Transcriber's note

Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been repaired. Variable spelling has been retained. A [list] of the changes made can be found at the end of the book.

THE YAZOO MYSTERY

THE
YAZOO MYSTERY

A Novel
BY
IRVING CRADDOCK

BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY

NEW YORK

MADE IN U.S.A.

To Those Who Love Adventure

The Yazoo Mystery
CHAPTER I

The harbor-master entered briskly but dubiously the room of the ship's first officer.

"What about the five men for the Domus?" he bellowed.

"All ready to sign, sir," assured the manager of the employment agency, pointing toward two saddle colored negroes, a Spaniard, and a limp figure half asleep, slouching in the corner on a narrow bench, one hand clutching an expensive leather bag.

"It is the best I could do on such short notice," assured the agency man in an undertone, noticing that the first officer's inventory was not very encouraging.

"Get them up here to sign. We're anchored in the stream, losing two thousand dollars every hour we stay here. We need five more firemen—anything that looks human," he added impatiently, spreading the ship's articles on the counter that reached across the smelly water-front den.

"Come on and sign up, boys," said the agency man with assumed good nature.

While the two negroes and the Spaniard were signing, the ship's first officer went to the sleeping figure in the corner, took up his free hand and felt of the palm, then dropped it disgustedly as he took the man by the shoulders and shook him vigorously.

"Come on and sign up, Strong," he shouted into his ear.

Strong labored with himself, still holding to his bag, half staggered to the counter and signed on the line indicated—"Hiram Strong, Jr."

The signature was plain and businesslike. Evidently the Candidate had known better days.

"He's been kicked out or disowned," muttered the first officer to me while he was signing up. "He won't be worth a cuss. Look—those hands never did a lick of work—but he will fill the list," he added, walking about nervously and sizing me up with apparent approbation.

The agency man came up at once and held the pen towards me, and without hesitation I signed "Ben Taylor" on the line beneath. While I was thus engaged Hiram leaned against the counter weak and listless, his bag between his feet. We had both signed as firemen or stokers on the steamship Domus for a round trip to an unnamed Gulf, or Mexican port.

Although pretty well awake by this time Strong did not resent my taking his arm and helping him a bit. He made no comment at first, but after he got used to the lively walk along the dock, he began to show signs of saying something.

"Old pal," he began, without turning his head, "I—I've got a headache—top's coming off—and my stomach is all jelly. It shakes as I walk and makes me sick," he ended under his breath.

"You'll be all right after you get some sleep."

"Y-e-s—I think—I h-h-ope so——I've had an awful time—an awful time, pardee—but this is my last—this is my last," he added, more to himself.

His bloodless face and lips, pink lids and bloodshot eyes indicated a disordered system urgently rebelling against recent abuses.

After we got aboard the harbor-master's tug, although very weak, he refused to sit down. Noting that I had found a seat, he lurched over to me.

"Old pal, everything looks yellow to me, even the sun looks yellow—sort of faded. Does it look yellow to you?" he asked, blinking at the clear setting sun, and although his power to realize was at low ebb, he picked me out evidently as being different from the others. By that act he exercised a discrimination that predestined an exciting and almost unbelievable career.

"The sun looks all right to me," I told him, smiling up in sympathy.

"I guess it's me—it's terrible—but this is the last—I'm going to work now. Little Hiram is going to work for the balance of his life—I got to, that's all," he ended, with a dogged determination that I hoped would survive after he recovered from his unsettled and polluted condition. I steadied him a little when climbing the ladder from the tug to the ship, which attention he seemed to appreciate.

"Old pal, I must go to bed. If I don't I will die," said he as we went forward to the firemen's sleeping quarters. There he tumbled into a lower bunk, not stopping to remove even the cheap cap he wore. In an incredibly short time he was "dead to the world" and snoring at a lively clip.

Upon returning to the deck I heard a loud grunt from the Siren and at once the ship began to swing out into the stream, heading toward the Statue of Liberty and that great sea beyond the Narrows.

The captain still leaned over the bridge, taking stock of his nondescript crew of firemen that loitered about, forward. His bulk evidenced a growing appetite and his almond shaped eyes suggested the prenatal influence of a Chinaman. It was hard to understand how so much tallow and bone, in a florid lumpy skin, ever became master of a big ship. Such luggage as Hiram Strong, Jr. and I had brought aboard might have told him a story, but he didn't care; all he wanted was thirty-five human machines, capable of shoveling coal—in four-hour shifts—in a temperature of a hundred and twenty-five degrees. He knew that his ship was marked as a "hell," and that no fireman would ship for a second trip.

While standing beside the rail and studying the retreating outlines of Battery Park and its wonderful skyline, I was approached by the firemen's mess steward, who wore a dirty white jacket and apron.

"I don't suppose that young feller will want anything to eat?"

"No—I guess sleep is better now," I replied, interpreting in his round greasy face evident good-will.

"The firemen are eating and you had better go in," he said, but seemingly in no hurry for me to tear myself away. The tip seemed a good one, so I made an opening for a better acquaintance.

"Where are we bound, steward?"

"We're bound out and back to this port, but at how many places we will call, God knows. I don't! When we start, lately, we never know when we'll get back. Sometimes we call at Key West, and usually at Galveston or New Orleans. Don't you know what you signed for?" he asked, without surprise, but grinning significantly.

"Yes," I replied, hesitating somewhat. I wondered why he continued to grin. Then he again asked:

"Are you coming down to mess yourself?"

"Yes, I will come right down."

Following him below, I crowded over on one of the nondescript crew to a seat on the end of a bench at a narrow, bare table, and received from the steward a half-gallon of thick soup dished up in an enameled pan from a galvanized-iron wash-tub. Later I was supplied from the same laundry utensil a liberal portion of what was intended for a meat stew, and a war allowance of bread. I was wondering how Hiram Strong, Jr., accustomed to uptown dining, would relish this atmosphere with its filthy service and coarse food. The men along the bench beside me consumed the soup noisily, like Bowery bums, and bit from chunks of meat on the ends of their forks like swine with their forefeet in a trough.

