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CHAPTER IX - THE WRECK OF THE "FLYING SCUD."
The next morning I found Pinkerton, who had risen before me,
seated at our usual table, and deep in the perusal of what I will
call the _Daily Occidental_. This was a paper (I know not if it
be so still) that stood out alone among its brethren in the West;
the others, down to their smallest item, were defaced with
capitals, head-lines, alliterations, swaggering misquotations,
and the shoddy picturesque and unpathetic pathos of the Harry
Millers: the _Occidental_ alone appeared to be written by a
dull, sane, Christian gentleman, singly desirous of
communicating knowledge. It had not only this merit, which
endeared it to me, but was admittedly the best informed on
business matters, which attracted Pinkerton.
"Loudon," said he, looking up from the journal, "you
sometimes think I have too many irons in the fire. My notion,
on the other hand, is, when you see a dollar lying, pick it up!
Well, here I've tumbled over a whole pile of 'em on a reef in the
middle of the Pacific."
"Why, Jim, you miserable fellow!" I exclaimed; "haven't we
Depew City, one of God's green centres for this State? haven't
we----"
"Just listen to this," interrupted Jim. "It's miserable copy; these
_Occidental_ reporter fellows have no fire; but the facts are
right enough, I guess." And he began to read:--
"WRECK OF THE BRITISH BRIG, 'FLYING SCUD.'
"H.B.M.S. Tempest, which arrived yesterday at this port, brings
Captain Trent and four men of the British brig Flying Scud,
cast away February 12th on Midway Island, and most
providentially rescued the next day. The Flying Scud was of
200 tons burthen, owned in London, and has been out nearly
two years tramping. Captain Trent left Hong Kong December
8th, bound for this port in rice and a small mixed cargo of silks,
teas, and China notions, the whole valued at $10,000, fully
covered by insurance. The log shows plenty of fine weather,
with light airs, calms, and squalls. In lat. 28 N., long. 177 W.,
his water going rotten, and misled by Hoyt's _North Pacific
Directory_, which informed him there was a coaling station on
the island, Captain Trent put in to Midway Island. He found it
a literal sandbank, surrounded by a coral reef mostly
submerged. Birds were very plenty, there was good fish in the
lagoon, but no firewood; and the water, which could be
obtained by digging, brackish. He found good holding-ground
off the north end of the larger bank in fifteen fathoms water;
bottom sandy, with coral patches. Here he was detained seven
days by a calm, the crew suffering severely from the water,
which was gone quite bad; and it was only on the evening of
the 12th, that a little wind sprang up, coming puffy out of
N.N.E. Late as it was, Captain Trent immediately weighed
anchor and attempted to get out. While the vessel was beating
up to the passage, the wind took a sudden lull, and then veered
squally into N. and even N.N.W., driving the brig ashore on the
sand at about twenty minutes before six o'clock. John Wallen,
a native of Finland, and Charles Holdorsen, a native of
Sweden, were drowned alongside, in attempting to lower a
boat, neither being able to swim, the squall very dark, and the
noise of the breakers drowning everything. At the same time
John Brown, another of the crew, had his arm broken by the
falls. Captain Trent further informed the OCCIDENTAL
reporter, that the brig struck heavily at first bows on, he
supposes upon coral; that she then drove over the obstacle, and
now lies in sand, much down by the head and with a list to
starboard. In the first collision she must have sustained some
damage, as she was making water forward. The rice will
probably be all destroyed: but the more valuable part of the
cargo is fortunately in the afterhold. Captain Trent was
preparing his long-boat for sea, when the providential arrival of
the Tempest, pursuant to Admiralty orders to call at islands in
her course for castaways, saved the gallant captain from all
further danger. It is scarcely necessary to add that both the
officers and men of the unfortunate vessel speak in high terms
of the kindness they received on board the man-of-war. We
print a list of the survivors: Jacob Trent, master, of Hull,
England; Elias Goddedaal, mate, native of Christiansand,
Sweden; Ah Wing, cook, native of Sana, China; John Brown,
native of Glasgow, Scotland; John Hardy, native of London,
England. The Flying Scud is ten years old, and this morning
will be sold as she stands, by order of Lloyd's agent, at public
auction for the benefit of the underwriters. The auction will
take place in the Merchants' Exchange at ten o'clock.
