Monday's Illustrated Word: Untitled Story by Unknown Writer (in English) - I

  art by Al Camy - Zip Comics#23 - Archie, February 1942.

You can read the conclusion of this story here.

 

 

Sermon on the Cure of the Centurion’s Servant by St. Vincent Ferrer (translated into English)

Mt 8:5-8 Douay trans.

5 And when he had entered into Capharnaum, there came to him a centurion, beseeching him, 6 And saying, Lord, my servant lieth at home sick of the palsy, and is grievously tormented. 7 And Jesus saith to him: I will come and heal him. 8 And the centurion making answer, said: Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldst enter under my roof: but only say the word, and my servant shall be healed.

 

 “I will come and heal him,” (Mt 8:7). It is a general teaching in holy theology that in every conversion of a sinner from an evil life to a good one, and from sin to grace, from vice to virtue, in that conversion, if it be true, God is always first present, through grace. The power of any creature is insufficient for that conversion, of man or of angel, because “Without me you can do nothing,” (Jn 15:5). It is a conclusion of all the theologians. And this conclusion can be declared through a rule for the general conversion and redemption of the world, for which God himself principally comes. No one else was able or sufficient for this work. It is like in a large hospital in which many sick people are lying, suffering from an incurable illness, where it is necessary that a great doctor must come to cure them. We all are lying in the hospital of this world, with the great illnesses of sins. For this reason the great doctor comes from his office in paradise to practice, and cure the sick. And so Augustine on the text of Matthew 9:13: “For I am not come to call the just, but sinners,” says “The great doctor comes to us from heaven, because the whole world lies sick.” It is clear therefore that for universal redemption his coming was necessary.

So I say that in the conversion of the sinner, it is principally necessary for him to come, because no one else would be sufficient. And so David understanding this conclusions in the spirit of prophecy, and the teaching about his coming, thanking God, says to his soul in Ps 102: “Bless the Lord, O my soul: and let all that is within me bless his holy name.  Bless the Lord, O my soul, and never forget all he has done for you. Who forgives all your iniquities: who heals all your diseases,” (Ps 102:1-3). And so when that Centurion about whom today’s gospel speaks, pleads with Christ, that he would go to cure his servant, Christ responds, “I will come and heal him,” (Mt 8:7).

But why does he say “I will come,” because he did not go, nor intended to go. Did he not tell a lie? I reply, according to the teachers, that when God cured something in the body, he also cured in the soul, because the work of God is perfect. And so he said, he would make the whole man healthy, “I have healed the whole man,” (Jn 7:23), the whole, i.e. in body and soul.   And unless he comes through grace, no soul can be cured, and so because of this he says, “I will come,” – not by bodily presence but through spiritual grace – “and heal him,” (Mt 8:7).

Since, therefore Christ is the proper and immediate doctor of the soul of the sinner, let us see how he might cure the sick soul. This matter is very subtle, and so I shall explain it to you through a comparison to a physical doctor, who in curing the body does seven things. For a good doctor first wishes to examine the patient, who generally is lying in his closed room, hidden. Second, the doctor lights a lamp and looks at his face, in the light of which he recognizes his interior condition.

 

First his face is examined. [facies eius inspicitur]

Second his pulse is taken, [pulsus tangitur]

Third his urine is inspected, [urina attenditur]

Fourth a diet is prescribed, [dieta praecipitur]

Fifth, a medicine is given, [syrupus immittitur]

Sixth a purgation is performed, [purgatio tribuitur]

Seventh, dining is allowed. [refectio conceditur]

 

Christ the heavenly doctor, observes all these things, in order, in curing a sinner’s soul.

 

FACE EXAMINED

First he wants to see his face, i.e. the disposition of the sinner, because he lies in the dark room of guilt, on the bed of sin, nor does he see the danger of the demons who are watching him. Because if the sinner could see clearly the good which he lost through sin, and the evil which he incurred, and the danger which he is in, he would immediately flee from sin. And so David says, speaking of sinners in Ps 81: “They have not known nor understood: they walk on in darkness,” (v. 5). Note, when he says “They have not known,” good things, namely those which they have lost, “nor understood,” the evil things which they have incurred, “they walk on in darkness,” not seeing the danger in which they are, of falling into hell if they were then to die.   But when Christ comes he lights the lamp of his mercy, which he sets before his face, i.e. the conscience of the sinner, lighting it up, so that he might recognize his sins. When the religious says, “O wretched me, for so many years I was…” etc. Same for a clergyman and layman.  He is then enlightened by the ray of divine mercy, when he recognizes his evil life, and the sins which he committed. So scripture says, “The spirit of a man is the lamp of the Lord, which searches all the hidden things of the bowels,” (Prov 20:27), that is, of the mind.

