The Flag of Distress Part 19

But there is a doubt whether Harry's heart has been true to her.

Indeed, a suspicion of its having been false cannot fail to strike any one seeing him with his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves rolled up, since upon the flat of his right fore-arm is the image of another damsel, done more recently, in lighter blue, while on the left is a Cupid holding an unbent bow, and hovering above a pair of hearts, which his arrow has just pierced, impaling them through and through!

All those amorous emblems would seem to argue our true tar inconstant as the wind, with which he has so oft to contend. But no, nothing of the kind. Those well acquainted with him and his history can vouch for it, that he has never had a sweetheart save one--she represented in that limning of light blue; and to her he has been true as steel, up to the hour of her death, which occurred just as she was about to become Mrs Blew.

And that sad event has kept him a bachelor up to the present hour of his life. For the girl on his breast in dark blue is a merely mythical personage, though indelibly stained into his skin by a needle's point and a pinch of gunpowder--done by one of his man-o'-war s.h.i.+pmates while he was still only a sailor-lad.

He is now forty years of age, nearly thirty of which he has pa.s.sed upon the sea, being off it only in short spells while his s.h.i.+p lay in port.

And he has seen service on several vessels--corvettes, frigates, double and treble deckers--all men-of-war, in which he has thrice circ.u.mnavigated the globe.

For all, he is yet hale, hearty, and in the perfect plenitude of his strength; only with a slight stoop in the shoulders, as if caught from continually swarming up shrouds, or leaning over the yard while stowing sails. This gives him the appearance of being shorter than he really is: for when straightened up, with back well braced, he stands six feet in his stockings. And his limbs show symmetrical proportion. His duck trousers, fitting tightly over the hips, display a pair of limbs supple and muscular, with thighs that seem all sinew from skin to bone.

In spite of his sterling qualities as a seaman, and n.o.ble character as a man, Harry has never risen to any rank in the service. With him has it been literally true, "Once a sailor, still a sailor;" and though long ago rated an A.B. of the first order, above this he has not ascended a single step. Were he to complain, which he rarely ever does, he would in all probability say, that his non-promotion has been due to independence of spirit, or, shaping it in his own phraseology, owing to his not having "bootlicked the swabs above him." And there is some truth in this, though another reason might be a.s.signed by those disposed to speak slightingly of him; this, that although liking salt water, he has a decided antipathy to that which is fresh, unless when taken with an admixture of rum. Then he is too fond of it. But it is his only fault, barring which, a better man than Harry Blew--and, when sober, a steadier--never trod the deck of s.h.i.+p.

As already said, he has trod many, the latest being that of the _Crusader_, in which vessel he has spent five years of his life. His engagement terminating almost on the very day she dropt anchor before San Francisco, he has been set free, either to stay in the s.h.i.+p, by entering his name upon her books for a fresh period of service, or step out of her, and go cruising on his own account, whithersoever he may wish.

Taking into consideration the state of things in San Francisco just at this time, it is not strange his having elected to leave the s.h.i.+p. It would be stranger if he had even hesitated about it, though this he had indeed done, for some days lingering with mind only half made up. But the golden lure proved at length too temptingly attractive, and, yielding to it, he took a last leave of his old s.h.i.+pmates, was rowed ash.o.r.e, and has since been sojourning at the "Sailor's Home"--for he is still there, as Cadwallader rightly surmised--there in a very miserable state of mind, not knowing how his wretchedness will be relieved.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE SAILOR'S HOME.

There is a "Sailor's Home," or "Snug Harbour" tavern in every seaport town, often anything but home, or harbour, in a pleasant sense. This of San Francisco, 1849, is a hostelry, half eating-house, half drinking-saloon, of somewhat unpretentious appearance--being a rough, weather-boarded building, without planing, or paint, and only two storeys in height. But if low in stature, it is high enough in its charges, as Harry Blew has learnt long since; these being out of all proportion to the outside appearance of the place, or its interior accommodation; though quite in keeping with the prices of other like houses of entertainment in the Pacific seaport.

Harry's original intention was to make only a short stay at the "Sailor's Home"--just long enough to put him through a bit of a spree; for which twelve months' pay, received from the frigate's purser at parting, had amply provided him. Then he would start off for the Feather River, or some other tributary stream of the Sacramento, where gold was being gathered, or dug for.

The first part of this programme he has already carried out, with something besides; that something being the complete expenditure of all his pay--every s.h.i.+lling he received from the s.h.i.+p, and in an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time. He had been scarcely six days ash.o.r.e when he discovers his cash exchequer quite cleared out. As for credit, there is no such thing in San Francisco. A shop parcel sent home always comes conspicuously marked C.O.D.--"Cash on Delivery."