"Farther Particulars.--Later in the afternoon the OCCIDENTAL
reporter found Lieutenant Sebright, first officer of H.B.M.S.
Tempest, at the Palace Hotel. The gallant officer was
somewhat pressed for time, but confirmed the account given by
Captain Trent in all particulars. He added that the Flying Scud
is in an excellent berth, and except in the highly improbable
event of a heavy N.W. gale, might last until next winter."
"You will never know anything of literature," said I, when Jim
had finished. "That is a good, honest, plain piece of work, and
tells the story clearly. I see only one mistake: the cook is not a
Chinaman; he is a Kanaka, and I think a Hawaiian."
"Why, how do you know that?" asked Jim.
"I saw the whole gang yesterday in a saloon," said I. "I even
heard the tale, or might have heard it, from Captain Trent
himself, who struck me as thirsty and nervous."
"Well, that's neither here nor there," cried Pinkerton. "The
point is, how about these dollars lying on a reef?"
"Will it pay?" I asked.
"Pay like a sugar trust!" exclaimed Pinkerton. "Don't you see
what this British officer says about the safety? Don't you see
the cargo's valued at ten thousand? Schooners are begging just
now; I can get my pick of them at two hundred and fifty a
month; and how does that foot up? It looks like three hundred
per cent. to me."
"You forget," I objected, "the captain himself declares the rice
is damaged."
"That's a point, I know," admitted Jim. "But the rice is the
sluggish article, anyway; it's little more account than ballast;
it's the tea and silks that I look to: all we have to find is the
proportion, and one look at the manifest will settle that. I've
rung up Lloyd's on purpose; the captain is to meet me there in
an hour, and then I'll be as posted on that brig as if I built her.
Besides, you've no idea what pickings there are about a wreck
--copper, lead, rigging, anchors, chains, even the crockery,
Loudon!"
"You seem to me to forget one trifle," said I. "Before you pick
that wreck, you've got to buy her, and how much will she cost?"
"One hundred dollars," replied Jim, with the promptitude of an
automaton.
"How on earth do you guess that?" I cried.
"I don't guess; I know it," answered the Commercial Force.
"My dear boy, I may be a galoot about literature, but you'll
always be an outsider in business. How do you suppose I
bought the James L. Moody for two hundred and fifty, her
boats alone worth four times the money? Because my name
stood first in the list. Well it stands there again; I have the
naming of the figure, and I name a small one because of the
distance: but it wouldn't matter what I named; that would be
the price."
"It sounds mysterious enough," said I. "Is this public auction
conducted in a subterranean vault? Could a plain citizen--
myself, for instance--come and see?"
"O, everything's open and above board!" he cried indignantly.
"Anybody can come, only nobody bids against us; and if he
did, he would get frozen out. It's been tried before now, and
once was enough. We hold the plant; we've got the connection;
we can afford to go higher than any outsider; there's two
million dollars in the ring; and we stick at nothing. Or suppose
anybody did buy over our head--I tell you, Loudon, he would
think this town gone crazy; he could no more get business
through on the city front than I can dance; schooners, divers,
men--all he wanted--the prices would fly right up and strike
him."
"But how did you get in?" I asked. "You were once an outsider
like your neighbours, I suppose?"
"I took hold of that thing, Loudon, and just studied it up," he
replied. "It took my fancy; it was so romantic, and then I saw
there was boodle in the thing; and I figured on the business till
no man alive could give me points. Nobody knew I had an eye
on wrecks till one fine morning I dropped in upon Douglas B.
Longhurst in his den, gave him all the facts and figures, and
put it to him straight: "Do you want me in this ring? or shall I
start another?" He took half an hour, and when I came back,
"Pink," says he, "I've put your name on." The first time I came
to the top, it was that Moody racket; now it's the Flying Scud."