Sitting at one end, I was able to size up my fellow-firemen, twenty-five of whom were devouring food with great relish as they chattered like magpies, mostly in a foreign tongue. Negroes of all shades, Mexicans, Poles, Italians, Greeks, all sweated out, thin and bleached to the shade of a cadaver. I speculated again as to how young Strong would mix with this motley crew, and why he had allowed himself to choose stoking as a means of livelihood.

After eating I went below, but Strong had not moved and it seemed that his thin white hands and expensive footwear were more out of place than ever. I wondered if he had any money left. Usually were to be found some light-fingered gentry among tramp-steamer firemen, so I took a small chain and padlock from my bag and chained his grip with mine to a bunk stanchion.

Returning to the deck, it was something of a shock to note the ship in complete darkness, no light visible save the red and green signals on either side. Later I learned that the globes were removed from the passenger cabins to prevent even a flash from the rooms of any one disinclined to obey "Lights out" at seven p. m. by order of the Naval authorities.

After clearing Sandy Hook and rounding Scotland lightship, by locating the North Star I saw that the skipper was heading a little east of south against a sharp, cold wind, close in to the Jersey coast, where lights were plainly visible. I was rather astonished to see all lifeboats lowered from their davits to the level of the steerage deck, and by edging down that way, saw they were provisioned with water, biscuits, lanterns and all necessary equipment for immediate use. Then I realized that young Strong had not only chosen an unusual occupation but a rather unpropitious time in which to sign up for duty on the high seas.

But with visions of four o'clock in the morning, the hour assigned us to begin our work, I returned to the bunkroom to go to bed.

Hiram Strong had moved neither hand nor foot, but his breathing was more normal. A dark blue light was the only illumination in the place, giving to everything a mere shadowy appearance. I was glad to notice that the place was well ventilated, fairly clean, and likely to be free from vermin.

At three-thirty in the morning a heavy hand was laid on us, and we were told to roll out to go on watch. To my surprise, young Strong responded at once, with much yawning and stretching. Now and then he would sigh deeply, ending in a sort of dismal moan, hard to tell whether from resignation or abandon. He spoke for the first time after I had tumbled out and had begun pulling on my shoes. He seemed to recognize me in the uncertain light.

"Do we get anything to eat before we go to work?" he asked, leaning against his bunk dressed in the correct street attire in which he had slept.

"Yes, I think by going aft to the ship's kitchen we can get something; coffee, anyhow," I replied, stripping down to my underwear.

"Is that the way you go to work?" he asked, quickly noticing my matter-of-fact preparations.

"Yes."

"Why?" he asked, surprised.

"Well, it's pretty hot down there; and besides, it's very dirty," I replied, pleasantly but convincingly. "Shoes, pants and undershirt are about all you can stand," I added.

I had to wait a while for him to remove all but those needful garments before starting for the kitchen, there to find good hot coffee and a dish of that same thick soup.

He followed my lead again, silently, deliberately drinking two cups of coffee and eating the soup. Then it was time for us to go.

He negotiated the several narrow iron stairs leading down to the boiler-room like a cat avoiding water, and looked ruefully at his hands blackened by contact with the greasy handrail. A pink silk undershirt and polished shoes contrasted strangely with the coarse, black pull-on's and dingy brogans of those at work. He must have noticed the contrast. Stripped, he showed a compact figure, with good lung capacity and likely a good heart, that being an absolute necessity in order to tolerate the extreme heat of a boiler-room.

The engineer on watch asked me if I had ever fired, as though expecting an affirmative.

"Yes," I replied.

"But this young fellow is a 'greeny'?"

"Yes—I think so."

"You and him take the two end boilers on the left—they are as cool as any—and give him a few tips, will you, till he gets his hand in? Two hundred and eighty pounds on the gauge," he added, as a hint to keep the dial at that notch. He then told Strong I would show him what to do.

As we moved down over the piles of coal between a battery of boilers facing the rather narrow corridor between them, Strong remarked to me, "I'll do the best I can, sir!"

It did not seem so very hot when we first went in, but I noticed there was only one ventilator, which came down about midway.

Strong followed me over to the end and watched me with interest when I took the twelve-foot poker—a one-inch steel bar with a big eye bent on one end and spatula shaped at the other—for the purpose of freeing the clinkers from the grates before shaking them down into the ash pan.

"I will clean your fire for you this time and you can see how it's done," I suggested, and proceeded to do so. "You know, the first thing you do when going on watch is to clean the fire, but it must be done quickly to keep the steam from going down too much." He listened attentively and good-naturedly, but still silent, as one about to be initiated into a college fraternity and was waiting for something to happen.

I handed him a scoop and told him to put in a half dozen scoop-loads at a time and to be sure and get it well back on the grates. I then proceeded to clean my own grate.

Taking up the scoop, he filled it brimful, and started for the furnace door like a girl shoveling snow. He missed the narrow opening and the coal fell off into the ashes. He did not swear as I had expected but glanced sheepishly at me, then about him, to see if others noticed it, but we were all too busy with our own back-breaking jobs to pay heed to his worries.

Determined to be successful, he walked close to the furnace door, exposing his face and hands to the glaring fire, and succeeded in getting the next shovelful pretty well back on the grates. After repeating this a half dozen times his face took on a "Turkey red" and he puffed like a lizard.

After a few more trials and a little more instruction the novelty of doing it well seemed to interest him, and two hours wore away. He soon learned to watch the steam gauge above him and kept it pointing at the requisite two hundred and eighty.

At the end of the shift he leaned heavily against the bulkhead next to his furnace, panting like a race-horse. The perspiration rolled off of him until even his well-tailored trousers were wet and his pink silk undershirt a sight to behold. His face was the shade of pickled beets mixed with coal dust, and his hands the color of the lobsters he was accustomed to eat after midnight, his palms blistered and sore, from the friction of the shovel handle.

His neat black shoes, now grimy and rough, were full of water and pinched his feet. I did not give him the extra pair of soft cotton flannel gloves I had brought along for him until he asked me where I had got mine. Then I showed him how to cool off by standing under the ventilator, for which he seemed very grateful. He looked curiously at me, evidently discovering that he and I were the only ones down in the furnace room not of a hardened class. He seemed inclined to stay under the refreshing ventilator, and I noted the hands of his steam gauge drop back to two hundred and seventy, so I opened the door, cleaned the grates and spread over a fresh bed of coal.

