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Steve Young, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 16. Battle Royal |
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_ CHAPTER SIXTEEN. BATTLE ROYAL Days and days were spent exploring the coast southward, the party landing wherever there was an opportunity offered by a likely spot; but the most southern point of the mountain land was reached without a sign, and several walrus boats were spoken by way of obtaining news, but without result. Then, as the ice was densely packed, preventing any attempt being made to search the eastern shore, a course was laid for the great neighbouring island, the _Hvalross_ sailing steadily north-east a short distance from the pack. They had had a good evening's shooting the night before, and to the great delight of Andrew, Hamish, and the cook quite a load of fine ducks had been brought on board by the boat; but as Steve was going forward to take a favourite position of his by the bowsprit, he found that another member of the crew was not so highly pleased, for Watty was seated outside the galley door with a goose in his lap and a bucket by his side, busily plucking out the feathers and down, which, partly from the angry energy with which he was working, partly from the breeze, were flying in all directions, and especially all over his blue jersey and into his shock hair, which had been well anointed with the bear's grease he had carefully saved up from the day when the fat was boiled. When Steve approached Watty seemed to be singing as he plucked, for there was a mumbling, burring noise, and Steve turned to Andrew, who happened to be close at hand seated upon the deck, fastening a line to the edge of a sail. "Why, Andra," he said, "do you hear that?" "Oh ay, she hears it," replied the sailor. "Do you know what it puts me in mind of?" "Na, she dinna ken, Meester Stevey. A coo waiting for the lassie with the milk-pail, maype." "No," said Steve; "it's just like the drone of your pipes heard in the cuddy with the hatch on." "Fwhat? Na, na, she'll not pe a pit like tat. Ta pipes is music--coot music, Meester Stevey; for there's na music like ta pagpipes--ta gran' Hielan' pagpipes. But she kens she's chust cracking a choke with me." "No, I'm not. Listen; it does sound just like it." "Na, na, laddie," said Andrew after a pause to listen; "she's mair like ta collie tog when she sees a cat, or maype it's mair like ta bummel-bees among ta heather upo' ta hills in bonnie Scotland." "Well, it sounds very comic whatever it's like. Look here's Skeny coming up to see what's the matter; look how he's cocking his ears." "Oh ay, she thinks it's a coo wants driving hame." "No, he knows it's Watty. Look at him." "Ay, she can see ta tog. An' it's a fine tog, eh, Skene? Come alang, and I'll gie ye a pinch o' sneeshin'." "No, no, don't tease the dog!" cried Steve, as Andrew took out an old snuff-mull, opened it, and held it out to the dog. "Nay, she'll na tease the tyke. Skene hasna larnt to tak' ta sneeshing. But it's ferra coot for ta nose, Skeny." And all the while Watty's peculiar burring sound kept on and increased, the dog looking hard at him with his ears up, and finally giving a short, sharp bark. "Do you hear that, Watty?" said Steve. "Ay; she heart ta tyke." "Skene wants the second verse of the song." "Then he'll ha'e to wait," said the boy; and he went on again with the monotonous burring sound which had first attracted Steve's attention. "What's the matter with him, Andra?" "She's making up a lang story spout ta cook. She's been retty to fecht, and ta cook said she'd ding her het again' ta galley if she tidn't pick ta goose." "Ay, but she'll mak' my ploot poil pefore she's tone," cried Watty fiercely, and scattering a handful of feathers so that some of them and the down flew on to Steve. "Make your ploot poil?" cried Steve, laughing. "Ay; and it poils now!" cried Watty, scattering some more feathers purposely, so that they should adhere to his trousers. "There, I told you he was singing, Andra. His ploot poils, and he was singing like a kettle." "My mither sent me to sea to learn to pe a sailor, and ta skipper's made me ta cook's poy!" cried Watty vehemently. "Then you shouldn't have been such a coward, Watty. There, don't be in a temper, and I'll speak to the captain to let you come back to the other duties." "Hey, put she's a puir feckless potie, and dinna ken the when she's well off. She wishes ta captain wad pit her in ta galley, to get ta fairst wee tasties of all ta gravies and good things ta cook potie mak's." "But he's tired of it now, Andra. I say, Watty, look here; you're smothering me with that fluff!" "Then she should get ower to ta ither side of ta fessel." "I'll knock you to the other side of the vessel if you're saucy!" cried Steve hotly. "See if I speak to the captain for you now!" "She dinna want ye to speak. She can speak her ainsel' when she wants, and she ton't want; for she'll stop in ta galley the noo till we get pack to Glasgie and goo pefore ta magistrates aboot it. There!" This last word was accompanied by a handful