CAPTAIN PETTIGREW’S PAST.

Otago Witness, Issue 3996, 14 October 1930, Page 77

CAPTAIN PETTIGREW’S PAST.

By

C. Fox Smith.

(Copyright.—For the Otago Witness.)

“ I won’t ’ave it,” said Captain Pettigrew’, smacking the table vigorously with his open hand to add emphasis to the words. “ I won’t ’ave it, Lucy, so there’s an end of it! 'Ere you’ve got the chance o’ makin’ a good match of it with a man like Ted Bilson, a . warm man, mind you, as any girl might be glad of, an’ won’t so much as look at ’im, because you’ve got this ’ere nonsensical fiddle-me-jig into your ’ead about a bloomin’ second mate in a coastin’ schooner. Lucky for you your mother ’ad the sense to tie your money up, so as you can’t touch it if you marry without my leave. That’s all! ’’ “ Well, I’ll go single to the end of my life, uncle,” retorted his niece, with a defiant tilt of her pretty nose, “ before I have an old image like that Bilson! He’s bald, and he’s 60 if he’s a minute, and he’s got a mole on his chin with three ginger hairs on it. Ugh! ” “ I’ve told you, that’s all,” said Captain Pettigrew’, rising with dignity and clapping his peaked cap on his head as he spoke, “ dis-cip-line’s dis-cip-line, same as I always used to tell ’em in the old Peregrine, and I don’t want to ’ear no more from you, my girl! ” And with these words he stumped off out of the house.

There weren’t, strictly speaking, many sights at Shelsey. It wasn’t a bit of use pretending there were. There was the old wreck, of course, to begin with. Not that there was anything romantic or old about her, really. She was merely a very small and very smutty collier, which had run ashore in a fog a few years before and broken her back. Still, she looked very well in the series of view’s of her on sale at the post office, which Mr Snapp, the local photographer, had taken from the cliff, from the beach, from the jetty, at high tide, at low tide, at half tide, and so on and so forth, to say nothing of the fact that the coal which had formed her cargo had come in very useful during several successive winters. Then there was “ Black Tom’s Cave,” which W’as pointed out to visitors as the resort of bygone days of a singularly desperate smuggler of that name. True, old Bill Dicks, who was going on for 90, said that he could remember when he was a nipper a feller, makin’ the cave as ’ad a notion p’ findin copper or summat in it. But he mumbled so, by reason of having lost all his teeth, that no one but the grand-daughter who kept house for him could tell what he was saying. And in the meantime the Appleyards, who lived close by it, had put up a board with “ TEAS ” on it, and made quite a good thing out of showing the eave at threepence a head. And, last but not least, there was Captain Pettigrew’! You never, in all your life, saw anything so nautical as Captain Pettigrew. Some captains, to look at them, might as well no be captains at all. Not so Captain Pettigrew. Nothing of that sort about him.

He lived up at the top of the hill, just before you got to the coastguard station, in a neat little box of a house with its name, “ The Poop,” painted in white letters on a green gate. Inside the green gate was a flag-staff, where the Union Jack was hoisted every morning and hauled down at the official hour of sunset, and appropriate signals flown on such occasions as Royal birthdays, the anniversary of Trafalgar, and the local regatta. Two large tropical shells flanked the front door. There was a model of a ship in full sail in the parlour window, and a painting of one, with the inscription on the frame, “ Clipper Ship Peregrine, J. Pettigrew, master,” over the mantelpiece. As for the captain himself, he was in complete harmony with his setting. None of your nondescript tweeds and the like for him, such as any grocer might wear. A blue double-breasted coat was his usual attire, with trousers that belled out at the ankles in a salt-watefish kind of way. Thus arrayed, with his round, red face and fringe of white whisker on top, and a cheese-cutter cap on top of them, why, he looked the part to perfection! And, what was more, you could always rely on a thoroughly salty yarn from the captain about his experiences afloat, especially when in command of the clipper Peregrine. He had come to live at Shelsey two or three years ago, and it hadn’t been long before he had established himself as its uncrowned king, and acknowledged oracle of the choice little coterie which gathered every evening in the best room at the “ Shrimp Inn.” That position had been occupied before his advent by Captain Bob Walker, recently retired from the command of a pleasure steamer belonging to the neighbouring seaside resort of Shellhampton. Naturally, perhaps,