He came over while I was doing this, and I gave him some little tricks on how to spread the fuel and not expose his hands and face to the heat.

He seemed to appreciate this and surprised me by his cleverness in making use of my tips. For a time he revived and I thought he was going to pull through his first watch all right, but at the end of another hour he became shaky on his legs, and his arms scarcely supported the empty shovel. The intense heat and effort had a telling effect on him and it did not surprise me when he toppled over on the coal pile in a dead faint.

CHAPTER II

When Hiram Strong collapsed it did not surprise the other firemen. It was not a rare occurrence for even seasoned firemen to faint. But it did amaze the engine-room crew at the ease with which I took him in my arms, for he weighed at least one hundred and sixty pounds. I laid him down beneath the ventilator, where the others had prepared a place for him. I then removed his cap and dashed a pail of cold water over his face and chest, coal dust and dirt having washed up in his black, wavy hair.

For the first time since I had met him I got a good look at the youngster's face. Even during this temporary lapse the slightly upturned corners of his mouth and the red of his lips showed, lending the impression that he was about to break out into a sunny smile. There was nothing about his features to indicate the confirmed inebriate or debauchee. He had a good, honest ear, a clean neck and a generous breadth of shoulder. After making sure of his respiration and heart action, I returned to my post to feed his furnace and mine. To maintain two hundred and eighty pounds of steam on the gauge required constant, back-breaking shoveling. In a few minutes both furnaces were roaring, with one blowing off a notice to the engineer that, although one of the crew had fainted, the boilers were hot.

It was perhaps a quarter of an hour before Strong raised himself to a sitting posture and looked over toward me. He was dazed, and blinked like an owl. I waved to him to stay where he was and rest. For answer he made a "cat's cradle" by clasping his hands before his knees, unmindful of the fact that he was seated in a pool of water and saturated coal dust.

We evidently had a good head wind outside, for it rushed down through the big ventilator as though driven by an exhaust fan, thus rapidly reviving Strong. However, it would not be well for him to remain in the draft too long, so I crossed over and helped him to regain his feet. He reeled and stumbled as he walked back to his station, which took grit, but there was no evidence of self-pity.

For the remainder of the watch Strong was unable to do much work. First he tried to shovel coal, but found he couldn't lift it. However, he insisted on staying around while I shoveled, occasionally opening and closing the furnace doors. All the while he maintained his attitude of silence, apparently taking it for granted that I understood the situation and was willing to help him. At last the eight o'clock relief crew came, and although still weak, he made the narrow iron stair to the deck much easier than when he descended four hours before. He was adapting himself to the conditions the best he could.

Strong soon washed up and donned clean wear, which seemed to refresh him, but coal dust still showing about his eyes, ears and brow gave him the appearance of an actor made up for his part. At mess he devoured soup with relish, but when he tried the stew, made up of overdone neck, cuts of fried beef and cold potatoes, he tossed the pan and its contents overboard.

"I need sleep more than that stuff," he said, and straightway made for his bunk.

Six hours later I found him standing beside me at the rail in the waist of the ship and he appeared to be much improved. His fine skin glowed, but his hands looked as though they had been parboiled, with palms badly blistered. His trousers were dirty, dry, stiff, baggy and wrinkled. On the upper part of his body he wore nothing but a silk undershirt, and for his overworked feet he had pulled on a pair of sandals.

It is quite as impossible to disguise a real man as it is for a make-believe to pass himself off for a gentleman. Though unaware of how to go about it, he began taking my measure quite as coldly as I was his, after which he spoke his first connected words since we came together.

"It was mighty decent of you to help me out last night," he said, affably, holding a lighted cigarette contemplatively. Evidently his decision favored me.

"Every one has to make a beginning; you did very well to stay there during the whole of your first watch," said I, ignoring his thanks.

"Is it always as hot down there as it was last night?"

"Yes; sometimes more so. You see, last night we had a head wind."

"After my hands harden, and my stomach becomes accustomed to the food, I guess I'll be able to stand it all right." As he said this he looked at the palms of his hands ruefully. The backs were scarlet and glossy.

"You can if you want to," I replied. "You have the build. The food is coarse, but perhaps the best for that kind of work. Four hours is not very long to stand anything; you have not worked lately?"

"Lately?—never!" Then as though frightened at my reference to his past or even himself, he surprised me by asking, "How soon do we eat again?—I believe I could eat some of that horse-meat now."

"You think it's horse-meat?"

"Well, if it's not horse-meat, it came off a bull just behind the horns. However, my grates are clean and there's a good draft; I believe I can get up steam on it now," he ended with a reckless laugh, indicating that, although languid from his final fling in New York, he had noted fully how to proceed with his work in the boiler-room.

"Perhaps by going back to the galley we can get a bite. It's nearly two hours before we go on watch, but it's better to give the stomach a chance before doing hard work," I suggested, leading the way to that mysterious quarter of the ship where the cook is king.

This time we inherited mutton stew and the usual bread allowance, which we ate as we sat on the edge of a hatch.

Looking across the water, I noted that we were still hugging shore, but were now far enough south to be free from the chill November winds of New York. We were now favored with a balmy, invigorating breeze.

Strong's first question was not unexpected after he glanced at some curious passengers on the deck above us, amused at our sumptuous meal and manner of taking it.

"How do you happen among this gang?" he asked, laying his bread allowance on the hatch and poising a knife and fork that came with the ship direct from the builders twenty years before.

I looked at him squarely and knew I had to give a logical reply. His straight nose showed the power of logical analysis. The thought came to me that he had somehow robbed a marble image of Cleopatra of its nose and clapped it on his own face. There could be no question of his inherent refinement. Such a person one usually answers civilly, though the questions be frivolous.

"Well, you see, in order to get a marine license you must do a certain amount of sea duty in the fire room."

"Is a marine license so very desirable?"

"Chief engineer is a pretty good berth, especially now. Those running in the war zone get good pay and a big bonus besides, you know."

