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diff --git a/2415-0.txt b/2415-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b549909 --- /dev/null +++ b/2415-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13046 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mutiny of the Elsinore, by Jack London + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Mutiny of the Elsinore + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: December, 2000 [eBook #2415] +[Most recently updated: April 20, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Price and Rab Hughes + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MUTINY OF THE ELSINORE *** + + + + +The Mutiny of the Elsinore + +by + +JACK LONDON + +MILLS & BOON, LIMITED +49 RUPERT STREET +LONDON, W. + +_Published 1915_ + +_Copyright in the United States of America by_ Jack London + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHAPTER XXVII. + CHAPTER XXVIII. + CHAPTER XXIX. + CHAPTER XXX. + CHAPTER XXXI. + CHAPTER XXXII. + CHAPTER XXXIII. + CHAPTER XXXIV. + CHAPTER XXXV. + CHAPTER XXXVI. + CHAPTER XXXVII. + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + CHAPTER XXXIX. + CHAPTER XL. + CHAPTER XLI. + CHAPTER XLII. + CHAPTER XLIII. + CHAPTER XLIV. + CHAPTER XLV. + CHAPTER XLVI. + CHAPTER XLVII. + CHAPTER XLVIII. + CHAPTER XLIX. + CHAPTER L. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +From the first the voyage was going wrong. Routed out of my hotel on a +bitter March morning, I had crossed Baltimore and reached the pier-end +precisely on time. At nine o’clock the tug was to have taken me down +the bay and put me on board the _Elsinore_, and with growing irritation +I sat frozen inside my taxicab and waited. On the seat, outside, the +driver and Wada sat hunched in a temperature perhaps half a degree +colder than mine. And there was no tug. + +Possum, the fox-terrier puppy Galbraith had so inconsiderately foisted +upon me, whimpered and shivered on my lap inside my greatcoat and under +the fur robe. But he would not settle down. Continually he whimpered +and clawed and struggled to get out. And, once out and bitten by the +cold, with equal insistence he whimpered and clawed to get back. + +His unceasing plaint and movement was anything but sedative to my +jangled nerves. In the first place I was uninterested in the brute. He +meant nothing to me. I did not know him. Time and again, as I drearily +waited, I was on the verge of giving him to the driver. Once, when two +little girls—evidently the wharfinger’s daughters—went by, my hand +reached out to the door to open it so that I might call to them and +present them with the puling little wretch. + +A farewell surprise package from Galbraith, he had arrived at the hotel +the night before, by express from New York. It was Galbraith’s way. Yet +he might so easily have been decently like other folk and sent fruit . +. . or flowers, even. But no; his affectionate inspiration had to take +the form of a yelping, yapping two months’ old puppy. And with the +advent of the terrier the trouble had begun. The hotel clerk judged me +a criminal before the act I had not even had time to meditate. And then +Wada, on his own initiative and out of his own foolish stupidity, had +attempted to smuggle the puppy into his room and been caught by a house +detective. Promptly Wada had forgotten all his English and lapsed into +hysterical Japanese, and the house detective remembered only his Irish; +while the hotel clerk had given me to understand in no uncertain terms +that it was only what he had expected of me. + +Damn the dog, anyway! And damn Galbraith too! And as I froze on in the +cab on that bleak pier-end, I damned myself as well, and the mad freak +that had started me voyaging on a sailing-ship around the Horn. + +By ten o’clock a nondescript youth arrived on foot, carrying a +suit-case, which was turned over to me a few minutes later by the +wharfinger. It belonged to the pilot, he said, and gave instructions to +the chauffeur how to find some other pier from which, at some +indeterminate time, I should be taken aboard the _Elsinore_ by some +other tug. This served to increase my irritation. Why should I not have +been informed as well as the pilot? + +An hour later, still in my cab and stationed at the shore end of the +new pier, the pilot arrived. Anything more unlike a pilot I could not +have imagined. Here was no blue-jacketed, weather-beaten son of the +sea, but a soft-spoken gentleman, for all the world the type of +successful business man one meets in all the clubs. He introduced +himself immediately, and I invited him to share my freezing cab with +Possum and the baggage. That some change had been made in the +arrangements by Captain West was all he knew, though he fancied the tug +would come along any time. + +And it did, at one in the afternoon, after I had been compelled to wait +and freeze for four mortal hours. During this time I fully made up my +mind that I was not going to like this Captain West. Although I had +never met him, his treatment of me from the outset had been, to say the +least, cavalier. When the _Elsinore_ lay in Erie Basin, just arrived +from California with a cargo of barley, I had crossed over from New +York to inspect what was to be my home for many months. I had been +delighted with the ship and the cabin accommodation. Even the stateroom +selected for me was satisfactory and far more spacious than I had +expected. But when I peeped into the captain’s room I was amazed at its +comfort. When I say that it opened directly into a bath-room, and that, +among other things, it was furnished with a big brass bed such as one +would never suspect to find at sea, I have said enough. + +Naturally, I had resolved that the bath-room and the big brass bed +should be mine. When I asked the agents to arrange with the captain +they seemed non-committal and uncomfortable. “I don’t know in the least +what it is worth,” I said. “And I don’t care. Whether it costs one +hundred and fifty dollars or five hundred, I must have those quarters.” + +Harrison and Gray, the agents, debated silently with each other and +scarcely thought Captain West would see his way to the arrangement. +“Then he is the first sea captain I ever heard of that wouldn’t,” I +asserted confidently. “Why, the captains of all the Atlantic liners +regularly sell their quarters.” + +“But Captain West is not the captain of an Atlantic liner,” Mr. +Harrison observed gently. + +“Remember, I am to be on that ship many a month,” I retorted. “Why, +heavens, bid him up to a thousand if necessary.” + +“We’ll try,” said Mr. Gray, “but we warn you not to place too much +dependence on our efforts. Captain West is in Searsport at the present +time, and we will write him to-day.” + +To my astonishment Mr. Gray called me up several days later to inform +me that Captain West had declined my offer. “Did you offer him up to a +thousand?” I demanded. “What did he say?” + +“He regretted that he was unable to concede what you asked,” Mr. Gray +replied. + +A day later I received a letter from Captain West. The writing and the +wording were old-fashioned and formal. He regretted not having yet met +me, and assured me that he would see personally that my quarters were +made comfortable. For that matter he had already dispatched orders to +Mr. Pike, the first mate of the _Elsinore_, to knock out the partition +between my state-room and the spare state-room adjoining. Further—and +here is where my dislike for Captain West began—he informed me that if, +when once well at sea, I should find myself dissatisfied, he would +gladly, in that case, exchange quarters with me. + +Of course, after such a rebuff, I knew that no circumstance could ever +persuade me to occupy Captain West’s brass bed. And it was this Captain +Nathaniel West, whom I had not yet met, who had now kept me freezing on +pier-ends through four miserable hours. The less I saw of him on the +voyage the better, was my decision; and it was with a little tickle of +pleasure that I thought of the many boxes of books I had dispatched on +board from New York. Thank the Lord, I did not depend on sea captains +for entertainment. + +I turned Possum over to Wada, who was settling with the cabman, and +while the tug’s sailors were carrying my luggage on board I was led by +the pilot to an introduction with Captain West. At the first glimpse I +knew that he was no more a sea captain than the pilot was a pilot. I +had seen the best of the breed, the captains of the liners, and he no +more resembled them than did he resemble the bluff-faced, gruff-voiced +skippers I had read about in books. By his side stood a woman, of whom +little was to be seen and who made a warm and gorgeous blob of colour +in the huge muff and boa of red fox in which she was well-nigh buried. + +“My God!—his wife!” I darted in a whisper at the pilot. “Going along +with him? . . . ” + +I had expressly stipulated with Mr. Harrison, when engaging passage, +that the one thing I could not possibly consider was the skipper of the +_Elsinore_ taking his wife on the voyage. And Mr. Harrison had smiled +and assured me that Captain West would sail unaccompanied by a wife. + +“It’s his daughter,” the pilot replied under his breath. “Come to see +him off, I fancy. His wife died over a year ago. They say that is what +sent him back to sea. He’d retired, you know.” + +Captain West advanced to meet me, and before our outstretched hands +touched, before his face broke from repose to greeting and the lips +moved to speech, I got the first astonishing impact of his personality. +Long, lean, in his face a touch of race I as yet could only sense, he +was as cool as the day was cold, as poised as a king or emperor, as +remote as the farthest fixed star, as neutral as a proposition of +Euclid. And then, just ere our hands met, a twinkle of—oh—such distant +and controlled geniality quickened the many tiny wrinkles in the corner +of the eyes; the clear blue of the eyes was suffused by an almost +colourful warmth; the face, too, seemed similarly to suffuse; the thin +lips, harsh-set the instant before, were as gracious as Bernhardt’s +when she moulds sound into speech. + +So curiously was I affected by this first glimpse of Captain West that +I was aware of expecting to fall from his lips I knew not what words of +untold beneficence and wisdom. Yet he uttered most commonplace regrets +at the delay in a voice provocative of fresh surprise to me. It was low +and gentle, almost too low, yet clear as a bell and touched with a +faint reminiscent twang of old New England. + +“And this is the young woman who is guilty of the delay,” he concluded +my introduction to his daughter. “Margaret, this is Mr. Pathurst.” + +Her gloved hand promptly emerged from the fox-skins to meet mine, and I +found myself looking into a pair of gray eyes bent steadily and gravely +upon me. It was discomfiting, that cool, penetrating, searching gaze. +It was not that it was challenging, but that it was so insolently +business-like. It was much in the very way one would look at a new +coachman he was about to engage. I did not know then that she was to go +on the voyage, and that her curiosity about the man who was to be a +fellow-passenger for half a year was therefore only natural. +Immediately she realized what she was doing, and her lips and eyes +smiled as she spoke. + +As we moved on to enter the tug’s cabin I heard Possum’s shivering +whimper rising to a screech, and went forward to tell Wada to take the +creature in out of the cold. I found him hovering about my luggage, +wedging my dressing-case securely upright by means of my little +automatic rifle. I was startled by the mountain of luggage around which +mine was no more than a fringe. Ship’s stores, was my first thought, +until I noted the number of trunks, boxes, suit-cases, and parcels and +bundles of all sorts. The initials on what looked suspiciously like a +woman’s hat trunk caught my eye—“M.W.” Yet Captain West’s first name +was Nathaniel. On closer investigation I did find several “N.W’s.” but +everywhere I could see “M.W’s.” Then I remembered that he had called +her Margaret. + +I was too angry to return to the cabin, and paced up and down the cold +deck biting my lips with vexation. I had so expressly stipulated with +the agents that no captain’s wife was to come along. The last thing +under the sun I desired in the pet quarters of a ship was a woman. But +I had never thought about a captain’s daughter. For two cents I was +ready to throw the voyage over and return on the tug to Baltimore. + +By the time the wind caused by our speed had chilled me bitterly, I +noticed Miss West coming along the narrow deck, and could not avoid +being struck by the spring and vitality of her walk. Her face, despite +its firm moulding, had a suggestion of fragility that was belied by the +robustness of her body. At least, one would argue that her body must be +robust from her fashion of movement of it, though little could one +divine the lines of it under the shapelessness of the furs. + +I turned away on my heel and fell moodily to contemplating the mountain +of luggage. A huge packing-case attracted my attention, and I was +staring at it when she spoke at my shoulder. + +“That’s what really caused the delay,” she said. + +“What is it?” I asked incuriously. + +“Why, the _Elsinore’s_ piano, all renovated. When I made up my mind to +come, I telegraphed Mr. Pike—he’s the mate, you know. He did his best. +It was the fault of the piano house. And while we waited to-day I gave +them a piece of my mind they’ll not forget in a hurry.” + +She laughed at the recollection, and commenced to peep and peer into +the luggage as if in search of some particular piece. Having satisfied +herself, she was starting back, when she paused and said: + +“Won’t you come into the cabin where it’s warm? We won’t be there for +half an hour.” + +“When did you decide to make this voyage?” I demanded abruptly. + +So quick was the look she gave me that I knew she had in that moment +caught all my disgruntlement and disgust. + +“Two days ago,” she answered. “Why?” + +Her readiness for give and take took me aback, and before I could speak +she went on: + +“Now you’re not to be at all silly about my coming, Mr. Pathurst. I +probably know more about long-voyaging than you do, and we’re all going +to be comfortable and happy. You can’t bother me, and I promise you I +won’t bother you. I’ve sailed with passengers before, and I’ve learned +to put up with more than they ever proved they were able to put up +with. So there. Let us start right, and it won’t be any trouble to keep +on going right. I know what is the matter with you. You think you’ll be +called upon to entertain me. Please know that I do not need +entertainment. I never saw the longest voyage that was too long, and I +always arrive at the end with too many things not done for the passage +ever to have been tedious, and . . . I don’t play _Chopsticks_.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +The _Elsinore_, fresh-loaded with coal, lay very deep in the water when +we came alongside. I knew too little about ships to be capable of +admiring her lines, and, besides, I was in no mood for admiration. I +was still debating with myself whether or not to chuck the whole thing +and return on the tug. From all of which it must not be taken that I am +a vacillating type of man. On the contrary. + +The trouble was that at no time, from the first thought of it, had I +been keen for the voyage. Practically the reason I was taking it was +because there was nothing else I was keen on. For some time now life +had lost its savour. I was not jaded, nor was I exactly bored. But the +zest had gone out of things. I had lost taste for my fellow-men and all +their foolish, little, serious endeavours. For a far longer period I +had been dissatisfied with women. I had endured them, but I had been +too analytic of the faults of their primitiveness, of their almost +ferocious devotion to the destiny of sex, to be enchanted with them. +And I had come to be oppressed by what seemed to me the futility of +art—a pompous legerdemain, a consummate charlatanry that deceived not +only its devotees but its practitioners. + +In short, I was embarking on the _Elsinore_ because it was easier to +than not; yet everything else was as equally and perilously easy. That +was the curse of the condition into which I had fallen. That was why, +as I stepped upon the deck of the _Elsinore_, I was half of a mind to +tell them to keep my luggage where it was and bid Captain West and his +daughter good-day. + +I almost think what decided me was the welcoming, hospitable smile Miss +West gave me as she started directly across the deck for the cabin, and +the knowledge that it must be quite warm in the cabin. + +Mr. Pike, the mate, I had already met, when I visited the ship in Erie +Basin. He smiled a stiff, crack-faced smile that I knew must be +painful, but did not offer to shake hands, turning immediately to call +orders to half-a-dozen frozen-looking youths and aged men who shambled +up from somewhere in the waist of the ship. Mr. Pike had been drinking. +That was patent. His face was puffed and discoloured, and his large +gray eyes were bitter and bloodshot. + +I lingered, with a sinking heart watching my belongings come aboard and +chiding my weakness of will which prevented me from uttering the few +words that would put a stop to it. As for the half-dozen men who were +now carrying the luggage aft into the cabin, they were unlike any +concept I had ever entertained of sailors. Certainly, on the liners, I +had observed nothing that resembled them. + +One, a most vivid-faced youth of eighteen, smiled at me from a pair of +remarkable Italian eyes. But he was a dwarf. So short was he that he +was all sea-boots and sou’wester. And yet he was not entirely Italian. +So certain was I that I asked the mate, who answered morosely: + +“Him? Shorty? He’s a dago half-breed. The other half’s Jap or Malay.” + +One old man, who I learned was a bosun, was so decrepit that I thought +he had been recently injured. His face was stolid and ox-like, and as +he shuffled and dragged his brogans over the deck he paused every +several steps to place both hands on his abdomen and execute a queer, +pressing, lifting movement. Months were to pass, in which I saw him do +this thousands of times, ere I learned that there was nothing the +matter with him and that his action was purely a habit. His face +reminded me of the Man with the Hoe, save that it was unthinkably and +abysmally stupider. And his name, as I was to learn, of all names was +Sundry Buyers. And he was bosun of the fine American sailing-ship +_Elsinore_—rated one of the finest sailing-ships afloat! + +Of this group of aged men and boys that moved the luggage along I saw +only one, called Henry, a youth of sixteen, who approximated in the +slightest what I had conceived all sailors to be like. He had come off +a training ship, the mate told me, and this was his first voyage to +sea. His face was keen-cut, alert, as were his bodily movements, and he +wore sailor-appearing clothes with sailor-seeming grace. In fact, as I +was to learn, he was to be the only sailor-seeming creature fore and +aft. + +The main crew had not yet come aboard, but was expected at any moment, +the mate vouchsafed with a snarl of ominous expectancy. Those already +on board were the miscellaneous ones who had shipped themselves in New +York without the mediation of boarding-house masters. And what the crew +itself would be like God alone could tell—so said the mate. Shorty, the +Japanese (or Malay) and Italian half-caste, the mate told me, was an +able seaman, though he had come out of steam and this was his first +sailing voyage. + +“Ordinary seamen!” Mr. Pike snorted, in reply to a question. “We don’t +carry Landsmen!—forget it! Every clodhopper an’ cow-walloper these days +is an able seaman. That’s the way they rank and are paid. The merchant +service is all shot to hell. There ain’t no more sailors. They all died +years ago, before you were born even.” + +I could smell the raw whiskey on the mate’s breath. Yet he did not +stagger nor show any signs of intoxication. Not until afterward was I +to know that his willingness to talk was most unwonted and was where +the liquor gave him away. + +“It’d a-ben a grace had I died years ago,” he said, “rather than to +a-lived to see sailors an’ ships pass away from the sea.” + +“But I understand the _Elsinore_ is considered one of the finest,” I +urged. + +“So she is . . . to-day. But what is she?—a damned cargo-carrier. She +ain’t built for sailin’, an’ if she was there ain’t no sailors left to +sail her. Lord! Lord! The old clippers! When I think of ’em!—_The +Gamecock_, _Shootin’ Star_, _Flyin’ Fish_, _Witch o’ the Wave_, +_Staghound_, _Harvey Birch_, _Canvas-back_, _Fleetwing_, _Sea Serpent_, +_Northern Light_! An’ when I think of the fleets of the tea-clippers +that used to load at Hong Kong an’ race the Eastern Passages. A fine +sight! A fine sight!” + +I was interested. Here was a man, a live man. I was in no hurry to go +into the cabin, where I knew Wada was unpacking my things, so I paced +up and down the deck with the huge Mr. Pike. Huge he was in all +conscience, broad-shouldered, heavy-boned, and, despite the profound +stoop of his shoulders, fully six feet in height. + +“You are a splendid figure of a man,” I complimented. + +“I was, I was,” he muttered sadly, and I caught the whiff of whiskey +strong on the air. + +I stole a look at his gnarled hands. Any finger would have made three +of mine. His wrist would have made three of my wrist. + +“How much do you weigh?” I asked. + +“Two hundred an’ ten. But in my day, at my best, I tipped the scales +close to two-forty.” + +“And the _Elsinore_ can’t sail,” I said, returning to the subject which +had roused him. + +“I’ll take you even, anything from a pound of tobacco to a month’s +wages, she won’t make it around in a hundred an’ fifty days,” he +answered. “Yet I’ve come round in the old _Flyin’ Cloud_ in eighty-nine +days—eighty-nine days, sir, from Sandy Hook to ’Frisco. Sixty men +for’ard that _was_ men, an’ eight boys, an’ drive! drive! drive! Three +hundred an’ seventy-four miles for a day’s run under t’gallantsails, +an’ in the squalls eighteen knots o’ line not enough to time her. +Eighty-nine days—never beat, an’ tied once by the old _Andrew Jackson_ +nine years afterwards. Them was the days!” + +“When did the _Andrew Jackson_ tie her?” I asked, because of the +growing suspicion that he was “having” me. + +“In 1860,” was his prompt reply. + +“And you sailed in the _Flying Cloud_ nine years before that, and this +is 1913—why, that was sixty-two years ago,” I charged. + +“And I was seven years old,” he chuckled. “My mother was stewardess on +the _Flyin’ Cloud_. I was born at sea. I was boy when I was twelve, on +the _Herald o’ the Morn_, when she made around in ninety-nine days—half +the crew in irons most o’ the time, five men lost from aloft off the +Horn, the points of our sheath-knives broken square off, +knuckle-dusters an’ belayin’-pins flyin’, three men shot by the +officers in one day, the second mate killed dead an’ no one to know who +done it, an’ drive! drive! drive! ninety-nine days from land to land, a +run of seventeen thousand miles, an’ east to west around Cape Stiff!” + +“But that would make you sixty-nine years old,” I insisted. + +“Which I am,” he retorted proudly, “an’ a better man at that than the +scrubby younglings of these days. A generation of ’em would die under +the things I’ve been through. Did you ever hear of the _Sunny +South_?—she that was sold in Havana to run slaves an’ changed her name +to _Emanuela_?” + +“And you’ve sailed the Middle Passage!” I cried, recollecting the old +phrase. + +“I was on the _Emanuela_ that day in Mozambique Channel when the +_Brisk_ caught us with nine hundred slaves between-decks. Only she +wouldn’t a-caught us except for her having steam.” + +I continued to stroll up and down beside this massive relic of the +past, and to listen to his hints and muttered reminiscences of old +man-killing and man-driving days. He was too real to be true, and yet, +as I studied his shoulder-stoop and the age-drag of his huge feet, I +was convinced that his years were as he asserted. He spoke of a Captain +Sonurs. + +“He was a great captain,” he was saying. “An’ in the two years I sailed +mate with him there was never a port I didn’t jump the ship goin’ in +an’ stay in hiding until I sneaked aboard when she sailed again.” + +“But why?” + +“The men, on account of the men swearin’ blood an’ vengeance and +warrants against me because of my ways of teachin’ them to be sailors. +Why, the times I was caught, and the fines the skipper paid for me—and +yet it was my work that made the ship make money.” + +He held up his huge paws, and as I stared at the battered, malformed +knuckles I understood the nature of his work. + +“But all that’s stopped now,” he lamented. “A sailor’s a gentleman +these days. You can’t raise your voice or your hand to them.” + +At this moment he was addressed from the poop-rail above by the second +mate, a medium-sized, heavily built, clean-shaven, blond man. + +“The tug’s in sight with the crew, sir,” he announced. + +The mate grunted an acknowledgment, then added, “Come on down, Mr. +Mellaire, and meet our passenger.” + +I could not help noting the air and carriage with which Mr. Mellaire +came down the poop-ladder and took his part in the introduction. He was +courteous in an old-world way, soft-spoken, suave, and unmistakably +from south of Mason and Dixon. + +“A Southerner,” I said. + +“Georgia, sir.” He bowed and smiled, as only a Southerner can bow and +smile. + +His features and expression were genial and gentle, and yet his mouth +was the cruellest gash I had ever seen in a man’s face. It was a gash. +There is no other way of describing that harsh, thin-lipped, shapeless +mouth that uttered gracious things so graciously. Involuntarily I +glanced at his hands. Like the mate’s, they were thick-boned, +broken-knuckled, and malformed. Back into his blue eyes I looked. On +the surface of them was a film of light, a gloss of gentle kindness and +cordiality, but behind that gloss I knew resided neither sincerity nor +mercy. Behind that gloss was something cold and terrible, that lurked +and waited and watched—something catlike, something inimical and +deadly. Behind that gloss of soft light and of social sparkle was the +live, fearful thing that had shaped that mouth into the gash it was. +What I sensed behind in those eyes chilled me with its repulsiveness +and strangeness. + +As I faced Mr. Mellaire, and talked with him, and smiled, and exchanged +amenities, I was aware of the feeling that comes to one in the forest +or jungle when he knows unseen wild eyes of hunting animals are spying +upon him. Frankly I was afraid of the thing ambushed behind there in +the skull of Mr. Mellaire. One so as a matter of course identifies form +and feature with the spirit within. But I could not do this with the +second mate. His face and form and manner and suave ease were one +thing, inside which he, an entirely different thing, lay hid. + +I noticed Wada standing in the cabin door, evidently waiting to ask for +instructions. I nodded, and prepared to follow him inside. Mr. Pike +looked at me quickly and said: + +“Just a moment, Mr. Pathurst.” + +He gave some orders to the second mate, who turned on his heel and +started for’ard. I stood and waited for Mr. Pike’s communication, which +he did not choose to make until he saw the second mate well out of +ear-shot. Then he leaned closely to me and said: + +“Don’t mention that little matter of my age to anybody. Each year I +sign on I sign my age one year younger. I am fifty-four, now, on the +articles.” + +“And you don’t look a day older,” I answered lightly, though I meant it +in all sincerity. + +“And I don’t feel it. I can outwork and outgame the huskiest of the +younglings. And don’t let my age get to anybody’s ears, Mr. Pathurst. +Skippers are not particular for mates getting around the seventy mark. +And owners neither. I’ve had my hopes for this ship, and I’d a-got her, +I think, except for the old man decidin’ to go to sea again. As if he +needed the money! The old skinflint!” + +“Is he well off?” I inquired. + +“Well off! If I had a tenth of his money I could retire on a chicken +ranch in California and live like a fighting cock—yes, if I had a +fiftieth of what he’s got salted away. Why, he owns more stock in all +the Blackwood ships . . . and they’ve always been lucky and always +earned money. I’m getting old, and it’s about time I got a command. But +no; the old cuss has to take it into his head to go to sea again just +as the berth’s ripe for me to fall into.” + +Again I started to enter the cabin, but was stopped by the mate. + +“Mr. Pathurst? You won’t mention about my age?” + +“No, certainly not, Mr. Pike,” I said. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +Quite chilled through, I was immediately struck by the warm comfort of +the cabin. All the connecting doors were open, making what I might call +a large suite of rooms or a whale house. The main-deck entrance, on the +port side, was into a wide, well-carpeted hallway. Into this hallway, +from the port side, opened five rooms: first, on entering, the mate’s; +next, the two state-rooms which had been knocked into one for me; then +the steward’s room; and, adjoining his, completing the row, a +state-room which was used for the slop-chest. + +Across the hall was a region with which I was not yet acquainted, +though I knew it contained the dining-room, the bath-rooms, the cabin +proper, which was in truth a spacious living-room, the captain’s +quarters, and, undoubtedly, Miss West’s quarters. I could hear her +humming some air as she bustled about with her unpacking. The steward’s +pantry, separated by crosshalls and by the stairway leading into the +chart-room above on the poop, was placed strategically in the centre of +all its operations. Thus, on the starboard side of it were the +state-rooms of the captain and Miss West, for’ard of it were the +dining-room and main cabin; while on the port side of it was the row of +rooms I have described, two of which were mine. + +I ventured down the hall toward the stern, and found it opened into the +stern of the _Elsinore_, forming a single large apartment at least +thirty-five feet from side to side and fifteen to eighteen feet in +depth, curved, of course, to the lines of the ship’s stern. This seemed +a store-room. I noted wash-tubs, bolts of canvas, many lockers, hams +and bacon hanging, a step-ladder that led up through a small hatch to +the poop, and, in the floor, another hatch. + +I spoke to the steward, an old Chinese, smooth-faced and brisk of +movement, whose name I never learned, but whose age on the articles was +fifty-six. + +“What is down there?” I asked, pointing to the hatch in the floor. + +“Him lazarette,” he answered. + +“And who eats there?” I indicated a table with two stationary +sea-chairs. + +“Him second table. Second mate and carpenter him eat that table.” + +When I had finished giving instructions to Wada for the arranging of my +things I looked at my watch. It was early yet, only several minutes +after three so I went on deck again to witness the arrival of the crew. + +The actual coming on board from the tug I had missed, but for’ard of +the amidship house I encountered a few laggards who had not yet gone +into the forecastle. These were the worse for liquor, and a more +wretched, miserable, disgusting group of men I had never seen in any +slum. Their clothes were rags. Their faces were bloated, bloody, and +dirty. I won’t say they were villainous. They were merely filthy and +vile. They were vile of appearance, of speech, and action. + +“Come! Come! Get your dunnage into the fo’c’s’le!” + +Mr. Pike uttered these words sharply from the bridge above. A light and +graceful bridge of steel rods and planking ran the full length of the +_Elsinore_, starting from the poop, crossing the amidship house and the +forecastle, and connecting with the forecastle-head at the very bow of +the ship. + +At the mate’s command the men reeled about and glowered up at him, one +or two starting clumsily to obey. The others ceased their drunken +yammerings and regarded the mate sullenly. One of them, with a face +mashed by some mad god in the making, and who was afterwards to be +known by me as Larry, burst into a guffaw, and spat insolently on the +deck. Then, with utmost deliberation, he turned to his fellows and +demanded loudly and huskily: + +“Who in hell’s the old stiff, anyways?” + +I saw Mr. Pike’s huge form tense convulsively and involuntarily, and I +noted the way his huge hands strained in their clutch on the +bridge-railing. Beyond that he controlled himself. + +“Go on, you,” he said. “I’ll have nothing out of you. Get into the +fo’c’s’le.” + +And then, to my surprise, he turned and walked aft along the bridge to +where the tug was casting off its lines. So this was all his high and +mighty talk of kill and drive, I thought. Not until afterwards did I +recollect, as I turned aft down the deck, that I saw Captain West +leaning on the rail at the break of the poop and gazing for’ard. + +The tug’s lines were being cast off, and I was interested in watching +the manoeuvre until she had backed clear of the ship, at which moment, +from for’ard, arose a queer babel of howling and yelping, as numbers of +drunken voices cried out that a man was overboard. The second mate +sprang down the poop-ladder and darted past me along the deck. The +mate, still on the slender, white-painted bridge, that seemed no more +than a spider thread, surprised me by the activity with which he dashed +along the bridge to the ’midship house, leaped upon the canvas-covered +long-boat, and swung outboard where he might see. Before the men could +clamber upon the rail the second mate was among them, and it was he who +flung a coil of line overboard. + +What impressed me particularly was the mental and muscular superiority +of these two officers. Despite their age—the mate sixty-nine and the +second mate at least fifty—their minds and their bodies had acted with +the swiftness and accuracy of steel springs. They were potent. They +were iron. They were perceivers, willers, and doers. They were as of +another species compared with the sailors under them. While the latter, +witnesses of the happening and directly on the spot, had been crying +out in befuddled helplessness, and with slow wits and slower bodies +been climbing upon the rail, the second mate had descended the steep +ladder from the poop, covered two hundred feet of deck, sprung upon the +rail, grasped the instant need of the situation, and cast the coil of +line into the water. + +And of the same nature and quality had been the actions of Mr. Pike. He +and Mr. Mellaire were masters over the wretched creatures of sailors by +virtue of this remarkable difference of efficiency and will. Truly, +they were more widely differentiated from the men under them than were +the men under them differentiated from Hottentots—ay, and from monkeys. + +I, too, by this time, was standing on the big hawser-bitts in a +position to see a man in the water who seemed deliberately swimming +away from the ship. He was a dark-skinned Mediterranean of some sort, +and his face, in a clear glimpse I caught of it, was distorted by +frenzy. His black eyes were maniacal. The line was so accurately flung +by the second mate that it fell across the man’s shoulders, and for +several strokes his arms tangled in it ere he could swim clear. This +accomplished, he proceeded to scream some wild harangue and once, as he +uptossed his arms for emphasis, I saw in his hand the blade of a long +knife. + +Bells were jangling on the tug as it started to the rescue. I stole a +look up at Captain West. He had walked to the port side of the poop, +where, hands in pockets, he was glancing, now for’ard at the struggling +man, now aft at the tug. He gave no orders, betrayed no excitement, and +appeared, I may well say, the most casual of spectators. + +The creature in the water seemed now engaged in taking off his clothes. +I saw one bare arm, and then the other, appear. In his struggles he +sometimes sank beneath the surface, but always he emerged, flourishing +the knife and screaming his addled harangue. He even tried to escape +the tug by diving and swimming underneath. + +I strolled for’ard, and arrived in time to see him hoisted in over the +rail of the _Elsinore_. He was stark naked, covered with blood, and +raving. He had cut and slashed himself in a score of places. From one +wound in the wrist the blood spurted with each beat of the pulse. He +was a loathsome, non-human thing. I have seen a scared orang in a zoo, +and for all the world this bestial-faced, mowing, gibbering thing +reminded me of the orang. The sailors surrounded him, laying hands on +him, withstraining him, the while they guffawed and cheered. Right and +left the two mates shoved them away, and dragged the lunatic down the +deck and into a room in the ’midship house. I could not help marking +the strength of Mr. Pike and Mr. Mellaire. I had heard of the +superhuman strength of madmen, but this particular madman was as a wisp +of straw in their hands. Once into the bunk, Mr. Pike held down the +struggling fool easily with one hand while he dispatched the second +mate for marlin with which to tie the fellow’s arms. + +“Bughouse,” Mr. Pike grinned at me. “I’ve seen some bughouse crews in +my time, but this one’s the limit.” + +“What are you going to do?” I asked. “The man will bleed to death.” + +“And good riddance,” he answered promptly. “We’ll have our hands full +of him until we can lose him somehow. When he gets easy I’ll sew him +up, that’s all, if I have to ease him with a clout of the jaw.” + +I glanced at the mate’s huge paw and appreciated its anæsthetic +qualities. Out on deck again, I saw Captain West on the poop, hands +still in pockets, quite uninterested, gazing at a blue break in the sky +to the north-east. More than the mates and the maniac, more than the +drunken callousness of the men, did this quiet figure, hands in +pockets, impress upon me that I was in a different world from any I had +known. + +Wada broke in upon my thoughts by telling me he had been sent to say +that Miss West was serving tea in the cabin. