Captains All and Others by W.W. Jacobs

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"Dadd," said I, softly, "Dadd!"

There was no reply, and, with a view of arousing him, I tapped one sinewy
hand as it gripped the wheel, and even tried to loosen it.

He remained immovable, and, suddenly with a great cry, my courage
deserted me, and Bill and I fairly bolted down into the cabin and woke
the skipper.

Then we saw how it was with Jem, and two strong seamen forcibly loosened
the grip of those rigid fingers, and, laying him on the deck, covered him
with a piece of canvas. The rest of the night two men stayed at the
wheel, and, gazing fearfully at the outline of the canvas, longed for
dawn.

It came at last, and, breakfast over, the body was sewn up in canvas, and
the skipper held a short service compiled from a Bible which belonged to
the mate, and what he remembered of the Burial Service proper. Then the
corpse went overboard with a splash, and the men, after standing
awkwardly together for a few minutes, slowly dispersed to their duties.

For the rest of that day we were all very quiet and restrained; pity for
the dead man being mingled with a dread of taking the wheel when night
came.

"The wheel's haunted," said the cook, solemnly; "mark my words, there's
more of you will be took the same way Dadd was."

The cook, like myself, had no watch to keep.

The men bore up pretty well until night came on again, and then they
unanimously resolved to have a double watch. The cook, sorely against
his will, was impressed into the service, and I, glad to oblige my
patron, agreed to stay up with Bill.

Some of the pleasure had vanished by the time night came, and I seemed
only just to have closed my eyes when Bill came, and, with a rough shake
or two, informed me that the time had come. Any hope that I might have
had of escaping the ordeal was at once dispelled by his expectant
demeanour, and the helpful way in which he assisted me with my clothes,
and, yawning terribly, I followed him on deck.

The night was not so clear as the preceding one, and the air was chilly,
with a little moisture in it. I buttoned up my jacket, and thrust my
hands in my pockets.

"Everything quiet?" asked Bill as he stepped up and took the wheel.

"Ay, ay," said Roberts, "quiet as the grave," and, followed by his
willing mate, he went below.

I sat on the deck by Bill's side as, with a light touch on the wheel,
he kept the brig to her course. It was weary work sitting there, doing
nothing, and thinking of the warm berth below, and I believe that I
should have fallen asleep, but that my watchful companion stirred me with
his foot whenever he saw me nodding.

I suppose I must have sat there, shivering and yawning, for about an
hour, when, tired of inactivity, I got up and went and leaned over the
side of the vessel. The sound of the water gurgling and lapping by was
so soothing that I began to doze.

I was recalled to my senses by a smothered cry from Bill, and, running to
him, I found him staring to port in an intense and uncomfortable fashion.
At my approach, he took one hand from the wheel, and gripped my arm so
tightly that I was like to have screamed with the pain of it.

"Jack," said he, in a shaky voice, "while you was away something popped
its head up, and looked over the ship's side."

"You've been dreaming," said I, in a voice which was a very fair
imitation of Bill's own.

"Dreaming," repeated Bill, "dreaming! Ah, look there!"

He pointed with outstretched finger, and my heart seemed to stop beating
as I saw a man's head appear above the side. For a brief space it peered
at us in silence, and then a dark figure sprang like a cat on to the
deck, and stood crouching a short distance away.

A mist came before my eyes, and my tongue failed me, but Bill let off a
roar, such as I have never heard before or since. It was answered from
below, both aft and for'ard, and the men came running up on deck just as
they left their beds.

"What's up?" shouted the skipper, glancing aloft.

For answer, Bill pointed to the intruder, and the men, who had just
caught sight of him, came up and formed a compact knot by the wheel.

"Come over the side, it did," panted Bill, "come over like a ghost out of
the sea."

The skipper took one of the small lamps from the binnacle, and, holding
it aloft, walked boldly up to the cause of alarm. In the little patch of
light we saw a ghastly black-bearded man, dripping with water, regarding
us with unwinking eyes, which glowed red in the light of the lamp.