"Are we in the war zone?" he asked with some surprise.

"Yes—don't you see those lifeboats swung out? One of the firemen told me last night that this line had lost two ships—both torpedoed."

"And I suppose the firemen get the worst of it on account of being so far below?" he queried, glancing nervously at the dim shore line.

"Yes. Then, you know, there are supposed to be mines all along the coast."

Without comment he gnawed the last piece of meat from the bone and tossed the refuse overboard. Two young girls among the passengers above giggled at that. Strong flushed, but gave no other outward sign of annoyance.

"Then we are liable to be plugged any time?" he asked.

"Yes; there is a possibility."

"Well, if I get another dose like I got last night I believe I would welcome it," he laughed, looking at his blistered hands.

"You will soon learn how to favor yourself, and the work won't be so hard."

"But you say the men who do the actual work get the worst of things."

"Yes—I think so. Firemen are the feet of the ship, you know."

"I think I was all feet last night," he replied, smiling dolefully. "I have heard professors rant about the dignity of labor," he replied, arising with the empty pan, having enjoyed the first full meal he had ever actually earned. "However, I have signed for a round trip and I'm going to stick if it kills me," he added, half to himself, as he went below.

When he came on watch at four the fire of adventure had taken the place of Hiram Strong's glassy stare of debauchery. He cleaned and shook his grates without coaching, heaving the coal well back in the fire-box. I knew that every bone and muscle of his body was crying out in protest. Later I saw blood from the blisters show through the cotton gloves, but he worked stolidly, silent and grim. Surely he was game.

We were getting farther south, the wind coming hot and the boiler-room an inferno. As Strong worked he perspired to the point of melting. I saw him grit his teeth, determined not to show another white feather, and when we were washing up at the end of that four-hour watch, there was something of unction in his remark, to himself: "Thank God, it didn't get me this time!" Sensibly he went to his bunk without eating.

CHAPTER III

Our shift was off at eight p. m. with duty ahead at four o'clock in the morning. But not feeling disposed to sleep just then, I began to study our position. Twenty-four hours ago we had cleared Scotland lightship, and I figured we were something like three hundred miles south of New York, off the Virginia capes.

The ship, as on the previous night, was wrapped in complete darkness as we emerged from the boiler-room, and I could just make out the shadowy form of the officer on the bridge, who moved about nervously. I glanced across the expanse of water but no light could be seen in any direction. The only activity was the sounding lead which was thrown overboard occasionally.

We still had the southern head wind which made it too hot for sleeping below, so I decided to bunk on deck, and went below for a blanket. Young Strong slept as though dead, even though the quarters were close and stuffy. I was glad to escape to the deck with my covering. As I laid down, expecting to doze off at once, I began to hear subdued voices. I heard some one say: "You know, we passed him this afternoon at three. He couldn't be over two hours behind us." At first I wasn't sure I was awake, for the voices were almost inaudible. I was sure I had slept some time.

"Did the wireless say all were taken off?"

I could now make out two officers talking near me, but they were unaware of my proximity. Then came the answer to the question:

"Yes; the report came from the shore station where the lifeboats landed, but if the subs are operating up there, we're probably safe."

Manifestly they referred to some ship that was torpedoed two or three hours behind us.

"That's all right, but you know well enough that mines have been sown here for the Chesapeake traffic."

"We're not due there yet, and it's a thousand-to-one shot that we'll get by. We've passed that spot many times. I believe that talk about mines is all bunk. Anyway, you know the Old Man changes his course at that point to keep the supposed mine field shoreward. Go to bed: you'll be bawled out quick enough if we hit anything."

Then all became quiet, but now thoroughly awakened, I went down to the galley to cajole some food from the cook. There, to my surprise, I found young Strong on the same errand.

"You had a good sleep?" was my greeting. I needn't have asked, for he looked rested and bright, even jaunty.

"Five hours; it's past one now. Where did you sleep?—I did not see you in your bunk." His voice sounded rather chummy, as the cook relented and helped us liberally. We told him we had both gone off watch without eating.

We took the food into the firemen's messroom, lighted by a single dark blue bulb, and sat opposite each other, a long, narrow, oak plank between us, picnic style. The cook enjoined us to shut the door, to cover even the dim illumination. The closed windows of the messroom were painted black so that not the slightest trace of light could escape.

"How do you feel this morning?" I asked.

"I am surprised at how well I do feel. If it wasn't for my hands I would feel fine," he replied cordially, sort of self-congratulatory, a half smile creeping about his non-secretive mouth.

"Moisten the inside of your gloves with petroleum, and your hands will soon heal if you are careful," I advised quietly. "The oilers will give you some."

"It is the first time in my life that my system has had the nicotine and other bug juices washed out of it; a cigarette tastes different now," he exulted, though evidently looking for sympathy.

"Do you know," he continued, as he cornered a chunk of meat in the bottom of the pan and tried to sever it with the ancient cutlery, "I always thought I could work, and now I know it."

"Then this is really your maiden labor sweat?" I asked, seemingly incredulous.

"Say," he began, still laboring with the meat, "I think this ship bought a job lot of sheep, and there were some granddaddies in the lot." I smiled an assent.

"If any one had told me a few days ago that I would be sitting on board a ship before an oak plank, eating old ram with relish, and out of a laundry vessel at that, I would have believed him insane."

I laughed outright and mumbled something about "crises in every one's life."

"My crisis came, all right, the other day. It was like the sidewalk coming up and hitting me in the face, it so upset me—oh, it was terrible. I am surprised that I can talk about it so soon." There was a ruefulness and disappointment in his tone.

I smiled encouragingly as he went on.

"I knew there was trouble ahead when the Governor called me into his office—there always was—but I expected, as usual, to win him over. I found for the first time why men called him a 'Gold-Beater.' I sat across a long table from him, never before realizing how big a man he was, his chest seemingly as broad as those of two ordinary men. He wasn't mad, just cold and immovable. He gave me some money and told me that was the last. I had to get out and work or starve. What I decided to do did not interest him. He said he didn't want to see me again and that he didn't care whether I went to hell or to work." Strong spoke as one recalling a nightmare.

"I suppose you have not been able to figure out yet who is right?" I asked.

