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Mr. Trunnell, Mate of the Ship 'Pirate'

<h2 id="id00211" style="margin-top: 4em">IV</h2> During the following days all hands were so busy bending new sails and reeving running gear for our turn of the Cape that there was little time for anything else. Much of this work could have been avoided had the ship been under better command when she cleared, but Trunnell had no authority to do anything, and the agents were waiting until the skipper took command and could attend to the necessary overhauling. At meals I saw little of either Trunnell or Captain Thompson and his third mate, but in the short hours of the dog-watch in the evening I had a chance to talk with them upon other subjects than those relating immediately to the running of the ship. The dog-watch is the short watch between six and eight o'clock in the evening. This is made short to keep one watch from turning to at any regular time and consequently getting all the disagreeable work to be done during those hours. For instance, if one watch had to be on deck every night from twelve until four in the morning, it would mean that the other watch would be on deck from four to eight, and consequently would have to do all the washing down of decks and other work which occurs upon every regulated ship before breakfast. So the dog-watch divides a four-hour watch and is served alternately. As second mate I had access to the poop and could come aft on the weather side like any officer, all sailors, of course, being made to go to leeward. Trunnell grew to be confidential, and we often discoursed upon many subjects during the hours after supper; for there was little time to turn in when not on dog-watch, and the skipper allowed me aft with much more freedom than many second mates get. He seldom ventured to join in the conversations, except when discussing shore topics, for his ignorance of things nautical was becoming more and more apparent to me every day, and he saw it. I wondered vaguely how he ever managed to get command of the ship, and set the reason down to the fact that the agents were glad enough to get any one to take her out. He, however, checked up Trunnell's sights every day and commented upon their accuracy with much freedom, finding fault often, and cautioning him to be more careful in the future. This somewhat perplexed the mate, as he always made his reckoning by rule of thumb, and could no more change his method than work out a problem in trigonometry. The third mate, on the other hand, was quite shy. I noticed what I had failed to note before, and that was the peculiar feminine tone of his voice and manner. He never swung his hands or lounged along the deck like a man used to the sea, and as the regulations call for at least two years' sea experience certified to by some reputable skipper before a mate's certificate is issued, this struck me as strange. Besides, he walked with a short mincing step that failed to swing his rather broad hips, and his knees were well set back at each stride, that went to show more conclusively than anything else that he was not used to a heaving deck. An old sailor, or a young one either, for that matter, will bend his knees to catch the roll and not try to walk like a soldier. One evening after we had been out about a week, Trunnell and I happened to be standing aft near the taffrail looking up at a royal preventer stay. "D'ye know what th' old man called this cleat?" asked Trunnell, pointing to where it had been made fast. "No," said I. "What did he call it?" "A timber noggin." "Well, that don't prove there is anything wrong with him, does it?" I queried. "Either that or the timber noggins has changed summat in character since I seen them last," said Trunnell. "What in Davy Jones would a skipper of a ship call a cleat a timber noggin for unless he didn't know no better?" "A man might or might not have many reasons for calling a cleat a timber noggin besides that of not knowing any better than to do so," I responded. "For instance—" But Trunnell cut me short. "No, Mr. Rolling, there ain't no use disguising the fact any more, this skipper don't know nothin' about a ship. You'll find that out before we get to the west'ard o' the Agullas. Mind ye, I ain't making no criticism o' the old man. I never does that to no superior officer, but when a man tells me to do the things he does, it stands to reason that we've got an old man aboard here who's been in a ship for the first time as officer." I agreed with him, and he was much pleased. "A man what finds fault an' criticises everybody above him is always a failure, Mr. Rolling," he went on. "Yes, sir, the faultfinder is always a failure. An' the