# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 18/Number 6/The Romance of Lighthouse Tim

Extracted from Red Book magazine, Chicago, April 1912, pp. 801–815. Illustrations by W. H. D. Koerner may be omitted.
This is the first of a series of stories in which Mr. Bechdolt recounts the adventures of “Lighthouse Tom.” The next story in the series will appear in the April issue—Editor.”
The Romance of Lighthouse Tom
By Frederick R. Bechdolt.
Co-Author of “9009,” etc.
I ENTERED the Street of Foreign Parts, where Lighthouse Tom keeps his saloon for fishers and sailormen. Really it is not a street, but a neighborhood, a neighborhood of old wooden buildings most of which lean back wearily as if they were tired from standing through all the years and wanted rest, a back-water into which the swirling tides of humanity overflow at times from other thoroughfares. The windows of the saloons and boarding houses have many panes, and the buildings have false fronts or mansard roofs. The paint upon them is blistered by sun and faded by wind. Such places are the homes of stories. In the hope of hearing one, I went straight to the saloon of Lighthouse Tom.
I had been there a week before, when the men of the cod and salmon fleets were spending their advance money. The memory of roaring voices singing deep sea chanteys, tattooed fists as huge as hams, and boasts that contained the meat of epics had lured me back again. But the dingy room was silent as I stepped down from the sidewalk through the front door. Only the dents upon the bar remained to tell the tale of the tattooed fists whose owners were already well on their way toward Bering Sea and the retreating ice packs. A grizzled old ex-skipper was in command. Lighthouse Tom, he said, would be back directly.
So I sat down at a little round table, littered with old copies of the Coast Seamen's Journal; and I waited. The parrot in the corner struck up “Weigh Hey! Blow a man down!” as I was settling myself in my chair; but he subsided at once, and refused to answer my entreaties for more with aught but a solitary string of forecastle profanity. Yet even in the depressing silence of the bird, and the old mariner behind the bar, it was worth while to wait. For Lighthouse Tom was what some persons call “material;” and I was dry of stories as a new sponge is dry of water.
A giant was Lighthouse Tom, a giant with silver hair. He had a voice that boomed like surf on a hard sand beach when a three days' blow is over, His eye was bright as a boy's. And behind him he had life—life that was rich in many things that I longed to hear: in closeness to death, in battle, and—this I was to learn—in sweet romance. He had listened to the secrets of the Seven Seas and he had tasted the hot joys of fifty ports. They called him Lighthouse Tom in accordance with a custom of the cod fishing fleet. It was this way: He got lost in his dory one ugly afternoon on Bering Sea. All night he drifted about, and the next day. The blow that had carried him beyond the skyline had scattered the schooners, and it so happened that one of them ran across him when night was falling the second time. They dragged him on deck, half frozen and three-quarters dead. The one quarter that lived hung grimly on; and what had come close to a tragedy became the basis for a nickname. From that time he remained Lighthouse Tom in memory of the fact that he had peered into the darkness that covers the deep, from dusk until the next dawn.
He came in before long. I stared at him: for such men as he are made for flannel shirts and rough clothing, and he was clad this afternoon in sober black. A frock coat came to his knees; it was of ancient style. His shoes shone with polish. He wore a derby hat. His neck, crevassed with many criss-cross lines, was constricted within the lofty circlet of a white collar. No giant looks at home in such garb as this. Even as I stared, Lighthouse Tom's muscles seemed to be trying to burst their bonds. As quickly as he could, taking time only to nod in my direction, he went behind the bar and removed his neck-gear and then his hat and coat. In shirtsleeves, he poured himself a drink and winked over to me as he swallowed it. He fumbled with the button at the back of his neck-band, loosened it and moved his head from side to side.
“There,” said he. “That feels better.”
“A wedding?” I queried.
“No, lad, a funeral. We buried Mother Martin this afternoon.”
Now the fame of Mother Martin was as ill as it was wide, and it reached as far as there was salt water. Of all the crimps on San Francisco's city front none had shanghai more hapless sailormen than she. Although she was before my time, I had heard many tales about her grog shop where the new sea-wall now stands. It used to be out over the tide on piles, and in the days of smuggling they lifted the opium and Chinamen from small boats through a trap door in the floor. But chiefly I knew about her as a boarding master (mistress would be implying a femininity of method which she never owned). Even in these latter years, when the ills that they had suffered were but memories, many cursed her name. Therefore I exclaimed.
