Free and Other Stories
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It would be difficult to say just how the trouble aboard the Idlewild began, or how we managed to sail without things going to smash every fifteen minutes; but these same constitute the business of this narrative. It was at Spike, and the weather was blistering hot. Some of us, one in particular, were mortal tired of the life we were leading. It was a dingy old shop inside, loaded with machines and blacksmithing apparatus and all the paraphernalia that go to make up the little depots and furniture that railways use, and the labor of making them was intrusted to about a hundred men all told – carpenters, millwrights, woodturners, tinsmiths, painters, blacksmiths, an engineer, and a yard foreman handling a score of «guineas,» all of whom were too dull to interest the three or four wits who congregated in the engine room.
Old John, the engineer, was one of these – a big, roly-poly sort of fellow, five foot eleven, if he was an inch, with layers of flesh showing through his thin shirt and tight trousers, and his face and neck constantly standing in beads of sweat. Then there was the smith, a small, wiry man of thirty-five, with arms like a Titan and a face that was expressive of a goodly humor, whether it was very brilliant or not – the village smith, as we used to call him. Then there was Ike, little Ike, the blacksmith's helper, who was about as queer a little cabin boy as ever did service on an ocean-going steamer or in a blacksmith's shop –
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a small misshapen, dirty-faced lad, whose coat was three, and his trousers four, times too large for him – hand-me-downs from some mysterious source; immensely larger members of his family, I presume. He had a battered face, such as you sometimes see given to satyrs humorously represented in bronze, and his ears were excessively large. He had a big mouthful of dirty yellow teeth, two or three missing in front. His eyes were small and his hands large, but a sweeter soul never crept into a smaller or more misshapen body. Poor little Ike. To think how near he came to being driven from his job by our tomfoolishness!
I should say here that the Idlewild was not a boat at all, but an idea. She evolved out of our position on Long's Point, where the Harlem joins the Hudson, and where stood the shop in which we all worked, water to the south of us, water to the west of us, water to the north of us, and the railroad behind us landward, just like the four – or was it the six? hundred – at Balaklava. Anyhow, we got our idea from the shop and the water all around, and we said, after much chaffering about one thing and another, that we were aboard the Idlewild, and that the men were the crew, and that the engineer was the captain, and I was the mate, just as if everything were ship-shape, and this were a really and truly ocean-going vessel.
As I have said before. I do not know exactly how the idea started, except that it did. Old John was always admiring the beautiful yachts that passed up and down the roadstead of the Hudson outside, and this may have had something to do with it. Anyhow, he would stand in the doorway of his engine room and watch everything in the shape of a craft that went up and
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down the stream. He didn't know much about boats, but he loved to comment on their charms, just the same.
«That there now must be Morgan's yacht,» he used to say of a fine black-bodied craft that had a piano-body finish to it, an' «That there's the Waterfowl, Governor Morton's yacht. Wouldn' ja think, now, them fellers'd feel comfortable a-set- tin' back there on the poop deck an' smokin' them dollar cigars on a day like this? Aw, haw!»
It would usually be blistering hot and the water a flashing blue when he became excited over the yacht question.
«Right-o,» I once commented enviously.
«Aw, haw! Them's the boys as knows how to live. I wouldn' like nothin' better on a day like this than to set out there in one o' them easy chairs an' do up about a pound o' tobacco. Come now, wouldn't that be the ideal life for your Uncle Dudley?»
«It truly would,» I replied sadly but with an inherent desire to tease, «only I don't think my Uncle Dudley is doing so very badly under the circumstances. I notice he isn't losing any flesh.»
«Well, I dunno. I'm a little stout, I'll admit. Still, them conditions would be more congenial-like. I ain't as active as I used to be. A nice yacht an' some good old fifty-cent cigars an' a cool breeze'd just about do for me.»
«You're too modest, John. You want too little. You ought to ask for something more suited to your Lucullian instincts. What do you say to a house in Fifth Avenue, a country place at Newport, and the friendship of a few dukes and earls?»
«Well, I'm not backward,» he replied. «If them things was to come my way I guess I could live up to 'em. Aw, haw!»
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«Truly, truly, John, you're quite right, but you might throw in a few shovelfuls of shavings just to show that there are no hard feelings between you and the company while you're waiting for all this. I notice your steam is getting low, eh? What?» «Hang the steam! If the road was decent they'd give a man coal to burn. It takes a hundred tons of shavin's a day to keep this blinged old cormorant goin'. Think of me havin' to stand here all day an' shovelin' in shavin's! Seems to me all I do here is shovel. I'm an engineer, not a fireman. They ought to gimme
a man for that, by rights.»
«Quite so! Quite so! We'll see about that later – only, for the present, the shavings for yours. Back to the shovel, John!» The tone was heavily bantering.
