Proctor the Drunkard by Louis Becke
Proctor, the ex-second mate of the island-trading brig Bandolier,
crawled out from under the shelter of the overhanging rock where he had
passed the night, and brushing off the thick coating of dust which covered
his clothes from head to foot, walked quickly through the leafy avenues of
Sydney Domain, leading to the city.
Sleeping under a rock in a public park is not a nice thing to do, but
Proctor had been forced to do it for many weeks past. He didn't like it at
first, but soon got used to it. It was better than having to ask old
Mother Jennings for a bed at the dirty lodging-house, and being refused—with
unnecessary remarks upon his financial position. The Sailors' Home was
right enough; he could get a free bed there for the asking, and some
tucker as well. But then at the Home he had to listen to prayers and
religious advice, and he hated both, upon an empty stomach. No, he
thought, the Domain was a lot better; every dirty "Jack Dog" at the Home
knew he had been kicked out of sundry ships before he piled up the Bandolier,
and they liked to comment audibly on their knowledge of the fact while he
was eating his dinner among them—it's a way which A.B.'s have of
"rubbing it in" to an officer down on his beam ends. Drunkard? Yes, of
course he was, and everybody knew it. Why, even that sour-faced old devil
of a door-keeper at the Home put a tract on his bed every evening. Curse
him and his "Drunkard, beware!" and every other rotten tract on
intemperance. Well, he had been sober for a week now—hadn't any
money to get drunk with. If he had he certainly would get drunk, as
quickly as he possibly could. Might as well get drunk as try to get a ship
now. Why, every wharf-loafer knew him.
A hot feeling came to his cheeks and stayed there as he walked through the
streets, for he seemed to hear every one laugh and mutter at him as he
passed, "That's the boozy mate of the Bandolier. Ran her ashore in
the Islands when he was drunk and drowned most of the hands."
Proctor was twenty-five when he began to drink. He had just been made
master, and his good luck in making such quick passages set him off. Not
that he then drank at sea; it was only when he came on shore and met so
many of the passengers he had carried between Sydney and New Zealand that
he went in for it. Then came a warning from the manager of the steamship
company. That made him a bit careful—and vexed. And ill-luck made
him meet a brother captain that night, and of course they had "a time"
together, and Proctor was driven down in a cab to the ship and helped up
the gangway by a wharfinger and a deck hand. The next morning he was asked
to resign, and from that day his career was damned. From the command of a
crack steamship to that of a tramp collier was a big come-down; but
Proctor was glad to get the collier after a month's idleness. For nearly a
year all went well. He had had a lesson, and did not drink now, not even
on shore. A woman who had stood to him in his first disgrace had promised
to marry him when the year was out, and that kept him straight. Then one
day he received a cold intimation from his owners that he "had better look
out for another ship," his services were no longer wanted. "Why?" he
asked. Well, they said, they would be candid, they had heard he was a
drinking man, and they would run no risks. Six months of shamefaced and
enforced idleness followed; and then Proctor was partly promised a barque.
Another man named Rothesay was working hard to get her, but Proctor beat
him by a hair's breadth. He made two or three trips to California and
back, and then, almost on the eve of his marriage, met Rothesay, who was
now in command of a small island-trading steamer. Proctor liked Rothesay,
and thought him a good fellow; Rothesay hated Proctor most fervently,
hated him because he was in command of the ship he wanted himself, and
hated him because he was to marry Nell Levison. Proctor did not know this
(Nell Levison did), or he would have either knocked the handsome
black-bearded, ever-smiling Captain Rothesay down, or told him to drink by
himself. But he was no match for Rothesay's cunning, and readily swallowed
his enemy's smiling professions of regard and good wishes for his married
happiness. They drank together again and again, and, at eleven o'clock
that night, just as the theatres were coming out, Rothesay suddenly left
him, and Proctor found himself staggering across the street. A policeman
took him to his hotel, where Proctor sank into a heavy, deadly stupor. He
awoke at noon. Two letters were lying on his table. One, from the owners
of his barque, asked him to call on them at ten o'clock that morning, the
other was from Nell Levison. The latter was short but plain: "I shall
never marry a drunkard. I never wish to see you again. I saw you last
night." He dressed and went to the owners' office. The senior partner
did not shake hands, but coldly bade him be seated. And in another minute
Proctor learnt that it was known he had been seen drunk in the street, and
that he could "look for another ship." He went out dazed and stupid.
