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University of Michigan - BUHR
Captain Samson, A. B.



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LIBRARY VERITAS OF THE
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UNIVERSITY
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TURIBUTEUNESSES
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STEUERIS-PENINSULAM
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BEQUEST OF
ORMA FITCH BUTLER, Ph.D., '07
PROFESSOR OF LATIN


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CAPTAIN SAMSON, A·B ·


By the Same Author
THE TALL MAN
THE OBSTINATE CAPTAIN SAMSON


Captain Samson, A.B.
ooooooooooooo
S BY G A VIN DOUGLAS
.
G· P · PUT NAM'S SONS
New York
1937


COPYRIGHT, 1937, GAVIN DOUGLAS
Printed in the United States of America
VAN REES PRESS


o. F. BUTLER
BEQUEST
4-2oruto
CAPTAIN SAMSON, A · B ·
DOR
- 10
©





cosassssssssssssssssss
FOREWORD
CAPTAIN SAMSON is, in this year of 1937, a fierce and
obstinate champion of coasting sailoring. He claims that
sailoring, as a pure art and a job for men, passed out of
existence with sail, but declares with emphasis that what
sailoring remains today is in navigation within these
geographical points, the Rivers Elbe and Brest, and around
the British Isles, which are officially described as Home
Trade Limits. With his shiny red, bulbous features set
obstinately and his little pale-blue eyes fiercely ready to
oppose anyone who would dare contradict him, he de-
scribes deep-water sailoring as "clerk's work” and deep-
water sailors as "a lot of prinked up, cigarette-sucking,
fancy-socked and short trousered hoodlums!” He says, with
scorn, that today any college boy could pass Board of
Trade examinations for officers' certificates better than a
real sailor could pass them, and he has a great and, for
Samson, strangely humble respect for the old type of
coasting man who navigated the coast on a half-crown
almanac and a sixth sense bred by experience.
Kerr, that spruce and smugly efficient young mate of
Samson's present command, the thousand-ton coasting
steamer Saltmarsh, was taught this respect Samson had for
the old coasting men and, as usual, had a smart rap over
the knuckles for daring to tell a time-honored joke against
these same old sailors.


Captain Samson, A.B.
We were on the bridge of the Saltmarsh and the steamer
was taking the inside passage of the Sound of Mull, bound
to the Tyne with a cargo of bog-ore from Belfast. It was
the first north-about passage Kerr had ever taken. Kerr
noted Samson's repeated consultation with Old Joe Benson,
the Saltmarsh's second mate, a silent, stout and elderly
relic of the long-past coasting schooners.
"He's got all the charts in the world down there,” the
young officer whispered to me as Samson departed below
once more to consult Old Joe on the tide movements in
the Lynn of Lorne. Kerr's good-looking young face was
sulky because he resented the shipmaster consulting the
second mate and ignoring himself, Joe's superior officer,
and officially the more skilled in navigation.
Samson returned and stood examining the entrance to
the Sound. He took a bearing of Lismore Light and then
spoke to the man at the wheel.
"Keep her nearer Lady Rock,” he said. He turned to
me and said, “There's a run of tide near the Lismore side
of this channel.”
Samson knew I was eager to have every small detail of
navigation explained, and he took some pride in educat-
ing me as the steamer made her passages. Kerr moved closer
and I noticed a spiteful glint in his eyes as he said, “Did
you hear that story of the old coasting schooner-master?”
he asked.
Samson frowned. He did not consider a ship's bridge
was the place to tell funny stories. However, he said noth-
ing. Kerr gave a short laugh and said, “The schooner was
going up London River and the mate was forra'd on the
forecastle-head. The skipper was at the wheel. The skipper
yells out, 'How's she going, Mr. Mate?' The mate looked
over the side to where the ship's dog was swimming along-


Captain Samson, A.B.
side. "Still swimming, skipper,' he shouted. The schooner
went on another cable-length and the skipper yells, 'How's
she going, Mr. Mate?' The mate looks over the side and
then turned and ran to the sheets. 'Just beginning to walk,
sir,' he shouts as he runs. The skipper hauls the wheel
over and yells, 'Ay, ay, there-all hands veer ship.'” Kerr
leaned back and roared with laughter at his story. Sam-
son's face was shining and his eyes were frosty with rage.
He waited until Kerr stopped laughing and then he said
coldly:
"Mr. Mate, that'll do for the funny stuff. You should
have been a comedian.”
Kerr's grin faded and he made a weakly smile.
"I was just telling a funny story, sir,” he excused him-
self.
"Then tell it to some of your deep-water nancy-boys,"
Samson retorted. "If some of you fellows had any sense
you'd know more than to make fun of men who could
learn your navigation.” He snorted in disgust and turned
away. Kerr looked embarrassedly at me and attempted a
faint wink. I smiled sympathetically but was carefully
neutral. Kerr moved to the end of the bridge platform and
glowered on the water ahead. Samson turned and swept
the young man with a biting expression, then said to me:
"These bloody young whippersnappers fancy they know
a lot because they can use a sextant and parallel rulers.”
He nodded as though agreeing with something spoken
within him, then he added, “Though I was just as bad
at one time, that's why I get angry when I hear that sort
of talk.”
"What cured you, Captain Samson?" I asked.
Samson was silent for a moment. He watched the Gray
Rocks in the middle of the entrance to the Sound, saw


.6
Captain Samson, A.B.
the course would take the steamer well clear of that bad
patch, then said:
"I lost my first command on the coast and had my
ticket taken away because I wouldn't listen to an old
coasting man.”
"Lost her?” I asked in amazement. “You lost her?”
Samson nodded.
"Aye-lost her. ... Piled her on a rock and had the
best sailorman I ever shipped with murdered because I
was too bloody sure of charts and parallel rulers. ... Like
Kerr there.... It was my first experience of coasting." He
scowled, then said:
"I'll tell you about it and then you can write it in one
of them books of yours. It'll maybe cure some of them
smart young shavers who fancy a bit of clerking is all
that's wanted to make a sailor on the coast.”
This is Samson's story.


CHAPTER ONE
SAMSON, it appeared, came to the coast reluctantly. He
left deep-water soon after his adventure with Count Basso
and the great newspaper magnate, Lord Freshwater. Sam-
son and his partner, Macgregor, had a row over that affair
and Samson told his partner he did not want to work with
anyone who had tried to crawl out of a position such as
had arisen and was the beginning of the Basso trouble.
Macgregor, equally hot-tempered but more commercially
minded, told Samson what sort of bloody fool was any
man who tried to oppose great financial interests, and the
partnership was dissolved. The steamer Runnelton was sold
and the proceeds divided between the two partners. Sam-
son returned to his home, an orderly gray stone villa kept
in stiff perfection of starched curtains and heavy mahogany
furniture by an equally stiff and heavy housekeeper who
bullied Samson for leaving pipes and shoes about his own
rooms. Samson was quite obedient to this bullying, working
it out by his strict sea code that the housekeeper was in
command and that he, as mere owner, had no rights over
his own property while there was an officer placed in
charge.
However, Samson had no desire to remain on shore. He,
if such a word could be used of Samson, loved his job and
was never happy on shore. On the morning after he arrived
1 See The Obstinate Captain Samson.


Captain Samson, A.B.
home he adorned himself neatly in blue serge suit, stiff
white collar and shirt with starched front and cuffs, neat
black tie, bowler hat, well-polished black boots and carry-
ing that scepter of a pre-war ship's captain, an umbrella
tightly rolled since the day it was purchased. With this
instrument grasped fiercely in his large hairy-backed hands,
Samson strode firmly into the office of the Blue Flag Ship-
ping Company. He bade a dandyish young clerk inform
the shore superintendent of his presence and waited in stiff
dignity for that old shipmate's arrival. Captain Johnston,
the superintendent, arrived and greeted Samson heartily.
"We were just talking about you yesterday,” he grinned.
"I expect you're taking a bit of a holiday now it's all
over.”
Samson frowned. He did not appreciate his late fame,
nor enjoy it. Why people carried on like so many madmen
because he had done what he considered any shipmaster
worth the name would do under similar circumstances he
could not understand. Johnston grinned.
"You didn't half stir things up,” he said enviously.
Samson's red face shone and his little eyes flashed.
"We'll not talk about it,” he said shortly. "And I'm not
having a holiday. I'm after a job.” He explained shortly
of the split with Macgregor. Johnston listened and was
suddenly evasive and ill-at-ease. He remembered how often
he had tried to secure Samson for one of the Blue Flag
ships and he flushed.
He made sympathetic criticisms of Macgregor and was
heartily praising of Samson's stand over the whole of the
Basso affair. Then he became heavily regretful and said
that he could kick himself round his office for not having
a ship available for Samson right away.
“But I'll keep you in mind, old man,” he promised and


Captain Samson, A.B. 9
moved meaningly towards the front door of the shipping
office. "You'll be in a berth very soon, though,” he added
hopefully.
Samson froze stiffly. He knew at once that Johnston was
being evasive and it was not Samson's nature to avoid any
issue. He planted himself in the superintendent's path and
glared his suspicions. Johnston looked hastily at the clerks,
knowing he was about to lose some prestige in their eyes.
He tried to laugh and thumped Samson on one shoulder.
"Well, so long, old man,” he cried boisterously, “I'll
let you know.”
But Samson's dignity was riding high and fiercely.
"Captain Johnston,” he commanded with all the aplomb
he considered a shipmaster should carry, "I'm not coming
here begging a job from you or anyone else. I can pay my
way for longer than you could and I'm not scrounging
on you or your likes. You told me there was a ship waiting
for me any day I wanted it and that's why I came to you
first.”
"Certainly, captain," the other said hastily, “and I shall
see you have a ship very soon. Just at the moment all our
ships are fully manned.”
"That's a lie,” Samson retorted, his face becoming bluish
and swelling, his short thick-set body vibrating with rage.
"You're on the look-out for a captain for the Blue Dragon.
I know that for a fact.”
Johnston tried to smile. He shook his head.
"I gave her to Smilie just half an hour ago,” he said.
"Smilie?” Samson's face expressed his unbelief. “That's
not true. It was Smilie told me. I met him outside your
office ten minutes ago.”
He stood and challenged Johnston with his eyes. John-
ston flushed hotly and coughed. He knew himself trapped


IO Captain Samson, A.B.
and he cursed Smilie beneath his breath. Then suddenly
he knew he could not lie to Samson any more. His flush
went and he was pale. He took the other's arm and swung
him about.
“Let me talk to you, Captain Samson,” he said quietly,
"come into my office.”
Samson obeyed the silent pressure of the hand on his
arm and strode into Johnston's private office. Johnston
indicated a chair.
"Sit down, Captain Samson,” he said, “I want to ex-
plain.”
"It'll take a lot of explaining,” Samson retorted. "I've
commanded better ships than you'll ever handle and I
need no man's charity.”
Johnston nodded. "I know," he said. "But you'll find it
isn't going to be easy to get a command again.”
"What?” Samson jumped to his feet and glared trucu-
lently at the other. Johnston made a short gesture to the
other.
"It's no good getting into a rage with me,” he said.
"If I gave you a ship I'd be out on my uppers in an hour.
You are going to be blacklisted for years."
"Me! Blacklisted!” Samson almost screamed at the in-
dignity.
"Yes, you," the other said bluntly. "I know all you
are thinking. You think because you are a good sailor
and know your job that you can always find a berth.
Anybody would think that. You think because you've
never had an accident that was your fault and that you
are one of the best time-makers afloat that every shipping
company will be jumping to employ you—and you have
every right to think that. But,” He paused and walked
to his window. He looked down on the roofs of houses
are


Captain Samson, A.B. II
and sheds to the river where steamers lay at anchor on
the gray, swiftly-moving stream. He looked at the steamers
lined along the trim quays of the waterfront and at a tug
thrusting upstream. He looked on a familiar scene and he
sighed and wished himself out of the filth of this office
side of a trade he had believed to be honorable. Then
he turned and spoke gently
"Captain Samson,” he said slowly, “there isn't a ship-
owner in Britain who'll give you a command. When you
got up against Basso you got up against every shipper
and shipowner that exists."
"You're mad,” Samson cried indignantly. “I protected
their interests. I fought a crook and stopped a swindle. I
didn't want their praise or their newspaper nonsense. I did
what I knew was right.”
"You took the law into your own hands,” Johnston
said, "and owners don't want shipmasters who do that.
You acted like a pirate of a hundred years ago and ship-
owners are frightened of you now. They think that if
you ever get into another dispute you'd act like you did
in Savonia and get them into law cases. You got away with
it and came out on top this time, but if you did the same
again you might land your employers into heavy damages
and do a lot of harm among shippers. The shippers are
all crooks, and so are shipowners. But they don't want their
shipmasters to start acting as judge, jury and high execu-
tioner, Captain Samson. Your job is to load your ship
where you are told, with what you are told to take, and
make your passages. If you think there is crooked work
going on, it's none of your business. There are agents and
lawyers to handle that. You think because Basso is dead
that shippers will be handing you bouquets, and that's
where you are wrong. Basso wasn't the only one trying


12
Captain Samson, A.B.
to get at Lord Freshwater, and not the last who'll try....
Damn it, Samson ...” Johnston looked at Samson half
angrily. "You're too bloody honest to understand what
goes on in this business. These people ... the shippers and
the shipowners are out to do any dirty trick they can to
each other, and they don't want any blasted sea-captain
to see their game or to butt in. You're dirt to them, cap-
tain. We all are. We run their ships and we're no more
important to them than a doormat. You made a mistake
in trying to interfere and that's why you'll never get
another job. They want skippers who don't know anything
more than sailing their ships and doin' as they're told.”
Samson had listened with growing rage. He was on his
feet now. His face was a bluish, bruised color. His bulbous
features had swelled and seemed about to burst. He grasped
the umbrella fiercely as though it were a club and his short
sturdy figure seemed as though about to crouch and leap
upon the taller, less vital man who had spoken as Samson
could not realize a man would have spoken to him.
Then Samson exploded.
"I'll listen to no more of this,” he screamed. "I've heard
enough from you, Johnston. I never thought I'd live to
hear a man who had commanded ships talk as you've talked
today. I've never heard a shipmaster insulted as you've
insulted me.”
"Then you've heard it now,” Johnston roared, suddenly
as angry as Samson.
"Yes. ... By God, I've heard,” Samson yelled, glaring
at the equally throbbing Johnston. "And let me tell you,
mister, you're a disgrace to the sea ... to the profession
you belong to. ... A disgrace.”
"What!” Johnston pointed a quivering finger at the


Captain Samson, A.B. 13
office door. “Get out of this. Get out before I throw you
out.”
Samson's feet seemed to dance with his rage. He strained
forward as though on a leash. His rage was almost hys-
terical.
"Get out! You tell me to get out. Why ...” He lunged
forward and then halted as though realizing what he was
doing. He stiffened and stood for a moment, his little eyes
surveying the other scornfully. Then he swung about and
marched to the door. He flung the door open and it crashed
against the wall and shook. Clerks looked up and stared
fearfully. A girl cried “Oh!” There was an awful silence,
as though the office were in a lull in the center of a ty-
phoon, then Samson's voice rose and lashed across the
silence.
"You office boy!” he cried bitingly, "you bloody .pen-
wiper.”
Then he strode out of the offices of the Blue Flag Line,
his umbrella sweeping imaginary obstacles from his path.
He reached the street and strode along Water Street.
A voice hailed him but he strode on, his brain stupefied
and only a fierce rage in him. A hand grasped his coat
sleeve and he shook it off. He walked the three miles to
his home and scowled on his housekeeper. She gave him a
frosty gleam in return.
"Your dinner isn't ready,” she said. “You are back too
soon.”
He stopped as though against an obstacle. He glared at
her and she glared back. He panted slightly, then his arm
rose and he threw his umbrella the length of the gleaming,
orderly hall. The umbrella crashed against a large pot
holding an aspidistra and the woman shrieked with horror..
.


14 Captain Samson, A.B.
Samson glared again and strode into the front parlor.
The woman saw the door rush towards her and put her
hands up to her head to prevent the bang. The door
crashed into place and the woman shivered.
"The man's mad,” she whispered.
On the second morning of his homecoming, Samson
departed for Water Street and the offices of the shipping
companies with an awful dignity in his carriage and a
fierce pugnacity in his eyes. The housekeeper watched
him leave the house and her eyes glinted with indignation.
He had neither eaten his breakfast nor given her his some-
what lordly "Good-morning.” She waited until he had gone
out of sight and then she sat down and wrote a letter to
Samson's daughter, a married woman and his only child.
His wife had been dead many years.
Samson entered and left eight offices of shipping com-
panies that day. At each he gave his name and was greeted
with considerable nervousness by apprehensive shore-cap-
tains who had heard of yesterday's scene at the Blue Flag
offices. At each he received the same reply to his offer of
service: there were no berths available. He knew the shore-
captains lied, for on the pavements of Water Street and in
a small darkly paneled bar-room he learned all the water-
front gossip from several red-faced men in blue serge suits
and bowler hats. These sea-captains greeted Samson with
hearty or respectful greetings. They were obviously anxious
to sympathize with him, but Samson was stiffy reserved
about his affairs. It was not in the man to play the whim-
pering martyr or the loud-mouthed rebel. He had done
what he considered his duty and this was his reward.
Such it was. His task now was to keep going round shipping


Captain Samson, A.B. IS
offices until he met a sensible shipowner who would ap-
preciate a man who knew his job.
At the end of two weeks Samson had exhausted the
reputable shipowners of the port and had written to most
of the companies with their offices in other parts of the
country. By this time he realized Johnston had told him
the truth: he was being blacklisted. His daughter arrived
unexpectedly to inquire what was wrong with him, and
Samson told her bluntly to mind her own bloody business
and get back to her home where her job lay. Then he
called his housekeeper into the parlor and instructed her
on the limits of an employee's duty.
"You run this house and never mind trying to run me,”
he said, “or out you go.”
One day he went to the business part of the town and
interviewed an agent for small business premises. He re-
turned that evening, owner and commander of a back-
street greengrocery. He remained in trade seven days and
sold the business at a heavy loss. Then he became one
of the silent, intent men who stand on docksides and
watch ships come in and go out. The other watchers,
shabbier and without Samson's still arrogant expression,
tried to chum up with him. He surveyed these broken
men with scorn.
"Who asked you to talk to me?” he demanded of one
man.
The man laughed slightly. "Comrades in misfortune,"
he said humorously. “I came back from a three-year trip
and got a letter from the pilot telling me my wife was
dying. I waited until we reached Gravesend and got our
orders to wait there until we were given a berth. The
anchorage was crowded. I was in a hurry and yelled to
the mate to give her thirty fathoms. He gave her sixty.
was
mate


Captain Samson, A.B.
17
"Your captains, mister?” Samson repeated inquiringly.
"That's what I said, Captain Samson. I want to offer
you a berth in one of my boats.”
"Coasting?" Samson's voice was scornful.
"Coasting, captain.”
Samson drew himself up to his full five feet seven and
spat distastefully. Then he said:
"Mister, see that long fellow over there, him who looks
as though he's about ready to faint off?”
The shipowner appeared puzzled, but nodded.
"Then,” said Samson, and he turned to depart in all
his dignity, "give him your bloody coal-box, mister-I'm
a sailor.”
He had gone no more than six paces, his face livid with
indignation, when he heard a chuckle and a "Well, I'll
be” Then the man ran after him and thrust into Sam-
son's unwilling right hand a small piece of cardboard.
"That's the address, captain. Call in and see me when
you're ready to take the berth.”
Samson strode on in all his dignity.
Behind him the shipowner stood and watched the ship-
master depart, and there was a glint of vindictive humor
in the watcher's eyes. He was approached by a heavily-built
man dressed less sprucely than himself, and with the stamp
of seafarer on him.
"Is he biting, Joe?" the newcomer whispered.
The shipowner grinned.
"Not yet,” he said briefly. “Who's the long fellow wilt-
ing away over that dock-rail?”
“Dunno, Joe.”
"Find out," the other said shortly. "And if he's all
right tell him there is a berth going with us.”
em
mas
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BEQUEST OF
ORMA FITCH BUTLER, PH.D., '07
PROFESSOR OF LATIN
ill





CAPTAIN SAMSON, A.B :


By the Same Author
THE TALL MAN
THE OBSTINATE CAPTAIN SAMSON


Captain Samson, A.B.
S BY G A VIN DOUGLAS
cos
Soocooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
G · P · P U TN A M'S SONS
New York
oooooooo
1937


COPYRIGHT, 1937, GAVIN DOUGLAS
Printed in the United States of America
VAN REES PRESS


o. F. BUTLER
BEQUEST
4-2oruto
CAPTAIN SAMSON, A.B.
DOR
o K-24 - 40





asssssssssssssssssssss
FOREWORD
CAPTAIN SAMSON is, in this year of 1937, a fierce and
obstinate champion of coasting sailoring. He claims that
sailoring, as a pure art and a job for men, passed out of
existence with sail, but declares with emphasis that what
sailoring remains today is in navigation within these
geographical points, the Rivers Elbe and Brest, and around
the British Isles, which are officially described as Home
Trade Limits. With his shiny red, bulbous features set
obstinately and his little pale-blue eyes fiercely ready to
oppose anyone who would dare contradict him, he de-
scribes deep-water sailoring as "clerk's work” and deep-
water sailors as "a lot of prinked up, cigarette-sucking,
fancy-socked and short trousered hoodlums!” He says, with
scorn, that today any college boy could pass Board of
Trade examinations for officers' certificates better than a
real sailor could pass them, and he has a great and, for
Samson, strangely humble respect for the old type of
coasting man who navigated the coast on a half-crown
almanac and a sixth sense bred by experience.
Kerr, that spruce and smugly efficient young mate of
Samson's present command, the thousand-ton coasting
steamer Saltmarsh, was taught this respect Samson had for
the old coasting men and, as usual, had a smart rap over
the knuckles for daring to tell a time-honored joke against
these same old sailors.


4
Captain Samson, A.B.
We were on the bridge of the Saltmarsh and the steamer
was taking the inside passage of the Sound of Mull, bound
to the Tyne with a cargo of bog-ore from Belfast. It was
the first north-about passage Kerr had ever taken. Kerr
noted Samson's repeated consultation with Old Joe Benson,
the Saltmarsh's second mate, a silent, stout and elderly
relic of the long-past coasting schooners.
"He's got all the charts in the world down there," the
young officer whispered to me as Samson departed below
once more to consult Old Joe on the tide movements in
the Lynn of Lorne. Kerr's good-looking young face was
sulky because he resented the shipmaster consulting the
second mate and ignoring himself, Joe's superior officer,
and officially the more skilled in navigation.
Samson returned and stood examining the entrance to
the Sound. He took a bearing of Lismore Light and then
spoke to the man at the wheel.
"Keep her nearer Lady Rock,” he said. He turned to
me and said, "There's a run of tide near the Lismore side
of this channel.”
Samson knew I was eager to have every small detail of
navigation explained, and he took some pride in educat-
ing me as the steamer made her passages. Kerr moved closer
and I noticed a spiteful glint in his eyes as he said, “Did
you hear that story of the old coasting schooner-master?”
he asked.
Samson frowned. He did not consider a ship's bridge
was the place to tell funny stories. However, he said noth-
ing. Kerr gave a short laugh and said, “The schooner was
going up London River and the mate was forra'd on the
forecastle-head. The skipper was at the wheel. The skipper
yells out, 'How's she going, Mr. Mate?' The mate looked
over the side to where the ship's dog was swimming along-


Captain Samson, A.B.
side. 'Still swimming, skipper,' he shouted. The schooner
went on another cable-length and the skipper yells, 'How's
she going, Mr. Mate?' The mate looks over the side and
then turned and ran to the sheets. 'Just beginning to walk,
sir,' he shouts as he runs. The skipper hauls the wheel
over and yells, 'Ay, ay, there—all hands veer ship.'” Kerr
leaned back and roared with laughter at his story. Sam-
son's face was shining and his eyes were frosty with rage.
He waited until Kerr stopped laughing and then he said
coldly:
"Mr. Mate, that'll do for the funny stuff. You should
have been a comedian.”
Kerr's grin faded and he made a weakly smile.
"I was just telling a funny story, sir,” he excused him-
self.
"Then tell it to some of your deep-water nancy-boys,"
Samson retorted. "If some of you fellows had any sense
you'd know more than to make fun of men who could
learn your navigation.” He snorted in disgust and turned
away. Kerr looked embarrassedly at me and attempted a
faint wink. I smiled sympathetically but was carefully
neutral. Kerr moved to the end of the bridge platform and
glowered on the water ahead. Samson turned and swept
the young man with a biting expression, then said to me:
"These bloody young whippersnappers fancy they know
a lot because they can use a sextant and parallel rulers.”
He nodded as though agreeing with something spoken
within him, then he added, “Though I was just as bad
at one time, that's why I get angry when I hear that sort
of talk.”
"What cured you, Captain Samson?” I asked.
Samson was silent for a moment. He watched the Gray
Rocks in the middle of the entrance to the Sound, saw


CHAPTER ONE
SAMSON, it appeared, came to the coast reluctantly. He
left deep-water soon after his adventure with Count Basso
and the great newspaper magnate, Lord Freshwater. Sam-
son and his partner, Macgregor, had a row over that affair
and Samson told his partner he did not want to work with
anyone who had tried to crawl out of a position such as
had arisen and was the beginning of the Basso trouble.
Macgregor, equally hot-tempered but more commercially
minded, told Samson what sort of bloody fool was any
man who tried to oppose great financial interests, and the
partnership was dissolved. The steamer Runnelton was sold
and the proceeds divided between the two partners. Sam-
son returned to his home, an orderly gray stone villa kept
in stiff perfection of starched curtains and heavy mahogany
furniture by an equally stiff and heavy housekeeper who
bullied Samson for leaving pipes and shoes about his own
rooms. Samson was quite obedient to this bullying, working
it out by his strict sea code that the housekeeper was in
command and that he, as mere owner, had no rights over
his own property while there was an officer placed in
charge.
However, Samson had no desire to remain on shore. He,
if such a word could be used of Samson, loved his job and
was never happy on shore. On the morning after he arrived
1 See The Obstinate Captain Samson.
48.


Captain Samson, A.B.
home he adorned himself neatly in blue serge suit, stiff
white collar and shirt with starched front and cuffs, neat
black tie, bowler hat, well-polished black boots and carry-
ing that scepter of a pre-war ship's captain, an umbrella
tightly rolled since the day it was purchased. With this
instrument grasped fiercely in his large hairy-backed hands,
Samson strode firmly into the office of the Blue Flag Ship-
ping Company. He bade a dandyish young clerk inform
the shore superintendent of his presence and waited in stiff
dignity for that old shipmate's arrival. Captain Johnston,
the superintendent, arrived and greeted Samson heartily,
"We were just talking about you yesterday,” he grinned.
"I expect you're taking a bit of a holiday now it's all
over.”
Samson frowned. He did not appreciate his late fame,
nor enjoy it. Why people carried on like so many madmen
because he had done what he considered any shipmaster
worth the name would do under similar circumstances he
could not understand. Johnston grinned.
"You didn't half stir things up,” he said enviously.
Samson's red face shone and his little eyes flashed.
"We'll not talk about it,” he said shortly. "And I'm not
having a holiday. I'm after a job.” He explained shortly
of the split with Macgregor. Johnston listened and was
suddenly evasive and ill-at-ease. He remembered how often
he had tried to secure Samson for one of the Blue Flag
ships and he flushed.
He made sympathetic criticisms of Macgregor and was
heartily praising of Samson's stand over the whole of the
Basso affair. Then he became heavily regretful and said
that he could kick himself round his office for not having
a ship available for Samson right away.
“But I'll keep you in mind, old man,” he promised and


Captain Samson, A.B.
moved meaningly towards the front door of the shipping
office. "You'll be in a berth very soon, though,” he added
hopefully.
Samson froze stiffly. He knew at once that Johnston was
being evasive and it was not Samson's nature to avoid any
issue. He planted himself in the superintendent's path and
glared his suspicions. Johnston looked hastily at the clerks,
knowing he was about to lose some prestige in their eyes.
He tried to laugh and thumped Samson on one shoulder.
"Well, so long, old man,” he cried boisterously, “I'll
let you know.”
But Samson's dignity was riding high and fiercely.
"Captain Johnston,” he commanded with all the aplomb
he considered a shipmaster should carry, "I'm not coming
here begging a job from you or anyone else. I can pay my
way for longer than you could and I'm not scrounging
on you or your likes. You told me there was a ship waiting
for me any day I wanted it and that's why I came to you
first.”
"Certainly, captain,” the other said hastily, “and I shall
see you have a ship very soon. Just at the moment all our
ships are fully manned.”
"That's a lie,” Samson retorted, his face becoming bluish
and swelling, his short thick-set body vibrating with rage.
"You're on the look-out for a captain for the Blue Dragon.
I know that for a fact.”
Johnston tried to smile. He shook his head.
"I gave her to Smilie just half an hour ago,” he said.
"Smilie?” Samson's face expressed his unbelief. “That's
not true. It was Smilie told me. I met him outside your
office ten minutes ago.”
He stood and challenged Johnston with his eyes. John-
ston flushed hotly and coughed. He knew himself trapped


IO
Captain Samson, A.B.
we
arm
and he cursed Smilie beneath his breath. Then suddenly
he knew he could not lie to Samson any more. His flush
went and he was pale. He took the other's arm and swung
him about.
"Let me talk to you, Captain Samson,” he said quietly,
"come into my office.”
Samson obeyed the silent pressure of the hand on his
arm and strode into Johnston's private office. Johnston
indicated a chair.
"Sit down, Captain Samson,” he said, "I want to ex-
plain.”
"It'll take a lot of explaining,” Samson retorted. “I've
commanded better ships than you'll ever handle and I
need no man's charity.”
Johnston nodded. “I know," he said. “But you'll find it
isn't going to be easy to get a command again.”
"What?” Samson jumped to his feet and glared trucu-
lently at the other. Johnston made a short gesture to the
other.
"It's no good getting into a rage with me," he said.
"If I gave you a ship I'd be out on my uppers in an hour.
You are going to be blacklisted for years."
"Me! Blacklisted!” Samson almost screamed at the in-
dignity.
"Yes, you," the other said bluntly. "I know all you
are thinking. You think because you are a good sailor
and know your job that you can always find a berth.
Anybody would think that. You think because you've
never had an accident that was your fault and that you
are one of the best time-makers afloat that every shipping
company will be jumping to employ you—and you have
every right to think that. But—" He paused and walked
to his window. He looked down on the roofs of houses


Captain Samson, A.B. II
and sheds to the river where steamers lay at anchor on
the gray, swiftly-moving stream. He looked at the steamers
lined along the trim quays of the waterfront and at a tug
thrusting upstream. He looked on a familiar scene and he
sighed and wished himself out of the filth of this office
side of a trade he had believed to be honorable. Then
he turned and spoke gently
“Captain Samson,” he said slowly, “there isn't a ship-
owner in Britain who'll give you a command. When you
got up against Basso you got up against every shipper
and shipowner that exists.”
"You're mad,” Samson cried indignantly. "I protected
their interests. I fought a crook and stopped a swindle. I
didn't want their praise or their newspaper nonsense. I did
what I knew was right.”
"You took the law into your own hands,” Johnston
said, “and owners don't want shipmasters who do that.
You acted like a pirate of a hundred years ago and ship-
owners are frightened of you now. They think that if
you ever get into another dispute you'd act like you did
in Savonia and get them into law cases. You got away with
it and came out on top this time, but if you did the same
again you might land your employers into heavy damages
and do a lot of harm among shippers. The shippers are
all crooks, and so are shipowners. But they don't want their
shipmasters to start acting as judge, jury and high execu-
tioner, Captain Samson. Your job is to load your ship
where you are told, with what you are told to take, and
make your passages. If you think there is crooked work
going on, it's none of your business. There are agents and
lawyers to handle that. You think because Basso is dead
that shippers will be handing you bouquets, and that's
where you are wrong. Basso wasn't the only one trying


I 2
Captain Samson, A.B.
to get at Lord Freshwater, and not the last who'll try....
Damn it, Samson ..." Johnston looked at Samson half
angrily. "You're too bloody honest to understand what
goes on in this business. These people ... the shippers and
the shipowners are out to do any dirty trick they can to
each other, and they don't want any blasted sea-captain
to see their game or to butt in. You're dirt to them, cap-
tain. We all are. We run their ships and we're no more
important to them than a doormat. You made a mistake
in trying to interfere and that's why you'll never get
another job. They want skippers who don't know anything
more than sailing their ships and doin' as they're told.”
Samson had listened with growing rage. He was on his
feet now. His face was a bluish, bruised color. His bulbous
features had swelled and seemed about to burst. He grasped
the umbrella fiercely as though it were a club and his short
sturdy figure seemed as though about to crouch and leap
upon the taller, less vital man who had spoken as Samson
could not realize a man would have spoken to him.
Then Samson exploded.
"I'll listen to no more of this,” he screamed. “I've heard
enough from you, Johnston. I never thought I'd live to
hear a man who had commanded ships talk as you've talked
today. I've never heard a shipmaster insulted as you've
insulted me.”
"Then you've heard it now,” Johnston roared, suddenly
as angry as Samson.
"Yes. ... By God, I've heard,” Samson yelled, glaring
at the equally throbbing Johnston. “And let me tell you,
mister, you're a disgrace to the sea ... to the profession
you belong to. ... A disgrace.”
"What!” Johnston pointed a quivering finger at the
at


Captain Samson, A.B. 13
office door. “Get out of this. Get out before I throw you
out.”
Samson's feet seemed to dance with his rage. He strained
forward as though on a leash. His rage was almost hys-
terical.
"Get out! You tell me to get out. Why ...” He lunged
forward and then halted as though realizing what he was
doing. He stiffened and stood for a moment, his little eyes
surveying the other scornfully. Then he swung about and
marched to the door. He flung the door open and it crashed
against the wall and shook. Clerks looked up and stared
fearfully. A girl cried “Oh!” There was an awful silence,
as though the office were in a lull in the center of a ty-
phoon, then Samson's voice rose and lashed across the
silence.
"You office boy!” he cried bitingly, "you bloody pen-
wiper.”
Then he strode out of the offices of the Blue Flag Line,
his umbrella sweeping imaginary obstacles from his path.
He reached the street and strode along Water Street.
A voice hailed him but he strode on, his brain stupefied
and only a fierce rage in him. A hand grasped his coat
sleeve and he shook it off. He walked the three miles to
his home and scowled on his housekeeper. She gave him a
frosty gleam in return.
"Your dinner isn't ready," she said. "You are back too.
soon.”
He stopped as though against an obstacle. He glared at
her and she glared back. He panted slightly, then his arm
rose and he threw his umbrella the length of the gleaming,
orderly hall. The umbrella crashed against a large pot
holding an aspidistra and the woman shrieked with horror..


14
Captain Samson, A.B.
Samson glared again and strode into the front parlor.
The woman saw the door rush towards her and put her
hands up to her head to prevent the bang. The door
crashed into place and the woman shivered.
"The man's mad,” she whispered.
On the second morning of his homecoming, Samson
departed for Water Street and the offices of the shipping
companies with an awful dignity in his carriage and a
fierce pugnacity in his eyes. The housekeeper watched
him leave the house and her eyes glinted with indignation.
He had neither eaten his breakfast nor given her his some-
what lordly "Good-morning.” She waited until he had gone
out of sight and then she sat down and wrote a letter to
Samson's daughter, a married woman and his only child.
His wife had been dead many years.
Samson entered and left eight offices of shipping com-
panies that day. At each he gave his name and was greeted
with considerable nervousness by apprehensive shore-cap-
tains who had heard of yesterday's scene at the Blue Flag
offices. At each he received the same reply to his offer of
service: there were no berths available. He knew the shore-
captains lied, for on the pavements of Water Street and in
a small darkly paneled bar-room he learned all the water-
front gossip from several red-faced men in blue serge suits
and bowler hats. These sea-captains greeted Samson with
hearty or respectful greetings. They were obviously anxious
to sympathize with him, but Samson was stiffly reserved
about his affairs. It was not in the man to play the whim-
pering martyr or the loud-mouthed rebel. He had done
what he considered his duty and this was his reward.
Such it was. His task now was to keep going round shipping


Captain Samson, A.B. 15
offices until he met a sensible shipowner who would ap-
preciate a man who knew his job.
At the end of two weeks Samson had exhausted the
reputable shipowners of the port and had written to most
of the companies with their offices in other parts of the
country. By this time he realized Johnston had told him
the truth: he was being blacklisted. His daughter arrived
unexpectedly to inquire what was wrong with him, and
Samson told her bluntly to mind her own bloody business
and get back to her home where her job lay. Then he
called his housekeeper into the parlor and instructed her
on the limits of an employee's duty.
"You run this house and never mind trying to run me,"
he said, “or out you go.”
One day he went to the business part of the town and
interviewed an agent for small business premises. He re-
turned that evening, owner and commander of a back-
street greengrocery. He remained in trade seven days and
sold the business at a heavy loss. Then he became one
of the silent, intent men who stand on docksides and
watch ships come in and go out. The other watchers,
shabbier and without Samson's still arrogant expression,
tried to chum up with him. He surveyed these broken
men with scorn.
"Who asked you to talk to me?” he demanded of one
man.
The man laughed slightly. "Comrades in misfortune,"
he said humorously. "I came back from a three-year trip
and got a letter from the pilot telling me my wife was
dying. I waited until we reached Gravesend and got our
orders to wait there until we were given a berth. The
anchorage was crowded. I was in a hurry and yelled to
the mate to give her thirty fathoms. He gave her sixty.