"Where did you come from?" asked the skipper.

The figure shook its head.

"Where did you come from?" he repeated, walking up, and laying his hand
on the other's shoulder.

Then the intruder spoke, but in a strange fashion and in strange words.
We leaned forward to listen, but, even when he repeated them, we could
make nothing of them.

"He's a furriner," said Roberts.

"Blest if I've ever 'eard the lingo afore," said Bill. "Does anybody
rekernize it?"

Nobody did, and the skipper, after another attempt, gave it up, and,
falling back upon the universal language of signs, pointed first to the
man and then to the sea. The other understood him, and, in a heavy,
slovenly fashion, portrayed a man drifting in an open boat, and clutching
and clambering up the side of a passing ship. As his meaning dawned upon
us, we rushed to the stern, and, leaning over, peered into the gloom, but
the night was dark, and we saw nothing.

"Well," said the skipper, turning to Bill, with a mighty yawn, "take him
below, and give him some grub, and the next time a gentleman calls on
you, don't make such a confounded row about it."

He went below, followed by the mate, and after some slight hesitation,
Roberts stepped up to the intruder, and signed to him to follow. He came
stolidly enough, leaving a trail of water on the deck, and, after
changing into the dry things we gave him, fell to, but without much
appearance of hunger, upon some salt beef and biscuits, regarding us
between bites with black, lack-lustre eyes.

"He seems as though he's a-walking in his sleep," said the cook.

"He ain't very hungry," said one of the men; "he seems to mumble his
food."

"Hungry!" repeated Bill, who had just left the wheel. "Course he ain't
famished. He had his tea last night."

The men stared at him in bewilderment.

"Don't you see?" said Bill, still in a hoarse whisper; "ain't you ever
seen them eyes afore? Don't you know what he used to say about dying?
It's Jem Dadd come back to us. Jem Dadd got another man's body, as he
always said he would."

"Rot!" said Roberts, trying to speak bravely, but he got up, and, with
the others, huddled together at the end of the fo'c's'le, and stared in a
bewildered fashion at the sodden face and short, squat figure of our
visitor. For his part, having finished his meal, he pushed his plate
from him, and, leaning back on the locker, looked at the empty bunks.

Roberts caught his eye, and, with a nod and a wave of his hand, indicated
the bunks. The fellow rose from the locker, and, amid a breathless
silence, climbed into one of them--Jem Dadd's!

He slept in the dead sailor's bed that night, the only man in the
fo'c's'le who did sleep properly, and turned out heavily and lumpishly in
the morning for breakfast.

The skipper had him on deck after the meal, but could make nothing of
him. To all his questions he replied in the strange tongue of the night
before, and, though our fellows had been to many ports, and knew a word
or two of several languages, none of them recognized it. The skipper
gave it up at last, and, left to himself, he stared about him for some
time, regardless of our interest in his movements, and then, leaning
heavily against the side of the ship, stayed there so long that we
thought he must have fallen asleep.

"He's half-dead now!" whispered Roberts.

"Hush!" said Bill, "mebbe he's been in the water a week or two, and can't
quite make it out. See how he's looking at it now."

He stayed on deck all day in the sun, but, as night came on, returned to
the warmth of the fo'c's'le. The food we gave him remained untouched,
and he took little or no notice of us, though I fancied that he saw the
fear we had of him. He slept again in the dead man's bunk, and when
morning came still lay there.

Until dinner-time, nobody interfered with him, and then Roberts, pushed
forward by the others, approached him with some food. He motioned, it
away with a dirty, bloated hand, and, making signs for water, drank it
eagerly.

For two days he stayed there quietly, the black eyes always open, the
stubby fingers always on the move. On the third morning Bill, who had
conquered his fear sufficiently to give him water occasionally, called
softly to us.

"Come and look at him," said he. "What's the matter with him?"