Christ observes this practice, and it served in the cure of St. Peter, who on the night of his passion, when he denied him, in the first denial did not recognize sin, because he was lying in a dark room, nor in the second, nor in the third, but the text says that the cock crowed. “And the Lord turning looked on Peter. And Peter remembered the word, which Jesus said to him: “Before the cock crows, you shall deny me three times. And Peter going out, wept bitterly,” (Lk 22:61-62). Note that Christ did not look at Peter in his first denial, nor in the second, but after the third, after the cock crowed. But why did he look at him more then than before?

St. Gregory says in his “Moralibus” that the cock crowing signifies the preacher for two reasons. First because the cock, before he crows, excites himself, when he strikes himself with his wings. So the preacher should first excite himself, exciting himself with two wings, and striking himself: first he ought to free himself from sin, second he should maintain a good life. Because if one wished to preach humility, he should see that he is not proud, and so for the rest. And so the Apostle says, “For I dare not to speak of any of those things which Christ works not by me,” (Rom 15:18). And, “I chastise my body, and bring it into subjection: lest perhaps, when I have preached to others, I myself should become a castaway,” (1Cor 9:27).

The second reason is, because the rooster crows stronger and more often at the end of the night as day approaches. So the preacher should preach stronger and more often now ,at the end of the night of this life, with the day of judgment approaching. And note here how God poses many questions to Job, among which were these, saying, “Who has put wisdom in the heart of man? or who gave the cock understanding?” (Job 38:36). He isn’t speaking of the rooster, the animal, but the “rooster” spiritual preacher who ought to have the wisdom of avoiding sins and clinging to a good life, and the understanding of preaching, especially now, at the end of night, so that the people might awaken from their sins. When, therefore the rooster crows – the preacher by preaching – then Christ gazes at us by enlightening us. Then you come to a recognition and remembrance of your sins. Behold the first procedure of the medicinal cure by Our Lord Jesus Christ.

 

TAKING THE PULSE

The second work of a physical doctor is to take a pulse. So too Christ, in the contrition of the heart. For contrition is a certain medicinal touch of the hand of Christ on the artery of the heart. Like a doctor he takes the pulse with his whole hand, but one finger especially senses. So also Christ, takes the pulse with the hand of his mercy, which hand has five fingers, i.e. five motives for contrition. And the first is fear of eternal damnation, which is like the thumb, because commonly sinners begin contrition from this motive, from fear. Second is the pain of damnation, because from sins he lost all his merit, so much so that if he died then nothing of his good deeds would count for him. And so he weeps, like a merchant who lost everything. Third is the pain of loss, because he lost his inheritance of paradise. How he would be devastated. It would be like the pain of the prince, the king’s firstborn, who because of his guilt would lose the inheritance of the kingdom. Fourth is most important, when you think that by sinning you have offended your creator, who has given you so many good things. Fifth by thinking how you by your sins have made yourself an enemy of the angels and all the citizens of heaven, as if all of this city would be your archenemies; that friendship has deteriorated. It is clear then that true contrition is nothing other than a certain medicinal touch of the divine hand. About this scripture has, “…and I went away in bitterness in the indignation of my spirit,” and so, “the hand of the Lord was with me, strengthening me,” (Ez 3:14), giving contrition and a purpose of not returning to sins. And so confessors, at the end of a confession ought to ask, “Do those sins displease you, and do you have a purpose of not returning to them?” If he says, “No,” he ought not to be absolved.

 

EXAMINING THE URINE

Third, the urine is examined. For in the water a doctor recognizes illness and the disposition of the body. Behold, here, oral confession, for through confession is revealed and shown the interior disposition of the sinner. Confession is like a urinal, in which the stinking urine of the sinner, existing within him, is revealed to the confessor, and there the illnesses of the soul are recognized. But it is required that the urine be clear, i. e. that his sins be confessed clearly.   Note, against those who minimize and excuse themselves, confessing by accusing others. It is necessary indeed to show clearly the urine of a bad life to the confessor, by accusing oneself, bravely telling the truth. And so I give this counsel, lest you make your confession with those “confessionals” [possibly handbooks of sins for the penitent], well ordered and not heartfelt, because there is a double error. First, accusing yourself of sins which you have not committed is a mortal sin, of lying in confession. Second because through those generalities many sins are glossed over. Those confessions [or “confessionals”] are only for remembering sins, but not for confessing them.

Also it is required that the door of the urinal be closed, lest in confession you might reveal the sin of another. For example if someone has sinned with a sister or daughter, he should turn away, so he might seek out a confessor who does not know his sister or daughter, lest the sin be revealed. If however he does not find such a confessor he ought so to say, “Father I have sinned with one very close to me.” This is the mind of St. Thomas in IV Sent. Dist. 16, namely to preserve the good name of another in confession.