Whereupon Pinkerton, looking at his watch, uttered an
exclamation, made a hasty appointment with myself for the
doors of the Merchants' Exchange, and fled to examine
manifests and interview the skipper. I finished my cigarette
with the deliberation of a man at the end of many picnics;
reflecting to myself that of all forms of the dollar hunt, this
wrecking had by far the most address to my imagination. Even
as I went down town, in the brisk bustle and chill of the
familiar San Francisco thoroughfares, I was haunted by a
vision of the wreck, baking so far away in the strong sun, under
a cloud of sea-birds; and even then, and for no better reason,
my heart inclined towards the adventure. If not myself,
something that was mine, some one at least in my employment,
should voyage to that ocean-bounded pin-point and descend to
that deserted cabin.
Pinkerton met me at the appointed moment, pinched of lip and
more than usually erect of bearing, like one conscious of great
resolves.
"Well?" I asked.
"Well," said he, "it might be better, and it might be worse.
This Captain Trent is a remarkably honest fellow--one out of a
thousand. As soon as he knew I was in the market, he owned
up about the rice in so many words. By his calculation, if
there's thirty mats of it saved, it's an outside figure. However,
the manifest was cheerier. There's about five thousand dollars
of the whole value in silks and teas and nut-oils and that, all in
the lazarette, and as safe as if it was in Kearney Street. The
brig was new coppered a year ago. There's upwards of a
hundred and fifty fathom away-up chain. It's not a bonanza,
but there's boodle in it; and we'll try it on."
It was by that time hard on ten o'clock, and we turned at once
into the place of sale. The Flying Scud, although so important
to ourselves, appeared to attract a very humble share of popular
attention. The auctioneer was surrounded by perhaps a score of
lookers-on, big fellows, for the most part, of the true Western
build, long in the leg, broad in the shoulder, and adorned (to a
plain man's taste) with needless finery. A jaunty, ostentatious
comradeship prevailed. Bets were flying, and nicknames.
"The boys" (as they would have called themselves) were very
boyish; and it was plain they were here in mirth, and not on
business. Behind, and certainly in strong contrast to these
gentlemen, I could detect the figure of my friend Captain Trent,
come (as I could very well imagine that a captain would) to
hear the last of his old vessel. Since yesterday, he had rigged
himself anew in ready-made black clothes, not very aptly fitted;
the upper left-hand pocket showing a corner of silk
handkerchief, the lower, on the other side, bulging with papers.
Pinkerton had just given this man a high character. Certainly
he seemed to have been very frank, and I looked at him again to
trace (if possible) that virtue in his face. It was red and broad
and flustered and (I thought) false. The whole man looked sick
with some unknown anxiety; and as he stood there,
unconscious of my observation, he tore at his nails, scowled on
the floor, or glanced suddenly, sharply, and fearfully at
passers-by. I was still gazing at the man in a kind of
fascination, when the sale began.
Some preliminaries were rattled through, to the irreverent,
uninterrupted gambolling of the boys; and then, amid a trifle
more attention, the auctioneer sounded for some two or three
minutes the pipe of the charmer. Fine brig--new copper--
valuable fittings--three fine boats--remarkably choice cargo--
what the auctioneer would call a perfectly safe investment; nay,
gentlemen, he would go further, he would put a figure on it: he
had no hesitation (had that bold auctioneer) in putting it in
figures; and in his view, what with this and that, and one thing
and another, the purchaser might expect to clear a sum equal to
the entire estimated value of the cargo; or, gentlemen, in other
words, a sum of ten thousand dollars. At this modest
computation the roof immediately above the speaker's head (I
suppose, through the intervention of a spectator of ventriloquial
tastes) uttered a clear "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"--whereat all
laughed, the auctioneer himself obligingly joining.
"Now, gentlemen, what shall we say?" resumed that
gentleman, plainly ogling Pinkerton,--"what shall we say for
this remarkable opportunity?"
"One hundred dollars," said Pinkerton.
"One hundred dollars from Mr. Pinkerton," went the
auctioneer, "one hundred dollars. No other gentleman inclined
to make any advance? One hundred dollars, only one hundred
dollars----"
The auctioneer was droning on to some such tune as this, and I,
on my part, was watching with something between sympathy
and amazement the undisguised emotion of Captain Trent,
when we were all startled by the interjection of a bid.
"And fifty," said a sharp voice.
Pinkerton, the auctioneer, and the boys, who were all equally in
the open secret of the ring, were now all equally and
simultaneously taken aback.
"I beg your pardon," said the auctioneer. "Anybody bid?"
