Captain Jinks, Hero by Ernest Howard Crosby (story read aloud txt) 📕

Slewey? We can’t keep on the fence, that’s evident, and if we get down on different sides we can’t be friends, and that might upset all our plans, not to speak of the Benevolent Assimilation Trust.”

“The fact is,” said Sam, “that I don’t know anything about it. They’re both admirals, and they both must be right.”

“Nobody knows anything about it, but we must make up our minds all the same. My idea is that Hercules is going to come out ahead; and as long as one seems as good as the other in other respects, I move that we go for Hercules.”

“Very well,” said Sam, “if you say so. He was in command, anyway, and more likely to be right.”

So Sam and Cleary allied themselves with the Hercules party, which was in the majority. They became quite intimate with the naval officers who belonged to this faction, and saw more of them than of the army men. Sam was much interested in learning about the profession which kept alive at sea the same traditions which the army preserved on land. For the first few days of the voyage the rolling of the ship made him feel a little sick, and he concealed his failings as well as he could and kept to himself; but he proved to be on the whole a good sailor. He was particularly pleased to learn that on a man-of-war the captain takes his meals alone, and that only on invitation can an inferior officer sit down at table with him. This appealed to him as an admirable way of maintaining discipline and respect. The fact that all the naval men he met had their arms and bodies more or less tattooed also aroused his admiration. He inquired of the common soldiers if they ever indulged in the same artistic luxury, and found out to his delight that a few of them did.

“It’s strange,” he remarked to Cleary, “that tattooing is universal in the navy and comparatively rare in the army. I rather think the habit must have been common to both services, and somehow we have nearly lost it. It’s a fine thing. It marks a man with noble symbols and mottoes, and commits him to an honorable life, indelibly I may say.”

“It’s a little like branding a mule,” said Cleary.

“Yes,” said Sam; “the brand shows who owns the mule, and the tattooing shows a man belongs to his country.”

“And if he’s shipwrecked and hasn’t any picture-books or newspapers with him, he can find all he wants on his own skin,” said Cleary.

“Joke as you please, I think it’s a patriotic custom.”

“Why don’t you get tattooed then?” asked Cleary.

“Do you think there’s anybody on board can do it?” cried Sam enthusiastically.

“Of course. Any of those bluejackets can tell you whom to go to.”

Sam was off before Cleary had finished his sentence. Sure enough, he found a boatswain who was renowned as an artist, and without further parley he delivered himself into his hands. Cleary was consulted on the choice of designs, and the result was pronounced by all the connoisseurs on board⁠—and there were many⁠—to be a masterpiece. On his chest was a huge spread-eagle with a bunch of arrows, bayonets, and lightning-flashes in his claws. Cannon belched forth on each side, and the whole was flanked by a sailor on one side and a soldier on the other. His arms were tattooed with various small designs of crossed swords, flags, mottoes, the title of his regiment, and other such devices. The boatswain now thought that his task was complete, but Sam insisted on having his back decorated as well, although this was rather unusual. The general stock of subjects had been exhausted, and Cleary suggested that a representation of Sam himself, striking off the fetters of a Cubapino, would be most appropriate. After discussing a number of other suggestions offered by various friends, this one was finally adopted and successfully carried out. The operation was not altogether painless and produced a good deal of irritation of the skin, but it served to pass Sam’s time and allay his impatience to be in the field, and Cleary became so much interested that he consented to allow the artist to tattoo a few modest designs of cannon and crossed bayonets on his own arms. Sam’s comparatively high rank among officers who were, many of them, his juniors in rank but his seniors in years, might have made his position at first a difficult one had it not been for his entire single-mindedness and loyalty to his country. If the powers that be had made him a captain, it was right that he should be a captain. He obeyed implicitly in taking his seat near the head of the table, as he would have obeyed if he had been ordered to the foot, and he expected others to accept what came from above as he did.

One afternoon a report sprang up that land was in sight, and soon every eye was strained in one direction. Sam’s eyesight was particularly good, and he was one of the first to detect the white gleam of a lighthouse. Soon the coastline was distinct, and it was learned that they would arrive on the next day. By daybreak Sam was on deck, studying as well as he could this new land of heroism and adventure. Cleary joined him later, and the two friends watched the strange tropical shore with its palm-groves and occasional villages, and a range of mountains beyond. A bay opened before them, and the ship turned in, passing near an old fortification.

“This is just where our fleet went in,” said Cleary, examining a folding map which he held in his hand. “They passed along there single file,” and he pointed out the passage.

“Wasn’t it glorious! Just think of sailing straight on, no matter how many torpedoes there were!” exclaimed Sam.

“They knew blamed well there weren’t any torpedoes,” answered Cleary.

“How could they have known? They hadn’t ever been here