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Updated: June 3, 2025
The shipping-master drew a large paper from his pocket, and they approached the men at the capstan, where the short, broad second mate had been taking their individual measures with scowling eye. It was a strange crew for the forecastle of an outward-bound, deep-water American ship. Mr.
Jackson had secured a belaying-pin and almost reached him, when he found himself looking into the bore of a pistol held by the shipping-master. "Now, stop this," said the latter, firmly; "stop it right here, Mr. Jackson. These men are under my care till you've signed my receipt.
"Put that gun up, too, or I'll show you one of my own. I'll tend to your good men when you get ashore." He glared at the quiescent Bigpig, and followed the shipping-master who still held his pistol ready, however over to the rail, where the receipt was produced and signed. "Away you go, now," said the mate; "you and your gun. Get over the side."
But the head Shipping-Master hopped down from his elevation and hurried along on the thick mats to meet me in the broad central passage. He had a Scottish name, but his complexion was of a rich olive hue, his short beard was jet black, and his eyes, also black, had a languishing expression. He asked confidentially: "You want to see Him?"
The Shipping-Master led the way with a mincing gait around the whole system of desks to a tall and important-looking door, which he opened with a deferential action of the arm. Then he slipped out at once and shut the door after me most delicately. Three lofty windows gave on the harbour. There was nothing in them but the dark-blue sparkling sea and the paler luminous blue of the sky.
The shipping-master answered him in a way which the boy did not understand, and advised him to ship. The boy signed the articles, received his advance, laid out a little of it in clothes, and spent the rest, and was ready to go on board, when, upon the morning of sailing, he heard that the ship was bound upon the North-west Coast, on a two or three years' voyage, and was not going to Europe.
But he was full of his recalled experiences on board the Ferndale, and the strangeness of being mixed up in what went on aboard, simply because his name was also the name of a shipping-master, kept him in a state of wonder which made other coincidences, however unlikely, not so very surprising after all.
Jackson and the tug captain, and derisive jeers from the shipping-master, who also averred that Mr. Jackson ought to be shot, but was not worth hanging for, the tug gathered in her lines and steamed away. Wrathful of soul, Mr. Jackson turned to the men on the deck. Jackson, which the others answered by nods and encouraging words.
I had not made three steps into the outer office when I heard behind my back a gruff, loud, authoritative voice, the voice of our deputy-Neptune. It was addressing the head Shipping-Master who, having let me in, had, apparently, remained hovering in the middle distance ever since. "Mr.
Jackson, the skipper didn't pick 'em just asked me for sixteen good men, and there you are. Muster up to the capstan here, boys," he called, "and be counted." As they grouped themselves amidships with their clothes-bags, the shipping-master beckoned the chief mate over to the rail. "You see, Mr. Jackson," he said, with a backward glance at the men, "I've only played the regular dodge on 'em.
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