A figurative example of confession is found in scripture: “Joshua said to Achan: My son, give glory to the Lord God of Israel, and confess, and tell me what you have done, hide it not.  And Achan answered Joshua, and said to him: Indeed I have sinned against the Lord the God of Israel, and thus and thus have I done,” (Jos 7:19-20). Note when it is said, “My son,” here confessors have an example of how they should speak gently to the sinner. And so the Apostle speaks to confessors: “If a man be overtaken in any fault, you, who are spiritual, instruct such a one in the spirit of meekness,” (Gal 6:1). Second [Joshua] says, “give glory to the Lord God of Israel,” because honor which is given to the confessor, is given to God, because the confessor takes the place of God. Note, this is against those who come to confession very casually, as if they were dancing, etc.

 

DIET IS PRESCRIBED

Fourth, a diet is prescribed, having recognized the illness, and this happens in the restriction of life and abstinence from the occasion of sins. For example, For a diet which Christ gives by means of the confessor, to the proud, the vain, the pompous, is that they be humbled. Same for a vain woman, and so for the other sins of lust and greed etc. Note, this is against some confessors who know only to give a diet of masses, to each sick person. They prescribe the same medicine. Note also against those who prefer not to keep to the diet given by the confessor for the health of their soul, but would well keep a diet given by a medical doctor for the health of their body. And so the Apostle Peter: “Dearly beloved, I beseech you as strangers and pilgrims, to refrain yourselves from carnal desires which war against the soul,” (1Pet 2:11).

 

MEDICINAL SYRUP IS SWALLOWED

Fifth, the medicine [syrupus] is swallowed. This happens in grace and devout prayer. Syrup is sweet; so prayer is sweet. Would it not seems to you sweet, if at any hour you could speak with the king or the Pope?   In devout prayer a man is speaking with Christ the King, and Pope. And he replies in his own way by giving consolation, illuminations, good resolves, and things like that. But many are deaf, and do not hear. But David the prophet heard, and so he said in prayer in Ps. 118: “How sweet are your words to my palate! more than honey to my mouth,” (v. 103).

Second the syrup-medicine is taken in the morning and in the evening, in a certain measure; so many Our Fathers and so many Hail Marys, etc.

Third the syrup-medicine is taken mixed with warm water. So also when in prayer God grants you some tears, etc. about which it is said, “…and give us for our drink tears in measure?” (Ps 79:6).   About this Christ said, ” we ought always to pray,” morning and evening, “and not to faint,” (Lk 18:1).

 

PURGATION IS PERFORMED

Sixth, purgation is performed.   This happens in the restitution of things taken, and the forgiveness of injuries. Purgation expels bitter corrupt humors, superfluous, and it expels them. Purgation is used against cholera, and it signifies that we should forgive injuries for God’s sake, close our eyes to them. Say whatever you wish. It is necessary to rehabilitate the unjust. You, robber, if you have something at home which you stole, or you loan-sharks, or you slave drivers, you judge, you lawyer, you merchant, you cleric, if you obtained your position by bribery, the purgation of restitution is necessary if you wish to be saved. So it is said, “The sin is not remitted, unless the stolen is returned.” It is a rule of the theologians, and the jurists, 14, q. 6 Si res.   Certainly one says that this purgation is hard. Other medicines please me more. A remedy against this bitterness is to taste the sting in one bite of a bitter red apple. This happens by thinking of the bitterness of eternal damnation and death, through which, either by force or voluntarily it is necessary for you to give up everything which you have. Better to give it up now, by meritoriously restoring. Whence Jerome, to Paulinus, last chapter, “It is easy to despise everything, who always thinks that he is about to die. With the remedy of this thought purgation of restitution is easily accepted. So the Apostle Paul, “Render therefore to all men their due… Owe no man any thing,” (Rom 13:17-16).

 

DINNER IS PERMITTED

Seventh, dining is permitted, when for building up strength, meat is offered – not beef or veal, but chicken. And this happens in Holy Communion, because, restitution having been made, man can receive communion, and eat the Lamb, the Son of that blessed ewe, the Virgin Mary. The meat is most delicate, and wine is drunk, his blood, which is contained in the host. So he himself said, “For my flesh is meat indeed: and my blood is drink indeed. He who eats my flesh, and drinks my blood, abides in me, and I in him,” (Jn 6:56-57). Just as the body of a sick person is strengthened by eating, so the soul in worthy communion. But just as for the sick person it would be deadly to eat meat before purgation, so would it be for the sinner, to receive communion before making restitution. See therefore why he says, “I will come and heal him,” (Mt 8:7), which is the theme. Thanks be to God.

 

Friday's Sung Word: "Paga-me Esta Noite" by Noel Rosa (in Portuguese)

 music by M. Spoliansky.

 

Neste tempo medonho!
Canto, tristonho
Ao microfone este preludio!
O ouvinte, risonho
Nem por um sonho!
Sabe o que me trás
Ao estúdio!

Aqui, que és o irmão
Do tal pão-duro!
Meu recibo vai assombrar
De revolver na mão
Eu vim aqui, cobrar!

You can listen "Paga-me Esta Noite" sung by Déo here.