Since landing, he has not very carefully kept his dead-reckoning, and is at first somewhat surprised to find himself so far out in it. He has plunged his hands into his pockets without encountering coin. He searches in his sea-chest and every other receptacle where he has been accustomed to carry, with similar disappointing result. What can have become of his twelve months' wage, drawn on the day he left the _Crusader_? It has all disappeared!

No wonder he is unable to account for its disappearance; for ever since that day he has been anything but himself--in short, has given way to dissipation of longer continuance than ever before in his life. It has lasted six days, with most part of six nights, at the end of which time he has only pulled up for want of the wherewith to continue it--credit being denied him at the very counter over which he has pa.s.sed all his pay.

Impecuniosity is an unpleasant predicament in any country, and at all times; but in the San Francisco of 1849 it was a positive danger--where six dollars were demanded, and obtained, for the most meagre of meals; the same for sleeping on a blanketless bed, in a chilly night, within a rough weather-boarded room, or under the yet thinner shelter of a canvas tent. It was a boon to be allowed to lie on the lee-side of a wooden-walled stable; but cost money for the privilege of sleeping in a stall, with straw litter for couch, and the radiating heat from the horses in lieu of coverlet.

In the necessity of seeking some such indifferent accommodation, Harry Blew finds himself, on the seventh night after having received his discharge from the _Crusader_. And as he has now got somewhat sobered, with brain clear enough to think, it occurs to him that the time is come for carrying out the second part of his programme--that is, going on to the gold-diggings.

But how to get off, and get there? These are separate questions, to neither of which can he give a satisfactory answer. Pa.s.sage to Sacramento, by steamer, costs over a hundred dollars, and still more by stage-coach. He has not a s.h.i.+lling--not a red cent; and his sea-kit sold would not realise a sum sufficient to pay his fare, even if it (the kit) were free. But it is not. On the contrary, embargoed, "quodded,"

by the keeper of the "Sailor's Home," against a couple of days' unpaid board and lodging--with sundry imbibings across the counter, scored on the slate.

The discharged man-o'-war's man sees himself in a nasty dilemma--all the more from its having a double horn. He can neither go to the gold-diggings, nor stay in the "Sailor's Home." Comparatively cheap as may be this humble hostelry, it is yet dear enough to demand ten dollars a day for indifferent bed and board. Both have been thought bad enough by Harry Blew, even though only a foremast-man. But he is threatened with a still worse condition of things. Inappropriate the t.i.tle bestowed on his house, for the owner of the "Home" has not the slightest hospitality in his heart. He has discovered that his English guest is "dead broke," drawing his deductions from the two days' board, and as many nights' bed, remaining unpaid.

There is a notice conspicuously posted above the bar that "scores must be settled daily." And Harry having disregarded this, has received private, but positive, notice of another kind; to the effect that he is forthwith to discontinue taking a seat at the _table-d'hote_, as also to surrender up his share of the bed he has been occupying, for he has not had a complete couch to himself. At this the discharged man-o'-war's man has shown no anger, nor does he feel in any way affronted. He has that correct sense common to sailors, with most others trained by travel in strange lands, and knows that when cash is not forthcoming, credit cannot be expected. In California, as elsewhere, such is the universal and rigorous custom, to which man must resign himself. The English sailor is only a bit sorry to think he has expended his cash so freely; a little repentant at having done it so foolishly; and, on the whole, a good deal downhearted.

But there is a silver lining to the cloud. The _Crusader_ is still in port, and not expected to sail for some days. He may once more place his name upon the frigate's books, and rejoin her. He knows he will not only be received back by her commander, but welcomed by all his old officers and s.h.i.+pmates. A word spoken to the first boat coming ash.o.r.e, and all will be well. Shall he speak such word? That has become the question. For in this, as every other step in life, there is a _pro_ and _contra_. Humiliating the thought of going back to service on the s.h.i.+p, after taking leave of everybody aboard; returning to a dingy forecastle hard, and the handling of tarry ropes, after the bright dreams he had been indulging in; to forego the gathering of gold-dust, and the exchanging it for doubloons or dollars; in short, turning his back upon fortune--the prospect of a life competence, perhaps plenitude of wealth, with its resulting ease and idleness--and once more facing stormy seas, with only hard knocks and laborious work in store for him the remainder of his life!

While the sovereigns were still clinking in his pockets, this was the dark side of the picture--towards Sacramento, the bright one. Now that the pockets are empty, everything seems changed, and the golden sheen lies on the side of the s.h.i.+p.

Still the sailor hesitates how to decide. Despite the pressure upon him, he ponders and reflects; as he does so, plunging his hands into his pockets, apparently searching for coin. It is merely mechanical, for he knows he has not a s.h.i.+lling.

While thus occupied, he is seated in the little sanded bar-room of the "Home" alone with the bar-keeper; the latter eyeing him with anything but a sympathetic air. For the book is before him, showing that indebtedness for bed and board--to say nothing of the unsettled bar-score--and the record makes a bar-sinister between them. Another drink could not be added now, even though but a bottle of ginger-beer.