For three days he kept up his courage, and then wrote to the owners of the
barque and asked them to overlook the matter. He had served them well, he
urged, and surely they would not ruin him for life. And Rothesay, to whom
he showed the letter, said it was one of which no man need be ashamed. He
would take it himself, he added, for he felt he was in some degree to
blame for that fatal night. Take it he did, for he felt certain that it
would not alter the decision of Messrs. Macpherson & Donald—he
knew them too well for that. Then he came back to Proctor with a gloomy
face, and shook his head. The wretched man knew what that meant, and asked
him no questions. Rothesay, sneak and traitor as he was, felt some shame
in his heart when, an hour later, Proctor held out his hand, thanked him,
and bade him good-bye. "I'm clearing out," he said.
Then for six years Proctor was seen no more in Sydney. He went steadily to
the devil elsewhere—mostly in the South Sea Islands, where he was
dismissed from one vessel after another, first as skipper, then as mate,
then as second mate. One day in a Fiji hotel he met a man—a stranger—who
knew Rothesay well.
"What is he doing now?" asked Proctor.
"Don't know exactly. He's no friend of mine, although I was mate with him
for two years. He married a girl that was engaged to another man—a
poor devil of a chap named Proctor—married her a week after Proctor
got the run from his ship for being drunk. And every one says that it was
Rothesay who made him drunk, as he was mad to get the girl. And I have no
doubt it's true. Rothesay is the two ends and bight of a damned sneak."
Proctor nodded, but said nothing.
He drank now whenever he could get at liquor, ashore or afloat. Sometimes
he would steal it. Yet somehow he always managed to get another ship. He
knew the islands well, and provided he could be kept sober there was not a
better man to be found in the Pacific labour trade. And the "trade"—i.e.,
the recruiting of native labourers for the Fijian and Queensland sugar
plantations from among the New Hebrides and Solomon Groups—was a
dangerous pursuit. But Proctor was always a lucky man. He had come down to
a second mate's berth now on the brig Bandolier; but then he was
"recruiter" as well, and with big wages, incurred more risks than any
other man on the ship. Perhaps he had grown careless of his life, which
was lonely enough, for though not a morose man, he never talked with his
shipmates. So for two years or more he cruised in the Bandolier
among the woolly-haired, naked cannibals of the Solomon Group and
thereabout, landing at places where no other recruiter would get out of
his boat, and taking a box of trade goods with him, sit calmly down on the
beach surrounded by savages who might without a moment's warning riddle
him with spears or club him from behind. But Proctor knew no fear,
although his armed boat's crew and the crew of the covering boat would
call to him to get aboard again and shove off. Other labour ships there
were cruising on the same ground who lost men often enough by spear or
bullet or poisoned arrow, and went back to Fiji or Queensland with perhaps
not a score of "recruits," but Proctor never lost a single man, and always
filled the crazy old Bandolier with a black and savage cargo. Then,
once in port again, his enemy seized him, and for a week at a time he
would lie drunk in the local hells, till the captain sought him out and
brought him on board again. Going back to the recruiting grounds with an
empty ship and with no danger to apprehend from a sudden rush of naked
figures, the captain gave him as much liquor as he wanted, else Proctor
would have stolen it. And one night he was drunk on his watch, ran the Bandolier
upon a reef, and all hands perished but himself and six others. One boat
was saved, and then followed long days of hunger and thirst and bitter
agony upon the sea under a blazing sun, but Proctor brought the boat and
crew safely to the Queensland coast. A month later he was in Sydney
penniless, and again "looking for a ship." But no one would have him now;
his story was too well known.
And so for weeks past he had slept in the park at night, and wandered down
about the wharves during the day. Sometimes he earned a few shillings,
most of which went in cheap rum.
Half an hour's walk through the long shady avenue of Moreton Bay figs, and
then he emerged suddenly into the noise and rattle of the city. Four
coppers was all the money he possessed, and unless he could earn a
shilling or two during the day on the wharves he would have to starve on
the morrow. He stopped outside the Herald office presently, and
pushing his way through a number of half-starved outcasts like himself, he
read down the "Wanted" column of the paper. And suddenly hope sprang up in
his heart as he saw this—
WANTED, for the Solomon Islands Labour trade, four able
Seamen used to the work. High wages to competent men.
Apply to Harkniss & Co., George Street.
Ten minutes later he was at Harkness & Company's office waiting to see
the manager. Ten o'clock, the clerks said, would be time enough to come.