Captain Bob .took his dethronement rather hard, and there was not much love lost between the rivals. But—as in the classic instance of the Montagues and the Capulets—the feud did not extent to the younger generation. In other words, Captain Pettigrew’s niece Lucy and Captain Walker’s son George were “ courting ” —hence the stern words recorded at the beginning of this narrative. .As soon as her uncle—his very back view eloquent of inflexible determination had stumped himself down the garden path and out of sight, Lucy sat down and indulged in the luxury of a good cry, after which she dried her eyes, got out pen, ink and paper, and prepared to pour out her grief and indignation to the absent George. But her letter was destined to remain unwritten. She had got no further than the first three lines, and had then lapsed into one of those fits of tender meditation frequent in young persons in love, when she W’as aroused by the click of the garden gate, and, glancing between the curtains, saw to her astonishment her uncle already returning. The mere fact of his return was sufficiently surprising, for his morning walk, and exchange of news and gossip with the loungers on the jetty, usually kept him out of the house till dinner was almost on the table. But the manner of his approach was more unusual still. His gait was very different from the leisurely but determined pace with which he had lately set forth. Now’, 'the captain was evidently in a hurry. His progress was not merely hasty, it was a scramble. And he glanced nervously over his shoulder from time to time “ like one who knows a fearful fiend doth close behind him tread.”

Lucy jumped up and ran to the door, but he had slipped inside and shut it quickly behind him before she got there.

“ Pull them blinds down, Lucy,” he commanded, preceding her into the parlour and collapsing heavily into an armchair, “ draw the curtains. Never mind why. Pull ’em down.”

Lucy, greatly perplexed, obeyed. “ Now just take a peep out and see if there’s anyone ’angin’ round the ’ouse,” continued the captain, breathing heavily. “ There's a man looking over the gate,” reported Lucy, after a few moments, “a stranger.” “ A seafarin’ lookin’ sort of a party with red nose?” inquired her uncle in a tremulous voice.

“ That’s right,” said Lucy. “And a glide in his eye?” pursued the captain. “ I can’t see his eye from here,” answ’ered his niece. “ But lie’s coming up to the door now.” “ I won’t see him! ” exclaimed the captain, bouncing to his feet, and glancing desperately round the room, as if in search of some convenient hidingplace. “Tell him I’m ill, tell him I’ve gone to bed, tell him I’ve got the smallpox! No,” he groaned, as a sharp rattat on the door resounded through the house, “ it’s no good! ’E’s seen me! I s’pose I’ll ’ave to go an’ speak to ’im. You stop where you are, Lucy. I’ll go.” A brief colloquy ensued between the captain and his mysterious visitor, and in a few minutes he returned to the parlour. with the stranger following closely in his w’ake.

“ This ’ere’s Mr Bert. Wiggins, Lucy,” said the captain, looking the picture of misery, “old shipmate o’ mine ” “ W’en you was skipper o’ the Peregrine, eh, Joe?” said the stranger. The captain winced visibly. “Me an’ Mr Wiggins is goin’ to ’ave a little private talk,” said her uncle, and Lucy, nothing loth, withdrew. The stranger had indeed in a marked degree the optical defect suggested by the captain, and when he favoured Lucy with what was no doubt intended to be an ingratiating smile, the effect was alarming in the extreme. A sound of clinking glass presently indicated that something in the nature of liquid hospitality was being dispensed from the captain’s little private cupboard in the corner. A low rumble of voices come steadily from behind the closed door, of which Lucy, strain her ears as she might, could not catch a word.

At last, however, the visitor took his leave, and Lucy, going into the parlour to clear away the glasses, found her uncle still sitting in his armchair, with a half-empty glass before him. “Why, Uncle Joe,” she exclaimed, “whatever is the matter? You look as if you’d seen a ghost! ” “So I ’ave,” replied the Captain gloomily, pulling out a large, red handkerchief as he spoke, and wiping away several drops of moisture from his forehead, “so I ’ave! A live un! If it was Black Tom, with ’is ’ead under ’is arm,” he continued,” “ I’d stand ’im a pint soon as look at ’im! But—” he paused and shook his head eloquently — “ you take it from me, live ’uns is the worst o’ the lot.”