"Oh, I think there is little doubt who is right, but just how long it will take me to recognize the fact is the question. You see, the Governor was never stingy or tight with me. That's why he was called a 'Gold-Beater'; he has made money, but he owns the money instead of it owning him—at least that's what his cronies say. And there's no doubt about the fact that I should go to work, but in the two or three days I have had to think about it I can't see why he waited so long. It's downright wrong to allow a fellow to believe he's got nothing to do but spend money and get into trouble for years at a stretch, then stop everything all of a sudden. I think that's where the Governor's wrong. But, you see, I can work, and I'm going to fool the old man." Bending over toward me, he added, "But I don't know how I would have come out on my first try if it hadn't been for you."

"Oh—I have done nothing but pass on to you what was done for me when I started. Later on you will perhaps admit that men who work with their hands, if approached right, are more kindly disposed and even more generous than others. But I am glad you speak English, to say nothing of finding a good fellow," I replied, approvingly.

"Well, I am not only glad to find some one who uses English, but, like the kid I really am, I am glad you listen to me. I got such a jolt. You see, it was the first time I ever felt the lash of the paternal whip, and one or two cuts were enough. I now know why the Governor is such a power among men—he does things so thoroughly and quietly. There wasn't any row—he was ready for me and I don't realize yet how well he prepared things, or how much he apparently knows of my movements——" He hesitated with a sorrowful shake of his head and resumed eating.

"You found he was checking you up pretty close?" said I, to urge him on.

"He must have known just how many breaths I took. He said I was a poor investment: that since my mother died when I was three I had cost him about two hundred thousand, and he was closing out a poor proposition. He informed me that I was to consider myself no more a son of his; was even sorry I would have to use his name. And the two thousand, his share of fixing up a man that I, and three others, ran down in the park with an auto, was the last assessment he would stand; and before I knew what was really happening I was leaving without even a good-by. I knew I was going to work, but thought I would have a last grand night and then pull out. But do you know, that in less than an hour, wherever I went, every one knew that Hiram Strong, Jr., had been disinherited and kicked out. I then learned what New York thinks of a 'has-been.' I tried to drown the thought in liquor, but it floated in spite of my most frantic efforts. I guess there was a good deal of the last pickle in me when you saw me first?"

I laughed and Strong continued:

"Oh, I'm going to beat it—I've got to beat it," he said, closing his mouth savagely and tossing the empty pan down toward the other end of the table. "I guess it's about time for us to go to hell, isn't it?" he added, lighting a cigarette.

"Yes—all we need down in that hole is the boss with a pitch-fork tail; we've got the shovel, coal and heat."

"Say, Ben—I believe I heard them call you Ben—do you think the 'Old Boy' with the forked tail gives his furnace men four hours on and eight off, and great granddaddy sheep stew for eats and makes 'em sleep in tiers?" he asked, as we laughed our way to the boiler-room.

CHAPTER IV

Hiram Strong was in need of oil for his gloves, and, left to myself, my mind reverted to the conversation I had overheard between the ship's officers. Shoreward, about a half-mile, I could make out a lightship. Being somewhat familiar with the coast, I decided it must be the Cape Charles light. As soon as we were abreast of it, our ship changed its course several points to the west and seaward, just as the officer said it would. I observed this and recalled the other officer's cocksureness that the ship had been running by or through the supposed mine field for months. Nevertheless I confessed to myself a distinct feeling of anxiety as we went down into the region Hiram had properly designated as "Hell," to begin another four-hour draft on endurance and vitality. Though silent, Strong remained cheerful and never for a moment allowed his steam gauge to drop. The draft was good, making the work easier.

There is something about labor in intense heat that calls for silence, but after an extended stillness there comes an oppressive feeling that makes one want to break out into a yell. Often in a steel mill a weird howl will be started by some one, to be taken up by others until a bedlam is created among the thousands of workers. There is a certain rhythm in it, a sort of boisterous chant, a good-natured protest against conditions. Then, suddenly, it will die out just as quickly as it started and quiet will reign for an hour or two.

Such a yell had been started by an Italian standing under the ventilator. Then it was that I learned that Hiram Strong had a voice, and although more than half our watch had passed, he felt vigorous enough to join in the general outbreak.

As though in protest against the riotous exhibition, the engines stopped, a circumstance that regular firemen secretly desire, for it means a respite in their conflict with the blazing furnace and grates, with the excitement of uncertainty added. The pause may continue for a minute or an hour. At any rate the trouble in this case had been shifted to the engine room.

Before the engines first stopped I thought I heard a noise, but it wasn't loud enough to attract the attention of others, so concluded it must have been a slight shift in the cargo near us and gave it no further thought.

Hiram accompanied me to the far end of the furnace room for water, after which we returned and sat down on the hot, iron-sheeted floor against the bulkhead that flanked our station, from which point we viewed the whole length of the narrow corridor between the battery of blazing furnaces that generated the ship's power.

"Did you ever read Dante's Inferno?" he surprised me by asking.

"Yes, but not recently."

"A tutor made me read it as punishment. You know, I never would study. I guess that's what makes the Governor so sore. I tried three colleges and flunked. I was so infernally worthless that I wouldn't even go in for athletics; but what I started to say was that I believe Dante must have known about the furnace room of a steamship, when the engines were at a standstill." He said all this with a sleepy grin.

I could see what he meant. The engines had been stopped but a few minutes when the entire fire-room crew succumbed to a lethargic sleep. A serrated ridge of coal two feet high extended the entire length of the room, on which they had disposed themselves in all sorts of postures—some curled up like animals going into hibernation, others sprawled out full length, and there were many who lay as though stricken dead while in a reclining position. Most of the crew who worked in overalls, with bodies bared above the waist, black and grimy to the tousled hair now matted with sweat, laid carelessly about as in death from convulsions. In some cases they were in such a position that the fierce light from the cracks in the furnace doors gave their faces a weird, deathly appearance, and after noting this, I glanced at Hiram and saw that he, too, had succumbed, his head resting heavily against the supporting bulkhead.