“Me and the Missus,” said Lighthouse Tom, “was out to the funeral. 'Twas the Missus made me wear them.” He pointed to the discarded coat and haberdashery. “We went because we had good reason for to go. Right you are when you talk of Mother Martin, and you do not know much about her no way: not half the ill she done nor a tenth part as far as that goes—only the yarns of a few wore-out seamen that ye've had in tow, buying whisky for them over my bar so they would talk. She was a bad one. I know it; but I know she had a heart in her and 'twas in the right place. Stand by a bit and I'll be with you.”
He busied himself among the bottles, selected a square one with a swelling in its neck, and took a pair of long glasses from the shelf. He came over to where I was and sat down heavily. “An old dog fer a hard road, the sayin' goes,” said he. “I'll tell ye what it is: I'm gettin' old and I do not find it that way. Me legs is weary from standin' in the cemetery, and the wind out there chilled me. 'Dust to dust,' says the preacher man, and the dust from the grave blowed into me face whilst we was lowerin' her away. Yes, lad, I was one of the bearers, and there is no man had better reason to do that turn for Mother Martin. The time was when me heart was like black pizen ag'in her, and I had cause fer that, too. But things come different.”
We drank our liquor and Lighthouse Tom began amusing himself with the parrot, while I fidgeted. Finally, “Tell me,” I said. “What was it happened to you and Mother Martin?”
He grinned as he said: “You always want a yarn. I've laughed many a time watchin' ye pump the fishermen. Didn't I ever tell ye how I courted the Missus?”
Once, indeed, he had tantalized me with a bare mention of that romance. I reminded him. “You only told me that she could not speak English and you did not know a word of her language,” I said.
“True enough,” said Lighthouse Tom. “The Missus never passed a word with me—that is, no word that I knew the meanin' of—nor I with her until after the preacher man had made all fast. I could not handle Portugee and she could not lay her tongue to any English. Fill up again, lad, I'll spin it. But it's a windy yarn, and goes back long before I ever clapped eyes on her in front of her old man's second-hand store. We'll make our start with Mother Martin.
“I first seen her along in the early 'eighties, the second time I was shanghaied. In them days, ye know, blood money went high and the crimps was makin' it hand over fist. I've knowed a hell ship to pay as much as a hundred dollars for an ordinary seaman, and that was frequent too. Well, none of the whole crowd of them was busier than Mother Martin. Her boardin' house was like the bulk of them, a grog shop below and sleepin' quarters aloft. Like it is with this saloon of mine, ye had to take one step down, comin' in from the street. Ye never laid yer eyes on Mother Martin, did ye? A big woman, wide, with shoulders like a man; and she always kept her hair cut short off like a man. She had a face would stop a clock. And she had long, crooked fingers.
“Now, when ye took that step down comin' in the door, if ye had too much liquor aboard ye was likely to pitch for'ard and fetch up on the floor. If ye had full pockets, the money wud jingle. Then Mother Martin would be alongside while ye was still on yer beam ends, ready to give ye a hand when ye come to right yerself. If she did not go through your pockets, 'twas because ye was not so drunk as ye looked to be. When I come into her joint I was holding an even keel. A lively night after two years at sea and money left to spend yet. I had it in mind to stay ashore for a month or two.
“But the Star of Asia needed men and the skipper had offered seventy-five dollars blood money. I knowed that too, but a sailor is a fool when the whisky gets to work inside of him. I begun spending me money over her bar and telling all hands my plans. She got me right in tow. Hard and fast she had me with a game of talk about her needin' a bartender, and me lookin' a likely man fer the place. We sat down in the back room at a table and she bought the drinks.
“'I want,' says she, 'a man that knows the sailor byes. Have another drink, Lighthouse Tom.'
“I took it and I could taste the knock-out drops that she had slipped into the glass. I got to me feet and already I felt the white stuff going aloft in me. I started fer the door.
“'Not so fast,' says she. 'Bide here a bit.' I shook her loose, and me head was spinning like a top. I'd made a step or two, when the bullies come in on a run from the bar. They piled on top of me. I managed to clout one alongside the nose, and to this day he wears it sideways on his face. But it was no use: they was all over me and the chloral was working; no man could carry that deckload that I had. I went to the floor under five of them.
Mother Martin throwed a bight of rope over my heels; I felt the hitches chawing at my shins as she made it fast. She took another turn about me wrists, and the last thing I heard from her, she was cursing me as they lowered me away through the hatch in the floor. I went to sleep in The Star of Asia's boat and I never come to me senses until we was outside the Golden Gate, with the water washing me about in the lee scuppers.
“My wrists and ankles was all swelled from the ropes. And when I come to look into the dunnage bag that Mother Martin had sent along with me, I found it filled with two or three women's petticoats and a busted accordion. A three years v'y'ge around The Horn too! Nasty weather come 'arly, and stayed late. Many's the black night when I was hanging on aloft with the wind biting me to the bone, and six months wages gone into the slop chist for the rags that I had on, that I cursed the that old she vulture and swore I'd even our score if it took me till hell froze over.