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +The contrast, as I entered the cabin, was startling. All contrasts +aboard the _Elsinore_ promised to be startling. Instead of the cold, +hard deck my feet sank into soft carpet. In place of the mean and +narrow room, built of naked iron, where I had left the lunatic, I was +in a spacious and beautiful apartment. With the bawling of the men’s +voices still in my ears, and with the pictures of their drink-puffed +and filthy faces still vivid under my eyelids, I found myself greeted +by a delicate-faced, prettily-gowned woman who sat beside a lacquered +oriental table on which rested an exquisite tea-service of Canton +china. All was repose and calm. The steward, noiseless-footed, +expressionless, was a shadow, scarcely noticed, that drifted into the +room on some service and drifted out again. + +Not at once could I relax, and Miss West, serving my tea, laughed and +said: + +“You look as if you had been seeing things. The steward tells me a man +has been overboard. I fancy the cold water must have sobered him.” + +I resented her unconcern. + +“The man is a lunatic,” I said. “This ship is no place for him. He +should be sent ashore to some hospital.” + +“I am afraid, if we begin that, we’d have to send two-thirds of our +complement ashore—one lump? + +“Yes, please,” I answered. “But the man has terribly wounded himself. +He is liable to bleed to death.” + +She looked at me for a moment, her gray eyes serious and scrutinizing, +as she passed me my cup; then laughter welled up in her eyes, and she +shook her head reprovingly. + +“Now please don’t begin the voyage by being shocked, Mr. Pathurst. Such +things are very ordinary occurrences. You’ll get used to them. You must +remember some queer creatures go down to the sea in ships. The man is +safe. Trust Mr. Pike to attend to his wounds. I’ve never sailed with +Mr. Pike, but I’ve heard enough about him. Mr. Pike is quite a surgeon. +Last voyage, they say, he performed a successful amputation, and so +elated was he that he turned his attention on the carpenter, who +happened to be suffering from some sort of indigestion. Mr. Pike was so +convinced of the correctness of his diagnosis that he tried to bribe +the carpenter into having his appendix removed.” She broke off to laugh +heartily, then added: “They say he offered the poor man just pounds and +pounds of tobacco to consent to the operation.” + +“But is it safe . . . for the . . . the working of the ship,” I urged, +“to take such a lunatic along?” + +She shrugged her shoulders, as if not intending to reply, then said: + +“This incident is nothing. There are always several lunatics or idiots +in every ship’s company. And they always come aboard filled with +whiskey and raving. I remember, once, when we sailed from Seattle, a +long time ago, one such madman. He showed no signs of madness at all; +just calmly seized two boarding-house runners and sprang overboard with +them. We sailed the same day, before the bodies were recovered.” + +Again she shrugged her shoulders. + +“What would you? The sea is hard, Mr. Pathurst. And for our sailors we +get the worst type of men. I sometimes wonder where they find them. And +we do our best with them, and somehow manage to make them help us carry +on our work in the world. But they are low . . . low.” + +As I listened, and studied her face, contrasting her woman’s +sensitivity and her soft pretty dress with the brute faces and rags of +the men I had noticed, I could not help being convinced intellectually +of the rightness of her position. Nevertheless, I was hurt +sentimentally,—chiefly, I do believe, because of the very hardness and +unconcern with which she enunciated her view. It was because she was a +woman, and so different from the sea-creatures, that I resented her +having received such harsh education in the school of the sea. + +“I could not help remarking your father’s—er, er _sang froid_ during +the occurrence.” I ventured. + +“He never took his hands from his pockets!” she cried. + +Her eyes sparkled as I nodded confirmation. + +“I knew it! It’s his way. I’ve seen it so often. I remember when I was +twelve years old—mother was alone—we were running into San Francisco. +It was in the _Dixie_, a ship almost as big as this. There was a strong +fair wind blowing, and father did not take a tug. We sailed right +through the Golden Gate and up the San Francisco water-front. There was +a swift flood tide, too; and the men, both watches, were taking in sail +as fast as they could. + +“Now the fault was the steamboat captain’s. He miscalculated our speed +and tried to cross our bow. Then came the collision, and the _Dixie’s_ +bow cut through that steamboat, cabin and hull. There were hundreds of +passengers, men, women, and children. Father never took his hands from +his pockets. He sent the mate for’ard to superintend rescuing the +passengers, who were already climbing on to our bowsprit and +forecastle-head, and in a voice no different from what he’d use to ask +some one to pass the butter he told the second mate to set all sail. +And he told him which sails to begin with.” + +“But why set more sails?” I interrupted. + +“Because he could see the situation. Don’t you see, the steamboat was +cut wide open. All that kept her from sinking instantly was the bow of +the _Dixie_ jammed into her side. By setting more sail and keeping +before the wind, he continued to keep the bow of the _Dixie_ jammed. + +“I was terribly frightened. People who had sprung or fallen overboard +were drowning on each side of us, right in my sight, as we sailed along +up the water-front. But when I looked at father, there he was, just as +I had always known him, hands in pockets, walking slowly up and down, +now giving an order to the wheel—you see, he had to direct the +_Dixie’s_ course through all the shipping—now watching the passengers +swarming over our bow and along our deck, now looking ahead to see his +way through the ships at anchor. Sometimes he did glance at the poor, +drowning ones, but he was not concerned with them. + +“Of course, there were numbers drowned, but by keeping his hands in his +pockets and his head cool he saved hundreds of lives. Not until the +last person was off the steamboat—he sent men aboard to make sure—did +he take off the press of sail. And the steamboat sank at once.” + +She ceased, and looked at me with shining eyes for approbation. + +“It was splendid,” I acknowledged. “I admire the quiet man of power, +though I confess that such quietness under stress seems to me almost +unearthly and beyond human. I can’t conceive of myself acting that way, +and I am confident that I was suffering more while that poor devil was +in the water than all the rest of the onlookers put together.” + +“Father suffers!” she defended loyally. “Only he does not show it.” + +I bowed, for I felt she had missed my point. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +I came out from tea in the cabin to find the tug _Britannia_ in sight. +She was the craft that was to tow us down Chesapeake Bay to sea. +Strolling for’ard I noted the sailors being routed out of the +forecastle by Sundry Buyers, forever tenderly pressing his abdomen with +his hands. Another man was helping Sundry Buyers at routing out the +sailors. I asked Mr. Pike who the man was. + +“Nancy—my bosun; ain’t he a peach?” was the answer I got, and from the +mate’s manner of enunciation I was quite aware that “Nancy” had been +used derisively. + +Nancy could not have been more than thirty, though he looked as if he +had lived a very long time. He was toothless and sad and weary of +movement. His eyes were slate-coloured and muddy, his shaven face was +sickly yellow. Narrow-shouldered, sunken-chested, with cheeks +cavernously hollow, he looked like a man in the last stages of +consumption. Little life as Sundry Buyers showed, Nancy showed even +less life. And these were bosuns!—bosuns of the fine American +sailing-ship _Elsinore_! Never had any illusion of mine taken a more +distressing cropper. + +It was plain to me that the pair of them, spineless and spunkless, were +afraid of the men they were supposed to boss. And the men! Doré could +never have conjured a more delectable hell’s broth. For the first time +I saw them all, and I could not blame the two bosuns for being afraid +of them. They did not walk. They slouched and shambled, some even +tottered, as from weakness or drink. + +But it was their faces. I could not help remembering what Miss West had +just told me—that ships always sailed with several lunatics or idiots +in their crews. But these looked as if they were all lunatic or +feeble-minded. And I, too, wondered where such a mass of human wreckage +could have been obtained. There was something wrong with all of them. +Their bodies were twisted, their faces distorted, and almost without +exception they were under-sized. The several quite fairly large men I +marked were vacant-faced. One man, however, large and unmistakably +Irish, was also unmistakably mad. He was talking and muttering to +himself as he came out. A little, curved, lop-sided man, with his head +on one side and with the shrewdest and wickedest of faces and pale blue +eyes, addressed an obscene remark to the mad Irishman, calling him +O’Sullivan. But O’Sullivan took no notice and muttered on. On the heels +of the little lop-sided man appeared an overgrown dolt of a fat youth, +followed by another youth so tall and emaciated of body that it seemed +a marvel his flesh could hold his frame together. + +Next, after this perambulating skeleton, came the weirdest creature I +have ever beheld. He was a twisted oaf of a man. Face and body were +twisted as with the pain of a thousand years of torture. His was the +face of an ill-treated and feeble-minded faun. His large black eyes +were bright, eager, and filled with pain; and they flashed +questioningly from face to face and to everything about. They were so +pitifully alert, those eyes, as if forever astrain to catch the clue to +some perplexing and threatening enigma. Not until afterwards did I +learn the cause of this. He was stone deaf, having had his ear-drums +destroyed in the boiler explosion which had wrecked the rest of him. + +I noticed the steward, standing at the galley door and watching the men +from a distance. His keen, Asiatic face, quick with intelligence, was a +relief to the eye, as was the vivid face of Shorty, who came out of the +forecastle with a leap and a gurgle of laughter. But there was +something wrong with him, too. He was a dwarf, and, as I was to come to +know, his high spirits and low mentality united to make him a clown. + +Mr. Pike stopped beside me a moment and while he watched the men I +watched him. The expression on his face was that of a cattle-buyer, and +it was plain that he was disgusted with the quality of cattle +delivered. + +“Something the matter with the last mother’s son of them,” he growled. + +And still they came: one, pallid, furtive-eyed, that I instantly +adjudged a drug fiend; another, a tiny, wizened old man, pinch-faced +and wrinkled, with beady, malevolent blue eyes; a third, a small, +well-fleshed man, who seemed to my eye the most normal and least +unintelligent specimen that had yet appeared. But Mr. Pike’s eye was +better trained than mine. + +“What’s the matter with _you_?” he snarled at the man. + +“Nothing, sir,” the fellow answered, stopping immediately. + +“What’s your name?” + +Mr. Pike never spoke to a sailor save with a snarl. + +“Charles Davis, sir.” + +“What are you limping about?” + +“I ain’t limpin’, sir,” the man answered respectfully, and, at a nod of +dismissal from the mate, marched off jauntily along the deck with a +hoodlum swing to the shoulders. + +“He’s a sailor all right,” the mate grumbled; “but I’ll bet you a pound +of tobacco or a month’s wages there’s something wrong with him.” + +The forecastle now seemed empty, but the mate turned on the bosuns with +his customary snarl. + +“What in hell are you doing? Sleeping? Think this is a rest cure? Get +in there an’ rustle ’em out!” + +Sundry Buyers pressed his abdomen gingerly and hesitated, while Nancy, +his face one dogged, long-suffering bleakness, reluctantly entered the +forecastle. Then, from inside, we heard oaths, vile and filthy, urgings +and expostulations on the part of Nancy, meekly and pleadingly uttered. + +I noted the grim and savage look that came on Mr. Pike’s face, and was +prepared for I knew not what awful monstrosities to emerge from the +forecastle. Instead, to my surprise, came three fellows who were +strikingly superior to the ruck that had preceded them. I looked to see +the mate’s face soften to some sort of approval. On the contrary, his +blue eyes contracted to narrow slits, the snarl of his voice was +communicated to his lips, so that he seemed like a dog about to bite. + +But the three fellows. They were small men, all; and young men, +anywhere between twenty-five and thirty. Though roughly dressed, they +were well dressed, and under their clothes their bodily movements +showed physical well-being. Their faces were keen cut, intelligent. And +though I felt there was something queer about them, I could not divine +what it was. + +Here were no ill-fed, whiskey-poisoned men, such as the rest of the +sailors, who, having drunk up their last pay-days, had starved ashore +until they had received and drunk up their advance money for the +present voyage. These three, on the other hand were supple and +vigorous. Their movements were spontaneously quick and accurate. +Perhaps it was the way they looked at me, with incurious yet +calculating eyes that nothing escaped. They seemed so worldly wise, so +indifferent, so sure of themselves. I was confident they were not +sailors. Yet, as shore-dwellers, I could not place them. They were a +type I had never encountered. Possibly I can give a better idea of them +by describing what occurred. + +As they passed before us they favoured Mr. Pike with the same +indifferent, keen glances they gave me. + +“What’s your name—you?” Mr. Pike barked at the first of the trio, +evidently a hybrid Irish-Jew. Jewish his nose unmistakably was. Equally +unmistakable was the Irish of his eyes, and jaw, and upper lip. + +The three had immediately stopped, and, though they did not look +directly at one another, they seemed to be holding a silent conference. +Another of the trio, in whose veins ran God alone knows what Semitic, +Babylonish and Latin strains, gave a warning signal. Oh, nothing so +crass as a wink or a nod. I almost doubted that I had intercepted it, +and yet I knew he had communicated a warning to his fellows. More a +shade of expression that had crossed his eyes, or a glint in them of +sudden light—or whatever it was, it carried the message. + +“Murphy,” the other answered the mate. + +“Sir!” Mr. Pike snarled at him. + +Murphy shrugged his shoulders in token that he did not understand. It +was the poise of the man, of the three of them, the cool poise that +impressed me. + +“When you address any officer on this ship you’ll say ‘sir,’” Mr. Pike +explained, his voice as harsh as his face was forbidding. “Did you get +_that_?” + +“Yes . . . sir,” Murphy drawled with deliberate slowness. “I gotcha.” + +“Sir!” Mr. Pike roared. + +“Sir,” Murphy answered, so softly and carelessly that it irritated the +mate to further bullyragging. + +“Well, Murphy’s too long,” he announced. “Nosey’ll do you aboard this +craft. Got _that_?” + +“I gotcha . . . sir,” came the reply, insolent in its very softness and +unconcern. “Nosey Murphy goes . . . sir.” + +And then he laughed—the three of them laughed, if laughter it might be +called that was laughter without sound or facial movement. The eyes +alone laughed, mirthlessly and cold-bloodedly. + +Certainly Mr. Pike was not enjoying himself with these baffling +personalities. He turned upon the leader, the one who had given the +warning and who looked the admixture of all that was Mediterranean and +Semitic. + +“What’s _your_ name?” + +“Bert Rhine . . . sir,” was the reply, in tones as soft and careless +and silkily irritating as the other’s. + +“And _you_?”—this to the remaining one, the youngest of the trio, a +dark-eyed, olive-skinned fellow with a face most striking in its +cameo-like beauty. American-born, I placed him, of immigrants from +Southern Italy—from Naples, or even Sicily. + +“Twist . . . sir,” he answered, precisely in the same manner as the +others. + +“Too long,” the mate sneered. “The Kid’ll do you. Got _that_?” + +“I gotcha . . . sir. Kid Twist’ll do me . . . sir.” + +“Kid’ll do!” + +“Kid . . . sir.” + +And the three laughed their silent, mirthless laugh. By this time Mr. +Pike was beside himself with a rage that could find no excuse for +action. + +“Now I’m going to tell you something, the bunch of you, for the good of +your health.” The mate’s voice grated with the rage he was suppressing. +“I know your kind. You’re dirt. D’ye get _that_? You’re dirt. And on +this ship you’ll be treated as dirt. You’ll do your work like men, or +I’ll know the reason why. The first time one of you bats an eye, or +even looks like batting an eye, he gets his. D’ye get that? Now get +out. Get along for’ard to the windlass.” + +Mr. Pike turned on his heel, and I swung alongside of him as he moved +aft. + +“What do you make of them?” I queried. + +“The limit,” he grunted. “I know their kidney. They’ve done time, the +three of them. They’re just plain sweepings of hell—” + +Here his speech was broken off by the spectacle that greeted him on +Number Two hatch. Sprawled out on the hatch were five or six men, among +them Larry, the tatterdemalion who had called him “old stiff” earlier +in the afternoon. That Larry had not obeyed orders was patent, for he +was sitting with his back propped against his sea-bag, which ought to +have been in the forecastle. Also, he and the group with him ought to +have been for’ard manning the windlass. + +The mate stepped upon the hatch and towered over the man. + +“Get up,” he ordered. + +Larry made an effort, groaned, and failed to get up. + +“I can’t,” he said. + +“Sir!” + +“I can’t, sir. I was drunk last night an’ slept in Jefferson Market. +An’ this mornin’ I was froze tight, sir. They had to pry me loose.” + +“Stiff with the cold you were, eh?” the mate grinned. + +“It’s well ye might say it, sir,” Larry answered. + +“And you feel like an old stiff, eh?” + +Larry blinked with the troubled, querulous eyes of a monkey. He was +beginning to apprehend he knew not what, and he knew that bending over +him was a man-master. + +“Well, I’ll just be showin’ you what an old stiff feels like, anyways.” +Mr. Pike mimicked the other’s brogue. + +And now I shall tell what I saw happen. Please remember what I have +said of the huge paws of Mr. Pike, the fingers much longer than mine +and twice as thick, the wrists massive-boned, the arm-bones and the +shoulder-bones of the same massive order. With one flip of his right +hand, with what I might call an open-handed, lifting, upward slap, save +that it was the ends of the fingers only that touched Larry’s face, he +lifted Larry into the air, sprawling him backward on his back across +his sea-bag. + +The man alongside of Larry emitted a menacing growl and started to +spring belligerently to his feet. But he never reached his feet. Mr. +Pike, with the back of same right hand, open, smote the man on the side +of the face. The loud smack of the impact was startling. The mate’s +strength was amazing. The blow looked so easy, so effortless; it had +seemed like the lazy stroke of a good-natured bear, but in it was such +a weight of bone and muscle that the man went down sidewise and rolled +off the hatch on to the deck. + +At this moment, lurching aimlessly along, appeared O’Sullivan. A sudden +access of muttering, on his part, reached Mr. Pike’s ear, and Mr. Pike, +instantly keen as a wild animal, his paw in the act of striking +O’Sullivan, whipped out like a revolver shot, “What’s that?” Then he +noted the sense-struck face of O’Sullivan and withheld the blow. +“Bug-house,” Mr. Pike commented. + +Involuntarily I had glanced to see if Captain West was on the poop, and +found that we were hidden from the poop by the ’midship house. + +Mr. Pike, taking no notice of the man who lay groaning on the deck, +stood over Larry, who was likewise groaning. The rest of the sprawling +men were on their feet, subdued and respectful. I, too, was respectful +of this terrific, aged figure of a man. The exhibition had quite +convinced me of the verity of his earlier driving and killing days. + +“Who’s the old stiff now?” he demanded. + +“’Tis me, sir,” Larry moaned contritely. + +“Get up!” + +Larry got up without any difficulty at all. + +“Now get for’ard to the windlass! The rest of you!” + +And they went, sullenly, shamblingly, like the cowed brutes they were. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +I climbed the ladder on the side of the for’ard house (which house +contained, as I discovered, the forecastle, the galley, and the +donkey-engine room), and went part way along the bridge to a position +by the foremast, where I could observe the crew heaving up anchor. The +_Britannia_ was alongside, and we were getting under way. + +A considerable body of men was walking around with the windlass or +variously engaged on the forecastle-head. Of the crew proper were two +watches of fifteen men each. In addition were sailmakers, boys, bosuns, +and the carpenter. Nearly forty men were they, but such men! They were +sad and lifeless. There was no vim, no go, no activity. Every step and +movement was an effort, as if they were dead men raised out of coffins +or sick men dragged from hospital beds. Sick they +were—whiskey-poisoned. Starved they were, and weak from poor nutrition. +And worst of all, they were imbecile and lunatic. + +I looked aloft at the intricate ropes, at the steel masts rising and +carrying huge yards of steel, rising higher and higher, until steel +masts and yards gave way to slender spars of wood, while ropes and +stays turned into a delicate tracery of spider-thread against the sky. +That such a wretched muck of men should be able to work this +magnificent ship through all storm and darkness and peril of the sea +was beyond all seeming. I remembered the two mates, the +super-efficiency, mental and physical, of Mr. Mellaire and Mr. +Pike—could they make this human wreckage do it? They, at least, evinced +no doubts of their ability. The sea? If this feat of mastery were +possible, then clear it was that I knew nothing of the sea. + +I looked back at the misshapen, starved, sick, stumbling hulks of men +who trod the dreary round of the windlass. Mr. Pike was right. These +were not the brisk, devilish, able-bodied men who manned the ships of +the old clipper-ship days; who fought their officers, who had the +points of their sheath-knives broken off, who killed and were killed, +but who did their work as men. These men, these shambling carcasses at +the windlass—I looked, and looked, and vainly I strove to conjure the +vision of them swinging aloft in rack and storm, “clearing the raffle,” +as Kipling puts it, “with their clasp knives in their teeth.” Why +didn’t they sing a chanty as they hove the anchor up? In the old days, +as I had read, the anchor always came up to the rollicking sailor songs +of sea-chested men. + +I tired of watching the spiritless performance, and went aft on an +exploring trip along the slender bridge. It was a beautiful structure, +strong yet light, traversing the length of the ship in three aerial +leaps. It spanned from the forecastle-head to the forecastle-house, +next to the ’midship house, and then to the poop. The poop, which was +really the roof or deck over all the cabin space below, and which +occupied the whole after-part of the ship, was very large. It was +broken only by the half-round and half-covered wheel-house at the very +stern and by the chart-house. On either side of the latter two doors +opened into a tiny hallway. This, in turn, gave access to the +chart-room and to a stairway that led down into the cabin quarters +beneath. + +I peeped into the chart-room and was greeted with a smile by Captain +West. He was lolling back comfortably in a swing chair, his feet cocked +on the desk opposite. On a broad, upholstered couch sat the pilot. Both +were smoking cigars; and, lingering for a moment to listen to the +conversation, I grasped that the pilot was an ex-sea-captain. + +As I descended the stairs, from Miss West’s room came a sound of +humming and bustling, as she settled her belongings. The energy she +displayed, to judge by the cheerful noises of it, was almost +perturbing. + +Passing by the pantry, I put my head inside the door to greet the +steward and courteously let him know that I was aware of his existence. +Here, in his little realm, it was plain that efficiency reigned. +Everything was spotless and in order, and I could have wished and +wished vainly for a more noiseless servant than he ashore. His face, as +he regarded me, had as little or as much expression as the Sphinx. But +his slant, black eyes were bright, with intelligence. + +“What do you think of the crew?” I asked, in order to put words to my +invasion of his castle. + +“Buggy-house,” he answered promptly, with a disgusted shake of the +head. “Too much buggy-house. All crazy. You see. No good. Rotten. Down +to hell.” + +That was all, but it verified my own judgment. While it might be true, +as Miss West had said, that every ship’s crew contained several +lunatics and idiots, it was a foregone conclusion that our crew +contained far more than several. In fact, and as it was to turn out, +our crew, even in these degenerate sailing days, was an unusual crew in +so far as its helplessness and worthlessness were beyond the average. + +I found my own room (in reality it was two rooms) delightful. Wada had +unpacked and stored away my entire outfit of clothing, and had filled +numerous shelves with the library I had brought along. Everything was +in order and place, from my shaving outfit in the drawer beside the +wash-basin, and my sea-boots and oilskins hung ready to hand, to my +writing materials on the desk, before which a swing arm-chair, +leather-upholstered and screwed solidly to the floor, invited me. My +pyjamas and dressing-gown were out. My slippers, in their accustomed +place by the bed, also invited me. + +Here, aft, all was fitness, intelligence. On deck it was what I have +described—a nightmare spawn of creatures, assumably human, but +malformed, mentally and physically, into caricatures of men. Yes, it +was an unusual crew; and that Mr. Pike and Mr. Mellaire could whip it +into the efficient shape necessary to work this vast and intricate and +beautiful fabric of a ship was beyond all seeming of possibility. + +Depressed as I was by what I had just witnessed on deck, there came to +me, as I leaned back in my chair and opened the second volume of George +Moore’s _Hail and Farewell_, a premonition that the voyage was to be +disastrous. But then, as I looked about the room, measured its generous +space, realized that I was more comfortably situated than I had ever +been on any passenger steamer, I dismissed foreboding thoughts and +caught a pleasant vision of myself, through weeks and months, catching +up with all the necessary reading which I had so long neglected. + +Once, I asked Wada if he had seen the crew. No, he hadn’t, but the +steward had said that in all his years at sea this was the worst crew +he had ever seen. + +“He say, all crazy, no sailors, rotten,” Wada said. “He say all big +fools and bime by much trouble. ‘You see,’ he say all the time. ‘You +see, You see.’ He pretty old man—fifty-five years, he say. Very smart +man for Chinaman. Just now, first time for long time, he go to sea. +Before, he have big business in San Francisco. Then he get much +trouble—police. They say he opium smuggle. Oh, big, big trouble. But he +catch good lawyer. He no go to jail. But long time lawyer work, and +when trouble all finish lawyer got all his business, all his money, +everything. Then he go to sea, like before. He make good money. He get +sixty-five dollars a month on this ship. But he don’t like. Crew all +crazy. When this time finish he leave ship, go back start business in +San Francisco.” + +Later, when I had Wada open one of the ports for ventilation, I could +hear the gurgle and swish of water alongside, and I knew the anchor was +up and that we were in the grip of the _Britannia_, towing down the +Chesapeake to sea. The idea suggested itself that it was not too late. +I could very easily abandon the adventure and return to Baltimore on +the _Britannia_ when she cast off the _Elsinore_. And then I heard a +slight tinkling of china from the pantry as the steward proceeded to +set the table, and, also, it was so warm and comfortable, and George +Moore was so irritatingly fascinating. