CHAPTER VI

During my brief communion with Lynch in the foc’sle, I had, of course, been conscious of ship work proceeding on deck.  I had been deaf otherwise, what with the mate’s obscene, shrill voice ringing through the ship, and the rattle of blocks, the cries of men, and the tramp of their feet as they pulled together.  Now, as I stepped from the foc’sle into the bright daylight, I saw just what work was doing.

The vessel was aback on the main, her way lost for the moment.  Abeam, a tug was puffing away from us, carrying the port crew—­who had lifted anchor and taken the Golden Bough to sea—­back to San Francisco.  And we were fairly to sea; the rugged coast of Marin was miles astern, and the Golden Gate was lost in a distant haze.  The voyage was begun.

I saw this at a glance, out of the corners of my eyes, as I ran aft to join the crowd.  For I was minded to take the second mate’s advice, and fly about my work in the Golden Bough.  To wait for an order, was, I knew well enough, to wait for a blow.  The crowd were already at the lee braces, commencing to trim up the yards, and I tailed onto the line and threw in my weight, thanking my lucky star that Mister Fitzgibbon was too busied with the weather braces to accord my advent on deck any other reception than a sizzling oath.

We got the ship under wary, and then jumped to other work.  Mister Lynch had flung several more sick, frightened wretches out of the foc’sle, and now he joined with the mate in forcible encouragement of our efforts.  The port gang had hoisted the yards, and loosed the sails, but the upper canvas was ill sheeted, and soon we were pully-hauling for dear life.

The best of ships is a madhouse the first day at sea, but the Golden Bough—­God! she was madhouse and purgatory rolled into one!  My own agility and knowledge saved me from ill usage for the moment, since the mates had plenty of ignorant, clumsy material to work upon.  Such material!  I never before or after saw such a welter of human misery as on that bright morning, such a crowd of sick, suffering, terrified men.  Most of them knew not one rope from another, some of them knew not a word of English, half of them were still drunk, and stumbled and fell as they were driven about, the other half were seasick and all but helpless.  Oh, they caught it, I tell you!  The mates were merciless, as their reputations declared them to be.  It was sing out an order, then knock a man down, jerk him to his feet, thrust a line into his hands, and kick him until he bent his weight upon it.  It was bitter driving.  But I’ll admit it brought order out of chaos.  We cleared the decks of the first-day-out hurrah’s nest in jig time.  Mercifully, it was fair weather, with a light, steady, fair breeze.

I found myself working shoulder to shoulder with a big, trim-bodied mulatto.  He was a sailorman, I saw at a glance, and we stuck together as much as possible during the morning.  He already bore Fitzgibbon’s mark in the shape of a raw gash on his forehead, and his blood-specked eyes were hot with mingled rage and terror.  He murmured over and over again to me, as though obsessed by the words, “Does yoh know where yoh am, mate?  Lawd—­de Golden Bough! de Golden Bough!”