“Lad, ye do not know what a deep sea sailor had to stand in them days. The skipper was a crank and the mate was a hairy devil. I laid it all up with the reckoning I was to have with Mother Martin. Many an hour on deck and in me bunk I figured out my course and framed it up how I would find her when I come back to port. I would go straight down East Street, taking care to be just drunk enough; and I would clean out her joint from stem to starn. I would spile what I could lay my hands on, including her and the customers.
“All v'y'ges has to come to an end one way or another. One day I come ashore again in 'Frisco. In me pockets was twenty dollars. I was so set on what was laid ahead of me, that I shook my ship mates fer fear of spending too much treating them. I had it in my mind to let go of a dollar or two tanking up, and to hold to the rest fer to pay me fine. Fill up again, lad. 'Tis a windy yarn. We'll be sighting the Missus pretty quick.
“I was taking my second drink, down on East Street, when some one started a fight in the place that I was in. I had no wish to mix in anybody else's anybody fun with me own waiting fer me down the line. So I slipped my cable as soon as the fists began to fly. I wasn't really hot enough with whisky fer to do things up ship-shape, so I took me bearings like, on the edge of the sidewalk. 'The City of Antwerp' lay dead ahead and round the corner was 'The Bells of Shandon.' It was in the spring of the year and the fishermen would be blowing in their advance money; I knowed that I would be likely to fetch up with some old mates of mine in one of them two places, and it come to me that they would stick with me in this proposition. I was about to make for the 'Antwerp,' when I caught sight of the Missus.”
Lighthouse Tom paused and his clear old eyes went far away.
“She was standing in the door of her old man's second-hand store. The building's been tore down fer twenty year; even then 'twas ready to go to pieces. One of them holes, it was, where sailor men buys mouth-organs and Kanaka water when they're in port and where the boarding masters gets the worn out sea-boots they put in the dunnage bags. All was dark inside; but she was in the sun. I clapped my eyes on her, and something struck me all in a heap.
“I think it was the eyes of her. For she was looking square at me. Many a pair of eyes I've seed in my time, but this would be the last I would look into one of any woman's. I did not think it; it never come to my mind. But I knowed it as if I had allys knowed it. I stood there and I fergot 'The City of Antwerp' and 'The Bells of Shandon' and Mother Martin. I fergot all of them: I only seen that girl's black eyes. They was soft as water; and the hair of her was dead black; now it's near as white as mine.
“The sidewalk was full of sea-faring men. I started straight toward her. I crossed the bows of two; I tromped all over the toes of a big nigger mate from off a Honolulu packet and had some words with him. But in them days, drunk or sober, I always got what leeway I wanted. I walked up beside her and I give her good afternoon. She sort of smiled; it was the way a kid smiles up at you; and she said something back in Portugee. The words come off her tongue like singing. I cursed myself for not knowing of her language. Says I: 'Can't you talk English, Miss?'
“And then Old Pedro called out from the shop, like the croakin' of a parrot: 'What is it ye want to buy?'
“That was the first I'd noticed of the place. I cast a look about and seen where I was and I sung out that I was lookin' fer silk handkerchiefs.
“'Come in, then,' says he; and I passed on in. A little old man Pedro, all battered up by wind and hard weather; he was all crooked in his back and when he talked, the words came like the gratin' of rusty iron from his skinny throat. He showed me forty kinds of handkerchiefs. Never one of them did I see, you can lay to that. For from the side of my eye, lad, I was takin' observations of his daughter in the doorway; and I seen her eyes come sidelong to me. Well, at last the old man begun to get surly, and I took a chance at half a dozen; pea-green and red they turned out to be afterwards. I laid my money on the counter and he was a-wrappin' of them up, when all to once the place went dark like to a shadow. I seen a man standing there in the doorway.
“He took up all the way there was; his head come to the top, and his shoulders touched both sides. Big as a house, and his face was all black with coal dust. I seen the whites of his eyes and the streak of his teeth and then I seen him lay his big, black paw on the girl's shoulder. Old Pedro looked up at me and then out at him. 'Here's yer handkerchiefs, Jack,' he says, cool enough. I grabbed them up. There was no two ways about it; this big hulk of a coal heaver had the run of things so far as Old Pedro went. And just as plain was the lay of things in the other quarter. I could see the girl sort of a pulling back and in like to get from under that hairy, black paw of his. I went out with all sails on and a fair wind. If ye ever got a distress signal from a pair of eyes, ye know what I got while I was bearing down on them.