The door of credit is closed, and only cash could procure an extension of that hospitality hitherto scant enough.

The sailor thinks. Must he surrender? Give up his dreams of fingering yellow gold, and return to clutching black shrouds? A glance at the grim, unrelaxed, and unrelenting visage of the bar-keeper decides him.

His decision is expressed in characteristic speech, not addressed to the drink-dispenser, nor aloud, but in low, sad soliloquy:

"Wi' me, I see, the old sayin's to stan' good--'Once a sailor, still a sailor.' Harry Blew, there be no help for't, ye maun steer back for the _Crusader_!"

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

OPPORTUNE VISITORS.

Having resolved upon returning to his s.h.i.+p--and that very night, if he can but get a boat--Harry Blew is about to sally forth into the street, when his egress is unexpectedly prevented. Not by the landlord of the "Sailor's Home," nor his representative behind the bar. These would only be too glad to get rid of a guest with two days' reckoning in arrear. For they have surrept.i.tiously inspected his sea-chest, and found it to contain a full suit of "Sunday go-ash.o.r.es," with other effects, which they deemed sufficient collateral security for the debt.

And as it has been already hypothecated for this, both Boniface and bar-keeper would rather rejoice to see their sailor-guest clear out of the "Home" for good, leaving the chest behind him. On this condition they would be willing to wipe out the debt, both boarding and bar-score.

Harry has no thought of thus parting with his kit. Now that he has made up his mind to return to the _Crusader_, a better prospect is opened up to him. He has hopes that on his making appearance aboard, and again entering his name on the frigate's books, the purser will advance him a sum sufficient to release his retained chattels. Or, he can in all likelihood collect the money among his old messmates. Not for this reason is he so anxious to reach the s.h.i.+p that night, but because he has no other chance of having any place to sleep in--save the street. The tavern-keeper has notified him, in plain terms, that he must peremptorily leave; and he is about to act upon the notification, and take departure, when prevented, as already said.

What now hinders him from going out of the "Home" is a man coming into it; or rather two--since two shadows have suddenly darkened the door, and are projected across the sanded floor of the bar-room. Not like shadows in the eyes of Harry Blew, but streaks of brightest sunlight!

For in the individuals entering he recognises two of his officers; one of them his best friend, who saved his life. Crozier and Cadwallader have discovered him.

At sight of them the discharged sailor salutes promptly, and with as much respect as if all were on the quarterdeck of the _Crusader_. But with much more demonstration; for their well-timed appearance draws from him an exclamation of joy. Jerking off his straw hat, and giving a twitch to one of his brow-locks, he bobs his head several times in succession, with a simultaneous back-sc.r.a.pe of his foot upon the floor.

His obeisance ended, he stands silently awaiting whatever communication the young officers have to make. He is already aware that their business is with himself: for the bar-room is but dimly lit, and Crozier, while crossing its threshold, not at once recognising him, had called out:

"Is there a sailor staying here, by name Harry Blew!"

"Ay, ay, sir!" was the prompt response, the sailor himself giving it, along with the salutation described.

During the short interval of silence that succeeds, Harry's heart can be distinctly heard beating. Lately depressed--"Down in the dumps," as he himself would word it--it is now up in his throat. The sight of his patron, the saver of his life, is like having it saved a second time.

Perhaps they have come to ask him to rejoin the s.h.i.+p? If so, 'tis the very thing he was thinking of. He will not antic.i.p.ate, but waits for them to declare their errand.

"Well, Harry, old boy," says Crozier, after warmly shaking the sailor's hand, "I'm right glad to find you here. I was afraid you'd gone off to the diggings."

"True, Master Ed'ard; I did intend standin' on that tack, but ha'n't been able to get under way, for want o' a wind."

"Want of a wind? I don't quite understand you."

"Why, you see, sir, I've been a little bit spreeish since comin' ash.o.r.e, and my locker's got low--more'n that, it's total cleared out. Though I suppose there be plenty of gold in them diggin's, it takes gold to get there; and as I ha'n't any, I'm laid up here like an old hulk foul o' a mud bank. That's just how it be, gen'lemen."

"In which case, perhaps you mightn't feel indisposed to go to sea again?"

"Just the thing I war thinkin' o', Master Ed'ard. I'd a'most made up my mind to it, sir, an' war 'bout startin' to try get aboard the old _Crusader_, and askin' your honour to ha' my name entered on her books again. I'm willin' to join for a fresh tarm, if they'll take me."

"They'd take, and be glad to get you, Harry; you may be sure of that.

Such a skilled sailor need never be without a s.h.i.+p, where there's a British man-of-war within hailing distance. But we don't want you to join the _Crusader_."

"How is that, sir?"