Mr Bert Wiggins showed no intention of departing from Shelsey. He pronounced it just the place for a retired, seafaring man, and, in fact, gave it out as his intention to settle down there for the rest of his days. From the start, he spent a good deal of his time in Captain Pettigrew’s parlour, with a full glass of the captain’s spirits in front of him. It was not long before he moved out of his lodging at a fisherman's cottage, and took up his quarters permanently at “ The Poop.” The higher situation, he said, was better for his health, to say nothing of being so nice and ’andy for a yarn with his old shipmate. Mr Wiggins was generally in high good humour.

Captain Pettigrew, on the contrary, was the shadow of his former self. All his former high spirits has deserted him. He seldom visited the “ Shrimp Inn ” of an evening, and his vacant place in that hostelry , was usually occupied by Mr Bert Wiggins, who was pronounced a smart chap as knew how to tell a gc: I yarn. The captain, in the meantime sai silently by his own fireside, staring moodily into the embers and pulling i his extinguished pipe. It was evident that the man with the glide had some powerful hold over h's former shipmate. But what? Thai, Lucy would have given a great deal to know.

She realised, for the first time, how little she really knew about her uncle’s past life. She had always, as a child, heard of him vaguely as a seafaring man, and about five years ago he had appeared at her mother’s house, to all seeming very prosperous; and announced his intention of giving up the sea for good. Shortly afterwards her mother died, and Lucy had lived with the captain from that time to the present.

So that it was quite possible there might be some dark chapter in his life about which the mysterious Mr Wiggins z knew all, and she nothing. What could it be? Perhaps they had both been concerned in filching a giant ruby or emerald from a heathen temple, as in that thrilling recitation, given with great effect by the curate at the last village concert, “The Green Eye of the Yellow God,” and Lucy found herself looking timidly round as dusk fell for slant-eyed Orientals, or dusky priests, lurking in the recesses of the pantry. Much worse than these somewhat nebulous fears, however, was the fact that Mr Bert Wiggins had begun to show a very unwelcome interest in Lucy herself. His sinister leer followed her when ever she was in the room, and more than once her hand had been caught in his and pressed warmly before she could wrench it free.

As a general rule, however, she contrived to give him a wide berth, until one day when she found herself for a few minutes alone with him in the room. Mr Wiggins coming up quietly behind her, slipped his arm round her waist and prepared to imprint a gallant kiss on her averted cheek.

But Lucy was too quick for him, and jerking herself out of his embrace, she planted a stinging slap on his smirking face that sent him staggering backwards. “ ’Ere, spitfire,” said Mr Wiggins, clapping his hand to his injured countenance, looking very ugly indeed, “’ere—you’d better look out!”

And just at this moment the captain entered the room.

“Now, look ’ere, Bert Wiggins,” he said, breathing heavily, “you just let my niece alone! See? Granted there’s certain little matters between you an’ me as we know on—well, my niece ain’t concerned.”

“ Ho, she ain’t, ain’t she ? ” sneered Mr Wiggins. “Not good enough for your niece, ain’t I?,. Not good enough for Captain Pettigrew’s nevvy-in-law, neither, I suppose?” “ No! ” said the captain, pale but defiant, “No, you ain’t! ” “ Captain Pettigrew, indeed! •” continued Mr Wiggins. “ Captain Pettigrew —wot ain’t Captain Pettigrew no more than wot I am! You an’ your ‘Poop’! ‘Galley,’ more like! Why,” he turned on Lucy, “ your precious uncle ain’t nothin’ but a bloomin’ cook, and the worst grub-sp’iler I ever knowed at that. That’ll be a good bit to tell ’em down at the ‘ Shrimp ’ this evenin’, that will. Cap’n John Pettigrew, livin’ over in New Zealand, where I seen ’im last year with my own eyes, and Joe Pettigrew, the cook, wot won a prize in a lottery in Callao five years ago, passin’ ’imself off as ’is own old skipper ! There’s one or two ud ’ave a good laugh over that, I’ll lay! ”

During the excitement of the last few minutes, none of the three had seen a shadow pass the window, and Mr Wiggins’s voice had risen so high that the ensuing tap on the door had passed unnoticed. So that the first indiction of the arrival of a fourth person upon the scene was given by a shrill voice ex-

claiming : — “Anybody at ’ome? ” “ Why! ” exclaimed Lucy, “ why, it’s Aunt Liz! ”