16 Captain Samson, A.B.
There was a breeze of wind and a big tide running. She
swung round and bumped another vessel. I was just gone
below to change, so's I could rush home for an hour to
see the wife.” The man shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
He was a tall, thin man with a starved face and wistful
eyes. "They sacked me,” he explained. “My ticket wasn't
touched, but I might as well have a length of toilet-paper
to show owners."
"You deserved all you got,” Samson retorted. “Your
ship should have been your first care."
The other surveyed Samson amusedly.
"Bless you for these kind words, captain,” he said slowly.
"May your soul rot in hell some day.”
He walked away, his thin shoulders stooped and his
whole pose one of weariness. Samson spat contemptuously
into the dock-water. As he turned away he was faced by
another man and Samson glared defiantly. The newcomer
was a smartly-dressed gentleman wearing handsome kid
gloves, spats and all the accouterments of a prosperous
citizen.
" 'Day, Captain Samson,” he greeted briskly. "I was
hoping to meet you today.” He smiled cheerily on the
suspicious shipmaster and added, "I'm Joe Davis of the
Davis Coastal Navigation. ... Will you come and have a
drink while I talk business?”
Samson frowned and fixed an authoritative eye on the
other
“What do you want with me?” he demanded.
"Oh, let's drink first," the other said spaciously.
"I'm no drinking man, mister," Samson retorted.
"Well, I'm pleased to hear you say that, captain,” the
other said at once. "I like my captains to stay sober.”


Captain Samson, A.B.
17
"Your captains, mister?” Samson repeated inquiringly.
"That's what I said, Captain Samson. I want to offer
you a berth in one of my boats."
"Coasting?” Samson's voice was scornful.
"Coasting, captain.”
Samson drew himself up to his full five feet seven and
spat distastefully. Then he said:
"Mister, see that long fellow over there, him who looks
as though he's about ready to faint off?”
The shipowner appeared puzzled, but nodded.
"Then,” said Samson, and he turned to depart in all
his dignity, "give him your bloody coal-box, mister—I'm
a sailor.”
He had gone no more than six paces, his face livid with
indignation, when he heard a chuckle and a "Well, I'll
be” Then the man ran after him and thrust into Sam-
son's unwilling right hand a small piece of cardboard.
"That's the address, captain. Call in and see me when
you're ready to take the berth."
Samson strode on in all his dignity.
Behind him the shipowner stood and watched the ship-
master depart, and there was a glint of vindictive humor
in the watcher's eyes. He was approached by a heavily-built
man dressed less sprucely than himself, and with the stamp
of seafarer on him.
"Is he biting, Joe?” the newcomer whispered.
The shipowner grinned.
"Not yet,” he said briefly. “Who's the long fellow wilt-
ing away over that dock-rail?"
"Dunno, Joe.”
"Find out,” the other said shortly. "And if he's all
right tell him there is a berth going with us.”


18
Captain Samson, A.B.
"What about Samson?” the other demanded.
The shipowner shrugged his shoulders. "He'll come or
he'll not come. I hope he does. I'd like to take that cow
down a peg.”


cosassssssssssssssssss
CHAPTER TWO
It had been remarked that Captain Samson loved his job.
He was never content nor at peace on shore and he could
find no place for himself on land or among landsmen.
Thirty-five years as a seafarer had cut him away from
the interests and pastimes of people on shore as effectively
as though he spoke a different language. What contacts
he made with the people on shore when he met and married
his wife and had a family had long since been lost by the
domination of his greater interest-his job. His wife had
secured no great joy from married life. Samson was too
single-purposed in his work to realize a duty to any
woman. He hardly knew his daughter and he gave her
no more than a dutiful attention in upbringing. His home
was a place where he lay up between voyages.
To strip away from such a man his work was to destroy
him. Samson had no life apart from the sea.
It was not surprising, therefore, that he presented him-
self before Davis, the owner of four small coasting vessels,
several days after Davis had accosted him.
"Good-morning, captain," Davis said heartily when
Samson entered his office. "Glad you decided to join us."
Samson was grimly businesslike. He smarted inwardly
that he had been forced to take a coasting steamer, for
he cherished his status as a deep-water shipmaster with
long experience in sailing vessels and in reputable shipping
WII.
19


20
Captain Samson, A.B.
companies. The coast to Samson, as to most deep-water
men, was little better than being a bargee or a longshore-
man. Though he was too sure of his status to actually
make jokes against coastal sailoring, he agreed with the
jokers who claimed that coasting men wept when they
lost sight of land, or sneered as they told coasting sailors
they liked to stay at sea all night; both time-honored jokes
against the short passages of the coasting trade. Davis knew
this attitude and said in a half-teasing voice:
"You'll get to like the coast, captain. Deep-water men
have a wrong idea of it. I bet in six months you'll be
saying you wouldn't go back to deep water if they paid
you twice the money.”
"'I'm not here to argue about that, mister,” Samson said
uncompromisingly. “We'll fix our business and I'll be off.”
Davis grinned and a little gleam of vindictiveness came
and faded from his eyes.
"Right, captain,” he agreed, Where's the offer. You'll take
over the Sunart. She's lying in Garston now. She's loading
coal for Dublin. The pay is four pounds a week—that's a
good pound note over the usual coasting rate for masters."
Samson nodded.
"I'll go on board this afternoon," he said.
"Right, captain. I'll make no speeches. I like my ships
to earn their keep but I'm no driver. She's an old boat
but her engines are good. I'm not skimping either gear
or hands.”
“Yes, sir,” Samson said, preparing to leave.
Davis tapped the desk with the end of his pen.
"The rest of the crew are on board,” he said. “I think
you'll find them all right, but you'll please yourself about
that when you've seen how they work.”
Samson made no reply but he felt kindlier to Davis. At


Captain Samson, A.B. 21
least, this shipowner made no attempt to interfere with a
master's rights.
Davis added, “And one more thing, captain: on the
coast we try to save money on pilotage. You'll find good
charts on board, although the usual coasting skipper hardly
looks at charts. But, what I mean is that where you think
you can take her in yourself and there isn't compulsory
pilotage, I'd be glad if you saved the money. Later on,
if you want to stay on the coast, you can take the Mersey
Pilotage ticket. Most coasting men hold it."
Samson nodded. He agreed this was no more than a ship-
master's duty: to save money for his owners. Anyhow,
he did not like pilots much. He did not like anyone who,
legally or illegally, appeared to take his command from
him, even for an hour. He mentally approved this one
aspect of coasting. He could be rid of pilots.
That afternoon he arrived at Garston Dock. He carried
a large suitcase, and at a respectful distance behind him
came a longshoreman with Samson's long canvas sea-bag
on his shoulder.
The Sunart lay under a coal tip and Samson surveyed
her grimly as he approached: a typical coaster, engine
housing and funnel crushed on her after-end, the bridge
a high, slender platform amidships, and forra'd and aft
of the bridge were the holds, their opened hatches occupy-
ing most of the deck space. The forecastle-head was short
and high and with little deck space other than that
occupied by a rusty capstan and two sets of bollards. She
had three masts, one close against the after-end of the
forecastle-head, one directly against the foreside of the
bridge and one at the after-end of No. 2 hold. Samson
knew coasting vessels from the outside and had expected
no more than he now saw. This specimen was perhaps


22 Captain Samson, A.B.
rustier and older than most he had seen, but Samson was
no finicky spit-and-polish sailor and what beauty he saw
in ships was the inevitable beauty of sturdy utility. The
Sunart possessed that.
There was a long narrow plank laid from stone quay
to iron bulwark-rail in place of a gangway. Samson strode
across this plank and walked amidships. A small, sharp
featured man who had been standing in the door of the
crew's quarters forward hurried aft and came to the ship-
master. Samson surveyed this man disapprovingly. The
small man was brown as a berry, amazingly neat of hand
and feet, and had a laziness of eye and movement that
annoyed the new master.
"Is the mate on board?” Samson demanded.
"I'm the mate, sir," the man replied in a soft voice.
"This is your room up here, sir."
He led the way to the lower bridge and to the door
of a square, steel-walled house on which the narrow navi-
gation bridge got its support. The mate entered first and
Samson followed. There was an easy friendliness about
the mate which infuriated Samson. He waited until he
was in the tiny, stuffy cabin, then said:
"Take your hat off when you're in anyone's cabin,
mister.”
The mate's mouth opened wide in amazement and then
a slow grin spread over his face, making him seem curiously
monkey-like and mischievous. He removed his battered
and stained soft hat and disclosed a completely bald head,
startlingly white, against the sun-brown of his face. He
licked his lips and watched Samson curiously. Samson was
examining his cabin with scant respect or interest. It
deserved little more, for it was a tiny house of one com-
partment, hardly eight feet wide by six feet long. Against


26
Captain Samson, A.B.
talk to a seaman, and at the wheel, while a vessel nego-
tiated a crowded river, was not only a breaking of all
Samson's ideas of discipline, but was insanity itself. The
pilot and the wheelsman were startled by a wild-eyed man
with a face that gleamed and swelled in the feeble light
from the binnacle lamp.
"I'll bloody well think you'll wait,” Samson roared. “I
should bloody well think so. What sort of ship is this?
Where the hell did you learn your job?"
He stood before the two men and glared at them furi-
ously. The pilot frowned, then met the other's eyes with
an indignation as great as Samson's.
"What's wrong with you?” he demanded.
“Wrong with me?” Samson almost screamed. “Wrong
with me? I'll show you. Hi, mister mate!” He bawled
for the mate and that officer arrived, running smartly to
the bridge. Samson greeted him.
"Get another man on the wheel and give that fellow
his notice. We'll get men who know their place on board
here. And take this pilot below. I'll take her out."
"You'd better not try taking her out,” the pilot said
warningly. "It'll cost you your ticket.”
"I'll show you,” Samson roared. “I'll report you for
this carry-on. I'll strip your job away as easy as I'll throw
you off this bridge if you don't walk off. I'll have none
of this damned nonsense aboard any ship I command.”
The pilot was pale and apprehensive now. He knew
Samson could make trouble for him. Officially he had no
right to talk to the man at the wheel as he had done, but
this was an officialism he had never seen nor heard of
being practiced on board a coasting steamer. He held
himself rigid and stiff.
"Do you mean that, captain?” he asked quietly.


Captain Samson, A.B.
27
"Every bloody word of it,” Samson roared back. "I'll
not have my ship handled like she was a bloody barge. Get
off this bridge.”
"Better go below, Mac," the mate whispered.
The pilot hesitated, then nodded. He stepped to meet
Samson's angry eyes and he sneered:
"You'll end up by putting this ship aground,” he said,
cand serve you bloody well right.”
"Get off this bridge,” Samson shouted. “Get off.”
The pilot descended from the bridge and stood on the
deck below. He was shaking with anger and fear. Samson
could, he knew, take his job from him, or, at the least,
get him a reprimand. He watched the shore and the busy
lights pass, and his nervousness increased. He saw the
white and red lights of the pilot vessel at the bar, and he
moved restlessly about the deck. He heard feet race down
the bridge ladder and heard shouts for a ladder to be put
over the port side, and then he heard Samson's command.
"You come up here.”
The pilot went to the shipmaster's room, his face pale
and resentful. Samson handed him a slip of paper.
"There's your chit, mister, and take a warning. I'm
letting this carry-on pass for once, but if you come aboard
my ship again and start the same tricks I'll report you."
The pilot could have sighed his relief. He took the chit
and left the cabin. Samson glared after him, then returned
to the bridge. The steamer's engines stopped and the pilot
climbed to the rowboat now rising and falling on the
small waves against the ship's side.
"Good night, captain,” the pilot hailed in an attempt
to make everything appear as usual.
"Jumping Joseph!” he reported to the half-dozen pilots
on board the pilot vessel as he sank onto a settee and wiped


28
Captain Samson, A.B.
his forehead. “That new skipper of the Sunart is going to
cause some fun before long."
The crew of the Sunart watched their shipmate pack
his bag as the vessel approached Dublin and they were
ominously silent. The mate came forward and bade the
discharged seaman go aft to the captain. Samson inter-
viewed the man in his room. He surveyed the seaman dis-
tastefully, then said:
"I'm going to let this pass this time,” he said. "It was
as much the pilot's fault as yours. But you can get this
into your head. I'll have some discipline aboard this ship.
You can pass that forra’d.”
"Blimme,” said Kennedy when he heard the news.
"We're in the navy now."
In the month that followed Samson's introduction to
coasting, the Sunart saw much readjustment of personnel
and standards. The forecastle hands were no longer the
men who had manned the coaster on Samson's arrival. In
five short weeks there had been two complete clearings
of the deck-hands and a steady clearing and refilling of the
firemen's side. The original second mate, an elderly man
who had been on the coast since boyhood and who had
given up the ghost on meeting Samson, departed to live
on his old-age pension in Guernsey. The chief engineer
had a fiery battle with Samson and departed in a cloud
of fury and abuse, and had been replaced by a mild-voiced
man. The second engineer was a Welshman and a diplomat
who kept out of everyone's way by staying in his cabin
when he was not below at the engines. Only the mate and
the cook remained of the original crew, and both suffered
heavily for their loyalty. The mate, tolerant, good-natured
and with a god-sent sense of humor, watched Samson


Captain Samson, A.B. 29
with curious eyes and did his job efficiently and without
fuss. He gave Samson a quiet respect and obedience which
the furious shipmaster could only accept. Samson discov-
ered that in the mate he had a first-rate seaman, and he
gradually toned down his suspicions and his bullying and
the two men worked together steadily if without friend-
liness. They had no conversations outside their work and
the ship. The mate, after his first experience in offering a
suggestion outside his strict duty, contented himself with
doing his own job and no more.
His first and only attempt at interference had been on a
passage down the east coast. He had mildly informed
Samson how the tides act at the mouth of the Wash and
how, in the old schooners, vessels got an extra run of
favorable tide by using the peculiarities of these local
streams. Samson looked sharply at the other and said
curtly:
"When I want your information I'll ask for it, mister.”
He paused, then added, "I can manage my job without
any advice.”
The mate smiled slightly and moved away. He never
offered another piece of knowledge or advice on the navi-
gating of the steamer. Instead, he watched Samson with a
curiosity that was almost speculative. Samson's methods
interested the mate.
Samson made his courses with a precision and carefulness
almost sensual. He had discovered that Davis had given
him a remarkably full set of charts for all coastal waters,
and charts fascinated Samson. In this early part of his
coasting experience Samson was not the corner-chopper
that he became, nor did he have his present fondness for
replacing the patent log with an assessment of speed from
engine revolutions (a practice which gives his present mate,
men


30
Captain Samson, A.B.
Kerr, much worry). In these days Samson streamed his
log and checked his speed almost every hour, and he
watched the coastline as though expecting it to leap out
and smite the steamer. "He took four-point bearings of
every headland and laid out his short courses with as
much care as a deep-water man lays his thousand-mile
passages. He watched wind and tide to assess his leeway
and he figured and marked his charts almost continuously.
The mate, who knew only the coasting navigation based
on a knowledge of tides and local peculiarities gathered in
years of experience of these phenomenon, was interested
in Samson's more scientific methods. The mate had been
thrust on board a small coasting schooner at the age of
twelve, and in his years of experience on those craft knew
every current, every landfall, every patch of sand or knob
of rock inside the coasting limits. He could have taken a
vessel round the coast without consulting anything but
his own knowledge, a knowledge neither written nor read,
but his by the mouth and hand of generations of men who
had battled their way round the coasts in sunshine, fog,
storm and calm, with no other aid than their vessels' sails
and the knowledge they possessed. Samson, with his deep-
water man's contempt for this rule-of-thumb sailoring,
scorned to believe that such mud-crawling seamanship
could equal the efficiency of sound chartwork and the
intricacies of that dignified seamanship which separates a
mere seaman from a navigator. Samson cherished with
fanatical pride every distinction which made him a ship-
master as opposed to a crude seaman.
So the Sunart made her passages. Made them smartly and
with no respect for the weather; for Samson was a seaman
and accepted defeat from neither vessel nor weather. He
drove his command through fog and through storm. The


Captain Samson, A.B.
31
mate watched the red-faced shipmaster with something
approaching wonder when he saw the Sunart being pushed
round Land's End on a day when a full nor'-west gale kept
a dozen other coasters huddled in the creek of Mounts
Bay. The firemen cursed as they shoveled water and coal
into their fires, and the seamen fought the wheel and
glared their resentment at Samson as he stood sturdily on
the bridge and assessed every sea as it met the ship's blunt
stem. He abused the wheelsmen for their carelessness and
lack of skill, and he whipped the engineer with even
stronger abuse for daring to ease down the engines without
an order from the bridge.
"I'll run this ship,” he informed them angrily. "I'll say
what she can do and what she can't do."
Davis wrote and congratulated him on his passages and
he tore up the letter contemptuously.
The other man who had remained in spite of Samson
was the cook. That worthy had developed what appeared
to be a great admiration and desire to serve. He seemed
to spend most of his time seeing that Samson would never
again have to complain of a dirty or untidy cabin. He
scrubbed and polished and arranged Samson's few posses-
sions until the shipmaster drove him from the cabin. Sam-
son had wanted his cabin clean, but he wanted no coddling.
He could hardly leave his cabin for two minutes without
finding the huge figure of the cook there on his return.
"Just came to make your bunk, captain.”
"Just came in for your boots, captain.”
"Just came in to do the lamps, captain.”
He always had a reason for his presence and was always
overbearingly attentive.
"I'll tell you when I want anything done,” Samson
said annoyedly.


32 Captain Samson, A.B.
"Yes, sir,” answered the cook servilely but he was in the
cabin the next time Samson came.
“Just tidying up your table, captain,” he said apologeti-
cally, his big red face with the nose broken and the ears
crushed and bruised-looking expressing his servile eagerness.
“Leave them charts alone,” Samson said. “I'll tidy the
table myself.”
"Yes, sir,” answered the cook as he backed out of the
cabin.
By the end of that first month Samson knew himself
firmly established as master of his vessel and with a crew
that understood his ways even if they resented them. And
in this mutual understanding they loaded eight hundred
tons of coal for Penzance and proceeded from the loading
port of Blyth. It was then the month of October and
during the period of spring tides. The Sunart met strong
southerly winds on the passage down the east coast, and a
steadily dropping glass promised them little relief as they
rounded the North Foreland and proceeded westward. The
steamer behaved much as any other steamer of her size
would behave, in that she crushed into seas which filled
her to the combings and her crew were tossed and heaved
until they were half stupefied with the movement, and
their arms and legs were weary with handling wheel or
shovel. Samson spent at least twenty hours out of every
twenty-four on deck and remained as impassive and un-
sociable as he was in any other sort of weather. He watched
the falling glass, pored over his charts, checked the log,
abused the wheelsmen as the Sunart swung wildly to the
rising seas and took his careful four-point bearing of
every headland as the steamer struggled to and past these
points. The mate relieved the new second mate, a nonde-
script middle-aged man who slept, ate, and took his watch


Captain Samson, A.B.
33
without any great interest in being alive seemingly; and
in turn the second mate relieved the mate. The trip had the
painful monotony of any bad-weather passage on board a
seaworthy vessel handled efficiently. The Sunart, aged as she
was, was still seaworthy. Her engines thumped steadily and
she shook off the loads of sea-water as they crashed on board
in ample time to receive the next load without danger.
The cook, on this passage, seemed to take an unusual
interest in the progress the steamer made. He explained
humorously that one of his good-looking wives lived in
Penzance and he went into lewd detail with the crew and
with the mate. The mate had a mischievously sensual mind
that enjoyed such tales. The cook wanted to know the ap-
proximate hour at which the steamer would arrive off
Penzance Harbor, and if the Old Man would go straight
into harbor. The mate shrugged his shoulders, informing
the cook that he had no idea what Samson would do. The
cook persisted and the mate said:
"With this wind they might not open the dock gates;
but I expect the Old Man'll arrange to get there about
high-water. We should be in by three o'clock on Thursday
morning.”
The cook nodded as though this agreed with something
he had worked out for himself. He grinned.
"Watch me jump ashore as soon as we hit the quay,"
he said. "I'll give her the surprise of her life.”
The mate smiled and watched the cook humorously.
The cook passed from the galley and went amidships to
his room. There he waited and listened, then opened a
drawer under his bunk and withdrew a large folded chart.
He opened this chart and examined it carefully, then
folded it twice. He raised his greasy jersey and laid the
folded sheet against his undergarments, drawing his jersey


34
Captain Samson, A.B.
tea
down again to conceal the chart. After examining himself
carefully in a mirror to see that the chart was not visible
or bulged conspicuously, he went on deck again. In the
galley, deserted now, for this was late at night and those
men not on watch were in their bunks, the cook made
tea and filled a large mug. He passed along the deck. A
voice hailed him from the doorway of the stokehold
fiddley.
"How about a wet, cookie?"
The cook started and then hurried on, calling over his
shoulder:
"Take some out of the pot, Harry.”
The seaman waiting his turn to take the wheel peered
after the cook slyly and the cook climbed to the bridge
where Samson stood with the second mate.
"I've brought you some tea, captain,” the cook an-
nounced, standing on the top rung on the bridge ladder.
Samson peered at the man and was grateful for the
thoughtful service. Spray was whipping across the bridge
and the night was cold enough to make tea very welcome.
"Oh, thanks, steward,” he said, unexpectedly friendly.
"Bring one for the second mate.”
“Yes, sir. There's a mug in your room, sir; can I
take it?”
"Yes, of course," Samson said, still pleasantly.
The cook descended the ladder and entered Samson's
room. He glanced round the small cabin, then listened.
He heard Samson and the second mate move on the deck
above, and heard the straining of the wheel and the clatter
of the steering chains as the wheelsman held the steamer to
her course. Then, swiftly and silently, the cook opened
a long drawer under the chart table and stooped to read
the titles of the charts lying in the drawer. He withdrew
non


Captain Samson, A.B.
35
one of the charts and then raised his jersey and took from
that concealment the chart he had brought from his own
room. He laid this in the place of the one he had withdrawn
and then he crumpled up the stolen copy and thrust it in-
side his trousers waist. Again he listened and was assured
he was not to be interrupted. He scanned the titles of a
row of blue-bound books jammed in one corner of the
table and chose one entitled Channel Pilot. He opened this
book with fingers that acted as though they were used to
handling paper, then with a swift downward movement he
ripped one page across. A few minutes later he appeared
on the bridge and handed the second mate a mug of tea.


oooooooossssssssssssss
CHAPTER THREE
WITH the Eddystone Light abeam at seven o'clock on the
Wednesday evening, Samson went below to check over the
course he had given to the mate and to plot out his next
course. He completed his first task and laid the chart aside,
then opened the drawer under the table and withdrew
another folded sheet. He noticed this chart was creased
and he frowned as he smoothed the creases down with his
hands. He was finicky about charts, as he was, and still is,
finicky about all the working parts of ship's gear and
instruments.
Opening the chart, he spread it on the table and laid
lead weights on each corner. The chart was headed "St.
Agnes Head to Gerrans Bay," with a sub-title, “Including
the approaches to Falmouth, Penzance and St. Ives.” Sam-
son leaned over and examined that portion of the chart
describing Mounts Bay and Penzance. He stood over the
table with his legs apart to steady him against the move-
ment of the coaster as she reared and rolled to the strong
sou’-west wind and the considerable sea. His thick, hairy
hands smoothed the chart with a surprisingly neat move-
ment. He brought the parallel rulers from a drawer and
laid them from the point of the chart where Penzance
Harbor was sketched to a point near Lizard Head. Then
he noticed several tiny markings on the chart near the
harbor. He peered closer and read “Gear Rock," and
36


Captain Samson, A.B. 37
under this marking, "Beacon.” Both these were written in
the fine script of all chart markings.
Samson's lips pursed as he noted this rock lay directly
on the line drawn from his point off the Lizard to the
harbor. He read the soundings on either side of the rock
and learned the water shoaled badly to the eastward but
was deep to the westward. There was a thin line of minute
dots drawn from the sketched outline of the harbor plan
to the south-south-west. The line passed to the westward of
the rock marked on the chart and continued across the
chart to near its foot, where it ended in a few lines of
fine script. Samson read the script. It informed him:
"Light on Pierhead bearing N. 10 E. clears Gear Rk.”
Reaching across the table, Samson drew from the row
of books the volume marked Channel Pilot. He opened
this book at a page and then swore with annoyance. The
page had been torn diagonally across and the part missing
was that which would have described the entering of
Penzance Harbor. Samson stood upright and considered
the effect of this missing information, then he scowled and
bent to the chart again. However, he consoled himself that
with the information given on the chart he actually re-
quired no other knowledge. He took from the row of
books a copy of Read's Almanac and perused several pages.
He learned that Penzance was a port where pilotage was
compulsory for vessels exceeding 1,500 tons (gross). The
Sunart was of 1,300 tons gross, so he could, if he cared,
take the steamer in himself. Samson had kept faithfully to
Davis's request and had saved pilotage fees where he could.
He had no intention of taking a pilot into Penzance. Cer-
tain of his own seamanship, he could see no unusual dan-
gers in entering this port, and though he had never been
so far into Mounts Bay, the chart information was clear


38. Captain Samson, A.B.
and precise. He had only to haul over to the west side
of the bay to a position abreast of Newlyn Harbor, from
where Penzance Harbor light bore north 10 east, and so
clear the one danger spot shown in the chart, the Gear
Rock. The shipmaster laid his rulers across the chart again,
took his intended course, worked out his deviation and
variation with meticulous care, then wrote down the com-
pass course to be steered. He went outside and shouted
to the bridge to take a four-point bearing off the Lizard
Light and to call him when the headland was on the bear-
ing. The second mate said:
"Ay, ay, sir,” and Samson went back to his cabin and
lay on his settee. He lay looking at a wooden box half-
filled with sawdust that stood in the center of the cabin
floor. He spat skillfully into the box and then laid on the
floor the short wooden pipe he had been smoking. Then he
closed his eyes and slept.
He awoke to the call of a seaman. He lay for a minute,
listening to the water sounds outside, and heard a sea crash
on board and break against the steel bulkhead of his cabin.
The wind hummed steadily and the steamer heaved up-
wards and then rolled to port. Samson rose and steadied
himself to the roll, then moved to the chart table. He
stood looking down on the chart spread on the table while
he memorized the courses he had set. Then he went on
deck. A fan of spray whipped his face as he reached the
bridge, and he went back to his cabin for an oilskin and
sou’wester. He returned to the bridge and stood close
against the canvas dodger and peered into the night. The
mate arrived on the bridge and relieved the second mate.
A seaman relieved the wheel and the courses were repeated.
The night-blurred figures moved across the bridge and
then settled against wheel and bridge-rail. Samson checked


Captain Samson, A.B. 39
the compass bearing of the long beam of light that circled
from the shore. A small light made a series of flashes from
the headland but Samson ignored the signal. He saw no
need to report his ship's name. The signaling ceased and
there was only the sweeping beam from the lighthouse and
the flash of white wave-tops against the blackness of the
night.
When the light was abeam, time and log were checked
and the distance worked out. Samson ordered the steamer
brought in a trifle and then went below to make himself
a mug of tea and to eat a large slab of his favorite Cum-
berland cake. The mate, on the bridge, peered into the
compass and then looked as though puzzled at the ladder
where Samson had descended. He shrugged his shoulders
as though deciding Samson would please himself and re-
turned to his shelter behind the dodger. Samson returned
and took another bearing of the headland, then gave a new
course, bringing the steamer towards the land and heading
her directly into the wide bay. As he heard the course,
the mate again seemed surprised and almost spoke. But he
smiled ruefully and was silent.
Samson spoke suddenly. He said:
"Someone's been ill-using some of the books down
there. A page was missing."
"Oh,” the mate said. “They came straight from the office
when you joined her.”
Samson nodded. He knew his predecessor never used the
pilot series of coastal navigation information and he was
contemptuous of such seamanship.
The two men were silent after that. The mate knew
Samson was irritated and, though he thought the ship-
master's present course would take the vessel too far to
the westward, he said nothing. The bay was in no way very


40
Captain Samson, A.B.
dangerous and the few dangers along its shores were well
marked on the charts and were not in the steamer's courses
to the harbor entrance. He wondered if Samson intended
taking her in himself and frowned at the thought. Coastal
men usually took a pilot into this port. Still, the mate
thought, philosophically, Samson would please himself.
Samson made a point of pleasing himself.
The wind was now abeam and the steamer rolled heavily.
Samson ordered her hauled out more to make up for the
leeway. The mate raised his eyebrows. He thought for a
time, then spoke quietly.
"There's a patch of rock near the harbor,” he said. “It's
not lighted.”
Samson answered sharply, "I know that, mister. I've got
charts.”
The mate smiled in the darkness and moved to the end
of the bridge. If this was deep-water navigation then let it
be. Samson was a good seaman, in spite of his bad temper
and his refusal to admit any knowledge but his own. The
mate considered leaving the coaster, for he took a pride
in his job and disliked being treated as an office boy. Then
he shrugged his shoulders. The day of the unticketed coast-
ing officer was passing and a new, more book-learned officer
was being introduced by owners. Men without tickets
were wise if they kept their mouths shut and held their
jobs. But the mate watched the steamer being taken close
to the western side of the bay with a slightly troubled
mind and eye. When he heard Samson instruct the wheels-
man to bring the steamer round to north fifteen degrees
east he was relieved. He peered ahead and saw the light
on the harbor ahead, and he looked to port and saw the
lights of Newlyn. There was something not altogether
satisfying in the lay of the lights, and the mate moved


Captain Samson, A.B. 41
as
restlessly to the compass. Samson saw the movement and
glared indignantly.
"I'll handle her, mister mate," he said. "See the port
anchor clear and have the log brought aboard.”
The mate said: “Ay, ay, sir,” and left the bridge. He
stopped on the lower bridge and peered ahead. The wind
was now astern and the seas were racing after the steamer
and collapsing with a heavy, roaring sound. The mate was
puzzled, but he dared not return to the bridge. He blew
his whistle and instructed the spare hand of the watch
on deck to call all hands and to haul the log-line in. Then
he went forward to the forecastle-head and unlashed the
sacking that was bound round the anchor chain at the
top of the pipe leading to the chain-locker. He heard
the seamen awaken and climb from their bunks and heard
them go aft to haul in the log-line. Every now and then
the officer stood upright and peered ahead at the harbor
light, and then to the lights of Newlyn on the port hand.
There were few lights from the houses at this hour, but
the row of street lamps along the promenade were clear
and neat against the night. The mate was troubled and
worried now. He knew the steamer was too far to the
westward and that if she held to the course she would
run right into disaster. He looked aft and cursed softly.
What was the man playing at? A seaman arrived and
said:
"We'll soon be in now.”
The mate nodded.
"He's too far this side,” he said.
"One of his fancy deep-water tricks," the seaman
sneered.
Now the sound of the waves breaking against the shore
were clear and warning. The mate listened, not on the


Captain Samson, A.B. 43
480
gishly to the accompaniment of that awful grinding. The
wheelsman still clung to the wheel-spokes, his eyes on
Samson with a terrible fear in them. Samson came to life
and ran to the telegraph. He rang the engines to stop,
and a vibration that had been shaking the hull ceased. The
mate came to the bridge.
"What's happened?” Samson demanded. "What the
hell's happened?"
"You've put her on the Gear Rock,” the mate said, his
voice composed though his face was almost luminous in
its bloodlessness against the darkness.
"Is she holed badly?” Samson demanded.
"She's pouring into the stokehold!” a voice shouted.
"Get the boats out and send up a flare,” Samson said
curtly. “Wheelsman, go aft to the boats."
"There's a boat coming, sir.”
Samson looked towards the harbor light and saw a
smaller light detach itself and come towards the steamer.
"Tell that crowd to stand by to jump," he said in the
same curt tones. “And send up that flare. They're under
my settee.”
The mate ran down the ladder and into Samson's room.
He was inside before he noticed the figure busily working
over the shipmaster's table.
"Hi... what the hell!” he demanded.
The figure turned and the mate cried:
"Bart! What are you doing here?”
An arm rose and a heavy lead weight used to hold
down the chart descended on the mate's head. He
shouted but the shout was drowned in the yells from out-
side and the grinding of the hull on the rocks. The cook
looked down on the prostrate figure, then stooped and
struck again and again with the corner of the heavy


44 Captain Samson, A.B.
VOI
weight. Then he pushed a chart under his jersey and
hurried from the cabin. A voice hailed him from the
bridge:
"Hurry up with that flare.”
The cook ran aft and disappeared into the darkness.
He joined the men gathered by the rail aft and he
panted.
"Wish that boat would hurry," a seaman said hungrily.
The cook laughed. “Hope my old woman's got a spare
suit ashore. We're goin' to get wet.”
On the bridge Samson stood alone and scowled at the
approaching boat. He saw it come abreast of the steamer
and a figure stood up and hailed him.
"Are you all right?” the voice demanded.
Samson leaned over the rail and yelled angrily:
"No, you bloody fool. Get these men ashore.”
There was a shout from the boat and its engine beat
loudly. It reared to the considerable sea and edged closer.
It reached within a dozen feet of the ship's side and a
voice shouted on the steamer's crew to stand by to jump.
From Newlyn there appeared another light, and some-
one shouted that the lifeboat was approaching. One by
one the crew stood on the steamer's rail and leaped the
short distance to the two boats. Someone shouted to
Samson that everyone was gone. The shipmaster ran
down the ladder and entered his cabin. He stumbled over
the body of the mate and his little round eyes opened
wide.
"What the hell?” he cried, and then he saw the blood
on the man's face. He hesitated, glancing at the chart
table and seemingly debating with himself. He opened a
drawer and swept papers and a log-book under his arm,
then he stooped and raised the small figure of the mate


Captain Samson, A.B. 45
to his waist and dragged it over the cabin steps. At the
rail he looked down and saw faces rising and falling on
the waves. He shouted and raised the mate's body to the
rail, then lowered it. Hands grasped futilely and he swore.
He raised the body again and paused to thrust the papers
and log-book inside his tunic. Then he climbed over the
rail, stood on the narrow scupper while he heaved the
mate's body up again. The men in the boat watched him,
one man fending the boat from the ship's side with a
long oar.
"Grab this,” the man shouted.
Samson grabbed at the oar and the boat reared upwards.
Samson fell and his head struck the rising gunwale. His
grasp on the mate collapsed as hands grabbed at the ship-
master.
"Let's get to hell out of this," a voice shouted, panic-
stricken. The coxswain of the boat flashed a hand-lamp and
the lifeboat closed on him. Both boats rose and fell wildly
on the seas.
"There's someone in the water," the Penzance coxswain
shouted. "I'll take this lot ashore.”
Samson recovered consciousness in the office of the har-
bor-master. He opened his eyes and saw a row of men's
faces watching him. A cool hand touched his forehead
and a voice asked if he was all right now. Samson shook
his head as though to cast off the throbbing pain, and put
his hands to a bandage wrapped over his brow.
"What's this for?” he demanded, struggling to rise.
Hands pushed him back into the seat where he was
“Sit still for a time, captain,” the voice said. “You'll be
all right soon."
Samson raised his hands and thrust the nearest man
aside. He sat upright and glared about him. His small


48 Captain Samson, A.B.
He saw a chart of the bay nailed against the office wall
and he rose and walked to where the chart hung. He
examined it carefully and the other man heard him breathe
quickly as though excited. Suddenly Samson turned and
spoke.
"Mister,” he demanded, "am I going mad? See that
rock?” He pointed and laid a finger on the chart close
to the place where the harbor plan showed. “How does
that rock bear from the harbor?”
"South ten west magnetic," the harbor-master said with-
out looking at the chart.
"South ten west!” Samson exclaimed. “Then why the
hell should my chart have it bearing almost south-east and
have a sailing direction saying that with the harbor light
bearing north ten east magnetic the rock is cleared?”
"But that's impossible,” the other said. He hastened to
the chart and examined it as though expecting something
horrible and unknown. He stepped back, relieved, and
he smiled.
"There is no passage inside that rock, captain. It lies
well to one side of the entrance, and the bottom is foul
between it and the shore.”
"Then my chart is wrong," Samson declared. “I'll stake
my ticket on that.”
The harbor-master pursed his lips and hid whatever he
was thinking behind an expressionless face.
"Never heard of a chart being that far out before,”
he said.
Samson was rigid with anger. He moved restlessly to
the fireplace, then back to glare at the chart. He looked
out of the window impatiently, then swore.
"I wish to hell the daylight would come,” he said. “I
want to go aboard and get that chart.”


