THE YELLOW FLAG
The schooner Farallone lay
well out in the jaws of the pass where the terrified
pilot had made haste to bring her to her moorings and
escape. Seen from the beach through the thin
line of shipping two objects stood conspicuous to
seaward: the little isle on the one hand with
its palms and the guns and batteries raised forty
years before in defence of Queen Pomare’s capital;
the outcast Farallone upon the other banished
to the threshold of the port rolling there to her
scuppers and flaunting the plague-flag as she rolled.
A few sea-birds screamed and cried about the ship;
and within easy range a man-of-war guard-boat hung
off and on and glittered with the weapons of marines.
The exuberant daylight and the blinding heaven of
the tropics picked out and framed the pictures.
A neat boat, manned by natives in
uniform, and steered by the doctor of the port, put
from shore towards three of the afternoon, and pulled
smartly for the schooner. The fore-sheets were
heaped with sacks of flour, onions, and potatoes,
perched among which was Huish dressed as a foremast
hand; a heap of chests and cases impeded the action
of the oarsmen; and in the stern, by the left hand
of the doctor, sat Herrick, dressed in a fresh rig
of slops, his brown beard trimmed to a point, a pile
of paper novels on his lap, and nursing the while between
his feet a chronometer, for which they had exchanged
that of the Farallone, long since run down
and the rate lost.
They passed the guard-boat, exchanging
hails with the boatswain’s mate in charge, and
drew near at last to the forbidden ship. Not a
cat stirred, there was no speech of man; and the sea
being exceeding high outside, and the reef close to
where the schooner lay, the clamour of the surf hung
round her like the sound of battle.
“Ohé la goëlette!”
sang out the doctor, with his best voice.
Instantly, from the house where they
had been stowing away stores, first Davis, and then
the ragamuffin, swarthy crew made their appearance.
“Hullo, Hay, that you?”
said the captain, leaning on the rail. “Tell
the old man to lay her alongside, as if she was eggs.
There’s a hell of a run of sea here, and his
boat’s brittle.”
The movement of the schooner was at
that time more than usually violent. Now she
heaved her side as high as a deep-sea steamer’s,
and showed the flashing of her copper; now she swung
swiftly towards the boat until her scuppers gurgled.
“I hope you have sea-legs,”
observed the doctor. “You will require
them.”
Indeed, to board the Farallone,
in that exposed position where she lay, was an affair
of some dexterity. The less precious goods were
hoisted roughly; the chronometer, after repeated failures,
was passed gently and successfully from hand to hand;
and there remained only the more difficult business
of embarking Huish. Even that piece of dead weight
(shipped A.B. at eighteen dollars, and described by
the captain to the consul as an invaluable man) was
at last hauled on board without mishap; and the doctor,
with civil salutations, took his leave.
The three co-adventurers looked at
each other, and Davis heaved a breath of relief.
“Now let’s get this chronometer
fixed,” said he, and led the way into the house.
It was a fairly spacious place; two state-rooms and
a good-sized pantry opened from the main cabin; the
bulk-heads were painted white, the floor laid with
waxcloth. No litter, no sign of life remained;
for the effects of the dead men had been disinfected
and conveyed on shore. Only on the table, in
a saucer, some sulphur burned, and the fumes set them
coughing as they entered. The captain peered into
the starboard state-room, where the bed-clothes still
lay tumbled in the bunk, the blanket flung back as
they had flung it back from the disfigured corpse
before its burial.
“Now, I told these niggers to
tumble that truck overboard,” grumbled Davis.
“Guess they were afraid to lay hands on it.
Well, they’ve hosed the place out; that’s
as much as can be expected, I suppose. Huish,
lay on to these blankets.”
“See you blooming well far enough
first,” said Huish, drawing back.
“What’s that?” snapped
the captain. “I’ll tell you, my young
friend, I think you make a mistake. I’m
captain here.”
“Fat lot I care,” returned the clerk.
“That so?” said Davis.
“Then you’ll berth forward with the niggers!
Walk right out of this cabin.”
“O, I dessay!” said Huish.
“See any green in my eye? A lark’s
a lark.”
“Well, now, I’ll explain
this business, and you’ll see, once for all,
just precisely how much lark there is to it,”
said Davis. “I’m captain, and I’m
going to be it. One thing of three. First,
you take my orders here as cabin steward, in which
case you mess with us. Or, second, you refuse,
and I pack you forward and you get as quick
as the word’s said. Or, third and last,
I’ll signal that man-of-war and send you ashore
under arrest for mutiny.”
“And, of course, I wouldn’t
blow the gaff? O no!” replied the jeering
Huish.
“And who’s to believe
you, my son?” inquired the captain. “No,
sir! There ain’t no larking about
my captainising. Enough said. Up with these
blankets.”
Huish was no fool, he knew when he
was beaten; and he was no coward either, for he stepped
to the bunk, took the infected bed-clothes fairly
in his arms, and carried them out of the house without
a check or tremor.
“I was waiting for the chance,”
said Davis to Herrick. “I needn’t
do the same with you, because you understand it for
yourself.”
“Are you going to berth here?”
asked Herrick, following the captain into the state-room,
where he began to adjust the chronometer in its place
at the bed-head.
“Not much!” replied he.
“I guess I’ll berth on deck. I don’t
know as I’m afraid, but I’ve no immediate
use for confluent small-pox.”
“I don’t know that I’m
afraid either,” said Herrick. “But
the thought of these two men sticks in my throat;
that captain and mate dying here, one opposite to
the other. It’s grim. I wonder what
they said last?”