“So I did not wait fer gangway, but started to clear one fer meself. 'What the hell are ye a-doing?' says the coal-heaver. And I says: 'Give me room, can't ye?' So we each got a good square look at the other between the eyes.”
Lighthouse Tom arose from his place and went behind the bar. He came back with his pipe and a sack of tobacco. He sat down again and packed the bowl with golden crumbs, slowly and carefully, as old men always do it. He lighted up and smoked a moment.
“I wonder why it is that things come about the way they do,” he said. “I cannot tell ye why or how this was, lad. But when I found my bearin's out there on the sidewalk after me and the coal-heaver had shoved other about there in the doorway, I knowed two things. One was that I was going to have that girl. The other was that I was going to tear the block off Big Joe's shoulders. That was his name. Windy Davis told me in the 'Bells of Shandon' when I fetched up there a minute later on.
“'Big Joe is that they calls him,' says Windy. 'He's bully of the Comax Bunkers' gang and he owns a fightin' bull dog. He's going to marry Old Pedro's Annette next Sunday.'
“'He'll own a face his mother never will know,' says I, 'when I get done with him!' And I left the place without buying a drink.
“Or taking a drink either, lad. I'll take my oath I did not touch a drop that night, or for days after. I met a dozen old shipmates, and I passed them by. I was drunk with something stronger than East Street whisky. The only thing inside of me was the looks of Annette as I had seen her. I seen her yet, as her eyes come out to my eyes when I was standin' by there on the sidewalk—and the way they locked when Big Joe clamped his hairy, black paw down on top of her. I could not drink if I had wanted to.
“Ye've seen the compass needle swinging to the north. I headed straight back for Old Pedro's second-hand shop. There was no one in the door now. I went on by and I come back down East Street ag'in. Ten or a dozen times I passed, and I got no sign of her. Then I went inside; and Old Pedro sold me a pair of blue silk suspenders. I'd never wore that sort of tackle in me life, nor wanted to. Annette did not show her head, in spite of my takin' a half-hour to make the dicker. Late that evenin' I sighted her again.
“She was in the door this time. I fetched up on the sidewalk. She seen me there; her eyes come to my eyes. And then Old Pedro sung out to her from inside and she went back to him. But she cast a look over her shoulder while she was making for him. I went to a lodging house uptown that night fer fear of crimps.
“That's the truth. I wasn't aiming to be shanghaied from this port so long as there was any chanst to see that lass. I was not bothering my head with anything only that. I got up the next morning and I patrolled East Street all day long. Two times that day I found meself inside Old Pedro's store buying the first thing come to hand. I loaded up with all sorts of foolish junk. A jewsharp and a bottle of perfumery was in me pockets when I went to bed the next night. But I had seen Annette three times, and once she had smiled at me.
“It got so the third day that I was all upset-like and ugly, thinkin' about the one thing. Big Joe was to get spliced to her on Sunday; I could not get that out of my head. The more I thought of it, the more I hung about the place. She did not show her face, although I stood by from 'arly in the morning till supper time. That evenin' I come down East Street and there she was. As soon as sighted her I come straight to her. I went up slow this time; for she was looking into the eyes of me and I was looking into hers. When I seen them, I did not know anything else. I had to say something, so I give her good-evening; she shook her head the same as she had done before and smiled up at me. I stood alongside her, looking down at her, when all of a sudden like, I seen her pull back and go as white as paper. I whirled and there was Big Joe bearing down on me.
“I am some s1ze of a man, lad, but even in them days when I was a bully boy and my back was straighter than it is now, I was a kid beside Big Joe. Bows on, he come; his face was black with coal dust and the whites of his eyes was rollin'. He never said a word, but his big fists was swingin' alongside of him as he bore down on me. I come about for the collision.
“I knowed them coalheavers of old and I seen how he was like the rest of them, all muscle-bound from handling heavy scoops. A sailor man is handier and I was better with me hands than most sailors—or fishermen either, for the matter of that. Such hulks as him was meat and drink fer me. I laughed in his teeth and ducked when he swung fer me. It was the biggest fool thing I ever done, but I was drunk from looking into Annette's eyes. It left me clost in on him and he grappled me.
“I felt his big paws clamping down fast and hard and my bones was like water under them. My feet come clear of the sidewalk and my heart turned sick inside of me as he swung me aloft. He lifted me like a man dandling a baby and then he hove me like I was a bit of old timber that he had picked up. I smashed down on the little shelf where Old Pedro had put out his second-hand junk fer show. I busted through it and the sea boots and oilskins scattered on all sides. It was like falling from the topsail yards; it jarred the teeth loose in me mouth; and for the first time since I was a boy runnin' away from home, I was seasick. I found my feet and righted meself, and as I was coming up with my head spinnin' like a top, I got sight of Annette. She was dead white, and her eyes was like two beacons flaming on a still night. She had not stirred, only to pull back a bit where she was standin'. I seen her; and I fergot the churning inside of me; I come back to Big Joe on a run.