Captain Samson, A.B.
49
"I don't think you'll get aboard today,” the other said.
"The sea's rising all the time and she's heeling over badly.
The masts and funnel are gone, and the boats.”
Samson's face set obstinately. He faced the other man.
"I've got to get aboard that ship before she breaks up,
mister,” he declared hotly. “That chart is the only evi-
dence I have. If I lose it I'll lose my ticket. I never lost
a ship by a fault of my own in my life and I'm damned
if I'm going to be blamed now.”
The other nodded. “It's hard lines, captain, but I don't
see how you can get aboard."
Samson made no reply. He went to the door and
opened it. The wind caught him and tried to push him
back. He pushed and the door opened wider. He strode
into the chill of the morning and went across a roadway
to the harbor wall. Spray scattered over him and he shook
his body as though annoyed. There was a raised walk above
the harbor quay and he climbed to this walk and peered
over the edge of the breakwater at a sea gray and foul.
Waves raced towards him and exploded against the granite
wall, casting upwards white froth and spray. The water
was bitingly cold and vicious. Peering across, Samson could
see the black outline of his vessel's hull amid a welter of
broken water. He watched for an hour, and as daylight
came he saw the whole sorry scene; the Sunart was be-
coming a complete wreck under the steady battering of
the seas.
She lay on a small reef of rock, exposed now the tide
had gone down. The reef extended from close inshore to a
short distance to seaward of where the Sunart had struck.
On the extreme seaward end of the reef was a pole with
a round wire “basket” on its end, the unlit beacon men-
tioned on the chart. But Samson could see from the posi-


so
Captain Samson, A.B.
tion where he stood that his chart had lied. There was no
passage, could be no passage for a steamer at the western
end of that rock.
The shipmaster's temper, always hasty, rose to a wild
anger against those who had issued a chart containing such
false and dangerous information. His red face was grim
and fierce as he contemplated the wrecked coaster. He
saw she lay heeled to starboard, her masts and funnel col-
lapsed and hanging over the side by their wire stays. He
could see a slow ominous movement in the hull as though
she were being raised and pounded on the rocks. Seas
smashed against her and broke over her in showers of
spray, but with the lowered tide she was receiving fewer
solid blows.
But she would not last another tide if this weather con-
tinued. Samson peered at a foul sky of dirty gray and
heavy black clouds. There was no promise of easing there.
He examined the steamer again and saw the wooden rail
of the navigation platform was gone, and the bridge struc-
ture stood stark and skeleton-like against the gray sky-
line. But-Samson nodded with grim satisfaction-his
cabin appeared intact.
He climbed back to the harbor quay and strode to
where the harbor-master waited for him.
"Mister," Samson said curtly, "I want to go out to her.
That reef of rocks is marked wrongly on my chart and
I've got to get that chart. It's the only evidence I have.”
The harbor-master was evasive. He did not believe Sam-
son's reason for the disaster. Charts never make such
mistakes.
"Don't know how you'll get to her, captain," he said.
"Nobody'll take a boat out there today.”
"I'll pay them,” Samson said.


Captain Samson, A.B. SI
The other shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know a man
who'll do it for any money. Damn it, captain,” the har-
bor-master's voice rose, “you're asking men to risk drown-
ing. One man's been lost already."
Samson knew the other was accusing him. He half-
raised clenched fists and his little eyes were blazing.
"That's what you think, mister,” he shouted. “That's
what you think! I'll show you. That wasn't my fault and
by the holy heavens, I'll prove what I say." He spun round
and looked along the quay. The place was empty of men,
the harbor holding only a Trinity House vessel and a
small yacht. With a snort of disgust, Samson strode to
the roadway beyond the harbor. He saw a group of men
cowering from the wind against a wall and he went to
them. They were shabbily dressed men and they watched
him curiously. Samson examined them with scant respect.
“Any of you men want to earn a pound?” he demanded.
One of the men laughed.
"What's the job, captain?” The man was a tall, starved-
looking fellow with pinched features blue with cold. He
held an old overcoat round himself as he spoke.
"I want to be taken out to that wreck,” Samson an-
nounced.
"The wreck?” There was an indrawing of breath, and
silence. Samson waited and fixed the men with a con-
temptuous eye.
"That's not a job, mister," the man who had already
spoken said. "That's suicide.”
Samson snorted. “What kind of men have you around
here?” he demanded. “The weather's all right.”
"You can have it then, mister,” he was told sneeringly.
"Try Joe Pentreath, captain,” a hoarse voice advised
humorously. "He's your man.”


52
tain Samson, A.B.
"Who's he?" Samson demanded.
"He's a Newlyn fisherman-mad enough to try any-
thing."
"Where does he live?”
"You'll find him down Newlyn.”
Samson nodded curtly and strode away. The men
watched him and sneered.
In half an hour Samson had reached the small fishing
port of Newlyn. He found the man he sought standing
with a group of other fishermen on the high roadway over-
looking the harbor.
"That's me, capt'n," a voice said in answer to Samson's
demand for Joe Pentreath. A slim, wiry-looking young
man with a large, loose-lipped mouth, a long bony nose
and an expression in his eyes as though he found the
whole world a joke. He grinned widely.
"Looking for me, capt'n?”
"Yes.” Samson was at his best master-mariner now. "I
want to be taken off to the wreck. I'm her captain.”
"Are ye, capt'n?” Joe said interestedly. “How'd you get
her on the Gear?”
Samson bridled. “That's not your affair,” he retorted
indignantly. "I'm employing you to take me aboard."
The other fishermen gathered round the two men.
"Proper nasty sea running, Joe; you'll get wet."
Joe laughed hoarsely and grinned. “Sure be that. But
what about it? We'll run down wi' the sea after us and git
aboard. Then when capt'n does his needs, we'll run on to
Penzance and leave the boat there. That suit ye, capt'n?”
Samson nodded. He realized that whatever was this man's
reputation for sanity, he knew his job with a boat.
Joe rubbed his large hands together as though already


Captain Samson, A.B.
53
enjoying the passage. He grinned on Samson and bade him
"Come on and we'll be off.”
The other fishermen watched the two men shrewdly and
were silent. They saw Samson and Joe step on board Joe's
eighteen-feet open boat. Samson had assumed command
and had taken the tiller. Joe shook the foresail clear and
then hoisted. The boat was swung into the harbor and
headed for the entrance. The wind was tricky in the en-
closed space but Samson handled her beautifully. The
watching fishermen nodded approvingly as they saw him
handle the boat. Joe was sitting comfortably on the
windward gunwale. Samson held the wind on his star-
board beam until he was some distance clear of the har-
bor, then he swung the boat's head round and she ran
cleanly before the sea and wind, headed directly for the
tall beacon on the Gear Rock. On Newlyn sea-wall and
on the wall at Penzance men collected to watch the
maneuver. The small boat rose and fell with the seas rush-
ing shorewards, but she rode steadily and under complete
mastery. The watchers saw Joe lean towards Samson and
cup his hands to his mouth. Samson nodded and hauled
the boat's head out slightly.
In a few minutes the boat passed the beacon and Joe
cleared a long boathook. Samson was leaning forward now,
his face intent. Joe was smoking a foul-smelling pipe and
grinning. Samson waited his chance and then at a signal
from Joe, swung the boat across the edge of the reef while
Joe ducked the whipping sail and hauled on the starboard
sheet. The boat leaned over as the wind came squarely on
the port beam. Joe leaned back to take the weight of the
wind and the boat shot ahead. Then Joe shouted and
Samson brought the boat's head into the wind, her stem
a bare three feet from a jagged tooth of rock. Joe whipped


54
Captain Samson, A.B.
off the halyard and the sail collapsed. The boat hung mo-
tionless in the wind, then Joe was hanging over the bow
with the boathook gripping the rock. Samson clambered
forward, and as Joe hauled the boat to the rock, Samson
leaped and landed on hands and knees on the wet rock.
Joe tossed him the end of a thin line, and Samson hurried
to the steamer's bow, now high and dry on the reef. The
boat, sheltered from the heavy seas by the reef, waited
until Samson made the rope's end fast to a rock, then the
fisherman eased out his slack and let the boat ride to a
long painter.
Samson clambered hurriedly over the rocks and was
deluged with spray. He cursed hotly as he climbed round
the ship's side and found a means of climbing on board
in the tumbled funnel and its wire stays. The wind-cast
spray beat against his face and the wind pressed against
him as he climbed over the rail.
The steamer was a desolate sight. Her hatches had
been stripped, the wooden planks had gone. Her cargo of
coal was being steadily washed away through a gaping
hole in her starboard side and out of her opened hatches.
There was a dull banging sound throughout her, and a
creaking and knocking of loosened fittings. Water soughed
and moaned as it streamed in and out of the wrecked
hull, and the decks had been stripped and washed bare
of all wooden fittings. The bridge ladders were gone, and
Samson had to climb laboriously up a sheer wall of steel
ten feet high, his feet straining against rivet-heads and
his hands clinging to the edge of the lower bridge-deck.
He hauled himself up and sprawled on the deck, then rose
and hurried to the cabin doorway. The wooden door had
gone and the cabin was half full of water. The ship's
angle had sent the water to the starboard side, and the


Captain Samson, A.B. 55
bunk and settee were submerged. On the water's surface
floated charts, books, socks, shirts, and dozens of Sam-
son's possessions. He did not hesitate, but plunged waist-
deep into the water and gathered the charts and books.
He read the chart labels until he found the one he sought.
This he folded painstakingly and thrust it inside his tunic.
Then, with a sour scrutiny of the wrecked room, he re-
turned on deck. A shower of spray greeted him and he
shook himself. He looked aft and saw the wreckage of
the lifeboats, tethered to the curved davits by the falls.
The mainmast, hanging over the steamer's rail, was set-
ting up a steady banging, and the hull was quivering and
groaning like a living creature. Samson strained his face
to a grim expression and fought down a hotness of eye
and a lumpiness in his throat as he looked at the wreckage
of what had been a steamer. Then he shook his head,
and few who knew him would have recognized the man's
expression as one that could be possessed by Captain Sam-
son. The man was as near tears as he would ever be. He
gulped and turned away towards the fore-deck, and as
he stood examining the place where he must climb down,
he saw the body of the mate huddled against the hatch
combing. Samson's ejaculation was of wonder then, and
he lowered himself hurriedly and ran to that dead man.
He turned the body over and muttered a curse. The face
was battered beyond recognition.
The watchers on the shore saw the figure of the steamer's
captain against the skyline and saw he carried another
figure. Voices murmured and called the news. Eyes watched
Samson as he clambered down the ship's side to the rocks,
and then over the rocks to the boat. Joe hauled the boat
to the rocks and took the limp figure from Samson. The
fisherman's grin remained, but it was curiously altered and


56
Captain Samson, A.B.
his eyes were sober. Samson climbed on board and went
to the tiller. The shipmaster's face was grim and his eyes
intent and staring. Joe cast off the painter and thrust the
boat away with a powerful movement. He hauled the fore-
sail up and pulled the sheet home. The boat raced towards
Penzance Harbor and rode in the crest of a wave into the
open dock beyond the enclosed harbor. Samson steered
for the far side and the men on shore raced along the
roadway. An ambulance, summoned by the harbor-master,
arrived and many hands raised the dead body of the mate
to the stretcher. Samson climbed on shore and strode
through the crowd to the harbor-master's office. He en-
tered and immediately opened his tunic and withdrew the
chart. His red face was wet and shone like a polished apple.
He glanced once at the chart on the wall and then at the
harbor-master, who entered and waited in silence. Samson
spread his limp and soaked chart on the table and looked
downward. An expression of awful unbelief came to his
eyes, and he ran across the room and peered at the chart
on the wall. Then he returned to the chart spread on the
table and peered at it. The harbor-master moved forward
and looked down. He saw a chart which was in every
detail a replica of the one on the office wall. The harbor-
master coughed slightly and moved away. He looked at
Samson and Samson looked up in time to see the other's
expression of contempt. In the next few weeks Samson was
to see that expression on many faces.


oooooooooooooooooooooo
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE inquiry into the loss of the coasting steamer Sunart
attracted little more attention than these sober and legally
chilled ceremonies usually attract. Samson received a pub-
licity slightly in excess of that given shipmasters in similarly
tragic circumstances, because of his fame as the man who
had almost caused his country to go to war over the Basso
affair, but newspapers have little time for dead news, and
any extra notice of his part in the wrecking of a small
coasting vessel passed almost unnoticed by the readers of
sensational news.
His bearing during the inquiry went far to antagonize
the legal experts on marine law. His stubborn and angry
insistence that the chart had lied was a palpable evasion
which they proved could not have been the truth. The
naval authorities sent a representative to report on all
charts issued in the past fifty years, and they proved that
no mistake such as Samson claimed could have occurred.
Davis, the shipowner, submitted a list of his chart pur-
chases for the Sunart, and these were verified by the firm
from which he bought his charts. The chart in question,
which described the coastline from St. Agnes Head to Ger-
rans Bay, had not been altered to any great extent since
its original publication in 1892. There had been no new
editions since then. A succession of hydrographers and
chart salesmen proved this to be a fact. The chart Samson
sz


58
Captain Samson, A.B.
had salvaged from the wreck was the final damning proof
that Samson was lying to the court. It was in every detail
a replica of the test chart brought into court by the naval
authorities. Samson swore, his face shining with rage and
his eyes glaring defiance, that the Gear Rock had bore
south-by-east of Penzance Harbor entrance and that there
had been a footnote instructing mariners that a line drawn
from Penzance Harbor with the harbor bearing north ten
east, magnetic, gave a channel of clear, navigable water to
the harbor entrance.
"Do you still persist in your statement, Captain Sam-
son?” the Board of Trade lawyer asked coldly.
"I do, mister,” Samson cried hotly. "And I don't care
a damn what that chart says.”
"It is your chart, captain,” the lawyer reminded him.
Samson's comical features set stubbornly.
"I don't care. It ain't the one I worked on.”
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders helplessly and turned
to the three referees. He sat down and Samson stood
fuming impotently on the gathering of well-dressed and
scornful men.
The findings of the court was made known after the
usual legal farce of considering. Samson was found guilty
of gross neglect of his duty in not taking sufficient care
to study the adequate charts and books supplied by his
employer. His sentence was complete and obliterating. He
was deprived of his certificate for all time and heavily
censured for his attempt to mislead the court with false
evidence. Three weeks before, at the inquest on the mate
of the Sunart, he had been as heavily censured for the
death of that officer. He was informed that he might con-
sider himself fortunate in not having to face a trial for
manslaughter and for perjury. He heard both sentences


Captain Samson, A.B.
59
with his little eyes glaring defiance and his bulbous fea-
tures screwed into a fierce anger. He strode from both
courts with a truculent scowl on his face and his fists
clenched. A reporter tried to interview him outside the
Marine Court and received for his zeal an eye that would
be useless for a week. Samson's housekeeper received her
master in stony silence and handed in her notice at once.
She made a shrill speech about being the daughter of a
man who was master of his own vessel and, therefore,
could not shame that deceased mariner by serving such as
Samson. Samson burned her to silence with his anger and
told her she could have ten minutes to leave the house.
She was out in five.
For two days Samson did not leave that gray stone villa.
He sat in his arm-chair in front of an empty grate and
glowered. He neither ate nor smoked, but sucked at an
empty cold pipe and fought with his rage. On the third
day he dressed with his usual neatness and went to Water
Street and the offices of Davis's Coastal Navigation Com-
pany. He demanded to see Davis and was told that gentle-
man was too busy to see him. He thrust the clerk aside
and strode into the shipowner's private office. Davis
greeted him without embarrassment.
" 'Morning, captain," he greeted Samson. “What can
I do for you?” There was a humorous insolence in the
clean-shaven, well-cared-for face that infuriated Samson.
There was no subtlety in the shipmaster and he could only
barge into any problem with a direct rage and blun-
dering dignity. Now he stood before Davis and glowered
his suspicions.
"I came here for satisfaction,” he said bluntly. “I heard
all them fools in that court said to me, and I've lost my
ticket. I've served thirty-five years at sea and never had


60 Captain Samson, A.B.
a stain against my character. Now I'm finished. That's
why I came to you, mister; I want to get to the bottom
of that chart business.”
Davis smiled. He appeared thoroughly amused by Sam-
son's speech. He spread his plump, manicured hands on the
desk and surveyed them, then he looked up into the other's
eyes quizzically.
"Listen, captain. I'm sorry you've lost your ticket. I
wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy; but”-he
shrugged his shoulders—"what's the sense in persisting in
that story?”
Samson drew himself up stiffly and restrained a temper
he had seldom bothered to control. His eyes were fixed on
Davis's and his face shone.
"You're calling me a liar, mister?” he demanded.
Davis made a gesture of weariness. "Captain, why keep
on with that story? You know yourself the chart must
have been all right. Charts do not go playing tricks with
themselves like you make out. You might as well cast
doubt on the sun rising every morning as to say a British
Admiralty chart showed a rock in such a place to be out
of position. Islands don't float, captain."
"I'm telling you what I read,” Samson said, his control
going and his face becoming bluish. "I've handled charts
for more years than you've worn breeches and I never
made a mistake like that. There must have been two charts
aboard that boat.”
Davis's face hardened. He rose and faced Samson.
"I'm sorry, captain,” he said curtly. “I cannot discuss
the matter with you. You made the mistake and you have
to take the consequences.”
"You're a liar, mister!” Samson roared the retort. He
seemed as though he would spring on the other, and Davis


Captain Samson, A.B.
61
grasped a heavy round ruler and became watchful.
"You're a liar, mister, and I'm not so sure you don't know
more than you make out to know. I'll not rest on this
matter.” He strode across the room and thrust his pugna-
cious face close to the other's. "I'm not broke, mister. I
can lay a pound note against yours any day in the week
and I'm not groveling to you or anyone else. I know
what that chart had on it. I know what I saw and if I
made one mistake it was that I was too damned certain
of charts. That poor devil who lost his life tried to tell me
what I should have listened to and I wouldn't listen. He
taught me a lesson I'll not forget; but that doesn't alter
the fact about that chart. And you put it aboard that
vessel, mister. I'll start off knowing that, and I'll find out
where it came from and what it was doing aboard my
vessel. I'll spend every penny I own to find that out,
mister, and then I'll be back to see you. You get that into
your pipe, mister.”
The good nature had gone from Davis's face and he
sneered. He pointed to the door. His voice was cold and
contemptuous.
"Get out of this office," he said quickly. "Get out be-
fore I send for the police.”
Samson nodded. His face flaming red now and his eyes
alight with hatred.
"I'm going, mister. But you remember this. I'm coming
back.”
He spun about and strode from the office. Davis watched
him, then sat down. The shipowner was quivering as he
listened to the outer office door slam behind his visitor.
Captain Samson's attempts at detection were typical of
the man. Though he had insinuated that Davis knew more
about the matter of the chart than an honest man ought


Captain Samson, A.B.
63
chart paper to the engraving plate, a detail would be mis-
placed. The manager of this shop shook his head. Sam-
son's suggestion (which had not been a suggestion but a
downright statement) was impossible: the system of expert
scrutiny of each Admiralty chart was too strict to permit
any such error. Charts were printed with greater care than
treasury notes. The reputation of the British Admiralty
Hydrographic Department stood high and unsullied.
Samson snorted his scorn of navymen and strode from
the shop.
But he had come to a sudden obstruction in his hunt
for proof of the injustice he had suffered. There were no
more shops he could visit, unless he went to London and
a dozen other ports and scrutinized every chart of Mounts
Bay printed. Instead, Samson went to his lonely and chilly
home and wrote a long letter to the Admiralty in his best
copperplate handwriting. He demanded that a full and
immediate examination be made of all charts of Mounts
Bay, of all engraving plates, of all printers engaged in the
work, and of all other phases of the reproduction of charts.
In due course he received a polite letter from the depart-
ment assuring him of the utter impossibility of error and
informing him that the department, in view of the lack
of evidence, could not undertake such an examination. It
was from this time Samson lost his previous belief in the
complete infallibility of charts. He swore at the authorities
and scorned the men who claimed this infallibility.
There was nothing more he could do. There was no
place for him at sea. He no longer went to those small
pubs where ship's captains retailed the gossip of the water-
fronts, of ships and of the world of seafaring. His pride,
fierce and stubborn, could not stand the silent criticism
of other shipmasters. Though these men knew only too


64
Captain Samson, A.B.
well how easily and how unfairly other captains had lost
their career through an "error of judgment” that neither
man nor miracle could have allowed for, Samson's crime
had been more than their tolerance and understanding
could encompass. In their opinion he had lied stupidly in
the witness-box and he had been the cause of a man's
death. His present attitude of righteousness was the atti-
tude of a fool. Had he come in the humility of a beaten
or penitent man they would have been sorry for him; but
no one could ever be sorry for Captain Samson. He would
not permit that. He kept far away from docks, from ship-
ping offices and ships. It was at this time he learned to read
cheap, sensational fiction.
His home became an object of curiosity to the subur-
ban dwellers in that district. From behind curtains,
women watched the short, sturdy figure in neat collar and
tie, blue suit and well polished boots, stride out on shop-
ping expeditions or for a smart walk round a park near-by.
Men and women passing his solid gray home peered at the
drawn curtains over the windows and discussed the strange
hermit. A few offered good-mornings or good-evenings,
but Samson glowered on them and strode on. He wanted
no companionship from landsmen.
He was fortunate in being safe financially. His boast
that he could put a pound against every pound Davis
owned was no empty gesture. Samson was a tight holder
of purse-strings and had no extravagant vices. His fortune
was not wealth, but it was security.
For three months he lived this hidden life. He rose at
five every morning and cooked his breakfast. He tidied
his home, keeping it as scrupulously clean as any woman.
He strode out when the shops opened and bought his
stores with a shrewd eye and a commanding manner for


66 Captain Samson, A.B.
"I was in command of the coasting steamer Sunart when
she was lost. My ticket was taken away from me.”
"Yes, captain?” the manager said softly, his keen eyes
watching Samson.
"Did Davis get insurance for that vessel?” Samson de-
manded.
A chilly mask settled on the manager's face.
"I am afraid I cannot give you any particulars, captain,"
he said. "If you have come with any information that
you consider would interest us, I shall be pleased to take
a statement. Though”—he coughed slightly-"I would ad-
vise you to consult your lawyer before you make any state-
ments.”
"To hell with lawyers,” Samson said angrily. "I'm a
grown man an' so are you. We can be honest with each
other. I came here because I'm not satisfied the way that
inquiry was carried on and I know I was right. I want
to know how much Davis got out of the business.”
The manager rose and moved towards the door. He was
polite as ever but chilly as ice.
"I'm sorry, captain. I am unable to discuss the matter,"
he said. “I advise you to consult your lawyer before you
continue this matter further. Good-day, captain.”
The man's politeness defeated Samson. He was outside
and on the broad doorstep before his rising anger found
voice. Then he glared at the door and strode away.
He stood on the curb, dwelling angrily on his inter-
view. He saw two men and a woman walking across the
roadway and entering a large motor-car which stood on
the opposite side of the roadway. A chauffeur held the
car door open for them and the two men, both well-
dressed and showing evidence of wealth, stood aside while
the woman entered the car. One of the men made a slight


Captain Samson, A.B.
1
67
gesture to the other, and the man nodded and entered the
car. The polite gentleman, having ushered his two com-
panions into the car, spoke to the chauffeur, who saluted.
The gentleman climbed into the car and the chauffeur
closed the door. The car drove off and Samson's eyes
watched it in amazement. He had recognized both men.
The one ushered into the car by the other had been Davis.
The gentleman who had done the ushering and who had
given instructions to the chauffeur had been that most
servile of ship's stewards, the heavily built and bruised-
faced Bart, cook and steward on board the coasting steamer
Sunart. And even as Samson stood in wonder and with
suspicion descending on him as a blasting noise in his
head, his arm was gripped and a voice greeted him.
"Hallo, captain.”
Samson, his mind still puzzling over what he had seen
a moment before, turned and looked at the man who had
greeted him. He saw a tallish, thin-faced man with a smile
that was strangely familiar yet could not be placed by
Samson's memory.
"Yes?” Samson said defensively. “Were you speaking
to me?”
The other laughed softly. He nodded.
"If you don't mind, captain; maybe you don't remember
me.”
"I don't, mister,” Samson agreed stiffly.
The other nodded as though agreeing. "I thought you
wouldn't. My name is Barclay. Captain Barclay of the
coasting steam vessel Troubadour.” This was said with hu-
morous dignity and a smile. "I had the pleasure of telling
you a hard-luck story once, captain. I got a job the same
mor
day.”


68 Captain Samson, A.B.
"I'm glad to hear it,” Samson said in the same stiff
manner.
The other laughed again, softly and amusedly.
"Oh, don't be so damned uppish, captain,” he pleaded.
"I'm trying to be pleasant.”
"I never asked for your pleasantry," Samson retorted.
"I don't like being stopped in the street by strange people.”
Samson's awful dignity appeared to amuse the other.
Then his face sobered.
"Sorry, captain,” he said, "I was trying to be pleasant.
I heard about your misadventure and I know what it
means to be in your position. I wondered if I could be of
some assistance to you.” His smile returned and he looked
at the other ruefully. “But then, I don't suppose you need
anyone's aid. You're pretty self-sufficient."
Samson's face was hot with indignation. He nodded
curtly. "I am, mister,” he said, his voice rising. “I don't
need your help. Yours or anyone else's out of that nest of
rogues you work for.”
The other man's smile faded. He frowned, then said
gently:
"I don't understand that, captain. My employers are
all right.”
Samson sneered. “I'm not so sure," he retorted. “Did
you see who got into that car across there?”
Captain Barclay looked across the roadway and saw no
car. Then he examined Samson curiously.
"I'm not mad, if that's what you are thinking," Samson
said angrily. "The car's gone now. But I saw who it was.”
Samson cursed steadily as he reviled the two men he had
seen. "Coming on board my ship pretending he was a cook
and faking my charts.” Samson ended and the other's eyes
opened wide.


Captain Samson, A.B.
69
"Your cook?” he said slowly. “Do you mean the far-
from-beautiful but estimable Bart?"
Samson looked at the other suspiciously. He had no
liking for Barclay's choice of words or lazy speech. On
face value, Samson would not have shipped Barclay as an
ordinary seaman. He liked to see seafarers brisk and alert
and not this la-di-da sort that Barclay appeared to be.
"I mean Bart,” he said. "If that's his name. I saw him
getting into a big motor-car just now with Davis and a
fancy woman. Acted as if he were Lord high muck-a-
muck, too.”
Barclay's eyes were thoughtful as he digested this in-
formation.
"You want to look out, mister," Samson said warn-
ingly. “They got me all right. They'll be getting someone
else next, and it may be you. Anyhow, I'd be looking after
myself if I saw my employer and my cook hobnobbing
ashore after what I got.”
The other nodded, his eyes still thoughtful.
“Yes; but you see, captain, Davis isn't my employer.
My ship is owned by a man named Jepson. To be precise,
Jepson and Borrows, but there is no Borrows. Jepson is
alone and unsupported.”
"But—" Samson was puzzled. He remembered the time
he had been accosted by this tall sea-captain on the dock-
side, and how, a few minutes later, he had told Davis
scornfully to offer his job to Barclay. He had assumed
Davis had approached the other; but obviously he was
mistaken. Now he shrugged his shoulders and dismissed
the matter.
"In that case you needn't worry yourself. I thought
you were working for Davis.”
The other nodded, but his eyes were thoughtful as ever.


70 Captain Samson, A.B.
"Captain," he said suddenly, "I want you to treat me
as I am willing to treat you—without rancor and in
friendliness. Will you tell me your suspicions about
Davis?”
Samson spat his contempt of this speech and said:
"I don't go saying anything I wouldn't say again," he
retorted. “Davis is a crook, and after what I saw today
I'm getting an idea who helped him. Everybody swore I
was telling lies when I said that chart was wrong, but I
know different, mister. I've handled too many charts in
my time to make such a mistake.”
Barclay considered this.
"I read the case, captain," he said. “You claimed the
chart you consulted had Gear Rock out of position and
that you followed out the instructions on your chart.”
"That's right, mister,” Samson declared. “And I don't
give a damn who says different. I know what I saw.”
Barclay's eyes were thoughtful as before and he nodded
his head slowly. Samson made an impatient movement as
though to walk away, and the other held up a thin and
shapely hand which Samson surveyed with scorn. It was
no sailor's hand this. Samson had his ideas as to the physical
make-up of a sailor.
"Don't go yet, captain,” Barclay said. "I want to say
something that I know you'll take the wrong way.” The
man smiled. “I'm trying to pluck up enough courage to
say it.”
"Oh!” Samson's eyes were suspicious and his expression
defiant. He waited for the other to speak. Barclay hesitated,
then said:
"I want to let you know first of all, captain, that I
believe you,” he said. "I don't believe any man with your
experience would make a mistake such as you are supposed


Captain Samson, A.B.
71
to have done. At least, not in waters like Mounts Bay.
You were within half a mile of a port you were going to
enter, and you must have been even more careful than you
would be in deeper and more open water. That seems the
common-sense viewpoint."
"And you're right, mister,” Samson said excitedly and
moved nearer to this surprising champion. “I made no
mistake.”
"Then you were, in the words of the underworld,
framed, captain. Made the goat,” Barclay said quietly.
Samson nodded, his indignation causing his face to red-
den and swell. Barclay continued in the same thoughtful
tone.
"I suffered from a silly mistake, captain,” he said. “That
was my fault, I suppose.” He made a gesture with one
hand. “And I know how I felt. I felt I was the mud be-
neath the feet of my fellows."
Samson's eyes flashed defiance. "Mister," he said stiffly,
"let me make this clear. I said the first time we met that
you deserved what you got. You neglected your duty. I
still say that, mister.”
Barclay's thin face was illuminated by a wide grin. He
laughed softly.
"God, how I admire you, captain. I wish I had your
determination to stick to the truth.” He nodded again.
"I agree; I should have forgotten I had a heart and done
my duty. I lost my job and my wife suffered other pains
besides her illness.” He seemed to lay aside something he
had finished with, for he said in a brisker tone:
"Well, I'm in a job now," he said. “It isn't the job I
thought would be mine, but it keeps my wife in food and
a home. I mean to keep that job, captain. To keep it and
see that I'm not left where you are, without a ticket. I


72 Captain Samson, A.B.
say that with every regret for its truth, captain. And,”
Barclay frowned, “I'm not so sure I may not find myself
in your shoes if I am not careful.”
Samson listened impatiently. He had no idea what this
man was getting at, and he was in no mood to stand and
hear speeches. He nodded curtly.
"I hope not, mister,” he said. “And now I'll be off.”
"Oh, but, captain, I haven't said what I wanted to say,"
Barclay cried hastily. "I want to—o—" He stopped and
grinned, then said, “I might as well get it out, captain-
will you join my ship as a sailor?”
The business men who passed that part of the busy
street at this moment were shocked by a howl that seemed
to explode and shatter the very air. Involuntarily these
passers ducked, and a woman stopped and screamed with
fear. These people gazed with amazement at a short,
sturdy figure in blue serge and a bowler hat who was
dancing before a tall, thin man with a pale face. The tall
man was trying to smile, but his smile was a bravely as-
sumed mask hiding an increasing nervousness. The smaller
but sturdier man was shaking a thick fist at his companion.
He was bellowing words that were barely distinguishable,
but those words which were heard sent the solitary woman
scurrying for dear life and brought strong men to a pause
so that they might listen with envy to the finest flow of
quarterdeck English ever heard away from a ship's deck.
The air seemed to turn blue and the dust rising from the
streets hung motionless while Samson told Captain Barclay
his opinion of such as Barclay.
"You long-legged, skinny-faced, lily-handed makeshift,"
he cried at his milder and more printable abusing. "You'd
offer me a sailor's job! You would! You would! You'd tell
me I could work under you aboard a floating coal-box-


Captain Samson, A.B. 73
me—a man who's handled better vessels than you've ever
been aboard. ..." Samson passed into the unprintable and
the audience gathered closer to watch with awe Samson's
face swell and swell and become blue. Barclay's lips parted
to speak but Samson thundered him to silence.
"Don't you talk to me, mister,” he yelled. “I've heard
all I want to hear from you. You think you're being smart.
Think because I told you what I thought of shipmasters
who neglect their duty that you'll have your own back by
offering me an A.B.'s berth on your rusty tank. I'll ..."
Samson stopped to breathe deeply and glare madly at
the other. Someone moved among the crowd and Barclay
seemed to emerge from a trance into which he had been
cast by Samson's furious eyes. The tall shipmaster looked
round with a hunted expression, then suddenly he turned
and bolted through the crowd. The audience watched him
speed along the pavement, then they returned to Samson.
Samson glared at them, then spat his wrath at their feet.
"Out of my way, you hoodlums,” he commanded.
They stood aside and the irate and indignant Samson
strode away. He went home and threw himself into a chair.
He sat there for hours and fumed inwardly. His rage di-
rected itself at Barclay, then went to Davis and on to the
man Bart. God, he'd like to choke the whole damn crew.
He heard the postman stamp up the garden path and heard
the letter-box flap rattle. There came the slap of a letter
falling on the floor and Samson went to the hall. He took
the letter and carried it to his chair. Letters were no every-
day occurrences to Samson, and he had a very human quick-
ening of his pulse when one did arrive. He was waiting
for some shipowner to come to his senses and send for
him, and each letter might be that summons.
But this envelope was addressed in handwriting and


74
Captain Samson, A.B.
Samson knew it came from no business house. He tore
the envelope across and took out a sheet of paper. There
were only a few sentences written in a rather sprawly hand-
writing. The letter read:
DEAR CAPTAIN SAMSON,—I had not time to tell
you today that while my vessel is not owned by Davis,
my cook is that gentleman, the far-from-handsome
but estimable Bart.
That was why I hoped you would accept my offer
of an A.B.'s berth. You implanted considerable sus-
picion in me and I thought we might be able to prove
the old adage that two heads are better than one.
I am a man short now. We are lying in the Salt
Dock and move to Garston to load coal this evening.
You could join there tomorrow morning.--Yours
sincerely,
JOHN BARCLAY.
Samson stared at this document in amazement and in-
creasing excitement. Then his wonder became a gleam of
purpose and he swore softly.
"Why the bloody fool couldn't say so," he muttered as
he rose and hurried to his room to pack his sea-bag.