Proctor said he would wait. He feared that there would be other
applicants, and was determined to see the manager before any one else. But
he need not have been so anxious. Men such as Harkness & Company
wanted were hard to get, and the firm were not disposed to be particular
as to their character or antecedents, so long as they could do the "work"
and hold their tongues afterward. Ten o'clock came, and at half-past ten
Proctor and two other men went out of the office each with a £1 note in
his pocket, and with orders to proceed to Melbourne by steamer, and there
join the barque Kate Rennie. Before the steamer left for Melbourne,
Proctor had parted with half of his pound for another man's discharge. He
did not want to be known as Proctor of the Bandolier if he could
help it. So he was now Peter Jensen; and Peter Jensen, a hard-up Norwegian
A.B., was promoted—on paper—to John Proctor, master. At
Melbourne they found the barque ready for sea, and they were at once taken
to the shipping office to meet the captain and sign articles, and
Proctor's heart beat fiercely with a savage joy when he heard the voice of
the man who had stolen Nell Levison from him! So Rothesay was the captain
of the Kate Rennie! And the Solomon Islands was a good place to pay
off one's old scores.
The Kate Rennie sailed the next day. As soon as the tug cast off,
the crew were mustered on the main-deck, and the watches and boats' crew
picked. Peter Jensen, A.B., was standing furthest away when the captain's
eye fell on him.
"What's your name?" he asked, and then in an instant his face paled—he
recognised the man.
Jensen made no answer. His eyes were fixed in a dull stare upon the
features of a little boy of six, who had come up from the cabin and had
caught hold of Rothesay's hand. For Nell Levison's face was before him
again. Then with an effort he withdrew his gaze from the child and looked
down at the deck.
"You can have him, Mr. Williams," said Rothesay curtly to the mate.
From that day till the barque made the Solomon Islands, Rothesay watched
the man he had injured, but Jensen, A.B., gave no sign. He did his work
well, and spoke to no one except when spoken to. And when the boy Allan
Rothesay came on deck and prattled to the crew, Jensen alone took no
notice of him. But whenever he heard the child speak, the memory of the
woman he had lost came back to him, and he longed for his revenge.
One night, as the barque was slipping quietly through the water, and the
misty mountain heights of Bougainville Island showed ghostly grey under
myriad stars, Rothesay came on deck an hour or two before the dawn. Jensen
was at the wheel, and the captain walked aft, seated himself near him, and
lit a cigar. Williams, the mate, was at the break of the poop, and out of
Presently Rothesay walked over to the wheel and stood beside the
steersman, glancing first at the compass, and then aloft at the white
swelling canvas. The barque was close-hauled and the course "full and by."
"Is she coming up at all?" said Rothesay quietly, speaking in a low voice.
"No, sir," answered Jensen steadily, but looking straight before him; "she
did come up a point or so a little while back, but fell off again; but the
wind keeps pretty steady, sir."
Rothesay stood by him irresolutely, debating within himself. Then he
walked up to the mate.
"Mr. Williams, send another man to the wheel, and tell Jensen to come
below. I want to speak to him about Bougainville; he knows the place well,
I have been told. And as neither you nor I do, I may get something out of
him worth knowing."
"Ay, ay, sir," answered the Welsh mate. "But he's mighty close over it,
anyway. I've hardly heard him open his mouth yet."
A minute or two passed, and Jensen was standing at the cabin-door, cap in
"Come in," said Rothesay, turning up the cabin lamp, and then he said
quietly, "Sit down, Proctor; I want to talk to you quietly. You see, I
The seaman stood silent a moment with drooping eyes. "My name is Jensen,
sir," he said sullenly.
"Very well, just as you like. But I sent for you to tell you that I had
not forgotten our former friendship, and—and I want to prove it, if
you will let me."
"Thank you, sir," was the reply, and the man's eyes met Rothesay's for one
second, and Rothesay saw that they burned with a strange, red gleam; "but
you can do nothing for me. I am no longer Proctor, the disgraced and
drunken captain, but Jensen, A.B. And," with sudden fury, "I want to be
left to myself."
"Proctor," and Rothesay rose to his feet, and placed his hands on the
table, "listen to me. You may think that I have treated you badly. My wife
died two years ago, and I——"
Proctor waved his hand impatiently. "Let it pass if you have wronged me.
But, because I got drunk and lost my ship, I don't see how you are to
blame for it."
A look of relief came into Rothesay's face. Surely the man had not heard
whom he had married, and there was nothing to fear after all.
For a minute or so neither spoke, then Proctor picked up his cap.
"Proctor," said Rothesay, with a smile, "take a glass of grog with me for
the sake of old times, won't you!"