"And fifty," reiterated the voice, which I was now able to trace
to its origin, on the lips of a small, unseemly rag of human-
kind. The speaker's skin was gray and blotched; he spoke in a
kind of broken song, with much variety of key; his gestures
seemed (as in the disease called Saint Vitus's dance) to be
imperfectly under control; he was badly dressed; he carried
himself with an air of shrinking assumption, as though he were
proud to be where he was and to do what he was doing, and yet
half expected to be called in question and kicked out. I think I
never saw a man more of a piece; and the type was new to me;
I had never before set eyes upon his parallel, and I thought
instinctively of Balzac and the lower regions of the _Comedie
Humaine_.
Pinkerton stared a moment on the intruder with no friendly eye,
tore a leaf from his note-book, and scribbled a line in pencil,
turned, beckoned a messenger boy, and whispered, "To
Longhurst." Next moment the boy had sped upon his errand,
and Pinkerton was again facing the auctioneer.
"Two hundred dollars," said Jim.
"And fifty," said the enemy.
"This looks lively," whispered I to Pinkerton.
"Yes; the little beast means cold drawn biz," returned my
friend. "Well, he'll have to have a lesson. Wait till I see
Longhurst. Three hundred," he added aloud.
"And fifty," came the echo.
It was about this moment when my eye fell again on Captain
Trent. A deeper shade had mounted to his crimson face: the
new coat was unbuttoned and all flying open; the new silk
handkerchief in busy requisition; and the man's eye, of a clear
sailor blue, shone glassy with excitement. He was anxious
still, but now (if I could read a face) there was hope in his
anxiety.
"Jim," I whispered, "look at Trent. Bet you what you please he
was expecting this."
"Yes," was the reply, "there's some blame' thing going on here."
And he renewed his bid.
The figure had run up into the neighbourhood of a thousand
when I was aware of a sensation in the faces opposite, and
looking over my shoulder, saw a very large, bland, handsome
man come strolling forth and make a little signal to the
auctioneer.
"One word, Mr. Borden," said he; and then to Jim, "Well, Pink,
where are we up to now?"
Pinkerton gave him the figure. "I ran up to that on my own
responsibility, Mr. Longhurst," he added, with a flush. "I
thought it the square thing."
"And so it was," said Mr. Longhurst, patting him kindly on the
shoulder, like a gratified uncle. "Well, you can drop out now;
we take hold ourselves. You can run it up to five thousand;
and if he likes to go beyond that, he's welcome to the bargain."
"By the by, who is he?" asked Pinkerton. "He looks away
down."
"I've sent Billy to find out." And at the very moment Mr.
Longhurst received from the hands of one of the expensive
young gentlemen a folded paper. It was passed round from one
to another till it came to me, and I read: "Harry D. Bellairs,
Attorney-at-Law; defended Clara Varden; twice nearly
disbarred."
"Well, that gets me!" observed Mr. Longhurst. "Who can have
put up a shyster [1] like that? Nobody with money, that's a
sure thing. Suppose you tried a big bluff? I think I would,
Pink. Well, ta-ta! Your partner, Mr. Dodd? Happy to have the
pleasure of your acquaintance, sir." And the great man
withdrew.
[1] A low lawyer.
"Well, what do you think of Douglas B.?" whispered Pinkerton,
looking reverently after him as he departed. "Six foot of perfect
gentleman and culture to his boots."
During this interview the auction had stood transparently
arrested, the auctioneer, the spectators, and even Bellairs, all
well aware that Mr. Longhurst was the principal, and Jim but a
speaking-trumpet. But now that the Olympian Jupiter was
gone, Mr. Borden thought proper to affect severity.
"Come, come, Mr. Pinkerton. Any advance?" he snapped.
And Pinkerton, resolved on the big bluff, replied, "Two
thousand dollars."
Bellairs preserved his composure. "And fifty," said he. But
there was a stir among the onlookers, and what was of more
importance, Captain Trent had turned pale and visibly gulped.
"Pitch it in again, Jim," said I. "Trent is weakening."
"Three thousand," said Jim.
"And fifty," said Bellairs.