Thursday Serial: "Where Angels Fear to Tread” by Morgan Robertson (in English) - I

 

    "I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of each; and I believe they both get paid in the end, but the fools first."

    Robert Louis Stevenson.

 

PART I

The first man to climb the Almena's side-ladder from the tug was the shipping-master, and after him came the crew he had shipped. They clustered at the rail, looking around and aloft with muttered profane comments, one to the other, while the shipping-master approached a gray-eyed giant who stood with a shorter but broader man at the poop-deck steps.

"Mr. Jackson—the mate here, I s'pose?" inquired the shipping-master. A nod answered him. "I've brought you a good crew," he continued; "we'll just tally 'em off, and then you can sign my receipt. The captain'll be down with the pilot this afternoon."

"I'm the mate—yes," said the giant; "but what dry-goods store did you raid for that crowd? Did the captain pick 'em out?"

"A delegation o' parsons," muttered the short, broad man, contemptuously.

"No, they're not parsons," said the shipping-master, as he turned to the man, the slightest trace of a smile on his seamy face. "You're Mr. Becker, the second mate, I take it; you'll find 'em all right, sir. They're sailors, and good ones, too. No, Mr. Jackson, the skipper didn't pick 'em—just asked me for sixteen good men, and there you are. Muster up to the capstan here, boys," he called, "and be counted."

As they grouped themselves amidships with their clothes-bags, the shipping-master beckoned the chief mate over to the rail.

"You see, Mr. Jackson," he said, with a backward glance at the men, "I've only played the regular dodge on 'em. They've all got the sailor's bug in their heads and want to go coasting; so I told 'em this was a coaster."

"So she is," answered the officer; "round the Horn to Callao is coasting. What more do they want?"

"Yes, but I said nothin' of Callao, and they were all three sheets i' the wind when they signed, so they didn't notice the articles. They expected a schooner, too, big enough for sixteen men; but I've just talked 'em out of that notion. They think, too, that they'll have a week in port to see if they like the craft; and to make 'em think it was easy to quit, I told 'em to sign nicknames—made 'em believe that a wrong name on the articles voided the contract."

"But it don't. They're here, and they'll stay—that is, if they know enough to man the windlass."

"Of course—of course. I'm just givin' you a pointer. You may have to run them a little at the start, but that's easy. Now we'll tally 'em off. Don't mind the names; they'll answer to 'em. You see, they're all townies, and bring their names from home."

The shipping-master drew a large paper from his pocket, and they approached the men at the capstan, where the short, broad second mate had been taking their individual measures with scowling eye.

It was a strange crew for the forecastle of an outward-bound, deep-water American ship. Mr. Jackson looked in vain for the heavy, foreign faces, the greasy canvas jackets and blanket trousers he was accustomed to see. Not that these men seemed to be landsmen—each carried in his face and bearing the indefinable something by which sailors of all races may distinguish each other at a glance from fishermen, tugmen, and deck-hands. They were all young men, and their intelligent faces—blemished more or less with marks of overnight dissipation—were as sunburnt as were those of the two mates; and where a hand could be seen, it showed as brown and tarry as that of the ablest able seaman. There were no chests among them, but the canvas clothes-bags were the genuine article, and they shouldered and handled them as only sailors can. Yet, aside from these externals, they gave no sign of being anything but well-paid, well-fed, self-respecting citizens, who would read the papers, discuss politics, raise families, and drink more than is good on pay-nights, to repent at church in the morning. The hands among them that were hidden were covered with well-fitting gloves—kid or dog-skin; all wore white shirts and fashionable neckwear; their shoes were polished; their hats were in style; and here and there, where an unbuttoned, silk-faced overcoat exposed the garments beneath, could be seen a gold watch-chain with tasteful charm.

"Now, boys," said the shipping-master, cheerily, as he unfolded the articles on the capstan-head, "answer, and step over to starboard as I read your names. Ready? Tosser Galvin."

"Here." A man carried his bag across the deck a short distance.

"Bigpig Monahan." Another—as large a man as the mate—answered and followed.

"Moccasey Gill."

"Good God!" muttered the mate, as this man responded.

"Sinful Peck." An undersized man, with a cultivated blond mustache, lifted his hat politely to Mr. Jackson, disclosing a smooth, bald head, and passed over, smiling sweetly. Whatever his character, his name belied his appearance; for his face was cherubic in its innocence.

"Say," interrupted the mate, angrily, "what kind of a game is this, anyhow? Are these men sailors?"

"Yes, yes," answered the shipping-master, hurriedly; "you'll find 'em all right. And, Sinful," he added, as he frowned reprovingly at the last man named, "don't you get gay till my receipt's signed and I'm clear of you."

Mr. Jackson wondered, but subsided; and, each name bringing forth a response, the reader called off: "Seldom Helward, Shiner O'Toole, Senator Sands, Jump Black, Yampaw Gallagher, Sorry Welch, Yorker Jimson, General Lannigan, Turkey Twain, Gunner Meagher, Ghost O'Brien, and Poop-deck Cahill."