"No, thank you, sir," he replied calmly, and then without another word he
walked out of the cabin, and presently Rothesay heard him take the wheel
again from the man who had relieved him.
Two days later the Kate Rennie sailed round the north cape of
Bougainville, and then bore up for a large village on the east coast named
Numa Numa, which Rothesay hoped to make at daylight on the following
At midnight Jensen came to the wheel again. The night was bright with the
light of shining stars, and the sea, although the breeze was brisk, was
smooth as a mountain lake, only the rip, ripy rip of the barque's
cutwater and the bubbling sounds of her eddying wake broke the silence of
the night. Ten miles away the verdure-clad peaks and spurs of lofty
Bougainville stood clearly out, silhouetted against the sea-rim on the
starboard hand. The wind was fair abeam and the ship as steady as a
church, and Proctor scarce glanced at the compass at all. The course given
to him was W.S.W., which, at the rate the ship was slipping through the
water, would bring her within two miles of the land by the time he was
relieved. Then she would have to go about and make another "short leg,"
and, after that, she could lay right up to Numa Numa village.
Late in the day Rothesay had lowered one of the ship's boats, whose
timbers had opened under the rays of the torrid sun, and was keeping her
towing astern till she became watertight. Presently Proctor heard a voice
"Peter, I say, Peter, you got a match?"
Looking astern, he saw that the native who was steering the boat had
hauled her up close up under the stern.
"Yes," he answered, taking a box of matches out of his pocket and throwing
them to the native sailor. "Are you tired of steering that boat, Tommy?"
"No, not yet; but I wanted to smoke. When four bell strike I come aboard,
Mr. Williams say."
Two bells struck, and then Proctor heard Williams, who was sitting down at
the break of the poop, say, "Hallo, young shaver, what do you want on
"Oh, Mr. Williams, it is so hot below, and my father said I could come on
deck. See, I've got my rug and pillow."
"All right, sonny," said the mate good-naturedly; "here, lie down here on
The child lay down and seemed to sleep, but Proctor could see that his
eyes were wide open and watched the stars.
Four bells struck, and Proctor was relieved by a white seaman, and another
native came to relieve the man who was steering the boat, which was now
hauled up under the counter. Just then, as the mate called out, "Ready
about," Proctor touched the child on the arm.
"Allan, would you like to come in the boat with me?"
The boy laughed with delight. "Oh, yes, Peter, I would like it."
Proctor turned to the native who was waiting to relieve the man who was
steering the boat. "You can go for'ard, Jimmy, I'll take the boat for
The native grinned. "All right, Peter, I no like boat," and in another
moment Proctor had passed the child down into the boat, into the arms of
the native sailor whose place he was taking, and quickly followed. As she
drifted astern, the Kate Rennie went about, the towline tautened
out, and a delighted laugh broke from the boy as he sat beside Proctor and
saw the white canvas of the barque looming up before him.
"Hush!" said Proctor, and his hand trembled as he grasped the steer-oar.
Then he drew the child to his bosom and caressed him almost fiercely.
For half an hour the barque slipped along, and Proctor sat and steered and
smoked and watched the child, who now slumbered at his feet. Then the
stars darkened over, a black cloud arose to the eastward, the wind died
away, and the mate's voice hailed him to come alongside, as a heavy squall
was coming on. "And you'll have trouble with the captain for taking his
boy in that boat," added Williams.
"Ay, ay, sir," answered Proctor, as he looked at the cloud to windward,
which was now quickly changing to a dullish grey; and then he sprang
forward and cut the tow-line with his sheath-knife.
Five minutes passed. Then came a cry of agony from the barque, as
Rothesay, who had rushed on deck at Williams's call, placed his hand on
the tow-line and began to haul it in.
"Oh, my God, Williams, the line has parted. Boat ahoy, there, where are
And then with a droning hum the squall smote the Kate Rennie with
savage fury, and nearly threw her over on her beam ends; and Proctor the
Drunkard slewed the boat round and let her fly before the hissing squall
towards the dimmed outline of Bougainville.
For two days the Kate Rennie cruised off the northern end of
Bougainville, searching for the missing boat. Then Rothesay beat back to
Numa Numa and anchored, and carefully examined the coast with his boats.
But no trace or Proctor nor the child was ever found. Whether the boat was
dashed to pieces upon the reef or had been blown past the north end of the
island and thence out upon that wide expanse of ocean that lies between
the Solomons and New Guinea was never known, and the fete of Proctor the
Drunkard and his innocent victim will for ever remain one of the many
mysteries of the Western Pacific till the sea gives up its dead.