CHAPTER FIVE
THE Troubadour, ironically to anyone less obtuse to such
situations than Captain Samson, lay under the same coal-
tip as had the Sunart when Samson had first joined that
ill-fated steamship. Except for their funnels being differ-
ent colors, the Troubadour might very easily have been
mistaken for the Sunart. Both were typical coasting steam-
ers, each carried almost the same amount of cargo, seven
hundred tons. The Troubadour, like the Sunart and a thou-
sand other vessels of the same type, had an engine-room-
casing filling her after-deck, with the funnel rising from
that structure and with two lifeboats sitting on their chocks
on either side of the housing. The seemingly slender bridge
structure was approximately where the Sunart's had been,
and the hatch openings occupied the same amount of deck
space, leaving a narrow gangway of deck on either side
and at the ends of these wide openings. There was the same
stumpy forecastle-head and the same blunt bows. The very
rust might have been the Sunart's. But Samson's experi-
enced eye picked out differences at once and he noted this
vessel he examined from the quayside had only two masts,
to the Sunart's three, and he saw a dozen other small dif-
ferences which no landsman would have ever noticed. Her
forecastle capstan was closer against the white-painted rail
at the after-end of the short deck than the Sunart's had
been, the slender funnel from the master's-room under the


76
Captain Samson, A.B.
bridge was on the port side whereas the Sunarts had been
against the after side of that vessel's bridge, this steamer
had ratlines on her shrouds, which the Sunart had not;
altogether, Samson would have argued hotly with anyone
who said both vessels were alike.
Though he noticed these small differences, Samson had
not stopped to take any inventory. What he saw was seen
in a swift and complete scrutiny as he strode from the
dockyard gates to the steamer. He strode with the same
stiff dignity with which he had strode to the Sunart. He
carried a leather bag much like the one he had carried
on that previous occasion, and behind him, at the same re-
spectful distance, came the longshoreman carrying a large
canvas sea-bag. There was no hiding himself behind any
disguise for Samson. He came to his degradation with the
aplomb of his tremendous conceit.
But this time he passed that part of the steamer which
was amidships and stopped opposite the fore-hatch. He
scowled downward, then waited for the longshoreman.
This worthy dropped the sea-bag and hailed the steamer.
"Hi, there, on board, captain's waiting to come aboard.”
A head appeared in a doorway under the forecastle-head.
"Who?" a voice demanded.
"Captain Samson's comin' aboard,” the longshoreman
announced.
"Here's your money," Samson said. “I'll take this
aboard.”
The head in the doorway became a body and moved to
the rail. Two startled eyes watched Sampson and then
the man whistled softly.
"Blimme, it's Samson.”
The eyes became apprehensive and the man suddenly
made a movement as though ducking, and ran aft, climbing


78 Captain Samson, A.B.
and the bed had a greasy black mark where its former
user had lain without the luxury of sheets.
"Ugh,” Samson said distastefully, and he raised the mat-
tress from the bunk and carried it on deck. He went to
the ship's side and cast the foul object into the dock.
"You'll have the dockmaster after you, mate," the sailor
said chattily.
Samson looked up and glared on the man. The sailor met
the other's eyes, then nodded tolerantly.
"All right, if that's how you feel about it, chum,” he
said.
Samson opened his suitcase and took out a brand-new
suit of dungarees. He stripped to his drawers and donned
the oily-smelling dungarees, his face grim and resentful.
Then he opened the sea-bag and produced a new straw bed.
and blankets. He made up his bunk neatly, then stowed
his suitcase and the emptied sea-bag on a long wooden
shelf behind the bunk. Without a word to the other man
he left the forecastle and went aft. Soon after he had
gone, the man who had appeared startled by Samson's
appearance entered the forecastle. He peered at the newly-
made-up bunk, then looked intently at the sailor, who had
watched with curious interest.
"Hi, Joe, d'ye know who that is?” the newcomer de-
manded excitedly.
Joe, from the advantageous position of his bunk, shook
his head.
"Stuck-up son-of-a-bitch, whoever he is; wouldn't an-
swer a man civil.”
The other nodded. "I know, Joe,” he said, "I know that
cow only too well. I sailed with him before. He was skipper
then; a bloody skipper."
Joe seemed to accept this as inevitable. “Thought he


Captain Samson, A.B. 79
looked like that,” he said. "He'd better forget it while
he's here."
"It's Samson,” the other said impressively. "Him that
lost the Sunart.”
Joe sat up suddenly, impressed.
"Samson, did ye say?" he demanded. "Not 'im?"
ce 'Im," the other reiterated.
"Blimme!” Joe muttered, then added, “ 'Im.”
" 'Im,” the other insisted.
"Strike me,” Joe said, “my brother was with 'im on the
Runnelton."
The other nodded grimly. "Well, that's 'im. The bastard.
We don't want his likes in this forecastle. Let him go ashore
and stay there. We don't want no murderers aboard here.”
"Easy there, Harry boy,” the stout sailor exclaimed,
"murder's a hard word.”
"Well, ain't he?” Harry demanded, his thin, peaked
face vindictive. “Didn't he kill the mate of the Sunart?
Didn't he? The cow...." The man breathed deeply and
looked along the deck. "But he don't want to start any
funny tricks aboard here. He'll get what's coming to him
if he ain't careful.” But in spite of the threat there was
an apprehensive watchfulness in the man's eyes as he looked
aft.
The stout sailor, Joe, shook his head and looked at his
companion annoyedly.
"You don't want to go makin' trouble aboard here,"
he said warningly. “My brother's got a good opinion of
him, and my brother ain't no fool. You better lay off being
nasty, mate. Samson's all right.” Having thus unexpectedly
championed Samson, Joe lay back and scowled at the
yellowed paint above him. Harry, the other seaman, sat


Captain Samson, A.B. 81
was grim as he added, “And I'll find out his game before
I'm much older.”
"That makes me feel happier,” the other said frankly.
"I'm not much good at handling things like this." He
smiled. "But I know you've sized me up already." He
opened a slim book. “Well, if you don't mind, I'll sign
you on.”
Samson took the pen handed to him and signed his name
in his surprisingly beautiful handwriting. He looked down
at the book where he was listed as Daniel Samson, A.B.,
and a thick flush suffused his face.
“That'll be all,” Barclay said gently. “I wouldn't let
your being forra'd worry you. After all, it's your own
choice.”
Samson stepped back and stood erect.
"Anything else, sir?” he asked harshly.
"Nothing more,” Barclay answered. "I'll let you know,
if I see or hear anything suspicious.”
Samson left the room and walked forward. He saw two
firemen watching him from their doorway on the port
side of the forecastle but he made no sign of seeing them
He entered the seamen's quarters on the starboard side of
the forecastle and was greeted with a silence that he did
not notice. He glowered on the stout seaman, Joe, who
was stooped over the bunk that had been allotted to
Samson.
"Hi, there, what's the game?” Samson demanded.
Joe raised a flushed and embarrassed face.
"I was just swopping bunks, sir,” he said hastily. "You
have the top bunk.”
To Samson's annoyance, the transfer had already been
made and his blankets and possessions had been neatly
stowed on the top bunk. Angrily Samson swept the man


Captain Samson, A.B.
83
test ceased and the man's face was blue. Joe put a hand on
Samson's arm and swung him round.
"Hi, captain, lay off Harry; you'll choke him.”
Samson released the seaman and redirected his rage at
Joe.
"I'll choke him—the rat,” he threatened. "I'll strip his
hide. I'll keelhaul the little swine.”
“Easy, captain, easy,” Joe said, his fat face warning and
conciliating. "That don't get you nothin'. I don't like
fighting aboard a ship.”
"He's mad,” Harry cried tearfully from where he
crouched on the floor. "I'll have the law on him. I'll have
him put in an asylum, where he ought to be. I ain't going
to stand being murdered by any crazy skipper.”
"Pipe down, Harry,” the peace-making Joe said sharply.
"Pipe down or I'll clout you one. Both of you.” He hitched
up the sleeves of his singlet and stood over the two men,
his chest bulging and his face expressing a warning. "I'm
a peaceful bloke and I like to have my watch below in
peace. I ain't having any scrapping aboard here."
Samson was furious. He glared from Joe to Harry and
from Harry to Joe. The smaller man quailed beneath his
eye, but Joe shook his head solemnly.
"Don't look at me that way, captain,” he said mildly.
"I could knock your block off in one swipe. I was heavy-
weight champion of the navy in my time and I can fight
ten cops and a sergeant when I'm drunk, and five when
I'm sober.” He frowned on Samson, then said, "My brother
sailed under you, captain, and he says you're all right. My
brother's got savvy. He's the smartest in our family. If
he says you're all right, then I knows you're all right. I'm
willing to be friendly, captain. I'm a peaceful chap, but I
n


84
Captain Samson, A.B.
don't like fighting on ships I'm aboard. If any of you start
again I'll lam seven bells outa you both.”
Joe turned to his bunk then and proceeded to pull on
his trousers. Samson marched outside and Harry rose pain-
fully to his feet, holding his throat.
"He's crazy,” he said spitefully. "I'll get my own back
on the sod.”
"Lay off,” Joe said harshly. "He said you was a rat and
that's what you are. A young feller like you letting an
old man knock the hell outa you. You lay off the captain.
I'm on his side.”
Harry cast a vindictive glance at his shipmate and was
silent. Joe proceeded with his dressing in disapproving
silence. Then he went aft and made a pot of tea. The
cook, the heavily built and bruised-looking Bart, greeted
him with friendly interest.
"Hear you've got a master-mariner forra'd, Joe," he
said.
Joe did not like the cook. Joe disliked all men as tall and
as heavily built as himself. They seemed to rouse the
sailor's antagonism as though they were prospective com-
batants in a ring. He surveyed the cook coldly.
"Mate,” he said, “forra'd's forra'd; aft's aft. You mind
you're own bloody business and never mind what goes on
forra'd.”
"You big..." the cook exclaimed in amazement and
indignation. Joe fixed a cold eye on him.
"Don't you say it, mate,” he warned. “I'm peaceful. I
hate fighting. But I'll lam you from here to Vladivostok
if you start any smart business with me.”
Joe marched out of the galley and along the deck for-
ward. Amidships he was halted by Captain Barclay.


Captain Samson, A.B. 85
"Did I hear some trouble forra'd there?” Barclay asked
mildly.
Joe saluted stiffly in a most navylike manner, but he
frowned.
"I didn't see or hear anything, sir,” he said. “I wasn't
listening.”
Barclay smiled. He nodded.
"Ah, all right, Joe. Only...” He hesitated, then said,
"Look after the new hand, Joe. He may need help.”
Joe's frown deepened. He resented this interference from
aft.
"Captain Samson's fit to look after hisself, sir," he said,
heavily dignified. "My brother said he's the best scrapper
afloat, bar myself."
Barclay smiled widely. Joe went on his way, his narrow
forehead furrowed with thought. In the forecastle he
poured the tea into two mugs. He carried one mug to
Samson where the ex-captain stood on deck staring gloom-
ily across the dock.
"Tea, capt'n," Joe announced. "If you throw it over-
board, I'll throw you after it. You don't want to start any
rough stuff with me.”
"Take your bloody tea out of it,” Samson shouted. “And
keep out of my way.”
Joe shook his head.
"That ain't no way to talk to a shipmate,” he said. "My
brother said you was all right, and my brother's nobody's
fool. I ain't up to what's happening aboard here, but I'm
going to keep an eye on you. Here, take this mug."
Samson was furious. “Will you leave me alone,” he
shouted, his face screwed into an expression of distaste
and rage. “I don't want your tea and I don't want your
help. I can manage my own affairs."


86
Captain Samson, A.B.
son
massive
son
ean
Joe stepped back and made as though to salute, then he
remembered the tea he held. He nodded.
"Have it your own way, capt'n. My brother said you
was an obstinate old fool and I'll allow for that this time,
But you behave aboard here, capt'n. I don't like trouble
on any ship I'm on.”
"Oh, my God,” Samson cried helplessly. “Is this a mad-
house?”
Joe was gone. Samson could only glare at the massive
body squeezing through the forecastle doorway.
That day the Troubadour loaded her cargo of coal. Sam-
son was in the mate's watch, with the seaman Harry as
watchmate. The mate was an aged Highlander with a
gentle manner and a low, soft voice. He was carefully
polite to Samson. Samson obeyed orders like an automaton.
As much as any man could when working alongside others,
he kept himself aloof from Harry. The seaman sneered
and was deliberately slow in going to the ropes when the
ship was being heaved into position under the coal-tip.
He let Samson do most of the work. After the first shift,
Samson, who had not soiled his hands in years, was coated
in coal-dust and grease from the mooring wires. Harry
sneered his delight at this effect. Samson, his face black
with coal-dust and with streaks of flesh showing where
sweat had run down his cheeks and forehead, was less
impressive, less awe-inspiring than he had been in his trim
blue suit and all the outward signs of his former status.
Barclay, watching from his port, smiled as he saw the
stocky figure in dirty dungarees hauling on a wire.
And each speck of coal-dust on Samson's face was an-
other reason for hatred against Bart and those who had
caused him this degradation. The cook greeted Samson
swea
un
as


90 Captain Samson, A.B.
all shipmasters when the pilot is on board. Samson had
passed him standing on the lower bridge.
The mate moved aside as Samson took the spokes of the
wheel in his two hands. The Troubadour's steering-gear
was being controlled by a small steam-driven engine abaft
the wheel.
"Keep her headed for that light,” the mate said, pointing
ahead. “She's quick on the helm.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” Samson said.
The pilot moved to the compass and peered at this new
wheelsman. In spite of the grime, Samson was easily recog-
nizable.
"Well, well, well,” the pilot said happily, "it's you."
Samson kept his features rigid, his eyes fixed ahead. He
recognized the pilot as that unfortunate whom he had
sent from the bridge once.
"So you did put her ashore,” the pilot said compla-
cently. "I told you so."
"Mister," Samson's voice was threatening, "you give
me my orders and never mind the back-chat."
"Still as cocky as ever," the pilot sneered. “I'd have
thought some of that would have been knocked out of
you.”
Samson shouted to the mate:
"Mr. Mate, if this man keeps on with this stuff I'll have
Captain Barclay up and report you both. I'm not having
him carry on like this while I'm at the wheel.”
The mate coughed. “Better leave him alone,” he advised
mildly. "He's here to steer the ship.”
The pilot laughed. There was a vindictive gleam in his
eye. He stood beside the compass and watched the steering
carefully.
"He's hot on steering,” he agreed. "I heard he sacked


Captain Samson, A.B.
91
a lot of men over the steering. Hi, there, mind where
you're taking the ship.” He yelled the last sentence at
Samson.
In the next two hours Samson experienced a hell he
had never thought to endure. First-rate navigator and sea-
man though he was, Samson had never been a good wheels-
man. There are those who never seem to master any vessel.
They are either too impatient or too obtuse to feel those
little movements which precede a vessel's swinging to one
side. Samson was one of those unfortunates. Years ago,
taking his trick at the wheel on sailing vessels, he had
taught himself to hold a vessel somewhere near her course.
It had meant a deadly concentration of every faculty he
had, and he had succeeded in being a second-rate wheels-
man by this stern application to the job.
But sailing vessels had been steered by hand gear. Ropes
or chain had gone direct from the drum turned by the
wheel to the rudder-head. There had been no mechanical
aid between the water strain on the rudder and the wheels-
man's hands. When the ship made the slightest movement
to one side, the water pressure acted on the rudder and the
pressure was felt as a straining of the spokes in the wheels-
man's hands. He need only press against this strain to
check that warning movement. A good wheelsman was he
who by some extra sense, by a sympathy between himself
and the vessel, or out of hard experience, knew exactly
how much pressure to assert to counteract that movement
of the ship's head.
Samson had, as has been written, learned how to steer
moderately well by application and a stern schooling. This
had been years ago when he was being apprenticed in sail.
Since he had passed into the ranks of ships' officers, he had
done little steering. And, though he would not have con-
a symbood wheat
essure out of


92
Captain Samson, A.B.
fessed the fact, this night he took the Troubadour's wheel
was the first time in his life he had ever handled a vessel
steered by a mechanically-aided wheel. Only those who
know the difference can appreciate Samson's problem.
With mechanically-aided steering there is no direct pres-
sure from the rudder, for that is taken by the steering-
engine; the mechanically driven steering-gear requires little
aid and that aid is too easily asserted. Samson pressed
against the spokes as he saw the steamer's head move and
the wheel spun round with a rattling and grunting of the
engine. Immediately Samson knew he had given too much
wheel and he spun the wheel back. The steamer swung to
one side, then as Samson gave her far too much wheel, she
swung to the other side. The action had a likeness to a
pendulum. By its own momentum, it seemed to swing
from side to side. And the more Samson gave it wheel to
stop the swinging, the more swing he imparted to the
vessel.
"You'll make a fine soldier some day," the pilot sneered.
"God knows how you ever had the nerve to tell a man off
for steering. Watch what you are doing, man.”
In his delight in this opportunity to pay Samson back
for that previous meeting, the pilot laid his abuse on thick
and often. He goaded Samson to a fury that did not aid
his attempts to hold the vessel on a course.
"You should learn to steer before you take a job from a
man who can steer,” the pilot said. “Christ, can't you see
you're swinging her too far over?”
"You'll have the ship ashore,” he said again. “That seems
a habit of yours.”
The steering-engine rattled and the chains leading aft
to the rudder banged on the steel deck as the pressure was
released too suddenly.


94 Captain Samson, A.B.
With this cruel thrust ringing in his head, Samson went
below. Barclay watched him disappear. The pilot snorted
contemptuously.
"That's a sample of deep-water men on the coast.”
"Mister,” Barclay said softly, “you are a fool.” He
looked at the ladder where Samson had gone, then added,
"The day you have such a conception of your duty as
Samson has, you'll be fit to criticize him. Until then, shut
up, mister.”
Samson stood on the deck abaft the bridge. His face was
grim. His eyes stared. His hands were clenched. What
agony the man suffered is beyond description. It was as
though a king had been told to wipe a tramp's boots and
the tramp had kicked him. More than that; for Samson
was king by his own efforts.
He went forward and carried out the mate's instructions.
Again he examined every part of the ship and checked up
on each rope-end on deck. The task was unnecessary. The
mate had known it was unnecessary, but Samson carried
it out. His rigid code made this inevitable.
He reached the after-hatch and felt along the wedges
to make sure they were all tightly in place. Then he went
aft and examined the lashing on the mooring rope coiled
on a grating against the taffrail. He saw the stern lamp
was bright and clear, then climbed to the top of the hous-
ing and examined the boats and the funnel guys. When
he climbed back on deck he almost fell on the cook.
"Hallo, it's you,” Bart said angrily. "Mind where you
are going.”
Samson's control quivered and snapped. He leaped and
clawed upwards. Bart struck out and hit Samson on the
chin, and Samson stumbled and fell.
"Stop your damned nonsense,” Bart said, “or I'll give


Captain Samson, A.B.
95
you what I gave ..." He stopped suddenly as though
caught in an indiscretion.
"What you gave the mate of the Sunart,” Samson
shouted as he scrambled to his feet and faced the taller
man. "That's what you meant. You rotten cow.”
"You're a liar," Bart said quickly. "I don't know what
you are talking about."
Samson breathed deeply. He poised before the other man
and he spoke in a low, intense tone.
"I'm going to get proof of that,” he said. "I'll get you
if I wait a year. I saw you with your fancy woman and
your car in Liverpool and you can't fool me. I'm after you,
mister, and I'll get you.”
Bart's face was hidden by the darkness, but he started
back a pace. Samson nodded triumphantly.
"That got you, mister; you thought nobody saw.”
“What the hell are you talking about?" Bart cried and
tried to laugh. “Where the hell would I get a car?”
"The man who paid you for wrecking the Sunart could
tell me that,” Samson retorted. “And I'll find out if I have
to choke it out of one of you."
"You—" Bart commenced.
A hail came from forra'd.
"Ladder on the port side there."
"Go to your job,” Bart said scornfully as he moved
away.
"Ay, ay, sir,” Samson shouted.
He ran forra'd to hang the rope-ladder over the side.
The pilot came from the bridge. The steamer was slowed
down to allow a small boat to approach and come along-
side. A rope was cast and wound round the boat's thwart.
The pilot climbed across the rail and sat there, balanced.
He looked at Samson contemptuously.


96
Captain Samson, A.B.
"Don't forget what I said, Samson,” he said sneeringly.
"They need men like you in the army.”
Samson's arm came up. His fist traveled in a half circle
and smashed dully against the pilot's jaw. The pilot's legs
swung upwards and the two youths in the boat yelled a
warning as the body dropped on them.
"Lay that on my side, mister,” Samson shouted from
above. "I'll settle the score properly some other day.”
SV


98
Captain Samson, A.B.
and was waiting patiently to achieve what he was on board
the Troubadour to achieve. Once or twice the two men
met face to face and their eyes clashed a challenge. The
threat in Samson's eyes was answered by a scornful con-
tempt in the cook's. It was as though Samson had said,
"Start what you mean to start and see what happens”; and
Bart replied, “I'll do what I intend to do just when I
plan to do it.” Both settled down to a period of waiting:
Bart for his opportunity, Samson waiting and watching for
the first move the other made.
Such a situation on board any vessel must affect the
other men on board. The tension on the Troubadour spread
slowly and affected everyone. Harry, the meager-bodied
and peaked-featured sailor, went about with a perpetual
sneer on his thin lips for Samson and spent much of his
time off duty in the galley with the cook. The cook did
not seem very pleased with this companionship, but he
had to accept it. Harry's attitude to Bart was a mixture
of flattery, fear and threat. Now and then Bart examined
the smaller man with cold speculation, and seeing this ex-
pression in the other's face on one occasion, Harry's face
became pasty-white and his eyes showed panic.
"Don't you try any tricks on me, Bart,” Harry whis-
pered harshly. “You want to remember what I told you.
I've got it all writ down and in the missus's hands. If any-
think happens to me she's to take it to a lawyer. You re-
member that, Bart.”
Bart smiled coldly. He dropped a large and muscular
hand on the other's thin shoulder.
'I understand, Harry boy, I understand.” The man's
cold friendliness made Harry shiver.
To Samson, Harry was either boastfully impertinent or
sullenly watchful. Samson ignored the man.


Captain Samson, A.B.
99
Joe, the peacemaker, was sorely troubled by this lack of
"happiness” on board. He tried to be friendly with Samson
and was rebuffed. While Samson accepted the need of
being a forecastle-hand, he had no intention of lowering
his dignity more than need be. He accepted Joe's respectful
homage as his due, but would have none of the other's
friendliness. Samson, to himself, was still the anointed
master-mariner; stripped of his ticket and disgraced though
he was. Joe made plaintive attempts to make the ship
"happy” by recounting tales of ships he had been on. Each
ship had been a "happy” ship, the crew as brothers, the
officers were gentlemen who never interfered with what
happened forra'd of the bridge.
"I always say on big ships we're shipmates,” he said wist-
fully. "And on small ships we're townies.”
He looked round and saw the sullen, sneering face of
Harry and the disapproving mien of Samson.
"Blimme,” he complained, "we'll be bitin' each other's
ears aboard here next.”
A chatty, cheery individual with no shipboard vices
other than singing mournful songs, he was unhappy as he
contemplated the tension and enmity among his shipmates.
To console himself he lay on his bunk in the dog-watches
and sang to himself. His favorite songs were “Your Faith-
ful Sailor Boy” and “The Blind Girl.” With his hands
tucked under his head and his fat face expressing horrible
pathos, he sang:
"One bit-ter night in win-ter, when
The snow lay on the ground,
A sail-or boy stood on the quay,
His ship was outward bound.


Ιοο Captain Samson, A.B.
His sweetheart stand-ing by his side,
Shed many a bit-ter tear,
And as be prest her to his breast
He whispered in her ear:
So fare-thee-well, my own true luv,
This par-ting gives me pain,
You are my hope, my gui-ding star
Till I ret-urn again.
My thoughts shall be of you, my luv,
When storms are ra-ging high,
So, fare-thee-well, my own true luv,
Your faithful ... sa-ay-ler ... boyee."
The ordinary seaman, a handsome boy of seventeen with
red hair and a fresh complexion, watched Joe admiringly
and tried to remember the words of the songs. Joe found
some happiness in teaching the youth the trills and moaning
which is good singing to any sailor.
"You wait till I go ashore and get a pint inside my
belt,” Joe promised. “I'll sing you a song you'll think
Caruso couldn't beat.”
The youth was grateful.
In Le Havre Joe came on board most completely drunk.
He walked stiffly into the forecastle and eyed Samson,
who lay on his bunk reading what was now his only relax-
ation, sea stories. Joe stood in the doorway and swayed
like a wind-strained tree. His fat face was mournful and
penitent.
"Capt'n,” he said humbly, "I'm going to bash some-
body's face in.”
He held up a fist as big as a ham and surveyed it gravely.
Samson looked at the man distastefully and returned to his
reading. Joe nodded.


Captain Samson, A.B. 101
"That's ri',” he agreed, "I'm drunk.” He screamed sud-
denly, opening his mouth and exposing two rows of dirty
teeth and a large tongue. "Up and at 'em, lads!” Then he
shut off the noise suddenly and turned round. Samson heard
him stumble along the deck and then there was a thunder-
ous banging. Samson frowned. The banging continued. Joe
was yelling.
"Come out, you big swab. I'm going to lam hell outa
you. You're no good. Capt'n Samson doesn't like you an'
I don' like you. Come out and get koshed.”
As he challenged the cook, Joe kicked lustily on the
saloon door. Captain Barclay came to his doorway and
looked down. Joe sprang to attention and saluted stiffly.
"What do you want?" Barclay inquired mildly
Joe scowled and kicked the saloon door.
"I want ’im,” he announced. "He's no friend of Captain
Samson, and I loves Capt'n Samson. I wants to lam hell
outa the big swab.”
"He's ashore,” Barclay said.
"Ashore?” Joe repeated. He drew himself up and sa-
luted again. Then he turned and swayed to the rail. Barclay
watched him climb on shore and disappear into the dark-
ness. The man's voice, strained and filled with sadness,
sang:
"Jack dee-r, you'll soon forgit me,
Soon forgit your sweet'eart Grice,
Fro' it brikes me 'eart to leave you,
No more I'll see your loving fice.
Some dye, you'll wed annufer,
That is what worries my pore 'eart.
I oft times fort as I shud be ye'er wife, Jack,
But too lite naaw...Sweet'eart ... I'M BLIND.”


102 Captain Samson, A.B.
Then Joe laughed loudly and horribly and yelled:
"Blind drunk!”
Joe was arrested by the French police for assaulting the
cook and Harry in a café an hour later. He smashed up a
dozen tables, laid the cook out for an hour, and left Harry
with a swollen eye. It took twelve policemen to take him
to the jail. Captain Barclay led a penitent Joe on board
the next morning and lectured him. Joe agreed with every-
thing Barclay said, then added:
"This bloody ship is the cause of it all, sir. There's some-
thing brewing. It's got a hoodoo on board. It ain't a happy
ship like she was, sir.”
Barclay did not contradict the man. The shipmaster was
feeling the strain of this tension and watchfulness on board
his vessel more than any of the others.
"Getting drunk won't help,” he said to Joe. "You keep
an eye on Captain Samson, Joe, and help him. He's trying
to get his good name back, and he thinks the cook is at
the bottom of his trouble.”
Joe scowled. "I'll break that big cow in two, captain,"
he said. " 'Im.and that little shrimp forra’d. They're thick
as thieves.”
Barclay, becoming more and more subject to the fear
of something happening to his ship, wondered if he dared
confide in the seaman. He decided to go halfway.
"Listen, Joe,” he said solemnly, "I can't tell you what is
wrong, but something is wrong. Captain Samson is trying
to find out, and those others may try to stop him. You keep
an eye on the captain, Joe.”
Joe nodded, as solemn as Barclay.
"I'll watch him like he was my own brother, captain,"
he swore sentimentally. "I admires Captain Samson, sir.”


Captain Samson, A.B. 103
"Good, Joe,” Barclay said, not sure whether to laugh or
to take all this seriously.
Thereafter Joe went about the ship with a threatening
scowl for the cook and Harry, and a watchful solicitude
for Samson. He swelled out his chest and glared a chal-
lenge to all who would threaten Samson. Joe had appointed
himself bodyguard. Now and then he looked at his charge
wistfully, wishful to confide in Samson and to have Sam-
son's confidence, but Samson kept frigidly to himself.
Samson had settled down to waiting. The task was in dis-
tasteful surroundings, but he endured the lack of privacy
and prestige he had to suffer, and more and more found
relief in the magazines he bought by the dozen. The stories
of dare-devil sailors who fought and defeated the machina-
tions of ship-wreckers, of crooked owners planning to
scuttle ships, of heroic shipmasters with blue eyes and jaws
of rock, impressed Samson. He read each story carefully
and from them learned that this thing he suspected was an
almost everyday occurrence. According to the writers of
sea tales, sinking ships was the usual method of retrieving
shipowners' fortunes or satisfying the greed of those gen-
try. Samson studied their methods carefully. He wanted
to know all there was to know about such criminals so
that he would know better how to handle and to foil Bart.
And Samson was always grateful to the authors for having
opened his eyes to the probable cause of the Sunart's de-
struction. Years later, he swore that if he had not started
reading sea stories he might never have suspected the wreck
of the Sunart was the result of a deliberate attempt; and
he confessed that had he not learned that such was the
practice among the best sort of heroes, he would never
have had the nerve to come on board the Troubadour as a
detective hero, sworn to uncover the crooks. The magazines


104 Captain Samson, A.B.
Yul, gas cosi e Port. She
anthracite
became text-books on the special branch of crime Samson
knew he must study.
Now and then he became impatient. Bart did not behave
as though he had come on board to do anything except
turn out plain cooking and polish brasswork. The Trouba-
dour passed from port to port. She took pit-props from
Dunkirk to Hull, gas coal from the Tyne to London River,
anthracite from Swansea to Rouen, sheet-tin from South
Wales to Birkenhead, where it was loaded into Blue Funnel
liners; bog ore from Belfast and steel rails from Port Tal-
bot, and nothing sinister happened. She made her passages
in good weather and was held up only by the worst of the
gales she experienced. It seemed that Samson would spend
his life waiting for Bart to carry out the suspected inten-
tions of wrecking the Troubadour.
A conversation between the Troubadour's cook and the
owner of the coasting steamer would have enlightened
Samson as to why nothing had yet happened to justify his
suspicions. The steamer had brought a cargo of potatoes
from Dublin and was discharging them in the Salt Dock.
The cook went on shore soon after the vessel tied up and
telephoned the owner. He was greeted by a voice that
sounded both worried and afraid. Bart informed the owner
he would give himself the pleasure of calling on that man
during the evening.
He was greeted again that evening by a man who
seemed far from happy in his visitor. Bart, now appearing
a different person from the greasy-looking and tough cook
of a small steamer, was dressed in a smart blue lounge suit
with all the carriage and accouterments of wealth, ate an
excellent dinner, and talked intelligently of almost every-
thing except ships. The shipowner agreed hastily with
Bart's opinion of the political situation, the state of the


Captain Samson, A.B. 105
weather, golf and a new painting the shipowner had ac-
quired at an auction sale. Bart even offered to buy the
picture, a small Clousen, and the shipowner insisted that
the cook accept it as a gift. By his manner the shipowner
seemed ready to present Bart with everything the house
contained, provided the other relieved him of a worry
that was apparent on his face and in his manner. Bart,
huge, spacious, and enjoying the comforts of his host's
home, treated the other with tolerant good humor which
had a hint of bullying in it.
"Now, for God's sake," the shipowner demanded, when
the two men were alone over their port, "what is happen-
ing?”
Bart smiled.
"Don't be impatient,” he said. "I have Samson on board
still, and Barclay smells a rat—thanks to Samson.”
"Samson? Who is he?” the other demanded.
"Ex-skipper of the Sunart."
"Oh, my God," the shipowner cried. “Does that
mean ?”
"It means nothing except a delay," Bart assured him.
"Samson knows I was responsible for putting the Sunart
ashore, but he cannot prove it. The old fool thinks that
by being on board the Troubadour with me he'll get his
proof.” The cook laughed softly. "And he will—but it
won't do him much good when he gets it.”
"None of that,” the other cried in protest. “I told you
it must be done without risk of life.”
Bart grinned. "You should have thought of that before.
Do you want to do seven years in a nice prison?”
The shipowner was sunk in his chair. He stared miser-
ably at the fire, then said:
"I wish I'd never met you. I'd have been better off if


106 Captain Samson, A.B.
I had just let things take their course and gone bankrupt."
He sat up and turned on Bart fiercely. "Look here, I want
to call this thing off. I don't want to go ahead with it."
Bart shook his head. He eyed the other scornfully.
"Do you think I'd allow that?” he asked almost gently.
"I've told you about the Sunart and the others, and the
only safe confident is the man who stands to lose as much
as myself by exposure. No, sir! You're going through with
this."
"I shall not,” the other cried desperately. “You have
no proof that I had any dealings with you."
"Oh, yes, I have,” Bart said in the same reasonable tone.
"I have that check you gave me on account. How will you
explain it? Also, I have Davis. If you back out on me I'll
spill the whole works, and Davis will try to save his skin
by backing me up. We all stand together in this, my
bucko.”
"Then for God's sake get on with it,” the shipowner
cried, his face gray with anxiety. “You should have had
it over weeks ago.”
The other shook his head. "Don't be a fool, man. If I
rush at things as you want we'd be discovered right away.
I explained to you that I never try to force a situation
but wait until the conditions are favorable and then take
advantage of them.” He laughed softly and complacently.
"Look at the Sunart: I had that chart made and I waited
patiently until Davis got a cargo for Penzance. I was
fortunate in the weather, but if that had not been right
on that occasion I would have waited for another time.
Patience, my friend, patience. I am waiting for my chance.
You get me as many east coast runs as you can, even if it
means a loss on freightage, and sooner or later the condi-
tions will be right.”


Captain Samson, A.B. 107
"But what about Barclay and Samson? If they suspect?
I could get rid of Barclay and put another man in his
place.”
"No." Bart was definite on this point. “I picked Barclay
as the goat because he suits what I want. He has had one
accident and will go into an inquiry half discredited by
that former incident. And he is a deep-water man. If we
had a coasting man in command of the Troubadour I'd
have a harder job; these devils know every rock on the
coast and don't work on any method I could use." He
grinned admiringly. "The mate of the Sunart could tell
where we were by the color of the water, damn near. Sam-
son learned that lesson, anyhow.” He shook his head. "No,
we want deep-water men for these jobs. They don't know
the coast so well and they have to work on chart or book-
and these can be faked. Which ʼminds me.” He altered his
tone. “Shift the second mate. He's started advising and
instructing Barclay, and Barclay is not so damned cussed
as Samson was with his mate. Get me someone who is like
the mate, too scared of his berth to offer advice, or another
deep-water man.”
"I had a fellow in today. He's a young second mate,
deep-water. Got married and wants to be on the coast so's
he can get home now and then. A bit of a fool.”
"Send him along," Bart instructed. “And get all the east
coast passages you can. I want a nice foggy night between
Flamborough and Whitby.” He grinned and rose to his
six feet two inches. “And give Barclay a talking to about
slowing down in fog. He's a bit too careful for my liking."
The shipowner nodded. His face expressed desperation
and acceptance.
Bart left the house and walked slowly down the out-
side steps. A large car waited for him at the curb. He


108 Captain Samson, A.B.
was about to step into the driving-seat when a voice
whispered:
“What cheer, Bart boy."
The cook did not pause. He spoke as though accepting
a joke.
“Jump in, you rat. How did you find me here?”
Harry, the seaman, sat beside his shipmate and wriggled
with sly delight.
"I followed you ashore, mate, and saw you take this
car outa a garage. I worked it out you might be comin'
here an' I hung around. I got the owner's address out of
the telephone book.”
"You're a regular little detective,” Bart said as the car
moved slowly ahead. “What are you after?”
Harry laughed shrilly. “You're a caper, Bart. A proper
tough number.”
"What did you want?" Bart repeated pleasantly.
The other sniggered, then nudged his companion's arm.
"You know, mate. You said it would be all right.”
Bart stopped the car and surveyed the other coldly. He
took a pocket-book from his coat pocket and extracted
several notes. These he handed into the ready fingers of
the other man; then he said:
"Now, listen to me, rat.”
The next day, as the Troubadour was warped out of
the Salt Dock, Harry attempted to earn the reward he had
been given.
The Salt Dock, where the Troubadour had discharged
her cargo, is one of the oldest docks along the seven-mile
length of Liverpool's waterfront. It is entered through a
small outer dock which opens into the corner of another
dock, and the entrance to the Salt Dock is immediately to
the right of this second dock gate. Ships entering or leav-


Captain Samson, A.B. 109
ing the Salt Dock have to negotiate two sharp turns with
a sparseness of room for swinging. They negotiate these
by being sprung round on wire ropes.
On the morning the Troubadour was due to sail, a wire
rope was run from her bow to the dock gate. Samson, at
the capstan, wound the rope round the iron drum and, on
a signal from the mate, hove tight on the rope. The shore
moorings were let go and the steamer heaved into the
center of the dock by the wire on the capstan. Her bow
came round in a semi-circle, and by a kick of engines ahead
and the helm being put to starboard, the steamer's fore-
end entered the narrow entrance. Another wire was sent
on shore on the port side and Harry took care of this task.
The steamer, still with way on her, moved slowly out of
the Salt Dock, and Harry, fumbling strangely with his
wire, hauled in the slack of his rope. The pilot yelled for
him to hurry up, for the steamer had to be checked before
her stem came abreast of the opening to the outer dock.
The plan was to check the ship's bow into the opening
on the port side by means of the wire Harry fumbled so
awkwardly. Samson, his wire cast off and hauled on board,
stood by the capstan throttle, ready to apply steam to heav-
ing on the wire if the pilot shouted for that aid. Seeing
Harry making a mess of the job, Samson grunted with dis-
gust and moved round the capstan to give any aid that
was needed. He did not touch the wire while it was in
Harry's care, but stood in readiness.
The deck was littered with the coils of wire pulled from
the drum. It passed over the forward lead to the shore, a
long curve of slack dipping into the water. As the steamer
moved ahead, this slack was taken up. Harry was having
difficulty with the badly kinked wire, and was struggling
and cursing as he tried to untie what he had made into a


IIO Captain Samson, A.B.
bad tangle by his mishandling. The pilot shouted a warn-
ing and the mate cried for Harry to get the rope free.
Harry turned a rage-distorted face to Samson and de-
manded what the hell he fancied he was, standing there
like a blooming admiral. Samson ran forward and stood
behind the other.
"Shake out them kinks,” Harry shouted.
Samson pulled some of the spare wire back and grasped
the rope a few feet behind Harry. The pilot saw the ship
would overshoot her mark and he rang the engines astern.
He did not know it until afterwards, but in putting the
engines astern he saved Samson's life. The officers on the
bridge saw the scurry forward on the forecastle-head and
heard Harry yell. They saw Samson thrust the other man
aside and drag on the wire rope. They saw Harry stoop
down, seemingly to clear the tangle of wire at Samson's
feet, then he rose, and as he rose he fell against Samson,
toppling the ex-shipmaster. Samson shouted and clawed at
the rope. His hands missed and to the horror of the men
on the steamer's deck they saw his feet had been caught
in a coil of the wire, and as the steamer moved ahead and
the rope tightened, Samson was being dragged forward.
For the few seconds that followed, the whole world seemed
to hush. Barclay, from the bridge, saw Samson, face down-
wards, his right leg held in the cruel grip of the twisted
wire, his hands grasping futilely at the anchor cable near by.
The mate ran forward and gripped the prostrate man, and
Samson shouted for him to let go. Samson had recognized
that resistance to the pull would be disastrous. He tried
to sit up and reach ahead of his foot. He saw the fairlead
a few feet away and his blood went cold. He had seen such
accidents before. Men's legs had been cut off as clean as
a saw by whipping wires, or torn painfully away by the