“Head on we two come together again. From the tail of me eye, I could see the crowd begin to gather; and I had sense enough to wonder where the cops was. By some good luck they was busy in another quarter. So it was him and me for it, and the lass standing by—close quarters too! He swung and I swung. I never seen a man need so much leeway fer his fists as he did. I stood inside of them and felt the wind of them whistle by my head. I knew what I was doing now; there was no more wrastling. I took care of that. I played the devil's tattoo on his ribs and then I got my chanst. He had drawed back to fetch me one with his right that would have killed me if he had landed it. While it was a-coming I smashed him in the middle of his black face. I felt his nose crunch under me knuckles and the blood flew over the two of us. I didn't know it then, but this is what I done to me hand.”
Lighthouse Tom laid his great fist on the table, and showed me two knuckles driven back a half an inch below the others.
“It dazed him just a little bit. I seen his head fly back an inch or so. I slipped my right fer his jaw and went wide. He roared like a bull and made a grab for me. I pulled clear just as he got his fingers on my coat; it tore away like rotten paper. He throwed the pieces from him, and I took the time while he was doing that to come again. I reached low to get him where it was soft. I felt his stomach give and I heard him cough as my fist sunk into him. Then I stepped back and swung with all that was in me. You could hear the crack fer half a block as I landed on his jaw. He was capsizing as I caught him with the other; and that put him down like a bag of nails. I straightened up and seen Annette in the door.
“Lad, I was young then, and she was but a lass. It's passing strange how things is with young people; it's another matter when your blood is runnin' cold and thin. But then! There was no word between us.
“When I had looked into them eyes of hern before, I had got signals. There was something had pulled me to her; and it had made me afraid of her—bashful-like, as if she had said, 'Stand by, but give me berth.' Now it was not that way at all. The red was coming back into her face; her mouth was a little open so that I seen the white teeth of her. And her eyes was all big and soft with something that I could not name. I could not tell ye why it was or how; but I stepped over Big Joe's hulk, and I took her by the hand. 'Come on, lass,' I says.
“And she slipped her hand in mine. We went away. We passed through the pack of them on the sidewalk, and they give us leeway as we come. We headed down East Street. I was not thinking of anything, only that I had her now, in tow. We just walked away together. never so much as wondered about Old Pedro. 'T'was long, long afterwards she told me that he'd gone out that night and left her to mind the shop, and that she'd been waiting in the doorway hoping to get sight of me. But now we said nothing; if we could have talked, I do not think we would have.
“We had gone a block or so when I come to meself enough to know that we had to make all sail so long as there was a fair wind. We turned one corner and then another and then we headed southward. I shook one sleeve of me coat—'twas all that was left of it—free of my arm and I wiped some of Big Joe's blood off of me face with the back of me hand. We passed the steamship docks and come into the nest of little sheds and shacks and small slips where they have built the seawall. All the time we were holding to each other's hands. I looked at her and seen her face turned up to mine, like a little child's. And then I remembered.
“Ye see a sailorman is a fool when he is in port; he does not know the ways of the land. I knowed then that we two was in trouble, but that was all that come to me—only fer this, that she was mine and I could kiss the feet of her. But what to do I did not know. As I was looking into her big, black eyes, wondering, I heard some one a-calling of me name. I turned to see who that might be, and there was Mother Martin.
“She was standing in front of her grog shop, and her face was savage as a hungry shark's. But at that, she hardly took a look at me; she turned her gimlet eyes on the lass.
“'Lighthouse Tom!' she had sung out, as ugly as might be. And so I give answer. 'What is it ye want with me?' says I.
“'What be ye a-doing with Old Pedro's Annette?' says she. It come from her mouth like captain's orders; but all the time she was scowling at the lass.
“I stood fast and looked at her, and then I looked at Annette. She smiled up at me. So I made answer to Mother Martin. 'She's mine,' says I. 'That's what I'm a-doing with her.'
“Mother Martin never give me one look then, but she stiffened up and took two wide steps. She planted herself dead ahead of us. 'Give way,' says I, 'or I'll make it, if ye be a woman. I've a reckonin' to make with ye as it is.'
“She paid no heed, but said some words in Portugee to the girl. And the lass give answer in the same tongue. They swapped words fer as much as a minute, and I begun to feel foolish.