“Wiseman and Wishart?”
said the captain. “Probably mighty small
potatoes. That’s a thing a fellow figures
out for himself one way, and the real business goes
quite another. Perhaps Wiseman said, ’Here,
old man, fetch up the gin, I’m feeling powerful
rocky.’ And perhaps Wishart said, ‘O,
hell!’”
“Well, that’s grim enough,” said
Herrick.
“And so it is,” said Davis. “There;
there’s that chronometer fixed. And now
it’s about time to up anchor and clear out.”
He lit a cigar and stepped on deck.
“Here, you! What’s
your name?” he cried to one of the hands,
a lean-flanked, clean-built fellow from some far western
island, and of a darkness almost approaching to the
African.
“Sally Day,” replied the man.
“Devil it is,” said the
captain, “Didn’t know we had ladies on
board. Well, Sally, oblige me by hauling
down that rag there. I’ll do the same for
you another time.” He watched the yellow
bunting as it was eased past the cross-trees and handed
down on deck. “You’ll float no more
on this ship,” he observed. “Muster
the people aft, Mr. Hay,” he added, speaking
unnecessarily loud, “I’ve a word to say
to them.”
It was with a singular sensation that
Herrick prepared for the first time to address a crew.
He thanked his stars indeed that they were natives.
But even natives, he reflected, might be critics too
quick for such a novice as himself; they might perceive
some lapse from that precise and cut-and-dry English
which prevails on board a ship; it was even possible
they understood no other; and he racked his brain,
and overhauled his reminiscences of sea romance, for
some appropriate words.
“Here, men! tumble aft!”
he said. “Lively now! all hands aft!”
They crowded in the alleyway like sheep.
“Here they are, sir,” said Herrick.
For some time the captain continued
to face the stern; then turned with ferocious suddenness
on the crew, and seemed to enjoy their shrinking.
“Now,” he said, twisting
his cigar in his mouth and toying with the spokes
of the wheel. “I’m Captain Brown.
I command this ship. This is Mr. Hay, first officer.
The other white man is cabin steward, but he’ll
stand watch and do his trick. My orders shall
be obeyed smartly. You savvy, ‘smartly’?
There shall be no growling about the kaikai, which
will be above allowance. You’ll put a handle
to the mate’s name, and tack on ‘sir’
to every order I give you. If you’re smart
and quick, I’ll make this ship comfortable for
all hands.” He took the cigar out of his
mouth. “If you’re not,” he added,
in a roaring voice, “I’ll make it a floating
hell. Now, Mr. Hay, we’ll pick watches,
if you please.”
“All right,” said Herrick.
“You will please use ‘sir’
when you address me, Mr. Hay,” said the captain.
“I’ll take the lady. Step to starboard,
Sally.” And then he whispered in Herrick’s
ear, “Take the old man.”
“I’ll take you, there,” said Herrick.
“What’s your name?”
said the captain. “What’s that you
say? O, that’s not English; I’ll
have none of your highway gibberish on my ship.
We’ll call you old Uncle Ned, because you’ve
got no wool on the top of your head, just the place
where the wool ought to grow. Step to port, Uncle.
Don’t you hear Mr. Hay has picked you? Then
I’ll take the white man. White Man, step
to starboard. Now, which of you two is the cook?
You? Then Mr. Hay takes your friend in the blue
dungaree. Step to port, Dungaree, There, we know
who we all are: Dungaree, Uncle Ned, Sally Day,
White Man, and Cook. All F.F.V.’s I guess.
And now, Mr. Hay, we’ll up anchor, if you please.”
“For heaven’s sake, tell
me some of the words,” whispered Herrick.
An hour later the Farallone
was under all plain sail, the rudder hard a-port,
and the cheerfully-clanking windlass had brought the
anchor home.
“All clear, sir,” cried Herrick from the
bow.
The captain met her with the wheel,
as she bounded like a stag from her repose, trembling
and bending to the puffs. The guard-boat gave
a parting hail, the wake whitened and ran out; the
Farallone was under weigh.
Her berth had been close to the pass.
Even as she forged ahead Davis slewed her for the
channel between the pier-ends of the reef, the breakers
sounding and whitening to either hand. Straight
through the narrow band of blue she shot to seaward;
and the captain’s heart exulted as he felt her
tremble underfoot, and (looking back over the taffrail)
beheld the roofs of Papeete changing position on the
shore and the island mountains rearing higher in the
wake.
But they were not yet done with the
shore and the horror of the yellow flag. About
midway of the pass there was a cry and a scurry, a
man was seen to leap upon the rail, and, throwing
his arms over his head, to stoop and plunge into the
sea.
“Steady as she goes,”
the captain cried, relinquishing the wheel to Huish.
The next moment he was forward in
the midst of the Kanakas, belaying-pin in hand.
“Anybody else for shore?”
he cried, and the savage trumpeting of his voice,
no less than the ready weapon in his hand, struck fear
in all. Stupidly they stared after their escaped
companion, whose black head was visible upon the water,
steering for the land. And the schooner meanwhile
slipped like a racer through the pass, and met the
long sea of the open ocean with a souse of spray.
“Fool that I was, not to have
a pistol ready!” exclaimed Davis. “Well,
we go to sea short-handed; we can’t help that.
You have a lame watch of it, Mr. Hay.”
“I don’t see how we are to get along,”
said Herrick.
“Got to,” said the captain. “No
more Tahiti for me.”
Both turned instinctively and looked
astern. The fair island was unfolding mountain-top
on mountain-top; Eimeo, on the port board, lifted
her splintered pinnacles; and still the schooner raced
to the open sea.
“Think!” cried the captain,
with a gesture, “yesterday morning I danced
for my breakfast like a poodle dog.”