up!” snapped the tall man; “hands up, every one of ye! Up with ’em–over yer heads. That’s right!” The pistols wandered around the heads of the crowd, and every hand was elevated.
“What’s this? What d’ ye mean? Put them pistols down. Give ’em up. Lay aft, there, some o’ ye, and call the captain,” blustered the mate, with his hands held high.
Not a man stirred to obey. The scowling faces looked deadly in earnest.
“Right about, face!” commanded the tall man. “March, every man–back to the other end o’ the boat. Laramie, take the other side and round up anybody ye see. Now, gentlemen, hurry.”
Away went the protesting procession, and, joined by the carpenter, sail-maker, donkey-man, and cook, “rounded up” from their sanctums by the man called Laramie, it had reached the main-hatch before the captain, pacing the quarter-deck, was aware of the disturbance. With Captain Belchior to think was to act. Springing to the cabin skylight, he shouted: “Steward, bring up my pistols. Bear a hand. Lower your weapons, you scoundrels; this is rank mutiny.”
A pistol spoke, and the captain’s hat left his head. “There goes your hat,” said a voice; “now for a button.” Another bullet sped, which cut from his coat the button nearest his heart. “Come down from there–come down,” said the voice he had heard. “Next shot goes home. Start while I count three. One–two—-” Captain Belchior descended the steps. “Hands up, same as the rest.” Up went the captain’s hands; such marksmanship was beyond his philosophy. “‘Pache,” went on the speaker, “go up there and get the guns he wanted.” The steward, with two bright revolvers in his hands, was met at the companion-hatch by a man with but one; but that one was so big, and the hand which held it was so steady, that it was no matter of surprise that he obeyed the terse command, “Fork over, handles first.” The captain’s nickel-plated pistols went into the pockets of ‘Pache’s coat, and the white-faced steward, poked in the back by the muzzle of that big firearm, marched to the main-deck and joined the others.
“Go down that place, ‘Pache, and chase out any one else ye find,” called the leader from behind the crowd. “Bring ’em all down here.”
‘Pache descended, and reappeared with a frightened cabin-boy, whom, with the man at the wheel, he drove before him to the steps. There was no wind, and the ship could spare the helmsman.
“Now, then, gentlemen,” said the tall leader, “I reckon we’re all here. Keep yer hands up. We’ll have a powwow. ‘Pache, stay up there, and you, Laramie, cover ’em from behind. Plug the first man that moves.”
He mounted the steps to the quarter-deck, and, as he replaced empty shells with cartridges, looked down on them with a serene smile on his not ill-looking face. His voice, except when raised in accents of command, had in it the musical, drawling, plaintive tone so peculiar to the native Texan–and so deceptive. The other two, younger and rougher men, looked, as they glanced at their victims through the sights of the pistols, as though they longed for the word of permission to riddle the ship’s company with bullets.