“There's nothing I know, can make a man look like a bigger fool to himself than when two women is talking and he does not know what it is about. I had no wind in my sails at all, when Mother Martin cocked her head with the gray hair on it trimmed as snug as mine is now, and looked me in the eye.
“'Now, ye big hulk,' says she, 'what is this I hear? Where be ye a-headin' fer?' Her face was different than I ever see it, or any other man. 'Is this on the square?' she says.
“And then I seen what it was and got me bearin's-like. And I give answer: 'Mother Martin, I want ye should stow her away somewheres while I go and get the papers to marry her.'
“Now why that was I couldn't tell ye, lad. Here I was, ye might say, on a new tack. I'd mapped me course all out for to clean out Mother Martin's joint—and I was askin' her to take Annette in tow. But there was this. I could see with half an eye that she was aiming for to help the lass, and she was on the square about it, too. And, as the saying goes, any port in a storm. God knows there was heavy weather ahead, too.
“'Come inside,' says Mother Martin.
“She left me in the bar-room—'twas empty of others—and took Annette aloft somewheres. They fussed up there for some time—I finished the job of wiping Big Joe's blood off me face, the while. My left hand was swelled the size of a tackle block and hurting me something awful. At last Mother Martin come down and when she clapped an eye on them bum knuckles she give me some cold water and arnicky. While I was swobbing off that fist, she talked to me. If ever ye heard one of them lawyer sharks when he has run afoul of a bad witness, ye know what I got from her. She searched me fore and aft with questions. I made answer to all of them and told her what had happened. She knowed Old Pedro and all about Big Joe and all about the weddin' that was to come off on Sunday. She said as much, and she heard my yarn out. When I had done she went and locked the front door.
“'This dump,' says she, 'is closed down fer to-night. Now hark to what I tell ye, Lighthouse Tom. Ye will get no marriage license to-morrow nor the next day. I'm in command here, and ye will sail under my orders or I'll know the reason why. Mind that! I'll stow ye away here so that no one will find ye and we'll see what is to-come out of this. Ye've got yer courtin' to do now. See that ye do it right.'”
The door had swung open to a pair of longshoremen, and for several minutes they had been waiting in front of the bar. Lighthouse Tom arose slowly and went to serve them. He drank with them and chaffed them while I put in my time trying to get conversation from the parrot.
“A surly bird,” said he, when he had seated himself again at the little table. “He's his own idees of when he wants to talk. He's got more sense than me, that way. Let's drink.”
We drank and he was silent for a while.
“It's funny,” said he at length, “how I took me orders from Mother Martin. She had the helm from that time on. I slept there that night without sight of Annette. And after that, for a week, I had me hours every day. Always Mother Martin was in the room with the two of us—setting there alongside, with her knitting in her lap, keepin' one eye on the needles and the other on me. That's the way I done my courtin', lad, as proper as any man ever did it.
“'What was it like?' ye ask. Well, not much said, that's true for you. I could not talk Portugee and the lass could not lay her tongue to English. Yes, I did talk some—the same things a man always says, I guess, And there was times when she talked back—and them was the same things a girl always says, I would not wonder. Sort of holding me off, I should judge. Not that I ever tried to make free with her. Once I did manage to slip me arm about her when Mother Martin was not looking, but I cast loose in a hurry when her old eyes come back, ye can lay to that. And Annette was not like she had been when I took her in tow down East Street. No, sir. When a woman has the helm, she likes to hold it and she did sort of like to hold me to my course—that's sure. Ye see Mother Martin was always talkin' with her in Portugee, and 'twas one man ag'in two women. I had the worst of it. A good thing too, fer if it had not been so, if we had not run afoul of Mother Martin, lad, ye see I'd have had me own way. And a sailor is a sailor.
“So, for seven days, I was laid by the heels in Mother Martin's boardin' house, keepin' clost durin' the main part of the time and every evenin' sittin' there doing my courting. What need is there to remember the things that was said? We could not understand them. I looked at her and she looked at me, and that was the whole of it.
“Now, Mother Martin used to slip out and cruise around every mornin'. She brought back the news of Old Pedro and Big Joe. They was scourin' the city front and Stewart Street making search for us two. But no one had knowledge of where we had gone. There was no boarders in the place, and none was took on that week. At the end of it, Mother Martin come to me. 'Twas in the arternoon.
“'Ye can slip out now,' says she, 'and get the marriage license. See to it that ye go uptown by way of the back streets. The lass is of age, but that wont do ye any good if Old Pedro or Big Joe gets wind of ye. So if ye've sense in that thick head of yours ye'll steer a roundabout course and keep a sharp lookout. And don't come back here till after dark. I know a preacher man will tie the knot. While ye're gone, I'll go and see him.'
