placed the end of the oar against the man’s chest and shoved him back into his
boat. He fell in a heap, but scrambled to his feet, waving the knife and shrieking:
“You break-a my net-a! You break-a my net-a!”
And he held forth in the jargon again, his companion joining him, and both
preparing to make another dash to come aboard the Mist.
“They’re Italian fishermen,” I cried, the facts of the case breaking in upon me.
“We’ve run over their smelt-net, and it’s slipped along the keel and fouled our
rudder. We’re anchored to it.”
“Yes, and they’re murderous chaps, too,” Paul said, sparring at them with the oar
to make them keep their distance.
“Say, you fellows!” he called to them. “Give us a chance and we’ll get it clear for
you! We didn’t know your net was there. We didn’t mean to do it, you know!”
“You won’t lose anything!” I added. “We’ll pay the damages!”
But they could not understand what we were saying, or did not care to understand.
“You break-a my net-a! You break-a my net-a!” the smaller man, the one with the
ear-rings, screamed back, making furious gestures. “I fix-a you! You-a see, I fix-a
you!”
This time, when Paul thrust him back, he seized the oar in his hands, and his
companion jumped aboard. I put my back against the tiller, and no sooner had he
landed, and before he had caught his balance, than I met him with another oar,
DUTCH COURAGE AND OTHER STORIES
44
and he fell heavily backward into the boat. It was getting serious, and when he
arose and caught my oar, and I realized his strength, I confess that I felt a goodly
tinge of fear. But though he was stronger than 1, instead of dragging me
overboard when he wrenched on the oar, he merely pulled his boat in closer; and
when I shoved, the boat was forced away. Besides, the knife, still in his right
hand, made him awkward and somewhat counterbalanced the advantage his
superior strength gave him. Paul and his enemy were in the same situation—a sort
of deadlock, which continued for several seconds, but which could not last.
Several times I shouted that we would pay for whatever damage their net had
suffered, but my words seemed to be without effect.
Then my man began to tuck the oar under his arm, and to come up along it,
slowly, hand over hand. The small man did the same with Paul. Moment by
moment they came closer and closer, and we knew that the end was only a
question of time.
“Hard up, Bob!” Paul called softly to me.
I gave him a quick glance, and caught an instant’s glimpse of what I took to be a
very pale face and a very set jaw.
“Oh, Bob,” he pleaded, “hard up your helm! Hard up your helm, Bob!”
And his meaning dawned upon me. Still holding to my end of the oar, I shoved
the tiller over with my back, and even bent my body to keep it over. As it was the
Mist was nearly dead before the wind, and this maneuver was bound to force her
to jibe her main-sail from one side to the other. I could tell by the “feel” when the
wind spilled out of the canvas and the boom tilted up. Paul’s man had now gained
a footing on the little deck, and my man was just scrambling up.
“Look out!” I shouted to Paul. “Here she comes!”
Both he and I let go the oars and tumbled into the cockpit. The next instant the big
boom and the heavy blocks swept over our heads, the main-sheet whipping past
like a great coiling snake and the Mist heeling over with a violent jar. Both men
had jumped for it, but in some way he little man either got his knife-hand jammed
or fell upon it, for the first sight we caught of him, he was standing in his boat, his
bleeding fingers clasped close between his knees and his face all twisted with pain
and helpless rage.
“Now’s our chance!” Paul whispered. “Over with you!”
And on either side of the rudder we lowered ourselves into the water, pressing the
net down with our feet, till, with a jerk, it went clear. Then it was up and in, Paul
at the main-sheet and I at the tiller, the Mist plunging ahead with freedom in her
motion, and the little white light astern growing small and smaller.
DUTCH COURAGE AND OTHER STORIES
45
“Now that you’ve had your adventure, do you feel any better?” I remember asking
when we had changed our clothes and were sitting dry and comfortable again in
the cockpit.
“Well, if I don’t have the nightmare for a week to come”—Paul paused and
puckered his brows in judicial fashion—”it will be because I can’t sleep, that’s one
thing sure!”
1901
An Adventure in the Upper Sea
(First published in The Independent, (New York) v.54, May 29, 1902: 1290-1292)
I am a retired captain of the upper sea. That is to say, when I was a younger man
(which is not so long ago) I was an aeronaut and navigated that aerial ocean
which is all around about us and above us. Naturally it is a hazardous profession,
and naturally I have had many thrilling experiences, the most thrilling, or at least
the most nerve-racking, being the one I am about to relate.
It happened before I went in for hydrogen gas balloons, all of varnished silk,
doubled and lined, and all that, and fit for voyages of days instead of mere hours.
The Little Nassau (named after the Great Nassau of many years back) was the
balloon I was making ascents in at the time. It was a fair-sized, hot-air affair, of
single thickness, good for an hour’s flight or so and capable of attaining an
altitude of a mile or more. It answered my purpose, for my act at the time was
making half-mile parachute jumps at recreation parks and country fairs. I was in
Oakland, a California town, filling a summer’s engagement with a street railway
company. The company owned a large park outside the city, and of course it was
to its interest to provide attractions which would send the townspeople over its
line when they went out to get a whiff of country air. My contract called for two
ascensions weekly, and my act was an especially taking feature, for it was on my
days that the largest crowds were drawn.
Before you can understand what happened, I must first explain a bit about the
nature of the hot air balloon which is used for parachute jumping. If you have ever
witnessed such a jump, you will remember that directly the parachute was cut
loose the balloon turned upside down, emptied itself of its smoke and heated air,
flattened out and fell straight down, beating the parachute to the ground. Thus
there is no chasing a big deserted bag for miles and miles across the country, and
much time, as well as trouble, is thereby saved. This maneuver is accomplished
DUTCH COURAGE AND OTHER STORIES
46
by attaching a weight, at the end of a long rope, to the top of the balloon. The
aeronaut, with his parachute and trapeze, hangs to the bottom of the balloon, and,
weighing more, keeps it right side down. But when he lets go, the weight attached
to the top immediately drags the top down, and the bottom, which is the open
mouth, goes up, the heated air pouring out. The weight used for this purpose on
the Little Nassau was a bag of sand.
On the particular day I have in mind there was an unusually large crowd in
attendance, and the police had their hands full keeping the people back. There was
much pushing and shoving, and the ropes were bulging with the pressure of men,
women and children. As I came down from the dressing room I noticed two girls
outside the ropes, of about fourteen and sixteen, and inside the rope a youngster of
eight or nine. They were holding him by the hands, and he was struggling,
excitedly and half in laughter, to get away from them. I thought nothing of it at
the time—just a bit of childish play, no more; and it was only in the light of after
events that the scene was impressed vividly upon me.
“Keep them cleared out, George!” I called to my assistant. “We don’t want any
accidents.”
“Ay,” he answered, “that I will, Charley.”
George Guppy had helped me in no end of ascents, and because of his coolness,
judgment and absolute reliability I had come to trust my life in his hands with the
utmost confidence. His business it was to overlook the inflating of the balloon,
and to see that everything about the parachute was in perfect working order.