Then the astounded Mr. Jackson broke forth profanely. "I've been shipmates," he declared between oaths, "with freak names of all nations; but this gang beats me. Say, you," he called,—"you with the cro'-jack eye there,—what's that name you go by? Who are you?" He spoke to the large man who had answered to "Bigpig Monahan," and who suffered from a slight distortion of one eye; but the man, instead of civilly repeating his name, answered curtly and coolly:

"I'm the man that struck Billy Patterson."

Fully realizing that the mate who hesitates is lost, and earnestly resolved to rebuke this man as his insolence required, Mr. Jackson had secured a belaying-pin and almost reached him, when he found himself looking into the bore of a pistol held by the shipping-master.

"Now, stop this," said the latter, firmly; "stop it right here, Mr. Jackson. These men are under my care till you've signed my receipt. After that you can do as you like; but if you touch one of them before you sign, I'll have you up 'fore the commissioner. And you fellers," he said over his shoulder, "you keep still and be civil till I'm rid of you. I've used you well, got your berths, and charged you nothin'. All I wanted was to get Cappen Benson the right kind of a crew."

"Let's see that receipt," snarled the mate. "Put that gun up, too, or I'll show you one of my own. I'll tend to your good men when you get ashore." He glared at the quiescent Bigpig, and followed the shipping-master—who still held his pistol ready, however—over to the rail, where the receipt was produced and signed.

"Away you go, now," said the mate; "you and your gun. Get over the side."

The shipping-master did not answer until he had scrambled down to the waiting tug and around to the far side of her deck-house. There, ready to dodge, he looked up at the mate with a triumphant grin on his shrewd face, and called:

"Say, Mr. Jackson, 'member the old bark Fair Wind ten years ago, and the ordinary seaman you triced up and skinned alive with a deck-scraper? D' you 'member, curse you? 'Member breakin' the same boy's arm with a heaver? You do, don't you? I'm him. 'Member me sayin' I'd get square?"

He stepped back to avoid the whirling belaying-pin sent by the mate, which, rebounding, only smashed a window in the pilot-house. Then, amid an exchange of blasphemous disapproval between Mr. Jackson and the tug captain, and derisive jeers from the shipping-master,—who also averred that Mr. Jackson ought to be shot, but was not worth hanging for,—the tug gathered in her lines and steamed away.

Wrathful of soul, Mr. Jackson turned to the men on the deck. They had changed their position; they were now close to the fife-rail at the mainmast, surrounding Bigpig Monahan (for by their names we must know them), who, with an injured expression of face, was shedding outer garments and voicing his opinion of Mr. Jackson, which the others answered by nods and encouraging words. He had dropped a pair of starched cuffs over a belaying-pin, and was rolling up his shirt-sleeve, showing an arm as large as a small man's leg, and the mate was just about to interrupt the discourse, when the second mate called his name. Turning, he beheld him beckoning violently from the cabin companionway, and joined him.

"Got your gun, Mr. Jackson?" asked the second officer, anxiously, as he drew him within the door. "I started for mine when the shippin'-master pulled. I can't make that crowd out; but they're lookin' for fight, that's plain. When you were at the rail they were sayin': 'Soak him, Bigpig.' 'Paste him, Bigpig.' 'Put a head on him.' They might be a lot o' prize-fighters."

Mr. Becker was not afraid; his position and duties forbade it. He was simply human, and confronted with a new problem.

"Don't care a rap what they are," answered the mate, who was sufficiently warmed up to welcome any problem. "They'll get fight enough. We'll overhaul their dunnage first for whisky and knives, then turn them to. Come on—I'm heeled."

They stepped out and advanced to the capstan amidships, each with a hand in his trousers pocket.

"Pile those bags against the capstan here, and go forrard," ordered the mate, in his most officer-like tone.

"Go to the devil," they answered. "What for?—they're our bags, not yours. Who in Sam Hill are you, anyhow? What are you? You talk like a p'liceman."

Before this irreverence could be replied to Bigpig Monahan advanced.

"Look here, old horse," he said; "I don't know whether you're captain or mate, or owner or cook; and I don't care, either. You had somethin' to say 'bout my eyes just now. Nature made my eyes, and I can't help how they look; but I don't allow any big bull-heads to make remarks 'bout 'em. You're spoilin' for somethin'. Put up your hands." He threw himself into an aggressive attitude, one mighty fist within six inches of Mr. Jackson's face.

"Go forrard," roared the officer, his gray eyes sparkling; "forrard, all o' you!"

"We'll settle this; then we'll go forrard. There'll be fair play; these men'll see to that. You'll only have me to handle. Put up."

Mr. Jackson did not "put up." He repeated again his order to go forward, and was struck on the nose—not a hard blow; just a preliminary tap, which started blood. He immediately drew his pistol and shot the man, who fell with a groan.