And then the bidding returned to its original movement by
hundreds and fifties; but I had been able in the meanwhile to
draw two conclusions. In the first place, Bellairs had made his
last advance with a smile of gratified vanity; and I could see the
creature was glorying in the kudos of an unusual position and
secure of ultimate success. In the second, Trent had once more
changed colour at the thousand leap, and his relief, when he
heard the answering fifty was manifest and unaffected. Here
then was a problem: both were presumably in the same
interest, yet the one was not in the confidence of the other. Nor
was this all. A few bids later it chanced that my eye
encountered that of Captain Trent, and his, which glittered with
excitement, was instantly, and I thought guiltily, withdrawn.
He wished, then, to conceal his interest? As Jim had said,
there was some blamed thing going on. And for certain, here
were these two men, so strangely united, so strangely divided,
both sharp-set to keep the wreck from us, and that at an
exorbitant figure.
Was the wreck worth more than we supposed? A sudden heat
was kindled in my brain; the bids were nearing Longhurst's
limit of five thousand; another minute, and all would be too
late. Tearing a leaf from my sketch-book, and inspired (I
suppose) by vanity in my own powers of inference and
observation, I took the one mad decision of my life. "If you
care to go ahead," I wrote, "I'm in for all I'm worth."
Jim read and looked round at me like one bewildered; then his
eyes lightened, and turning again to the auctioneer, he bid,
"Five thousand one hundred dollars."
"And fifty," said monotonous Bellairs.
Presently Pinkerton scribbled, "What can it be?" and I
answered, still on paper: "I can't imagine; but there's
something. Watch Bellairs; he'll go up to the ten thousand, see
if he don't."
And he did, and we followed. Long before this, word had gone
abroad that there was battle royal: we were surrounded by a
crowd that looked on wondering; and when Pinkerton had
offered ten thousand dollars (the outside value of the cargo,
even were it safe in San Francisco Bay) and Bellairs, smirking
from ear to ear to be the centre of so much attention, had jerked
out his answering, "And fifty," wonder deepened to excitement.
"Ten thousand one hundred," said Jim; and even as he spoke he
made a sudden gesture with his hand, his face changed, and I
could see that he had guessed, or thought that he had guessed,
the mystery. As he scrawled another memorandum in his note-
book, his hand shook like a telegraph-operator's.
"Chinese ship," ran the legend; and then, in big, tremulous
half-text, and with a flourish that overran the margin, "Opium!"
To be sure! thought I: this must be the secret. I knew that
scarce a ship came in from any Chinese port, but she carried
somewhere, behind a bulkhead, or in some cunning hollow of
the beams, a nest of the valuable poison. Doubtless there was
some such treasure on the Flying Scud. How much was it
worth? We knew not, we were gambling in the dark; but Trent
knew, and Bellairs; and we could only watch and judge.
By this time neither Pinkerton nor I were of sound mind.
Pinkerton was beside himself, his eyes like lamps. I shook in
every member. To any stranger entering (say) in the course of
the fifteenth thousand, we should probably have cut a poorer
figure than Bellairs himself. But we did not pause; and the
crowd watched us, now in silence, now with a buzz of
whispers.
Seventeen thousand had been reached, when Douglas B.
Longhurst, forcing his way into the opposite row of faces,
conspicuously and repeatedly shook his head at Jim. Jim's
answer was a note of two words: "My racket!" which, when the
great man had perused, he shook his finger warningly and
departed, I thought, with a sorrowful countenance.
Although Mr. Longhurst knew nothing of Bellairs, the shady
lawyer knew all about the Wrecker Boss. He had seen him
enter the ring with manifest expectation; he saw him depart,
and the bids continue, with manifest surprise and
disappointment. "Hullo," he plainly thought, "this is not the
ring I'm fighting, then?" And he determined to put on a spurt.
"Eighteen thousand," said he.
"And fifty," said Jim, taking a leaf out of his adversary's book.
"Twenty thousand," from Bellairs.
"And fifty," from Jim, with a little nervous titter.