Captain Samson, A.B. III
force of such a tearing as he was about to suffer. His red
face was now gray and his little eyes stared. The mate
stood as though petrified, and on shore a man was trying
to tear the wire end from the bollard. Barclay's stomach
seemed about to throw up what it contained, and the
pilot's face was frozen to an expression of foolish amaze-
ment, his mouth open stupidly.
Then, as they watched, they realized the rope had slack-
ened and the man on shore had pulled off and cast away
the spliced eye at the end of the wire as though it stung.
The mate was hauling the rope on board and Samson was
rising painfully to his feet. The pilot shouted jubilantly
and realized what had happened. The ship's sternway had
come in time, and as she moved astern the rope had slack-
ened enough to let the man on shore release the end. Bar-
clay leaned against the bridge rail, limp and sweating. The
pilot rang the engines to stop and shouted for a rope to be
put on shore. Barclay ran down the bridge ladder and over
the forward deck to the forecastle-head.
"Are you hurt?” he demanded anxiously.
Samson scowled.
"I'm all right,” he said.
"You'll need a doctor," Barclay said. “I can wait until
you get ashore.”
Samson turned a furious face on the shipmaster.
"I'll stay where I am,” he shouted angrily. "I've an idea
somebody was trying to put me ashore. I'll show them I'm
harder to get rid of than that.” He glared wrathfully at
Harry.
"That's a bloody lie, captain,” Harry protested. "It was
an accident.”
Barclay nodded. His face was white.
"Mr. Mate,” he said, "send that man aft and have Joe


112 II 2
Captain Samson, A.B.
forra'd in his place. Whether he tried it or not, it was his
fault."
There was an epilogue to the incident that night. Joe
went into the forecastle, where Harry sat with the ordi-
nary seamen. Samson was at the wheel. Standing directly
in front of the man Harry, Joe said sternly:
"If anything happens to Capt'n Samson aboard this boat
I'm goin' to skin you alive,” he said.
"I didn't do nothin',” Harry complained.
A large hand raised and slapped. There seemed no force
behind the blow, but Harry toppled over as though he had
been shot. Joe contemplated him grudgingly.
"I'd like to start on you proper now," he said. “But I'll
give you that warning."
Then Joe went aft to the galley and stared coldly at
Bart.
"I just lammed that hoodlum forra'd,” he informed the
cook. "I'm saving yours, mister. I came to tell you to lay
off Captain Samson while he's aboard this vessel.”
Bart wasted no time on denials. He sneered.
"You his keeper?” he asked.
Joe nodded.
"I'm warning you, mate.”
The cook shrugged his shoulders as Joe left the galley.
When Harry came aft he was greeted by a chillily cold
Bart.
"I meant to let you get ashore when I sank this bloody
ship,” Bart said. “I'm not so sure I will now. You'd rat
on me."
“Leave me alone,” Harry whined. "I did my best.” Then
he looked threateningly at the other. "And you remember
what I tolt you: it's all writ down on paper."
Both men started in alarm as a loud voice hailed them


Captain Samson, A.B. 113
from the galley doorway. It was Joe, a humorous expres-
sion on his fat, cheery face.
"Hallo,” he greeted as he stepped over the high comb-
ing. "What's all writ down on paper, mate? Your last will
and testament?”
Harry smiled uneasily. He glanced furtively at Bart,
then hurried out of the galley.


asssssssssssssssssssss
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Troubadour went from Liverpool to Garston, a few
miles up the Mersey, where she loaded coal for Dublin.
This was her regular program when cargoes brought her
to the Mersey.
On the day the steamer tied alongside the wall at Gar-
ston, Barclay sent for Samson. The ex-shipmaster limped
but showed no other outward sign of his experience. Bar-
clay was plainly nervous. He greeted Samson with an
anxious expression.
“Samson,” he said, “I can't stand this suspense any
longer. I must do something."
The man looked wearily at the other. Samson's face was
grim.
"What can ye do, mister?” he demanded. “We'll just
have to wait until that fellow starts his tricks."
"Can't we tell someone what we suspect?” the other
demanded. “Damn it, Samson; it's like sitting on a keg
of explosive and waiting for it to blow us to smithereens.
I'm getting as shaky as an old man.” He looked at Samson
again. "Isn't there something we could do?"
Samson shook his head. He tried to consider the matter
and work out a way of tricking the cook into exposure,
but the ex-shipmaster was possessed of no subtlety of brain.
He approached the struggle with a blunt directness which
was simple addition of facts.
II4


Captain Samson, A.B. 115
"We have to let them start something first," he an-
nounced. "There ain't anything else we can do. I dunno
how else we can get at him.”
“But, Samson,” Barclay said eagerly, "couldn't we dis-
cover something about the loss of the Sunart? There must
have been some sort of evidence. That chart you read and
followed; what happened to it?”
"I don't know, mister,” Samson answered grudgingly,
his face getting redder as he thought of the Sunart. “It
must have been taken away again.”
Barclay had read the inquiry evidence and know the de-
tails of the Sunart's loss. He followed them in his memory,
checking over every detail.
"If Bart had only had a confederate,” he said thought-
fully. “Someone who might give him away. You don't
think the mate was in with him?"
Samson shook his head at once. "No, sir; the mate was
all right. I wish I'd have listened to him more than I did.
He knew them coasts like the palm of his own hand.” Then
Samson uttered a short vindictive curse. “But that rat
forra'd there is in with the fellow. Him that tried to get
rid of me today. He was a sailor aboard the Sunart and
now he's on board here with his rascally mate.” Samson's
eyes gleamed hungrily. “I could knock the truth out of
him maybe.”
Barclay was surprised. "Do you mean the man Harry?”
he asked. “Was he on board the Sunart?"
Samson nodded. "He was, the bloody hoodlum. That's
why I'm suspicious.”
"Oh!” Barclay was thoughtful. He looked at Samson
speculatively for a time, then a faint smile came to his
thin features. He rose and sighed as though admitting the
hopelessness of the position.


116
Captain Samson, A.B.
"Well, I suppose we'll just have to hang on and wait for
what comes." He gave a short, bitter laugh. “They're pre-
paring the end for us,” he added ironically. "I saw the
owner yesterday and he gave me hell for slowing down in
fog. Said we had to make our passages to time, fog or not.
I think he wants to have us ram something some day and
save Bart the trouble.”
The shipmaster sighed again and an expression of weary
acceptance of some fate he expected came to his face.
“Why don't you get out of her, mister, if you don't
want to see the end of this business?” Samson demanded.
"You don't have to wait here."
Barclay smiled. "That's where you make a mistake,” he
said. "I have to keep this job. If I leave her I'll never get
another chance. Man”-the shipmaster's voice was slightly
impatient—"you know what happened to me. I'm a man
with a bad record. I had an accident with my last ship and
no shipowner will employ me. My wife is still delicate and
I have no savings. This job gives her what she needs in
food and comforts. I have to stick to this job as long as it
lasts and come out of it as best I can.” He gave his weary
and ironic smile. “Maybe if we keep pestering Bart with
our attentions he'll get tired of waiting and give up the
attempt in disgust. That's my only hope of staying where
I am.” He examined Samson again and added, “My wife
might die any day,” he said in a low tone. “The doctor
gives her any time from a month to a year. I'd like to give
her that last year in decent comfort.” He shrugged his
shoulders. “After that, I don't much care if they sink
every ship afloat. I hate the life and I hate ships."
Samson was shocked. He disapproved strongly of the
other's weakness.
0


Captain Samson, A.B. 117
"Mister,” he said stifly, “I'm sorry to hear about your
wife, but I don't agree with your ideas.”
"I know,” Barclay said with his slight smile. "A man's
duty is to his ship. ... You told me that before, captain.”
He rose and Samson scowled on the tall figure.
"Well, we'll just sit down and wait for the explosion,”
Barclay said, ending the interview.
Samson left the room. His face expressed his disapproval
of the other man's attitude. Samson would have sacrificed
a dozen wives and twice that number of children to save
one ship.
When Samson had gone Barclay went to his bunk and
lay down. Weariness mixed with hopelessness settled on
his face and he closed his eyes. A man of unusual intelli-
gence, he faced up to many facts as he lay there and con-
sidered his predicament. He knew he, by himself, was
incapable of fighting this diabolical plot to wreck the
Troubadour, and he fully accepted Samson's belief that
the ship was doomed. The shipmaster could have laughed
at the position. Two grown men knew the ship was to
be deliberately cast away and lives risked. They knew that
at least one other vessel, the Sunart, had been lost. And
they had no proof that they could take to anyone. They
even knew the man who was to accomplish the crime and
they could do nothing to stop him. Then Barclay sat up
and smiled. Why had he not thought of this simple way
out before. He grinned then; Samson must have hypno-
tized him. Rising from his bunk, the shipmaster went to
his doorway and called to the cook. He waited until Bart
emerged from the saloon doorway and said:
"Come up here, steward.”
Bart entered the cabin and stood waiting for the ship-
master to give his orders. Barclay examined the man quiz-


118 Captain Samson, A.B.
zically and, for the first time, really saw him. He saw the
truly assured expression in the cook’s steady eyes and the
man's magnificent body. The nose was broken and the ears
crushed as though they had been well smashed at one time,
but beyond these marks the man's face was handsome.
"I'm paying you off, steward,” Barclay said quietly.
"I'll give you a day's pay in lieu of notice.”
Bart seemed prepared for such a happening. He answered
in a tone respectful but without any attempt to ingratiate
himself.
"Might I ask why, sir?"
"I don't have to give you reasons,” Barclay said. “I just
don't want you on board."
"You can't sack men like that, Captain Barclay,” Bart
answered. “As long as I do my job well, I'm entitled to
know why I'm to be sacked.” He met Barclay's eyes with
a direct stare. Barclay was slightly amused to notice there
was neither animosity nor indignation in the other's eyes.
"I have reasons,” the shipmaster said. “We'll not argue
about this, steward.” He spoke more curtly than he had and
the other reacted to the tone by stiffening slightly.
"I'm not going to have my job taken away like that,
sir," he said with a hint of protest in his voice. "I have
a right to live as well as you. I know why you are sacking
me and I'm not going to be chased out of a good berth
by any damned old fool who has gone off his head because
he lost his ship.”
"We'll not argue,” Barclay said in a sharper tone. "I'll
have your money and discharge ready for you this
evening."
Bart stood for a moment as though considering the mat-
ter, then he nodded.
"I'll see the office, sir,” he said respectfully but firmly.


Captain Samson, A.B. 119
"I got the job through the office and I want to stay with
this company. If you sack me without a reason they'll not
give me another ship. I'm not standing that. It isn't fair.”
He turned abruptly and left the cabin. Barclay watched
him go and then sat down and smiled wryly. He had an
idea he was about to be shown just how much power he
wielded aboard this vessel. He thought of Samson and won-
dered how that worthy would have handled this position.
Then he grinned. Samson would have thrown the cook
through the doorway and told the office to go to hell. But
then, Barclay thought enviously, Samson had the support
of a fat bank balance and had no wife who was to have the
few comforts a wage would give her last few months.
The expected call to the office came that afternoon.
Barclay went to Liverpool and faced a stiffly disapproving
shipowner across a polished desk.
“Captain Barclay,” the shipowner said solemnly, "I am
informed you have discharged the steward without giving
him any reason.”
Barclay smiled. He wanted to laugh at the farce he was
enacting. But he knew he dared not. He was already sorry
he had made this move. More and more he realized his one
hope of saving his berth and continuing to follow his pro-
fession was in supporting Samson. The shipowner waited
a few minutes for a reply which did not come, then added:
"I pride myself on fair play, captain, and I am not sure
I wish to employ shipmasters who treat their crews in a
manner I can only describe as both autocratic and unfair.”
"I see,” Barclay smiled lightly. "You wish me to cancel
my action and not discharge this man?"
The other was smugly neutral now. "You shall please
yourself, captain," he said. “I merely inquire as to the
running of my vessel. I have no complaints with your


120 Captain Samson, A.B.
behavior apart from this matter. Except, of course, the
matter we discussed yesterday. But that, I considered, was
only your lack of knowledge of coastal trading. The coast
trade is a cut-throat business, captain. If a ship is held up
for a day through bad weather or easing speed in fog,
the slight profit in a cargo is lost. You foreign-going
masters do not appreciate this fact, and that is why I told
you your passages must be made to time irrespective of the
weather, but”-the shipowner waved his hand to dismiss
this matter—"that is over with and we understand the
need for good passages; I am now more concerned with
this matter of your steward.”
"Perhaps you are unduly worried, sir," Barclay said with
a hint of malice. "You may be giving the matter too much
importance. There are more cooks than parish churches,
if I may say so, sir.”
A flush suffused the shipowner's face. He looked sharply
and suspiciously at Barclay, then spoke angrily.
"I am not over-stressing the incident,” he said. “This
man you have discharged has been in my employ for some
time. I know him well and know he carries out his duties
efficiently and that he is reliable. If it were just a matter
of your discharging a member of your crew for any reason
that would stand scrutiny, I would not interfere, but I am
led to understand that you are acting on the suggestion
of a man now serving as a seaman on board the Trouba-
dour. It is a sorry pass, captain, when a master takes his
orders from a seaman on board his vessel.”
"You mean Captain Samson,” Barclay said. "I can assure
you, sir, no such suggestion came from him. In fact,”
Barclay cut short what he had meant to say.
"That is who I do mean, captain,” the other said sternly,
.


I 22 Captain Samson, A.B.
"Yes, sir," Barclay said, his disappointment plain on his
face. "Sims is a good man and has been a great help to me.”
"That is why I am promoting him," the other said. "He
is going as mate on his next ship.”
"Glad to hear that,” Barclay said.
He left the office and stood on the curb outside while
he thought over the interview. He wanted to laugh and he
wanted to run and hide from the whole ghastly affair. He
could feel a net being drawn round him, holding him im-
potent while this crime was being committed. He thought
of Bart with something close to admiration. The man's
impudence and barefacedness was masterly. Not one hap-
pening could be brought against him as evidence, and yet,
to those who saw the man working on his plans, the whole
thing was clear and without any mystery. There was only
the question of how and when Bart would carry out his
designs. Barclay shivered and hurried to a tram that would
take him back to Garston. He wanted to tell himself that
he was creating a bogey and that Samson was only an old
fool obsessed with a suspicion against a harmless man. But
Barclay could not convince himself, and he sat in the tram-
car staring miserably at the passing buildings and wishing
he had never come to sea.
He arrived on board and called the cook.
"You can remain on board,” he said. “The office has
instructed me to keep you.”
"Thank you, sir," Bart said, and made the shipmaster
a little bow. “Will you have fish for tea?”
Barclay smiled. He nodded. “A red herring, steward.”
A faint smile touched the cook's lips. There was an ex-
pression of regret in his eyes as he left the cabin. He passed
the chief engineer, a stolid-faced north-countryman.
"Captain aboard?” the chief asked.


Captain Samson, A.B. 123
"I'm here, chief,” Barclay called.
"When are we leaving here?” the chief asked when he
arrived in the shipmaster's room.
"Loading tomorrow morning and sailing by the after-
noon tide,” Barclay informed him. "Anything wrong?"
"I thought I'd let the fires out and renew the bricks
and firebars," the chief said. “I can give you steam tomor-
row for the winches.”
"That will do, chief.”
"It will mean the men working all night,” the chief
said. “They'll claim overtime.”
"Let it go," the captain said. "I have an idea the owner
doesn't mind having everything seem cared for.”
"Seem?" the chief asked in surprise.
Barclay smiled. “A slip of the tongue, chief. All right,
go ahead with your job.”
The decision to clean out and renew the fires had im-
portant repercussions.
The seaman Harry found himself without a mate for
going on shore that night. His usual companion was a fire-
man and the firemen were ordered to stay on board and
do the work that was to be done. Harry found himself
wandering dismally and in solitude in and out of public-
houses. A gregarious soul, he missed companionship, and
the pubs were coldly empty that night. The few men in
them seemed to have no desire for Harry's company and
he drank in moody silence and kept watching each door
in hopes of seeing someone he knew enter. He tried to
have conversation with barmen and to make up to bar-
maids, but neither responded with any friendliness. Harry
bought drink after drink, and as the evening passed, be-
came more and more lonely. He had almost decided to go
on board and turn in when he saw entering the bar-room


124 Captain Samson, A.B.
where he sat a mighty, impressive figure-Joe. The sailor
was greeted by the barman with obvious pleasure and the
barmaid cried a greeting which Joe replied to by throw-
ing a kiss.
"A pint, mate," he demanded, and slammed a shilling
on the counter. “That's the last this trip.”
The pint was filled and passed to him. He grinned widely
and announced “First today.” Harry watched enviously
and with malice as he saw the reception the sailor got.
The smaller man was jealous and he scowled. He put a
hand to his waist as though assuring himself what he felt
for was there, then he smiled vindictively. He rose and
swaggered to the counter and said loudly:
"A double Johnnie Walker.” As he spoke he cast a
boastful glance at Joe.
"Hallo, rat,” Joe hailed good-naturedly. “Where the
hell did you afford to buy double whiskies?”
He saw Harry lay a sovereign on the counter and his
eyes opened with amazement.
"Blimme, it's Carnegie.”
“Want a drink?" Harry demanded, his eyes glistening
with triumph.
Joe leaned back and roared with laughter. His huge body
shook and his face beamed.
"Do I want a drink! Strike me pink—what a question!”
He moved along the bar towards Harry and slapped the
smaller man's shoulder. "Mate, you ain't a man, you're a
bleeding Father Christmas. Fill 'em up, miss. I've met me
long-lost uncle from Australia.”
He beamed on Harry and raised the glass of whisky.
"Where'd you pinch the cash, mate? Been knocking
somebody down?”


Captain Samson, A.B. 125
Harry said boastfully, his thin face boastful, “I'm no-
body's fool, mate; I can get money."
“Got a gold mine, mate?” Joe inquired humorously.
Harry saw the stout sailor did not believe his boast. The
little man was already half-drunk with the many drinks
he had taken that night. He wanted to boast and to show
this man that he was with someone of importance. Harry
slapped his waist importantly.
"Mate," he said with a leer, "I could buy a dozen bottles
of that stuff and not miss the money."
Joe roared with laughter. He did not believe the other,
and he was in a mischievous mood. He made a sudden
grab at the smaller man and gripped him firmly by the
waist. Harry struggled and shouted to be let go, but Joe
laughed loudly and stuck one hand inside the other's
trousers waist.
“Lumme,” he exclaimed to the barman and barmaid,
who were watching the two men with amusement, "the
little cow's got a money-belt. Here, where the hell did you
find this?”
"Let go, let go,” Harry screamed.
"I'm having that belt, mate,” Joe shouted boisterously,
out to tease the other. He held the man firmly in one arm
while he worked at the waist-belt with his other. He gave a
triumphant yell and drew out from under the other's shirt
a narrow belt. He waved the belt above his head, and
Harry shouted abuse and reached upwards in a vain and
furious attempt to regain his property. Joe ran a few steps
and examined the belt. To his amazement it was filled with
coins. He opened the small pockets and looked with stark
wonder at the money. The sight sobered him.
“Strike me, he's rolling in the stuff," he marveled.
"Here, gimme that,” Harry demanded, and tore the belt


128 Captain Samson, A.B.
Suddenly his fat face expressed dislike and he leaned across
the table and peered into Harry's now grayed face.
"You're a rat,” Joe said loudly.
"Who's a rat?” Harry demanded, then he saw the ex-
pression on the other's face. He rose and backed away
"Now then, mate. Now then. I bought you drinks. Now
then!”
Joe blinked, then leered at the barmaid.
"I'm going to skin 'im alive, honey. 'E's a rat.”
"Well, do it outside,” the barman said sharply.
Harry was standing near the doorway, his face gray and
his lips blue. He could hardly stand. He staggered and Joe
caught him.
"I'll kill you if you touch me,” Harry screamed.
Joe smiled happily and carried the man in his arms as
though the burden were a child. At the doorway he turned
and smiled his inane and cheery smile. Then he pushed the
door open with Harry's feet and disappeared. The barmaid
laughed softly.
"He's a carry-on, he is.”
Joe strode along the pavement, carrying the now strug-
gling Harry. As he walked along Joe soothed the other
man.
"You don't want to be makin' no fuss, mate,” he said
solemnly. "The trouble is that you're drunk. I'm goin' to
take you aboard, see?” He beamed down on Harry.
"I'm sick,” Harry cried in agony. "Let me down, mate.”
"Sick, are you?” Joe stood and considered the matter.
He saw a horse-trough on a corner and made for it. A
small crowd had gathered and were watching the scene
with interest. Among the crowd, taking care to conceal
himself, was the tall Bart. The cook's features showed his
amusement and contempt.


Captain Samson, A.B. 129
Joe stood over the horse-trough, the expression of deep
thought on his face. Harry struggled and yelled. Sud-
denly Joe released his grasp and Harry dropped into the
trough. There was a splash and a yell from the crowd. Joe
stood and surveyed the figure struggling to rise from the
iron trough. Then Joe slapped the other's head.
"There, chum,” he said comfortingly, you can write
that down, too.”
He staggered and turned away. The cook moved hastily
out of sight. Bart's face was heavy with anger. He had
heard Joe's last remark and knew Harry had been talking.
The crowd gave way to Joe, who strode across the road-
way and walked unsteadily towards the dock gates. As he
walked, Joe sang in a voice sad and tuneless:
"I wasn't cut out for a sailor,
I wasn't cut out for a tar,
Never to roam on the an-ger-ee foam,
Or sail on the ocean so fa-ar.
They fed me on biscuits and junk junk junk,
And now I no more wish to roam.
No more shall I roam, but I'll go to my home,
I was never cut out for a tar.”
Bart moved to where the crowd still watched Harry.
The small seaman climbed out of the trough and cursed
foully and abusively.
"I'll murder the big bastard,” he said.
"That's right, mate," a man said humorously. “You go
after him. That's him singing."
Harry rubbed some of the water from his clothes and
staggered. A hand steadied him and turned him so that he
faced the roadway where Joe had disappeared. Harry shook


130
Captain Samson, A.B.
off the hand and staggered across the roadway. The crowd
watched him, then broke apart and went away. Bart
crossed the road swiftly and moved after the revengeful
Harry. There was a grim expression on the cook's face.


CHAPTER EIGHT
JOE woke the next morning to find himself in his bunk,
fully clothed, even to his cap and boots. He groaned and
sat up, licking his lips with a tongue that was foul and
thick in his mouth.
"Lumme,” he muttered, "I'd give a quid for a
drink.”
The mate, who had called the hands, gave one last disap-
proving look at the seaman and said:
"Come on; they're starting loading right away."
Men's voices called from the coal-tip and the mate an-
swered, telling them to start as soon as they liked. Chains
clinked and iron hinges squealed as the coal-chute was
lowered until it pointed into the hold. A truck lumbered
noisily on the raised track and was braked. A man ham-
mered on the pin fastening the truck's trap-door. The
doors opened and the coal dropped to the chute and banged
and slid downward to fall into the steamer's forward hold.
The mate watched from forra'd and saw the stream of coal
would fall near the after-end of the hold, as he desired it.
He went to the forecastle door and shouted:
"You men have your breakfast now.”
Samson was seated in front of his bunk, smoking his
short wooden pipe. His face appeared unnaturally clean
and red against the soiled dungarees and old cap he had
donned for the loading of the coal cargo. He rose and went
131


132 Captain Samson, A.B.
to his locker. Joe groaned again and swung his legs out of
his bunk.
"Had a night of it, Joe?” the ordinary seaman said hu-
morously. “You were properly stewed last night.”
Joe sat on the bench and ran his fingers through his hair.
He looked up at the ordinary seaman and asked in a hoarse,
throaty voice:
"Was I bad, kid?"
"You was, Joe. I had to lift you into your bunk. You
flopped out on the floor."
"Did I, son?” Joe's voice expressed mild interest. "What
about Harry? I was with him.” Joe rubbed the side of his
forehead and tried to remember what happened. "Harry
had a belt full of money.” Samson left the forecastle with
his plate and teapot and Joe watched him curiously.
"Harry isn't on board yet," the ordinary seaman said.
"I expect he went off with some tart.”
Joe nodded, not much interested. “Bloody fool, they'll
take all his money off him. Oh!”—Joe held his head and
looked miserably at his shipmate— "this head of mine."
"Will I make you some breakfast, Joe?” the ordinary
seaman said sympathetically. "I've got some black-
pudding.”
An expression of awful disgust came to Joe's face. He
rose and hurried outside. At the fresh-water tank he drank
until the worst of the dryness was off his tongue.
That morning Joe alternated his labors with an attempt
to borrow money from his shipmates. He got a sixpence
from a fireman, and at eleven o'clock he left the steamer
and ran up the roadway to the public-house. It was the
place where he had been the previous night. The barman
greeted him with a grin.


Captain Samson, A.B. 133
"A pint, mate,” Joe pleaded hungrily. “I've got a thirst
that'd float a liner.”
"I expect you have,” the barman said as he pushed the
pint across the counter. He watched Joe half-empty the
pot, then said, "How's your mate?"
"Hasn't come aboard yet,” Joe said. "Must have begged
off. Wish he'd come in now; I'd get a real drink.”
“He certainly was cashed up," the other said. "He must
have a rich uncle or something."
Joe nodded, his eyes puzzled. “Didn't he tell us where he
got that cash?” he asked. “I seem to remember him saying
something about it.”
The barman nodded. "He said he could get more when
he wanted it. Something about having something written
down and that brought him in money.” The barman
laughed. “He isn't an author or anything fancy?”
"Bloody little rat," Joe said.
"Well, he knows how to get money," the other said.
"Didn't he say something about our cook?” Joe asked.
"I've got an idea he did.”
"He did," the barman agreed. "He said he told the
cook to lay off him and that he had written down what
he saw—whatever he was talking about. And he had a
proper down on some bloke called Samson.”
Joe nodded. “I'd better get aboard,” he said. “So long,
mate—wish I had your job for half an hour.”
"Try the horse-trough, Joe,” the barman shouted after
him. "I heard you dropped your mate in there last night.”
Joe hurried back on board to be greeted by the mate
with a frown.
"You know you shouldn't go off like that when we're
shorthanded,” the mate said querulously. "That other fel.
low hasn't turned up yet.”


134 Captain Samson, A.B.
“Lucky bastard,” Joe said enviously.
Sitting on the forecastle bench, Joe thought enviously
of Harry. The amount of money in the little man's belt
dwelled in Joe's memory vividly. Little sod, Joe thought.
And him jabbering all that stuff about the cook and how
he had seen what he had seen. Wish I'd see something worth
as much dough, Joe thought longingly. Money-Joe cast
his seeking desires round his shipmates—who had money?
He had tried Samson and got a curt refusal. The ordinary
seaman was broke. The fireman who had given him the
sixpence was dried up, and the two other firemen were
also broke. It was no good asking the mate, and the second
mate had left the ship and was being replaced by a new
officer. Except for the engineers and the cook (whom Joe
cursed and passed aside) there remained only the captain.
Joe considered the matter and acknowledged he stood little
hope of getting a sub. The crew had been paid two days
previously and that was coming it a bit too thick, even for
an easy-going skipper like Barclay. Still; Joe rose—his
tongue was swelling and the pubs would be closed soon.
Joe went aft and knocked respectfully on Barclay's door.
Like an overgrown schoolboy expecting to be spanked
for stealing apples, Joe stood before his commander. He
coughed, then said:
"Come to request a sub, sir,” he said, watching Barclay
anxiously. "Ain't got no stores, captain.”
Barclay frowned, as he was expected to frown.
"You were paid two days ago,” he said sternly.
Joe nodded eagerly. "I know, sir; I sent the whole lot
home to the wife, sir. She'll ill, sir, and the kids need boots.
I thought I'd go short for the week, sir, just to see them
right.”
Barclay smiled. He appreciated a good story.


Captain Samson, A.B. 135
"How did you manage to get drunk last night?” he
asked gently. "Was that the kids' boots you chewed?"
An expression of shocked integrity came to the sailor's
fat face.
“Why, sir,” he protested, “I was telling you the gospel.
I didn't ’ave hardly the price of a pint last night. I met
that Harry ashore and he had a lot of money and stood
treat.”
"Must have had a lot to leave you as you were.”
" 'E had, sir; lashings of it. Had a whole belt full o'
sovereigns. I seen it, sir.”
"He's a lucky man. I hope he came by it honestly.”
Wishing to ingratiate himself with his superior, Joe
spread himself on the story.
"I ain't so sure it was come by honest, sir,” he said.
"Harry tolt me he could get lots more money outa some-
thing he had writ down. It was somethin' he and that swab
-beg pardon, sir—'im and the cook was working atween
them. I heard them chewin' the fat aft there one day, and
Harry said the cook was to mind he 'ad this thing writ
down. Didn't make no sense to me, sir, but 'e 'ad the
money. I saw it plain enough."
Joe hardly expected the effect of his piece of tale-bear-
ing. His wildest hopes had been that he would tell a yarn
good enough to earn himself a sub. Now he contemplated
an effect that startled him, for Barclay had risen and was
staring down with wide-open eyes on his informant.
"You said,” he demanded, “you said Harry and the cook
were talking? Did you hear what they said? Did you,
man?”
Joe shook his head. "Sorry, capt'n. I just heard Harry
tell the cook not to forget he had this thing writ down,


136 Captain Samson, A.B.
and then he mentioned it again last night. Said he tolt the
cook to lay off him 'cause this thing was writ down.”
“Here-stay there,” Barclay said quickly. He hurried
from the cabin, leaving the astounded seaman watching
the doorway in amazement. Joe heard the shipmaster yell
for Samson, and then Samson entered the cabin, followed
by Barclay.
"Now, Joe,” Barclay said briskly, "tell this story all over
again. Listen carefully, Captain Samson."
Samson, through the coal grime on his face, peered dis-
tastefully at Joe. He considered Joe a fool and the sort of
man who could not take his work seriously. Last night Joe's
uproarious arrival on board had scunnered the ex-captain
and made the sordidness and lack of privacy in the fore-
castle even more oppressive than usual. On top of these
purely personal objections to the sailor, Samson did not
consider it right and proper that a forecastle-hand should
be brought in on an affair which was concerned with the
officers.
"You haven't gone and told him anything?" Samson
demanded, with strong emphasis on the "him.”
Barclay shook his head a trifle impatiently. There were
times when Samson's obstinate dignity was irritating.
"It's him who has something to tell us. Go on, Joe.”
Joe was shy now. He blinked from Barclay to Samson,
and then said:
"Excuse me, captain.” He smiled ingratiatingly. "I
wasn't thinking I'd be upsetting anyone. I was just telling
Captain Barclay about Harry.”
"Well, out with it, man! What about him?" Samson
barked.
"About him having all that money."
“What the hell's the fellow talking about?”


Captain Samson, A.B. 137
"Take your time, Joe,” Barclay said soothingly. “Don't
let anyone fluster you. Start at the beginning."
Joe took a deep breath and commenced. He told how
he had gone ashore to post a letter and on the way on board
had stepped into a pub for a glass of beer. He described
how Harry had approached him and had offered to buy
him drinks. Harry had then, according to Joe, flashed
about a lot of golden sovereigns and boasted that he could
get as much money as he wanted. All because of something
that was writ down. It had something to do with the cook,
because Joe had heard a remark passed by Harry to the
cook. “Like he was telling the cook off, capt'n,” Joe
explained.
When the tale was told and Joe stood wishing Barclay
would pass him the sub and let him go, Samson was
scowling.
“What do you think of that, Samson?” Barclay de-
manded.
Samson had not been reading his magazines for nothing.
"Sounds like blackmail to me. Harry knows something
about the loss of the Sunart and must have seen the cook
up to his tricks.”
"He must have written down what he saw and is hold-
ing the statement over the steward's head to extort money."
Barclay's thin face was flushed. “How can we use this in-
formation, Samson?” he asked.
Samson's brows furrowed and he scowled. “I'll drag
what he knows out of that fellow, if I have to use a claw-
hammer.”
Barclay shook his head. These methods were too direct
to be successful. Short of getting Harry in some lonely
place and beating hell out of him until he told what he
knew, Samson's idea was no good. And Barclay had no


138 Captain Samson, A.B.
fancy to be mixed up in a face-smashing act. As he con-
sidered this he smiled at his own scruples as opposed to
Bart's methods. He noticed Joe's anxious eyes on him and
had an idea.
"Harry did not mention where he had this written state-
ment?”
Joe shook his head. "No, sir; he just kept saying he had
it writ down.”
"Where is he now?” Barclay inquired.
"The dirty little skunk hasn't come on board since last
night,” Samson said angrily.
"You don't think he realized what he had said and has
run away?” Barclay asked.
" 'Is gear is still aboard, sir,” Joe said eagerly. "I expec'
he's off with some woman, sir.” Then Joe's expression
became more than eager. "I think I could find ’im, sir-
if I 'ad a few bob to go round the pubs. Harry's sure to
go and have a drink afore he comes aboard.”
Samson looked his disgust at the sailor, but Barclay
nodded.
"You might get him," he said thoughtfully. "Anyhow,
it's worth trying.”
"I'll make him tell me where that thing you want is,
sir," Joe offered with relish.
"Never you mind,” Samson cut in hotly. "We'll do any-
thing that's necessary.”
"Yes, sir," Joe agreed hastily. He took the money Bar-
clay handed him and hurried out of the cabin. Samson
watched him with resentful eyes.
"That fellow'll spoil everything," he said. "He's a
drunken fool.”
"Oh, I don't think so," Barclay said tolerantly. “He
sticks up for you all the time.”


140 Captain Samson, A.B.
"I'm drunk, capt'n, I'm drunk. Don't be angry with
me, capt'n.”
Samson got up in disgust and marched aft. He entered
Barclay's room and found the shipmaster on his bunk.
"That fool's come aboard—drunk,” he said shortly.
Barclay rose from his bunk, his face unmasked by his
ironic smile was gray and worried-looking. As he reached
the floor there was a knock at the door and an authorita-
tive voice asked:
"Captain there?"
Samson looked out and moved aside. He frowned, then
informed Barclay:
"A policeman and two detectives at your door, Captain
Barclay.”
The two detectives entered the cabin. They looked round
the room in the habitual manner of their trade and then
one of them addressed Barclay.
"We're in search of a seaman who is known as Joe.
We don't know his other name."
"Joe? His name is Partridge,” Barclay informed them.
"He's forra'd. What has he done?”
The detective looked over his shoulder to his companions.
He made a movement with his head and the policeman and
the other detective left the cabin. The remaining detective
said:
"One of your seamen was found drowned in the dock
this morning,” he informed the shipmaster. “He was
identified by the docks gateman. I want to question Par-
tridge."
"Why? What has he done?”
“He had trouble with the other fellow last night.”
"But—” Barclay's defense was cut short by a wild yell
from forra’d. The detective ran outside, and Barclay and


Captain Samson, A.B. 141
e
.
Samson followed. The three men reached the front rail of
the lower bridge and looked onto the fore-deck. They saw
Joe struggling in the grasp of the two officers, and as they
watched Joe's left arm came free and he lashed out. The
uniformed policeman went down like a heap of cloth, and
then Joe swung about and grasped the detective by the
waist. He heaved, yelling wildly as he exerted his tre-
mendous strength. The detective was raised high in the air
and Joe stalked to the rail. Barclay shouted, and the re-
maining detective ran down the ladder and along the deck
to aid his companion. Samson cursed indignantly and fol-
lowed the detective. Joe kicked outwards at this new
enemy and the detective doubled up with pain as a large
boot met his waist. Samson stood a few feet away and
shouted:
"Partridge!"
The effect was magical. Joe stiffened and remained still,
the detective still held aloft in his great hands.
"Drop that man," Samson ordered sternly.
The detective dropped to the deck and then rose again.
Joe was watching Samson defiantly.
"They ain't got no right to come haulin' me outa my
bunk,” he complained. “I'll kick the lights outa them.”
"Come aft," Samson ordered. “You're wanted in the
captain's cabin.” He turned and strutted aft, followed by
the resentful Joe. The detectives eyed the big man vindic-
tively and followed. The policeman retrieved his hat and
placed it on his head, then followed with all his dignity.
Firemen and the ordinary seaman watched the scene with
breathless interest.
In the cabin Samson took command. A detective moved
beside Joe and the sailor clenched his fists threateningly.
"You lay off me, mate,” he warned. “I'll listen to what


144 Captain Samson, A.B.
lack of dignity. He reached the forecastle to find Barclay
clawing over Harry's bunk with eager hands.
"Here, you hold his bag and I'll put the stuff in,”
Barclay cried. Samson obeyed with scant pleasure. He spat
as he smelled the odor of the clothes. Barclay tore the
blankets off the bed and stuffed them into the bag. He
rolled the foul straw mattress and shouted to the ordinary
seaman to carry it aft to his room. Then he collected the
few miserable garments and a battered tin box, and, with
Samson, carted the whole lot aft. They met Bart on the
lower bridge.
"Can I help you with that, sir?" the cook asked re-
spectfully, but with a glint of humor.
Samson scowled on the man and Barclay flushed.
"We'll manage, cook," he said shortly.
Bart watched them enter the room and his eyes nar-
rowed. He thought for a moment, then ran below and
got a jacket and cap. He went ashore to a telephone-box
and rang up his shipowner.
"I want you to order the Troubadour's boilers to be
cleaned,” he told the shipowner. “I must have two days
to go somewhere.” He cut short the other's protest with a
curse and slammed the receiver down. Then he returned
to the steamer and went below. The rest of that day he
remained carefully out of sight.'
Meantime, a disappointed Barclay sat before a pile of
dirty, foul-smelling clothes.
“Nothing doing,” he said to Samson.
Samson had watched the other with something like dis-
approval.
"I expect the fellow was lying,” he said shortly.
Barclay held a dirty envelope he had taken from the
tin box.
nog up on to ord hipowner


146 Captain Samson, A.B.
"It isn't what I thought. It's orders from the owner. We're
to clean boilers.”
"What! Now?" Samson demanded incredulously. "With
a cargo almost on board?”
Barclay frowned. He had forgotten the cargo.
"I'd better run ashore and make sure,” he said in agree-
ment with Samson's unspoken objection. "There must be
something wrong."
He put on his hat and, with Samson, left the cabin.
He went on shore and returned in five minutes. He sent
for Samson at once.
"I can't understand this,” he said. “We've to clean
boilers all right.”
"More damn trickery,” Samson said stubbornly and sus-
piciously.
"Well, anyhow," Barclay said eagerly, "it's just what
we wanted. It will give you time to go to that fellow's
home and get those papers. He lives in Manchester. I've
got his address here in the Articles.” Barclay rubbed his
hands jubilantly. “How's that, Samson?”
Samson scowled. He did not think much of the idea.
He nodded.
"I suppose I'd better go. But I don't believe there is
anything in it. If we're going to catch that fellow it will
be on board here.”
Barclay was already relieved. He saw the end of this
worry and tension already achieved. Samson would bring
back the papers and the police would have to arrest Bart.
He laughed and slapped Samson's shoulder.
"Cheer up, Samson," he cried happily. “We'll have the
fellow soon.”
But Samson scowled again. He had no hope from this
new move.


