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His ship, the Wilmington, a skysail-yard clipper, was rated by sailormen as the "hottest" craft under the American flag, and Captain Belchior himself was spoken of by consuls and commissioners, far and near, as a man peculiarly unfortunate in his selection of men; for never a passage ended but he was complainant against one or more heavily ironed and badly used-up members of his crew.
He drew inboard, and the leader resumed: "Now, fust thing, who's foreman o' this outfit? Who's boss?" "I'm captain here." "You are? You are not. I'm captain. Get up on that shanty." The small house over the mizzen-hatch was indicated, and Captain Belchior climbed it. The tubes were still looking at him. "Now, you, there, you man who hit me last night when I was sick, who are you, and what?"
One two " Captain Belchior descended the steps. "Hands up, same as the rest." Up went the captain's hands; such marksmanship was beyond his philosophy. "'Pache," went on the speaker, "go up there and get the guns he wanted."
He was known as "Bucko" Belchior in every port where the English language is spoken, having earned this prefix by the earnest readiness with which, in his days as second and chief mate, he would whirl belaying-pins, heavers, and handspikes about the decks, and by his success in knocking down, tricing up, and working up sailors who displeased him.
With his face working convulsively, Captain Belchior glanced at his captors, at his eager, waiting crew, at the wheel without a helmsman, at a darkening of the water on the starboard bow to the southward, up aloft, and back again at the three frowning muzzles so close to his head. "One hand to the wheel! Square in main and cro'-jack yards!" he called. He was conquered.
A month later the rehabilitated old bark also staggered out the entrance, and, with a naked, half-starved crew and sad-eyed, dilapidated officers, headed southward for Rio de Janeiro. "Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just." "But 4 times he who gits hiz blo' in fust." Captain William Belchior was more than a martinet.
Away went the protesting procession, and, joined by the carpenter, sail-maker, donkey-man, and cook, "rounded up" from their sanctums by the man called Laramie, it had reached the main-hatch before the captain, pacing the quarter-deck, was aware of the disturbance. With Captain Belchior to think was to act. Springing to the cabin skylight, he shouted: "Steward, bring up my pistols. Bear a hand.
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