"He's dying!" said the cook, with a shudder.

"He can't be going to die yet!" said Bill, blankly.

As he spoke the man's eyes seemed to get softer and more life-like, and
he looked at us piteously and helplessly. From face to face he gazed in
mute inquiry, and then, striking his chest feebly with his fist, uttered
two words.

We looked at each other blankly, and he repeated them eagerly, and again
touched his chest.

"It's his name," said the cook, and we all repeated them.

He smiled in an exhausted fashion, and then, rallying his energies, held
up a forefinger; as we stared at this new riddle, he lowered it, and held
up all four fingers, doubled.

"Come away," quavered the cook; "he's putting a spell on us."

We drew back at that, and back farther still, as he repeated the motions.
Then Bill's face cleared suddenly, and he stepped towards him.

"He means his wife and younkers!" he shouted eagerly. "This ain't no Jem
Dadd!"

It was good then to see how our fellows drew round the dying sailor, and
strove to cheer him. Bill, to show he understood the finger business,
nodded cheerily, and held his hand at four different heights from the
floor. The last was very low, so low that the man set his lips together,
and strove to turn his heavy head from us.

"Poor devil!" said Bill, "he wants us to tell his wife and children
what's become of him. He must ha' been dying when he come aboard. What
was his name, again?"

But the name was not easy to English lips, and we had already forgotten
it.

"Ask him again," said the cook, "and write it down. Who's got a pen?"

He went to look for one as Bill turned to the sailor to get him to repeat
it. Then he turned round again, and eyed us blankly, for, by this time,
the owner had himself forgotten it.

THE FOUR PIGEONS

[Illustration: "The Four Pigeons."]

The old man took up his mug and shifted along the bench until he was in
the shade of the elms that stood before the _Cauliflower_. The action also
had the advantage of bringing him opposite the two strangers who were
refreshing themselves after the toils of a long walk in the sun.

"My hearing ain't wot it used to be," he said, tremulously. "When you
asked me to have a mug o' ale I 'ardly heard you; and if you was to ask
me to 'ave another, I mightn't hear you at all."

One of the men nodded.

"Not over there," piped the old man. "That's why I come over here," he
added, after a pause. "It 'ud be rude like to take no notice; if you was
to ask me."

He looked round as the landlord approached, and pushed his mug gently in
his direction. The landlord, obeying a nod from the second stranger,
filled it.

"It puts life into me," said the old man, raising it to his lips and
bowing. "It makes me talk."

"Time we were moving, Jack," said the first traveller. The second,
assenting to this as an abstract proposition, expressed, however, a
determination to finish his pipe first.

I heard you saying something about shooting, continued the old man, and
that reminds me of some shooting we 'ad here once in Claybury. We've
always 'ad a lot o' game in these parts, and if it wasn't for a low,
poaching fellow named Bob Pretty--Claybury's disgrace I call 'im--we'd
'ave a lot more.

It happened in this way. Squire Rockett was going abroad to foreign
parts for a year, and he let the Hall to a gentleman from London named
Sutton. A real gentleman 'e was, open-'anded and free, and just about
October he 'ad a lot of 'is friends come down from London to 'elp 'im
kill the pheasants.

The first day they frightened more than they killed, but they enjoyed
theirselves all right until one gentleman, who 'adn't shot a single thing
all day, shot pore Bill Chambers wot was beating with about a dozen more.

Bill got most of it in the shoulder and a little in the cheek, but the
row he see fit to make you'd ha' thought he'd been killed. He laid on
the ground groaning with 'is eyes shut, and everybody thought 'e was
dying till Henery Walker stooped down and asked 'im whether 'e was hurt.

It took four men to carry Bill 'ome, and he was that particular you
wouldn't believe. They 'ad to talk in whispers, and when Peter Gubbins
forgot 'imself and began to whistle he asked him where his 'art was.
When they walked fast he said they jolted 'im, and when they walked slow
'e asked 'em whether they'd gone to sleep or wot.

