“Afterwards we found the critters couldn’t speak a word of English, ner tell us even what their names were. So we called one Nux, and the other Bryonia, accordin’ to the medicine that had saved their lives, an’ they’ve answered to those names ever since.”
The blacks were gentle and good natured, and being grateful for their rescue they had refused to leave the ship at the end of the voyage, and were now permanent fixtures of the “Flipper.”
“They are not slaves, are they?” I asked, when I had listened to this story.
“Mercy, no!” exclaimed Uncle Naboth. “They’re as free as any of us, an’ draw their wages reg’lar. Also they’re as faithful as the day is long, an’ never get drunk or mutinous. So it were a lucky day when we picked ’em up.”
Bryonia stood fully six feet in height, and was muscular and wonderfully strong. He had a fine face, too, and large and intelligent eyes. Nux was much shorter, and inclined to be fat. But he was not a bit lazy, for all that, and accomplished an immense amount of work in so cheerful a manner that never a complaint was laid at his door. Not a sailor could climb aloft with more agility or a surer foot, and both Nux and Bryonia were absolutely fearless in the face of danger.
Although these men were black they were not negroes, but belonged to a branch of the Malay race. Their hair was straight, their noses well formed and their eyes very expressive and intelligent. The English they had picked up from the crew, however, was spoken with an accent not unlike that peculiar to the African negroes, but with a softer and more sibilant tone.
Before I had been on the ship a week both Nux and Bry were my faithful friends and devoted followers, and in the days that were to come their friendship and faithfulness stood me in good stead.
A very interesting person to me was big Bill Acker, the mate, called by courtesy “Doc.” He seemed far above his mates in the matter of intelligence, and was evidently a well bred man in his youth. A shelf above his bunk bore a well–thumbed row of volumes on the world’s great religions, together with a Talmud, a Koran, a Bible, the works of Confucius and Max Müller’s translation of the Vedas. One seemed to have been as thoroughly read as the others, yet never have I heard Doc Acker say one word, good or bad, about religion. Whatever the result of his studies might be, he kept his opinions strictly to himself.
A stiff breeze sprang up during the first night, and the second day at sea found me miserably ill, and regretting that I had ever trusted myself to the mercies of cruel old ocean. Indeed, I lay in a most pitiable plight until the big Englishman came to me with doses of medicines from his chest. He might have been merely “a hoss doctor,” as Uncle Naboth had said; but certain it is that his remedies helped me, and within twenty–four hours I was again able to walk the deck in comfort.
Perhaps I had inherited some of my father’s fondness for salt water, for my new life soon became vastly interesting to me, and it was not long before I felt entirely at home on the dingy old “Flipper.”
One morning, after standing by the bulwarks for a time watching the water slip by, I climbed upon the rail and sat with my heels dangling over the side. Suddenly I felt a strong hand grasp my shoulder and draw me to the deck, and I turned around indignantly to find black Nux beside me.
“Bad place to sit, Mars Sam,” he said, coolly; “might tum’le ov’bode.”
Before I could reply, Uncle Naboth, who had witnessed the incident, strolled up to us and said:
“Nux is right, my lad. You never find a sailor sitting on the rail; they know too well how onreliable the motion of a ship is. If anybody drops overboard the chances o’ bein’ picked up alive is mighty slim, I tell you. Only fools put ’emselves into unnecessary danger, Sam. Take it on them orful railroad cars, for instance. Old travellers always wait ’till the train stops afore they gets on or off the cars. Them as don’t know the danger is the ones that gets hurt. Same way handlin’ a gun. An old hunter once told me he never p’inted a gun at anything he didn’t want to kill; but there’s a lot o’ folks killed ev’ry year that don’t know the blamed thing is loaded. It ain’t cowardly to be keerful, lad; but only fools an’ ignorant people is reckless enough to get careless.”
I am glad to say I took this lecture with good humor, admitting frankly that Uncle Naboth was right. At least once in the future a recollection of this caution saved me from hopeless disaster.
On the sixth day the breeze died away and the ship lay still. There was not a breath of air, and the heat was so intense that the interior of the ship was like a furnace. At night we slept upon the deck, and by day we lay gasping beneath the shade of the tarpaulins. Bryonia let the galley fire die out and served us cold lunches, but our appetites were small.
There being no occasion to work, the crew gathered in little bunches and told a series of never–ending yarns that were very interesting to me, because most of them were of hair–breadth adventures and escapes that were positively wonderful—if one tried to believe them. One of the best of these story–tellers was Ned Britton, who had been appointed our boatswain and was already popular with his mates. As his yarns were all of the Atlantic, and most of the “Flipper’s” crew had sailed only on the Pacific, Britton opened to them a new field of adventures, which met with universal approval.
Nux and Bry, who bore the heat better than their white brethren, added to the general amusement by giving exhibitions of the Moro war dances, ending with desperate encounters, with sticks to represent spears, that were sure to arouse the entire crew to enthusiasm. They sometimes sang their native war songs, also—a series of monotonous, guttural chants. And then Dan Donnegan, a little, red–whiskered Irishman, would wind up with “Bryan O’Lynne” or some other comic ditty that set the forecastle roaring with laughter.
During this period of enforced idleness the dismal Captain Gay walked the deck with solemn patience and watched for signs of a breeze. Bill Acker, the mate, read his religious library all through—probably for the hundredth time. Uncle Nabe taught me cribbage, and we played for hours at a time, although I usually came out second best at the game. Also I learned the ropes of the ship and received many lessons in navigation from my friends the sailors, not one of whom knew anything about that abstruse problem.
“Thay ain’t a man o’ the lot as could take the ship back to ’Frisco, in case of emergency,” said my uncle; and I believe he was right. Common sailors are singularly ignorant of navigation, although they have a way of deceiving themselves into thinking they know all about it.
After being becalmed six days, the intense heat was at last relieved by a thin breeze, which sprung up during the night. The sails were at once trimmed, and within an hour the “Flipper” was skipping the little waves to the satisfaction of all on board.
But the wind steadily increased, and by morning all hands were called to shorten sail. By noon we encountered a stiff gale, which blew from the east, and soon lashed the waves into a mad frenzy.
As the storm gradually increased Captain Gay began to look anxious. There was a brief lull toward evening, during which a great hail–storm descended upon us, the icy bullets pelting the sailors unmercifully and driving all to shelter. Then the wind redoubled its fury, and the Captain put the ship before it, allowing the gale to bear us considerably out of our course.
Uncle Naboth growled considerably at this necessity, but he did not interfere in the least with Captain Gay’s management of the ship. Safety was more important to us than time, and Gay was not a man to take unnecessary chances.
The three wild days that followed have always seemed to me since like a horrible dream. I had no idea a ship could be so tossed and pounded and battered about, and still live. It was a mere chip on the great, angry ocean, and the water washed our decks almost continually. After one of these deluges, when every man strove to save himself by clinging to the life lines, two of our best sailors were missed, and we never saw them again. Uncle Nabe began to whistle, and every time he saw me he gave one of his humorous winks or fell to chuckling in his silent way; but my white face could not have been much encouragement to gaiety, and I believe he was not over merry himself, but merely trying to cheer me up.