A sweet, irresistible languor now dulled my perseverance to keep awake. How long I slept was uncertain, but I do know that I was awakened with a start by dreaming of an immense wave, much higher than the ship, a solid perpendicular wall of green sea bearing us down—a veritable tidal wave. I was sure the ship could not survive. Hiram was tugging at my sleeve.

"Ben—Ben, wake up; we have struck something and the ship is sinking!" He did not seem frightened, just urgent.

"What!—What's that?" I asked, wondering if I was still dreaming.

"We've been asleep an hour. The ship's deserted; I can't find a living soul on board! Passengers, crew, and boats are all gone!" he cried, catching me by the arm and helping me to rise hastily. "Nobody on board but the engine-room shift."

If the effect of this information on me was magical, it was electrical on other firemen and the coal passers. One and all seemed to hear it instantly and made a rush for the narrow, iron stairs leading up, which could accommodate but one at a time. Here they fought, as if in death's last throes.

With a fiendishness indescribable, twelve or fifteen men massed seemingly into one great squirming monster, all legs and arms, kicking, striking, biting, shouldering and trampling each other, emitting groans and execrations in all languages. The struggle was to determine who should ascend the stairs first.

Young Strong seemed deeply moved by this exhibition, but stood beside me, superior, contemptuous, little impressed with the danger. He turned toward me, saying—

"Let 'em fight it out; she isn't going to sink at once; she has floated an hour. It's full daylight and good weather. Did you ever see human beings so quickly turned into writhing snakes?"

"Suppose we turn the water on them," I suggested, and we both ran for an inch hose used to wet down the coal.

Hiram aimed the nozzle at the struggling mass while I opened the valve releasing the high pressure stream which shot forth upon their bodies. This had a cooling effect upon all but two who were lost to their own safety in the vicious fight over a screaming woman. These we shoved aside, while the prospective victim escaped. We then hurried up the three flights of stairs to the main deck where others were attempting to lower one of two remaining lifeboats.

Strong, cool and collected, said, "The bow sunk an hour ago. The sea is washing over it." The damage was located ahead of the forward bulkheads and the ship would probably float until they gave way.

"We must get our bags, Strong," said I, starting forward to our steerage quarters. He followed, though a little dubious about taking the time. Our quarters, though not flooded, were very wet.

Strong grabbed up all of his belongings that were outside of his bag, while I attempted to free the chain that held them to the stanchion against possible larceny. It seemed an interminable time before I found the key. Then we hurried back to where a mass of fighting men were lowering a lifeboat.

"Good God, Ben; what is this?" exclaimed Hiram, as we rounded the deckhouse to where the boats had been hanging. All but one had been lowered and apparently all would be saved but ourselves and one officer in uniform—he was the captain! There was no mistaking his great bulk, lumpy skin and small piggish eyes.

As we approached he turned upon us as though we had done him great injury and swore like a pirate. He held in his hand a pistol of ancient pattern as big as an anchor shank.

"I don't believe they would have stopped if I had killed every damned one of 'em!" he shouted, as if to overawe us, "but you needn't think you are going to get away. You've got to stay," he added, gritting his teeth as he moved toward us, holding the aged shooting-iron down at his hip as clumsily as the usual officer of a merchantman.

I was greatly reassured by his presence on the ship, and also the remaining lifeboat. We were two against one and I was inclined to consider the humor of the situation.

"Why should we stay when every one else has gone, captain?" Hiram asked this question respectfully enough, glancing at me; then placed his grip against the deckhouse and deliberately laid across it his shirt, coat, necktie, hat and shoes.

The captain continued to focus his two ferocious eyes upon us, and took full time in which to answer Strong's question.

"Because this ship ain't goin' to sink, and you've got to help work it over to the beach!" he fairly shouted, unable to control himself. He was evidently of the old school and as appropriate on a passenger ship as a pig in a parlor. He was unable to see in us anything more than ordinary firemen.

"How can two men run a big ship like this?" Strong asked, keeping himself well in hand, though there was a glitter in his eye as he glanced at me, while advancing toward the captain, who still held the firearm in a hip position against his six feet and two hundred and fifty pounds of flesh.

"That's for me to say," he shot back threateningly, "an' if you don't do it I'll put you in irons."

"We can't see it that way, captain; besides, I'm afraid——" Then something happened which indicated that Strong had acquired the art of jiujitsu.

With the litheness of a cat he sprang violently forward, struck the captain's wrist that held the gun, and the immense revolver dropped to the deck with a thud. Strong quickly kicked it overboard with the same agility.

"Captain, I was just going to say that you seemed to handle that gun awkwardly and I feared it might go off accidentally," he said, as he jumped back beyond reach. The captain's florid, lumpy face now ran scarlet, his eyes glaring like those of an old dog in futile rage. He swallowed hard but could not articulate.

"You allowed the passengers and crew to leave, but left the firemen down in that hell hole to drown like rats. We are inclined to hold that against you, captain," said Strong, quietly enough. "There is one boat left and we are going along, too," he said, turning to me as I edged over toward the boat.

"Didn't I stay?" the captain was finally able to say in a shaky voice, with some trace of a plea.

"Yes, you stayed, because you would be put down for a coward if you hadn't, and if there is any profit or glory you get it. I've traveled on ships before when I wasn't firing," Strong replied forcefully, but with no trace of anger, coming over to where I was engaged in placing our baggage in the lifeboat.

"But we can save the ship if you'll help—I'm willing to pay you extra if you'll stay," said the captain, pleading outright now.

"Well, that sounds different—how much will you give us to stay and take chances?" Strong asked quickly, assuming a bargaining attitude, but still assisting me to lower the boat.

"Why, I'll—I'll give you fifty dollars apiece," he offered, as though making a tremendous sacrifice.

"Fifty dollars don't look good to me—how about it, Ben?" he asked, as we halted the boat a few feet from the water. "The news headlines will state that the captain went down with the ship, but two firemen drowning with him wouldn't be worth an agate line."

CHAPTER V

Hiram Strong, Jr., amazed me. Surely this was an outcropping of the Gold-Beater's blood. He may not ever be a Gold-Beater as the term was applied to his male parent, but he was destined to be a gold-getter, for he displayed evidence of that trait when he stood there actually dickering with the captain for a sum beyond a month's wages as a fireman.