Bill was in bed for nearly a week, but the gentleman was very nice about
it and said that it was his fault. He was a very pleasant-spoken
gentleman, and, arter sending Dr. Green to him and saying he'd pay the
bill, 'e gave Bill Chambers ten pounds to make up for 'is sufferings.

Bill 'ad intended to lay up for another week, and the doctor, wot 'ad
been calling twice a day, said he wouldn't be responsible for 'is life if
he didn't; but the ten pounds was too much for 'im, and one evening, just
a week arter the accident, he turned up at this _Cauliflower_ public-'ouse
and began to spend 'is money.

His face was bandaged up, and when 'e come in he walked feeble-like and
spoke in a faint sort o' voice. Smith, the landlord, got 'im a
easy-chair and a couple of pillers out o' the parlour, and Bill sat there
like a king, telling us all his sufferings and wot it felt like to be
shot.

I always have said wot a good thing beer is, and it done Bill more good
than doctor's medicine. When he came in he could 'ardly crawl, and at
nine o'clock 'e was out of the easy-chair and dancing on the table as
well as possible. He smashed three mugs and upset about two pints o'
beer, but he just put his 'and in his pocket and paid for 'em without a
word.

"There's plenty more where that came from," he ses, pulling out a handful
o' money.

Peter Gubbins looked at it, 'ardly able to speak. "It's worth while
being shot to 'ave all that money," he ses, at last.

"Don't you worry yourself, Peter," ses Bob Pretty; "there's plenty more
of you as'll be shot afore them gentlemen at the Hall 'as finished.
Bill's the fust, but 'e won't be the last--not by a long chalk."

"They're more careful now," ses Dicky Weed, the tailor.

"All right; 'ave it your own way," ses Bob, nasty-like. "I don't know
much about shooting, being on'y a pore labourin' man. All I know is I
shouldn't like to go beating for them. I'm too fond o' my wife and
family."

"There won't be no more shot," ses Sam Jones.

"We're too careful," ses Peter Gubbins.

"Bob Pretty don't know everything," ses Dicky Weed.

"I'll bet you what you like there'll be some more of you shot," ses Bob
Pretty, in a temper. "Now, then."

"'Ow much'll you bet, Bob," ses Sam Jones, with a wink at the others.
"I can see you winking, Sam Jones," ses Bob Pretty, "but I'll do more
than bet. The last bet I won is still owing to me. Now, look 'ere; I'll
pay you sixpence a week all the time you're beating if you promise to
give me arf of wot you get if you're shot. I can't say fairer than
that."

"Will you give me sixpence a week, too?" ses Henery Walker, jumping up.

"I will," ses Bob; "and anybody else that likes. And wot's more, I'll
pay in advance. Fust sixpences now."

Claybury men 'ave never been backward when there's been money to be made
easy, and they all wanted to join Bob Pretty's club, as he called it.
But fust of all 'e asked for a pen and ink, and then he got Smith, the
land-lord, being a scholard, to write out a paper for them to sign.
Henery Walker was the fust to write 'is name, and then Sam Jones, Peter
Gubbins, Ralph Thomson, Jem Hall, and Walter Bell wrote theirs. Bob
stopped 'em then, and said six 'ud be enough to go on with; and then 'e
paid up the sixpences and wished 'em luck.

Wot they liked a'most as well as the sixpences was the idea o' getting
the better o' Bob Pretty. As I said afore, he was a poacher, and that
artful that up to that time nobody 'ad ever got the better of 'im.

They made so much fun of 'im the next night that Bob turned sulky and
went off 'ome, and for two or three nights he 'ardly showed his face; and
the next shoot they 'ad he went off to Wickham and nobody saw 'im all
day.

That very day Henery Walker was shot. Several gentlemen fired at a
rabbit that was started, and the next thing they knew Henery Walker was
lying on the ground calling out that 'is leg 'ad been shot off.