of down thrown in the air so that it might be wafted right over Steve. This was too much for the boy's equanimity, and, hot with passion, he snatched a handful of the down from the pail and rubbed it in Watty's shock head, to Andrew's great delight. "Weel tone, laddie!" he cried; "tat's ponnie. Gie her anither handfu' of the saft doon." Now, for some time past Watty, for reasons best known to himself, had been nursing up feelings of the nature that would, in other conditions, have developed into a regular Highland feud. He was jealous of Steve in every way. It annoyed him that a boy younger than he should be dressed better, work less, and live in the cabin, while he had to share the meals of the men when the cook did not make him eat in the galley. In addition, after long brooding over what he called his "wrangs," and in his dislike to the lad who had shown himself to be more plucky, and brought him, as he called it, to shame, he had nursed up the idea that Steve was only a coward at heart, that all his acts were put on for show, and that if he could only find a chance he would risk getting into trouble if it should reach the captain's ears, and give the object of his dislike a good thrashing. And now the opportunity had come, and there was plenty of excuse. Steve had dared to rub all that down into his sacred, well-greased, red locks; and springing up and looking as if his "ploot really tit poil," he swung round the goose he was plucking, and, using it as if it were an elastic war-club, he brought it with excellent aim bang against Steve's head. More blood began to boil now, for, with a cry of rage at what, forgetting his own provocation, he looked upon as a daring insult, Steve ran two or three steps--ran away, Watty thought; and exulting in his imaginary triumph, he followed to strike his adversary again with his absurd weapon; but to his utter astonishment, before the blow could fall, Steve, who seemed to be stooping to avoid the attack, sprang up, and, raising both hands, struck downward. The result was curious. As Steve struck downwards Watty, in delivering his blow, leaned forwards, placing his head just in the proper position to receive the weapon and its contents with which the English lad had armed himself. That weapon was the bucket full of feathers, and Steve's anger went off like a flash, for he had completely extinguished Watty, who staggered back, dropping the bird, blinded, half suffocated by the down, and so confused for a few moments that even when he had thrust off the bucket from his head he stood coughing and sneezing, staggering about in his blind endeavours to escape. "Weel done, laddie; tat's prave. Gie it ta saucy callant again. She'll sweep up ta feathers when she's tone," cried Andrew in ecstasy. But now Watty's blood boiled right over, and as soon as his eyes were clear he rushed at Steve with an angry yell, fists doubled, teeth set; and, regardless of the goose hurled in his face, he continued his charge right home and up to his adversary's guard. The next minute they were fighting hard, blow succeeding blow in the most unscientific way; but the end was not to be then, for Andrew cried in a hoarse whisper: "Rin, laddie, rin! Here's ta skipper." Watty heard the terrible words--words awful to him--and he did "rin." Not far. The galley door was open, and close at hand. Into it he darted like a fox into its hole, and Steve stood alone, covered with feathers, to face the captain and Mr Handscombe, who, hearing the scuffling forward, hurried up to see the cause. "Highly creditable, upon my word!" cried Captain Marsham, frowning. "Could not you find anything more sensible to do than to get into this disgraceful quarrel with the ship's boy?" Steve stood breathing hard, flushed with anger and mortification. "I'd try a sweep next time, Stephen," said the doctor sarcastically; "he would not come off worse upon you than this fellow has done." "He insulted and struck me," stammered Steve. "You would not have had me stand still and submit to that, sir?" "I don't want to hear anything about it," said the captain sternly; "it is disgraceful, and I gave you credit for knowing better." The captain walked back to the companion hatch and descended to the cabin, leaving Steve, the doctor, Hamish, and Andrew looking at each other. "Well, sir," said the doctor, "you've done it this time. Have you any idea what an object you look?" "No," said Steve, in a tone of voice which told of his mortification. "Go to your cabin, then, and look in the glass. I should prescribe a little water, too!" "Hadn't I better jump overboard for it, then?" cried Steve bitterly. "Bah! Rubbish! Don't talk nonsense!" cried the doctor, catching the lad by the arm. "Why, what's the matter?" said the mate, coming up hurriedly. "Oh, nothing much. We've had an accident, and spilt some feathers about the deck, and it has made the captain angry about the way in which it was done. Have them cleared up, man. Come along, Steve lad; and don't look like that," he whispered, as he half dragged the lad away. _ |
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