“It was the first time I'd tasted fresh air for a week; I was all stiff from laying low so long. I got clear of the city front and bought the license up at the county clerk's office. I paid three dollars fer it, and come back that evenin' with one lonely ten dollar piece in me pockets.
“Mother Martin was behind the bar polishin' up whisky glasses. She give me a sharp look and asked fer the license. I hauled it out and she cast an eye over it.
“'And now,' says she, 'ye'll lose no time. What with keepin' an eye on ye and barrin' the dure to good customers, ye've spiled me trade fer a week. The girl is makin' herself ready. Ye know the preacher man, Fightin' Garge that runs the mission on the Barbary Coast. He will be standin' by fer ye. But first ye two will sup with me. The custom is,' says she, 'fer to eat after the ceremony. But we'll run no chances. There may be squalls ahead. I seen one of Big Joe's gang hanging about the neighborhood whilst ye was comin' down the block,' she says.
“Annette come down the stairs. Mother Martin locked the door. The lass was all decked out with colors flyin'. Mother Martin had give her the makin's of a dress and she had pieced it together while she was stowed away. Ah, lad, but she was good to look at then. My eyes was glued.
“'Come on,' says Mother Martin, and the three of us went into the back room. It was the first time I'd been there since the night they'd laid me by the heels. I looked about me, and I seen Mother Martin come as near to a grin as that face of hers could manage to make it. But there was nothing said by either one of us. The round table where many a lad has set down before that day and sence to get the knockout drops that world, was sence to get the knockout drops that would send him around the world, was all rigged out with a white cloth and chiny cups and saucers. A meal was there that made me mouth water at the sight of it. 'Set down,' says Mother Martin. 'Ye two on that side.' She took her place acrost from us. It made me feel queer settin' there alongside Annette, and it come to me that here we was, all ship-shape like man and wife. I looked into her eyes and they was all soft and wet, looking into mine.
“'Come,' says Mother Martin, 'Lighthouse Tom, ye can kiss yer girl—the bride to be,' says she. I kissed Annette and my heart went soft inside of me.
“It was strange to be there with Annette, in that same room where I had been shanghaied three years before. And Mother Martin waitin' on us two, as if we was skipper and mate and she was cabin boy. While we was in the middle of it some one tried the front door.
“Mother Martin jumped to her feet and slipped upstairs to a little peephole she used for a look-out station in stormy weather. Directly she come back as quiet as a cat, and I seen from her face that there was something in the wind.
“'Look lively there,' she says in a whisper, 'Big Joe and Old Pedro is outside and there's half a dozen bullies along with them.'
“I got up and started for the door. 'Ye fool,' says she and gripped me by the shoulder so that her long fingers sunk into my hide, 'this is no time for fightin'. Do ye want to lose yer wife before ye have her spliced? There's two coppers in that bunch.'
“She lifted the table with the tea things on it to one side; and there was the hatch that I had been lowered through the last time I was in the room. She dropped on her knees and opened it by an iron ring. Down below ye could hear the washing of the tide ag'in' the piles. 'Lively!' says she. 'Ye lubber! rhere's a dory moored straight below. Ye should know the way. Move! Damn yer eyes!' While she was whispering, the poundin' of fists come on the front door. She cursed me as handy as a bucko mate on a Blackball liner. I cast one look at Annette; her face was white, but her eyes was full on me. I dropped into the dory. Even then, while I could hear the fists hammering on the door, and could see Mother Martin taking the lass in her arms to lower her away to me, I wondered for what poor devil of a sailorman that dory had been left here this night. But I said nothing; there was not the time if I had wanted to. I grabbed Annette as she come down to me, and I felt the soft, warm breath from her mouth on my neck. I placed her in the bow and cast off. Mother Marin dropped the hatch with a bang.
“The tide was on the ebb, runnin' like a mill-race; it was dark as the inside of a cow. I grabbed the oars just as we come broadside ag'in' a pile. Annette picked up the boathook and fended us off just in time to save us from capsizing. As it was we shipped a tubful of water. I give way then with all that was in me and we headed out fer the harbor. Lucky for us, Annette had learned to handle a boat when she was a kid and Old Pedro was a fisherman with a little sloop at Meiggs wharf. She got an odd oar and shipped it fer a rudder.
“It was like rowing through a patch of woods; the piles was on all sides and dead ahead. The lass was coxswain and I could just make out the wave of her hand as she signaled from time to time. Twice we fetched up ag'in' one of them piles and my heart come up into my mouth. At last we come out under God's sky. I settled down and pulled for the north.