Captain Samson, A.B.
147
The next morning Samson left the Troubadour soon
after breakfast. Bart, the cook, saw him as the ex-ship-
master strutted majestically along the quay, and the cook
was thoughtful as he considered Samson's departure. For a
seaman to go on shore so early in the day was unusual,
and by Samson's dress of blue shore-going suit, collar and
tie and bowler hat, it seemed he was off for the day. With
the ship shorthanded as she was, this special leave meant
Samson's errand was important. The cook frowned and
appeared disturbed.
Barclay went on shore soon after Samson and the cook
hastened to the shipmaster's room. It was his duty to clean
out and tidy the room, but Bart wasted no time on these
services. He went straight to a drawer in the chest of
drawers which was part of the cabin's furnishing and in-
serted a key in the lock. He examined the contents of the
drawer without disturbing anything, then took out the
grimy envelope Barclay had found among Harry's pos-
sessions. Bart read the letter and his face hardened. He
made a note of the address and replaced the letter, then he
went below and spoke to the mate.
"I have to go to the office, mister mate," he said. "I'll
lay out a cold lunch.”
"You'd think this ship was sinking the way everybody's
leaving her," the mate grumbled. “There's only the ordi-
nary seaman left forra'd.”
Bart dressed hurriedly and went ashore. He ran up the
sloping roadway to the town and went to a garage. A taxi
ran him into Liverpool and he went at once to the railway
station. A train was leaving for Manchester at once and
the cook sprinted along the platform and jumped into a
carriage. He dropped into a seat and wiped his forehead.
He looked round the carriage and saw a young woman


148
Captain Samson, A.B.
with a child and, seated in the diagonally opposite corner,
Samson. The ex-captain's face was red and swollen with
anger as he recognized the cook. Bart grinned. Samson
rustled his newspaper angrily and directed his fierce gaze
on the print. In the two and a half hours' journey to Man-
chester Samson kept his eyes away from the cook and Bart
appeared to have gone to sleep. But he was the first of the
two men to leap from the carriage when the train slowed
down. Samson cursed hotly and hurried after the cook.
Both reached the ticket-collector, Bart immediately in front
of Samson. Samson heard the other explain of having no
ticket and saw him take a handful of silver from his pocket.
Samson's face expressed fury and he gripped Bart by the
back of the collar and spun him round and to one side.
"Out of my way, you crook,” he shouted. Then to the
ticket-collector Samson said, "Here's my ticket.”
The ticket-collector took the ticket and looked after the
short, strutting figure blankly. Bart was grinning as he
thrust the fare into the collector's hands and raced after
Samson. He saw the ex-shipmaster board a tramcar and he
smiled broadly. It was typical of Samson to take a tram
instead of a taxi. Bart hailed a taxi, and seeing Samson turn
to look at him, he waved derisively. At once he saw this
was a mistake, for Samson leaped off the tram and ran
across the road to another taxi. The ex-shipmaster's face
was blue with rage. He yelled at the taxi-driver to hurry
like the hounds of hell, and the driver gave a salute as he
slammed the door shut. The two taxis were side by side at
the first traffic jam. Bart and Samson peered at each other
through their respective windows. Samson leaned out of
the window and shouted at his driver.
"Young man,” he shouted, "see that you get ahead of


Captain Samson, A.B. 149
that motor alongside us. I'll pay you double fare if we get
to that address first.”
The driver, a slender youth with black hair slicked down
with shiny oil, gave one eloquent nod.
"It's a deal, boss,” he agreed. “I can shake that tin-can
off any day."
Bart had been unlucky in his driver, an oldish man with
a bad-tempered face. He refused point-blank to make a
race of it.
"I ain't risking my living for you, mister,” he said un-
compromisingly.
Bart hung out of his window and urged the driver.
"I'll pay your fine,” he offered.
“Will you keep me for the rest of my life if I lose my
license?” the driver demanded scornfully.
"Oh, blast you,” Bart said as he sank back in his seat
and watched Samson's cab dodge out of sight among the
traffic. He cursed steadily as he saw how his own driver
treated every other vehicle with exaggerated respect and
crawl cannily along the edge of the curb. He debated
whether to take another cab, then decided not to. Sud-
denly he tapped on the window and motioned the driver
to pull alongside the pavement. When the car stopped
the cook got out, and after telling the driver what he
thought of him, gave the man his fare and strode back
to the railway station. He took the first train to Liver-
pool and then telephoned. Half an hour later two men
joined him at the station. Both were tough-looking cus-
tomers in mufflers and caps.
Samson, by this time, was in the train leaving Man-
chester. In his pocket-book were several sheets of cheap
notepaper covered with a handwriting almost impossible
to decipher. Samson was flushed and excited. His jaw was


150 Captain Samson, A.B.
firm and his eyes fierce. In an untidy, dirty room in Man-
chester a weary-looking woman was swaying back and
forward on a chair, weeping and sniffling, and grasping
firmly a ten-pound note. Samson's methods had been ruth-
less and effective.
It was typical of Samson that he did not bother to look
for Bart, now he possessed Harry's papers. The ex-ship-
master strode into the train without a glance to right or
to left. He sat down and glowered on the two women in
the carriage, and then he took the papers from his pocket
and attempted to read them. The statement read:
"I saw the cook, Bart, coming along the deck with
a mug of tea for the skipper. He had something under
his jersey and he was dodging about in a funny way
and I knew he was up to something crooked. I went
and looked in the porthole and saw him taking a chart
out of the drawer and putting the one he had under
his jersey in the drawer. Then he tore a page out of a
book. Then he went below and shoved the chart in a
drawer in his room because I was watching him all
the time. And I saw him hit the mate with something
and the mate was killed. The old man told the mate
to fire a rocket and the cook was in the cabin and the
mate shouted at him. The cook hit him when he was
down. I saw the blood.
"Signed HARRY CLONEY."
Samson's face was shining like a tomato when he had
deciphered this. He folded the papers neatly and put them
inside his pocket-book. Then he sat glaring defiance at an
embarrassed young woman across the carriage.
When the train stopped at Liverpool, Samson descended
with dignity and joined the stream of people making for


Captain Samson, A.B. 151
the narrow opening in the barrier where the ticket-collector
waited. There were several hundred people grouped to-
gether and filing slowly through the barrier. Two men in
shabby clothes, mufflers and caps, jostled towards Samson,
one from either side of the crowd. They acted as though
drunk enough to be quarrelsome, and the people gave way
to them. One of them reached Samson and hustled him
with an elbow. Samson glared.
"Mind where the hell you're going,” he said.
The man grinned.
"Close your trap, mister, or I'll close it for you,” he said
threateningly. Samson doubled his fists and then a hand
descended behind him and squashed Samson's bowler hat
over his ears. Samson yelled and raised his hands to push
the hat up. Immediately the two men squeezed against
Samson, each thrusting a shoulder into Samson's armpits,
holding his arms up. He yelled and the men roared with
laughter. Samson tried to lower his arms but could not get
them down for the men's bodies against him. He cursed
them hotly, his face red with rage. Then he was thrust
back and the two men were pushing themselves through
the barrier.
"That bloody little cow, he's drunk,” one of the men
complained to the ticket-collector. A policeman hurried
forward and one of the men dodged aside and ran. The
other waited until the policeman made a movement to
follow the runaway, then he slid to one side and was gone.
The policeman tugged at his whistle and sprinted after the
runaway. The man turned and put his thumb to his nose.
The policeman blew his whistle and the crowd of people
in the station stopped and watched. The second man had
disappeared. Samson had tugged his hat free of his forehead
and had thrown it viciously on the ground. He plunged a


152 Captain Samson, A.B.
hand into his pocket and felt. The pocket-book was gone.
The women among the people waiting there blanched and
sped through the opening. The ticket-collector listened to
the stream of abuse issuing from the red-faced man, then
ran forward and shouted:
"Now then, mister; stop that language."
Samson stopped and glared at the collector. Then he
stooped and picked up his battered hat. A policeman came
to Samson.
"Did they get anything?” he asked.
Samson fumed and tried to speak, then he pushed the
policeman aside and strode through the barrier. He looked
neither to left nor to right, but strutted into the street.
In a hour he was on board the Troubadour. He went
forra'd and carefully removed his shore clothes, then he
donned his dungarees and went aft. Barclay waited him
tremulously.
"Well, did you get them?” he asked eagerly.
Samson drew a great breath, then exploded.
"Mister,” he said, “I'm a god-damn fool.”
"Then you didn't get them,” Barclay said wearily and
sat down.


CHAPTER NINE
CAPTAIN BARCLAY had to attend the inquest on the sailor,
Harry, the next morning. He returned disheartened and
upset by the result of this inquiry. Joe Partridge was to
stand trial for the murder of his shipmate. The barman
and barmaid and half a dozen other people had given evi-
dence to show Joe had attacked his shipmate, and that,
after climbing from the trough where Joe had dropped
him, Harry had gone after the fat seaman. After Joe had
been taken below to the cells Barclay was permitted to
see him. The sailor was broken-hearted about the accu-
sation. He even cried, tears streaming down his fat
cheeks.
“Capt'n, you know I wouldn't 'a' done a thing like that.
I'd ha' clouted ’im, but I wouldn't murder me worst
enemy." Then he moaned about his missus and kids and
how they'd manage without him. The shame would kill
his old mother. Then suddenly, for no apparent reason, .
he cursed the cook and swore Bart had something to do
with this business. Swept by another sudden change, Joe
threw himself on his knees and clung to Barclay.
"You'll not let them 'ang me, Capt'n,” he pleaded. “You
an' Capt'n Samson'll get me outa this.”
“We'll do our best, Joe,” Barclay said worriedly.
"You'll not swing, mate," a kindly detective said. "It'll
be a manslaughter charge. You'll get five years, maybe.”
153


154 Captain Samson, A.B.
"Oh, Christ!” Joe moaned. “Five years. What'll my
missus do?”
"We'll see she's looked after, Joe,” Barclay promised.
"God bless you, Capt'n,” Joe cried tearfully.
Barclay left the jail and returned on board. He felt old
and worn as he walked to the docks. He longed to throw
over his command and hide away in his home, to escape
from all this haunting fear and worry. I wish, he thought
wearily, I wish they'd finish what they are out to do, and
then I'll be at peace. Thoughts of his wife lying ill and
dying came, and he groaned. He could not give way to
his fear. He must keep fighting these people. . . . But if
they would only wait until his wife died! If they'd only
wait until she had gone and there was no other need for
him to work or worry, then he would willingly let them
sink the ship. He'd even help them, as long as he might
go down with the vessel.
Samson was waiting for him. The ex-shipmaster was pac-
ing impatiently up and down the foredeck. His face was
glowering, his eyes rageful. As soon as he saw Barclay he
hurried to the gangway.
"Well?” he demanded.
Barclay looked at the other resentfully. Samson was half
to blame for all this. If he had never appeared there would
have been no worry, because no one would have known
the ship was to be cast away by Bart. It was knowing this
must happen that was the cause of all the trouble on board.
"Joe's to go for trial,” Barclay said sulkily.
Samson swore. He cursed softly and eloquently.
"Did you fix up a lawyer for him?" the ex-captain de-
manded.
Barclay shook his head. He had meant to think over
the problem, but he had been so sorry for himself that he


Captain Samson, A.B. 155
had done nothing. Samson made a gesture of impatience.
"Can I go ashore?”
"Oh, go to hell if you like!” Barclay cried.
"You poor swab,” Samson retorted. “You should be run-
ning a milk wagon, not a ship.”
A faint ironic smile came to Barclay's weary face. “I
wish to hell I were,” he said.
But Samson had gone. Barclay saw him stride and sway
towards the dock gates.
Samson went to Liverpool and to his own lawyer. As a
property owner and a man of means, Samson believed in
lawyers. He insisted that his man of law put on hat and
coat and attend on Joe at once. Together the two men
returned to Garston, and were allowed to visit Joe. The
seaman was pathetically grateful to Samson.
"I knew you'd stand by me, capt'n,” he cried. "My
brother said you was all right.”
"Never mind that,” Samson said impatiently. "You tell
the lawyer what he asks, and he'll have you out of this.
Mind”-Samson addressed the lawyer—"you make a job
of this.”
Samson returned to the docks to find the Troubadour
once again under the coal tips and her cargo being com-
pleted. Barclay met him on deck and asked if he had
arranged Joe's defense.
"We're to sail this afternoon and swing compasses.”
"The owner's being bloody good to us. ... What's his
game?” Samson demanded suspiciously.
"Oh, drop that,” Barclay said wearily. “I'm sick of this
seeing a trick in everything that happens."
"Mister," Samson retorted, "you'll learn sense when it's
too late.”


156 Captain Samson, A.B.
"Well, why take all this trouble to arrange for her
safety?” Barclay demanded.
Samson had, for him, a flash of inspiration. “Maybe
that's their game,” he said. “Then when something happens
they'll be able to say it wasn't their fault. ... That's what
it is, mister.”
"God knows,” Barclay said, and his hand rose wearily
to his forehead. “It'll drive me crazy before it happens.”
Samson scowled his contempt.
"Is that all you wanted me for, mister?” he demanded.
The other nodded. “That'll do, Samson.”
Samson swung about and went forra'd to the forecastle,
his scowl heavy. He arrived in the forecastle to find two
new sailors had arrived in place of Joe and Harry. Samson
eyed them resentfully. One, an elderly man in a shabby
blue suit, nodded in friendliness.
"Hallo, mate,” he said in a hoarse, age-strained voice.
Samson cast one indignant glance at the man and then
ignored him. The man, stoutish, slow-moving, with a
clean-shaven, heavy-jowled face and shrewdly humorous
old eyes, smiled slightly. His smile reminded Samson of a
face he could never forget, the face of the mate of the
Sunart. He peered at the man searchingly, but saw no re-
semblance beyond the eyes.
"Hi, son, I'm having that bunk,” a hoarse voice an-
nounced.
The ordinary seaman's voice replied shrilly:
"That's my bunk. I had to make them shelves.”
Samson looked across the forecastle and saw a heavily
built man in blue dungarees standing beside the two bunks
against the inner bulkhead of the forecastle. The man was
preparing to lift a heap of bedding and a mattress from
the top bunk. Another pile lay on a bench.


Captain Samson, A.B. 157
"Ordinary seamen take what's left," the man was saying
with a bullying humor.
Samson stiffened and his little eyes flashed.
"Leave the lad's bunk alone,” he said in his most officer-
like voice. His voice rang loudly in the small compartment,
halting all movement from the others. The ordinary sea-
man turned slowly and looked at Samson gratefully, the
elderly seaman smiled slowly, and the heavily built man
turned and surveyed Samson with rising anger. He stepped
forward suddenly until his face was close to Samson's.
Then he said sneeringly:
“Who's going to make me?” he demanded.
Samson quivered with rage. His hands clenched and he
thrust his red face within an inch of the other's.
"We don't want any cocks in this forecastle, mister," he
said. “You lay off that lad.”
The other turned his head and spat on the floor. The
action infuriated Samson. Before the other realized Samson
had moved, Samson's knees had bent slightly and his thick-
set body seemed to rise from the floor like a rearing post
and his narrow forehead had struck the taller man squarely
on the nose. There was a silence that seemed to last for a.
long time but which lasted barely ten seconds, then the
injured man, his face streaming blood and his eyes staring
unbelievingly, roared with pain and put his hands to his
face. There was the sound of indrawn breath from the
older seaman and the ordinary seaman.
"Christ!” the ordinary seaman said quickly
Samson moved with a speed that bewildered the eyes
of the two onlookers. His fist chopped upwards and sank
into the victim's stomach. The taller man bent almost.
double. Samson leapt as though to mount the man's back,
but when the movement was completed he stood behind


158 Captain Samson, A.B.
the now struggling figure and was propelling it across the
forecastle floor to the doorway. The high combing step
intervened, and the victim fell onto the deck outside.
Samson stood in the doorway and blazed with wrath.
"I'll show you what happens to trouble-makers aboard
this ship,” he yelled, his face flaming red. “I'll give you all
you want aboard here."
Miraculously an audience had collected. Two firemen
gaped from their doorway, and the new, youthful second
mate stood on the lower bridge with amazement and horror
on his face. Along the quay four dock workers watched
intently. Samson surveyed this audience with scorn and
rage, then swung around and returned to the forecastle. He
directed his flashing eyes on the ordinary seaman, quelling
that youth's admiration as though turning off a tap. A
figure shadowed the doorway and the injured man stepped
into the forecastle. He went to his bag and produced a
soiled towel. He wiped his face tenderly, then sniffed
loudly. As he wiped his face his eyes glared at Samson.
Samson ignored the man.
"I'll get you for that, mister," the man said threaten-
ingly. "I'll get you if I have to wait a year to do it. I'm
not finished with you.”
Samson met the man's eyes with a glare that should have
burned the man to silence. Then Samson knew the man
would do nothing.
"Pipe down," he said curtly. "I could handle a dozen
like you."
The new second mate, a spruce youth in brass-buttoned
uniform, appeared in the doorway. His face was set and
pale, his eyes apprehensive. His expression changed to sur-
prise when he saw the outwardly peaceful scene in the
forecastle. Samson was sucking at his short pipe, the elderly


Captain Samson, A.B. 159
seaman was returning to the unpacking of a long, well-
scrubbed canvas sea-bag, the ordinary seaman was sitting
on the end of a bench trying to light a cigarette with
shaking fingers, and the injured man was still wiping his
face, his eyes watching Samson vindictively. The second
mate hesitated, then said petulantly:
"Now then, what's all this?”
Samson seemed not to hear. He sat and stared at a blank
wall. The injured man looked grudgingly at the officer.
"Well? What is it?” the officer demanded.
"Nothing, mister,” Samson said sharply, "except that
you should see you ship sailormen an' not dock rats.”
"That's enough from you, Samson,” the second mate
answered hotly. "You're not aft now."
Samson sneered. “Lucky for you, mister,” he retorted.
"You'd not last long enough to dirty that handsome collar
you're wearing."
He glared his defiance of the young man, and the officer
tried to summon enough courage to enter the forecastle and
drag this impertinent old devil outside.
"I'm all right, mister,” the injured seaman interrupted
loudly and boastfully. "I'll settle my own affairs without
anyone's help.”
"I'll have no fighting on board this vessel,” the second
mate said with youthful dignity. "Stop it, both of you.”
No one answered him and he felt himself at a loss. A
voice hailed him from aft and he turned to see Captain
Barclay on the lower bridge. Glad of the excuse, the second
mate sent a last warning into the forecastle.
"Mind what I say,” he cried, and then hurried aft.
Samson went to the door and spat carefully and neatly
over the ship's rail. The elderly mate came forra'd and
sang out:


160 Captain Samson, A.B.
"Hands stand by to let go.” He nodded to Samson. "You
go aft with Maxwell. You two new men come with me.”
Samson and the ordinary seaman walked aft to join the
second mate. The elderly seaman followed the mate to the
forecastle-head. Captain Barclay was on the bridge with
the pilot and the compass adjuster. Barclay pulled on the
whistle lanyard and the steam hissed and became a loud
bray. A voice hailed from the dock gates:
"All right, Troubadour; come on!”
The coaster was swung into the dock and steamed slowly
between the entrance piers into the river. With the aged,
newly-arrived seaman at the wheel, she was conned along
the line of buoys downstream. She passed other vessels
bound upstream, swung clear of a ferry-boat and passed
the long ferry piers. Off New Brighton the compass ad-
juster took charge.
The compass binnacle stood on the navigation bridge
directly before the wheelsman. The binnacle was on a
varnished wooden stand with the compass set into the
hollow top of the stand on gimbals. There was a polished
brass cowl over the actual compass, protecting the glass-
topped bowl from injury and the sea and rain-water that
would have obscured the card. Projecting from each side
of the wooden stand were two large iron balls, adjusted on
slides and screwed tightly by bolts. These balls influenced
the delicate, magnetized needle and helped to negative the
greater influence of the steel of the vessel's hull on the
needle.
On the after-side of the wooden stand was a door fitting
neatly. The compass adjuster opened this door with a key
he received from Captain Barclay. The opened doors ex-
posed the inside of the stand as a space divided into small,
deep pigeon-holes, some fore and aft and some athwart


Captain Samson, A.B. 161
ship, and in several of these pigeon-holes were slender bars
of metal. The adjuster, a youngish man with an alert
expression, examined these bars, then took stock of the
ship's position.
In the next hour the Troubadour was swung in several
wide circles over the water while the adjuster checked the
compass-card by taking bearings of objects on shore. By
comparing known compass-bearing of two shore objects
and placing the coaster in a line with these two objects,
he discovered how far out the Troubadour's compass was.
By moving the bars from one slot to another he attracted
the magnetized needle which controlled the card to a bear-
ing as near the bearing known to be correct as he could.
When he had finished this checking and correcting there
remained differences—slight but evident-between the
compass-bearing and the known magnetic bearing. On a
card marked with a list of compass directions, the adjuster
wrote in the compass deviations. When he had finished his
task, he locked the door in the wooden stand and handed
to Captain Barclay the card he had filled in.
"That's your deviation, captain," he said.
Barclay took the card and examined it. He saw there
was no great fault in his vessel's compass. There was the
usual slight error to each compass-point caused by the
influence of the metal in the ship's construction. When
making his courses on his voyages he would allow for these
errors. This compass adjusting is a regularly periodic test
taken to assure a vessel's safety by keeping her master in-
formed on any change in the deviation on his compasses.
The adjuster was dropped with the pilot at the bar, and
the Troubadour proceeded across the Irish Sea to Dublin,
where she discharged her cargo of coal and loaded bales of
tightly pressed hay for Cardiff. By that time the two new


164 Captain Samson, A.B.
was as safe as any other vessel, her owner had no intentions
of casting her away, and the cook was an ordinary cook.
Samson must have mistaken someone else for the cook
when he thought he saw that fellow get into a swanky
car.
But argue with himself as he did, Barclay could not rid
himself of a knowledge that he was waiting; waiting for
some vast explosion that would shatter this ship and cast
her commander on shore as a battered and helpless victim.
He did not even imagine himself killed by what was to
happen; only destroyed. He would have welcomed death,
provided he and his wife died at the same time.
He found himself taking exaggerated care over his
charge. He bought spare charts and compared them with
those he had; he read carefully every route he had to fol-
low, and spent hours with almanacs and sailing directions.
He laid his courses well clear of everything that might be a
danger, passing outside of every sandbank and every point
of land. A coasting master can save himself and his ship
many a tossing and many a mile by dodging inside small
islands and sandbanks, but Barclay ran from those shelters
as though they would rise and fall upon him. His crew
cursed him when they saw their vessel being taken far out
on the waters when shelter was inshore, but Barclay would
not be tempted. He approached the land only when he
must, and then each approach to enter a harbor was agony
to the man. He went in horror of fog, for fog was a
treacherous veil which hid dangers from his eyes. He was
content only on a passage when he could see the land away
in the distance, there as a guide, but too far away to be
dangerous. His crew could see the man's fear and it en-
tered them also. The Troubadour became a ship of un-
easiness, a ship distrusting herself.


168
in Samson, A.B.
amount of money that would be needed to keep her in
comfort for three months. He was most meticulous
and scrupulous. He multiplied £5 by thirteen and the
total was £65, then he added £20 for doctor's fee and
made the final total £85. Then he patted his wife's hands
and left her.
He returned to the shipping office and asked to see the
shipowner. That gentleman was mildly surprised but
greeted him with friendliness. Barclay's thin face was un-
smiling as he said:
"I come to ask you to lend me £85, sir.”
The shipowner was startled. He gripped the arms of his
chair and his face slowly filled with warm blood and his
eyes opened wide in fear. Barclay continued unmoved.
"I've just seen the doctor, sir,” he explained. “He said
my wife will live for three months at the longest, and I
want to assure her comfort in case anything should happen
to me.” He coughed slightly and almost laughed as he
added, "The sea is a precarious profession, sir.”
The shipowner was obviously taken aback, but gradually
he recovered and his eyes narrowed to an expression of
angry assessment. Barclay ended hastily:
"You were good enough to offer to help me, sir.”
They sat for a full minute in silence, the shipowner's
eyes now speculative. Barclay looked at him without any
expression. Then, with a movement expressing relief, the
shipowner smiled.
"Why, certainly, Barclay. I'm glad you came to me."
Half an hour later Barclay addressed a bulky registered
envelope to his sister. In a note to her he explained that
this money was to be expended at the rate of £s a week
for his wife's comfort. Then he sent the letter off and went
to the station to his train. He arrived on board that after-


Captain Samson, A.B. 169
noon
noon to find the Troubadour ready for sea. He saw Sam-
son working on deck and smiled slightly. Poor old Samson
-the man who always did his duty! Barclay wondered if
he ought to sack Samson, then he knew he would not.
The game was a straight fight between Samson and the
cook now. Henceforth he, Barclay, would be carefully
neutral. He would make his passages according to his
owner's orders. There would be nothing legally criminal
in his actions, for he would take no risks other than are
taken by every coasting man who navigates from one port
to the other. But, also, he would take no unusual routes
to avoid these usual dangers. He would, in short, obey
orders and leave Bart to find the time and place for what
he intended doing. Barclay could not but admire both
antagonists: Bart, with the patience of a skilled chess-
player, waiting month by month for the ideal conditions
to move; Samson, as patient but more obtuse, watching
the cook. Samson, Barclay thought in his new mood of
complete indifference, must, by his obtuseness, be always
just one move behind. The ex-shipmaster was essentially
the sort of fighter who would plunge his hand into the
fire to pull out the burning coal, but he would not catch
the coal before it reached the fire. The initiative was up to
Bart, the end was— Barclay smiled his bitter and sardonic
smile and knew no one could see the end until it occurred.
As the Troubadour made her courses round the south of
England and up the east coast, Barclay watched the shores
with a new interest. Just where had Bart planned that she
would meet her end? It was an interesting problem to a
man who had no problem beyond this end. It was, Barclay
thought as he lay in his bunk and stared up at the rivets
in the cabin ceiling, like deciding where you are to be
buried. Barclay did not look beyond the moment when his


170 Captain Samson, A.B.
vessel crashed on a rock or sank under him. He made but
one more move in this game: he ordered the mate to see
the two lifeboats and the small dinghy were in good order
and provisioned. But he played fair by Bart and the ship-
owner by trying to avoid suspicion in Samson's mind by
arranging this so that the suggestion appeared to be the
mate's and not his, Barclay's. It was a small, pedantic
gesture, but it pleased Barclay's scrupulous planning. He
wanted his crew to get ashore alive.
Only on one matter did Barclay consult Samson. He
sent for the ex-captain during the dog-watch of that first
evening out from Carnarvon Bay. Samson came and stood
in stiff dignity before the shipmaster.
"I wanted to ask you about Partridge,” Barclay said.
"I suppose you know he has been found guilty of man-
slaughter and has been sentenced to five years' penal servi-
tude.”
"I know," Samson said shortly, his face red. "A lot of
silly cows who didn't know what they were talking about."
"I did all I could," Barclay said half-apologetically. "I
sent a letter giving him an excellent character."
Samson nodded shortly.
“What did you want to know from me?” he demanded.
"Oh, I wondered if you had heard anything further.”
"The lawyers are putting in for an appeal,” Samson
said.
Barclay was impressed. “But that is damned decent of
you, Samson,” he said.
Samson's expression showed how little he valued this
praise.
"Is that all you wanted?” he demanded.
Barclay flushed. He knew Samson was angry and no


Captain Samson, A.B.
171
longer trusted him. He thought of mentioning Bart and
the suspicion in Samson, then knew he must not.
"That'll be all,” he said half-angrily.
Samson strutted from the cabin, and from his port
Barclay watched the short, sturdy figure stride along the
fore-deck. There was a wry smile on the shipmaster's lips
as he watched. There was a momentary envy in his heart.
Then Barclay smiled: Samson was almost inhuman in his
magnificence the stubborn little devil.
The sudden altering of their commander's methods of
navigation was noted by the crew. The man at the wheel,
the ancient Sam, was mildly surprised when Barclay
conned the vessel between the Longships Lighthouse and
the shore cliffs. The second mate raised his eyebrows in
superior wisdom and thought this conversion to corner-
cutting bloody near time. The second mate had always
been annoyed and shamed by Barclay's fear of the land,
and had thought often how he would cut corners were he
in command of this vessel.
"The old man is getting a regular coasting skipper," he
remarked to the interested Bart when the cook arrived on
the bridge with the morning tea.
Bart had been asleep when the Troubadour had rounded
Land's End. He showed flattering interest in the second
mate's news.
"Must be getting a bug out of his system,” he said loud
enough for the glowering Samson at the wheel to hear.
Then he added, “Now, all we need is scrub out forra'd and
this ship'll be clear of the other bugs—she's lousy with
them.”
"Is she?" the officer said innocently. "Green paint's good
for them. I was on a ship where they were and we burnt


172 Captain Samson, A.B.
all the paint off the bunks and painted them with green
paint and they never showed up again.
Bart grinned. He cast a sly glance at Samson's red and
swelling face, then said:
"Ah, but there are bugs and bugs, mister mate. We have
a special tribe on board here."
Samson's thick hands tightened on the wheel-spokes
and he fought a rising impulse to run across the bridge
and swipe the sneering look on that bruised nose. That
nose dwelled in Samson's thoughts like the immoral dream
of a lonely man. That he had to listen to the silly chatter
of the second mate and the barely concealed sneers of
Bart every second morning was one of Samson's greatest
trials. The cook and the young officer had become great
chums.
There was mild amusement forra'd about Barclay's
passing inside the Longships. When he hugged the coast
from the Owers to Beachy Head and then passed within
half a mile of Dungeness there was a lively interest as
though he had done something no one else had ever at-
tempted. The firemen-as firemen will-argued that he
had come to his senses at last. No crew likes making a
passage longer than it need be, and when Barclay's careful
avoidance of inside passages had cost them comfort in
heavy weather they had been justly annoyed. Now, by
following the routes used by other coasting vessels, Bar-
clay had reassured the crew of his ability. He had, as it
were, passed from being a stranger to the coast and a
much scorned deep-water man to being a coasting man-
and they believed in coasting men.
"I expect he's been getting a shaking up from the
owner,” a fireman said wisely
They noted, and approved when it happened, his tak-


Captain Samson, A.B. 173
ing the coaster through the Downs. They waited again,
and approved once more, when he picked up Orfordness
close on the port hand and followed the line of buoys
into Yarmouth Road—this in spite of a haze that hid
the sea beyond half a mile ahead. Then, when he left the
Haisborough Light vessel on his starboard hand and took
the inside channel across the mouth of the Wash, they
knew he was fit to be in charge of a coasting vessel. That
he made this east coast trip in weather that was inter-
mittently hazy and with a threat of fog in the too brassy
sun on this winter voyage was something, in view of Bar-
clay's previous nervousness when nearing land, remarkable.
Samson listened to the men discuss Barclay's surprising
change over with an increasing anger and suspicion. Was
the man mad? Or was he in the game and had been fool-
ing him, Captain Samson, all the time? Lying in his bunk
and glowering, Samson tried to make his brain find some-
thing in this new method of navigation. Passing Flam-
borough so close that those on board looked upwards at
the lighthouse, and the caves at the base of the cliff were
clear to the naked eye, Barclay said loudly to the second
mate:
"Never been so close to this place before.”
"You've kept closer in all the way,” the second mate
remarked.
Barclay nodded. “Yes—the office was at me for taking
my time.” He laughed half-apologetically. "Ah, well, we
can have a look at the scenery.”
But Samson only half-believed this explanation of the
new routes, even as he criticized Barclay to himself for
going out of his way to explain to anyone why he did
anything. Samson, as master, never condescended to ex-
plain his actions to others. But, Samson thought disparag-


176
Captain Samson, A.B.
humoredly. “I thought that was a letter I'd dropped and
not just that bit of paper.”
The ordinary seaman was a friendly youth, full of
curiosity.
"That's all right, mate,” he said. “What's the drawing
-a puzzle?”
"Something the kid drew," the other explained with
too glib friendliness. "He's a regular artist, my kid. The
missus sent it in a letter.”
It occurred to old Sam that the other had received no
letters since he had joined the ship, then he lost interest.
Samson did not notice the conversation. He had discov-
ered another story of how a swindling shipowner had
bribed his first officer to wreck his vessel. This first officer
was a disgraced master-mariner. He was a drunken swine
when the story opened, and he had murdered a man in
a brawl. The shipowner knew about this murder and he
blackmailed the officer by threatening to have him arrested
if he did not agree to scuttle the ship. The mate agreed,
but, drunkard though he was, he loved his ship and was
proud of his profession. He saw how he had gone to
the dogs through drink and he would no longer touch the
stuff. There was a good scene in the story of how the
mate, having left the shipowner's office after agreeing to
scuttle the ship, went into a pub. He meant to drink him-
self to forgetfulness. He raised the glass, and suddenly he
cursed and threw the glass on the floor. “At least,” he
cried, “I'll end sober.”
The ship went to sea and the mate waited for the chance
to sink the ship. There was a storm and the captain was
killed. The mate was now captain, and at this moment of
stress and responsibility he forgot his fear of being hung
for murder, and knew only that he was a sailor and in


Captain Samson, A.B.
177
command of a noble vessel. He fought the storm. He beat
down a crew become mutinous because of the hardship
under this hell-fire officer. He could knock a dozen tough
sailormen out in as many punches. Samson approved of
this mate now and read avidly.
In the midst of the storm another vessel was sighted.
This vessel was sinking. The mate, become master, car-
ried out a masterpiece of seamanship and courage and
saved the crew. To the hero's amazement one of the res-
cued seamen was the man he had thought dead by his, the
mate's, own hands. He brought the miserable wretch to
the poop (for this was a sailing ship, of course), and the
miserable wretch explained that the shipowner, who had
been lurking in the shadows, had bribed him to go away
and pretend to be dead, so that the shipowner could ac-
cuse the mate of his death and so use him for his foul
purposes.
Of course, the mate, now captain, brought the vessel
home and was greeted with acclaim by the populace and
given a medal by the Board of Trade, and the shipowner
was ruined because he did not get the insurance on his
vessel. Samson laid the magazine down almost reverently.
He could feel acutely with that mate, and the story was
but another proof that ships were scuttled for insurance.
Undressing, Samson dwelled on the story and checked on
its points. He approved the writer's artistry and knowl-
edge of true life. There would be people who would doubt
such tales, but he, Captain Samson, knew the truth. Some
day he'd write a book about his own adventures, maybe.
He'd give Bart and the owner of the Sunart a showing up.
And he'd bring the Troubadour home in triumph. Bart,
asleep and without a dream to mar his sleep, never knew
how many painful experiences were born in the fertile


178
Captain Samson, A.B.
ms
on
brain of a young man who wrote sea stories for a living
many many miles away. Samson was always grateful to
that unknown author. Authors were a species of journalist
and journalists were no friends of Captain Samson, but
authors of colorful sea stories must be different sort of
chaps, Samson considered generously. He'd like to meet one
some day when this business was all settled. And thinking
contentedly of how he would bring the Troubadour back to
port from some vague but inevitable danger, Samson laid
his pipe aside and fell asleep.