«Well, the steam was gettin' a little low,» John would cheerfully acknowledge, once he was able to resume his position in the doorway. It was these painful interruptions which piqued him so.
Out of such chaffering and bickering as this it was that the spirit of the Idlewild finally took its rise. It came up from the sea of thought, I presume.
«What's the matter with us having a boat of our own, John?» I said to him one day. «Here we are, out here on the bounding main, or mighty near it. This is as good as any craft, this old shop. Ease the thing around and hoist the Jolly Roger, and I'll sail you up to White Plains. What's the matter with calling her the Idlewild? The men will furnish the idle, and the bosses will furnish the wild, eh? How's that for an appropriate title?»
«Haw! Haw!» exclaimed stout John. «Bully! We'll fix 'er up to-day. You be the captain an' I'll be the mate an' – «
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«Far be it from me, John,» I replied humbly and generously, seeing that he had the one point of vantage in this whole institution which would serve admirably as a captain's cabin – with his consent, of course. It was more or less like a captain's cabin on a tug-boat, at that, picturesque and with a sea view, as it were. «You be the captain and I'll be the mate. Far be it from me to infringe on a good old sea dog's rights. You're the captain, all right, and this is a plenty good enough cabin. I'm content to be mate. Open up steam, Cap, and we'll run the boat up and down the yard a few times. Look out the window and see how she blows. It's ho! for a life on the bounding main, and a jolly old crew are we!»
«Right-o, my hearty!» he now agreed, slapping me on the back at the same time that he reached for the steamcock and let off a few preliminary blasts of steam – by way of showing that we were moving, as it were. The idea that we were aboard a real yacht and about to cruise forth actually seized upon my fancy in a most erratic and delightsome way. It did on John's, too. Plainly we needed some such idyllic dream. Outside was the blue water of the river. Far up and down were many craft sailing like ourselves, I said.
Inside of fifteen minutes we had appointed the smith, bos'n, and little Ike, the smith's helper, the bos'n's mate. And we had said that the carpenters and turners and millwrights were the crew and that the «guineas» were the scullions. Mentally, we turned the engineroom into the captain's cabin, and here now was nothing but «Heave ho-s» and «How does she blow thar, Bill-s?» and «Shiver my timbers-s» and «Blast my top-lights-s» for days to come. We «heaved ho» at seven o'clock in the morning when the engine started, «lay to and dropped
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anchor» at noon when the engine stopped, «hoisted and set sail» again at one, for heaven knows what port, and «sighted Spike» and «put hard to port» at six. Sometimes during the day when it was hot and we were very tired we took ideal runs to Coney and Manhattan Beach and Newport, where the best of breezes are, in imagination, anyhow, and we found it equally easy to sail to all points of the compass in all sorts of weather. Many was the time we visited Paris and London and Rome and Constantinople, all in the same hour, regardless, and our calls upon the nobility of these places were always a matter of light comment. At night we always managed to promptly haul up at Spike, which was another subject of constant congratulation between the captain and the mate. For if we had missed our trains and gotten home late! – Regardless of the fact that we were seafaring men, we wanted our day to end promptly, I noticed.
During the days which followed we elaborated our idea, and the Idlewild became more of a reality than is to be easily understood by those who have not indulged in a similar fancy. We looked upon the shop as a trusty ship with a wheel at the stern, where the millwright, an Irishman by the name of Cullen, ran the giant plane, and an anchor at the prow, where the engine-room was. And there was a light in the captain's eye at times which, to me at least, betokened a real belief. It is so easy to enter upon a fancy, especially when it is pleasing. He would stand in the doorway of his small, hot engine-room, or lean out of the window which commanded the beautiful sweep of water so close to our door, and at times I verily believe he thought we were under way, so great is the power of self-hypnotism. The river was so blue and smooth these summer days, the passing
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boats so numerous. We could see the waters race to and fro as the tides changed. It was such a relief from the dull wearisome grind of shoveling in shavings and carrying out ashes or loading cars, as I was occasionally compelled to do – for my health, in my own case, I should explain. I am sure that, as an ordinary fifteen-cent-an-hour-shaving-carrier, I valued my title of mate as much as I ever valued anything, and the smith, «the village smith,» was smilingly proud to be hailed as «Bos'n.» Little Ike being of an order of mind that fancied the world ended somewhere abruptly in the Rocky Mountains, and that you really could shoot buffaloes after you left Buffalo, New York, did not grasp the meaning of it all at once, but at last it dawned upon him. When he got the idea that we really considered this a ship and that he was the bos'n's mate with the privilege of lowering the boats in case of a wreck or other disaster, he was beside himself.
«Hully chee!» he exclaimed, «me a bos'n's mate! Dat's de real t'ing, ain't it! Heave ho, dere!» And he fell back on the captain's locker and kicked his heels in the air.