The seas breaking over the sunken bow of the vessel, and a cargo in the hold worth at least a million and a half, he had only the captain's word that the ship would not sink at any moment. However, he saw by my attitude that I also thought that the wreck could be salvaged.

And he also saw that the ship was wallowing in the trough of the sea, while the lifeboat was near the water on the lea side, and he knew that I could handle it.

"You see, captain, we have only your word that she isn't going to sink, and we have lost confidence in you. You left us three stories down there to drown like rats. You got everybody else off and never thought of your firemen."

"I couldn't think of everything, and I tell you she is not going to sink," shouted the captain, coming closer and pounding the rail with his big fat hand. "I've got to get her to anchorage or on the beach, and you've got to help. Fifty dollars is enough; that's nearly a month's wages," he added, trying to avoid his usual overbearing.

"Why did you let the crew go?" Hiram shot at him.

"I didn't know the for'd bulkhead was holding then. You know if the for'd head holds she can't sink," he said vehemently, appealing to me this time. But before I could answer Hiram was after him again.

"And you left us to drown! Our lives are just as valuable to us as any of the rest of the crew, and maybe more than some of them," he said, looking meaningly at the captain, who squirmed visibly, now realizing that we were not ordinary firemen.

"I'll give you a hundred apiece. Now stop talking and come on. We'll have to run her stern fore-most, and if we can keep the wheel going enough for steerage way, the wind will blow us in," haggled the captain like an old market woman.

"A hundred dollars will not interest me; how about you, Ben?" Hiram turned to me and began taking the lifeboat's rope from the cleet and I did the same. "You can stay here and drown if you want to, but we're going. The water here looks pretty deep, and I understand when a ship goes down it makes a pretty big hole into which we might fall," he added as we began to lower the boat.

"How much do you want? I've got to save her," he pleaded now, walking back and forth like a caged hyena.

"If you hadn't let your wireless man go you would have had a tug or another ship here by this time and they would take as salvage only about a quarter of a million," suggested Hiram with a cynical smile, stopping the descent of the boat and making fast again. "We'll stay, but you've got to pay. Ben here knows something about the engines and I will shovel the coal, but you've got to give us two-fifty apiece," he added, taking away my breath and almost prostrating the captain.

The captain began to pace the deck again, then pausing in front of Hiram, he said, as though imbued with a big idea: "All right, I guess I'll have to do it, but you've got to hustle." Moving over to me, he asked if I knew how to start the engines, to which I nodded an affirmative.

"But, Captain," interrupted Hiram forcibly, "it's got to be cash," and there came to his mirthful mouth a certain hardness that surprised me, and again started incipient apoplexy within the captain.

"If I say you'll get it, you'll get it. Isn't my word good for that much?" he blurted out, trying to control his rage.

"Captain, you left us to drown just like kittens you would like to be rid of. Your word isn't worth a counterfeit dollar. I wouldn't trust you for shoestrings. We've got to have the cash—now!" There was genuine bitterness in Hiram's voice.

"I haven't that much cash on the ship," pleaded the captain, but with a sort of wolfish gleam in his eyes.

"All right, then. Come on, Ben, let's get out of this. I wouldn't take his word for one of his firemen's rations of soup and lumpy stew, and if he gave us the company's I. O. U., we wouldn't get it for a month, and they'd red-tape it to death," he ended, starting for the ropes again.

"Wait a minute and I'll see," coaxed the captain, starting up to his quarters nearby.

"The old liar; he's got it, all right. Say, Ben, do you really think she will float—it seems to me the bow is farther down than it was?" he queried me with something of a chuckle.

"Yes, I think it will. The sea is a little higher than it was, and that makes the ship seem lower, but if it gets worse there may be some danger."

"Do you think we can afford to take the chance?"

"I think we can get away in the lifeboat if the ship gets lower. I'll watch closely, but if we take the money we are bound to take the risk."

"Oh, if we take the money we will deliver the goods, but hang the money if the risk is too big."

"It's a fair bet. If we back in it will take the strain off the bulkhead, but if it does not hold, we'll have time to get away."

"Watch this old jockey; he'll come rushing back with part of the money, saying that's all he could find." Hiram, Jr., had hardly finished when the captain came rushing down and gave us in bills the exact amount, cheerfully, and apparently disposed to treat us as equals.

"Now, boys, we're only about twenty miles off Hampton Roads, and if you can keep a couple of boilers hot, we'll be there in three hours, and your job's done. The tide is right and we might be able to get clear in."

We hauled the lifeboat up so that the sea would not wash over it, but left our belongings in it, and then hurried below. There was enough steam left in the boilers to swing the ship, stern shoreward, and matters looked well. I hurried to the furnace room, where I found Hiram stripped to the waist, working as if the ship belonged to him. He had wisely selected the four boilers beside which was the most coal, and seemed to forget that his hands were sore and his body all too green for such an effort. I aided him as much as I could and then ran back to the engines, repeating this operation for two hours. I noticed that the lightship off the harbor was gradually growing plainer. The upper part of our propeller blades were exposed because of the ship's nose dip. We were losing a great deal of power due to that fact. Soon we picked up a pilot and in another two hours we slowly made the harbor on less than one leg, and we were through.

"The greatest job ever pulled off! No salvage on this ship or cargo," the captain chuckled, rubbing his hands. "Now, let's go ashore and get some food," he added as cheerfully as would a miser fingering gold. He had not left the wheel house or given an order since we started. However, before we got through washing up Hiram began to droop and was hardly able to walk to a Turkish bath after we got ashore at Norfolk.

He did not improve much, even with a good rub-down after the bath, and I knew it was the hospital for him. Before the doctors got through with his examination he was in a wild delirium and they shook their heads. It was a bad case of exhaustion, and nothing but a strong heart would save him.

CHAPTER VI

The newspapers spread on the wreck story next morning and I read about it while sitting by Hiram Strong's bedside in the hospital. The captain got the glory and credit, although the man, a mere boy, now tossing unconscious on the pillow, was the one to whom all credit belonged. In his delirium he muttered from time to time. Every now and then he would say—"Ben, he was going to let us drown—drown like rats in a trap!"

