The Ebb-Tide Chapter 4 - The Yellow Flag

Mark Smith (0:01)

Chapter 4 of The Ebb-Tide This LibriVox recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina.

The Ebb-Tide by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osborne Chapter 4 The Yellow Flag The schooner far alone lay well out in the jaws of the pass, where the terrified pilot had made haste to bring her to her moorings and escape. Seen from the beach through the thin line of shipping, two objects stood conspicuous to seaward. The little isle, on the one hand, with its palms and the guns and batteries raised forty years before in defence of Queen Pomari's capital. The outcast far alone, upon the other, banished to the threshold of the port, rolling there to her scuppers and flaunting the plague-flag as she rolled. A few seabirds screamed and cried about the ship, and, with an easy range, a man-of-war guard boat hung off and on and glittered with the weapons of Marines. The exuberant daylight and the blinding heaven of the tropics picked out and framed the pictures.

A neat boat, manned by natives in uniform, and steered by the doctor of the port, put from shore towards three of the afternoon, and pulled smartly for the schooner. The four sheets were heaped with sacks of flour, onions and potatoes, perched among which was whoosh, dressed as a foremost hand. A heap of chests and cases impeded the action of the oarsman, and in the stern, by the left hand of the doctor, sat Herrick, dressed in a fresh rig of slops, his brown beard trimmed to a point, a pile of paper novels on his lap, and nursing the while between his feet a chronometer, for which they had exchanged that of the far alone, long since run down and the rate lost.

They passed the guard-boat, exchanging hails with the bosons made in charge, and drew near at last to the forbidden ship. Not a cat stirred, there was no speech of man, and the sea being exceeding high outside, and the reef close to where the schooner lay, the clamor of the surf hung rounder like the sound of battle.

Away, la Goulette! sang out the doctor with his best voice. Instantly from the house where they had been stowing away stores, First Davis and then the ragamuffin swarthy crew made their appearance. Hullo, hey, that you? said the captain, leaning on the rail. Tell the old man to lay her alongside, as if she was eggs. There's a hell of a run of sea here, and his boat's brittle. The movement of the schooner was at that time more than usually violent. Now she heaved her side as high as a deep-sea steamer's, and showed the flashing of her copper. Now she swung swiftly toward the boat until her scuppers gurgled. I hope you'll have sea-legs, observed the doctor. You will require them. Indeed, to board the farloan, in that exposed position where she lay, was an affair of some dexterity. The less precious goods were hoisted roughly in, the chronometer, after repeated failures, was passed gently and successfully from hand to hand, and there remained only the more difficult business of embarking wish.

Even that piece of dead weight, shipped AB at eighteen dollars, and described by the captain to the Consul as an invaluable man, was at last hauled on board without mishap, and the doctor, with civil salutations, took his leave. The three co-adventurers looked at each other, and Davis heaved a breath of relief.

Now, let's get this chronometer fixed, said he, and led the way into the house. It was a fairly spacious place, two staterooms and a good-sized pantry opened from the main cabin, the bulkheads were painted white, the floor laid with waxcloth. No litter, no sign of life remained, for the effects of the dead men had been disinfected and conveyed on shore. Only on the table, in a saucer, some sulphur burned, and the fumes set them coughing as they entered. The captain peered into the starboard stateroom, where the bedclothes still lay tumbled in the bunk, the blanket flung back as they had flung it back from the disfigured corpse before its burial.

Now I told these niggers to tumble that truck overboard, grumbled Davis. Guess they were afraid to lay hands on it. Well, they've hosed the place out. That's as much as can be expected, I suppose. Whish, lay on to these blankets. Say you're blooming well far enough first, said Whish, drawing back. What's that? snapped the captain.

I'll tell you, my young friend. I think you make a mistake. I'm captain here. Fat lot I care, returned the clerk. That's so, said Davis. Then you'll berth forward with the niggers. Walk right out of this cabin. Oh, I d'essay, said Whish. See any green in my eye? A lark's a lark. Well, now, I'll explain this business, and you'll see, once for all, just precisely how much lark there is to it, said Davis. I'm captain, and I'm going to be it. One thing of three. First, you take my orders here as cabin steward, in which case you mess with us. Or second, you refuse, and I pack you forward, and you get as quick as the word said. Or third, and last, I'll signal that man of war and send you ashore under arrest for mutiny. And of course I wouldn't blow the gaff, oh, no, replied the jeering Whish. And who's to believe you, my son? inquired the captain. No, sir. There ain't no lark about my captainizing. Enough said. Up with these blankets. Whish was no fool, he knew when he was beaten, and he was no coward, either, for he stepped to the bunk, took the infected beg clothes fairly in his arms, and carried them out of the house without a check or tremor. I was waiting for the chance, said Davis to Herrick. I needn't do the same with you, because you understand it for yourself. Are you going to birth here? asked Herrick, following the captain into the stateroom, where he began to adjust the chronometer in its place at the bedhead. Not much, replied he. I guess I'll birth on deck. I don't know as I'm afraid, but I've no immediate use for confluent smallpox. I don't know that I'm afraid, either, said Herrick. But the thought of those two men sticks in my throat. That captain and mate dying here, one opposite to the other—it's grim. I wonder what they said last. Wiserman and Wishart? said the captain. Probably mighty small potatoes. That's a thing a fellow figures out for himself, one way, and the real business goes quite another. Perhaps Wiseman said, Here, old man, fetch up the gin. I'm feeling powerful rocky. And perhaps Wishart said, Oh, hell! Well, that's grim enough, said Herrick. And so it is, said Davis. There. There's that chronometer fixed. And now it's about time to up-anchor and clear out. He lit a cigar and stepped on deck. Here, you! What's your name? he cried to one of the hands, a lean-flanked, clean-built fellow from some far western island and of a darkness almost approaching to the African. Sally Day, replied the man. Devil it is, said the captain. Didn't know we had ladies on board. Well, Sally, oblige me by hauling down that rag there. I'll do the same for you another time. He watched the yellow bunting as it was eased past the cross-trees and handed down on deck.