Aunt Liz, otherwise Captain Pettigrew’s widowed sister, Mrs Knibbs, was one of those small, determined females, who by sheer force of personality seem able to strike awe into the largest of the opposite sex. She lived in London, where she let lodgings to seafaring men in the East Indih. Dock Road, and a recent disillusionment which she had experienced had rendered her even more cynical than before in her attitude towards men in general. “Just ran down to Shellhampton for the day with a friend,” she announced, “ so I thought I’d pop over and ” At this point her eye lighted upon Mr Wiggins, who, being out of her immediate range of vision, had so far escaped her notice. It was now Mr Wiggins’s turn to look

as if he had seen a ghost. His jaw had dropped, and his countenance assumed a sickly tinge as soon as he heard her voice. As her eye fell upon him, he looked as if he were trying by sheer force of will, to vanish through the wall behind him. The effect upon Mrs Knibbs was no less surprising, for, after emitting three short staccato shrieks like an angry hen, she darted across the room, and seizing him by the shoulders, banged his head violently against the wall to an accompaniment of shrill-voiced accusation. “Oh, you wicked”—knock!—“deceitful ”•—knock!—“ wretch, you! ” — knock! “coming into a poor widow’s ’ouse an’ living on the fat o’ the land ” -—knock!—“and then proprosing marraige’’—knock—“and borrowing the money for the wedding cake and not an eye have I set on you from that day to this” —knock—knock—knock! — “ but you’ll pay for it now, that you will! Joseph, where’s your coals! No, you don’t! ” This last ejaculation was caused by signs of attempted escape on Mr

Wiggins's part: and Mrs Knibbs, snatching up the well-sharpened bread knife with which Lucy had been cutting bread and butter for tea, flourished it in front of his nose with such vigour that he renewed his endeavours to flatten himself against the wall.

“Stop ’er, Joe! ” he implored. ‘‘Shell cut my nose off!”

“ Yes. I will, if you try any tricks,” rejoined the injured lady grimly. “Joseph! The coals!” And off the procession started, Uncle Joe leading the w r ay, followed by the chastened Bert, the rear brough up by ’Mrs Knibbs, holding her deceiver firmly by the collar w’ith one hand, and occasionally prodding him with the point of the bread knife. The door slammed. The key turned in the loek. He was a prisoner.

“ And now,” declared Aunt Liz triumphantly, “ I’m going for the police! ” Lucy and her uncle, left alone, looked at one another in silence. The

captain’s expression was decidedly sheepish, while as for his niece, she was struggling with a desperate desire to shriek with laughter. “ It’s—it’s very orkard, Lucy,” said the captain at last, shaking his head. “What’s awkward, uncle?” said Lucy, swinging the key of Mr Wiggins’s prison to and fro on her finger as she spoke. “ Why,” replied the captain mournfully, “ It’ll all come out, you see.” “You mean about you not being a captain really,” prompted Lucy sternly. “Well, about it bein’ only a kind of a civility title, same as Prince o’ Wales,” said her uncle, squirming in his chair. “ I’ll be the laughin’ stock of Shelsey, Lucy. I can’t face it. It’ll mean givin’ up “ The Poop ” and ” “ If it comes out,” said Lucy slowly, considering the key on her finger, “ but if he came out, Uncle Joe, it wouldn't! Would it? No! Wait a minute! You get a piece of paper and write on it.” “Well?” said the captain, feverishly rummaging for a pen. “ Write ‘ I hereby give my consent to the marriage of my niece, Lucy, to George Walker second mate of the schooner Firefly! ” “ I—l won’t,” said the captain. “ And then sig< your name to it,” continued Lucy, ignoring his protest, “you can please yourself, of course. I can see Aunt Liz coming up the hill. She’s got the sergeant with her.” For a moment the captain hesitated, looking much as King John must have done when the Magna Charta lay under his nose. Then vanity won the day. Hastily he dashed off the words and appended his signature. The coalhole key turned creakily just as the garden gate clicked, and a hasty scuffle of feet down the ba<_k garden indicated that Mr Wiggins was letting no grass grow under his feet. Captain Pettigrew still lives at “ The Poop,” and occupies his old position of local oracle, though possibly his manner is a shade less assertive than of yore. Mrs Knibbs, who has never quite been aide to make out how Mr Wiggins made his escape, has kept house for her brother since Lucy’s marriage. She is a bit of a tartar, to be sure, and rules the captain with a rod of iron. But at least he can feel tolerably certain, while her reign continues, that Mr Wiggins will never venture back to “ The Poop,” and that the secret of his past is safe.