ммммммм
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE Troubadour left Aberdeen on an evening tide. As
the pilot left the bridge to leave the steamer outside the
pierheads, he remarked:
"You'll be having some fog, captain."
Barclay agreed. There was a chill in the night air and
a dampness that smelt of fog. In a way, the shipmaster
was relieved. The fog was an excuse to haul farther out
from the shore.
"It might not come tonight,” he consoled himself to
the mate as he gave the course. “That course'll take us
to Flamborough.”
"South three-quarters east,” the mate repeated. “Ay,
ay, sir.”
South three-quarters east is the magnetic course from
Aberdeen to Flamborough. On this compass course the
Troubadour had a deviation of seven degrees west, and
by setting the course as he had, Barclay had given himself
a safety margin of seven degrees to the east, or to sea-
ward. It was a slight concession to the fog and kept the
vessel from edging too close to the shore if a wheelsman
should be careless. The mate noted this and approved. Bar-
clay saw the steamer settled on the course and went below.
He heard the fog signal of a bell faintly astern and hesi-
tated on the step of his doorway, pondering on whether
he ought to remain on the bridge or go below. He shrugged
179


180 Captain Samson, A.B.
his shoulders and entered his room. He returned to the
doorway and called out to the mate:
"Give me a shout if the wind rises or the weather
thickens.”
The mate returned an “Ay, ay, sir,” and Barclay re-
entered his room and drew out his charts. He examined
these and wondered if Bart's plan to scuttle the steamer
included the need of an inshore passage or an offshore
passage. A fog might be useful to the cook, but he had
not used fog with the Sunart. That had been clever. Poor
old Samson had followed the instructions on a cooked
chart and had wrecked his vessel as completely as though
he had tried to cast her away. Would Bart use the same
method on the Troubadour? Barclay thought of checking
up his charts with an almanac and the pilot books, then
pushed the papers from him. Why worry; the sooner the
job was over the sooner this everlasting worry would be
gone. Barclay was tired of thinking. There was no more
need to worry; his wife was comfortable for the remainder
of her living days.
In the forecastle Samson lay listening to the water
sounds. He was like a dog sensing danger. He had no need
to go on deck to know there was fog about; his very nose
tingled with knowledge as he lay in his bunk, the blankets
hauled close round his neck and only his bulbous-featured
face outside. The forecastle door opened and the ordinary
seaman entered. With him came a chilly and damp atmos-
phere and the youth shivered. He saw Samson was awake.
"Bloody cold outside,” he remarked. He began to draw
on his overcoat and thick woolen gloves.
“The Old Man's gone below already," he said.
Samson did not answer, but he frowned disapprovingly.
In this sort of weather no shipmaster ought to leave the


Captain Samson, A.B.
181
bridge. There was fog on the way, Samson knew. And the
lack of any real wind would let the fog lie when it did
come.
“Cripes, it's mucky,” the ordinary seaman muttered as
he opened the door again and poised on the doorstep as
though about to plunge into water. He pulled the door
shut and Samson heard him race along the deck. The
empty cargo space made the steel deck sound under every
footstep. The sounds had that curious muffled effect as
though each sound rose and was stopped by a wall that
cast back the echo. All noises were unusually evident to
the ears; the beat of the engines was a steady thumping,
the condenser outflow dropped flatly into a still sea, and
now and then the steering chains rattled and smacked on
the iron deck aft. Samson moved uneasily and sat up. He
shivered as he lit his pipe. As the match scraped, old Sam's
bed-boards creaked and his voice called:
"Fog about, mate.”
Samson grunted. He was impatient to be up and on
duty. That he must lie here and wait until midnight irri-
tated him. Years of command had made him respond to
any threat of danger in the weather, made him that he
instinctively rose from any bed he occupied and took
command of the vessel. Now he must lie here and wait
with increasing impatience for a certain hour when his
subordinate services would be wanted at the wheel or look-
out. He watched the edge of the forecastle door and saw
a film of dampness gather on the iron—the fog was thick-
ening. As though in answer to his discovery the steamer's
siren blared. The sound swelled and filled the ears with
its penetrating voice. Almost pleased, Samson leaned back
against his pillow and knew there would be no more sleep


182 Captain Samson, A.B.
for him. He waited and frowned when the siren did not
sound again.
"Must have been thick for a minute," old Sam said. A
match scraped and the old man's pipe was alight. The two
men lay smoking and listening to the patter of the water
against the steel shell against which they lay. Just before
they were called by Snowy Hamilton, the whistle sounded
again. Old Sam sighed.
“Looks like we're going to get the foggy watch, mate.”
Then he added hopefully, “Maybe the old man'll anchor
if it thickens.”
The two men rose, both comical figures in their thick
pink wool drawers and shirt tails. Sam's face was a mass
of loose skin, folding over itself. His eyes were watery
but shrewd and kindly. His hair, clipped short, was gray.
He had no teeth remaining. His neck was curiously thin
and almost repulsively like the flesh of a plucked fowl.
Samson thought the old man past his job, but had long
since decided that the whole crew of this coaster were use-
less. Old Sam was shrewd enough to guess this assessment
of himself, and he watched Samson with a twinkle of
amusement in his eyes.
They drew on their trousers and their boots. Samson
buttoned himself into two waistcoats, a coat and an old
overcoat. He wrapped a muffler round his neck and drew
on a cap. Old Sam wore no overcoat, but had a thick jersey
under his short coat. It was Sam's first wheel and he went
outside to finish his pipe. Samson took his teapot and mug
aft to the galley and made himself tea. As soon as he went
outside he realized that the fog was worse than he had
thought. The whistle brayed every two minutes now,
though the engines still thumped their full speed that gave
the coaster a modest eight knots. The sea, visible close


Captain Samson, A.B. 183
against the steamer's hull, was thick and heavy with a dull
gleam and oiliness. The bow wave swelled and broke with
a seemingly distant splash. The sound was muted curiously,
yet filling the ears. When he put his hand on the rail of
the fore-deck ladder Samson found the iron was dripping
ice-cold water and already the damp atmosphere was sting-
ing his face. He looked up and saw the spikes of light
round the masthead light, a sure sign of fog. He heard
the mumble of voices from the bridge as the wheel was
relieved, and he was impatient to be at the wheel to dis-
cover the steamer's course. As he walked aft the deck under
his feet resounded his footfalls and there were the vibra-
tions of the engine movements. The galley was a warm,
glowing corner after the chilly darkness. Samson filled his
teapot from a singing kettle and drank the tea steaming
hot. He stood on the inside of the galley doorway and
peered into the night. He knew the fog was thickening
and he was irritated. Barclay ought to be slowing down.
Footsteps sounded and a figure appeared from forra'd. It
was Barclay. He was startled by Samson appearing so close
to him.
"Oh, hallo," he said. “Looks like it's coming on thick."
Samson did not reply. He had nothing to say to this
man. Barclay frowned. He was suddenly angry with Sam-
son; angry and defiant.
"I suppose you think I ought to slow down!” he de-
manded.
"I think nothing of the sort, mister,” Samson retorted.
"I think you ought to do your own job and don't bother
asking me or anybody else what you should do."
"I can do that, mister," Barclay answered excitedly. "I
don't need your advice.”
“And you're not getting it,” Samson said as excitedly.


184 Captain Samson, A.B.
Barclay laughed then. His laughter was low and amused.
“We're a pair of fools, Samson,” he said good-naturedly.
"My nerves are getting upset. The owner was at me for
slowing down in thick weather. Ships are built for profit.”
Samson was disgusted. That any shipmaster would de-
scend to explaining himself or his movements to a seaman
was a degradation of shipmaster's rank. He did not reply
to Barclay's information and the shipmaster grinned.
"Make me a mug of tea,” he said, and could have
laughed aloud at Samson's sudden expression. “Bring it aft
to the engine-room,” he added as he hurried away. Samson
looked after the shipmaster indignantly. That Barclay
should ask him—order him—to make tea was the last in-
dignity that could be inflicted, yet it was all within a
seaman's job. Barclay had spared Samson these tasks before.
Now he was finding a satiric delight in giving the order.
When Samson, stiff, glowering and resentful, brought the
mug of tea to the engine-room fiddley where Barclay
waited, the shipmaster said "Thank you, Samson," in a
voice that held a note of humor and further infuriated
Samson. He turned away and clenched his fists.
He went forra'd and stood on the lower bridge. His
bulbous red features screwed up in an expression of con-
centration as he peered into the now thickening fog and
listened for every sound. He saw the shadowy waves of
fog drift across the beam of light from the mate's cabin
port, and saw the glow of the masthead light being pressed
back to the glass by the fog that hovered at the masthead
like a horde of ghosts. When the whistle did not blow at
the regulation two-minute intervals he had to fight down
an impulse to run up the bridge ladder and abuse the
second mate. He heard the young man pace blithely back
and forward on the narrow navigation bridge and he


Captain Samson, A.B. 185
scowled his disapproval. It satisfied part of his stern sense
of duty to keep his two hours' policeman on the lower
bridge, peering and listening and checking each sound as
it came. He could have danced with rage when he heard
the distant siren of another steamer. The second mate
stopped his pacing and sent forth a long blast of the
Troubadour's siren. This was answered by a fainter voice
from the invisible vessel. Again the Troubadour cried a
warning of her presence, and again the other vessel re-
plied, but fainter than before. She was now astern. The
second mate resumed his pacing and he was whistling a
popular song. Samson muttered an inward abuse of the
young man. Any officer under Samson would have been
kicked off the bridge for taking a fog so lightly. That
Barclay was still not on the bridge was another reason for
annoyance. The man must be mad.
At two o'clock Samson went to the wheel. He repeated
the course given by Sam and concentrated in keeping the
vessel's head on that point. He wished he knew exactly
the compass courses for this coast, and realized his complete
ignorance of home waters. Off-hand, Samson could have
given the correct magnetic courses between almost any
two navigable points of the world's oceans, but he had
all a deep-water man's lack of knowledge of the details
of British coasting navigation. He knew, more or less,
how each of the more prominent landfalls bore from each
other, but he lacked that knowledge of less spacious waters
which is an essential in coasting navigation. The course,
south three and a quarter degrees east, was, he knew,
somewhere near the direction the east coast followed as
far as Flamborough Head, but whether Barclay was head-
ing the vessel to pick up Flamborough or to pass well clear
of that headland was a detail Samson could not know.


188 Captain Samson, A.B.
over from the second mate, and Barclay returned to the
bridge. As Samson climbed to the lower bridge he saw the
second mate ahead of him and he almost asked the youth
about the course, then he swore angrily and knew he
would not. But when he went forra'd he asked Sam.
"Should take us right to Flamborough," Sam said.
"That's the magnetic course from Aberdeen to Flambor-
ough. He's not allowing his deviation, so maybe he's keep-
ing a bit out by that." The old man considered, then
said, "He's keeping her going."
"Yes, the bloody fool,” Samson said angrily. "He ought
to have more sense.”
Samson could not sleep during that watch below. He
was oppressed by a restlessness and irritation that made
him sensitive to every tiny sound and movement of the
steamer. He lay and smoked for an hour and tried to read
a magazine. The story failed to hold him and he lay back,
sucking at an empty pipe, his little round eyes fixed bale-
fully on the forecastle door as though he could see right
through the steel and across the fore-deck into the cook's
cabin. He alternated between hatred and suspicion of the
cook, and anger and indignation against Captain Barclay.
He listened to the hiss and bray of the siren, the patter
of water against the bow, and the distant thumping of the
engines. That he could not go to the bridge and take com-
mand of this vessel was torture to him.
At seven o'clock he rose and dressed. He sat on the
bench and smoked, his red face sour. The ordinary sea-
man came in and stoked the small iron bogey.
"It's cold out there,” the youth said, shivering. "And
the fog's thick as soup. Can hardly see her head from the
bridge.”
"Is the captain on deck?” Samson demanded.


Captain Samson, A.B. 191
"He wasn't doing no harm,” the seaman Hamilton mut-
tered complainingly. "This man's crazy.”
Barclay turned to the mate. “Who was at the wheel?”
"The cook, sir,” the mate answered worriedly. "I did
not see any harm in him taking her for the minute. I kept
an eye on her and he steers first-rate."
Barclay sighed his relief. He smiled then; a humorous
and sardonic smile.
“You should not have let him take the wheel,” he said
mildly. "All right, Samson, hand the wheel back to
Hamilton.”
Samson eyed the seaman truculently, then stepped aside.
His first rage had gone and he was now stiffly dignified.
He passed Barclay and did not look at the shipmaster.
Barclay watched the red face with a lingering amusement.
Bart, his bruised face showing his anger, followed Sam-
son. At the foot of the ladder Samson turned and faced
the descending cook.
"Well, you swab?” he demanded challengingly.
Bart clenched his fists. For a moment he seemed about
to take up the challenge, then he nodded briefly.
"We'll settle this by and by, mister,” he said curtly.
"I've had about enough from you."
Samson sneered openly. "If you was twenty times as
big as you are you'd need a dozen more like you to do
anything. I'm not the mate of the Sunart.”
But Bart would not be goaded. He went aft to the
galley and Samson went forra'd. On the bridge the elderly
mate was troubled and puzzled.
"He's mad, sir,” he said nervously.
Barclay nodded. Then he said savagely, “So’ll I be if
something doesn't happen soon. This ship's gone crazy.”
At the wheel the seaman Hamilton stared into the


192
Captain Samson, A.B.
compass card. He looked up furtively and saw the two
officers intent on the fog ahead. Then he reached forward
and inserted a dirty finger-nail in the small door set into
the wood of the binnacle-stand. Cautiously he opened the
door and exposed the series of small circular slots. He saw
the ends of metal bars placed in several of these holes and,
with several pauses to watch the officers, he withdrew a
bar from one hole and thrust it into another. He repeated
this by moving a second bar, then he closed the door and
watched the compass. He saw the compass card move
slowly, right-handed, and he turned the wheel. The mate
swung round and came to the wheel.
“What's wrong?” he demanded.
The seaman glowered. “That fool let her go off her
course,” he complained. The steamer's head swung a full
point to starboard before she was once more settled on
south three and a quarter degrees east.


oooooooooo
CHAPTER TWELVE
DURING that day of fog much of Barclay's indecision
returned. Resignation to whatever fate was in store for
him had given him a false contentment, the contentment
of death; but he had not bargained for this long-drawn-
out period of physical and mental strain. Fog on board
this small coaster, as on every vessel at sea, penetrated into
every corner of the hull and into every human sense. It
filled the nostrils with its damp chill, it set the body shiv-
ering, it stung the eyes to tears as they peered into the
streaky foulness and it made the ears unnaturally alert
and sensitive. No man, be he as close to death as Barclay
believed himself, could hide from this penetrating and
smothering mass. No man possessing the dullest imagina-
tion even could lie down on his bunk or move about the
vessel without a thought and a twinge of fear for what
might happen any moment. To attempt to sleep was to
be tortured by the blare and moan of the siren, to
move about was to feel the fog wrapping itself round the
face and body, holding like a victim those men who, as
the day passed, became more and more uneasy. The young
second mate became silent and less assured as he listened
for other sirens. He no longer paced the bridge, but stood
close to the siren lanyard, ready to send out a warning
blast at the first sound of another vessel. The wheelsmen
came and went from the wheel, each carefully intent on
193


122 Captain Samson, A.B.
“Yes, sir,” Barclay said, his disappointment plain on his
face. “Sims is a good man and has been a great help to me.”
"That is why I am promoting him,” the other said. "He
is going as mate on his next ship.”
"Glad to hear that,” Barclay said.
He left the office and stood on the curb outside while
he thought over the interview. He wanted to laugh and he
wanted to run and hide from the whole ghastly affair. He
could feel a net being drawn round him, holding him im-
potent while this crime was being committed. He thought
of Bart with something close to admiration. The man's
impudence and barefacedness was masterly. Not one hap-
pening could be brought against him as evidence, and yet,
to those who saw the man working on his plans, the whole
thing was clear and without any mystery. There was only
the question of how and when Bart would carry out his
designs. Barclay shivered and hurried to a tram that would
take him back to Garston. He wanted to tell himself that
he was creating a bogey and that Samson was only an old
fool obsessed with a suspicion against a harmless man. But
Barclay could not convince himself, and he sat in the tram-
car staring miserably at the passing buildings and wishing
he had never come to sea.
He arrived on board and called the cook.
"You can remain on board,” he said. “The office has
instructed me to keep you.”
"Thank you, sir,” Bart said, and made the shipmaster
a little bow. “Will you have fish for tea?”
Barclay smiled. He nodded. “A red herring, steward.”
A faint smile touched the cook's lips. There was an ex-
pression of regret in his eyes as he left the cabin. He passed
the chief engineer, a stolid-faced north-countryman.
"Captain aboard?" the chief asked.
do
way
hou
the
the
he
in
hav
mai
bou
cam
on


Captain Samson, A.B. 123
"I'm here, chief,” Barclay called.
"When are we leaving here?” the chief asked when he
arrived in the shipmaster's room.
"Loading tomorrow morning and sailing by the after-
noon tide,” Barclay informed him. “Anything wrong?"
"I thought I'd let the fires out and renew the bricks
and firebars," the chief said. "I can give you steam tomor-
row for the winches.”
"That will do, chief."
"It will mean the men working all night,” the chief
said. "They'll claim overtime.”
“Let it go,” the captain said. “I have an idea the owner
doesn't mind having everything seem cared for.”
"Seem?” the chief asked in surprise.
Barclay smiled. “A slip of the tongue, chief. All right,
go ahead with your job.”
The decision to clean out and renew the fires had im-
portant repercussions.
The seaman Harry found himself without a mate for
going on shore that night. His usual companion was a fire-
man and the firemen were ordered to stay on board and
do the work that was to be done. Harry found himself
wandering dismally and in solitude in and out of public-
houses. A gregarious soul, he missed companionship, and
the pubs were coldly empty that night. The few men in
them seemed to have no desire for Harry's company and
he drank in moody silence and kept watching each door
in hopes of seeing someone he knew enter. He tried to
have conversation with barmen and to make up to bar-
maids, but neither responded with any friendliness. Harry
bought drink after drink, and as the evening passed, be-
came more and more lonely. He had almost decided to go
on board and turn in when he saw entering the bar-room


Captain Samson, A.B. 195
Barclay gave orders that speed was to be reduced when-
ever another vessel was heard close at hand. Twice that
afternoon distant sirens were heard on the port hand. The
mate and Barclay listened and were slightly puzzled. The
other vessels in the fog seemed well outside.
"We must be closer in than I thought,” Barclay said.
"Better haul her out quarter of a point."
He was relieved when he had given the order. That extra
quarter-point to seaward was a sop of his conscience.
At four Samson and old Sam came on deck again. The
fog was as thick as before, the vessel's ironwork and hand-
rails dripping steadily with moisture, the whole vessel
seemingly bedraggled. She had an appearance of misery.
Her crew no longer spoke to each other, but each man
passed with glowering ill-temper on his brow. None of
them had slept well in the last twelve hours and they
were resentful and apprehensive.
"We ought to make that bastard slow down,” a fire-
man said. "He'll not keep my missus and kids if anything
happens.”
The two officers, relieving each other, speculated on their
position.
“We ought to pick up Whitby in this watch," the mate
said. “I haven't heard a sound except two steamers all
this watch.”
"No, we're well out," the young second mate said self-
comfortingly.
"The wind—what there is of it is easterly; that'll
take the shore sounds away from us,” the mate said.
"Ah, well,” the younger man said and laughed shrilly,
"we'll bump and then ask where we are.”
The mate went below and the second mate pulled on
the whistle lanyard. He saw Samson on the fore-deck.


196 Captain Samson, A.B.
Samson was peering along the steamer's hull ahead and
listening intently. The second mate remembered how a
previous vessel of his had almost been run down in a fog.
He remembered that shape looming out of the fog and the
flash of broken water against that shadowy stem. The two
vessels had passed within six feet of each other, to the
excited yells and abuse of the men on board. It had been
an experience that had excited the young man; but now,
feeling the enclosing pressure of this fog round him, he
shivered. He went to the wheel and peered into the com-
pass. Old Sam had the coaster dead on her course. She
ought to be all right, the young man comforted himself.
She's well clear of the land. But he wished he could hear
something from the shore. Whitby ought to be heard
soon, and then they'd know just how far off the land they
were. The officer had an envious thought for the days
when he had been a deep-water man: fogs did not matter
so much when a vessel had lots of sea room round her.
"Don't let her come inside that course,” he ordered as
a further assurance of safety.
"Nothing inside, sir,” Sam repeated.
The second mate pulled the siren lanyard and then
listened. He heard, faintly, another vessel's call well on
his port hand. He repeated his call. Barclay appeared.
"There's another steamer out there, sir-sounds well
outside us.”
Barclay frowned slightly. His face was worried-looking.
He went to the compass and peered in.
"Everything we have passed has been outside us," he
said annoyedly.
“They'll all be keeping well clear, sir.”
Barclay cast his irritation aside. “Oh, well, we're clear
of everything on this course."


198 Captain Samson, A.B.
that case we're” Old Sam shook his head and added,
"But that can't be right.”
“What can't be right?” Barclay demanded.
Old Sam smiled broadly. “Well, I was going to say we
must be heading inshore, sir, but that's not possible.”
"It certainly is not,” Barclay agreed loudly. “We're
more than half a point outside our usual course to Flam-
borough.” He smiled on Sam. "I expect that's not the ship
you think she is. She sounds like a big vessel.”
Sam shook his head. "Them boats have got that sort
of siren, sir. I was fifteen years on this coal trade between
London River and Hartlepool and I got to know them
like I know my own voice.”
“Ah, well, we all make mistakes,” Barclay said. “Or
that fellow has made a mistake for once in a while. I
suppose even coasting men can make mistakes now and
then.”
The second mate laughed slightly, and old Sam looked
ill at ease. Samson was staring at the old man with a puz-
zled frown. That a seaman should offer such information
to a vessel's commander was all wrong, but Samson was
tormented by the memory of another man who had offered
this advice based on nothing more than familiarity with
some detail. But all Samson's training as a shipmaster
relying on charts and compasses was on Barclay's side.
That deep-braying whistle might be any vessel's. It
sounded like the full note of a large vessel, and a large
vessel would be as far out as the Troubadour ought to be
on this course. Yet Samson could not dismiss Sam's infor-
mation so easily now; he could not forget the mate of
the Sunart.
"We might cast the lead, sir," the second mate said sur-
prisingly. “That'll tell us.”


200 Captain Samson, A.B.
na
Samson had left the wheel. He stood at the end of the
bridge, his humble status as an A.B. forgotten. He turned
on the young man and roared:
"Well, do something! Damn you! Do you want her to
stay here?” He looked aft and suddenly his shiny face
twisted into an expression of awful hatred and rage as he
saw Bart standing on deck. The cook looked upwards and
saw Samson. Over Bart's face spread an expression of sat-
isfaction and he winked. Samson's little eyes opened wide
and he roared his hatred at the man. Then, in lumbering
but swift movements, Samson leaped to the deck and ran
aft. The cook poised himself to take the attack, but Sam-
son waited for no accepted battle form. From a distance
of six feet he flung himself at Bart, his shoulders and head
crashing against the taller man and sending him staggering
backwards to trip over a steam pipe to the winch and then
to fall. Samson leaped again and landed squarely on the
other's stomach, feet first. Bart gasped, and Samson sat
across the cook's body and battered downwards with his
fist. There were shouting and men rushed to the cook's aid.
Barclay called sharply and Samson was dragged from the
prostrate figure.
Struggling in the grasp of two firemen and the second
mate, Samson spat his contempt at Barclay.
"That's right, mister, save your pal's bacon. You've
managed this beautifully.”
Barclay was pale, his thin face drawn and his mouth
making little nervous twitches. He met Samson's eyes for
a moment, then he turned away.
“Let him go,” he said. “Let the fools kill each other.”
But Samson's first mad rage had gone and been re-
placed by a more deliberate anger. He set baleful eyes on
the cook and nodded.


Captain Samson, A.B. 201
"You did it, mister,” he said harshly. "You an' Barclay
-but—" He glowered a threat. “It's not over yet. I'm
saving what I've got in for you.”
Bart rose, his face twisted with pain. He spat over the
ship's rail.
“Crazy man,” he said contemptuously. “We might have
known you're a jonah. Every ship you touch has bad luck."
The second mate interrupted. “You fellows don't seem
to realize this ship has run aground,” he said petulantly,
"picking now to have a row.”
Barclay had walked forward. He climbed to the fore-
castle-head and looked over the side. He looked upwards
at the high cliffs and then he realized something of im-
portance, the Troubadour had, by something approaching
a miracle, run clear on to a tiny segment of shingly beach.
The miracle was that along this strip of coastline the vessel
had found the beach instead of the almost unbroken line
of sheer cliff. At once Barclay realized that the Troubadour
might be undamaged. Empty of cargo, as she was, the
vessel's bow was high and her stern lower than when she
was loaded with cargo. This cant upwards of her keel-line
would, provided the beach continued the slope under the
water it appeared to have above the water, have allowed
her to run on shore without damage. Unless there were
rocks hidden beneath her. Turning, Barclay hailed the
engineer.
“Chief, see what water is in her?”
He called to the mate, “Mister, get the hatches off her
and see how she is down there.”
The crew hesitated. Their vessel was aground and they
did not know the extent of the danger. Samson, realizing
the possible lack of damage, ran for the hatch and began
to pull the wooden covers away. The other men followed


206 Captain Samson, A.B.
Bart was glowering now. He nodded. “We've got to
chance that.”
"But don't you want to do anything to make certain
she'll never float again?” Barclay asked in a tone of interest
and surprise.
"No," Bart shook his head, “I'm not a fool. If we
interfere with her now the game would be spotted. I wasn't
to know we'd run on a beach. I planned to pile her against
a cliff. She'd have sank in ten minutes then or had so
much damage done that it wouldn't have been worth while
salving her.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “We'll have
to chance a wind coming after this fog. That's more than
likely on this coast, and it would finish the job for us.”
"You mean, we are just to go away and leave her as
she is?” Barclay asked in increasing surprise. "But—"
“I know,” Bart said shortly. "You'd lose your ticket.”
"Which doesn't worry you,” Barclay said with a smile.
"Not a ha'worth. You'll lose it anyhow." He moved
impatiently. "Well, what about it?"
Barclay walked past Bart to the doorway and stood
there. He saw the group of men now standing aft, their
task of lowering the boats finished. He saw Samson watch-
ing him and he smiled queerly.
"Well?” Bart demanded harshly.
Barclay turned and surveyed the cook. The shipmaster's
expression was gentle and amused.
“Look, Bart,” he said deliberately, “I was given money
so that I would not interfere with your plans. I carried
out my part of the bargain. There was no question of my
doing anything beyond what I have already done. Now
you have missed your chance you want me to go further
than I bargained to go.” Barclay stiffened then and met the
other's eyes firmly. “Well, I'm not going to. I'm going to


Captain Samson, A.B. 207
try and get the vessel off on the next tide. If I succeed,
you've lost. If she won't come off I'll abandon her. You'll
have to let it go at that.”
Bart heard this speech with no more sign of annoyance
than an intensifying of the vicious gleam in his eyes.
"You know what you are doing?” he asked evenly.
"If you mean, do I know what happened to the mate
of the Sunart-yes, I know what I'm doing.”
Bart nodded. “You fancy Samson'll get you out of this?"
he asked.
"Samson?” Barclay was surprised. Then he laughed
softly. “My God, I believe you are frightened of him.”
"I owe you one for his being here," Bart said, his com-
posure wearing and his face beginning to express anger.
"Anyhow, we'll forget that, mister. I'm going to give
you six hours to make up your mind. If you don't make a
move by then we'll see what is to happen.” He moved to-
wards the door, then stopped and swung round. To Bar-
clay's amazement the man's face was now distorted with
rage, his careful composure gone. The cook stepped for-
ward towards the shipmaster and spoke quickly and
angrily.
"Listen to me, Barclay,” he said, "you are treating this
like a joke. You had better understand. This is the third
ship I've cast away. It's my job to lose ships for hard-up
owners. I did the Sunart and I did the Jocelyn. I make a
business of it. You understand what I'm saying? This is
no play-acting.” He moved forward until his face was
close to Barclay's. “You wanted to know who I was and
what I was. That's what I am a ship-wrecker. I find out
owners who need money and I offer to lose a ship for them.
They get the insurance and I get my whack. It's big busi-
ness, Captain Barclay, and I go about it thoroughly. I've


208 Captain Samson, A.B.
never been suspected yet—until that old fool Samson
came along-and I'm not losing this chance now. I tell
you this so that you'll know what you are up against.
I did for the mate of the Sunart and I did for that fool
Harry. He blabbed too much. You get this into your
head, captain, for as sure as I sank the Sunart I'll get you
as I got the others. D'you understand?”
Barclay had backed against the drawer under his bunk.
His face was pale but composed. He eyed Bart watch-
fully. Bart was staring steadily as though at a victim.
Barclay nodded slightly.
"I guessed all that,” he said softly. "And I've added
up all the possibilities. But you can go away now. You'll
find out what I mean to do.” He saw the involuntary
movement the other made and held up his hand. “I
wouldn't if I were you, there are too many people out-
side.”
Bart straightened himself and looked steadily at the ship-
master. He nodded.
"I see, mister,” he said evenly. "All right.”
He turned and strode out of the room. Barclay sighed
with relief. He looked out of a port and saw the cook go
aft. He saw also Samson watching his doorway with a
fierce anger, and Barclay smiled. Then he sat down at his
chart table and drew towards himself a sheet of paper
and pen. The second mate came to the door and knocked.
Barclay looked up impatiently.
"Yes?” he asked.
"The boats are out, sir. Do you want anything else
done?”
Barclay considered, then nodded.
"Tell the mate to have a look at her from the beach and
see if there is any damage forra'd. And send two of the


Captain Samson, A.B. 209
men on shore to see if there is any way up the cliff. I'll be
out when I finish this letter."
The youth went aft to the mate.
"What do you think?” he demanded indignantly. "He's
writing letters.”
Samson sneered. “He would,” he uttered viciously.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN
No damage had been done to the Troubadour's bottom
plates. The beach was of pebbles and made a gradual
slope. The coaster sat as comfortably as she would have
on a mud-bed.
"Who says luck!” the second mate demanded delightedly
as he and the mate surveyed the vessel, now the tide had
dropped. She was high and dry half her length, and they
stood beside her fat bilge-plates. The second mate patted
the steel and laughed.
"Good for you, old girl. You picked the one place in a
million.”
He peered into the fog and upwards to where the cliff
showed.
“There isn't a way up or round?” he asked.
The elderly mate nodded. "The two men couldn't find a
road,” he said. “We'd have had to take the boats if we'd
been leaving her.” The mate was uneasy and his tired old
face showed how this incident to the steamer had tried
him. The second mate was youthfully excited about it all.
He saw himself as a real hard-case sailor now. He had been
shipwrecked.
"Bit of a joke this, in a way,” he said.
"Is it?” the mate said annoyedly.
"Well, you know what I mean. We might have been
drowned and the ship gone under, and instead she's sitting
210


Captain Samson, A.B. 211
comfortably on this beach waiting for the next tide.”
"She might not come off," the mate said. "The old man
should have the whistle going and get one of these other
ships to stand by with a line. He's too sure she'll float off.”
"That's right," the other agreed. “I asked him if I'd
keep the whistle going and he said there was no need. Said
he wanted to save money-bloody owner's man.” The
youth scowled. "How the hell did it happen anyhow?”
he demanded. “That course must have been miles out.”
"The course was all right," the mate said worriedly.
"I've taken ships up and down these coasts for thirty years
and that's the course all right.”
"Well, the compass must be out,” the other said.
"Hallo! Below there!”
The two officers looked up and saw Barclay above them.
"Any damage?” he shouted.
The mate answered. “None, sir-as far as I can see.
The beach is pebbles and nearly flat.”
"Did the men find a way up the cliff?” Barclay called.
"No, sir. It's just a slice of beach and the cliff is all
sheer. We were lucky.”
Barclay nodded. He beckoned with a hand. “Come
aboard. I want to tell you what's to be done.”
He disappeared and the two men went to where a rope
ladder dangled over the steamer's bow. The mate climbed
up, followed by the second mate. They went aft to where
Barclay waited.
"We'll carry both bowers out,” he said. “We'll swing
them aft with the derricks. They needn't go far. She
needs just a start and she'll slide back.”
“Will we do that now, sir?”
"Yes, now. Then I'll give you your next instructions."
The mate went forra'd and called the seamen.


Captain Samson, A.B. 207
try and get the vessel off on the next tide. If I succeed,
you've lost. If she won't come off I'll abandon her. You'll
have to let it go at that.”
Bart heard this speech with no more sign of annoyance
than an intensifying of the vicious gleam in his eyes.
"You know what you are doing?” he asked evenly.
"If you mean, do I know what happened to the mate
of the Sunart—yes, I know what I'm doing."
Bart nodded. “You fancy Samson'll get you out of this?"
he asked.
"Samson?” Barclay was surprised. Then he laughed
softly. “My God, I believe you are frightened of him.”
"I owe you one for his being here,” Bart said, his com-
posure wearing and his face beginning to express anger.
"Anyhow, we'll forget that, mister. I'm going to give
you six hours to make up your mind. If you don't make a
move by then we'll see what is to happen.” He moved to-
wards the door, then stopped and swung round. To Bar-
clay's amazement the man's face was now distorted with
rage, his careful composure gone. The cook stepped for-
ward towards the shipmaster and spoke quickly and
angrily.
"Listen to me, Barclay,” he said, "you are treating this
like a joke. You had better understand. This is the third
ship I've cast away. It's my job to lose ships for hard-up
owners. I did the Sunart and I did the Jocelyn. I make a
business of it. You understand what I'm saying? This is
no play-acting.” He moved forward until his face was
close to Barclay's. “You wanted to know who I was and
what I was. That's what I am—a ship-wrecker. I find out
owners who need money and I offer to lose a ship for them.
They get the insurance and I get my whack. It's big busi-
ness, Captain Barclay, and I go about it thoroughly. I've


202 Captain Samson, A.B.
his example. Hatches were stripped away and the men
leaned over the combing. Immediately voices shouted:
"She's dry down there, sir."
Barclay came aft. The shipmaster walked with a curious
lack of haste or excitement. He seemed like some grave
monk communing with himself. He noticed Samson's con-
temptuous eyes on him and he smiled slightly. Placing his
hands on the edge of the combing, he looked down on the
hold flooring. The wooden flooring was clear of water.
The chief came to him, the engineer's voice was both ex-
cited and relieved.
"Doesn't seem to have done any damage, captain. We've
been lucky.”
A man laughed nervously. Everyone looked at their
mates and grinned. At the corner of the hatch Bart stood
and watched Barclay. There was cold speculation in the
cook's eyes. Barclay raised his head, as though the silent
Bart had attracted him by some magnetism. For a moment
the two men stared into each other's eyes and then Bar-
clay made his little sardonic smile.
"Well,” he said quietly, that's that.” He turned to the
mate. “Do you know where we are?” he asked.
"No idea, sir,” the mate said. “Can't see enough to pick
out landmarks.”
All eyes turned towards the glow of the half-hidden
cliffs. They stared upwards and saw only cliff scarred with
cracks. The fog was still heavy and obscuring.
"Start the whistle going," Barclay ordered the second
mate. The young man ran hurriedly to the bridge and be-
gan to sound a series of short blasts on the whistle. The
noise was deafening as the sound echoed off the cliff-face.
A fireman yelled with excitement and waved his arms.
mat


204 Captain Samson, A.B.
casting off something that dangled there, then he cursed
softly. Barclay was too subtle for this simple mind. Sam-
son could not understand that mild tone, the words nor
the expression in the gray eyes. He heard Barclay call the
mate, and then the mate came aft.
"We've to get the port lifeboat and the small boat out,”
the officer said.
"Abandoning her, mister?” a fireman asked.
"Christ, no; she'll earn you plenty beer money yet,
mate,” another voice shouted. The men laughed.
They trooped after the mate and in five minutes the
two boats floated alongside. None of them, not even
the vigilant Samson, noticed the cook pass from aft to the
bridge and step into the captain's cabin. Barclay heard
the footsteps and pushed shut a drawer he had opened.
The shipmaster turned and kept his back against the
drawer as though he would hide something there. When
he recognized the cook he did not seem surprised. He
smiled slightly.
"Well?” he asked.
Bart stood in the center of the cabin and surveyed the
shipmaster. The cook's height and breadth was more evi-
dent against the small space of the cabin. There was an
ease and familiarity of manner that was different from
his usual careful servility. There was a speculative gleam
in his eyes as he examined Barclay.
"Well?” he repeated. Then he added briskly, "We'll not
play about, captain; you know what I want."
"I knew what you had wanted,” Barclay said gently,
"but you've missed this time.”
Bart's thick lips pursed and he shook his head. "I never
miss, captain,” he said coldly. "It's hard lines we found this


208
Captain Samson, A.B.
never been suspected yet-until that old fool Samson
came along--and I'm not losing this chance now. I tell
you this so that you'll know what you are up against.
I did for the mate of the Sunart and I did for that fool
Harry. He blabbed too much. You get this into your
head, captain, for as sure as I sank the Sunart I'll get you
as I got the others. D’you understand?”
Barclay had backed against the drawer under his bunk.
His face was pale but composed. He eyed Bart watch-
fully. Bart was staring steadily as though at a victim.
Barclay nodded slightly.
"I guessed all that,” he said softly. "And I've added
up all the possibilities. But you can go away now. You'll
find out what I mean to do.” He saw the involuntary
movement the other made and held up his hand. "I
wouldn't if I were you, there are too many people out-
side.”
Bart straightened himself and looked steadily at the ship-
master. He nodded.
"I see, mister,” he said evenly. "All right.”
He turned and strode out of the room. Barclay sighed
with relief. He looked out of a port and saw the cook go
aft. He saw also Samson watching his doorway with a
fierce anger, and Barclay smiled. Then he sat down at his
chart table and drew towards himself a sheet of paper
and pen. The second mate came to the door and knocked.
Barclay looked up impatiently.
"Yes?” he asked.
"The boats are out, sir. Do you want anything else
done?”
Barclay considered, then nodded.
"Tell the mate to have a look at her from the beach and
see if there is any damage forra’d. And send two of the


Captain Samson, A.B. 209
men on shore to see if there is any way up the cliff. I'll be
out when I finish this letter."
The youth went aft to the mate.
"What do you think?” he demanded indignantly. "He's
writing letters.”
Samson sneered. “He would,” he uttered viciously.