An expression of shock and horror over-spread every face among the crew, and they surged back, away from that murderous pistol. A momentary hesitance followed, then horror gave way to furious rage, and carnage began. Coats and vests were flung off, belaying-pins and capstan-bars seized; inarticulate, half-uttered imprecations punctuated by pistol reports drowned the storm of abuse with which the mates justified the shot, and two distinct bands of men swayed and zig-zagged about the deck, the center of each an officer fighting according to his lights—shooting as he could between blows of fists and clubs. Then the smoke of battle thinned, and two men with sore heads and bleeding faces retreated painfully and hurriedly to the cabin, followed by snarling maledictions and threats.

It was hardly a victory for either side. The pistols were empty and the fight taken out of the mates for a time; and on the deck lay three moaning men, while two others clung to the fife-rail, draining blood from limp, hanging arms. But eleven sound and angry men were left—and the officers had more ammunition. They entered their rooms, mopped their faces with wet towels, reloaded the firearms, pocketed the remaining cartridges, and returned to the deck, the mate carrying a small ensign.

"We'll run it up to the main, Becker," he said thickly,—for he suffered,—ignoring in his excitement the etiquette of the quarter-deck.

"Aye, aye," said the other, equally unmindful of his breeding. "Will we go for 'em again?" The problem had defined itself to Mr. Becker. These men would fight, but not shoot.

"No, no," answered the mate; "not unless they go for us and it's self-defense. They're not sailors—they don't know where they are. We don't want to get into trouble. Sailors don't act that way. We'll wait for the captain or the police." Which, interpreted, and plus the slight shade of anxiety showing in his disfigured face, meant that Mr. Jackson was confronted with a new phase of the problem: as to how much more unsafe it might be to shoot down, on the deck of a ship, men who did not know where they were, than to shoot down sailors who did. So, while the uninjured men were assisting the wounded five into the forecastle, the police flag was run up to the main-truck, and the two mates retired to the poop to wait and watch.

In a few moments the eleven men came aft in a body, empty-handed, however, and evidently with no present hostile intention: they had merely come for their clothes. But that dunnage had not been searched; and in it might be all sorts of dangerous weapons and equally dangerous whisky, the possession of which could bring an unpleasant solution to the problem. So Mr. Jackson and Mr. Becker leveled their pistols over the poop-rail, and the chief mate roared: "Let those things alone—let 'em alone, or we'll drop some more o' you."

The men halted, hesitated, and sullenly returned to the forecastle.

"Guess they've had enough," said Mr. Becker, jubilantly.

"Don't fool yourself. They're not used to blood-letting, that's all. If it wasn't for my wife and the kids I'd lower the dinghy and jump her; and it isn't them I'd run from, either. As it is, I've half a mind to haul down the flag, and let the old man settle it. Steward," he called to a mild-faced man who had been flitting from galley to cabin, unmindful of the disturbance, "go forrard and find out how bad those fellows are hurt. Don't say I sent you, though."

The steward obeyed, and returned with the information that two men had broken arms, two flesh-wounds in the legs, and one—the big man—suffered from a ragged hole through the shoulder. All were stretched out in bedless bunks, unwilling to move. He had been asked numerous questions by the others—as to where the ship was bound, who the men were who had shot them, why there was no bedding in the forecastle, the captain's whereabouts, and the possibility of getting ashore to swear out warrants. He had also been asked for bandages and hot water, which he requested permission to supply, as the wounded men were suffering greatly. This permission was refused, and the slight—very slight—nautical flavor to the queries, and the hopeful condition of the stricken ones, decided Mr. Jackson to leave the police flag at the masthead.

When dinner was served in the cabin, and Mr. Jackson sat down before a savory roast, leaving Mr. Becker on deck to watch, the steward imparted the additional information that the men forward expected to eat in the cabin.

"Hang it!" he mused; "they can't be sailormen."

Then Mr. Becker reached his head down the skylight, and said: "Raisin' the devil with the cook, sir—dragged him out o' the galley into the forecastle."

"Are they coming aft?"

"No, sir."

"All right. Watch out."

The mate went on eating, and the steward hurried forward to learn the fate of his assistant. He did not return until Mr. Jackson was about to leave the cabin. Then he came, with a wry face and disgust in his soul, complaining that he had been seized, hustled into the forecastle, and compelled, with the Chinese cook, to eat of the salt beef and pea-soup prepared for the men, which lay untouched by them. In spite of his aches and trouble of mind, Mr. Jackson was moved to a feeble grin.

"Takes a sailor or a hog to eat it, hey, Steward?" he said.

He relieved Mr. Becker, who ate his dinner hurriedly, as became a good second mate, and the two resumed their watch on the poop, noticing that the cook was jabbering Chinese protest in the galley, and that the men had climbed to the topgallant-forecastle—also watching, and occasionally waving futile signals to passing tugs or small sailing-craft. They, too, might have welcomed the police boat.