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +In every way dinner proved up beyond my expectations, and I registered +a note that the cook, whoever or whatever he might be, was a capable +man at his trade. Miss West served, and, though she and the steward +were strangers, they worked together splendidly. I should have thought, +from the smoothness of the service, that he was an old house servant +who for years had known her every way. + +The pilot ate in the chart-house, so that at table were the four of us +that would always be at table together. Captain West and his daughter +faced each other, while I, on the captain’s right, faced Mr. Pike. This +put Miss West across the corner on my right. + +Mr. Pike, his dark sack coat (put on for the meal) bulging and +wrinkling over the lumps of muscles that padded his stooped shoulders, +had nothing at all to say. But he had eaten too many years at captains’ +tables not to have proper table manners. At first I thought he was +abashed by Miss West’s presence. Later, I decided it was due to the +presence of the captain. For Captain West had a way with him that I was +beginning to learn. Far removed as Mr. Pike and Mr. Mellaire were from +the sailors, individuals as they were of an entirely different and +superior breed, yet equally as different and far removed from his +officers was Captain West. He was a serene and absolute aristocrat. He +neither talked “ship” nor anything else to Mr. Pike. + +On the other hand, Captain West’s attitude toward me was that of a +social equal. But then, I was a passenger. Miss West treated me the +same way, but unbent more to Mr. Pike. And Mr. Pike, answering her with +“Yes, Miss,” and “No, Miss,” ate good-manneredly and with his +shaggy-browed gray eyes studied me across the table. I, too, studied +him. Despite his violent past, killer and driver that he was, I could +not help liking the man. He was honest, genuine. Almost more than for +that, I liked him for the spontaneous boyish laugh he gave on the +occasions when I reached the points of several funny stories. No man +could laugh like that and be all bad. I was glad that it was he, and +not Mr. Mellaire, who was to sit opposite throughout the voyage. And I +was very glad that Mr. Mellaire was not to eat with us at all. + +I am afraid that Miss West and I did most of the talking. She was +breezy, vivacious, tonic, and I noted again that the delicate, almost +fragile oval of her face was given the lie by her body. She was a +robust, healthy young woman. That was undeniable. Not fat—heaven +forbid!—not even plump; yet her lines had that swelling roundness that +accompanies long, live muscles. She was full-bodied, vigorous; and yet +not so full-bodied as she seemed. I remember with what surprise, when +we arose from table, I noted her slender waist. At that moment I got +the impression that she was willowy. And willowy she was, with a normal +waist and with, in addition, always that informing bodily vigour that +made her appear rounder and robuster than she really was. + +It was the health of her that interested me. When I studied her face +more closely I saw that only the lines of the oval of it were delicate. +Delicate it was not, nor fragile. The flesh was firm, and the texture +of the skin was firm and fine as it moved over the firm muscles of face +and neck. The neck was a beautiful and adequate pillar of white. Its +flesh was firm, its skin fine, and it was muscular. The hands, too, +attracted me—not small, but well-shaped, fine, white and strong, and +well cared for. I could only conclude that she was an unusual captain’s +daughter, just as her father was an unusual captain and man. And their +noses were alike, just the hint-touch of the beak of power and race. + +While Miss West was telling of the unexpectedness of the voyage, of how +suddenly she had decided to come—she accounted for it as a whim—and +while she told of all the complications she had encountered in her +haste of preparation, I found myself casting up a tally of the +efficient ones on board the _Elsinore_. They were Captain West and his +daughter, the two mates, myself, of course, Wada and the steward, and, +beyond the shadow of a doubt, the cook. The dinner vouched for him. +Thus I found our total of efficients to be eight. But the cook, the +steward, and Wada were servants, not sailors, while Miss West and +myself were supernumeraries. Remained to work, direct, do, but three +efficients out of a total ship’s company of forty-five. I had no doubt +that other efficients there were; it seemed impossible that my first +impression of the crew should be correct. There was the carpenter. He +might, at his trade, be as good as the cook. Then the two sailmakers, +whom I had not yet seen, might prove up. + +A little later during the meal I ventured to talk about what had +interested me and aroused my admiration, namely, the masterfulness with +which Mr. Pike and Mr. Mellaire had gripped hold of that woeful, +worthless crew. It was all new to me, I explained, but I appreciated +the need of it. As I led up to the occurrence on Number Two hatch, when +Mr. Pike had lifted up Larry and toppled him back with a mere slap from +the ends of his fingers, I saw in Mr. Pike’s eyes a warning, almost +threatening, expression. Nevertheless, I completed my description of +the episode. + +When I had quite finished there was a silence. Miss West was busy +serving coffee from a copper percolator. Mr. Pike, profoundly occupied +with cracking walnuts, could not quite hide the wicked, little, +half-humorous, half-revengeful gleam in his eyes. But Captain West +looked straight at me, but from oh! such a distance—millions and +millions of miles away. His clear blue eyes were as serene as ever, his +tones as low and soft. + +“It is the one rule I ask to be observed, Mr. Pathurst—we never discuss +the sailors.” + +It was a facer to me, and with quite a pronounced fellow-feeling for +Larry I hurriedly added: + +“It was not merely the discipline that interested me. It was the feat +of strength.” + +“Sailors are trouble enough without our hearing about them, Mr. +Pathurst,” Captain West went on, as evenly and imperturbably as if I +had not spoken. “I leave the handling of the sailors to my officers. +That’s their business, and they are quite aware that I tolerate no +undeserved roughness or severity.” + +Mr. Pike’s harsh face carried the faintest shadow of an amused grin as +he stolidly regarded the tablecloth. I glanced to Miss West for +sympathy. She laughed frankly, and said: + +“You see, father never has any sailors. And it’s a good plan, too.” + +“A very good plan,” Mr. Pike muttered. + +Then Miss West kindly led the talk away from that subject, and soon had +us laughing with a spirited recital of a recent encounter of hers with +a Boston cab-driver. + +Dinner over, I stepped to my room in quest of cigarettes, and +incidentally asked Wada about the cook. Wada was always a great +gatherer of information. + +“His name Louis,” he said. “He Chinaman, too. No; only half Chinaman. +Other half Englishman. You know one island Napoleon he stop long time +and bime by die that island?” + +“St. Helena,” I prompted. + +“Yes, that place Louis he born. He talk very good English.” + +At this moment, entering the hall from the deck, Mr. Mellaire, just +relieved by the mate, passed me on his way to the big room in the stern +where the second table was set. His “Good evening, sir,” was as stately +and courteous as any southern gentleman of the old days could have +uttered it. And yet I could not like the man. His outward seeming was +so at variance with the personality that resided within. Even as he +spoke and smiled I felt that from inside his skull he was watching me, +studying me. And somehow, in a flash of intuition, I knew not why, I +was reminded of the three strange young men, routed last from the +forecastle, to whom Mr. Pike had read the law. They, too, had given me +a similar impression. + +Behind Mr. Mellaire slouched a self-conscious, embarrassed individual, +with the face of a stupid boy and the body of a giant. His feet were +even larger than Mr. Pike’s, but the hands—I shot a quick glance to +see—were not so large as Mr. Pike’s. + +As they passed I looked inquiry to Wada. + +“He carpenter. He sat second table. His name Sam Lavroff. He come from +New York on ship. Steward say he very young for carpenter, maybe +twenty-two, three years old.” + +As I approached the open port over my desk I again heard the swish and +gurgle of water and again realized that we were under way. So steady +and noiseless was our progress, that, say seated at table, it never +entered one’s head that we were moving or were anywhere save on the +solid land. I had been used to steamers all my life, and it was +difficult immediately to adjust myself to the absence of the +propeller-thrust vibration. + +“Well, what do you think?” I asked Wada, who, like myself, had never +made a sailing-ship voyage. + +He smiled politely. + +“Very funny ship. Very funny sailors. I don’t know. Mebbe all right. We +see.” + +“You think trouble?” I asked pointedly. + +“I think sailors very funny,” he evaded. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +Having lighted my cigarette, I strolled for’ard along the deck to where +work was going on. Above my head dim shapes of canvas showed in the +starlight. Sail was being made, and being made slowly, as I might +judge, who was only the veriest tyro in such matters. The +indistinguishable shapes of men, in long lines, pulled on ropes. They +pulled in sick and dogged silence, though Mr. Pike, ubiquitous, snarled +out orders and rapped out oaths from every angle upon their miserable +heads. + +Certainly, from what I had read, no ship of the old days ever proceeded +so sadly and blunderingly to sea. Ere long Mr. Mellaire joined Mr. Pike +in the struggle of directing the men. It was not yet eight in the +evening, and all hands were at work. They did not seem to know the +ropes. Time and again, when the half-hearted suggestions of the bosuns +had been of no avail, I saw one or the other of the mates leap to the +rail and put the right rope in the hands of the men. + +These, on the deck, I concluded, were the hopeless ones. Up aloft, from +sounds and cries, I knew were other men, undoubtedly those who were at +least a little seaman-like, loosing the sails. + +But on deck! Twenty or thirty of the poor devils, tailed on a rope that +hoisted a yard, would pull without concerted effort and with painfully +slow movements. “Walk away with it!” Mr. Pike would yell. And perhaps +for two or three yards they would manage to walk with the rope ere they +came to a halt like stalled horses on a hill. And yet, did either of +the mates spring in and add his strength, they were able to move right +along the deck without stopping. Either of the mates, old men that they +were, was muscularly worth half-a-dozen of the wretched creatures. + +“This is what sailin’s come to,” Mr. Pike paused to snort in my ear. +“This ain’t the place for an officer down here pulling and hauling. But +what can you do when the bosuns are worse than the men?” + +“I thought sailors sang songs when they pulled,” I said. + +“Sure they do. Want to hear ’em?” + +I knew there was malice of some sort in his voice, but I answered that +I’d like to very much. + +“Here, you bosun!” Mr. Pike snarled. “Wake up! Start a song! Topsail +halyards!” + +In the pause that followed I could have sworn that Sundry Buyers was +pressing his hands against his abdomen, while Nancy, infinite bleakness +freezing upon his face, was wetting his lips to begin. + +Nancy it was who began, for from no other man, I was confident, could +have issued so sepulchral a plaint. It was unmusical, unbeautiful, +unlively, and indescribably doleful. Yet the words showed that it +should have ripped and crackled with high spirits and lawlessness, for +the words poor Nancy sang were: + +“Away, way, way, yar, +We’ll kill Paddy Doyle for bus boots.” + + +“Quit it! Quit it!” Mr. Pike roared. “This ain’t a funeral! Ain’t there +one of you that can sing? Come on, now! It’s a topsail-yard—” + +He broke off to leap in to the pin-rail and get the wrong ropes out of +the men’s hands to put into them the right rope. + +“Come on, bosun! Break her out!” + +Then out of the gloom arose Sundry Buyers’ voice, cracked and crazy and +even more lugubrious than Nancy’s: + +“Then up aloft that yard must go, +Whiskey for my Johnny.” + + +The second line was supposed to be the chorus, but not more than two +men feebly mumbled it. Sundry Buyers quavered the next line: + +“Oh, whiskey killed my sister Sue.” + + +Then Mr. Pike took a hand, seizing the hauling-part next to the pin and +lifting his voice with a rare snap and devilishness: + +“And whiskey killed the old man, too, +Whiskey for my Johnny.” + + +He sang the devil-may-care lines on and on, lifting the crew to the +work and to the chorused emphasis of “Whiskey for my Johnny.” + +And to his voice they pulled, they moved, they sang, and were alive, +until he interrupted the song to cry “Belay!” + +And then all the life and lilt went out of them, and they were again +maundering and futile things, getting in one another’s way, stumbling +and shuffling through the darkness, hesitating to grasp ropes, and, +when they did take hold, invariably taking hold of the wrong rope +first. Skulkers there were among them, too; and once, from for’ard of +the ’midship house, I heard smacks, and curses, and groans, and out of +the darkness hurriedly emerged two men, on their heels Mr. Pike, who +chanted a recital of the distressing things that would befall them if +he caught them at such tricks again. + +The whole thing was too depressing for me to care to watch further, so +I strolled aft and climbed the poop. In the lee of the chart-house +Captain West and the pilot were pacing slowly up and down. Passing on +aft, I saw steering at the wheel the weazened little old man I had +noted earlier in the day. In the light of the binnacle his small blue +eyes looked more malevolent than ever. So weazened and tiny was he, and +so large was the brass-studded wheel, that they seemed of a height. His +face was withered, scorched, and wrinkled, and in all seeming he was +fifty years older than Mr. Pike. He was the most remarkable figure of a +burnt-out, aged man one would expect to find able seaman on one of the +proudest sailing-ships afloat. Later, through Wada, I was to learn that +his name was Andy Fay and that he claimed no more years than +sixty-three. + +I leaned against the rail in the lee of the wheel-house, and stared up +at the lofty spars and myriad ropes that I could guess were there. No, +I decided I was not keen on the voyage. The whole atmosphere of it was +wrong. There were the cold hours I had waited on the pier-ends. There +was Miss West coming along. There was the crew of broken men and +lunatics. I wondered if the wounded Greek in the ’midship house still +gibbered, and if Mr. Pike had yet sewed him up; and I was quite sure I +would not care to witness such a transaction in surgery. + +Even Wada, who had never been in a sailing-ship, had his doubts of the +voyage. So had the steward, who had spent most of a life-time in +sailing-ships. So far as Captain West was concerned, crews did not +exist. And as for Miss West, she was so abominably robust that she +could not be anything else than an optimist in such matters. She had +always lived; her red blood sang to her only that she would always live +and that nothing evil would ever happen to her glorious personality. + +Oh, trust me, I knew the way of red blood. Such was my condition that +the red-blood health of Miss West was virtually an affront to me—for I +knew how unthinking and immoderate such blood could be. And for five +months at least—there was Mr. Pike’s offered wager of a pound of +tobacco or a month’s wages to that effect—I was to be pent on the same +ship with her. As sure as cosmic sap was cosmic sap, just that sure was +I that ere the voyage was over I should be pestered by her making love +to me. Please do not mistake me. My certainty in this matter was due, +not to any exalted sense of my own desirableness to women, but to my +anything but exalted concept of women as instinctive huntresses of men. +In my experience women hunted men with quite the same blind tropism +that marks the pursuit of the sun by the sunflower, the pursuit of +attachable surfaces by the tendrils of the grapevine. + +Call me blasé—I do not mind, if by blasé is meant the world-weariness, +intellectual, artistic, sensational, which can come to a young man of +thirty. For I was thirty, and I was weary of all these things—weary and +in doubt. It was because of this state that I was undertaking the +voyage. I wanted to get away by myself, to get away from all these +things, and, with proper perspective, mull the matter over. + +It sometimes seemed to me that the culmination of this world-sickness +had been brought about by the success of my play—my first play, as +every one knows. But it had been such a success that it raised the +doubt in my own mind, just as the success of my several volumes of +verse had raised doubts. Was the public right? Were the critics right? +Surely the function of the artist was to voice life, yet what did I +know of life? + +So you begin to glimpse what I mean by the world-sickness that +afflicted me. Really, I had been, and was, very sick. Mad thoughts of +isolating myself entirely from the world had hounded me. I had even +canvassed the idea of going to Molokai and devoting the rest of my +years to the lepers—I, who was thirty years old, and healthy and +strong, who had no particular tragedy, who had a bigger income than I +knew how to spend, who by my own achievement had put my name on the +lips of men and proved myself a power to be reckoned with—I was that +mad that I had considered the lazar house for a destiny. + +Perhaps it will be suggested that success had turned my head. Very +well. Granted. But the turned head remains a fact, an incontrovertible +fact—my sickness, if you will, and a real sickness, and a fact. This I +knew: I had reached an intellectual and artistic climacteric, a +life-climacteric of some sort. And I had diagnosed my own case and +prescribed this voyage. And here was the atrociously healthy and +profoundly feminine Miss West along—the very last ingredient I would +have considered introducing into my prescription. + +A woman! Woman! Heaven knows I had been sufficiently tormented by their +persecutions to know them. I leave it to you: thirty years of age, not +entirely unhandsome, an intellectual and artistic place in the world, +and an income most dazzling—why shouldn’t women pursue me? They would +have pursued me had I been a hunchback, for the sake of my artistic +place alone, for the sake of my income alone. + +Yes; and love! Did I not know love—lyric, passionate, mad, romantic +love? That, too, was of old time with me. I, too, had throbbed and sung +and sobbed and sighed—yes, and known grief, and buried my dead. But it +was so long ago. How young I was—turned twenty-four! And after that I +had learned the bitter lesson that even deathless grief may die; and I +had laughed again and done my share of philandering with the pretty, +ferocious moths that fluttered around the light of my fortune and +artistry; and after that, in turn, I had retired disgusted from the +lists of woman, and gone on long lance-breaking adventures in the realm +of mind. And here I was, on board the _Elsinore_, unhorsed by my +encounters with the problems of the ultimate, carried off the field +with a broken pate. + +As I leaned against the rail, dismissing premonitions of disaster, I +could not help thinking of Miss West below, bustling and humming as she +made her little nest. And from her my thought drifted on to the +everlasting mystery of woman. Yes, I, with all the futuristic contempt +for woman, am ever caught up afresh by the mystery of woman. + +Oh, no illusions, thank you. Woman, the love-seeker, obsessing and +possessing, fragile and fierce, soft and venomous, prouder than Lucifer +and as prideless, holds a perpetual, almost morbid, attraction for the +thinker. What is this flame of her, blazing through all her +contradictions and ignobilities?—this ruthless passion for life, always +for life, more life on the planet? At times it seems to me brazen, and +awful, and soulless. At times I am made petulant by it. And at other +times I am swayed by the sublimity of it. No; there is no escape from +woman. Always, as a savage returns to a dark glen where goblins are and +gods may be, so do I return to the contemplation of woman. + +Mr. Pike’s voice interrupted my musings. From for’ard, on the main +deck, I heard him snarl: + +“On the main-topsail-yard, there!—if you cut that gasket I’ll split +your damned skull!” + +Again he called, with a marked change of voice, and the Henry he called +to I concluded was the training-ship boy. + +“You, Henry, main-skysail-yard, there!” he cried. “Don’t make those +gaskets up! Fetch ’em in along the yard and make fast to the tye!” + +Thus routed from my reverie, I decided to go below to bed. As my hand +went out to the knob of the chart-house door again the mate’s voice +rang out: + +“Come on, you gentlemen’s sons in disguise! Wake up! Lively now!” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +I did not sleep well. To begin with, I read late. Not till two in the +morning did I reach up and turn out the kerosene reading-lamp which +Wada had purchased and installed for me. I was asleep +immediately—perfect sleep being perhaps my greatest gift; but almost +immediately I was awake again. And thereafter, with dozings and +cat-naps and restless tossings, I struggled to win to sleep, then gave +it up. For of all things, in my state of jangled nerves, to be +afflicted with hives! And still again, to be afflicted with hives in +cold winter weather! + +At four I lighted up and went to reading, forgetting my irritated skin +in Vernon Lee’s delightful screed against William James, and his “will +to believe.” I was on the weather side of the ship, and from overhead, +through the deck, came the steady footfalls of some officer on watch. I +knew that they were not the steps of Mr. Pike, and wondered whether +they were Mr. Mellaire’s or the pilot’s. Somebody above there was +awake. The work was going on, the vigilant seeing and overseeing, that, +I could plainly conclude, would go on through every hour of all the +hours on the voyage. + +At half-past four I heard the steward’s alarm go off, instantly +suppressed, and five minutes later I lifted my hand to motion him in +through my open door. What I desired was a cup of coffee, and Wada had +been with me through too many years for me to doubt that he had given +the steward precise instructions and turned over to him my coffee and +my coffee-making apparatus. + +The steward was a jewel. In ten minutes he served me with a perfect cup +of coffee. I read on until daylight, and half-past eight found me, +breakfast in bed finished, dressed and shaved, and on deck. We were +still towing, but all sails were set to a light favouring breeze from +the north. In the chart-room Captain West and the pilot were smoking +cigars. At the wheel I noted what I decided at once was an efficient. +He was not a large man; if anything he was undersized. But his +countenance was broad-browed and intelligently formed. Tom, I later +learned, was his name—Tom Spink, an Englishman. He was blue-eyed, +fair-skinned, well-grizzled, and, to the eye, a hale fifty years of +age. His reply of “Good morning, sir” was cheery, and he smiled as he +uttered the simple phrase. He did not look sailor-like, as did Henry, +the training-ship boy; and yet I felt at once that he was a sailor, and +an able one. + +It was Mr. Pike’s watch, and on asking him about Tom he grudgingly +admitted that the man was the “best of the boiling.” + +Miss West emerged from the chart-house, with a rosy morning face and +her vital, springy limb-movement, and immediately began establishing +her contacts. On asking how I had slept, and when I said wretchedly, +she demanded an explanation. I told her of my affliction of hives and +showed her the lumps on my wrists. + +“Your blood needs thinning and cooling,” she adjudged promptly. “Wait a +minute. I’ll see what can be done for you.” + +And with that she was away and below and back in a trice, in her hand a +part glass of water into which she stirred a teaspoonful of cream of +tartar. + +“Drink it,” she ordered, as a matter of course. + +I drank it. And at eleven in the morning she came up to my deck-chair +with a second dose of the stuff. Also she reproached me soundly for +permitting Wada to feed meat to Possum. It was from her that Wada and I +learned how mortal a sin it was to give meat to a young puppy. +Furthermore, she laid down the law and the diet for Possum, not alone +to me and Wada, but to the steward, the carpenter, and Mr. Mellaire. Of +the latter two, because they ate by themselves in the big after-room +and because Possum played there, she was especially suspicious; and she +was outspoken in voicing her suspicions to their faces. The carpenter +mumbled embarrassed asseverations in broken English of past, present, +and future innocence, the while he humbly scraped and shuffled before +her on his huge feet. Mr. Mellaire’s protestations were of the same +nature, save that they were made with the grace and suavity of a +Chesterfield. + +In short, Possum’s diet raised quite a tempest in the _Elsinore_ +teapot, and by the time it was over Miss West had established this +particular contact with me and given me a feeling that we were the +mutual owners of the puppy. I noticed, later in the day, that it was to +Miss West that Wada went for instructions as to the quantity of warm +water he must use to dilute Possum’s condensed milk. + +Lunch won my continued approbation of the cook. In the afternoon I made +a trip for’ard to the galley to make his acquaintance. To all intents +he was a Chinese, until he spoke, whereupon, measured by speech alone, +he was an Englishman. In fact, so cultured was his speech that I can +fairly say it was vested with an Oxford accent. He, too, was old, fully +sixty—he acknowledged fifty-nine. Three things about him were markedly +conspicuous: his smile, that embraced all of his clean-shaven Asiatic +face and Asiatic eyes; his even-rowed, white, and perfect teeth, which +I deemed false until Wada ascertained otherwise for me; and his hands +and feet. It was his hands, ridiculously small and beautifully +modelled, that led my scrutiny to his feet. They, too, were +ridiculously small and very neatly, almost dandifiedly, shod. + +We had put the pilot off at midday, but the _Britannia_ towed us well +into the afternoon and did not cast us off until the ocean was wide +about us and the land a faint blur on the western horizon. Here, at the +moment of leaving the tug, we made our “departure”—that is to say, +technically began the voyage, despite the fact that we had already +travelled a full twenty-four hours away from Baltimore. + +It was about the time of casting off, when I was leaning on the +poop-rail gazing for’ard, when Miss West joined me. She had been busy +below all day, and had just come up, as she put it, for a breath of +air. She surveyed the sky in weather-wise fashion for a full five +minutes, then remarked: + +“The barometer’s very high—30.60. This light north wind won’t last. It +will either go into a calm or work around into a north-east gale.” + +“Which would you prefer?” I asked. + +“The gale, by all means. It will help us off the land, and it will put +me through my torment of sea-sickness more quickly. Oh, yes,” she +added, “I’m a good sailor, but I do suffer dreadfully at the beginning +of every voyage. You probably won’t see me for a couple of days now. +That’s why I’ve been so busy getting settled first.” + +“Lord Nelson, I have read, never got over his squeamishness at sea,” I +said. + +“And I’ve seen father sea-sick on occasion,” she answered. “Yes, and +some of the strongest, hardest sailors I have ever known.” + +Mr. Pike here joined us for a moment, ceasing from his everlasting +pacing up and down to lean with us on the poop-rail. + +Many of the crew were in evidence, pulling on ropes on the main deck +below us. To my inexperienced eye they appeared more unprepossessing +than ever. + +“A pretty scraggly crew, Mr. Pike,” Miss West remarked. + +“The worst ever,” he growled, “and I’ve seen some pretty bad ones. +We’re teachin’ them the ropes just now—most of ’em.” + +“They look starved,” I commented. + +“They are, they almost always are,” Miss West answered, and her eyes +roved over them in the same appraising, cattle-buyer’s fashion I had +marked in Mr. Pike. “But they’ll fatten up with regular hours, no +whiskey, and solid food—won’t they, Mr. Pike?” + +“Oh, sure. They always do. And you’ll see them liven up when we get ’em +in hand . . . maybe. They’re a measly lot, though.” + +I looked aloft at the vast towers of canvas. Our four masts seemed to +have flowered into all the sails possible, yet the sailors beneath us, +under Mr. Mellaire’s direction, were setting triangular sails, like +jibs, between the masts, and there were so many that they overlapped +one another. The slowness and clumsiness with which the men handled +these small sails led me to ask: + +“But what would you do, Mr. Pike, with a green crew like this, if you +were caught right now in a storm with all this canvas spread?” + +He shrugged his shoulders, as if I had asked what he would do in an +earthquake with two rows of New York skyscrapers falling on his head +from both sides of a street. + +“Do?” Miss West answered for him. “We’d get the sail off. Oh, it can be +done, Mr. Pathurst, with any kind of a crew. If it couldn’t, I should +have been drowned long ago.” + +“Sure,” Mr. Pike upheld her. “So would I.” + +“The officers can perform miracles with the most worthless sailors, in +a pinch,” Miss West went on. + +Again Mr. Pike nodded his head and agreed, and I noted his two big +paws, relaxed the moment before and drooping over the rail, quite +unconsciously tensed and folded themselves into fists. Also, I noted +fresh abrasions on the knuckles. Miss West laughed heartily, as from +some recollection. + +“I remember one time when we sailed from San Francisco with a most +hopeless crew. It was in the _Lallah Rookh_—you remember her, Mr. +Pike?” + +“Your father’s fifth command,” he nodded. “Lost on the West Coast +afterwards—went ashore in that big earthquake and tidal wave. Parted +her anchors, and when she hit under the cliff, the cliff fell on her.” + +“That’s the ship. Well, our crew seemed mostly cow-boys, and +bricklayers, and tramps, and more tramps than anything else. Where the +boarding-house masters got them was beyond imagining. A number of them +were shanghaied, that was certain. You should have seen them when they +were first sent aloft.” Again she laughed. “It was better than circus +clowns. And scarcely had the tug cast us off, outside the Heads, when +it began to blow up and we began to shorten down. And then our mates +performed miracles. You remember Mr. Harding—Silas Harding?” + +“Don’t I though!” Mr. Pike proclaimed enthusiastically. “He was some +man, and he must have been an old man even then.” + +“He was, and a terrible man,” she concurred, and added, almost +reverently: “And a wonderful man.” She turned her face to me. “He was +our mate. The men were sea-sick and miserable and green. But Mr. +Harding got the sail off the _Lallah Rookh_ just the same. What I +wanted to tell you was this: + +“I was on the poop, just like I am now, and Mr. Harding had a lot of +those miserable sick men putting gaskets on the main-lower-topsail. How +far would that be above the deck, Mr. Pike?” + +“Let me see . . . the _Lallah Rookh_.” Mr. Pike paused to consider. +“Oh, say around a hundred feet.” + +“I saw it myself. One of the green hands, a tramp—and he must already +have got a taste of Mr. Harding—fell off the lower-topsail-yard. I was +only a little girl, but it looked like certain death, for he was +falling from the weather side of the yard straight down on deck. But he +fell into the belly of the mainsail, breaking his fall, turned a +somersault, and landed on his feet on deck and unhurt. And he landed +right alongside of Mr. Harding, facing him. I don’t know which was the +more astonished, but I think Mr. Harding was, for he stood there +petrified. He had expected the man to be killed. Not so the man. He +took one look at Mr. Harding, then made a wild jump for the rigging and +climbed right back up to that topsail-yard.” + +Miss West and the mate laughed so heartily that they scarcely heard me +say: + +“Astonishing! Think of the jar to the man’s nerves, falling to apparent +death that way.” + +“He’d been jarred harder by Silas Harding, I guess,” was Mr. Pike’s +remark, with another burst of laughter, in which Miss West joined. + +Which was all very well in a way. Ships were ships, and judging by what +I had seen of our present crew harsh treatment was necessary. But that +a young woman of the niceness of Miss West should know of such things +and be so saturated in this side of ship life was not nice. It was not +nice for me, though it interested me, I confess,—and strengthened my +grip on reality. Yet it meant a hardening of one’s fibres, and I did +not like to think of Miss West being so hardened. + +I looked at her and could not help marking again the fineness and +firmness of her skin. Her hair was dark, as were her eyebrows, which +were almost straight and rather low over her long eyes. Gray her eyes +were, a warm gray, and very steady and direct in expression, +intelligent and alive. Perhaps, taking her face as a whole, the most +noteworthy expression of it was a great calm. She seemed always in +repose, at peace with herself and with the external world. The most +beautiful feature was her eyes, framed in lashes as dark as her brows +and hair. The most admirable feature was her nose, quite straight, very +straight, and just the slightest trifle too long. In this it was +reminiscent of her father’s nose. But the perfect modelling of the +bridge and nostrils conveyed an indescribable advertisement of race and +blood. + +Hers was a slender-lipped, sensitive, sensible, and generous +mouth—generous, not so much in size, which was quite average, but +generous rather in tolerance, in power, and in laughter. All the health +and buoyancy of her was in her mouth, as well as in her eyes. She +rarely exposed her teeth in smiling, for which purpose she seemed +chiefly to employ her eyes; but when she laughed she showed strong +white teeth, even, not babyish in their smallness, but just the firm, +sensible, normal size one would expect in a woman as healthy and normal +as she. + +I would never have called her beautiful, and yet she possessed many of +the factors that go to compose feminine beauty. She had all the beauty +of colouring, a white skin that was healthy white and that was +emphasized by the darkness of her lashes, brows, and hair. And, in the +same way, the darkness of lashes and brows and the whiteness of skin +set off the warm gray of her eyes. The forehead was, well, medium-broad +and medium high, and quite smooth. No lines nor hints of lines were +there, suggestive of nervousness, of blue days of depression and white +nights of insomnia. Oh, she bore all the marks of the healthy, human +female, who never worried nor was vexed in the spirit of her, and in +whose body every process and function was frictionless and automatic. + +“Miss West has posed to me as quite a weather prophet,” I said to the +mate. “Now what is your forecast of our coming weather?” + +“She ought to be,” was Mr. Pike’s reply as he lifted his glance across +the smooth swell of sea to the sky. “This ain’t the first time she’s +been on the North Atlantic in winter.” He debated a moment, as he +studied the sea and sky. “I should say, considering the high barometer, +we ought to get a mild gale from the north-east or a calm, with the +chances in favour of the calm.” + +She favoured me with a triumphant smile, and suddenly clutched the rail +as the _Elsinore_ lifted on an unusually large swell and sank into the +trough with a roll from windward that flapped all the sails in hollow +thunder. + +“The calm has it,” Miss West said, with just a hint of grimness. “And +if this keeps up I’ll be in my bunk in about five minutes.” + +She waved aside all sympathy. “Oh, don’t bother about me, Mr. Pathurst. +Sea-sickness is only detestable and horrid, like sleet, and muddy +weather, and poison ivy; besides, I’d rather be sea-sick than have the +hives.” + +Something went wrong with the men below us on the deck, some stupidity +or blunder that was made aware to us by Mr. Mellaire’s raised voice. +Like Mr. Pike, he had a way of snarling at the sailors that was +distinctly unpleasant to the ear. + +On the faces of several of the sailors bruises were in evidence. One, +in particular, had an eye so swollen that it was closed. + +“Looks as if he had run against a stanchion in the dark,” I observed. + +Most eloquent, and most unconscious, was the quick flash of Miss West’s +eyes to Mr. Pike’s big paws, with freshly abraded knuckles, resting on +the rail. It was a stab of hurt to me. _She knew_. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +That evening the three men of us had dinner alone, with racks on the +table, while the _Elsinore_ rolled in the calm that had sent Miss West +to her room. + +“You won’t see her for a couple of days,” Captain West told me. “Her +mother was the same way—a born sailor, but always sick at the outset of +a voyage.” + +“It’s the shaking down.” Mr. Pike astonished me with the longest +observation I had yet heard him utter at table. “Everybody has to shake +down when they leave the land. We’ve got to forget the good times on +shore, and the good things money’ll buy, and start watch and watch, +four hours on deck and four below. And it comes hard, and all our +tempers are strung until we can make the change. Did it happen that you +heard Caruso and Blanche Arral this winter in New York, Mr. Pathurst?” + +I nodded, still marvelling over this spate of speech at table. + +“Well, think of hearing them, and Homer, and Witherspoon, and Amato, +every night for nights and nights at the Metropolitan; and then to give +it the go-by, and get to sea and shake down to watch and watch.” + +“You don’t like the sea?” I queried. + +He sighed. + +“I don’t know. But of course the sea is all I know—” + +“Except music,” I threw in. + +“Yes, but the sea and all the long-voyaging has cheated me out of most +of the music I oughta have had coming to me.” + +“I suppose you’ve heard Schumann Heink?” + +“Wonderful, wonderful!” he murmured fervently, then regarded me with an +eager wistfulness. “I’ve half-a-dozen of her records, and I’ve got the +second dog-watch below. If Captain West don’t mind . . . ” (Captain +West nodded that he didn’t mind). “And if you’d want to hear them? The +machine is a good one.” + +And then, to my amazement, when the steward had cleared the table, this +hoary old relic of man-killing and man-driving days, battered waif of +the sea that he was, carried in from his room a most splendid +collection of phonograph records. These, and the machine, he placed on +the table. The big doors were opened, making the dining-room and the +main cabin into one large room. It was in the cabin that Captain West +and I lolled in big leather chairs while Mr. Pike ran the phonograph. +His face was in a blaze of light from the swinging lamps, and every +shade of expression was visible to me. + +In vain I waited for him to start some popular song. His records were +only of the best, and the care he took of them was a revelation. He +handled each one reverently, as a sacred thing, untying and unwrapping +it and brushing it with a fine camel’s hair brush while it revolved and +ere he placed the needle on it. For a time all I could see was the huge +brute hands of a brute-driver, with skin off the knuckles, that +expressed love in their every movement. Each touch on the discs was a +caress, and while the record played he hovered over it and dreamed in +some heaven of music all his own. + +During this time Captain West lay back and smoked a cigar. His face was +expressionless, and he seemed very far away, untouched by the music. I +almost doubted that he heard it. He made no remarks between whiles, +betrayed no sign of approbation or displeasure. He seemed +preternaturally serene, preternaturally remote. And while I watched him +I wondered what his duties were. I had not seen him perform any. Mr. +Pike had attended to the loading of the ship. Not until she was ready +for sea had Captain West come on board. I had not seen him give an +order. It looked to me that Mr. Pike and Mr. Mellaire did the work. All +Captain West did was to smoke cigars and keep blissfully oblivious of +the _Elsinore’s_ crew. + +When Mr. Pike had played the “Hallelujah Chorus” from the _Messiah_, +and “He Shall Feed His Flock,” he mentioned to me, almost +apologetically, that he liked sacred music, and for the reason, +perhaps, that for a short period, a child ashore in San Francisco, he +had been a choir boy. + +“And then I hit the dominie over the head with a baseball bat and +sneaked off to sea again,” he concluded with a harsh laugh. + +And thereat he fell to dreaming while he played Meyerbeer’s “King of +Heaven,” and Mendelssohn’s “O Rest in the Lord.” + +When one bell struck, at quarter to eight, he carried his music, all +carefully wrapped, back into his room. I lingered with him while he +rolled a cigarette ere eight bells struck. + +“I’ve got a lot more good things,” he said confidentially: “Coenen’s +‘Come Unto Me,’ and Faure’s ‘Crucifix’; and there’s ‘O Salutaris,’ and +‘Lead, Kindly Light’ by the Trinity Choir; and ‘Jesu, Lover of My Soul’ +would just melt your heart. I’ll play ’em for you some night.” + +“Do you believe in them?” I was led to ask by his rapt expression and +by the picture of his brute-driving hands which I could not shake from +my consciousness. + +He hesitated perceptibly, then replied: + +“I do . . . when I’m listening to them.” + +* * * * * + + +My sleep that night was wretched. Short of sleep from the previous +night, I closed my book and turned my light off early. But scarcely had +I dropped into slumber when I was aroused by the recrudescence of my +hives. All day they had not bothered me; yet the instant I put out the +light and slept, the damnable persistent itching set up. Wada had not +yet gone to bed, and from him I got more cream of tartar. It was +useless, however, and at midnight, when I heard the watch changing, I +partially dressed, slipped into my dressing-gown, and went up on to the +poop. + +I saw Mr. Mellaire beginning his four hours’ watch, pacing up and down +the port side of the poop; and I slipped away aft, past the man at the +wheel, whom I did not recognize, and took refuge in the lee of the +wheel-house. + +Once again I studied the dim loom and tracery of intricate rigging and +lofty, sail-carrying spars, thought of the mad, imbecile crew, and +experienced premonitions of disaster. How could such a voyage be +possible, with such a crew, on the huge _Elsinore_, a cargo-carrier +that was only a steel shell half an inch thick burdened with five +thousand tons of coal? It was appalling to contemplate. The voyage had +gone wrong from the first. In the wretched unbalance that loss of sleep +brings to any good sleeper, I could decide only that the voyage was +doomed. Yet how doomed it was, in truth, neither I nor a madman could +have dreamed. + +I thought of the red-blooded Miss West, who had always lived and had no +doubts but what she would always live. I thought of the killing and +driving and music-loving Mr. Pike. Many a haler remnant than he had +gone down on a last voyage. As for Captain West, he did not count. He +was too neutral a being, too far away, a sort of favoured passenger who +had nothing to do but serenely and passively exist in some Nirvana of +his own creating. + +Next I remembered the self-wounded Greek, sewed up by Mr. Pike and +lying gibbering between the steel walls of the ’midship-house. This +picture almost decided me, for in my fevered imagination he typified +the whole mad, helpless, idiotic crew. Certainly I could go back to +Baltimore. Thank God I had the money to humour my whims. Had not Mr. +Pike told me, in reply to a question, that he estimated the running +expenses of the _Elsinore_ at two hundred dollars a day? I could afford +to pay two hundred a day, or two thousand, for the several days that +might be necessary to get me back to the land, to a pilot tug, or any +inbound craft to Baltimore. + +I was quite wholly of a mind to go down and rout out Captain West to +tell him my decision, when another presented itself: _Then are you_, +_the thinker and philosopher_, _the world-sick one_, _afraid to go +down_, _to cease in the darkness_? Bah! My own pride in my +life-pridelessness saved Captain West’s sleep from interruption. Of +course I would go on with the adventure, if adventure it might be +called, to go sailing around Cape Horn with a shipload of fools and +lunatics—and worse; for I remembered the three Babylonish and Semitic +ones who had aroused Mr. Pike’s ire and who had laughed so terribly and +silently. + +Night thoughts! Sleepless thoughts! I dismissed them all and started +below, chilled through by the cold. But at the chart-room door I +encountered Mr. Mellaire. + +“A pleasant evening, sir,” he greeted me. “A pity there’s not a little +wind to help us off the land.” + +“What do you think of the crew?” I asked, after a moment or so. + +Mr. Mellaire shrugged his shoulders. + +“I’ve seen many queer crews in my time, Mr. Pathurst. But I never saw +one as queer as this—boys, old men, cripples and—you saw Tony the Greek +go overboard yesterday? Well, that’s only the beginning. He’s a sample. +I’ve got a big Irishman in my watch who’s going bad. Did you notice a +little, dried-up Scotchman?” + +“Who looks mean and angry all the time, and who was steering the +evening before last?” + +“The very one—Andy Fay. Well, Andy Fay’s just been complaining to me +about O’Sullivan. Says O’Sullivan’s threatened his life. When Andy Fay +went off watch at eight he found O’Sullivan stropping a razor. I’ll +give you the conversation as Andy gave it to me: + +“‘Says O’Sullivan to me, “Mr. Fay, I’ll have a word wid yeh?” +“Certainly,” says I; “what can I do for you?” “Sell me your sea-boots, +Mr. Fay,” says O’Sullivan, polite as can be. “But what will you be +wantin’ of them?” says I. “’Twill be a great favour,” says O’Sullivan. +“But it’s my only pair,” says I; “and you have a pair of your own,” +says I. “Mr. Fay, I’ll be needin’ me own in bad weather,” says +O’Sullivan. “Besides,” says I, “you have no money.” “I’ll pay for them +when we pay off in Seattle,” says O’Sullivan. “I’ll not do it,” says I; +“besides, you’re not tellin’ me what you’ll be doin’ with them.” “But I +will tell yeh,” says O’Sullivan; “I’m wantin’ to throw ’em over the +side.” And with that I turns to walk away, but O’Sullivan says, very +polite and seducin’-like, still a-stroppin’ the razor, “Mr. Fay,” says +he, “will you kindly step this way an’ have your throat cut?” And with +that I knew my life was in danger, and I have come to make report to +you, sir, that the man is a violent lunatic.’ + +“Or soon will be,” I remarked. “I noticed him yesterday, a big man +muttering continually to himself?” + +“That’s the man,” Mr. Mellaire said. + +“Do you have many such at sea?” I asked. + +“More than my share, I do believe, sir.” + +He was lighting a cigarette at the moment, and with a quick movement he +pulled off his cap, bent his head forward, and held up the blazing +match that I might see. + +I saw a grizzled head, the full crown of which was not entirely bald, +but partially covered with a few sparse long hairs. And full across +this crown, disappearing in the thicker fringe above the ears, ran the +most prodigious scar I had ever seen. Because the vision of it was so +fleeting, ere the match blew out, and because of the scar’s very +prodigiousness, I may possibly exaggerate, but I could have sworn that +I could lay two fingers deep into the horrid cleft and that it was +fully two fingers broad. There seemed no bone at all, just a great +fissure, a deep valley covered with skin; and I was confident that the +brain pulsed immediately under that skin. + +He pulled his cap on and laughed in an amused, reassuring way. + +“A crazy sea cook did that, Mr. Pathurst, with a meat-axe. We were +thousands of miles from anywhere, in the South Indian Ocean at the +time, running our Easting down, but the cook got the idea into his +addled head that we were lying in Boston Harbour, and that I wouldn’t +let him go ashore. I had my back to him at the time, and I never knew +what struck me.” + +“But how could you recover from so fearful an injury?” I questioned. +“There must have been a splendid surgeon on board, and you must have +had wonderful vitality.” + +He shook his head. + +“It must have been the vitality . . . and the molasses.” + +“Molasses!” + +“Yes; the captain had old-fashioned prejudices against antiseptics. He +always used molasses for fresh wound-dressings. I lay in my bunk many +weary weeks—we had a long passage—and by the time we reached Hong Kong +the thing was healed, there was no need for a shore surgeon, and I was +standing my third mate’s watch—we carried third mates in those days.” + +Not for many a long day was I to realize the dire part that scar in Mr. +Mellaire’s head was to play in his destiny and in the destiny of the +_Elsinore_. Had I known at the time, Captain West would have received +the most unusual awakening from sleep that he ever experienced; for he +would have been routed out by a very determined, partially-dressed +passenger with a proposition capable of going to the extent of buying +the _Elsinore_ outright with all her cargo, so that she might be sailed +straight back to Baltimore. + +As it was, I merely thought it a very marvellous thing that Mr. +Mellaire should have lived so many years with such a hole in his head. + +We talked on, and he gave me many details of that particular happening, +and of other happenings at sea on the part of the lunatics that seem to +infest the sea. + +And yet I could not like the man. In nothing he said, nor in the manner +of saying things, could I find fault. He seemed generous, broad-minded, +and, for a sailor, very much of a man of the world. It was easy for me +to overlook his excessive suavity of speech and super-courtesy of +social mannerism. It was not that. But all the time I was +distressingly, and, I suppose, intuitively aware, though in the +darkness I couldn’t even see his eyes, that there, behind those eyes, +inside that skull, was ambuscaded an alien personality that spied upon +me, measured me, studied me, and that said one thing while it thought +another thing. + +When I said good night and went below it was with the feeling that I +had been talking with the one half of some sort of a dual creature. The +other half had not spoken. Yet I sensed it there, fluttering and quick, +behind the mask of words and flesh. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +But I could not sleep. I took more cream of tartar. It must be the heat +of the bed-clothes, I decided, that excited my hives. And yet, whenever +I ceased struggling for sleep, and lighted the lamp and read, my skin +irritation decreased. But as soon as I turned out the lamp and closed +my eyes I was troubled again. So hour after hour passed, through which, +between vain attempts to sleep, I managed to wade through many pages of +Rosny’s _Le Termite_—a not very cheerful proceeding, I must say, +concerned as it is with the microscopic and over-elaborate recital of +Noël Servaise’s tortured nerves, bodily pains, and intellectual +phantasma. At last I tossed the novel aside, damned all analytical +Frenchmen, and found some measure of relief in the more genial and +cynical Stendhal. + +Over my head I could hear Mr. Mellaire steadily pace up and down. At +four the watches changed, and I recognized the age-lag in Mr. Pike’s +promenade. Half an hour later, just as the steward’s alarm went off, +instantly checked by that light-sleeping Asiatic, the _Elsinore_ began +to heel over on my side. I could hear Mr. Pike barking and snarling +orders, and at times a trample and shuffle of many feet passed over my +head as the weird crew pulled and hauled. The _Elsinore_ continued to +heel over until I could see the water against my port, and then she +gathered way and dashed ahead at such a rate that I could hear the +stinging and singing of the foam through the circle of thick glass +beside me. + +The steward brought me coffee, and I read till daylight and after, when +Wada served me breakfast and helped me dress. He, too, complained of +inability to sleep. He had been bunked with Nancy in one of the rooms +in the ’midship-house. Wada described the situation. The tiny room, +made of steel, was air-tight when the steel door was closed. And Nancy +insisted on keeping the door closed. As a result Wada, in the upper +bunk, had stifled. He told me that the air had got so bad that the +flame of the lamp, no matter how high it was turned, guttered down and +all but refused to burn. Nancy snored beautifully through it all, while +he had been unable to close his eyes. + +“He is not clean,” quoth Wada. “He is a pig. No more will I sleep in +that place.” + +On the poop I found the _Elsinore_, with many of her sails furled, +slashing along through a troubled sea under an overcast sky. Also I +found Mr. Mellaire marching up and down, just as I had left him hours +before, and it took quite a distinct effort for me to realize that he +had had the watch off between four and eight. Even then, he told me, he +had slept from four until half-past seven. + +“That is one thing, Mr. Pathurst, I always sleep like a baby . . . +which means a good conscience, sir, yes, a good conscience.” + +And while he enunciated the platitude I was uncomfortably aware that +that alien thing inside his skull was watching me, studying me. + +In the cabin Captain West smoked a cigar and read the Bible. Miss West +did not appear, and I was grateful that to my sleeplessness the curse +of sea-sickness had not been added. + +Without asking permission of anybody, Wada arranged a sleeping place +for himself in a far corner of the big after-room, screening the corner +with a solidly lashed wall of my trunks and empty book boxes. + +It was a dreary enough day, no sun, with occasional splatters of rain +and a persistent crash of seas over the weather rail and swash of water +across the deck. With my eyes glued to the cabin ports, which gave +for’ard along the main deck, I could see the wretched sailors, whenever +they were given some task of pull and haul, wet through and through by +the boarding seas. Several times I saw some of them taken off their +feet and rolled about in the creaming foam. And yet, erect, +unstaggering, with certitude of weight and strength, among these rolled +men, these clutching, cowering ones, moved either Mr. Pike or Mr. +Mellaire. They were never taken off their feet. They never shrank away +from a splash of spray or heavier bulk of down-falling water. They had +fed on different food, were informed with a different spirit, were of +iron in contrast with the poor miserables they drove to their bidding. + +In the afternoon I dozed for half-an-hour in one of the big chairs in +the cabin. Had it not been for the violent motion of the ship I could +have slept there for hours, for the hives did not trouble. Captain +West, stretched out on the cabin sofa, his feet in carpet slippers, +slept enviably. By some instinct, I might say, in the deep of sleep, he +kept his place and was not rolled off upon the floor. Also, he lightly +held a half-smoked cigar in one hand. I watched him for an hour, and +knew him to be asleep, and marvelled that he maintained his easy +posture and did not drop the cigar. + +After dinner there was no phonograph. The second dog-watch was Mr. +Pike’s on deck. Besides, as he explained, the rolling was too severe. +It would make the needle jump and scratch his beloved records. + +And no sleep! Another weary night of torment, and another dreary, +overcast day and leaden, troubled sea. And no Miss West. Wada, too, is +sea-sick, although heroically he kept his feet and tried to tend on me +with glassy, unseeing eyes. I sent him to his bunk, and read through +the endless hours until my eyes were tired, and my brain, between lack +of sleep and over-use, was fuzzy. + +Captain West is no conversationalist. The more I see of him the more I +am baffled. I have not yet found a reason for that first impression I +received of him. He has all the poise and air of a remote and superior +being, and yet I wonder if it be not poise and air and nothing else. +Just as I had expected, that first meeting, ere he spoke a word, to +hear fall from his lips words of untold beneficence and wisdom, and +then heard him utter mere social commonplaces, so I now find myself +almost forced to conclude that his touch of race, and beak of power, +and all the tall, aristocratic slenderness of him have nothing behind +them. + +And yet, on the other hand, I can find no reason for rejecting that +first impression. He has not shown any strength, but by the same token +he has not shown any weakness. Sometimes I wonder what resides behind +those clear blue eyes. Certainly I have failed to find any intellectual +backing. I tried him out with William James’ _Varieties of Religious +Experience_. He glanced at a few pages, then returned it to me with the +frank statement that it did not interest him. He has no books of his +own. Evidently he is not a reader. Then what is he? I dared to feel him +out on politics. He listened courteously, said sometimes yes and +sometimes no, and, when I ceased from very discouragement, said +nothing. + +Aloof as the two officers are from the men, Captain West is still more +aloof from his officers. I have not seen him address a further word to +Mr. Mellaire than “Good morning” on the poop. As for Mr. Pike, who eats +three times a day with him, scarcely any more conversation obtains +between them. And I am surprised by what seems the very conspicuous awe +with which Mr. Pike seems to regard his commander. + +Another thing. What are Captain West’s duties? So far he has done +nothing, save eat three times a day, smoke many cigars, and each day +stroll a total of one mile around the poop. The mates do all the work, +and hard work it is, four hours on deck and four below, day and night +with never a variation. I watch Captain West and am amazed. He will +loll back in the cabin and stare straight before him for hours at a +time, until I am almost frantic to demand of him what are his thoughts. +Sometimes I doubt that he is thinking at all. I give him up. I cannot +fathom him. + +Altogether a depressing day of rain-splatter and wash of water across +the deck. I can see, now, that the problem of sailing a ship with five +thousand tons of coal around the Horn is more serious than I had +thought. So deep is the _Elsinore_ in the water that she is like a log +awash. Her tall, six-foot bulwarks of steel cannot keep the seas from +boarding her. She has not the buoyancy one is accustomed to ascribe to +ships. On the contrary, she is weighted down until she is dead, so +that, for this one day alone, I am appalled at the thought of how many +thousands of tons of the North Atlantic have boarded her and poured out +through her spouting scuppers and clanging ports. + +Yes, a depressing day. The two mates have alternated on deck and in +their bunks. Captain West has dozed on the cabin sofa or read the +Bible. Miss West is still sea-sick. I have tired myself out with +reading, and the fuzziness of my unsleeping brain makes for melancholy. +Even Wada is anything but a cheering spectacle, crawling out of his +bunk, as he does at stated intervals, and with sick, glassy eyes trying +to discern what my needs may be. I almost wish I could get sea-sick +myself. I had never dreamed that a sea voyage could be so unenlivening +as this one is proving. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +Another morning of overcast sky and leaden sea, and of the _Elsinore_, +under half her canvas, clanging her deck ports, spouting water from her +scuppers, and dashing eastward into the heart of the Atlantic. And I +have failed to sleep half-an-hour all told. At this rate, in a very +short time I shall have consumed all the cream of tartar on the ship. I +never have had hives like these before. I can’t understand it. So long +as I keep my lamp burning and read I am untroubled. The instant I put +out the lamp and drowse off the irritation starts and the lumps on my +skin begin to form. + +Miss West may be sea-sick, but she cannot be comatose, because at +frequent intervals she sends the steward to me with more cream of +tartar. + +I have had a revelation to-day. I have discovered Captain West. He is a +Samurai.—You remember the Samurai that H. G. Wells describes in his +_Modern Utopia_—the superior breed of men who know things and are +masters of life and of their fellow-men in a super-benevolent, +super-wise way? Well, that is what Captain West is. Let me tell it to +you. + +We had a shift of wind to-day. In the height of a south-west gale the +wind shifted, in the instant, eight points, which is equivalent to a +quarter of the circle. Imagine it! Imagine a gale howling from out of +the south-west. And then imagine the wind, in a heavier and more +violent gale, abruptly smiting you from the north-west. We had been +sailing through a circular storm, Captain West vouchsafed to me, before +the event, and the wind could be expected to box the compass. + +Clad in sea-boots, oilskins and sou’wester, I had for some time been +hanging upon the rail at the break of the poop, staring down fascinated +at the poor devils of sailors, repeatedly up to their necks in water, +or submerged, or dashed like straws about the deck, while they pulled +and hauled, stupidly, blindly, and in evident fear, under the orders of +Mr. Pike. + +Mr. Pike was with them, working them and working with them. He took +every chance they took, yet somehow he escaped being washed off his +feet, though several times I saw him entirely buried from view. There +was more than luck in the matter; for I saw him, twice, at the head of +a line of the men, himself next to the pin. And twice, in this +position, I saw the North Atlantic curl over the rail and fall upon +them. And each time he alone remained, holding the turn of the rope on +the pin, while the rest of them were rolled and sprawled helplessly +away. + +Almost it seemed to me good fun, as at a circus, watching their antics. +But I did not apprehend the seriousness of the situation until, the +wind screaming higher than ever and the sea a-smoke and white with +wrath, two men did not get up from the deck. One was carried away +for’ard with a broken leg—it was Iare Jacobson, a dull-witted +Scandinavian; and the other, Kid Twist, was carried away, unconscious, +with a bleeding scalp. + +In the height of the gusts, in my high position, where the seas did not +break, I found myself compelled to cling tightly to the rail to escape +being blown away. My face was stung to severe pain by the high-driving +spindrift, and I had a feeling that the wind was blowing the cobwebs +out of my sleep-starved brain. + +And all the time, slender, aristocratic, graceful in streaming +oilskins, in apparent unconcern, giving no orders, effortlessly +accommodating his body to the violent rolling of the _Elsinore_, +Captain West strolled up and down. + +It was at this stage in the gale that he unbent sufficiently to tell me +that we were going through a circular storm and that the wind was +boxing the compass. I did notice that he kept his gaze pretty steadily +fixed on the overcast, cloud-driven sky. At last, when it seemed the +wind could not possibly blow more fiercely, he found in the sky what he +sought. It was then that I first heard his voice—a sea-voice, clear as +a bell, distinct as silver, and of an ineffable sweetness and volume, +as it might be the trump of Gabriel. That voice!—effortless, +dominating! The mighty threat of the storm, made articulate by the +resistance of the _Elsinore_, shouted in all the stays, bellowed in the +shrouds, thrummed the taut ropes against the steel masts, and from the +myriad tiny ropes far aloft evoked a devil’s chorus of shrill pipings +and screechings. And yet, through this bedlam of noise, came Captain +West’s voice, as of a spirit visitant, distinct, unrelated, mellow as +all music and mighty as an archangel’s call to judgment. And it carried +understanding and command to the man at the wheel, and to Mr. Pike, +waist-deep in the wash of sea below us. And the man at the wheel +obeyed, and Mr. Pike obeyed, barking and snarling orders to the poor +wallowing devils who wallowed on and obeyed him in turn. And as the +voice was the face. This face I had never seen before. It was the face +of the spirit visitant, chaste with wisdom, lighted by a splendour of +power and calm. Perhaps it was the calm that smote me most of all. It +was as the calm of one who had crossed chaos to bless poor sea-worn men +with the word that all was well. It was not the face of the fighter. To +my thrilled imagination it was the face of one who dwelt beyond all +strivings of the elements and broody dissensions of the blood. + +The Samurai had arrived, in thunders and lightnings, riding the wings +of the storm, directing the gigantic, labouring _Elsinore_ in all her +intricate massiveness, commanding the wisps of humans to his will, +which was the will of wisdom. + +And then, that wonderful Gabriel voice of his, silent (while his +creatures laboured his will), unconcerned, detached and casual, more +slenderly tall and aristocratic than ever in his streaming oilskins, +Captain West touched my shoulder and pointed astern over our weather +quarter. I looked, and all that I could see was a vague smoke of sea +and air and a cloud-bank of sky that tore at the ocean’s breast. And at +the same moment the gale from the south-west ceased. There was no gale, +no moving zephyrs, nothing but a vast quietude of air. + +“What is it?” I gasped, out of equilibrium from the abrupt cessation of +wind. + +“The shift,” he said. “There she comes.” + +And it came, from the north-west, a blast of wind, a blow, an +atmospheric impact that bewildered and stunned and again made the +_Elsinore_ harp protest. It forced me down on the rail. I was like a +windle-straw. As I faced this new abruptness of gale it drove the air +back into my lungs, so that I suffocated and turned my head aside to +breathe in the lee of the draught. The man at the wheel again listened +to the Gabriel voice; and Mr. Pike, on the deck below, listened and +repeated the will of the voice; and Captain West, in slender and +stately balance, leaned into the face of the wind and slowly paced the +deck. + +It was magnificent. Now, and for the first time, I knew the sea, and +the men who overlord the sea. Captain West had vindicated himself, +exposited himself. At the height and crisis of storm he had taken +charge of the _Elsinore_, and Mr. Pike had become, what in truth was +all he was, the foreman of a gang of men, the slave-driver of slaves, +serving the one from beyond—the Samurai. + +A minute or so longer Captain West strolled up and down, leaning easily +into the face of this new and abominable gale or resting his back +against it, and then he went below, pausing for a moment, his hand on +the knob of the chart-room door, to cast a last measuring look at the +storm-white sea and wrath-sombre sky he had mastered. + +Ten minutes later, below, passing the open cabin door, I glanced in and +saw him. Sea-boots and storm-trappings were gone; his feet, in carpet +slippers, rested on a hassock; while he lay back in the big leather +chair smoking dreamily, his eyes wide open, absorbed, non-seeing—or, if +they saw, seeing things beyond the reeling cabin walls and beyond my +ken. I have developed an immense respect for Captain West, though now I +know him less than the little I thought I knew him before. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +Small wonder that Miss West remains sea-sick on an ocean like this, +which has become a factory where the veering gales manufacture the +selectest and most mountainous brands of cross-seas. The way the poor +_Elsinore_ pitches, plunges, rolls, and shivers, with all her lofty +spars and masts and all her five thousand tons of dead-weight cargo, is +astonishing. To me she is the most erratic thing imaginable; yet Mr. +Pike, with whom I now pace the poop on occasion, tells me that coal is +a good cargo, and that the _Elsinore_ is well-loaded because he saw to +it himself. + +He will pause abruptly, in the midst of his interminable pacing, in +order to watch her in her maddest antics. The sight is very pleasant to +him, for his eyes glisten and a faint glow seems to irradiate his face +and impart to it a hint of ecstasy. The _Elsinore_ has a snug place in +his heart, I am confident. He calls her behaviour admirable, and at +such times will repeat to me that it was he who saw to her loading. + +It is very curious, the habituation of this man, through a long life on +the sea, to the motion of the sea. There _is_ a rhythm to this chaos of +crossing, buffeting waves. I sense this rhythm, although I cannot solve +it. But Mr. Pike _knows_ it. Again and again, as we paced up and down +this afternoon, when to me nothing unusually antic seemed impending, he +would seize my arm as I lost balance, and as the _Elsinore_ smashed +down on her side and heeled over and over with a colossal roll that +seemed never to end, and that always ended with an abrupt, +snap-of-the-whip effect as she began the corresponding roll to +windward. In vain I strove to learn how Mr. Pike forecasts these +antics, and I am driven to believe that he does not consciously +forecast them at all. He _feels_ them; he knows them. They, and the +sea, are ingrained in him. + +Toward the end of our little promenade I was guilty of impatiently +shaking off a sudden seizure of my arm in his big paw. If ever, in an +hour, the _Elsinore_ had been less gymnastic than at that moment, I had +not noticed it. So I shook off the sustaining clutch, and the next +moment the _Elsinore_ had smashed down and buried a couple of hundred +feet of her starboard rail beneath the sea, while I had shot down the +deck and smashed myself breathless against the wall of the chart-house. +My ribs and one shoulder are sore from it yet. Now how did he know? + +And he never staggers nor seems in danger of being rolled away. On the +contrary, such a surplus of surety of balance has he that time and +again he lent his surplus to me. I begin to have more respect, not for +the sea, but for the men of the sea, and not for the sweepings of +seamen that are as slaves on our decks, but for the real seamen who are +their masters—for Captain West, for Mr. Pike, yes, and for Mr. +Mellaire, dislike him as I do. + +As early as three in the afternoon the wind, still a gale, went back to +the south-west. Mr. Mellaire had the deck, and he went below and +reported the change to Captain West. + +“We’ll wear ship at four, Mr. Pathurst,” the second mate told me when +he came back. “You’ll find it an interesting manoeuvre.” + +“But why wait till four?” I asked. + +“The Captain’s orders, sir. The watches will be changing, and we’ll +have the use of both of them, without working a hardship on the watch +below by calling it out now.” + +And when both watches were on deck Captain West, again in oilskins, +came out of the chart-house. Mr. Pike, out on the bridge, took charge +of the many men who, on deck and on the poop, were to manage the +mizzen-braces, while Mr. Mellaire went for’ard with his watch to handle +the fore-and main-braces. It was a pretty manoeuvre, a play of +leverages, by which they eased the force of the wind on the after part +of the _Elsinore_ and used the force of the wind on the for’ard part. + +Captain West gave no orders whatever, and, to all intents, was quite +oblivious of what was being done. He was again the favoured passenger, +taking a stroll for his health’s sake. And yet I knew that both his +officers were uncomfortably aware of his presence and were keyed to +their finest seamanship. I know, now, Captain West’s position on board. +He is the brains of the _Elsinore_. He is the master strategist. There +is more in directing a ship on the ocean than in standing watches and +ordering men to pull and haul. They are pawns, and the two officers are +pieces, with which Captain West plays the game against sea, and wind, +and season, and ocean current. He is the knower. They are his tongue, +by which he makes his knowledge articulate. + +* * * * * + + +A bad night—equally bad for the _Elsinore_ and for me. She is receiving +a sharp buffeting at the hands of the wintry North Atlantic. I fell +asleep early, exhausted from lack of sleep, and awoke in an hour, +frantic with my lumped and burning skin. More cream of tartar, more +reading, more vain attempts to sleep, until shortly before five, when +the steward brought me my coffee, I wrapped myself in my dressing-gown, +and like a being distracted prowled into the cabin. I dozed in a +leather chair and was thrown out by a violent roll of the ship. I tried +the sofa, sinking to sleep immediately, and immediately thereafter +finding myself precipitated to the floor. I am convinced that when +Captain West naps on the sofa he is only half asleep. How else can he +maintain so precarious a position?—unless, in him, too, the sea and its +motion be ingrained. + +I wandered into the dining-room, wedged myself into a screwed chair, +and fell asleep, my head on my arms, my arms on the table. And at +quarter past seven the steward roused me by shaking my shoulders. It +was time to set table. + +Heavy with the brief heaviness of sleep I had had, I dressed and +stumbled up on to the poop in the hope that the wind would clear my +brain. Mr. Pike had the watch, and with sure, age-lagging step he paced +the deck. The man is a marvel—sixty-nine years old, a life of hardship, +and as sturdy as a lion. Yet of the past night alone his hours had +been: four to six in the afternoon on deck; eight to twelve on deck; +and four to eight in the morning on deck. In a few minutes he would be +relieved, but at midday he would again be on deck. + +I leaned on the poop-rail and stared for’ard along the dreary waste of +deck. Every port and scupper was working to ease the weight of North +Atlantic that perpetually fell on board. Between the rush of the +cascades, streaks of rust showed everywhere. Some sort of a wooden +pin-rail had carried away on the starboard-rail at the foot of the +mizzen-shrouds, and an amazing raffle of ropes and tackles washed +about. Here Nancy and half-a-dozen men worked sporadically, and in fear +of their lives, to clear the tangle. + +The long-suffering bleakness was very pronounced on Nancy’s face, and +when the walls of water, in impending downfall, reared above the +_Elsinore’s_ rail, he was always the first to leap for the life-line +which had been stretched fore and aft across the wide space of deck. + +The rest of the men were scarcely less backward in dropping their work +and springing to safety—if safety it might be called, to grip a rope in +both hands and have legs sweep out from under, and be wrenched +full-length upon the boiling surface of an ice-cold flood. Small wonder +they look wretched. Bad as their condition was when they came aboard at +Baltimore, they look far worse now, what of the last several days of +wet and freezing hardship. + +From time to time, completing his for’ard pace along the poop, Mr. Pike +would pause, ere he retraced his steps, and snort sardonic glee at what +happened to the poor devils below. The man’s heart is callous. A thing +of iron, he has endured; and he has no patience nor sympathy with these +creatures who lack his own excessive iron. + +I noticed the stone-deaf man, the twisted oaf whose face I have +described as being that of an ill-treated and feeble-minded faun. His +bright, liquid, pain-filled eyes were more filled with pain than ever, +his face still more lean and drawn with suffering. And yet his face +showed an excess of nervousness, sensitiveness, and a pathetic +eagerness to please and do. I could not help observing that, despite +his dreadful sense-handicap and his wrecked, frail body, he did the +most work, was always the last of the group to spring to the life-line +and always the first to loose the life-line and slosh knee-deep or +waist-deep through the churning water to attack the immense and +depressing tangle of rope and tackle. + +I remarked to Mr. Pike that the men seemed thinner and weaker than when +they came on board, and he delayed replying for a moment while he +stared down at them with that cattle-buyer’s eye of his. + +“Sure they are,” he said disgustedly. “A weak breed, that’s what they +are—nothing to build on, no stamina. The least thing drags them down. +Why, in my day we grew fat on work like that—only we didn’t; we worked +so hard there wasn’t any chance for fat. We kept in fighting trim, that +was all. But as for this scum and slum—say, you remember, Mr. Pathurst, +that man I spoke to the first day, who said his name was Charles +Davis?” + +“The one you thought there was something the matter with?” + +“Yes, and there was, too. He’s in that ’midship room with the Greek +now. He’ll never do a tap of work the whole Voyage. He’s a hospital +case, if there ever was one. Talk about shot to pieces! He’s got holes +in him I could shove my fist through. I don’t know whether they’re +perforating ulcers, or cancers, or cannon-shot wounds, or what not. And +he had the nerve to tell me they showed up after he came on board!” + +“And he had them all the time?” I asked. + +“All the time! Take my word, Mr. Pathurst, they’re years old. But he’s +a wonder. I watched him those first days, sent him aloft, had him down +in the fore-hold trimming a few tons of coal, did everything to him, +and he never showed a wince. Being up to the neck in the salt water +finally fetched him, and now he’s reported off duty—for the voyage. And +he’ll draw his wages for the whole time, have all night in, and never +do a tap. Oh, he’s a hot one to have passed over on us, and the +_Elsinore’s_ another man short.” + +“Another!” I exclaimed. “Is the Greek going to die?” + +“No fear. I’ll have him steering in a few days. I refer to the misfits. +If we rolled a dozen of them together they wouldn’t make one real man. +I’m not saying it to alarm you, for there’s nothing alarming about it; +but we’re going to have proper hell this voyage.” He broke off to stare +reflectively at his broken knuckles, as if estimating how much drive +was left in them, then sighed and concluded, “Well, I can see I’ve got +my work cut out for me.” + +Sympathizing with Mr. Pike is futile; the only effect is to make his +mood blacker. I tried it, and he retaliated with: + +“You oughta see the bloke with curvature of the spine in Mr. Mellaire’s +watch. He’s a proper hobo, too, and a land lubber, and don’t weigh +more’n a hundred pounds, and must be fifty years old, and he’s got +curvature of the spine, and he’s able seaman, if you please, on the +_Elsinore_. And worse than all that, he puts it over on you; he’s +nasty, he’s mean, he’s a viper, a wasp. He ain’t afraid of anything +because he knows you dassent hit him for fear of croaking him. Oh, he’s +a pearl of purest ray serene, if anybody should slide down a backstay +and ask you. If you fail to identify him any other way, his name is +Mulligan Jacobs.” + +* * * * * + + +After breakfast, again on deck, in Mr. Mellaire’s watch, I discovered +another efficient. He was at the wheel, a small, well-knit, muscular +man of say forty-five, with black hair graying on the temples, a big +eagle-face, swarthy, with keen, intelligent black eyes. + +Mr. Mellaire vindicated my judgment by telling me the man was the best +sailor in his watch, a proper seaman. When he referred to the man as +the Maltese Cockney, and I asked why, he replied: + +“First, because he is Maltese, Mr. Pathurst; and next, because he talks +Cockney like a native. And depend upon it, he heard Bow Bells before he +lisped his first word.” + +“And has O’Sullivan bought Andy Fay’s sea-boots yet?” I queried. + +It was at this moment that Miss West emerged upon the poop. She was as +rosy and vital as ever, and certainly, if she had been sea-sick, she +flew no signals of it. As she came toward me, greeting me, I could not +help remarking again the lithe and springy limb-movement with which she +walked, and her fine, firm skin. Her neck, free in a sailor collar, +with white sweater open at the throat, seemed almost redoubtably strong +to my sleepless, jaundiced eyes. Her hair, under a white knitted cap, +was smooth and well-groomed. In fact, the totality of impression she +conveyed was of a well-groomedness one would not expect of a +sea-captain’s daughter, much less of a woman who had been sea-sick. +Life!—that is the key of her, the essential note of her—life and +health. I’ll wager she has never entertained a morbid thought in that +practical, balanced, sensible head of hers. + +“And how have you been?” she asked, then rattled on with sheer +exuberance ere I could answer. “Had a lovely night’s sleep. I was +really over my sickness yesterday, but I just devoted myself to resting +up. I slept ten solid hours—what do you think of that?” + +“I wish I could say the same,” I replied with appropriate dejection, as +I swung in beside her, for she had evinced her intention of +promenading. + +“Oh, then you’ve been sick?” + +“On the contrary,” I answered dryly. “And I wish I had been. I haven’t +had five hours’ sleep all told since I came on board. These pestiferous +hives. . . ” + +I held up a lumpy wrist to show. She took one glance at it, halted +abruptly, and, neatly balancing herself to the roll, took my wrist in +both her hands and gave it close scrutiny. + +“Mercy!” she cried; and then began to laugh. + +I was of two minds. Her laughter was delightful to the ear, there was +such a mellowness, and healthiness, and frankness about it. On the +other hand, that it should be directed at my misfortune was +exasperating. I suppose my perplexity showed in my face, for when she +had eased her laughter and looked at me with a sobering countenance, +she immediately went off into more peals. + +“You poor child,” she gurgled at last. “And when I think of all the +cream of tartar I made you consume!” + +It was rather presumptuous of her to poor-child me, and I resolved to +take advantage of the data I already possessed in order to ascertain +just how many years she was my junior. She had told me she was twelve +years old the time the _Dixie_ collided with the river steamer in San +Francisco Bay. Very well, all I had to do was to ascertain the date of +that disaster and I had her. But in the meantime she laughed at me and +my hives. + +“I suppose it is—er—humorous, in some sort of way,” I said a bit +stiffly, only to find that there was no use in being stiff with Miss +West, for it only set her off into more laughter. + +“What you needed,” she announced, with fresh gurglings, “was an +exterior treatment.” + +“Don’t tell me I’ve got the chicken-pox or the measles,” I protested. + +“No.” She shook her head emphatically while she enjoyed another +paroxysm. “What you are suffering from is a severe attack . . . ” + +She paused deliberately, and looked me straight in the eyes. + +“Of bedbugs,” she concluded. And then, all seriousness and +practicality, she went on: “But we’ll have that righted in a jiffy. +I’ll turn the _Elsinore’s_ after-quarters upside down, though I know +there are none in father’s room or mine. And though this is my first +voyage with Mr. Pike I know he’s too hard-bitten” (here I laughed at +her involuntary pun) “an old sailor not to know that his room is clean. +Yours” (I was perturbed for fear she was going to say that I had +brought them on board) “have most probably drifted in from for’ard. +They always have them for’ard. + +“And now, Mr. Pathurst, I am going down to attend to your case. You’d +better get your Wada to make up a camping kit for you. The next couple +of nights you’ll spend in the cabin or chart-room. And be sure Wada +removes all silver and metallic tarnishable stuff from your rooms. +There’s going to be all sorts of fumigating, and tearing out of +woodwork, and rebuilding. Trust me. I know the vermin.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +Such a cleaning up and turning over! For two nights, one in the +chart-room and one on the cabin sofa, I have soaked myself in sleep, +and I am now almost stupid with excess of sleep. The land seems very +far away. By some strange quirk, I have an impression that weeks, or +months, have passed since I left Baltimore on that bitter March +morning. And yet it was March 28, and this is only the first week in +April. + +I was entirely right in my first estimation of Miss West. She is the +most capable, practically masterful woman I have ever encountered. What +passed between her and Mr. Pike I do not know; but whatever it was, she +was convinced that he was not the erring one. In some strange way, my +two rooms are the only ones which have been invaded by this plague of +vermin. Under Miss West’s instructions bunks, drawers, shelves, and all +superficial woodwork have been ripped out. She worked the carpenter +from daylight till dark, and then, after a night of fumigation, two of +the sailors, with turpentine and white lead, put the finishing touches +on the cleansing operations. The carpenter is now busy rebuilding my +rooms. Then will come the painting, and in two or three more days I +expect to be settled back in my quarters. + +Of the men who did the turpentining and white-leading there have been +four. Two of them were quickly rejected by Miss West as not being up to +the work. The first one, Steve Roberts, which he told me was his name, +is an interesting fellow. I talked with him quite a bit ere Miss West +sent him packing and told Mr. Pike that she wanted a real sailor. + +This is the first time Steve Roberts has ever seen the sea. How he +happened to drift from the western cattle-ranges to New York he did not +explain, any more than did he explain how he came to ship on the +_Elsinore_. But here he is, not a sailor on horseback, but a cowboy on +the sea. He is a small man, but most powerfully built. His shoulders +are very broad, and his muscles bulge under his shirt; and yet he is +slender-waisted, lean-limbed, and hollow-cheeked. This last, however, +is not due to sickness or ill-health. Tyro as he is on the sea, Steve +Roberts is keen and intelligent . . . yes, and crooked. He has a way of +looking straight at one with utmost frankness while he talks, and yet +it is at such moments I get most strongly the impression of +crookedness. But he is a man, if trouble should arise, to be reckoned +with. In ways he suggests a kinship with the three men Mr. Pike took so +instant a prejudice against—Kid Twist, Nosey Murphy, and Bert Rhine. +And I have already noticed, in the dog-watches, that it is with this +trio that Steve Roberts chums. + +The second sailor Miss West rejected, after silently watching him work +for five minutes, was Mulligan Jacobs, the wisp of a man with curvature +of the spine. But before she sent him packing other things occurred in +which I was concerned. I was in the room when Mulligan Jacobs first +came in to go to work, and I could not help observing the startled, +avid glance he threw at my big shelves of books. He advanced on them in +the way a robber might advance on a secret hoard of gold, and as a +miser would fondle gold so Mulligan Jacobs fondled these book-titles +with his eyes. + +And such eyes! All the bitterness and venom Mr. Pike had told me the +man possessed was there in his eyes. They were small, pale-blue, and +gimlet-pointed with fire. His eyelids were inflamed, and but served to +ensanguine the bitter and cold-blazing intensity of the pupils. The man +was constitutionally a hater, and I was not long in learning that he +hated all things except books. + +“Would you care to read some of them?” I said hospitably. + +All the caress in his eyes for the books vanished as he turned his head +to look at me, and ere he spoke I knew that I, too, was hated. + +“It’s hell, ain’t it?—you with a strong body and servants to carry for +you a weight of books like this, and me with a curved spine that puts +the pot-hooks of hell-fire into my brain?” + +How can I possibly convey the terrible venomousness with which he +uttered these words? I know that Mr. Pike, dragging his feet down the +hall past my open door, gave me a very gratifying sense of safety. +Being alone in the room with this man seemed much the same as if I were +locked in a cage with a tiger-cat. The devilishness, the wickedness, +and, above all, the pitch of glaring hatred with which the man eyed me +and addressed me, were most unpleasant. I swear I knew fear—not +calculated caution, not timid apprehension, but blind, panic, +unreasoned terror. The malignancy of the creature was blood curdling; +nor did it require words to convey it: it poured from him, out of his +red-rimmed, blazing eyes, out of his withered, twisted, tortured face, +out of his broken-nailed, crooked talons of hands. And yet, in that +very moment of instinctive startle and repulsion, the thought was in my +mind that with one hand I could take the throat of the weazened wisp of +a crippled thing and throttle the malformed life out of it. + +But there was little encouragement in such thought—no more than a man +might feel in a cave of rattlesnakes or a pit of centipedes, for, crush +them with his very bulk, nevertheless they would first sink their +poison into him. And so with this Mulligan Jacobs. My fear of him was +the fear of being infected with his venom. I could not help it; for I +caught a quick vision of the black and broken teeth I had seen in his +mouth sinking into my flesh, polluting me, eating me with their acid, +destroying me. + +One thing was very clear. In the creature was no fear. Absolutely, he +did not know fear. He was as devoid of it as the fetid slime one treads +underfoot in nightmares. Lord, Lord! that is what the thing was, a +nightmare. + +“You suffer pain often?” I asked, attempting to get myself in hand by +the calculated use of sympathy. + +“The hooks are in me, in the brain, white-hot hooks that burn an’ +burn,” was his reply. “But by what damnable right do you have all these +books, and time to read ’em, an’ all night in to read ’em, an’ soak in +them, when me brain’s on fire, and I’m watch and watch, an’ me broken +spine won’t let me carry half a hundredweight of books about with me?” + +Another madman, was my conclusion; and yet I was quickly compelled to +modify it, for, thinking to play with a rattle-brain, I asked him what +were the books up to half a hundredweight he carried, and what were the +writers he preferred. His library, he told me, among other things +included, first and fore-most, a complete Byron. Next was a complete +Shakespeare; also a complete Browning in one volume. A full hall dozen +he had in the forecastle of Renan, a stray volume of Lecky, Winwood +Reade’s _Martyrdom of Man_, several of Carlyle, and eight or ten of +Zola. Zola he swore by, though Anatole France was a prime favourite. + +He might be mad, was my revised judgment, but he was most differently +mad from any madman I had ever encountered. I talked on with him about +books and bookmen. He was most universal and particular. He liked O. +Henry. George Moore was a cad and a four—flusher. Edgar Saltus’ +_Anatomy of Negation_ was profounder than Kant. Maeterlinck was a +mystic frump. Emerson was a charlatan. Ibsen’s _Ghosts_ was the stuff, +though Ibsen was a bourgeois lickspittler. Heine was the real goods. He +preferred Flaubert to de Maupassant, and Turgenieff to Tolstoy; but +Gorky was the best of the Russian boiling. John Masefield knew what he +was writing about, and Joseph Conrad was living too fat to turn out the +stuff he first turned out. + +And so it went, the most amazing running commentary on literature I had +ever heard. I was hugely interested, and I quizzed him on sociology. +Yes, he was a Red, and knew his Kropotkin, but he was no anarchist. On +the other hand, political action was a blind-alley leading to reformism +and quietism. Political socialism had gone to pot, while industrial +unionism was the logical culmination of Marxism. He was a direct +actionist. The mass strike was the thing. Sabotage, not merely as a +withdrawal of efficiency, but as a keen destruction-of-profits policy, +was the weapon. Of course he believed in the propaganda of the deed, +but a man was a fool to talk about it. His job was to do it and keep +his mouth shut, and the way to do it was to shoot the evidence. Of +course, _he_ talked; but what of it? Didn’t he have curvature of the +spine? He didn’t care when he got his, and woe to the man who tried to +give it to him. + +And while he talked he hated me. He seemed to hate the things he talked +about and espoused. I judged him to be of Irish descent, and it was +patent that he was self-educated. When I asked him how it was he had +come to sea, he replied that the hooks in his brain were as hot one +place as another. He unbent enough to tell me that he had been an +athlete, when he was a young man, a professional foot-racer in Eastern +Canada. And then his disease had come upon him, and for a quarter of a +century he had been a common tramp and vagabond, and he bragged of a +personal acquaintance with more city prisons and county jails than any +man that ever existed. + +It was at this stage in our talk that Mr. Pike thrust his head into the +doorway. He did not address me, but he favoured me with a most sour +look of disapprobation. Mr. Pike’s countenance is almost petrified. Any +expression seems to crack it—with the exception of sourness. But when +Mr. Pike wants to look sour he has no difficulty at all. His +hard-skinned, hard-muscled face just flows to sourness. Evidently he +condemned my consuming Mulligan Jacobs’s time. To Mulligan Jacobs he +said in his customary snarl: + +“Go on an’ get to your work. Chew the rag in your watch below.” + +And then I got a sample of Mulligan Jacobs. The venom of hatred I had +already seen in his face was as nothing compared with what now was +manifested. I had a feeling that, like stroking a cat in cold weather, +did I touch his face it would crackle electric sparks. + +“Aw, go to hell, you old stiff,” said Mulligan Jacobs. + +If ever I had seen murder in a man’s eyes, I saw it then in the mate’s. +He lunged into the room, his arm tensed to strike, the hand not open +but clenched. One stroke of that bear’s paw and Mulligan Jacobs and all +the poisonous flame of him would have been quenched in the everlasting +darkness. But he was unafraid. Like a cornered rat, like a rattlesnake +on the trail, unflinching, sneering, snarling, he faced the irate +giant. More than that. He even thrust his face forward on its twisted +neck to meet the blow. + +It was too much for Mr. Pike; it was too impossible to strike that +frail, crippled, repulsive thing. + +“It’s me that can call you the stiff,” said Mulligan Jacobs. “I ain’t +no Larry. G’wan an’ hit me. Why don’t you hit me?” + +And Mr. Pike was too appalled to strike the creature. He, whose whole +career on the sea had been that of a bucko driver in a shambles, could +not strike this fractured splinter of a man. I swear that Mr. Pike +actually struggled with himself to strike. I saw it. But he could not. + +“Go on to your work,” he ordered. “The voyage is young yet, Mulligan. +I’ll have you eatin’ outa my hand before it’s over.” + +And Mulligan Jacobs’s face thrust another inch closer on its twisted +neck, while all his concentrated rage seemed on the verge of bursting +into incandescence. So immense and tremendous was the bitterness that +consumed him that he could find no words to clothe it. All he could do +was to hawk and guttural deep in his throat until I should not have +been surprised had he spat poison in the mate’s face. + +And Mr. Pike turned on his heel and left the room, beaten, absolutely +beaten. + +* * * * * + + +I can’t get it out of my mind. The picture of the mate and the cripple +facing each other keeps leaping up under my eyelids. This is different +from the books and from what I know of existence. It is revelation. +Life is a profoundly amazing thing. What is this bitter flame that +informs Mulligan Jacobs? How dare he—with no hope of any profit, not a +hero, not a leader of a forlorn hope nor a martyr to God, but a mere +filthy, malignant rat—how dare he, I ask myself, be so defiant, so +death-inviting? The spectacle of him makes me doubt all the schools of +the metaphysicians and the realists. No philosophy has a leg to stand +on that does not account for Mulligan Jacobs. And all the midnight oil +of philosophy I have burned does not enable me to account for Mulligan +Jacobs . . . unless he be insane. And then I don’t know. + +Was there ever such a freight of human souls on the sea as these humans +with whom I am herded on the _Elsinore_? + +* * * * * + + +And now, working in my rooms, white-leading and turpentining, is +another one of them. I have learned his name. It is Arthur Deacon. He +is the pallid, furtive-eyed man whom I observed the first day when the +men were routed out of the forecastle to man the windlass—the man I so +instantly adjudged a drug-fiend. He certainly looks it. + +I asked Mr. Pike his estimate of the man. + +“White slaver,” was his answer. “Had to skin outa New York to save his +skin. He’ll be consorting with those other three larrakins I gave a +piece of my mind to.” + +“And what do you make of them?” I asked. + +“A month’s wages to a pound of tobacco that a district attorney, or a +committee of some sort investigating the New York police is lookin’ for +’em right now. I’d like to have the cash somebody’s put up in New York +to send them on this get-away. Oh, I know the breed.” + +“Gangsters?” I queried. + +“That’s what. But I’ll trim their dirty hides. I’ll trim ’em. Mr. +Pathurst, this voyage ain’t started yet, and this old stiff’s a long +way from his last legs. I’ll give them a run for their money. Why, I’ve +buried better men than the best of them aboard this craft. And I’ll +bury some of them that think me an old stiff.” + +He paused and looked at me solemnly for a full half minute. + +“Mr. Pathurst, I’ve heard you’re a writing man. And when they told me +at the agents’ you were going along passenger, I made a point of going +to see your play. Now I’m not saying anything about that play, one way +or the other. But I just want to tell you, that as a writing man you’ll +get stuff in plenty to write about on this voyage. Hell’s going to pop, +believe me, and right here before you is the stiff that’ll do a lot of +the poppin’. Some several and plenty’s going to learn who’s an old +stiff.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +How I have been sleeping! This relief of renewed normality is +delicious—thanks to Miss West. Now why did not Captain West, or Mr. +Pike, both experienced men, diagnose my trouble for me? And then there +was Wada. But no; it required Miss West. Again I contemplate the +problem of woman. It is just such an incident among a million others +that keeps the thinker’s gaze fixed on woman. They truly are the +mothers and the conservers of the race. + +Rail as I will at Miss West’s red-blood complacency of life, yet I must +bow my head to her life-giving to me. Practical, sensible, hard-headed, +a comfort-maker and a nest-builder, possessing all the distressing +attributes of the blind-instinctive race-mother, nevertheless I must +confess I am most grateful that she is along. Had she not been on the +_Elsinore_, by this time I should have been so overwrought from lack of +sleep that I would be biting my veins and howling—as mad a hatter as +any of our cargo of mad hatters. And so we come to it—the everlasting +mystery of woman. One may not be able to get along with her; yet is it +patent, as of old time, that one cannot get along without her. But, +regarding Miss West, I do entertain one fervent hope, namely, that she +is not a suffragette. That would be too much. + +Captain West may be a Samurai, but he is also human. He was really a +bit fluttery this morning, in his reserved, controlled way, when he +regretted the plague of vermin I had encountered in my rooms. It seems +he has a keen sense of hospitality, and that he is my host on the +_Elsinore_, and that, although he is oblivious of the existence of the +crew, he is not oblivious of my comfort. By his few expressions of +regret it appears that he cannot forgive himself for his careless +acceptance of the erroneous diagnosis of my affliction. Yes; Captain +West is a real human man. Is he not the father of the slender-faced, +strapping-bodied Miss West? + +“Thank goodness that’s settled,” was Miss West’s exclamation this +morning, when we met on the poop and after I had told her how +gloriously I had slept. + +And then, that nightmare episode dismissed because, forsooth, for all +practical purposes—it was settled, she next said: + +“Come on and see the chickens.” + +And I accompanied her along the spidery bridge to the top of the +’midship-house, to look at the one rooster and the four dozen fat hens +in the ship’s chicken-coop. + +As I accompanied her, my eyes dwelling pleasurably on that vital gait +of hers as she preceded me, I could not help reflecting that, coming +down on the tug from Baltimore, she had promised not to bother me nor +require to be entertained. + +_Come and see the chickens_!—Oh, the sheer female possessiveness of +that simple invitation! For effrontery of possessiveness is there +anything that can exceed the nest-making, planet-populating, female, +human woman?