reason so many sailors find fault all the time is because they is failures. I am tryin' not to find fault with the skipper, but to pint out that we're in for some rough times if things don't change aboard in the sailorin' line afore we gets to the west'ard o' the Agullas. Sink me, if that ain't so, for here we is without half the sails bent an' no new braces, nothin' but two-year-old manila stuff what's wore clean through. Them topsails look good enough, but they is as rotten with the lime in them as if they was burned. No, sir, I ain't makin' no criticism, but I burns within when I think of the trouble a few dollars would save. Yes, sir, I burns within." Mr. Trunnell here spat profusely to leeward and walked athwartships for some moments without further remark. The third mate came on deck and stood near the lee mizzen rigging, looking forward at the foam swirling from the bends and drifting aft alongside at a rapid rate. The phosphorus shone brilliantly in the water, and the wake of the ship was like a path of molten metal, for the night was quite dark and the heavy banks of clouds which had been making steadily to the westward over-spread the sky. It was nearly time for the southwest monsoon to shift, and with this change would likely follow a spell o' weather, as Trunnell chose to put it. The third mate had never given an order since he had come aboard, and I noticed Trunnell's sly wink as he glanced in the direction of the mizzen. "Mr. Rolling," said he, "wimmen have been my ruin. Yes, sir, wimmen have been my ruin, an' I'm that scared o' them I can raise them afore their topmast is above the horizon. Sink me, if that ain't one." And he leered at the figure of the third mate, whom we knew as Mr. Bell. "What would a woman be doing here as third mate?" I asked; for although I had come to the same conclusion some days before, I had said nothing to any one about it. "That's the old man's affair," said Trunnell; "it may be his wife, or it may be his daughter, but any one can see that the fellow's pants are entirely too big in the heft for a man. An' his voice! Sink me, Rolling, but you never hearn tell of a man or boy pipin' so soft like. Why, it skeers me to listen to it. It's just like—but no matter." "Like what?" I suggested gently, hoping much. But it was of no use. Trunnell looked at me queerly for a moment as if undecided to give me his confidence. Then he resumed his walk athwart the deck, and I went forward to the break of the poop and took a look at the head sails. The night was growing darker, and the breeze was dying slowly, and I wondered why the skipper had not come on deck to take a look around. He was usually on hand during the earlier hours of evening. I reached the side of the third officer, and stood silently gazing at the canvas which shone dimly through the gathering gloom. As we had always been separated on account of being in different watches, I had never addressed the third mate before save in a general way when reporting the ship's duties aft. "Pretty dark night, hey?" I ventured. The third officer looked hard at me for the space of a minute, during which time his face underwent many changes of expression. Then he answered in a smooth, even tone. "Sorter," said he. This was hardly what I expected, so I ventured again. "Looks as if we might have a spell o' weather, hey? The wind's falling all the time, and if it keeps on, we'll have a calm night without a draught of air." "What do you mean by a ca'm night without a draft of air?" asked the young fellow, in a superior tone, while at the same time I detected a smile lurking about the corners of his eyes. If there's one thing I hate to see in a young fellow, it is the desire to make fun of a superior's conversation. Being an American sailor, I had little use for r's in every word which held an a but I had no objection to any one else talking the way they wished. I was somewhat doubtful just how to sit upon this nebulous third mate, so I began easily. "Do you know," said I, "there are a great many young fellows going out in ships as officers when they could be of much more benefit to people generally if they stayed home and helped their mothers to 'bark cark,' or do other little things around the nursery or kitchen." As I finished I thought I heard some one swear fiercely in a low tone. I looked over the poop rail down to the main deck beneath, but saw no one near. The third officer seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. "It isn't good to be too clever," said he, in the tone which was unmistakably a woman's. "When a person is good at baking cake, or 'barking cark,' as you choose to call it, the sea is a good place for them. They can look out for those who