He made more fuss than Bill Chambers a'most, 'specially when they dropped
'im off a hurdle carrying him 'ome, and the things he said to Dr. Green
for rubbing his 'ands as he came into the bedroom was disgraceful.

The fust Bob Pretty 'eard of it was up at the _Cauliflower_ at eight
o'clock that evening, and he set down 'is beer and set off to see Henery
as fast as 'is legs could carry 'im. Henery was asleep when 'e got
there, and, do all he could, Bob Pretty couldn't wake 'im till he sat
down gentle on 'is bad leg.

[Illustration: "The fust Bob Pretty 'eard of it was up at the
_Cauliflower_ at eight o'clock that evening."]

"It's on'y me, old pal," he ses, smiling at 'im as Henery woke up and
shouted at 'im to get up.

Henery Walker was going to say something bad, but 'e thought better of
it, and he lay there arf busting with rage, and watching Bob out of the
corner of one eye.

"I quite forgot you was on my club till Smith reminded me of it," ses
Bob. "Don't you take a farthing less than ten pounds, Henery."

Henery Walker shut his eyes again. "I forgot to tell you I made up my
mind this morning not to belong to your club any more, Bob," he ses.

"Why didn't you come and tell me, Henery, instead of leaving it till it
was too late?" ses Bob, shaking his 'ead at 'im.

"I shall want all that money," ses Henery in a weak voice. "I might 'ave
to have a wooden leg, Bob."

"Don't meet troubles arf way, Henery," ses Bob, in a kind voice. "I've
no doubt Mr. Sutton'll throw in a wooden leg if you want it, and look
here, if he does, I won't trouble you for my arf of it."

He said good-night to Henery and went off, and when Mrs. Walker went up
to see 'ow Henery was getting on he was carrying on that alarming that
she couldn't do nothing with 'im.

He was laid up for over a week, though it's my opinion he wasn't much
hurt, and the trouble was that nobody knew which gentleman 'ad shot 'im.
Mr. Sutton talked it over with them, and at last, arter a good deal o'
trouble, and Henery pulling up 'is trousers and showing them 'is leg till
they was fair sick of the sight of it, they paid 'im ten pounds, the same
as they 'ad Bill.

It took Bob Pretty two days to get his arf, but he kept very quiet about
it, not wishing to make a fuss in the village for fear Mr. Sutton should
get to hear of the club. At last he told Henery Walker that 'e was going
to Wickham to see 'is lawyer about it, and arter Smith the landlord 'ad
read the paper to Henery and explained 'ow he'd very likely 'ave to pay
more than the whole ten pounds then, 'e gave Bob his arf and said he
never wanted to see 'im again as long as he lived.

Bob stood treat up at the _Cauliflower_ that night, and said 'ow bad he'd
been treated. The tears stood in 'is eyes a'most, and at last 'e said
that if 'e thought there was going to be any more fuss of that kind he'd
wind up the club.

"It's the best thing you can do," ses Sam Jones; "I'm not going to belong
to it any longer, so I give you notice. If so be as I get shot I want
the money for myself."

"Me, too," ses Peter Gubbins; "it 'ud fair break my 'art to give Bob
Pretty five pounds. I'd sooner give it to my wife."

All the other chaps said the same thing, but Bob pointed out to them that
they 'ad taken their sixpences on'y the night afore, and they must stay
in for the week. He said that was the law. Some of 'em talked about
giving 'im 'is sixpences back, but Bob said if they did they must pay up
all the sixpences they had 'ad for three weeks. The end of it was they
said they'd stay in for that week and not a moment longer.

The next day Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins altered their minds. Sam found
a couple o' shillings that his wife 'ad hidden in her Sunday bonnet, and
Peter Gubbins opened 'is boy's money-box to see 'ow much there was in it.
They came up to the _Cauliflower_ to pay Bob their eighteen-pences, but he
wasn't there, and when they went to his 'ouse Mrs. Pretty said as 'ow
he'd gone off to Wickham and wouldn't be back till Saturday. So they 'ad
to spend the money on beer instead.