«You want to remember, though, Ike,» I said, once in an evil moment – what small things regulate the good and evil fortunes of all things! – «that this is the captain's cabin and bos'n's mates are not much shucks on a vessel such as the Idlewild. If you want to retain your position you want to be respectful, and above all, obedient. For instance, if the captain should choose to have you act as stoker for a few minutes now and then, it would be your place to rejoice at the request. You get that, do you?»
«Not on yer life,» replied Ike irritably, who understood well enough that this meant more work.
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«That's right, though,» chimed in big John, pleased beyond measure at this latest development. «I'm captain here now, an' you don't want to forget that. No back lip from any bos'n's mate. What the mate says goes. The shovel for yours, bos'n, on orders from the captain. Now jist to show that the boat's in runnin' order you can chuck in a few shovelfuls right now.»
«Na! I will not!»
«Come, Ike,» I said, «no insubordination. You can't go back on the captain like that. We have the irons for recalcitrants,» and I eyed a pile of old rusty chains lying outside the door. «We might have to truss him up, Cap, and lay him down below,» and to prove the significance of my thought I picked up one end of a chain and rattled it solemnly. The captain half choked with fat laughter.
«That's right. Git the shovel there, Ike.»
Ike looked as if he doubted the regularity of this, as if life on the briny deep might not be all that it was cracked up to be, but for the sake of regularity and in order not to be reduced to the shameful condition of a scullion, or worse, «irons,» which was the only alternative offered, he complied. After he had thrown in eight scoopfuls we both agreed that this was true order and that the organization and dignity of the Idlewild might well be looked upon now as established.
Things went from good to better. We persuaded Joe, who was the millwright's assistant, back at the «wheel,» that his dignity would be greatly enhanced in this matter if he were to accept the position of day watch, particularly since his labors in that capacity would accord with his bounden duties as a hireling of the road; for, if he were stationed in the rear (front room, actually) anyhow, and compelled, owing to the need of
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receiving and taking away various planks and boards as they came out of the planes and molding machines, to walk to and fro, it would be an easy matter to notice any suspicious lights on the horizon forward and to come aft at once, or at least at such times as the boss was not looking, or when he came to heat his coffee or get a drink, and report.
Amiable Joe! I can see him yet, tall, ungainly, stoop-shoul- dered, a slight cast in one eye, his head bobbing like a duck's as he walked – a most agreeable and pathetic person. His dreams were so simple, his wants so few. He lived with his sister somewhere in Eleventh Avenue downtown in a tenement, and carried home bundles of firewood to her at night all this great distance, to help out. He received (not earned – he did much more than that) seventeen and a half cents an hour, and dreamed of what? I could never quite make out. Marriage? A little cheap flat somewhere? Life is so pathetic at times.
«Light on the starboard bow,» or «Light on the port bow,» were the chosen phrases which we told him he was in duty bound to use, adding always «Sir,» as respectful subordinates should. Also we insisted on his instantly making known to us at such times as we twain happened to be in the engineroom together, all bell buoys, whistle buoys, lighthouses, passing vessels and most of all the monthly pay car as it rounded the curve half a mile up the track about the fifteenth of every month. The matter of reporting the approach of the pay car was absolutely without exception. If he failed to do that we would be compelled, sad as it might be and excellent as his other services had been, to put him in irons. Here we showed him the irons also.
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Joe cheerfully accepted. For days thereafter he would come back regularly when the need of heating his coffee or securing a drink necessitated, and lifting a straight forefinger to his forehead, would report, «Light on the port bow, Sir. I think it's in the steel works jist up the track here,» or «Light on the starboard, Sir. It's the fast mail, maybe, for Chicago, jist passin' Kingsbridge.»
«No thinks, Joseph,» I used to reprimand. «You are not supposed to give your thinks. If the captain wishes to know what it is, he will ask. Back to the molding machine for yours, Joseph.»
Joseph, shock-headed, with dusty hair, weak eyes and a weaker smile, would retire, and then we would look at each other, the captain and I, and grin, and he would exclaim:
«Pretty fair discipline, mate.»
«Oh, I think we've got 'em going, Captain.» «Nothin' like order, mate.»
«You're right, Cap.»
«I don't suppose the mate'd ever condescend to take orders like that, eh, mate?»
«Well, hardly, Cap.»
«Still, you don't want to forget that I'm captain, mate.» «And you don't want to forget that I'm mate, Captain.» Thus we would badger one another until one of the scul-
lion crew arrived, when without loss of dignity on either side we could easily turn our attention to him.
And these scullions! What a dull crew! Gnarled, often non- English-speaking foreigners against or in front of whom we could jest to our hearts' content. They could not even guess
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