haven't sense enough to perform the function." I had a strong notion to ask him outright if he was fitted to perform the function, but his superior air and the feeling that I might make a mistake after all and incur the displeasure of the beak-nosed skipper deterred me. But I was almost certain that our third mate was a woman. We remained standing together in the night for a few moments while neither spoke. My advances had not received the favorable acknowledgment I had expected, and there was a distinctly disagreeable feeling creeping upon me while in this neutral presence. I was young and hot-headed, so I spoke accordingly before leaving the field, or rather deck, in retreat. "I wish you had the distinction of belonging to the port watch." "Why?" "I think I might strengthen your powers of discernment regarding the relative positions of second and third mates." "We'll see who has the better insight in regard to the matter without my being bored to that extent," said the third officer in his softest tones, and again I fancied I heard the voice of a man swearing fiercely in a low voice as if to himself. Then I turned and went aft. "It's something queer," said Trunnell, shaking his great shaggy head and glancing toward the break of the poop. A step sounded on the companion ladder, and the skipper came on deck. "Pretty dark, hey?" he said, and his quick eyes took in both Trunnell and myself comprehensively. "Looks like we might have a spell o' weather if the wind keeps fallin'," observed Trunnell. "Well, I don't suppose a dark night is any worse than a bright one, and I call to mind many a time I'd give something to see it a bit blacker. Do you know where you're at?" "She's headin' about the same, but if ye don't mind, I'll be gettin' her down gradual like to her torps'ls if the glass keeps a-fallin'. Short commons, says I, on the edge o' the monsoon." "Short it is, my boy. Get her down low. The more she looks like you, the better she'll do, hey? What d'you think of that, Mr. Rolling? The shorter the longer, the longer the shorter—see? The sooner the quicker, eh? Supposen the question was asked you, Mr. Rolling, what'd you say, hey? Why is Mr. Trunnell like a lady's bouquet, hey? Why is the little man like a bunch of flowers? Don't insult him, Mr. Rolling. The sanitary outfit of the cabin is all right. 'Tain't that. No, split me, it ain't that. Think a minute." Trunnell walked to and fro without a word, while the captain grinned. The fellow at the wheel, Bill Spielgen, a square-cut man with an angular face and enormous hands, stared sullenly into the binnacle. "It's because he's a daisy," rapped out the skipper. "That's it, Mr. Rolling, he's a daisy, ha, ha, ha! Split me, if he ain't, ho, ho, ho! Shorten her down, Trunnell; you're a daisy, and no mistake." There was a distinct smell of liquor in the light breeze, and as the skipper came within the glare of the binnacle lamp I could see he was well set up. Trunnell went to the break of the poop and called out for the watch to clew down the fore and mizzen skysails. He was much upset at the skipper's talk, but knew better than to show it. The captain now turned his attention to the man at the wheel. "How d'you head, Bill?" said he. "West b' no'the," said Bill. The skipper came to the wheel and stuck his lean face close to the quartermaster's. His glinting eyes grew to two little points and his hooked nose wrinkled on the sides as he showed his teeth while he drawled in a snarling tone:— "D'you set up for a wit, Bill, that you joke with your captain, hey? Is that it, you square-toed, lantern-jawed swab? Would you like me to rip you up the back, or lam some of the dirt out of your hide, hey? Is that it? Don't make jokes at your captain, Bill. It's bad business." Then he went on in a more conciliating tone:— "Just remember that I'm a knight of a round table, or square one either, for that matter, while I'm aboard this boat, and if you forget to mention my title of 'Sir,' every time you speak of me, you'll want to get your hide sewed on tight." "I beg pardon, sir," said Bill, taking a fresh grip upon the spokes with his great hands. "That's right, my son; you're a beggar aboard this here boat. Don't aspire to anything else." "Aye, aye, sir," said the quartermaster. "And now that you've got to your bearings, as Trunnell would say, I'll tell you a little story about a man who lost a pet dog called Willie." I saw that it was high time for me to get forward, and slipped away. I turned in ready for a call, thinking that perhaps Trunnell was right in regard to our future prospects in the South Atlantic. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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