Captain Samson, A.B. 211
comfortably on this beach waiting for the next tide.”
"She might not come off,” the mate said. “The old man
should have the whistle going and get one of these other
ships to stand by with a line. He's too sure she'll float off.”
"That's right," the other agreed. “I asked him if I'd
keep the whistle going and he said there was no need. Said
he wanted to save money-bloody owner's man.” The
youth scowled. "How the hell did it happen anyhow?"
he demanded. "That course must have been miles out."
"The course was all right," the mate said worriedly.
"I've taken ships up and down these coasts for thirty years
and that's the course all right.”
"Well, the compass must be out," the other said.
"Hallo! Below there!"
The two officers looked up and saw Barclay above them.
"Any damage?” he shouted.
The mate answered. "None, sir-as far as I can see.
The beach is pebbles and nearly flat.”
“Did the men find a way up the cliff?” Barclay called.
"No, sir. It's just a slice of beach and the cliff is all
sheer. We were lucky.”
Barclay nodded. He beckoned with a hand. “Come
aboard. I want to tell you what's to be done.”
He disappeared and the two men went to where a rope
ladder dangled over the steamer's bow. The mate climbed
up, followed by the second mate. They went aft to where
Barclay waited.
"We'll carry both bowers out,” he said. “We'll swing
them aft with the derricks. They needn't go far. She
needs just a start and she'll slide back.”
“Will we do that now, sir?”
"Yes, now. Then I'll give you your next instructions.”
The mate went forra'd and called the seamen.


212 Captain Samson, A.B.
vers 0
e men
"We're going to put the bowers out,” he told them.
“We'll have the firemen help. Son”-he spoke to the ordi-
nary seaman—, "tell the engineers to put steam on the
winches."
The three men and the youth trooped out on deck.
Samson was scowling. Sam was placid as ever. Snowy
Hamilton was lazily triumphant, and the ordinary sea-
man was eager and pleased at all this excitement.
“Better have the firemen out too,” the mate said.
Two firemen off watch came with the seamen. The
derrick booms on both masts were swung over the star-
board rail. The wire runner from the forward boom was
dragged to the bow and shackled to the anchor on the star-
board side. As the anchor chain was allowed to run out,
the fireman at the winch heaved on the wire and the anchor
was brought along the ship's side towards aft. When it
hung as far aft as the boom could reach, the wire from the
after-derrick was fastened to it and the carrying move-
ment repeated until the anchor hung over the side abreast
of the funnel. The mate made a movement with his hand
and the anchor was lowered by the winch. When it rested
on the bottom the ordinary seaman slid down a rope into
two feet of water and unshackled the wire. Then the booms
were slung to the port side and the port anchor carried
aft in the same manner.
"Hope they'll hold in this shingle," the second mate
remarked.
Barclay had watched the work from the navigation
bridge. He remained there, watching the fog, still as thick
as ever, drifting in long streaky waves across the ship and
against the cliff. Once he went to the compass and peered
in. His eyes were assessing as he saw that, by compass, the
ship headed almost directly on the course he had thought


Captain Samson, A.B. 213
should take her from Aberdeen to Flamborough. He knew
now the compass had been tampered with and remembered
Samson's rage when Bart had been allowed to take the
wheel. Then Barclay shrugged his shoulders. He made no
attempt to find what had caused the compass error. He
returned to the front of the bridge and peered at the fog.
From the distance sounded a ship's siren and Barclay lis-
tened. He saw the second mate showing signs of impa-
tience, and he knew the youth considered they ought to be
attracting that distant vessel's attention. But Barclay
smiled slightly. He had other plans.
“We'll have tea now,” he said when he reached the deck.
His composure was annoying to some of the men. They
went forward and sat round the forecastle bogies.
"He takes this business like it happened every day,” a
fireman said.
"Saving salvage money, the cow," his mate replied.
“What about our lives?”
In the seamen's forecastle the four deck-hands had
nothing to say to each other. Samson was scowling darkly
and ready to turn on anyone who approached him. Old
Sam was as patient as ever. The ordinary seaman said, “I'm
for tea,” in a tone of recklessness, and the remaining
seaman spat over the doorstep and wiped his lips. He con-
templated his sea-bag, already packed and tied, ready to
leave the vessel.
"Wasting his bloody time,” he said scornfully. “Why
the hell don't he get wise to hisself and let's get into
the boats?”
"She'll float off again,” the ordinary seaman argued.
"Nothing wrong with her.”
The seaman sneered. “Pipe down, kid,” he said good-


214 Captain Samson, A.B.
.
naturedly, “and pack your bag. This ship'll never sail
again.”
Samson glared at the man suspiciously. But he said noth-
ing. Old Sam said thoughtfully:
"Funny her landing here. That course ought to have
taken her clear. The compass must be out badly."
Samson glanced at the older man. Sam smiled as though
apologizing. Samson rose and went on deck. He stood and
looked angrily at the fog drifting across the steamer and
then outwards towards the hidden sea. He was puzzled
by Barclay. The shipmaster was behaving queerly.
Over the tea table in the saloon the shipmaster was
surprising his two mates. When the tea was over, he had
leaned back in his seat and said:
"After tea I want you two to take the boats and go
and find out where we are. Our compass is out of order,
and even when we get her off we'll be as badly off as
before.” He laughed slightly. "I don't want to run her
aground again.”
The mate seemed puzzled.
"How about the tell-tale in your room, sir, and the
spare compass aft?”
“Go and have a look at them,” Barclay said humorously.
"They've all gone mad. My tell-tale never was much good,
but it's gone crazy now and the spare compass is much
the same.”
"Funny them all going wrong together," the second
mate said.
"Funny's the word,” Barclay said, and looked steadily
at Bart as the cook arrived with another pot of tea. The
cook laid the pot on the table and went up the small
ladder to the deck. "Anyhow we've got to have someone


Captain Samson, A.B. 215
to show us where we are. This fog is getting worse than
ever.”
“What will we do, sir?" the mate asked.
"You take one boat and the second mate will take the
other. Go along the edge of the cliffs until you come to
some place. We must be within ten miles of some place.
Get a fisherman to bring his boat and pilot us. Offer him
up to ten pounds for the job, but get him for as little as
you can.”
"You mean I'll go one way and the mate go the other?”
the second mate asked.
Barclay nodded. “And I'll stay on board, and if you are
not back by the time she floats I'll anchor off until you
both arrive back.”
"What if the fog lifts, sir?”
"Then I'll come and pick you up. I'll burn a flare so
that you'll know it's me.”
"I see, sir," the mate said. “How many men will I
take?”
Barclay had everything thought out. "Take the ordinary
seaman and one fireman and the second engineer for the
lifeboat, and you”—he looked towards the second mate-
"take the small boat with the seaman Hamilton and one
fireman.” He coughed slightly and continued, “That'll
leave me two seamen, the cook, a fireman and the chief.
We'll manage her off with that. Anyhow, you might find
we are not so far from somewhere."
He rose and the two others followed him on deck. The
mate went to the lower bridge and shouted. Since they
had gone to tea darkness had descended. The air was
bitterly cold and damp, and the fog still heavy.
“We'll have a job in the dark, sir," the second mate
said.


216 Captain Samson, A.B.
"Keep within sound of the water against the cliffs,"
Barclay said coolly. "You'll manage all right, there is no
sea to bother you.” The second mate laughed quickly.
"It'll be slow work, sir," he said. He wanted to suggest
they take the steamer off the beach and anchor for the
night, and then in the morning, if the fog had not cleared,
go for aid. But he did not suggest this. Barclay had a
curious aloofness that made the younger man diffident of
saying too much.
From forra'd came men's voices. The mate was issuing
orders. A man made a burring sound with his mouth.
"Cripes, that's a job and a half.”
There were resentful grumblings as the men clustered
round a rope ladder over the steamer's rail. But no one
attempted to disobey their orders. They clambered to the
boats and the mates followed. Barclay leaned over and
gazed down at the night and fog-blurred figures.
"Mister mate, you go to the northward. Second mate,
you go south. Keep as close inshore as you can. Are you
all right?”
Voices said "All right” grudgingly and Barclay smiled.
The mate called to "let go" and Samson, standing farther
forra'd on the steamer's deck, dropped the long painter to a
pair of arms waving below him. Oars struck the side of
the steamer and then splashed into the water. In less than
a minute the boats had disappeared. The steamer seemed
curiously empty to the men remaining on her deck. As
Barclay turned from the rail, Bart moved forward.
"What's the game?” he demanded.
"If you wait long enough, you'll find out,” Barclay
retorted triumphantly. He swung aside and passed to his
cabin. The cook stood, frowning heavily. He listened and
then moved softly to the lower bridge. He stood there, one


Captain Samson, A.B. 217
hand on the hand-rail of the ladder to the top bridge.
Then he sped swiftly and noiselessly upwards. Samson was
about to turn and go to the forecastle from where he
stood on the fore-deck when he heard the scratch of a
match. Involuntarily he looked upwards and knew the
sound had come from the bridge. At the same moment he
saw a shadow across one of the lighted ports in the cap-
tain's room. Barclay was in his cabin. Who was on the
bridge? And why? With a growl Samson moved stealthily
towards the ladder leading upwards. He moved laboriously
but silently across the front of the lower bridge and to
the ladder that led to the top bridge. He listened and
heard a man breathing. Another match scraped and Sam-
son no longer hesitated. In three steps he was on the bridge
and then he stopped to look into the yellow glow from a
matchstick. Bart was peering at him malignantly from
close against the binnacle.
"Got you this time!" Samson shouted jubilantly. He
rushed forward and Bart rose. The cook held in one hand
the metal bar he had withdrawn from the binnacle-stand.
Samson saw the arm raised and saw the outline of the bar.
"So that's the game,” he cried. “You're trying to put
them back now the ship's going to be saved. All right,
mister, I've got you on the job.”
Bart's arm swung and the bar sang through the air. It
missed Samson by an inch, infuriating still further the
hot-tempered ex-captain. He leaped at the cook and the
two men clashed together, their hands striking. Samson
fought upwards to catch and cling to the cook's shirt neck,
while his little round head butted viciously. Bart raised
one knee sharply, but Samson was too old a rough-houser
to be caught this easily. He was clinging closely to the
taller man and the lifting knee struck his leg. Samson
close against the was peering at him Yellow glow from


218 Captain Samson, A.B.
stamped downwards on the cook's remaining foot and his
head jerked against the other's chin. There was a dull
crack and Bart gasped. He thrust Samson away, his greater
weight making this possible.
"Come on,” Samson shouted. "Come and fight.”
Bart swore, the words slow and filled with hatred.
"You old fool, I'll murder you.”
Samson dodged aside. Samson kicked outward and Bart
gasped as the heavy boot struck his stomach. He bent
double, breathless. With a cry of triumph, Samson struck
upwards with his fist. Bart tottered, half bent over. Again
Samson struck and the cook fell to lie on the deck. He
groaned and clawed towards Samson. The ex-captain was
merciless. He struck downwards with his foot and Bart
was silent, the clawing hands spread out on the deck. Sam-
son, crouched, watchful and mad with the lust of his
hatred, waited. There was silence and then from directly
under Samson's feet sounded an explosion. Samson leaped
backwards, then realized the explosion had nothing to do
with the cook. It had come from Barclay's room. As this
fact came to him, he heard voices shouting excitedly below
and heard old Sam calling:
"Captain Barclay—Captain Barclay—are you all right?"
Samson ran across the bridge to the ladder.
“What's wrong there?” he demanded.
“We don't know,” Sam called back. “There was a shot
from the captain's room.”
With a cry of irritation Samson ran down the ladder and
thrust the old seaman aside. He strode into the master's
room and his nostrils told him there had been a weapon
fired here. Smoke swirled to join the moist fog, and Sam-
son peered into the lamp-lit cabin. He saw Barclay huddled
against the drawers under the bunk and in Barclay's hand


Captain Samson, A.B. 221
"No, you don't," Samson barked. “I'm not finished with
you yet.” His fist swung viciously and Bart collapsed and
lay still. Samson shouted and Sam came.
"Here!” Samson was amazingly altered. His voice was
crisp and authoritative and he spoke like a man who does
not expect any contradiction. “Give me a hand with this
fellow. We'll lock him in his room for the time being."
Old Sam raised his eyebrows quizzingly. Then he nodded
acceptance. There was nothing else to do.
In the next hour old Sam watched Samson with in-
creasing interest. Sam, in his shrewd way, found most
people interesting, and Samson was unusual to any he had
known.
That remark which had been Barclay's epitaph was
illuminating. That Samson showed neither pity nor sorrow
for the captain's death might have been callous, yet, some-
how, was not. Samson had merely passed his opinion on
the dead man as a sea-captain. He was not interested in
him as a man.
Then this manhandling of Bart. All the ferocity in Sam-
son had shown as he and Sam dragged the unconscious cook
to his room and cast him there behind a locked door. Sam
had wanted to ask many questions but did not. He knew
Samson would answer with scant ceremony.
Now, since these two occurrences, Samson was acting as
though neither had happened. As though following a set.
of orders, he accomplished a dozen tasks. When he needed
aid he called on Sam. Together they hoisted the dead
captain to his bunk and spread a sheet over him. They
left the revolver where it had fallen from Barclay's hand.
Next, Samson went to the bridge and examined the com-
pass. He lit the binnacle lamps and frowned into the card
bowl. He knew, without any telling, that the compass


222 Captain Samson, A.B.
must be well out of truth. Bart had somehow fouled the
compass and caused the steamer to run inshore, and he
had been trying to replace the bars in the proper holes
when Samson had come upon him. Now two of the bars
were lost. Samson could have found the new error, but
he had no idea of where the vessel lay, except vaguely,
and there was nothing by which he could compare the
error. He left the bridge and went to the lamp-locker.
There he cleaned and lit the navigation lights. Sam came
to the doorway and peered in.
"What's going to happen now?” he asked.
"We'll have to leave that to the mate," Samson said
shortly. “If he's not here by high water we'll heave her
afloat and go to an anchor.”
Sam nodded. Samson went from the lamp-room to the
forecastle, a storm lantern at his side. He oiled the capstan
and tested it by letting the machinery run for a time.
Then he put the gypsies into gear. When he had done this
he went below and smoked a pipeful of tobacco. His
comical face was heavy with thought. He moved uneasily
once as he heard the whine of a wind outside.
"That sounds like wind,” Sam said. “If it blows up
we'll have to get out of here in a hurry.”
Samson went on deck. He saw at once that the water
was already deep round the steamer. Then he went forra'd.
"You'd better come with me,” he said. "I want to speak
to you fellows.”
Sam noticed the “fellows" and smiled slowly. Samson
was getting back to his master-mariner manner.
The chief and his solitary fireman were standing aft.
They greeted Samson with relief.
"What's going to happen now?” the chief asked.
“You fellows will have to decide that,” Samson said


224 Captain Samson, A.B.
and stow the cables as best he can as they come in. Is
that clear?"
The three men grinned on him as he stood surveying
them. As the firemen went forra'd with Sam he made his
comment.
"Blimme, he loves it, don't he?"
On the bridge, Samson spun the wheel and rang the
telegraph to stand by. He blew into the engine-room com-
munication pipe and shouted to the engineer:
"Pump out the forepeak. That'll lift her forward." He
cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted to Sam:
"Take in some of your slack but don't heave until I
tell you."
Even Samson had a glow of pleasure as he heard Sam's
"Ay, ay, sir” come back to him. It was like the voice of an
old and comforting friend. Samson was Captain Samson
once more. Yet he called the fireman to make a set of flares
of old hessian and oil to burn on the fore-deck as a signal
to the two boats to return. The fog was going steadily be-
fore the wind that was setting up a small but lively sea
against the steamer's stern. Old Sam shook his head as he
saw the flares light up the vessel. Samson was trying to
spoil one of the most dramatic situations the coast had seen
in years. By getting the mates back, Samson would lose
all the credit of bringing the vessel home, yet-and Sam
nodded his approval—it was typical of Samson. The ship
first and last. The law and its letters as rigid as a post. But,
Sam thought whimsically, the old man might be kinder
to them newspaper blokes. Bringing a ship back with four
men was a story worth the telling.
On the bridge Samson watched the weather. Although
the wind had freshened slightly, it had not yet made any
great difference to the fog. The masthead light, hoisted by


Captain Samson, A.B. 225
old Sam, cast out spikes of light, and across the light drifted
that streaky, moist fog. Samson looked downwards to
where the flares still burned, the flames rising and falling
to illuminate the deck and the sea close beside the steamer.
The light set the cliff shining with a curious glow. Samson
pulled on the whistle lanyard to summon the boats. He
sent a dozen short blasts out, then listened. He left the
bridge and went forra'd. Sam stood on the forecastle, peer-
ing over the side to where a storm lantern hung on a long
line and showed the water now round the steamer's fore-
foot. Samson looked and saw the water was rising steadily.
"I think we'll have a try,” he said. “She ought to be
afloat aft.”
He went aft and saw his judgment had been correct;
the stern rose and fell gently to the incoming waves. Going
to the engine-room door, Samson shouted:
"All ready below?”
"All ready, Captain Samson,” the chief answered.
Then Samson returned to the bridge. He put his wheel
to midships and thrust the engine-room telegraph to Full
Astern. At the same time he shouted to Sam to "Heave
away.” The engines thumped and the propeller threshed the
water. A circle of foam and broken water moved forward,
and the chains of the anchors strained and scraped against
the empty hull. The ship vibrated to the effort, and Samson
swung the wheel hard to port, then as the stern responded
to the rudder, he swung it to starboard. That slight aid
dislodged the forefoot and the steamer moved astern. Sam-
son could feel the smooth motion and he thrust the engine
telegraph to Stop. The capstan forward was rattling hur-
riedly as it gathered in the slack chain, now free of weight.
"Bring your anchors right up,” Samson shouted.
There were two thumps as the anchors rose against the


226 Captain Samson, A.B.
hull, then Sam came to the edge of the forecastle-head and
shouted:
“Both anchors clear of the water.”
He heard the anchors slide into their hawse-pipes and he
shut off the steam on the capstan. Samson put the engine
telegraph to Full Astern and turned the wheel to starboard.
Obediently the steamer's bow swung to port and she came
in line with the cliff. Samson put the engines at Slow Ahead
and steered her outwards. Old Sam came to the bridge and
waited until Samson noticed him.
“What next, Captain Samson?”
Samson answered him hurriedly, but pleasantly.
"We'll anchor until the boats come back.”
"We could manage, sir,” Sam encouraged.
Samson hesitated, then shook his head. “We could man-
age, but we'll not. These boats will be looking for us.”
"It's not much of a place to anchor," the older man
said. “I don't believe you'll get less than fifty fathoms a
ship's length from the cliffs.”
Samson frowned. “Here, take the wheel a minute, I'll
see what the charts say."
He went below to the room that had been Barclay's
cabin and chart-room. On the chart table, spread out and
held flat by four leaden weights, was the chart of this
section of coast. Samson examined the figures showing
depth of water and he saw old Sam had exaggerated; the
depths a safe distance from the shore from Flamborough
to the northward were around fifteen to twenty fathoms.
Yet Samson hesitated as he stood there and looked down
on the chart. His brain was busy. There was wind on the
way, every part of him felt that approaching wind and
warned him that no anchorage on this open shore was safe,
yet he knew he was deliberately seeking reasons for not


Captain Samson, A.B. 227
waiting. He wanted to take this vessel to port; he wanted
to go away before either of the two officers returned and
took away the command from him. He could take her
with perfect authority and when he had laid her alongside
a jetty he would be praised and his ticket would be re-
stored. It was tremendous temptation, for the past months
of the humiliation of being a forecastle seaman had been
torture to the man. Then, in the midst of his thoughts, he
smashed a clenched fist on the table and swore tensely.
"We'll anchor,” he said harshly to Sam when he re-
turned to the bridge. “Get the hand-lead. You ought to
find about fifteen fathom. Then stand by the port
anchor.”
Sam said, “Ay, ay, sir.” The old man's voice was re-
gretful.
"And tell these fellows to keep the flares burning,"
Samson shouted after the seamen.
Samson peered into the fog. There was a harder bite in
the air, a stiffening of the atmosphere. The sea had lost its
flatness and was lifting into small swellings. From shore-
wards came the sound of the breaking surf, and as the
yellow flares were renewed the light caught and showed
the shine of froth against the beach. It was an ominous
threatening scene in the restless lights from the flares. Sam-
son frowned because he did not like anchoring here, yet
his rigid sense of duty forced him to make some attempt
to wait for the Troubadour's officers. He would give them
another hour and if they did not return by then and the
wind had increased, he would assume command until he
brought the vessel to port. Old Sam's voice sounded.
"Sixteen fathom, sir.”
“Stand by, forra'd,” Samson replied.
He thrust the engine telegraph to Full Astern and moved


Captain Samson, A.B. 229
"Well, you got her off. Where's the captain?”
"Captain Samson'll tell you, sir,” Sam said grudgingly.
"Captain Samson? Oh, Samson? Why, what the hell has
he got to do with it?” The young man's voice showed his
irritation. He looked about him, peering upwards at the
ports of the shipmaster's room. They seemed to make him
feel a strangeness in the vessel.
"What's wrong?” he demanded in a shriller tone. He saw
Samson appear over the lower bridge and strode forward.
"Now then, Samson, what's going on here? What's hap-
pened? Where's Captain Barclay?"
"He's dead,” Samson said, his dislike and contempt for
this young man showing in his voice. “He shot himself.”
"He what?” the second mate stared his horror, then he
looked stupidly at Sam and from Sam to Samson. “He shot
himself?” he repeated dazedly. He looked about him des-
perately, then demanded in a voice become shriller each
time he spoke, "Then where is the mate?”
"Lost himself, looks like,” Sam said with a full measure
of sarcasm. "Did you find anywhere, sir?”
The fireman who had been in the boat's crew snorted.
"Find anything? Blimme, we lost our way five minutes
after we left the ship. We went round in circles till I was
dizzy. Might have been across in Holland for all I knew.
Then we heard the whistle and saw them flares and found
ourselves back at the ship.” He added scornfully, “More b'
good luck than judgment. The compass was no bloody
good-or 'e couldn't read it."
"All the compasses are wrong," the second mate retorted.
"But that's not what's worrying me. What are we going
to do about this ship? Where's the mate? He ought to be
here."
The young man stared demandingly at Samson, and


Captain Samson, A.B. 231
come off and he shot himself. Samson was trying to put the
magnets back into the compass binnacle and I caught him
at it. He knocked me out and locked me in my cabin. I
heard you come on board and I smashed down the door
and came up. That's all, mister. You want to get that
fellow under lock and key.”
The young officer looked unbelievingly from Bart to
Samson.
"What?” he demanded. “Is that true, Samson?”
"You—” Samson was stuck for words. His face had
swollen and was becoming purple. He strove against the
hands holding him, and he kicked backwards against the
firemen's shins. “Let me get at him!” he yelled. “Let me
lay my hands on his lying throat.”
“He tried to do to this ship what he did to the Sunart,"
Bart said spitefully.
Old Sam stepped forward. “That man's a liar, sir," he
said. "Samson brought the ship off the shore and anchored
her here. He could have taken her away without waiting
for you but he's too good a sailor to do what he thinks
isn't right. Don't let that other man fool you, mister.”
The chief engineer appeared. He looked curiously at the
group of men, peering at them in the darkness.
"Hallo,” he said to the second mate. “What's wrong
now?”
"Wrong!” the young man cried melodramatically.
"What's right? Here's two men accusing each other of
wrecking the ship—and the mate hasn't turned up yet. My
brain's like I dunno what trying to work it out. This ship's
gone crazy—mad—like the weather. Here we're not twenty
miles from people on shore-maybe less, and we might as
well be in the middle of the Sahara. This bloody fog and
this ship, held like she was walled in, and I've got a shipload


Captain Samson, A.B. 235
the seaman Hamilton, and a fireman were tearing up the
limber boards and exposing the bilges.
"Move your bodies,” the young man yelled bullyingly.
"D'ye want to drown?” He roared with laughter in his
excitement. He could see there was water in the hold, but
not much. Against the after-bulkhead there swilled black
water that reached forward about six feet from the bulk-
head. The three men in the hold were standing in this
water. Old Sam was descending into the bilges and had
stooped to reach the perforated iron box that should have
prevented the pump inlet pipe from being choked.
"Full of coal, sir,” he shouted. “We ought to be having
shovels down here.”
"Clear it with your hands, you old fool,” the promoted
officer yelled. "Scoop it away.”
Old Sam said something to the fireman and the fireman
stooped down and felt among the water in the bilges. He
rose and came forra'd. He looked up at the officer and
shouted:
"Them bilges are full o'coal-dust and muck all clogged
hard, sir," he shouted. “It'll choke the pipe as soon as it's
cleared.”
The chief appeared at the second mate's side.
"That's what must have sunk a dozen coasters,” he said.
"They never will clear the bilges, and it hardens and
chokes everything. We ought to have the hands with spades
and bucket it over the side. She's taking water all the time.”
"Doesn't seem to be so much down there, chief,” the
other said.
"That's because she's light and down by the stern-it's
all running aft. If we don't get the pumps clearing it away
properly it'll get to the fires.”
"Oh, it's not as bad as that, chief,” the young man pro-


238 Captain Samson, A.B.
there is near us.” He strode back and forward and then
stopped. “I've a good mind to run her ashore again. She
could be taken off when she's been repaired.”
"This isn't the sort of coast to make that easy,” the chief
:said. “Couldn't you make some sort of passage?”
"I could get out our position with the lead,” the young
man said, “but if she's going to sink, what's the good?
Christ, this is terrible. It would take hours to make a mile,
groping through this fog with a hand-lead.”
He turned and went to the cabin where Barclay's body
lay. The young man was careful not to look at the stiff
form on the bunk. His face was pale and set, and he con-
centrated all his attention on the chart he had come to
examine. His brain would not work properly, but was filled
with thoughts of the dead captain and the danger to the
steamer. He could not stand the feeling that came over
him in this cabin and he hurried outside. He stood on the
lower bridge, wondering what he should do and wishing
he could make up his mind. Hopelessly he stared into the
fog. The night was going and he realized the time must
be well into morning. The steamer's deck was visible, moist
and derelict-looking. Only that steady pumping from aft
beating against his head. The cliffs were dimly visible now,
small waves swelling upwards to break against the sheer
rock. He peered, looking for that small beach and thinking
he saw it. The youth shivered because the morning was
chilly, raw and keen, and he was barely twenty-three. His
responsibilities were too heavy and he was not ready for
them. If the mate would only come, he thought petulantly;
the mate had no right to be so long away. Maybe the mate
was lost, as he, the second mate, had been lost in the fog
last night.
He knew the chief was watching him from aft, and near


Captain Samson, A.B. 241
her he'd do it. He's just waiting for someone to back him
up.”
The fireman had not really considered abandoning the
steamer, but the idea appealed. He was weary and sick of
this night's worries and work. Bart described what might
happen if the anchor was hove in and an attempt made
to locate themselves in the fog. They would have to steam
around, trying to find their position by sounding, and
then try to reach Flamborough and into Bridlington. That
would take several hours at its fastest, and that leak might
increase. The fireman agreed and said the leak was increas-
ing. They could see that in the stokehold. And the stench
of the disturbed bilge would turn a man's stomach, the
fireman complained.
"You should talk to your mates about it, chum,” Bart
advised. “Why should we care a damn about another man's
ship? We'll all be sacked when she gets into port anyhow.
She'll have to be drydocked and they'll not keep us on.
So why should we worry about their god-damned ship?"
The fireman agreed. He was so tired he could sleep for
a week. He drank the tea and ate the food, and went below
to relieve his mate. He told his mate what Bart had said,
and his mate, feet and legs wet and chilled with the water
in the stokehold, agreed. When this man went for his
breakfast he told Bart the second mate had no right to risk
men's lives trying to save this bloody coal-box of a ship.
Bart nodded and said there was talk of going to the sec-
ond mate and demanding the ship be run ashore.
"It's the only way he'll save the ship,” the cook said
wisely.
Unexpectedly, the second engineer agreed with Bart
and the firemen. Bart counted his forces and discovered
he had on his side two firemen, Snowy Hamilton, the sec-


242 Captain Samson, A.B.
ond engineer, himself and the second mate. Against him
would be Samson, old Sam and the chief engineer. He ex-
plained this to the second engineer and suggested:
"You should speak to the second mate. Tell him the
firemen are talking about bolting.”
The second engineer went amidships to the second mate.
He spat as his nostrils caught the smell now polluting the
whole ship.
"What are you going to do?” he asked. “The firemen
are talking about taking the boat and getting out of her.”
"They can't do that,” the other cried.
"Well, the water's rising all the time and the pump keeps
choking with the coal-dust and filth down there. If we
get under way and lose touch with the land, and that
pump chokes, you'll lose her altogether.”
"I know," the other said. "I've a good mind to run her
ashore again and to hell with her.”
"That's what ought to be done,” the second engineer
said. “I'm a married man and the owners'll not pay my
missus anything if I'm lost.”
The second mate paced up and down the lower bridge.
He looked worriedly at the streaky fog and listened hop-
ing to hear some vessel's siren. There were no sounds ex-
cept the hush of the water and the splash of the pump
outlet. Suddenly he decided. His face became stubborn.
"That's what we'll do,” he said. “We'll wait an hour
and see how that water rises, and if it isn't staying down
we'll put her ashore again. Better to save her that way than
lose her and our lives in this fog."
The second engineer went aft and told the chief what
the young officer had decided. The chief frowned, then
nodded.
"Maybe that's best," he agreed. “If anyone else had


Captain Samson, A.B. 243
commanded I'd be against it, but God knows where he
might land us.”
"He's going to run her ashore again,” the second engi-
neer told Bart as he passed the galley.
"He's a wise man,” the cook said with satisfaction.
The firemen greeted the news with approving shouts.
One of them went below and told old Sam while that
ancient was standing in three feet of water and clearing
away the dust that clogged against the holes of the rose-
box. Old Sam straightened and fixed his shrewd old eyes
on the man.
"Has Captain Samson heard of this yet?” he asked.
ce 'Im!” the fireman exclaimed. “What the hell's it got
to do with him?"
Sam spat carefully now into the now increasing expanse
of water in the steamer's hold. He made no reply but bent
to his task again. He realized that very soon the water
would be too deep to allow anyone near the rose-box, and
then the pump would be silted up.
"You better go up and have some breakfast," the fire-
man said. “I'll clear this.” He spat distastefully. "Blimme,
this stink 'ud give you a disease."
Old Sam climbed laboriously from the hold and went
aft. As he passed Samson he said, "Did ye hear he was going
to put her ashore again?”
Samson had not heard. He had seen suspicious-looking
passings to and fro and he had been waiting to understand
their meaning.
"So that's what he's up to, is it?” he said, and his face
had a shiny red flush. He looked up and saw the second
mate on the navigation bridge, the young man peering
through binoculars at the land. With an oath, Samson
dropped the bucket he held and hurried forward, his be-


244 Captain Samson, A.B.
hind wagging and his fists clenched. He clambered to the
bridge and faced the young officer.
"Mister,” he demanded shrilly, "is it true you're putting
this ship ashore again?”
The young man met Samson's angry eye with an anger
as indignant as the other's.
"What the hell's it got to do with you?” he shouted. "I'll
decide what happens to this vessel. You get back to your
job.”
"You—” Samson stood before the youth and trembled
with indignation and rage. “You prinked-up pansy boy-
you—" He choked and then stood, fighting down his rage.
His face had swelled and become a purply red, each little
round feature like a discolored apple. Then he swallowed
something and spoke, his voice trembling with passion.
"Mister, you can't do that. You can't cast this vessel
away. This fog'll be gone in a few hours and there'll be
wind. If you was anything but a dressed-up hoodlum,
you'd know that. You'll see where you are and you'll be
able to make port. It's that cook that's got this done. He's
aboard here to see she's wrecked and he's gone too far now.
He's got to see she's lost.”
"You're talking nonsense,” the young man shouted.
"This ship’s holed and we'd never make any port. If we
put her ashore now she can be repaired where she lies and
floated then. You don't know what you're talking about
- or you're trying to lose her. You should have left her
on the beach where she was.”
Samson's fists raised as though he would strike the other,
and the young man backed away.
"Stop that,” he shouted. “Stop it.”
"You can't do what you want,” Samson shouted, his
face contorted with rage, “We'll not let you."


Captain Samson, A.B. 245
"Who'll not let me?" the other demanded. “Who are
we? Tell me who we are."
Samson swung round and almost pointed a finger to-
wards aft, and then he saw, gathered round the foot of
the ladder, the remaining crew of the coaster. Bart stood
in front, and behind him were the firemen, Snowy Hamil-
ton, the second engineer, and apart from them by a few
feet, the chief and old Sam. The ex-shipmaster glowered
on these men, then stepped forward.
“Did you hear what he's going to do?” he demanded.
"He says he's going to run her aground. If he does he'll
lose her. There's a wind coming and this fog's going.
She'll be broken up when the wind sets in.”
"Let her break up,” a fireman shouted. “Better that than
our lives.”
"Your life!” Samson's voice was scornful. "You useless
hulk, your life ain't worth my spit.”
Snowy Hamilton stepped forward. "Come down out of
there, you old fool,” he shouted. “We ain't going to get
drowned because you say so. If he don't put her aground
we'll take the boat and go ashore ourselves.”
The second mate stepped forward. He was stiffly official,
though pale.
"Men,” he said with youthful dignity, "we'll settle this
now. We'll put it to the vote. Samson says we ought to
chance getting her into port and I say we should run her
aground. If we try to make any port we stand a good
chance of losing her altogether. The water's rising in her
and it'll get to the fires. That pump is choking every two
minutes and the water's getting so high we'll not be able
to clear it soon. If we put her ashore she's safe until she can
be repaired and refloated.” He paused, then said, “We'll
vote for it. Who's for putting her ashore?”


246 Captain Samson, A.B.
Every hand except Sam's and the chief's rose. The chief
hesitated, then smiled slightly and raised his hand. Samson
glared down on the faces and hands, and suddenly he
leaped from where he stood on the navigation bridge to
the lower bridge, a drop of some eight feet. He fell on
hands and knees and remained there for a moment, his
bulbous face and round eyes raging at these men. He rose
and swung into the doorway of the captain's room. The
men stood aghast and wondered, and Bart moved forward.
He reached the doorway and then backed away, his hands
rising above his head. The others heard a triumphant and
ferocious voice exclaim, "Now we'll see who'll run this
vessel ashore.”
Before the amazed eyes of the steamer's crew, Samson
appeared in the doorway. In his hand was the revolver that
Barclay had used to end his life. In his face was an expres-
sion of awful triumph and his cheeks shone rosy red. His
left hand rose and slapped Bart's face. The cook stepped
back hastily. Samson moved swiftly to one side and raised
the revolver. There was a report and a wisp of smoke, and
a bullet buried itself into the planking of the navigation
bridge above him.
"Come down, you shore rat," he ordered. "Come down
with the rest of your dock sweepings.”
Slowly the second mate descended, the last of his cour-
age done. He licked his lips and attempted a last stand.
"You'll pay for this, Samson,” he warned.
Samson sneered. “Mister, close your trap and stand
alongside these fellows.” He waited until the officer was
part of the group of men, then Samson strode forward and
eyed them all vindictively.
"I'm in command now," he said curtly. "It's time some-
one took command of this vessel. If this costs me ten years


Captain Samson, A.B. 249
mand and an extra four hours for Bart in the bilges.
Samson filled his chest and cast an expert eye over the
steamer. The stench from the bilge came to him as a per-
fume. He felt almost human again, or, at least, as human
as Captain Samson could ever be.