“Annette was on feet her her with hands on the steering oar; I could see her eyes shinin' through the gray of the night. Down the harbor we went and we come among the shipping. We hugged the shore and was going in and out past the starns of the steamers in their slips when all of a sudden the lass lifted one hand. I rested on my oars and we listened. Hard astarn come the noise of thumping rowlocks. I turned my head and took a squint for'ard over my shoulder. We was abreast the Ferry buildin' and one of the Oakland boats was coming out from her slip. I seen there was just time to cross her bows.
“I give way till me back cracked with the pullin' and the dory was jumping out of the water. As as it was I had misjudged a little, givin' the tide too much to do fer us; we passed so close that I could hear the foam hissing ag'in' the cutwater of her. As we cleared I seen the paddle wheel smashing down a yard astarn. Things was bilin' fer a minute, and we was pitched about like a cork. The glare of the cabin lights come all over us. But we had made it, and what was more, the others was obliged to slow up to let her pass. I took advantage of the lead and pulled until my chest seemed to be busting. We passed astarn of another boat and crossed the bows of a sea-going tug. It looked as if the gang behind had lost us fer good.
“But when we was nearing the foot of Broadway I caught the sound of their oars ag'in. Some one was sweating, ye can lay to that. And then a hail come to us. It was Old Pedro. His voice did not croak now; it sounded like a man in sore distress. I seen Annette pass one hand acrost her eyes. And then she clinched her steering oar again.
“In them days there was a little dock under the lee of Telegraph Hill and a slip where small craft used to get moorings. I knowed that there was neither fence nor watchman about that wharf. I pointed to it, and Annette bobbed her head. We made the turn and fetched up at the bottom of a crazy old ladder that the boatman made use of. The two of us went up it like a pair of sailors going aloft when the mate is cursing with a rope's-end in his fist. From the harbor come one last hail. Old Pedro was begging. Annette grabbed me by the arm; I could feel her shaking like a leaf; I looked down and seen her cheek was wet with tears. I kissed her, and she smiled then. And sudden like, she pulled me for'ard.
“We climbed Telegraph Hill and we went down to the Barbary Coast. The lights of the dance halls was blazing and the sailormen was crowding the side-walk, drunk and fighting and singing like they allys is. We went straight through the ruck of them and found the mission. The preacher man was on the platform up for'ard and the seats was full of men. In the door, Annette pulled back a little. I kissed her again; and then we went together down the main gangway. All sorts of men was there, but mostly drunks and other old derelicts. The preacher seen us comin' and he said something to them, I don't remember what; but he hove to in his talk.
“I told him how it was; we had to hurry if we wanted this thing done at all. He asked for the license and cast an eye on it. Then he stood us up and went to work. And, lad, while we two was standing alongside of one another, and he was making all fast, Annette spoke her first English. He asked her the question about signing the articles with me. And she says, 'Yes,' right back at him. Ye see, old Mother Martin had drilled that into her. And women catches onto such things mighty handy.
“Well, Old Pedro and Big Joe and the gang of them did not come. It turned out afterwards how they lost their bearings there at the landing place. They never run acrost us that night. As we was going out of the mission, I remembered what was needing to be done, and I went back and slipped the preacher man the ten-dollar gold-piece. It was all the change I had. We went back by the lighted streets to Mother Martin's. I had the signed articles in my pocket and there was no man could stop us now.
“Mother Martin was settin' alone in the bar-room. She had nothing to say about Old Pedro and Big Joe any more than they had come in the door and had put about to get a boat the minute they seen that we had gone. I'll bet she give them some of the rough side of her tongue though. She did me, when I come to think about where me and the lass was going to stop that night. I remembered then that the ten-dollar piece was the last cent I had in the world and that I had give it to the preacher man. When she had done abusing me, she went back to the till. She handed me some bills. I looked at them. There was seventy-five dollars.
“'There,' says she, 'take that fer advance money.' I could not help but grin when she said it. Ye remember? It was the same as the blood money she had got for me from the Star of Asia. And I had sweated and froze many a night to 'arn it back on that v'y'ge. She did not move a muscle, but looked me right between the eyes. 'That squares us, Lighthouse Tom,' says she.
“I told her that it did not, and started to say what was what, and how I felt fer what she had done fer me. 'Fer yé,' says she. '’Twas fer the girl.' But just the same, lad, l've always knowed how much I owed Mother Martin.”
Lighthouse Tom smoked a long time, and I was silent. At length he puffed out a great blue cloud. “Ye see the way it is,” said he. “Ye can never pass jedgment on man nor woman. A crimp she was, and a bad one. But she had a heart when once ye found it.”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1950, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 74 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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