At the Fall of Port Arthur Part 4

"That is what I said and that is what I mean. Ever since you came on board you have been acting in this same dirty fas.h.i.+on and I want it stopped. Now swab up that deck, and see that you make a first-cla.s.s job of it. For two pins I'd make you black Russell's shoes."

"No black n.o.body's shoes," growled Semmel, but in such a low tone that Captain Ponsberry could not hear him. He cleaned the deck in his own ugly, independent manner, muttering imprecations against both Larry and the captain in the meantime.

As a matter of fact, even though he had denied it to Captain Ponsberry and others, Ostag Semmel was really a Russian by birth, having been born and raised in the seaport of Kolaska. He had been drafted into the army, but not wis.h.i.+ng to serve under a military rule which is unusually severe, he had run away to sea and become a sailor.

Life on the ocean suited Semmel very well and he would have remained away from Russia had it not been for the fact that a rich uncle had died leaving him a property valued at two thousand dollars--a small fortune in the eyes of a man of this Russian's standing. He wished to go back to claim his inheritance, but feared to do so, for he knew that once on Russian soil he would be arrested for desertion, and might be sent to a military prison for a great number of years.

From a friend in Manila he had heard of something which interested him greatly. This was the news that another deserter from the Russian army had been pardoned for his offense because he had taken home with him important news concerning the movements of a certain j.a.panese wars.h.i.+p.

"If I could only do as well," he told himself, over and over again, and then, when he signed articles for the _Columbia's_ trip, he listened eagerly to some talk he overheard about the s.h.i.+p's cargo. When he began to suspect the truth--that the cargo was meant for the j.a.panese Government--his eyes glistened cunningly.

"If I can only let Russia know of this!" he reasoned. "All will go well with me. If I can only let Russia know!"

CHAPTER IV

THE RUSSIAN SAILOR'S PLOT

Captain Ponsberry's stern manner made Ostag Semmel wild with hatred, and when he went back to the forecastle after swabbing up the deck he was in a fit mental condition for almost any dark deed.

For a good half-hour he lay in his bunk in a corner, brooding over his ill-luck and wondering what he could do to revenge himself upon both the master of the schooner and Larry. Larry he especially disliked--the very open-heartedness of the young second mate made him long to do the lad harm.

At the end of the half-hour another sailor came in. It was Carl Peterson, his close friend. Peterson was a burly tar who had visited nearly every quarter of the globe. He loved to drink and carouse, and was ever ready to lend a hand in any excitement that offered. There was a rumor that he had once led a mutiny on a Danish merchant vessel, but this he denied, laying the blame entirely on others.

"Is that you, Peterson?" demanded Semmel, in his native tongue, for he knew that the other could speak Russian fluently.

"Yes," came in a rough voice from Peterson. He gave a coa.r.s.e laugh. "A fine job you made of it, to pour dirty water over Russell and then have to swab up the deck for it."

"Who told you of that?"

"Didn't I see it with my own eyes--and heard what the captain said, too."

"Bah! It makes me sick!" growled Semmel. "I am sick of the s.h.i.+p--the crew--everything!"

Peterson gave a short toss of his head, which was covered with a shock of fiery red hair. "What are you going to do about it? Even if the captain treats you like a dog, what shall you do, Ostag Semmel? He thinks we are all curs--door mats to wipe feet on!"

"He shall find out that I am neither a dog nor a door mat!" muttered the bearded Russian. "By my right hand I promise you that!"

"Talk is cheap--it takes wind to make the mill go," answered Peterson.

To an outsider it would have been plain to see that he was leading Semmel on, in an endeavor to find out what was in his companion's mind.

"It will not end in talk."

"Bah! I have heard that before."

"I have been thinking," went on Ostag Semmel, slowly. "Can I trust you?"

"You know you can."

"You do not love the captain--do not love that Russell?"

"Do I act as if I did?"

"Good! Now, how many on board of this s.h.i.+p?"

"Fourteen men, counting in ourselves."

"You count fairly. Fourteen, how many are our friends?"

"Postnak and Conroy, at least."

"Then we are four, so far. Now, what of Groot and Shamhaven and Jack Wilbur?"

"Groot is a good fellow and a man who wishes to make money."

"And Shamhaven will do almost anything for money--he once told me so. He took a sailor suit from a store in Manila without paying for it."

"I know that too. The tailor was rich and didn't need the money," and Peterson gave another coa.r.s.e laugh.

"Then we are six--to stand up for our rights. And Jack Wilbur will make seven--just half the number on the s.h.i.+p."

"How can we count that Wilbur in? He is a Yankee."

"He is a weakling and we can manage him,--and I think we can manage some others, too--when we get that far."

"How far do you mean?" demanded Peterson, although he knew about what was coming.

"Is anybody else near here?"

"No," and Peterson took a careful look around.

"Supposing we seize the s.h.i.+p--in the name of the Russian Government?

They have a j.a.panese cargo on board, the captain cannot deny it. We can take the s.h.i.+p, sail her to some Russian port, and win both prize money and glory. Is it not a grand scheme?"

"Ha, that is fine!" Carl Peterson's eyes glowed voraciously. "Ostag, you are a man after my own heart! We might become rich!"

"Then you like the plan?"

"Yes--providing we can make it work. But it is a big undertaking. If we were caught we might swing from a yardarm for it."

"We can make it work--I have another plan for that. I have thought it out completely. We can--but more later," and Ostag Semmel broke off abruptly, as several sailors entered the forecastle. A little later he began to complain in broken English to a sailor named Jack Wilbur that he was suffering from a severe stomach ache.

"Sorry to hear on it," said Wilbur, who was a very mild foremast hand.

"Anything I can do for you?"

"I d.i.n.k not," answered Semmel. "I d.i.n.k de poor grub ve git mak me feel pad."