But, either because the Almena lay too far over on the Jersey flats for the flag to be noticed, or because harbor police share the fallibility of their shore brethren in being elsewhere when wanted, no shiny black steamer with blue-coated guard appeared to investigate the trouble, and it was well on toward three o'clock before a tug left the beaten track to the eastward and steamed over to the ship. The officers took her lines as she came alongside, and two men climbed the side-ladder—one, a Sandy Hook pilot, who need not be described; the other, the captain of the ship.

Captain Benson, in manner and appearance, was as superior to the smooth-shaven and manly-looking Mr. Jackson as the latter was to the misformed, hairy, and brutal second mate. With his fashionably cut clothing, steady blue eye, and refined features, he could have been taken for an easy-going club-man or educated army officer rather than the master of a working-craft. Yet there was no lack of seamanly decision in the leap he made from the rail to the deck, or in the tone of his voice as he demanded:

"What's the police flag up for, Mr. Jackson?"

"Mutiny, sir. They started in to lick me 'fore turning to, and we've shot five, but none of them fatally."

"Lower that flag—at once."

Mr. Becker obeyed this order, and as the flag fluttered down the captain received an account of the crew's misdoing from the mate. He stepped into his cabin, and returning with a double-barreled shot-gun, leaned it against the booby-hatch, and said quietly: "Call all hands aft who can come."

Mr. Jackson delivered the order in a roar, and the eleven men forward, who had been watching the newcomers from the forecastle-deck, straggled aft and clustered near the capstan, all of them hatless and coatless, shivering palpably in the keen December air. With no flinching of their eyes, they stared at Captain Benson and the pilot.

"Now, men," said the captain, "what's this trouble about? What's the matter?"

"Are you the captain here?" asked a red-haired, Roman-nosed man, as he stepped out of the group. "There's matter enough. We ship for a run down to Rio Janeiro and back in a big schooner; and here we're put aboard a square-rigged craft, that we don't know anything about, bound for Callao, and 'fore we're here ten minutes we're howled at and shot. Bigpig Monahan thinks he's goin' to die; he's bleedin'—they're all bleedin', like stuck pigs. Sorry Welch and Turkey Twain ha' got broken arms, and Jump Black and Ghost O'Brien got it in the legs and can't stand up. What kind o' work is this, anyhow?"

"That's perfectly right. You were shot for assaulting my officers. Do you call yourselves able seamen, and say you know nothing about square-rigged craft?"

"We're able seamen on the Lakes. We can get along in schooners. That's what we came down for."

Captain Benson's lips puckered, and he whistled softly. "The Lakes," he said—"lake sailors. What part of the Lakes?"

"Oswego. We're all union men."

The captain took a turn or two along the deck, then faced them, and said: "Men, I've been fooled as well as you. I would not have an Oswego sailor aboard my ship—much less a whole crew of them. You may know your work up there, but are almost useless here until you learn. Although I paid five dollars a man for you, I'd put you ashore and ship a new crew were it not for the fact that five wounded men going out of this ship requires explanations, which would delay my sailing and incur expense to my owners. However, I give you the choice—to go to sea, and learn your work under the mates, or go to jail as mutineers; for to protect my officers I must prosecute you all."

"S'pose we do neither?"

"You will probably be shot—to the last resisting man—either by us or the harbor police. You are up against the law."

They looked at each other with varying expressions on their faces; then one asked: "What about the bunks in the forecastle? There's no bedding."

"If you failed to bring your own, you will sleep on the bunk-boards without it."

"And that swill the Chinaman cooked at dinner-time—what about that?"

"You will get the allowance of provisions provided by law—no more. And you will eat it in the forecastle. Also, if you have neglected to bring pots, pans, and spoons, you will very likely eat it with your fingers. This is not a lake vessel, where sailors eat at the cabin table, with knives and forks. Decide this matter quickly."

The captain began pacing the deck, and the listening pilot stepped forward, and said kindly: "Take my advice, boys, and go along. You're in for it if you don't."

They thanked him with their eyes for the sympathy, conferred together for a few moments, then their spokesman called out: "We'll leave it to the fellers forrard, captain"; and forward they trooped. In five minutes they were back, with resolution in their faces.

"We'll go, captain," their leader said. "Bigpig can't be moved 'thout killin' him, and says if he lives he'll follow your mate to hell but he'll pay him back; and the others talk the same; and we'll stand by 'em—we'll square up this day's work."