That was on Tuesday, and things went on all right till Friday, when Mr.
Sutton 'ad another shoot. The birds was getting scarce and the gentlemen
that anxious to shoot them there was no 'olding them. Once or twice the
keepers spoke to 'em about carefulness, and said wot large families
they'd got, but it wasn't much good. They went on blazing away, and just
at the corner of the wood Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins was both hit; Sam
in the leg and Peter in the arm.

The noise that was made was awful--everybody shouting that they 'adn't
done it, and all speaking at once, and Mr. Sutton was dancing about
a'most beside 'imself with rage. Pore Sam and Peter was 'elped along by
the others; Sam being carried and Peter led, and both of 'em with the
idea of getting all they could out of it, making such 'orrible noises
that Mr. Sutton couldn't hear 'imself calling his friends names.

"There seems to be wounded men calling out all over the place," he ses,
in a temper.

"I think there is another one over there, sir," ses one o' the keepers,
pointing.

Sam Jones and Peter Gubbins both left off to listen, and then they all
heard it distinctly. A dreadful noise it was, and when Mr. Sutton and
one or two more follered it up they found poor Walter Bell lying on 'is
face in a bramble.

"Wot's the matter?" ses Mr. Sutton, shouting at 'im.

"I've been shot from behind," ses Walter. "I'd got something in my boot,
and I was just stooping down to fasten it up agin when I got it.

"But there oughtn't to be anybody 'ere," ses Mr. Sutton to one of the
keepers.

"They get all over the place, sir," ses the 'keeper, scratching his 'ead.
"I fancied I 'eard a gun go off here a minute or two arter the others was
shot."

"I believe he's done it 'imself," says Mr. Sutton, stamping his foot.

"I don't see 'ow he could, sir," ses the keeper, touching his cap and
looking at Walter as was still lying with 'is face on 'is arms.

They carried Walter 'ome that way on a hurdle, and Dr. Green spent all
the rest o' that day picking shots out o' them three men and telling 'em
to keep still. He 'ad to do Sam Jones by candle-light, with Mrs. Jones
'olding the candle with one hand and crying with the other. Twice the
doctor told her to keep it steady, and poor Sam 'ad only just passed the
remark, "How 'ot it was for October," when they discovered that the bed
was on fire. The doctor said that Sam was no trouble. He got off of the
bed by 'imself, and, when it was all over and the fire put out, the
doctor found him sitting on the stairs with the leg of a broken chair in
'is hand calling for 'is wife.

Of course, there was a terrible to-do about it in Claybury, and up at the
Hall, too. All of the gentlemen said as 'ow they hadn't done it, and Mr.
Sutton was arf crazy with rage. He said that they 'ad made 'im the
laughing-stock of the neighbourhood, and that they oughtn't to shoot with
anything but pop-guns. They got to such high words over it that two of
the gentlemen went off 'ome that very night.

There was a lot of talk up at the _Cauliflower,_ too, and more than one
pointed out 'ow lucky Bob Pretty was in getting four men out of the six
in his club. As I said afore, Bob was away at the time, but he came back
the next night and we 'ad the biggest row here you could wish for to see.

Henery Walker began it. "I s'pose you've 'eard the dreadful news, Bob
Pretty?" he ses, looking at 'im.

"I 'ave," ses Bob; "and my 'art bled for 'em. I told you wot those
gentlemen was like, didn't I? But none of you would believe me. Now you
can see as I was right."

"It's very strange," ses Henery Walker, looking round; "it's very strange
that all of us wot's been shot belonged to Bob Pretty's precious club."

"It's my luck, Henery," ses Bob, "always was lucky from a child."

"And I s'pose you think you're going to 'ave arf of the money they get?"
ses Henery Walker.

"Don't talk about money while them pore chaps is suffering," ses Bob.
"I'm surprised at you, Henery."

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