And with one consent they returned to the old pace, only now it
was Bellairs who took the hundreds, and Jim who did the fifty
business. But by this time our idea had gone abroad. I could
hear the word "opium" pass from mouth to mouth; and by the
looks directed at us, I could see we were supposed to have
some private information. And here an incident occurred
highly typical of San Francisco. Close at my back there had
stood for some time a stout, middle-aged gentleman, with
pleasant eyes, hair pleasantly grizzled, and a ruddy, pleasing
face. All of a sudden he appeared as a third competitor, skied
the Flying Scud with four fat bids of a thousand dollars each,
and then as suddenly fled the field, remaining thenceforth (as
before) a silent, interested spectator.
Ever since Mr. Longhurst's useless intervention, Bellairs had
seemed uneasy; and at this new attack, he began (in his turn) to
scribble a note between the bids. I imagined naturally enough
that it would go to Captain Trent; but when it was done, and
the writer turned and looked behind him in the crowd, to my
unspeakable amazement, he did not seem to remark the
captain's presence.
"Messenger boy, messenger boy!" I heard him say. "Somebody
call me a messenger boy."
At last somebody did, but it was not the captain.
"He's sending for instructions," I wrote to Pinkerton.
"For money," he wrote back. "Shall I strike out? I think this is
the time."
I nodded.
"Thirty thousand," said Pinkerton, making a leap of close upon
three thousand dollars.
I could see doubt in Bellairs's eye; then, sudden resolution.
"Thirty-five thousand," said he.
"Forty thousand," said Pinkerton.
There was a long pause, during which Bellairs's countenance
was as a book; and then, not much too soon for the impending
hammer, "Forty thousand and five dollars," said he.
Pinkerton and I exchanged eloquent glances. We were of one
mind. Bellairs had tried a bluff; now he perceived his mistake,
and was bidding against time; he was trying to spin out the sale
until the messenger boy returned.
"Forty-five thousand dollars," said Pinkerton: his voice was like
a ghost's and tottered with emotion.
"Forty-five thousand and five dollars," said Bellairs.
"Fifty thousand," said Pinkerton.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Pinkerton. Did I hear you make an
advance, sir?" asked the auctioneer.
"I--I have a difficulty in speaking," gasped Jim. "It's fifty
thousand, Mr. Borden."
Bellairs was on his feet in a moment. "Auctioneer," he said, "I
have to beg the favour of three moments at the telephone. In
this matter, I am acting on behalf of a certain party to whom I
have just written----"
"I have nothing to do with any of this," said the auctioneer,
brutally. "I am here to sell this wreck. Do you make any
advance on fifty thousand?"
"I have the honour to explain to you, sir," returned Bellairs,
with a miserable assumption of dignity. "Fifty thousand was
the figure named by my principal; but if you will give me the
small favour of two moments at the telephone--"
"O, nonsense!" said the auctioneer. "If you make no advance,
I'll knock it down to Mr. Pinkerton."
"I warn you," cried the attorney, with sudden shrillness. "Have
a care what you're about. You are here to sell for the
underwriters, let me tell you--not to act for Mr. Douglas
Longhurst. This sale has been already disgracefully interrupted
to allow that person to hold a consultation with his minions. It
has been much commented on."
"There was no complaint at the time," said the auctioneer,
manifestly discountenanced. "You should have complained at
the time."
"I am not here to conduct this sale," replied Bellairs; "I am not
paid for that."
"Well, I am, you see," retorted the auctioneer, his impudence
quite restored; and he resumed his sing-song. "Any advance on
fifty thousand dollars? No advance on fifty thousand? No
advance, gentlemen? Going at fifty thousand, the wreck of the
brig Flying Scud--going--going--gone!"
"My God, Jim, can we pay the money?" I cried, as the stroke of
the hammer seemed to recall me from a dream.
"It's got to be raised," said he, white as a sheet. "It'll be a hell
of a strain, Loudon. The credit's good for it, I think; but I shall
have to get around. Write me a cheque for your stuff. Meet me
at the Occidental in an hour."
I wrote my cheque at a desk, and I declare I could never have
recognised my signature. Jim was gone in a moment; Trent
had vanished even earlier; only Bellairs remained exchanging
insults with the auctioneer; and, behold! as I pushed my way
out of the exchange, who should run full tilt into my arms, but
the messenger boy?
It was by so near a margin that we became the owners of the
Flying Scud.
Content of CHAPTER IX - THE WRECK OF THE "FLYING SCUD." [Robert Louis Stevenson's novel: The Wrecker]
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