The nurse gently unbandaged his hands to show me their condition. The palms were cooked—black and seamy—like an overdone roast. But he was now clean, and handsome, his dark, wavy hair mounting high against the white pillow, all trace of dissipation having disappeared from his skin. That was fair and clear, though slightly flushed with fever. The smile hovering about his mouth appeared to be at the point of breaking out into a hearty laugh.

Surely his first attempt at a useful life was not a success, for which I held myself partly to blame. If I had said "no" to the captain's proposal we would have come away like the rest of the crew.

Three days found him much better, and when I came to see him he delighted me with his cheerful manner.

"Hello, Ben!" he chanted with an infectious smile. "I would like to shake, but my hands are wrapped up just like a petrified mummy."

Naturally I looked pleased that matters were no worse, and he continued to talk.

"Say, Ben, it was good of you to stick, bring me here, and then come every day to see me. I woke up in the night and the nurse—God bless her—she is a kind soul—she told me all about it."

"Hiram, as we were sort of partners in crime I had to stick."

"But say, we brought the ship in, didn't we? Sit around nearer the foot of the bed where I can see you. My tongue is about the only part of me I can move. Every bone in my body feels as though it was broken twice, and every rib creaks when I breathe. Job never had anything on me." He tried to laugh, but brought up short, ending with a groan.

"You'll be all right in a day or two if you take things easy."

"Oh, I'll not stay here long, Doc or no Doc. I'm only sore and that doesn't count for much. Ben, do you know what I would like to have right now?—a porterhouse steak, thick as a flagstone, smothered in mushrooms, and I'm going to have it if there's one in the town. By the way, what town are we in, Ben?"

"Better stick here till to-morrow anyway, then we will see how you feel," I said, ignoring his question.

"All right, old partner, but not a minute longer—they're mighty good to me, but I don't like the carbolic odor that comes floating down the hall. It makes me think of a Long Island fertilizing plant, or a morgue."

The next morning he put on his clothes, which had been renovated and pressed, with many "Oh's" and "Ah's" and "Ouch's," but withal he was good-natured and smiling. Then we started after the much coveted porterhouse and mushrooms. At first he toddled like an aged man, holding on to me. The effort was painful, but in a short time his locomotion was normal and likewise his good nature.

After a prodigious meal and a favorite cigarette he again surprised me by putting a question that was hard to answer.

"Where do we go from here?" he asked, looking inside his hands, which were still in a deplorable state.

"What—so soon?" I parried.

"Yes—after I came out of my luny funk at the hospital, I had time to think things over, duly and truly and soberly. You know, I haven't had a drink since we left New York, and I don't want one. This strenuous life rather appeals to me now that I have found I have a good body—as good as any one's—and it's got to work without getting sore or fluffing up with blisters. Besides, the Governor gave me the toe of his shoe and said I wasn't worth a 'cuss,' and I am going to show him." There was great determination in the manner in which he blew out the smoke of his cigarette.

"I think we will find an employment office here," I suggested mildly.

"Take me to it. I'm ready now," he said quickly, though hardly able to sit up in bed, but when we came to the employment office he hung back, insisting that I should be the spokesman. The face of the man in charge was heavy and florid. He might easily have passed for a gambler, confidence man, or race-horse tout. He sized us up critically before he replied:

"The only man I need is quartermaster—ship bound for New Orleans to take on cotton. You can sign again there for Liverpool if you want to."

Strong heard what was said and I moved toward him inquiringly.

"I don't care what it is, so long as you think it's all right. It can't be any worse than firing."

I explained to him in an undertone that the quartermaster steered the vessel, the hardest part of the job being to remain on one's feet four to six hours at a time, to which he replied quickly:

"That sounds good if I can do it."

"I can teach you in a few hours."

"All right, let's sign," he said, coming over.

We went to a second-hand store, found a book on practical seamanship, and I spent the afternoon familiarizing him with his duties, after which we went aboard. He seemed keen to know everything about a ship.

The captain, a jolly good fellow, asked us a few questions, seemed pleased, winked knowingly, and gave us a room to ourselves on deck just back of the officers' quarters, and told us to arrange the watches to suit ourselves. It was to be six hours on, six off, and we would sail at eight that night.

The next five days went by speedily. Our course was down the coast through the Straits of Florida and the Gulf of Mexico to the bar; thence to the little white lighthouse at the entrance of the Mississippi, over a hundred miles from New Orleans.

I wondered at Hiram constantly. He was so alert and apt that he never came in for a reprimand, never again referred to his father or his future plans, or craved liquor—an ample supply of his favorite cigarettes seemed to satisfy him. He had no time for stories, nor did he speak of women, or of any escapades in which he may have been involved. He was actually glad to be making his way by toil. With hands all healed he became quite normal, and was altogether a fine minded man. While such a rapid change might not be permanent, he appeared not only to have turned over a new leaf, but to have lost all taste for the habits and customs of his previous life.

Things went well with us and we sped along at a lively clip. I was at the wheel on the last watch that would take us into dock at New Orleans about midnight.

"Pop has been talking some"—Strong, from the beginning, had referred to the captain as Pop—"and wants us to sign up for a round trip to Liverpool. He says it's sixty dollars and fifty per cent extra for going the submarine zone."

"Then I guess we must have done our work all right," I replied, noncommittal. "What do you——"

"Ben," he interrupted, "why are you married to the sea?"

"I never considered that I was—I have never been blessed or cursed by being married to any one or anything—one has to make a living somehow." It was perfectly dark in the wheel-house with the exception of the tiny hooded light over the compass, and I couldn't see Hiram's face.

"A fireman can become an engineer and stops there?" he surprised me by putting forth a question in just that way. I paused before replying.

"Yes—usually."

"A seaman can become captain, and then his road gets very narrow and steep toward further advancement?" he persisted.

"Yes," I replied, wondering what was on his mind.

"It strikes me a man of your ability is wasting his time at sea—I don't see any future—what about wireless men?"

"They get ninety dollars a month," I replied, amused and still wondering.

"What about telegraphing?" he then asked.

The Yazoo Mystery: A Novel