Captain Benson brought his walk to a stop close to the shot-gun. "Very well, that is your declaration," he said, his voice dropping the conversational tone he had assumed, and taking on one more in accordance with his position; "now I will deliver mine. We sail at once for Callao and back to an American port of discharge. You know your wages—fourteen dollars a month. I am master of this ship, responsible to my owners and the law for the lives of all on board. And this responsibility includes the right to take the life of a mutineer. You have been such, but I waive the charge considering your ignorance of salt-water custom and your agreement to start anew. The law defines your allowance of food, but not your duties or your working- and sleeping-time. That is left to the discretion of your captain and officers. Precedent—the decision of the courts—has decided the privilege of a captain or officer to punish insolence or lack of respect from a sailor with a blow—of a fist or missile; but, understand me now, a return of the blow makes that man a mutineer, and his prompt killing is justified by the law of the land. Is this plain to you? You are here to answer and obey orders respectfully, adding the word 'sir' to each response; you are never to go to windward of an officer, or address him by name without the prefix 'Mr.'; and you are to work civilly and faithfully, resenting nothing said to you until you are discharged in an American port at the end of the voyage. A failure in this will bring you prompt punishment; and resentment of this punishment on your part will bring—death. Mr. Jackson," he concluded, turning to his first officer, "overhaul their dunnage, turn them to, and man the windlass."

A man—the bald-headed Sinful Peck—sprang forward; but his face was not cherubic now. His blue eyes blazed with emotion much in keeping with his sobriquet; and, raising his hand, the nervously crooking fingers of which made it almost a fist, he said, in a voice explosively strident:

"That's all right. That's your say. You've described the condition o' nigger slaves, not American voters. And I'll tell you one thing, right here—I'm a free-born citizen. I know my work, and can do it, without bein' cursed and abused; and if you or your mates rub my fur the wrong way I'm goin' to claw back; and if I'm shot, you want to shoot sure; for if you don't, I'll kill that man, if I have to lash my knife to a broom-handle, and prod him through his window when he's asleep."

But alas for Sinful Peck! He had barely finished his defiance when he fell like a log under the impact of the big mate's fist; then, while the pilot, turning his back on the painful scene, walked aft, nodding and shaking his head, and the captain's strong language and leveled shot-gun induced the men to an agitated acquiescence, the two officers kicked and stamped upon the little man until consciousness left him. Before he recovered he had been ironed to a stanchion in the 'tween-deck, and entered in the captain's official log for threatening life. And by this time the dunnage had been searched, a few sheath-knives tossed overboard, and the remaining ten men were moodily heaving in the chain.

And so, with a crippled crew of schooner sailors, the square-rigger Almena was towed to sea, smoldering rebellion in one end of her, the power of the law in the other—murder in the heart of every man on board.

Good Reading: "La Solitudine" by Pier Paolo Pasolini (in Italian)

Bisogna essere molto forti
per amare la solitudine; bisogna avere buone gambe
e una resistenza fuori dal comune; non si deve rischiare
raffreddore, influenza e mal di gola; non si devono temere
rapinatori o assassini; se tocca camminare
per tutto il pomeriggio o magari per tutta la sera
bisogna saperlo fare senza accorgersene; da sedersi non c’è;
specie d’inverno; col vento che tira sull’erba bagnata,
e coi pietroni tra l’immondizia umidi e fangosi;
non c’è proprio nessun conforto, su ciò non c’è dubbio,
oltre a quello di avere davanti tutto un giorno e una notte
senza doveri o limiti di qualsiasi genere.
Il sesso è un pretesto. Per quanti siano gli incontri
– e anche d’inverno, per le strade abbandonate al vento,
tra le distese d’immondizia contro i palazzi lontani,
essi sono molti – non sono che momenti della solitudine;
più caldo e vivo è il corpo gentile
che unge di seme e se ne va,
più freddo e mortale è intorno il diletto deserto;
è esso che riempie di gioia, come un vento miracoloso,
non il sorriso innocente, o la torbida prepotenza
di chi poi se ne va; egli si porta dietro una giovinezza
enormemente giovane; e in questo è disumano,
perché non lascia tracce, o meglio, lascia solo una traccia
che è sempre la stessa in tutte le stagioni.
Un ragazzo ai suoi primi amori
altro non è che la fecondità del mondo.
E’ il mondo così arriva con lui; appare e scompare,
come una forma che muta. Restano intatte tutte le cose,
e tu potrai percorrere mezza città, non lo ritroverai più;
l’atto è compiuto, la sua ripetizione è un rito. Dunque
la solitudine è ancora più grande se una folla intera
attende il suo turno: cresce infatti il numero delle sparizioni –
l’andarsene è fuggire – e il seguente incombe sul presente
come un dovere, un sacrificio da compiere alla voglia di morte.
Invecchiando, però, la stanchezza comincia a farsi sentire,
specie nel momento in cui è appena passata l’ora di cena,
e per te non è mutato niente: allora per un soffio non urli o piangi;
e ciò sarebbe enorme se non fosse appunto solo stanchezza,
e forse un po’ di fame. Enorme, perché vorrebbe dire
che il tuo desiderio di solitudine non potrebbe essere più soddisfatto
e allora cosa ti aspetta, se ciò che non è considerato solitudine
è la solitudine vera, quella che non puoi accettare?
Non c’è cena o pranzo o soddisfazione del mondo,
che valga una camminata senza fine per le strade povere
dove bisogna essere disgraziati e forti, fratelli dei cani.