—_Come and see the chickens_! Oh, well, the sailors for’ard +may be hard-bitten, but I can promise Miss West that here, aft, is one +male passenger, unmarried and never married, who is an equally +hard-bitten adventurer on the sea of matrimony. When I go over the +census I remember at least several women, superior to Miss West, who +trilled their song of sex and failed to shipwreck me. + +As I read over what I have written I notice how the terminology of the +sea has stolen into my mental processes. Involuntarily I think in terms +of the sea. Another thing I notice is my excessive use of superlatives. +But then, everything on board the _Elsinore_ is superlative. I find +myself continually combing my vocabulary in quest of just and adequate +words. Yet am I aware of failure. For example, all the words of all the +dictionaries would fail to approximate the exceeding terribleness of +Mulligan Jacobs. + +But to return to the chickens. Despite every precaution, it was evident +that they had had a hard time during the past days of storm. It was +equally evident that Miss West, even during her sea-sickness, had not +neglected them. Under her directions the steward had actually installed +a small oil-stove in the big coop, and she now beckoned him up to the +top of the house as he was passing for’ard to the galley. It was for +the purpose of instructing him further in the matter of feeding them. + +Where were the grits? They needed grits. He didn’t know. The sack had +been lost among the miscellaneous stores, but Mr. Pike had promised a +couple of sailors that afternoon to overhaul the lazarette. + +“Plenty of ashes,” she told the steward. “Remember. And if a sailor +doesn’t clean the coop each day, you report to me. And give them only +clean food—no spoiled scraps, mind. How many eggs yesterday?” + +The steward’s eyes glistened with enthusiasm as he said he had got nine +the day before and expected fully a dozen to-day. + +“The poor things,” said Miss West—to me. “You’ve no idea how bad +weather reduces their laying.” She turned back upon the steward. “Mind +now, you watch and find out which hens don’t lay, and kill them first. +And you ask me each time before you kill one.” + +I found myself neglected, out there on top the draughty house, while +Miss West talked chickens with the Chinese ex-smuggler. But it gave me +opportunity to observe her. It is the length of her eyes that +accentuates their steadiness of gaze—helped, of course, by the dark +brows and lashes. I noted again the warm gray of her eyes. And I began +to identify her, to locate her. She is a physical type of the best of +the womanhood of old New England. Nothing spare nor meagre, nor bred +out, but generously strong, and yet not quite what one would call +robust. When I said she was strapping-bodied I erred. I must fall back +on my other word, which will have to be the last: Miss West is +vital-bodied. That is the key-word. + +When we had regained the poop, and Miss West had gone below, I ventured +my customary pleasantry with Mr. Mellaire of: + +“And has O’Sullivan bought Andy Fay’s sea-boots yet?” + +“Not yet, Mr. Pathurst,” was the reply, “though he nearly got them +early this morning. Come on along, sir, and I’ll show you.” + +Vouchsafing no further information, the second mate led the way along +the bridge, across the ’midship-house and the for’ard-house. From the +edge of the latter, looking down on Number One hatch, I saw two +Japanese, with sail-needles and twine, sewing up a canvas-swathed +bundle that unmistakably contained a human body. + +“O’Sullivan used a razor,” said Mr. Mellaire. + +“And that is Andy Fay?” I cried. + +“No, sir, not Andy. That’s a Dutchman. Christian Jespersen was his name +on the articles. He got in O’Sullivan’s way when O’Sullivan went after +the boots. That’s what saved Andy. Andy was more active. Jespersen +couldn’t get out of his own way, much less out of O’Sullivan’s. There’s +Andy sitting over there.” + +I followed Mr. Mellaire’s gaze, and saw the burnt-out, aged little +Scotchman squatted on a spare spar and sucking a pipe. One arm was in a +sling and his head was bandaged. Beside him squatted Mulligan Jacobs. +They were a pair. Both were blue-eyed, and both were malevolent-eyed. +And they were equally emaciated. It was easy to see that they had +discovered early in the voyage their kinship of bitterness. Andy Fay, I +knew, was sixty-three years old, although he looked a hundred; and +Mulligan Jacobs, who was only about fifty, made up for the difference +by the furnace-heat of hatred that burned in his face and eyes. I +wondered if he sat beside the injured bitter one in some sense of +sympathy, or if he were there in order to gloat. + +Around the corner of the house strolled Shorty, flinging up to me his +inevitable clown-grin. One hand was swathed in bandages. + +“Must have kept Mr. Pike busy,” was my comment to Mr. Mellaire. + +“He was sewing up cripples about all his watch from four till eight.” + +“What?” I asked. “Are there any more?” + +“One more, sir, a sheeny. I didn’t know his name before, but Mr. Pike +got it—Isaac B. Chantz. I never saw in all my life at sea as many +sheenies as are on board the _Elsinore_ right now. Sheenies don’t take +to the sea as a rule. We’ve certainly got more than our share of them. +Chantz isn’t badly hurt, but you ought to hear him whimper.” + +“Where’s O’Sullivan?” I inquired. + +“In the ’midship-house with Davis, and without a mark. Mr. Pike got +into the rumpus and put him to sleep with one on the jaw. And now he’s +lashed down and talking in a trance. He’s thrown the fear of God into +Davis. Davis is sitting up in his bunk with a marlin-spike, threatening +to brain O’Sullivan if he starts to break loose, and complaining that +it’s no way to run a hospital. He’d have padded cells, straitjackets, +night and day nurses, and violent wards, I suppose—and a convalescents’ +home in a Queen Anne cottage on the poop. + +“Oh dear, oh dear,” Mr. Mellaire sighed. “This is the funniest voyage +and the funniest crew I’ve ever tackled. It’s not going to come to a +good end. Anybody can see that with half an eye. It’ll be dead of +winter off the Horn, and a fo’c’s’le full of lunatics and cripples to +do the work.—Just take a look at that one. Crazy as a bedbug. He’s +likely to go overboard any time.” + +I followed his glance and saw Tony the Greek, the one who had sprung +overboard the first day. He had just come around the corner of the +house, and, beyond one arm in a sling, seemed in good condition. He +walked easily and with strength, a testimonial to the virtues of Mr. +Pike’s rough surgery. + +My eyes kept returning to the canvas-covered body of Christian +Jespersen, and to the Japanese who sewed with sail-twine his sailor’s +shroud. One of them had his right hand in a huge wrapping of cotton and +bandage. + +“Did he get hurt, too?” I asked. + +“No, sir. He’s the sail-maker. They’re both sail-makers. He’s a good +one, too. Yatsuda is his name. But he’s just had blood-poisoning and +lain in hospital in New York for eighteen months. He flatly refused to +let them amputate. He’s all right now, but the hand is dead, all except +the thumb and fore-finger, and he’s teaching himself to sew with his +left hand. He’s as clever a sail-maker as you’ll find at sea.” + +“A lunatic and a razor make a cruel combination,” I remarked. + +“It’s put five men out of commission,” Mr. Mellaire sighed. “There’s +O’Sullivan himself, and Christian Jespersen gone, and Andy Fay, and +Shorty, and the sheeny. And the voyage not started yet. And there’s +Lars with the broken leg, and Davis laid off for keeps—why, sir, we’ll +soon be that weak it’ll take both watches to set a staysail.” + +Nevertheless, while I talked in a matter-of-fact way with Mr. Mellaire, +I was shocked—no; not because death was aboard with us. I have stood by +my philosophic guns too long to be shocked by death, or by murder. What +affected me was the utter, stupid bestiality of the affair. Even +murder—murder for cause—I can understand. It is comprehensible that men +should kill one another in the passion of love, of hatred, of +patriotism, of religion. But this was different. Here was killing +without cause, an orgy of blind-brutishness, a thing monstrously +irrational. + +Later on, strolling with Possum on the main deck, as I passed the open +door of the hospital I heard the muttering chant of O’Sullivan, and +peeped in. There he lay, lashed fast on his back in the lower bunk, +rolling his eyes and raving. In the top bunk, directly above, lay +Charles Davis, calmly smoking a pipe. I looked for the marlin-spike. +There it was, ready to hand, on the bedding beside him. + +“It’s hell, ain’t it, sir?” was his greeting. “And how am I goin’ to +get any sleep with that baboon chattering away there. He never lets +up—keeps his chin-music goin’ right along when he’s asleep, only worse. +The way he grits his teeth is something awful. Now I leave it to you, +sir, is it right to put a crazy like that in with a sick man? And I am +a sick man.” + +While he talked the massive form of Mr. Pike loomed beside me and +halted just out of sight of the man in the bunk. And the man talked on. + +“By rights, I oughta have that lower bunk. It hurts me to crawl up +here. It’s inhumanity, that’s what it is, and sailors at sea are better +protected by the law than they used to be. And I’ll have you for a +witness to this before the court when we get to Seattle.” + +Mr. Pike stepped into the doorway. + +“Shut up, you damned sea-lawyer, you,” he snarled. “Haven’t you played +a dirty trick enough comin’ on board this ship in your condition? And +if I have anything more out of you . . . ” + +Mr. Pike was so angry that he could not complete the threat. After +spluttering for a moment he made a fresh attempt. + +“You . . . you . . . well, you annoy me, that’s what you do.” + +“I know the law, sir,” Davis answered promptly. “I worked full able +seaman on this here ship. All hands can testify to that. I was aloft +from the start. Yes, sir, and up to my neck in salt water day and +night. And you had me below trimmin’ coal. I did full duty and more, +until this sickness got me—” + +“You were petrified and rotten before you ever saw this ship,” Mr. Pike +broke in. + +“The court’ll decide that, sir,” replied the imperturbable Davis. + +“And if you go to shoutin’ off your sea-lawyer mouth,” Mr. Pike +continued, “I’ll jerk you out of that and show you what real work is.” + +“An’ lay the owners open for lovely damages when we get in,” Davis +sneered. + +“Not if I bury you before we get in,” was the mate’s quick, grim +retort. “And let me tell you, Davis, you ain’t the first sea-lawyer +I’ve dropped over the side with a sack of coal to his feet.” + +Mr. Pike turned, with a final “Damned sea-lawyer!” and started along +the deck. I was walking behind him when he stopped abruptly. + +“Mr. Pathurst.” + +Not as an officer to a passenger did he thus address me. His tone was +imperative, and I gave heed. + +“Mr. Pathurst. From now on the less you see aboard this ship the +better. That is all.” + +And again he turned on his heel and went his way. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +No, the sea is not a gentle place. It must be the very hardness of the +life that makes all sea-people hard. Of course, Captain West is unaware +that his crew exists, and Mr. Pike and Mr. Mellaire never address the +men save to give commands. But Miss West, who is more like myself, a +passenger, ignores the men. She does not even say good-morning to the +man at the wheel when she first comes on deck. Nevertheless I shall, at +least to the man at the wheel. Am I not a passenger? + +Which reminds me. Technically I am not a passenger. The _Elsinore_ has +no licence to carry passengers, and I am down on the articles as third +mate and am supposed to receive thirty-five dollars a month. Wada is +down as cabin boy, although I paid a good price for his passage and he +is my servant. + +Not much time is lost at sea in getting rid of the dead. Within an hour +after I had watched the sail-makers at work Christian Jespersen was +slid overboard, feet first, a sack of coal to his feet to sink him. It +was a mild, calm day, and the _Elsinore_, logging a lazy two knots, was +not hove to for the occasion. At the last moment Captain West came +for’ard, prayer-book in hand, read the brief service for burial at sea, +and returned immediately aft. It was the first time I had seen him +for’ard. + +I shall not bother to describe the burial. All I shall say of it is +that it was as sordid as Christian Jespersen’s life had been and as his +death had been. + +As for Miss West, she sat in a deck-chair on the poop busily engaged +with some sort of fancy work. When Christian Jespersen and his coal +splashed into the sea the crew immediately dispersed, the watch below +going to its bunks, the watch on deck to its work. Not a minute elapsed +ere Mr. Mellaire was giving orders and the men were pulling and +hauling. So I returned to the poop to be unpleasantly impressed by Miss +West’s smiling unconcern. + +“Well, he’s buried,” I observed. + +“Oh,” she said, with all the tonelessness of disinterest, and went on +with her stitching. + +She must have sensed my frame of mind, for, after a moment, she paused +from her sewing and looked at me. + +Your first sea funeral, Mr. Pathurst? + +“Death at sea does not seem to affect you,” I said bluntly. + +“Not any more than on the land.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So many +people die, you know. And when they are strangers to you . . . well, +what do you do on the land when you learn that some workers have been +killed in a factory you pass every day coming to town? It is the same +on the sea.” + +“It’s too bad we are a hand short,” I said deliberately. + +It did not miss her. Just as deliberately she replied: + +“Yes, isn’t it? And so early in the voyage, too.” She looked at me, and +when I could not forbear a smile of appreciation she smiled back. + +“Oh, I know very well, Mr. Pathurst, that you think me a heartless +wretch. But it isn’t that it’s . . . it’s the sea, I suppose. And yet, +I didn’t know this man. I don’t remember ever having seen him. At this +stage of the voyage I doubt if I could pick out half-a-dozen of the +sailors as men I had ever laid eyes on. So why vex myself with even +thinking of this stupid stranger who was killed by another stupid +stranger? As well might one die of grief with reading the murder +columns of the daily papers.” + +“And yet, it seems somehow different,” I contended. + +“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” she assured me cheerfully, and returned to +her sewing. + +I asked her if she had read Moody’s _Ship of Souls_, but she had not. I +searched her out further. She liked Browning, and was especially fond +of _The Ring and the Book_. This was the key to her. She cared only for +healthful literature—for the literature that exposits the vital lies of +life. + +For instance, the mention of Schopenhauer produced smiles and laughter. +To her all the philosophers of pessimism were laughable. The red blood +of her would not permit her to take them seriously. I tried her out +with a conversation I had had with De Casseres shortly before leaving +New York. De Casseres, after tracing Jules de Gaultier’s philosophic +genealogy back to Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, had concluded with the +proposition that out of their two formulas de Gaultier had constructed +an even profounder formula. The “Will-to-Live” of the one and the +“Will-to-Power” of the other were, after all, only parts of de +Gaultier’s supreme generalization, the “Will-to-Illusion.” + +I flatter myself that even De Casseres would have been pleased with the +way I repeated his argument. And when I had concluded it, Miss West +promptly demanded if the realists might not be fooled by their own +phrases as often and as completely as were the poor common mortals with +the vital lies they never questioned. + +And there we were. An ordinary young woman, who had never vexed her +brains with ultimate problems, hears such things stated for the first +time, and immediately, and with a laugh, sweeps them all away. I doubt +not that De Casseres would have agreed with her. + +“Do you believe in God?” I asked rather abruptly. She dropped her +sewing into her lap, looked at me meditatively, then gazed on and away +across the flashing sea and up into the azure dome of sky. And finally, +with true feminine evasion, she replied: + +“My father does.” + +“But you?” I insisted. + +“I really don’t know. I don’t bother my head about such things. I used +to when I was a little girl. And yet . . . yes, surely I believe in +God. At times, when I am not thinking about it at all, I am very sure, +and my faith that all is well is just as strong as the faith of your +Jewish friend in the phrases of the philosophers. That’s all it comes +to, I suppose, in every case—faith. But, as I say, why bother?” + +“Ah, I have you now, Miss West!” I cried. “You are a true daughter of +Herodias.” + +“It doesn’t sound nice,” she said with a _moue_. + +“And it isn’t,” I exulted. “Nevertheless, it is what you are. It is +Arthur Symon’s poem, _The Daughters of Herodias_. Some day I shall read +it to you, and you will answer. I know you will answer that you, too, +have looked often upon the stars.” + +We had just got upon the subject of music, of which she possesses a +surprisingly solid knowledge, and she was telling me that Debussy and +his school held no particular charm for her, when Possum set up a wild +yelping. + +The puppy had strayed for’ard along the bridge to the ’midship-house, +and had evidently been investigating the chickens when his disaster +came upon him. So shrill was his terror that we both stood up. He was +dashing along the bridge toward us at full speed, yelping at every jump +and continually turning his head back in the direction whence he came. + +I spoke to him and held out my hand, and was rewarded with a snap and +clash of teeth as he scuttled past. Still with head turned back, he +went on along the poop. Before I could apprehend his danger, Mr. Pike +and Miss West were after him. The mate was the nearer, and with a +magnificent leap gained the rail just in time to intercept Possum, who +was blindly going overboard under the slender railing. With a sort of +scooping kick Mr. Pike sent the animal rolling half across the poop. +Howling and snapping more violently, Possum regained his feet and +staggered on toward the opposite railing. + +“Don’t touch him!” Mr. Pike cried, as Miss West showed her intention of +catching the crazed little animal with her hands. “Don’t touch’m! He’s +got a fit.” + +But it did not deter her. He was half-way under the railing when she +caught him up and held him at arm’s length while he howled and barked +and slavered. + +“It’s a fit,” said Mr. Pike, as the terrier collapsed and lay on the +deck jerking convulsively. + +“Perhaps a chicken pecked him,” said Miss West. “At any rate, get a +bucket of water.” + +“Better let me take him,” I volunteered helplessly, for I was +unfamiliar with fits. + +“No; it’s all right,” she answered. “I’ll take charge of him. The cold +water is what he needs. He got too close to the coop, and a peck on the +nose frightened him into the fit.” + +“First time I ever heard of a fit coming that way,” Mr. Pike remarked, +as he poured water over the puppy under Miss West’s direction. “It’s +just a plain puppy fit. They all get them at sea.” + +“I think it was the sails that caused it,” I argued. “I’ve noticed that +he is very afraid of them. When they flap, he crouches down in terror +and starts to run. You noticed how he ran with his head turned back?” + +“I’ve seen dogs with fits do that when there was nothing to frighten +them,” Mr. Pike contended. + +“It was a fit, no matter what caused it,” Miss West stated +conclusively. “Which means that he has not been fed properly. From now +on I shall feed him. You tell your boy that, Mr. Pathurst. Nobody is to +feed Possum anything without my permission.” + +At this juncture Wada arrived with Possum’s little sleeping box, and +they prepared to take him below. + +“It was splendid of you, Miss West,” I said, “and rash, as well, and I +won’t attempt to thank you. But I tell you what-you take him. He’s your +dog now.” + +She laughed and shook her head as I opened the chart-house door for her +to pass. + +“No; but I’ll take care of him for you. Now don’t bother to come below. +This is my affair, and you would only be in the way. Wada will help +me.” + +And I was rather surprised, as I returned to my deck chair and sat +down, to find how affected I was by the little episode. I remembered, +at the first, that my pulse had been distinctly accelerated with the +excitement of what had taken place. And somehow, as I leaned back in my +chair and lighted a cigarette, the strangeness of the whole voyage +vividly came to me. Miss West and I talk philosophy and art on the poop +of a stately ship in a circle of flashing sea, while Captain West +dreams of his far home, and Mr. Pike and Mr. Mellaire stand watch and +watch and snarl orders, and the slaves of men pull and haul, and Possum +has fits, and Andy Fay and Mulligan Jacobs burn with hatred +unconsumable, and the small-handed half-caste Chinese cooks for all, +and Sundry Buyers perpetually presses his abdomen, and O’Sullivan raves +in the steel cell of the ’midship-house, and Charles Davis lies about +him nursing a marlin-spike, and Christian Jespersen, miles astern, is +deep sunk in the sea with a sack of coal at his feet. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +Two weeks out to-day, on a balmy sea, under a cloud-flecked sky, and +slipping an easy eight knots through the water to a light easterly +wind. Captain West said he was almost convinced that it was the +north-east trade. Also, I have learned that the _Elsinore_, in order to +avoid being jammed down on Cape San Roque, on the Brazil coast, must +first fight eastward almost to the coast of Africa. On occasion, on +this traverse, the Cape Verde Islands are raised. No wonder the voyage +from Baltimore to Seattle is reckoned at eighteen thousand miles. + +I found Tony, the suicidal Greek, steering this morning when I came on +deck. He seemed sensible enough, and quite rationally took off his hat +when I said good morning to him. The sick men are improving nicely, +with the exceptions of Charles Davis and O’Sullivan. The latter still +is lashed to his bunk, and Mr. Pike has compelled Davis to attend on +him. As a result, Davis moves about the deck, bringing food and water +from the galley and grumbling his wrongs to every member of the crew. + +Wada told me a strange thing this morning. It seems that he, the +steward, and the two sail-makers foregather each evening in the cook’s +room—all being Asiatics—where they talk over ship’s gossip. They seem +to miss little, and Wada brings it all to me. The thing Wada told me +was the curious conduct of Mr. Mellaire. They have sat in judgment on +him and they do not approve of his intimacy with the three gangsters +for’ard. + +“But, Wada,” I said, “he is not that kind of a man. He is very hard and +rough with all the sailors. He treats them like dogs. You know that.” + +“Sure,” assented Wada. “Other sailors he do that. But those three very +bad men he make good friends. Louis say second mate belong aft like +first mate and captain. No good for second mate talk like friend with +sailors. No good for ship. Bime by trouble. You see. Louis say Mr. +Mellaire crazy do that kind funny business.” + +All of which, if it were true, and I saw no reason to doubt it, led me +to inquire. It seems that the gangsters, Kid Twist, Nosey Murphy, and +Bert Rhine, have made themselves cocks of the forecastle. Standing +together, they have established a reign of terror and are ruling the +forecastle. All their training in New York in ruling the slum brutes +and weaklings in their gangs fits them for the part. As near as I could +make out from Wada’s tale, they first began on the two Italians in +their watch, Guido Bombini and Mike Cipriani. By means I cannot guess, +they have reduced these two wretches to trembling slaves. As an +instance, the other night, according to the ship’s gossip, Bert Rhine +made Bombini get out of bed and fetch him a drink of water. + +Isaac Chantz is likewise under their rule, though he is treated more +kindly. Herman Lunkenheimer, a good-natured but simple-minded dolt of a +German, received a severe beating from the three because he refused to +wash some of Nosey Murphy’s dirty garments. The two bosuns are in fear +of their lives with this clique, which is growing; for Steve Roberts, +the ex-cowboy, and the white-slaver, Arthur Deacon, have been admitted +to it. + +I am the only one aft who possesses this information, and I confess I +don’t know what to do with it. I know that Mr. Pike would tell me to +mind my own business. Mr. Mellaire is out of the question. And Captain +West hasn’t any crew. And I fear Miss West would laugh at me for my +pains. Besides, I understand that every forecastle has its bully, or +group of bullies; so this is merely a forecastle matter and no concern +of the afterguard. The ship’s work goes on. The only effect I can +conjecture is an increase in the woes of the unfortunates who must bow +to this petty tyranny for’ard. + +—Oh, and another thing Wada told me. The gangster clique has +established its privilege of taking first cut of the salt-beef in the +meat-kids. After that, the rest take the rejected pieces. But I will +say, contrary to my expectations, the _Elsinore’s_ forecastle is well +found. The men are not on whack. They have all they want to eat. A +barrel of good hardtack stands always open in the forecastle. Louis +bakes fresh bread for the sailors three times a week. The variety of +food is excellent, if not the quality. There is no restriction in the +amount of water for drinking purposes. And I can only say that in this +good weather the men’s appearance improves daily. + +Possum is very sick. Each day he grows thinner. Scarcely can I call him +a perambulating skeleton, because he is too weak to walk. Each day, in +this delightful weather, Wada, under Miss West’s instructions, brings +him up in his box and places him out of the wind on the awninged poop. +She has taken full charge of the puppy, and has him sleep in her room +each night. I found her yesterday, in the chart-room, reading up the +_Elsinore’s_ medical library. Later on she overhauled the +medicine-chest. She is essentially the life-giving, life-conserving +female of the species. All her ways, for herself and for others, make +toward life. + +And yet—and this is so curious it gives me pause—she shows no interest +in the sick and injured for’ard. + +They are to her cattle, or less than cattle. As the life-giver and +race-conserver, I should have imagined her a Lady Bountiful, tripping +regularly into that ghastly steel-walled hospital room of the +midship-house and dispensing gruel, sunshine, and even tracts. On the +contrary, as with her father, these wretched humans do not exist. + +And still again, when the steward jammed a splinter under his nail, she +was greatly concerned, and manipulated the tweezers and pulled it out. +The Elsinore reminds me of a slave plantation before the war; and Miss +West is the lady of the plantation, interested only in the +house-slaves. The field slaves are beyond her ken or consideration, and +the sailors are the Elsinore’s field slaves. Why, several days back, +when Wada suffered from a severe headache, she was quite perturbed, and +dosed him with aspirin. Well, I suppose this is all due to her +sea-training. She has been trained hard. + +We have the phonograph in the second dog-watch every other evening in +this fine weather. On the alternate evenings this period is Mr. Pike’s +watch on deck. But when it is his evening below, even at dinner, he +betrays his anticipation by an eagerness ill suppressed. And yet, on +each such occasion, he punctiliously waits until we ask if we are to be +favoured with music. Then his hard-bitten face lights up, although the +lines remain hard as ever, hiding his ecstasy, and he remarks gruffly, +off-handedly, that he guesses he can play over a few records. And so, +every other evening, we watch this killer and driver, with lacerated +knuckles and gorilla paws, brushing and caressing his beloved discs, +ravished with the music of them, and, as he told me early in the +voyage, at such moments believing in God. + +A strange experience is this life on the Elsinore. I confess, while it +seems that I have been here for long months, so familiar am I with +every detail of the little round of living, that I cannot orient +myself. My mind continually strays from things non-understandable to +things incomprehensible—from our Samurai captain with the exquisite +Gabriel voice that is heard only in the tumult and thunder of storm; on +to the ill-treated and feeble-minded faun with the bright, liquid, +pain-filled eyes; to the three gangsters who rule the forecastle and +seduce the second mate; to the perpetually muttering O’Sullivan in the +steel-walled hole and the complaining Davis nursing the marlin-spike in +the upper bunk; and to Christian Jespersen somewhere adrift in this +vastitude of ocean with a coal-sack at his feet. At such moments all +the life on the _Elsinore_ becomes as unreal as life to the philosopher +is unreal. + +I am a philosopher. Therefore, it is unreal to me. But is it unreal to +Messrs. Pike and Mellaire? to the lunatics and idiots? to the rest of +the stupid herd for’ard? I cannot help remembering a remark of De +Casseres. It was over the wine in Mouquin’s. Said he: “The profoundest +instinct in man is to war against the truth; that is, against the Real. +He shuns facts from his infancy. His life is a perpetual evasion. +Miracle, chimera and to-morrow keep him alive. He lives on fiction and +myth. It is the Lie that makes him free. Animals alone are given the +privilege of lifting the veil of Isis; men dare not. The animal, awake, +has no fictional escape from the Real because he has no imagination. +Man, awake, is compelled to seek a perpetual escape into Hope, Belief, +Fable, Art, God, Socialism, Immortality, Alcohol, Love. From +Medusa-Truth he makes an appeal to Maya-Lie.” + +Ben will agree that I have quoted him fairly. And so, the thought comes +to me, that to all these slaves of the _Elsinore_ the Real is real +because they fictionally escape it. One and all they are obsessed with +the belief that they are free agents. To me the Real is unreal, because +I have torn aside the veils of fiction and myth. My pristine fictional +escape from the Real, making me a philosopher, has bound me absolutely +to the wheel of the Real. I, the super-realist, am the only unrealist +on board the _Elsinore_. Therefore I, who penetrate it deepest, in the +whole phenomena of living on the _Elsinore_ see it only as +phantasmagoria. + +Paradoxes? I admit it. All deep thinkers are drowned in the sea of +contradictions. But all the others on the _Elsinore_, sheer surface +swimmers, keep afloat on this sea—forsooth, because they have never +dreamed its depth. And I can easily imagine what Miss West’s practical, +hard-headed judgment would be on these speculations of mine. After all, +words are traps. I don’t know what I know, nor what I think I think. + +This I do know: I cannot orient myself. I am the maddest and most +sea-lost soul on board. Take Miss West. I am beginning to admire her. +Why, I know not, unless it be because she is so abominably healthy. And +yet, it is this very health of her, the absence of any shred of +degenerative genius, that prevents her from being great . . . for +instance, in her music. + +A number of times, now, I have come in during the day to listen to her +playing. The piano is good, and her teaching has evidently been of the +best. To my astonishment I learn that she is a graduate of Bryn Mawr, +and that her father took a degree from old Bowdoin long ago. And yet +she lacks in her music. + +Her touch is masterful. She has the firmness and weight (without +sharpness or pounding) of a man’s playing—the strength and surety that +most women lack and that some women know they lack. When she makes a +slip she is ruthless with herself, and replays until the difficulty is +overcome. And she is quick to overcome it. + +Yes, and there is a sort of temperament in her work, but there is no +sentiment, no fire. When she plays Chopin, she interprets his sureness +and neatness. She is the master of Chopin’s technique, but she never +walks where Chopin walks on the heights. Somehow, she stops short of +the fulness of music. + +I did like her method with Brahms, and she was not unwilling, at my +suggestion, to go over and over the Three Rhapsodies. On the Third +Intermezzo she was at her best, and a good best it was. + +“You were talking of Debussy,” she remarked. “I’ve got some of his +stuff here. But I don’t get into it. I don’t understand it, and there +is no use in trying. It doesn’t seem altogether like real music to me. +It fails to get hold of me, just as I fail to get hold of it.” + +“Yet you like MacDowell,” I challenged. + +“Y. . . es,” she admitted grudgingly. “His New England Idylls and +Fireside Tales. And I like that Finnish man’s stuff, Sibelius, too, +although it seems to me too soft, too richly soft, too beautiful, if +you know what I mean. It seems to cloy.” + +What a pity, I thought, that with that noble masculine touch of hers +she is unaware of the deeps of music. Some day I shall try to get from +her just what Beethoven, say, and Chopin, mean to her. She has not read +Shaw’s _Perfect Wagnerite_, nor had she ever heard of Nietzsche’s _Case +of Wagner_. She likes Mozart, and old Boccherini, and Leonardo Leo. +Likewise she is partial to Schumann, especially Forest Scenes. And she +played his Papillons most brilliantly. When I closed my eyes I could +have sworn it was a man’s fingers on the keys. + +And yet, I must say it, in the long run her playing makes me nervous. I +am continually led up to false expectations. Always, she seems just on +the verge of achieving the big thing, the super-big thing, and always +she just misses it by a shade. Just as I am prepared for the +culminating flash and illumination, I receive more perfection of +technique. She is cold. She must be cold . . . Or else, and the theory +is worth considering, she is too healthy. + +I shall certainly read to her _The Daughters of Herodias_. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +Was there ever such a voyage! This morning, when I came on deck, I +found nobody at the wheel. It was a startling sight—the great +_Elsinore_, by the wind, under an Alpine range of canvas, every sail +set from skysails to try-sails and spanker, slipping across the surface +of a mild trade-wind sea, and no hand at the wheel to guide her. + +No one was on the poop. It was Mr. Pike’s watch, and I strolled for’ard +along the bridge to find him. He was on Number One hatch giving some +instructions to the sail-makers. I awaited my chance, until he glanced +up and greeted me. + +“Good morning,” I answered. “And what man is at the wheel now?” + +“That crazy Greek, Tony,” he replied. + +“A month’s wages to a pound of tobacco he isn’t,” I offered. + +Mr. Pike looked at me with quick sharpness. + +“Who is at the wheel?” + +“Nobody,” I replied. + +And then he exploded into action. The age-lag left his massive frame, +and he bounded aft along the deck at a speed no man on board could have +exceeded; and I doubt if very many could have equalled it. He went up +the poop-ladder three steps at a time and disappeared in the direction +of the wheel behind the chart-house. + +Next came a promptitude of bellowed orders, and all the watch was +slacking away after braces to starboard and pulling on after braces to +port. I had already learned the manoeuvre. Mr. Pike was wearing ship. + +As I returned aft along the bridge Mr. Mellaire and the carpenter +emerged from the cabin door. They had been interrupted at breakfast, +for they were wiping their mouths. Mr. Pike came to the break of the +poop, called down instructions to the second mate, who proceeded +for’ard, and ordered the carpenter to take the wheel. + +As the _Elsinore_ swung around on her heel Mr. Pike put her on the back +track so as to cover the water she had just crossed over. He lowered +the glasses through which he was scanning the sea and pointed down the +hatchway that opened into the big after-room beneath. The ladder was +gone. + +“Must have taken the lazarette ladder with him,” said Mr. Pike. + +Captain West strolled out of the chart-room. He said good morning in +his customary way, courteously to me and formally to the mate, and +strolled on along the poop to the wheel, where he paused to glance into +the binnacle. Turning, he went on leisurely to the break of the poop. +Again he came back to us. Fully two minutes must have elapsed ere he +spoke. + +“What is the matter, Mr. Pike? Man overboard?” + +“Yes, sir,” was the answer. + +“And took the lazarette ladder along with him?” Captain West queried. + +“Yes, sir. It’s the Greek that jumped over at Baltimore.” + +Evidently the affair was not serious enough for Captain West to be the +Samurai. He lighted a cigar and resumed his stroll. And yet he had +missed nothing, not even the absence of the ladder. + +Mr. Pike sent look-outs aloft to every skysail-yard, and the _Elsinore_ +slipped along through the smooth sea. Miss West came up and stood +beside me, searching the ocean with her eyes while I told her the +little I knew. She evidenced no excitement, and reassured me by telling +me how difficult it was to lose a man of Tony’s suicidal type. + +“Their madness always seems to come upon them in fine weather or under +safe circumstances,” she smiled, “when a boat can be lowered or a tug +is alongside. And sometimes they take life—preservers with them, as in +this case.” + +At the end of an hour Mr. Pike wore the _Elsinore_ around, and again +retraced the course she must have been sailing when the Greek went +over. Captain West still strolled and smoked, and Miss West made a +brief trip below to give Wada forgotten instructions about Possum. Andy +Pay was called to the wheel, and the carpenter went below to finish his +breakfast. + +It all seemed rather callous to me. Nobody was much concerned for the +man who was overboard somewhere on that lonely ocean. And yet I had to +admit that everything possible was being done to find him. I talked a +little with Mr. Pike, and he seemed more vexed than anything else. He +disliked to have the ship’s work interrupted in such fashion. + +Mr. Mellaire’s attitude was different. + +“We are short-handed enough as it is,” he told me, when he joined us on +the poop. “We can’t afford to lose him even if he is crazy. We need +him. He’s a good sailor most of the time.” + +The hail came from the mizzen-skysail-yard. The Maltese Cockney it was +who first sighted the man and called down the information. The mate, +looking to windwards, suddenly lowered his glasses, rubbed his eyes in +a puzzled way, and looked again. Then Miss West, using another pair of +glasses, cried out in surprise and began to laugh. + +“What do you make of it, Miss West?” the mate asked. + +“He doesn’t seem to be in the water. He’s standing up.” + +Mr. Pike nodded. + +“He’s on the ladder,” he said. “I’d forgotten that. It fooled me at +first. I couldn’t understand it.” He turned to the second mate. “Mr. +Mellaire, will you launch the long boat and get some kind of a crew +into it while I back the main-yard? I’ll go in the boat. Pick men that +can pull an oar.” + +“You go, too,” Miss West said to me. “It will be an opportunity to get +outside the _Elsinore_ and see her under full sail.” + +Mr. Pike nodded consent, so I went along, sitting near him in the +stern-sheets where he steered, while half a dozen hands rowed us toward +the suicide, who stood so weirdly upon the surface of the sea. The +Maltese Cockney pulled the stroke oar, and among the other five men was +one whose name I had but recently learned—Ditman Olansen, a Norwegian. +A good seaman, Mr. Mellaire had told me, in whose watch he was; a good +seaman, but “crank-eyed.” When pressed for an explanation Mr. Mellaire +had said that he was the sort of man who flew into blind rages, and +that one never could tell what little thing would produce such a rage. +As near as I could grasp it, Ditman Olansen was a Berserker type. Yet, +as I watched him pulling in good time at the oar, his large, pale-blue +eyes seemed almost bovine—the last man in the world, in my judgment, to +have a Berserker fit. + +As we drew close to the Greek he began to scream menacingly at us and +to brandish a sheath-knife. His weight sank the ladder until the water +washed his knees, and on this submerged support he balanced himself +with wild writhing and outflinging of arms. His face, grimacing like a +monkey’s, was not a pretty thing to look upon. And as he continued to +threaten us with the knife I wondered how the problem of rescuing him +would be solved. + +But I should have trusted Mr. Pike for that. He removed the +boat-stretcher from under the Maltese Cockney’s feet and laid it close +to hand in the stern-sheets. Then he had the men reverse the boat and +back it upon the Greek. Dodging a sweep of the knife, Mr. Pike awaited +his chance, until a passing wave lifted the boat’s stern high, while +Tony was sinking toward the trough. This was the moment. Again I was +favoured with a sample of the lightning speed with which that aged man +of sixty-nine could handle his body. Timed precisely, and delivered in +a flash and with weight, the boat-stretcher came down on the Greek’s +head. The knife fell into the sea, and the demented creature collapsed +and followed it, knocked unconscious. Mr. Pike scooped him out, quite +effortlessly it seemed to me, and flung him into the boat’s bottom at +my feet. + +The next moment the men were bending to their oars and the mate was +steering back to the _Elsinore_. It was a stout rap Mr. Pike had +administered with the boat-stretcher. Thin streaks of blood oozed on +the damp, plastered hair from the broken scalp. I could but stare at +the lump of unconscious flesh that dripped sea-water at my feet. A man, +all life and movement one moment, defying the universe, reduced the +next moment to immobility and the blackness and blankness of death, is +always a fascinating object for the contemplative eye of the +philosopher. And in this case it had been accomplished so simply, by +means of a stick of wood brought sharply in contact with his skull. + +If Tony the Greek be accounted an _appearance_, what was he now?—a +_disappearance_? And if so, whither had he disappeared? And whence +would he journey back to reoccupy that body when what we call +consciousness returned to him? The first word, much less the last, of +the phenomena of personality and consciousness yet remains to be +uttered by the psychologists. + +Pondering thus, I chanced to lift my eyes, and the glorious spectacle +of the _Elsinore_ burst upon me. I had been so long on board, and in +board of her, that I had forgotten she was a white-painted ship. So low +to the water was her hull, so delicate and slender, that the tall, +sky-reaching spars and masts and the hugeness of the spread of canvas +seemed preposterous and impossible, an insolent derision of the law of +gravitation. It required effort to realize that that slim curve of hull +inclosed and bore up from the sea’s bottom five thousand tons of coal. +And again, it seemed a miracle that the mites of men had conceived and +constructed so stately and magnificent an element-defying fabric—mites +of men, most woefully like the Greek at my feet, prone to precipitation +into the blackness by means of a rap on the head with a piece of wood. + +Tony made a struggling noise in his throat, then coughed and groaned. +From somewhere he was reappearing. I noticed Mr. Pike look at him +quickly, as if apprehending some recrudescence of frenzy that would +require more boat-stretcher. But Tony merely fluttered his big black +eyes open and stared at me for a long minute of incurious amaze ere he +closed them again. + +“What are you going to do with him?” I asked the mate. + +“Put ’m back to work,” was the reply. “It’s all he’s good for, and he +ain’t hurt. Somebody’s got to work this ship around the Horn.” + +When we hoisted the boat on board I found Miss West had gone below. In +the chart-room Captain West was winding the chronometers. Mr. Mellaire +had turned in to catch an hour or two of sleep ere his watch on deck at +noon. Mr. Mellaire, by the way, as I have forgotten to state, does not +sleep aft. He shares a room in the ’midship-house with Mr. Pike’s +Nancy. + +Nobody showed sympathy for the unfortunate Greek. He was bundled out +upon Number Two hatch like so much carrion and left there unattended, +to recover consciousness as he might elect. Yes, and so inured have I +become that I make free to admit I felt no sympathy for him myself. My +eyes were still filled with the beauty of the _Elsinore_. One does grow +hard at sea. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +One does not mind the trades. We have held the north-east trade for +days now, and the miles roll off behind us as the patent log whirls and +tinkles on the taffrail. Yesterday, log and observation approximated a +run of two hundred and fifty-two miles; the day before we ran two +hundred and forty, and the day before that two hundred and sixty-one. +But one does not appreciate the force of the wind. So balmy and +exhilarating is it that it is so much atmospheric wine. I delight to +open my lungs and my pores to it. Nor does it chill. At any hour of the +night, while the cabin lies asleep, I break off from my reading and go +up on the poop in the thinnest of tropical pyjamas. + +I never knew before what the trade wind was. And now I am infatuated +with it. I stroll up and down for an hour at a time, with whichever +mate has the watch. Mr. Mellaire is always full-garmented, but Mr. +Pike, on these delicious nights, stands his first watch after midnight +in his pyjamas. He is a fearfully muscular man. Sixty-nine years seem +impossible when I see his single, slimpsy garments pressed like +fleshings against his form and bulged by heavy bone and huge muscle. A +splendid figure of a man! What he must have been in the hey-day of +youth two score years and more ago passes comprehension. + +The days, so filled with simple routine, pass as in a dream. Here, +where time is rigidly measured and emphasized by the changing of the +watches, where every hour and half-hour is persistently brought to +one’s notice by the striking of the ship’s bells fore and aft, time +ceases. Days merge into days, and weeks slip into weeks, and I, for +one, can never remember the day of the week or month. + +The _Elsinore_ is never totally asleep. Day and night, always, there +are the men on watch, the look-out on the forecastle head, the man at +the wheel, and the officer of the deck. I lie reading in my bunk, which +is on the weather side, and continually over my head during the long +night hours impact the footsteps of one mate or the other, pacing up +and down, and, as I well know, the man himself is forever peering +for’ard from the break of the poop, or glancing into the binnacle, or +feeling and gauging the weight and direction of wind on his cheek, or +watching the cloud-stuff in the sky adrift and a-scud across the stars +and the moon. Always, always, there are wakeful eyes on the _Elsinore_. + +Last night, or this morning, rather, about two o’clock, as I lay with +the printed page swimming drowsily before me, I was aroused by an +abrupt outbreak of snarl from Mr. Pike. I located him as at the break +of the poop; and the man at whom he snarled was Larry, evidently on the +main deck beneath him. Not until Wada brought me breakfast did I learn +what had occurred. + +Larry, with his funny pug nose, his curiously flat and twisted face, +and his querulous, plaintive chimpanzee eyes, had been moved by some +unlucky whim to venture an insolent remark under the cover of darkness +on the main deck. But Mr. Pike, from above, at the break of the poop, +had picked the offender unerringly. This was when the explosion +occurred. Then the unfortunate Larry, truly half-devil and all child, +had waxed sullen and retorted still more insolently; and the next he +knew, the mate, descending upon him like a hurricane, had handcuffed +him to the mizzen fife-rail. + +Imagine, on Mr. Pike’s part, that this was one for Larry and at least +ten for Kid Twist, Nosey Murphy, and Bert Rhine. I’ll not be so absurd +as to say that the mate is afraid of those gangsters. I doubt if he has +ever experienced fear. It is not in him. On the other hand, I am +confident that he apprehends trouble from these men, and that it was +for their benefit he made this example of Larry. + +Larry could stand no more than an hour in irons, at which time his +stupid brutishness overcame any fear he might have possessed, because +he bellowed out to the poop to come down and loose him for a fair +fight. Promptly Mr. Pike was there with the key to the handcuffs. As if +Larry had the shred of a chance against that redoubtable aged man! Wada +reported that Larry, amongst other things, had lost a couple of front +teeth and was laid up in his bunk for the day. When I met Mr. Pike on +deck after eight o’clock I glanced at his knuckles. They verified +Wada’s tale. + +I cannot help being amused by the keen interest I take in little events +like the foregoing. Not only has time ceased, but the world has ceased. +Strange it is, when I come to think of it, in all these weeks I have +received no letter, no telephone call, no telegram, no visitor. I have +not been to the play. I have not read a newspaper. So far as I am +concerned, there are no plays nor newspapers. All such things have +vanished with the vanished world. All that exists is the _Elsinore_, +with her queer human freightage and her cargo of coal, cleaving a +rotund of ocean of which the skyline is a dozen miles away. + +I am reminded of Captain Scott, frozen on his south-polar venture, who +for ten months after his death was believed by the world to be alive. +Not until the world learned of his death was he anything but alive to +the world. By the same token, was he not alive? And by the same token, +here on the _Elsinore_, has not the land-world ceased? May not the +pupil of one’s eye be, not merely the centre of the world, but the +world itself? Truly, it is tenable that the world exists only in +consciousness. “The world is my idea,” said Schopenhauer. Said Jules de +Gaultier, “The world is my invention.” His dogma was that imagination +created the Real. Ah, me, I know that the practical Miss West would dub +my metaphysics a depressing and unhealthful exercise of my wits. + +To-day, in our deck chairs on the poop, I read _The Daughters of +Herodias_ to Miss West. It was superb in its effect—just what I had +expected of her. She hemstitched a fine white linen handkerchief for +her father while I read. (She is never idle, being so essentially a +nest-maker and comfort-producer and race-conserver; and she has a whole +pile of these handkerchiefs for her father.) + +She smiled, how shall I say?—oh, incredulously, triumphantly, oh, with +all the sure wisdom of all the generations of women in her warm, long +gray eyes, when I read: + +“But they smile innocently and dance on, +Having no thought but this unslumbering thought: +‘Am I not beautiful? Shall I not be loved?’ +Be patient, for they will not understand, +Not till the end of time will they put by +The weaving of slow steps about men’s hearts.” + + +“But it is well for the world that it is so,” was her comment. + +Ah, Symons knew women! His perfect knowledge she attested when I read +that magnificent passage: + +“They do not understand that in the world +There grows between the sunlight and the grass +Anything save themselves desirable. +It seems to them that the swift eyes of men +Are made but to be mirrors, not to see +Far-off, disastrous, unattainable things. +‘For are not we,’ they say, ‘the end of all? +Why should you look beyond us? If you look +Into the night, you will find nothing there: +We also have gazed often at the stars.’” + + +“It is true,” said Miss West, in the pause I permitted in order to see +how she had received the thought. “We also have gazed often at the +stars.” + +It was the very thing I had predicted to her face that she would say. + +“But wait,” I cried. “Let me read on.” And I read: + +“‘We, we alone among all beautiful things, +We only are real: for the rest are dreams. +Why will you follow after wandering dreams +When we await you? And you can but dream +Of us, and in our image fashion them.’” + + +“True, most true,” she murmured, while all unconsciously pride and +power mounted in her eyes. + +“A wonderful poem,” she conceded—nay, proclaimed—when I had done. + +“But do you not see . . .” I began impulsively, then abandoned the +attempt. For how could she see, being woman, the “far-off, disastrous, +unattainable things,” when she, as she so stoutly averred, had gazed +often on the stars? + +She? What could she see, save what all women see—that they only are +real, and that all the rest are dreams. + +“I am proud to be a daughter of Herodias,” said Miss West. + +“Well,” I admitted lamely, “we agree. You remember it is what I told +you you were.” + +“I am grateful for the compliment,” she said; and in those long gray +eyes of hers were limned and coloured all the satisfaction, and +self-certitude and answering complacency of power that constitute so +large a part of the seductive mystery and mastery that is possessed by +woman. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +Heavens!—how I read in this fine weather. I take so little exercise +that my sleep need is very small; and there are so few interruptions, +such as life teems with on the land, that I read myself almost stupid. +Recommend me a sea-voyage any time for a man who is behind in his +reading. I am making up years of it. It is an orgy, a debauch; and I am +sure the addled sailors adjudge me the queerest creature on board. + +At times, so fuzzy do I get from so much reading, that I am glad for +any diversion. When we strike the doldrums, which lie between the +north-east and the south-east trades, I shall have Wada assemble my +little twenty-two automatic rifle and try to learn how to shoot. I used +to shoot, when I was a wee lad. I can remember dragging a shot-gun +around with me over the hills. Also, I possessed an air-rifle, with +which, on great occasion, I was even able to slaughter a robin. + +While the poop is quite large for promenading, the available space for +deck-chairs is limited to the awnings that stretch across from either +side of the chart-house and that are of the width of the chart-house. +This space again is restricted to one side or the other according to +the slant of the morning and afternoon sun and the freshness of the +breeze. Wherefore, Miss West’s chair and mine are most frequently side +by side. Captain West has a chair, which he infrequently occupies. He +has so little to do in the working of the ship, taking his regular +observations and working them up with such celerity, that he is rarely +in the chart-room for any length of time. He elects to spend his hours +in the main cabin, not reading, not doing anything save dream with eyes +wide open in the draught of wind that pours through the open ports and +door from out the huge crojack and the jigger staysails. + +Miss West is never idle. Below, in the big after-room, she does her own +laundering. Nor will she let the steward touch her father’s fine linen. +In the main cabin she has installed a sewing-machine. All +hand-stitching, and embroidering, and fancy work she does in the +deck-chair beside me. She avers that she loves the sea and the +atmosphere of sea-life, yet, verily, she has brought her home-things +and land-things along with her—even to her pretty china for afternoon +tea. + +Most essentially is she the woman and home-maker. She is a born cook. +The steward and Louis prepare dishes extraordinary and _de luxe_ for +the cabin table; yet Miss West is able at a moment’s notice to improve +on these dishes. She never lets any of their dishes come on the table +without first planning them or passing on them. She has quick judgment, +an unerring taste, and is possessed of the needful steel of decision. +It seems she has only to look at a dish, no matter who has cooked it, +and immediately divine its lack or its surplusage, and prescribe a +treatment that transforms it into something indescribably different and +delicious—My, how I do eat! I am quite dumbfounded by the unfailing +voracity of my appetite. Already am I quite convinced that I am glad +Miss West is making the voyage. + +She has sailed “out East,” as she quaintly calls it, and has an +enormous repertoire of tasty, spicy, Eastern dishes. In the cooking of +rice Louis is a master; but in the making of the accompanying curry he +fades into a blundering amateur compared with Miss West. In the matter +of curry she is a sheer genius. How often one’s thoughts dwell upon +food when at sea! + +So in this trade-wind weather I see a great deal of Miss West. I read +all the time, and quite a good part of the time I read aloud to her +passages, and even books, with which I am interested in trying her out. +Then, too, such reading gives rise to discussions, and she has not yet +uttered anything that would lead me to change my first judgment of her. +She is a genuine daughter of Herodias. + +And yet she is not what one would call a cute girl. She isn’t a girl, +she is a mature woman with all the freshness of a girl. She has the +carriage, the attitude of mind, the aplomb of a woman, and yet she +cannot be described as being in the slightest degree stately. She is +generous, dependable, sensible—yes, and sensitive; and her +superabundant vitality, the vitality that makes her walk so gloriously, +discounts the maturity of her. Sometimes she seems all of thirty to me; +at other times, when her spirits and risibilities are aroused, she +scarcely seems thirteen. I shall make a point of asking Captain West +the date of the _Dixie’s_ collision with that river steamer in San +Francisco Bay. In a word, she is the most normal, the most healthy, +natural woman I have ever known. + +Yes, and she is feminine, despite, no matter how she does her hair, +that it is as invariably smooth and well-groomed as all the rest of +her. On the other hand, this perpetual well-groomedness is relieved by +the latitude of dress she allows herself. She never fails of being a +woman. Her sex, and the lure of it, is ever present. Possibly she may +possess high collars, but I have never seen her in one on board. Her +blouses are always open at the throat, disclosing one of her choicest +assets, the muscular, adequate neck, with its fine-textured garmenture +of skin. I embarrass myself by stealing long glances at that bare +throat of hers and at the hint of fine, firm-surfaced shoulder. + +Visiting the chickens has developed into a regular function. At least +once each day we make the journey for’ard along the bridge to the top +of the ’midship-house. Possum, who is now convalescent, accompanies us. +The steward makes a point of being there so as to receive instructions +and report the egg-output and laying conduct of the many hens. At the +present time our four dozen hens are laying two dozen eggs a day, with +which record Miss West is greatly elated. + +Already she has given names to most of them. The cock is Peter, of +course. A much-speckled hen is Dolly Varden. A slim, trim thing that +dogs Peter’s heels she calls Cleopatra. Another hen—the +mellowest-voiced one of all—she addresses as Bernhardt. One thing I +have noted: whenever she and the steward have passed death sentence on +a non-laying hen (which occurs regularly once a week), she takes no +part in the eating of the meat, not even when it is metamorphosed into +one of her delectable curries. At such times she has a special curry +made for herself of tinned lobster, or shrimp, or tinned chicken. + +Ah, I must not forget. I have learned that it was no man-interest (in +me, if you please) that brought about her sudden interest to come on +the voyage. It was for her father that she came. Something is the +matter with Captain West. At rare moments I have observed her gazing at +him with a world of solicitude and anxiety in her eyes. + +I was telling an amusing story at table yesterday midday, when my +glance chanced to rest upon Miss West. She was not listening. Her food +on her fork was suspended in the air a sheer instant as she looked at +her father with all her eyes. It was a stare of fear. She realized that +I was observing, and with superb control, slowly, quite naturally, she +lowered the fork and rested it on her plate, retaining her hold on it +and retaining her father’s face in her look. + +But I had seen. Yes; I had seen more than that. I had seen Captain +West’s face a transparent white, while his eyelids fluttered down and +his lips moved noiselessly. Then the eyelids raised, the lips set again +with their habitual discipline, and the colour slowly returned to his +face. It was as if he had been away for a time and just returned. But I +had seen, and guessed her secret. + +And yet it was this same Captain West, seven hours later, who chastened +the proud sailor spirit of Mr. Pike. It was in the second dog-watch +that evening, a dark night, and the watch was pulling away on the main +deck. I had just come out of the chart-house door and seen Captain West +pace by me, hands in pockets, toward the break of the poop. Abruptly, +from the mizzen-mast, came a snap of breakage and crash of fabric. At +the same instant the men fell backward and sprawled over the deck. + +A moment of silence followed, and then Captain West’s voice went out: + +“What carried away, Mr. Pike?” + +“The halyards, sir,” came the reply out of the darkness. + +There was a pause. Again Captain West’s voice went out. + +“Next time slack away on your sheet first.” + +Now Mr. Pike is incontestably a splendid seaman. Yet in this instance +he had been wrong. I have come to know him, and I can well imagine the +hurt to his pride. And more—he has a wicked, resentful, primitive +nature, and though he answered respectfully enough, “Yes, sir,” I felt +safe in predicting to myself that the poor devils under him would +receive the weight of his resentment in the later watches of the night. + +They evidently did; for this morning I noted a black eye on John +Hackey, a San Francisco hoodlum, and Guido Bombini was carrying a +freshly and outrageously swollen jaw. I asked Wada about the matter, +and he soon brought me the news. Quite a bit of beating up takes place +for’ard of the deck-houses in the night watches while we of the +after-guard peacefully slumber. + +Even to-day Mr. Pike is going around sullen and morose, snarling at the +men more than usual, and barely polite to Miss West and me when we +chance to address him. His replies are grunted in monosyllables, and +his face is set in superlative sourness. Miss West who is unaware of +the occurrence, laughs and calls it a “sea grouch”—a phenomenon with +which she claims large experience. + +But I know Mr. Pike now—the stubborn, wonderful old sea-dog. It will be +three days before he is himself again. He takes a terrible pride in his +seamanship, and what hurts him most is the knowledge that he was guilty +of the blunder. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +To-day, twenty-eight days out, in the early morning, while I was +drinking my coffee, still carrying the north-east trade, we crossed the +line. And Charles Davis signalized the event by murdering O’Sullivan. +It was Boney, the lanky splinter of a youth in Mr. Mellaire’s watch, +who brought the news. The second mate and I had just arrived in the +hospital room, when Mr. Pike entered. + +O’Sullivan’s troubles were over. The man in the upper bunk had +completed the mad, sad span of his life with the marlin-spike. + +I cannot understand this Charles Davis. He sat up calmly in his bunk, +and calmly lighted his pipe ere he replied to Mr. Mellaire. He +certainly is not insane. Yet deliberately, in cold blood, he has +murdered a helpless man. + +“What’d you do it for?” Mr. Mellaire demanded. + +“Because, sir,” said Charles Davis, applying a second match to his +pipe, “because”—puff, puff—“he bothered my sleep.” Here he caught Mr. +Pike’s glowering eye. “Because”—puff, puff—“he annoyed me. The next +time”—puff, puff—“I hope better judgment will be shown in what kind of +a man is put in with me. Besides”—puff, puff—“this top bunk ain’t no +place for me. It hurts me to get into it”—puff, puff—“an’ I’m goin’ +back to that lower bunk as soon as you get O’Sullivan out of it.” + +“But what’d you do it for?” Mr. Pike snarled. + +“I told you, sir, because he annoyed me. I got tired of it, an’ so, +this morning, I just put him out of his misery. An’ what are you goin’ +to do about it? The man’s dead, ain’t he? An’ I killed ’m in +self-defence. I know the law. What right’d you to put a ravin’ lunatic +in with me, an’ me sick an’ helpless?” + +“By God, Davis!” the mate burst forth. “You’ll never draw your pay-day +in Seattle. I’ll fix you out for this, killing a crazy lashed down in +his bunk an’ harmless. You’ll follow ’m overside, my hearty.” + +“If I do, you’ll hang for it, sir,” Davis retorted. He turned his cool +eyes on me. “An’ I call on you, sir, to witness the threats he’s made. +An’ you’ll testify to them, too, in court. An’ he’ll hang as sure as I +go over the side. Oh, I know his record. He’s afraid to face a court +with it. He’s been up too many a time with charges of man-killin’ an’ +brutality on the high seas. An’ a man could retire for life an live off +the interest of the fines he’s paid, or his owners paid for him—” + +“Shut your mouth or I’ll knock it out of your face!” Mr. Pike roared, +springing toward him with clenched, up-raised fist. + +Davis involuntarily shrank away. His flesh was weak, but not so his +spirit. He got himself promptly in hand and struck another match. + +“You can’t get my goat, sir,” he sneered, under the shadow of the +impending blow. “I ain’t scared to die. A man’s got to die once anyway, +an’ it’s none so hard a trick to do when you can’t help it. O’Sullivan +died so easy it was amazin’. Besides, I ain’t goin’ to die. I’m goin’ +to finish this voyage, an’ sue the owners when I get to Seattle. I know +my rights an’ the law. An’ I got witnesses.” + +Truly, I was divided between admiration for the courage of this +wretched sailor and sympathy for Mr. Pike thus bearded by a sick man he +could not bring himself to strike. + +Nevertheless he sprang upon the man with calculated fury, gripped him +between the base of the neck and the shoulders with both gnarled paws, +and shook him back and forth, violently and frightfully, for a full +minute. It was a wonder the man’s neck was not dislocated. + +“I call on you to witness, sir,” Davis gasped at me the instant he was +free. + +He coughed and strangled, felt his throat, and made wry neck-movements +indicative of injury. + +“The marks’ll begin to show in a few minutes,” he murmured complacently +as his dizziness left him and his breath came back. + +This was too much for Mr. Pike, who turned and left the room, growling +and cursing incoherently, deep in his throat. When I made my departure, +a moment later, Davis was refilling his pipe and telling Mr. Mellaire +that he’d have him up for a witness in Seattle. + +* * * * * + + +So we have had another burial at sea. Mr. Pike was vexed by it because +the _Elsinore_, according to sea tradition, was going too fast through +the water for a proper ceremony. Thus a few minutes of the voyage were +lost by backing the _Elsinore’s_ main-topsail and deadening her way +while the service was read and O’Sullivan was slid overboard with the +inevitable sack of coal at his feet. + +“Hope the coal holds out,” Mr. Pike grumbled morosely at me five +minutes later. + +* * * * * + + +And we sit on the poop, Miss West and I, tended on by servants, sipping +afternoon tea, sewing fancy work, discussing philosophy and art, while +a few feet away from us, on this tiny floating world, all the grimy, +sordid tragedy of sordid, malformed, brutish life plays itself out. And +Captain West, remote, untroubled, sits dreaming in the twilight cabin +while the draught of wind from the crojack blows upon him through the +open ports. He has no doubts, no worries. He believes in God. All is +settled and clear and well as he nears his far home. His serenity is +vast and enviable. But I cannot shake from my eyes that vision of him +when life forsook his veins, and his mouth slacked, and his eyelids +closed, while his face took on the white transparency of death. + +I wonder who will be the next to finish the game and depart with a sack +of coal. + +“Oh, this is nothing, sir,” Mr. Mellaire remarked to me cheerfully as +we strolled the poop during the first watch. “I was once on a voyage on +a tramp steamer loaded with four hundred Chinks—I beg your pardon, +sir—Chinese. They were coolies, contract labourers, coming back from +serving their time. + +“And the cholera broke out. We hove over three hundred of them +overboard, sir, along with both bosuns, most of the Lascar crew, and +the captain, the mate, the third mate, and the first and third +engineers. The second and one white oiler was all that was left below, +and I was in command on deck, when we made port. The doctors wouldn’t +come aboard. They made me anchor in the outer roads and told me to +heave out my dead. There was some tall buryin’ about that time, Mr. +Pathurst, and they went overboard without canvas, coal, or iron. They +had to. I had nobody to help me, and the Chinks below wouldn’t lift a +hand. + +“I had to go down myself, drag the bodies on to the slings, then climb +on deck and heave them up with the donkey. And each trip I took a +drink. I was pretty drunk when the job was done.” + +“And you never caught it yourself?” I queried. Mr. Mellaire held up his +left hand. I had often noted that the index finger was missing. + +“That’s all that happened to me, sir. The old man’d had a fox-terrier +like yours. And after the old man passed out the puppy got real, chummy +with me. Just as I was making the hoist of the last sling-load, what +does the puppy do but jump on my leg and sniff my hand. I turned to pat +him, and the next I knew my other hand had slipped into the gears and +that finger wasn’t there any more. + +“Heavens!” I cried. “What abominable luck to come through such a +terrible experience like that and then lose your finger!” + +“That’s what I thought, sir,” Mr. Mellaire agreed. + +“What did you do?” I asked. + +“Oh, just held it up and looked at it, and said ‘My goodness gracious!’ +and took another drink.” + +“And you didn’t get the cholera afterwards?” + +“No, sir. I reckon I was so full of alcohol the germs dropped dead +before they could get to me.” He considered a moment. “Candidly, Mr. +Pathurst, I don’t know about that alcohol theory. The old man and the +mates died drunk, and so did the third engineer. But the chief was a +teetotaller, and he died, too.” + +* * * * * + + +Never again shall I wonder that the sea is hard. I walked apart from +the second mate and stared up at the magnificent fabric of the +_Elsinore_ sweeping and swaying great blotting curves of darkness +across the face of the starry sky. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + +Something has happened. But nobody knows, either fore or aft, except +the interested persons, and they will not say anything. Yet the ship is +abuzz with rumours and guesses. + +This I do know: Mr. Pike has received a fearful blow on the head. At +table, yesterday, at midday, I arrived late, and, passing behind his +chair, I saw a prodigious lump on top of his head. When I was seated, +facing him, I noted that his eyes seemed dazed; yes, and I could see +pain in them. He took no part in the conversation, ate perfunctorily, +behaved stupidly at times, and it was patent that he was controlling +himself with an iron hand. + +And nobody dares ask him what has happened. I know I don’t dare ask +him, and I am a passenger, a privileged person. This redoubtable old +sea-relic has inspired me with a respect for him that partakes half of +timidity and half of awe. + +He acts as if he were suffering from concussion of the brain. His pain +is evident, not alone in his eyes and the strained expression of his +face, but by his conduct when he thinks he is unobserved. Last night, +just for a breath of air and a moment’s gaze at the stars, I came out +of the cabin door and stood on the main deck under the break of the +poop. From directly over my head came a low and persistent groaning. My +curiosity was aroused, and I retreated into the cabin, came out softly +on to the poop by way of the chart-house, and strolled noiselessly +for’ard in my slippers. It was Mr. Pike. He was leaning collapsed on +the rail, his head resting on his arms. He was giving voice in secret +to the pain that racked him. A dozen feet away he could not be heard. +But, close to his shoulder, I could hear his steady, smothered groaning +that seemed to take the form of a chant. Also, at regular intervals, he +would mutter: + +“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” Always he repeated the +phrase five times, then returned to his groaning. I stole away as +silently as I had come. + +Yet he resolutely stands his watches and performs all his duties of +chief officer. Oh, I forgot. Miss West dared to quiz him, and he +replied that he had a toothache, and that if it didn’t get better he’d +pull it out. + +Wada cannot learn what has happened. There were no eye-witnesses. He +says that the Asiatic clique, discussing the affair in the cook’s room, +thinks the three gangsters are responsible. Bert Rhine is carrying a +lame shoulder. Nosey Murphy is limping as from some injury in the hips. +And Kid Twist has been so badly beaten that he has not left his bunk +for two days. And that is all the data to build on. The gangsters are +as close-mouthed as Mr. Pike. The Asiatic clique has decided that +murder was attempted and that all that saved the mate was his hard +skull. + +Last evening, in the second dog-watch, I got another proof that Captain +West is not so oblivious of what goes on aboard the _Elsinore_ as he +seems. I had gone for’ard along the bridge to the mizzen-mast, in the +shadow of which I was leaning. From the main deck, in the alley-way +between the ’midship-house and the rail, came the voices of Bert Rhine, +Nosey Murphy, and Mr. Mellaire. It was not ship’s work. They were +having a friendly, even sociable chat, for their voices hummed +genially, and now and again one or another laughed, and sometimes all +laughed. + +I remembered Wada’s reports on this unseamanlike intimacy of the second +mate with the gangsters, and tried to make out the nature of the +conversation. But the gangsters were low-voiced, and all I could catch +was the tone of friendliness and good-nature. + +Suddenly, from the poop, came Captain West’s voice. It was the voice, +not of the Samurai riding the storm, but of the Samurai calm and cold. +It was clear, soft, and mellow as the mellowest bell ever cast by +eastern artificers of old time to call worshippers to prayer. I know I +slightly chilled to it—it was so exquisitely sweet and yet as +passionless as the ring of steel on a frosty night. And I knew the +effect on the men beneath me was electrical. I could _feel_ them +stiffen and chill to it as I had stiffened and chilled. And yet all he +said was: + +“Mr. Mellaire.” + +“Yes, sir,” answered Mr. Mellaire, after a moment of tense silence. + +“Come aft here,” came Captain West’s voice. + +I heard the second mate move along the deck beneath me and stop at the +foot of the poop-ladder. + +“Your place is aft on the poop, Mr. Mellaire,” said the cold, +passionless voice. + +“Yes, sir,” answered the second mate. + +That was all. Not another word was spoken. Captain West resumed his +stroll on the weather side of the poop, and Mr. Mellaire, ascending the +ladder, went to pacing up and down the lee side. + +I continued along the bridge to the forecastle head and purposely +remained there half an hour ere I returned to the cabin by way of the +main deck. Although I did not analyze my motive, I knew I did not +desire any one to know that I had overheard the occurrence. + +* * * * * + + +I have made a discovery. Ninety per cent. of our crew is brunette. Aft, +with the exception of Wada and the steward, who are our servants, we +are all blonds. What led me to this discovery was Woodruff’s _Effects +of Tropical Light on White Men_, which I am just reading. Major +Woodruff’s thesis is that the white-skinned, blue-eyed Aryan, born to +government and command, ever leaving his primeval, overcast and foggy +home, ever commands and governs the rest of the world and ever perishes +because of the too-white light he encounters. It is a very tenable +hypothesis, and will bear looking into. + +But to return. Every one of us who sits aft in the high place is a +blond Aryan. For’ard, leavened with a ten per cent, of degenerate +blonds, the remaining ninety per cent, of the slaves that toil for us +are brunettes. They will not perish. According to Woodruff, they will +inherit the earth, not because of their capacity for mastery and +government, but because of their skin-pigmentation which enables their +tissues to resist the ravages of the sun. + +And I look at the four of us at table—Captain West, his daughter, Mr. +Pike, and myself—all fair-skinned, blue-eyed, and perishing, yet +mastering and commanding, like our fathers before us, to the end of our +type on the earth. Ah, well, ours is a lordly history, and though we +may be doomed to pass, in our time we shall have trod on the faces of +all peoples, disciplined them to obedience, taught them government, and +dwelt in the palaces we have compelled them by the weight of our own +right arms to build for us. + +The _Elsinore_ depicts this in miniature. The best of the food and all +spacious and beautiful accommodation is ours. For’ard is a pig-sty and +a slave-pen. + +As a king, Captain West sits above all. As a captain of soldiers, Mr. +Pike enforces his king’s will. Miss West is a princess of the royal +house. And I? Am I not an honourable, noble-lineaged pensioner on the +deeds and achievements of my father, who, in his day, compelled +thousands of the lesser types to the building of the fortune I enjoy? + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +The north-west trade carried us almost into the south-east trade, and +then left us for several days to roll and swelter in the doldrums. + +During this time I have discovered that I have a genius for +rifle-shooting. Mr. Pike swore I must have had long practice; and I +confess I was myself startled by the ease of the thing. Of course, it’s +the knack; but one must be so made, I suppose, in order to be able to +acquire the knack. + +By the end of half an hour, standing on the heaving deck and shooting +at bottles floating on the rolling swell, I found that I broke each +bottle at the first shot. The supply of empty bottles giving out, Mr. +Pike was so interested that he had the carpenter saw me a lot of small +square blocks of hard wood. These were more satisfactory. A well-aimed +shot threw them out of the water and spinning into the air, and I could +use a single block until it had drifted out of range. In an hour’s time +I could, shooting quickly and at short range, empty my magazine at a +block and hit it nine times, and, on occasion, ten times, out of +eleven. + +I might not have judged my aptitude as unusual, had I not induced Miss +West and Wada to try their hands. Neither had luck like mine. I finally +persuaded Mr. Pike, and he went behind the wheel-house so that none of +the crew might see how poor a shot he was. He was never able to hit the +mark, and was guilty of the most ludicrous misses. + +“I never could get the hang of rifle-shooting,” he announced +disgustedly, “but when it comes to close range with a gat I’m right +there. I guess I might as well overhaul mine and limber it up.” + +He went below and came back with a huge ’44 automatic pistol and a +handful of loaded clips. + +“Anywhere from right against the body up to ten or twelve feet away, +holding for the stomach, it’s astonishing, Mr. Pathurst, what you can +do with a weapon like this. Now you can’t use a rifle in a mix-up. I’ve +been down and under, with a bunch giving me the boot, when I turned +loose with this. Talk about damage! It ranged them the full length of +their bodies. One of them’d just landed his brogans on my face when I +let’m have it. The bullet entered just above his knee, smashed the +collarbone, where it came out, and then clipped off an ear. I guess +that bullet’s still going. It took more than a full-sized man to stop +it. So I say, give me a good handy gat when something’s doing.” + +“Ain’t you afraid you’ll use all your ammunition up?” he asked +anxiously half an hour later, as I continued to crack away with my new +toy. + +He was quite reassured when I told him Wada had brought along fifty +thousand rounds for me. + +In the midst of the shooting, two sharks came swimming around. They +were quite large, Mr. Pike said, and he estimated their length at +fifteen feet. It was Sunday morning, so that the crew, except for +working the ship, had its time to itself, and soon the carpenter, with +a rope for a fish-line and a great iron hook baited with a chunk of +salt pork the size of my head, captured first one, and then the other, +of the monsters. They were hoisted in on the main deck. And then I saw +a spectacle of the cruelty of the sea. + +The full crew gathered about with sheath knives, hatchets, clubs, and +big butcher knives borrowed from the galley. I shall not give the +details, save that they gloated and lusted, and roared and bellowed +their delight in the atrocities they committed. Finally, the first of +the two fish was thrown back into the ocean with a pointed stake thrust +into its upper and lower jaws so that it could not close its mouth. +Inevitable and prolonged starvation was the fate thus meted out to it. + +“I’ll show you something, boys,” Andy Fay cried, as they prepared to +handle the second shark. + +The Maltese Cockney had been a most capable master of ceremonies with +the first one. More than anything else, I think, was I hardened against +these brutes by what I saw them do. In the end, the maltreated fish +thrashed about the deck entirely eviscerated. Nothing remained but the +mere flesh-shell of the creature, yet it would not die. It was amazing +the life that lingered when all the vital organs were gone. But more +amazing things were to follow. + +Mulligan Jacobs, his arms a butcher’s to the elbows, without as much as +“by your leave,” suddenly thrust a hunk of meat into my hand. I sprang +back, startled, and dropped it to the deck, while a gleeful howl went +up from the two-score men. I was shamed, despite myself. These brutes +held me in little respect; and, after all, human nature is so strange a +compound that even a philosopher dislikes being held in disesteem by +the brutes of his own species. + +I looked at what I had dropped. It was the heart of the shark, and as I +looked, there under my eyes, on the scorching deck where the pitch +oozed from the seams, the heart pulsed with life. + +And I dared. I would not permit these animals to laugh at any +fastidiousness of mine. I stooped and picked up the heart, and while I +concealed and conquered my qualms I held it in my hand and felt it beat +in my hand. + +At any rate, I had won a mild victory over Mulligan Jacobs; for he +abandoned me for the more delectable diversion of torturing the shark +that would not die. For several minutes it had been lying quite +motionless. Mulligan Jacobs smote it a heavy blow on the nose with the +flat of a hatchet, and as the thing galvanized into life and flung its +body about the deck the little venomous man screamed in ecstasy: + +“The hooks are in it!—the hooks are in it!—and burnin’ hot!” + +He squirmed and writhed with fiendish delight, and again he struck it +on the nose and made it leap. + +This was too much, and I beat a retreat—feigning boredom, or cessation +of interest, of course; and absently carrying the still throbbing heart +in my hand. + +As I came upon the poop I saw Miss West, with her sewing basket, +emerging from the port door of the chart-house. The deck-chairs were on +that side, so I stole around on the starboard side of the chart-house +in order to fling overboard unobserved the dreadful thing I carried. +But, drying on the surface in the tropic heat and still pulsing inside, +it stuck to my hand, so that it was a bad cast. Instead of clearing the +railing, it struck on the pin-rail and stuck there in the shade, and as +I opened the door to go below and wash my hands, with a last glance I +saw it pulse where it had fallen. + +When I came back it was still pulsing. I heard a splash overside from +the waist of the ship, and knew the carcass had been flung overboard. I +did not go around the chart-house and join Miss West, but stood +enthralled by the spectacle of that heart that beat in the tropic heat. + +Boisterous shouts from the sailors attracted my attention. They had all +climbed to the top of the tall rail and were watching something +outboard. I followed their gaze and saw the amazing thing. That +long-eviscerated shark was not dead. It moved, it swam, it thrashed +about, and ever it strove to escape from the surface of the ocean. +Sometimes it swam down as deep as fifty or a hundred feet, and then, +still struggling to escape the surface, struggled involuntarily to the +surface. Each failure thus to escape fetched wild laughter from the +men. But why did they laugh? The thing was sublime, horrible, but it +was not humorous. I leave it to you. What is there laughable in the +sight of a pain-distraught fish rolling helplessly on the surface of +the sea and exposing to the sun all its essential emptiness? + +I was turning away, when renewed shouting drew my gaze. Half a dozen +other sharks had appeared, smaller ones, nine or ten feet long. They +attacked their helpless comrade. They tore him to pieces they destroyed +him, devoured him. I saw the last shred of him disappear down their +maws. He was gone, disintegrated, entombed in the living bodies of his +kind, and already entering into the processes of digestion. And yet, +there, in the shade on the pin-rail, that unbelievable and monstrous +heart beat on. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +The voyage is doomed to disaster and death. I know Mr. Pike, now, and +if ever he discovers the identity of Mr. Mellaire, murder will be done. +Mr. Mellaire is not Mr. Mellaire. He is not from Georgia. He is from +Virginia. His name is Waltham—Sidney Waltham. He is one of the Walthams +of Virginia, a black sheep, true, but a Waltham. Of this I am +convinced, just as utterly as I am convinced that Mr. Pike will kill +him if he learns who he is. + +Let me tell how I have discovered all this. It was last night, shortly +before midnight, when I came up on the poop to enjoy a whiff of the +south-east trades in which we are now bowling along, close-hauled in +order to weather Cape San Roque. Mr. Pike had the watch, and I paced up +and down with him while he told me old pages of his life. He has often +done this, when not “sea-grouched,” and often he has mentioned with +pride—yes, with reverence—a master with whom he sailed five years. “Old +Captain Somers,” he called him—“the finest, squarest, noblest man I +ever sailed under, sir.” + +Well, last night our talk turned on lugubrious subjects, and Mr. Pike, +wicked old man that he is, descanted on the wickedness of the world and +on the wickedness of the man who had murdered Captain Somers. + +“He was an old man, over seventy years old,” Mr. Pike went on. “And +they say he’d got a touch of palsy—I hadn’t seen him for years. You +see, I’d had to clear out from the coast because of trouble. And that +devil of a second mate caught him in bed late at night and beat him to +death. It was terrible. They told me about it. Right in San Francisco, +on board the _Jason Harrison_, it happened, eleven years ago. + +“And do you know what they did? First, they gave the murderer life, +when he should have been hanged. His plea was insanity, from having had +his head chopped open a long time before by a crazy sea-cook. And when +he’d served seven years the governor pardoned him. He wasn’t any good, +but his people were a powerful old Virginian family, the Walthams—I +guess you’ve heard of them—and they brought all kinds of pressure to +bear. His name was Sidney Waltham.” + +At this moment the warning bell, a single stroke fifteen minutes before +the change of watch, rang out from the wheel and was repeated by the +look-out on the forecastle head. Mr. Pike, under his stress of feeling, +had stopped walking, and we stood at the break of the poop. As chance +would have it, Mr. Mellaire was a quarter of an hour ahead of time, and +he climbed the poop-ladder and stood beside us while the mate concluded +his tale. + +“I didn’t mind it,” Mr. Pike continued, “as long as he’d got life and +was serving his time. But when they pardoned him out after only seven +years I swore I’d get him. And I will. I don’t believe in God or devil, +and it’s a rotten crazy world anyway; but I do believe in hunches. And +I know I’m going to get him.” + +“What will you do?” I queried. + +“Do?” Mr. Pike’s voice was fraught with surprise that I should not +know. “Do? Well, what did he do to old Captain Somers? Yet he’s +disappeared these last three years now. I’ve heard neither hide nor +hair of him. But he’s a sailor, and he’ll drift back to the sea, and +some day . . . ” + +In the illumination of a match with which the second mate was lighting +his pipe I saw Mr. Pike’s gorilla arms and huge clenched paws raised to +heaven, and his face convulsed and working. Also, in that brief moment +of light, I saw that the second mate’s hand which held the match was +shaking. + +“And I ain’t never seen even a photo of him,” Mr. Pike added. “But I’ve +got a general idea of his looks, and he’s got a mark unmistakable. I +could know him by it in the dark. All I’d have to do is feel it. Some +day I’ll stick my fingers into that mark.” + +“What did you say, sir, was the captain’s name?” Mr. Mellaire asked +casually. + +“Somers—old Captain Somers,” Mr. Pike answered. + +Mr. Mellaire repeated the name aloud several times, and then hazarded: + +“Didn’t he command the _Lammermoor_ thirty years ago?” + +“That’s the man.” + +“I thought I recognized him. I lay at anchor in a ship next to his in +Table Bay that time ago.” + +“Oh, the wickedness of the world, the wickedness of the world,” Mr. +Pike muttered as he turned and strode away. + +I said good-night to the second mate and had started to go below, when +he called to me in a low voice, “Mr. Pathurst!” + +I stopped, and then he said, hurriedly and confusedly: + +“Never mind, sir . . . I beg your pardon . . . I—I changed my mind.” + +Below, lying in my bunk, I found myself unable to read. My mind was +bent on returning to what had just occurred on deck, and, against my +will, the most gruesome speculations kept suggesting themselves. + +And then came Mr. Mellaire. He had slipped down the booby hatch into +the big after-room and thence through the hallway to my room. He +entered noiselessly, on clumsy tiptoes, and pressed his finger +warningly to his lips. Not until he was beside my bunk did he speak, +and then it was in a whisper. + +“I beg your pardon, sir, Mr. Pathurst . . . I—I beg your pardon; but, +you see, sir, I was just passing, and seeing you awake I . . . I +thought it would not inconvenience you to . . . you see, I thought I +might just as well prefer a small favour . . . seeing that I would not +inconvenience you, sir . . . I . . . I . . . ” + +I waited for him to proceed, and in the pause that ensued, while he +licked his dry lips with his tongue, the thing ambushed in his skull +peered at me through his eyes and seemed almost on the verge of leaping +out and pouncing upon me. + +“Well, sir,” he began again, this time more coherently, “it’s just a +little thing—foolish on my part, of course—a whim, so to say—but you +will remember, near the beginning of the voyage, I showed you a scar on +my head . . . a really small affair, sir, which I contracted in a +misadventure. It amounts to a deformity, which it is my fancy to +conceal. Not for worlds, sir, would I care to have Miss West, for +instance, know that I carried such a deformity. A man is a man, sir—you +understand—and you have not spoken of it to her?” + +“No,” I replied. “It just happens that I have not.” + +“Nor to anybody else?—to, say, Captain West?—or, say, Mr. Pike?” + +“No, I haven’t mentioned it to anybody,” I averred. + +He could not conceal the relief he experienced. The perturbation went +out of his face and manner, and the ambushed thing drew back deeper +into the recess of his skull. + +“The favour, sir, Mr. Pathurst, that I would prefer is that you will +not mention that little matter to anybody. I suppose” (he smiled, and +his voice was superlatively suave) “it is vanity on my part—you +understand, I am sure.” + +I nodded, and made a restless movement with my book as evidence that I +desired to resume my reading. + +“I can depend upon you for that, Mr. Pathurst?” His whole voice and +manner had changed. It was practically a command, and I could almost +see fangs, bared and menacing, sprouting in the jaws of that thing I +fancied dwelt behind his eyes. + +“Certainly,” I answered coldly. + +“Thank you, sir—I thank you,” he said, and, without more ado, tiptoed +from the room. + +Of course I did not read. How could I? Nor did I sleep. My mind ran on, +and on, and not until the steward brought my coffee, shortly before +five, did I sink into my first doze. + +One thing is very evident. Mr. Pike does not dream that the murderer of +Captain Somers is on board the _Elsinore_. He has never glimpsed that +prodigious fissure that clefts Mr. Mellaire’s, or, rather, Sidney +Waltham’s, skull. And I, for one, shall never tell Mr. Pike. And I +know, now, why from the very first I disliked the second mate. And I +understand that live thing, that other thing, that lurks within and +peers out through the eyes. I have recognized the same thing in the +three gangsters for’ard. Like the second mate, they are prison birds. +The restraint, the secrecy, and iron control of prison life has +developed in all of them terrible other selves. + +Yes, and another thing is very evident. On board this ship, driving now +through the South Atlantic for the winter passage of Cape Horn, are all +the elements of sea tragedy and horror. We are freighted with human +dynamite that is liable at any moment to blow our tiny floating world +to fragments. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +The days slip by. The south-east trade is brisk and small splashes of +sea occasionally invade my open ports. Mr. Pike’s room was soaked +yesterday. This is the most exciting thing that has happened for some +time. The gangsters rule in the forecastle. Larry and Shorty have had a +harmless _fight_. The hooks continue to burn in Mulligan Jacobs’s +brain. Charles Davis resides alone in his little steel room, coming out +only to get his food from the galley. Miss West plays and sings, +doctors Possum, launders, and is forever otherwise busy with her fancy +work. Mr. Pike runs the phonograph every other evening in the second +dog-watch. Mr. Mellaire hides the cleft in his head. I keep his secret. +And Captain West, more remote than ever, sits in the draught of wind in +the twilight cabin. + +We are now thirty-seven days at sea, in which time, until to-day, we +have not sighted a vessel. And to-day, at one time, no less than six +vessels were visible from the deck. Not until I saw these ships was I +able thoroughly to realize how lonely this ocean is. + +Mr. Pike tells me we are several hundred miles off the South American +coast. And yet, only the other day, it seems, we were scarcely more +distant from Africa. A big velvety moth fluttered aboard this morning, +and we are filled with conjecture. How possibly could it have come from +the South American coast these hundreds of miles in the teeth of the +trades? + +The Southern Cross has been visible, of course, for weeks; the North +Star has disappeared behind the bulge of the earth; and the Great Bear, +at its highest, is very low. Soon it, too, will be gone and we shall be +raising the Magellan Clouds. + +I remember the fight between Larry and Shorty. Wada reports that Mr. +Pike watched it for some time, until, becoming incensed at their +awkwardness, he clouted both of them with his open hands and made them +stop, announcing that until they could make a better showing he +intended doing all the fighting on the _Elsinore_ himself. + +It is a feat beyond me to realize that he is sixty-nine years old. And +when I look at the tremendous build of him and at his fearful, +man-handling hands, I conjure up a vision of him avenging Captain +Somers’s murder. + +Life is cruel. Amongst the _Elsinore’s_ five thousand tons of coal are +thousands of rats. There is no way for them to get out of their +steel-walled prison, for all the ventilators are guarded with stout +wire-mesh. On her previous voyage, loaded with barley, they increased +and multiplied. Now they are imprisoned in the coal, and cannibalism is +what must occur among them. Mr. Pike says that when we reach Seattle +there will be a dozen or a score of survivors, huge fellows, the +strongest and fiercest. Sometimes, passing the mouth of one ventilator +that is in the after wall of the chart-house, I can hear their +plaintive squealing and crying from far beneath in the coal. + +Other and luckier rats are in the ’tween decks for’ard, where all the +spare suits of sails are stored. They come out and run about the deck +at night, steal food from the galley, and lap up the dew. Which reminds +me that Mr. Pike will no longer look at Possum. It seems, under his +suggestion, that Wada trapped a rat in the donkey-engine room. Wada +swears that it was the father of all rats, and that, by actual +measurement, it scaled eighteen inches from nose to the tip of tail. +Also, it seems that Mr. Pike and Wada, with the door shut in the +former’s room, pitted the rat against Possum, and that Possum was +licked. They were compelled to kill the rat themselves, while Possum, +when all was over, lay down and had a fit. + +Now Mr. Pike abhors a coward, and his disgust with Possum is profound. +He no longer plays with the puppy, nor even speaks to him, and, +whenever he passes him on the deck, glowers sourly at him. + +I have been reading up the South Atlantic Sailing Directions, and I +find that we are now entering the most beautiful sunset region in the +world. And this evening we were favoured with a sample. I was in my +quarters, overhauling my books, when Miss West called to me from the +foot of the chart-house stairs: + +“Mr. Pathurst!—Come quick! Oh, do come quick! You can’t afford to miss +it!” + +Half the sky, from the zenith to the western sea-line, was an +astonishing sheet of pure, pale, even gold. And through this sheen, on +the horizon, burned the sun, a disc of richer gold. The gold of the sky +grew more golden, then tarnished before our eyes and began to glow +faintly with red. As the red deepened, a mist spread over the whole +sheet of gold and the burning yellow sun. Turner was never guilty of so +audacious an orgy in gold-mist. + +Presently, along the horizon, entirely completing the circle of sea and +sky, the tight-packed shapes of the trade wind clouds began to show +through the mist; and as they took form they spilled with rose-colour +at their upper edges, while their bases were a pulsing, bluish-white. I +say it advisedly. All the colours of this display _pulsed_. + +As the gold-mist continued to clear away, the colours became garish, +bold; the turquoises went into greens and the roses turned to the red +of blood. And the purple and indigo of the long swells of sea were +bronzed with the colour-riot in the sky, while across the water, like +gigantic serpents, crawled red and green sky-reflections. And then all +the gorgeousness quickly dulled, and the warm, tropic darkness drew +about us. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +The _Elsinore_ is truly the ship of souls, the world in miniature; and, +because she is such a small world, cleaving this vastitude of ocean as +our larger world cleaves space, the strange juxtapositions that +continually occur are startling. + +For instance, this afternoon on the poop. Let me describe it. Here was +Miss West, in a crisp duck sailor suit, immaculately white, open at the +throat, where, under the broad collar, was knotted a man-of-war black +silk neckerchief. Her smooth-groomed hair, a trifle rebellious in the +breeze, was glorious. And here was I, in white ducks, white shoes, and +white silk shirt, as immaculate and well-tended as she. The steward was +just bringing the pretty tea-service for Miss West, and in the +background Wada hovered. + +We had been discussing philosophy—or, rather, I had been feeling her +out; and from a sketch of Spinoza’s anticipations of the modern mind, +through the speculative interpretations of the latest achievements in +physics of Sir Oliver Lodge and Sir William Ramsay, I had come, as +usual, to De Casseres, whom I was quoting, when Mr. Pike snarled orders +to the watch. + +“‘In this rise into the azure of pure perception, attainable only by a +very few human beings, the spectacular sense is born,’.” I was quoting. +“‘Life is no longer good or evil. It is a perpetual play of forces +without beginning or end. The freed Intellect merges itself with the +World-Will and partakes of its essence, which is not a moral essence +but an æsthetic essence . . . ” + +And at this moment the watch swarmed on to the poop to haul on the +port-braces of the mizzen-sky-sail, royal and topgallant-sail. The +sailors passed us, or toiled close to us, with lowered eyes. They did +not look at us, so far removed from them were we. It was this contrast +that caught my fancy. Here were the high and low, slaves and masters, +beauty and ugliness, cleanness and filth. Their feet were bare and +scaled with patches of tar and pitch. Their unbathed bodies were +garmented in the meanest of clothes, dingy, dirty, ragged, and sparse. +Each one had on but two garments—dungaree trousers and a shoddy cotton +shirt. + +And we, in our comfortable deck-chairs, our two servants at our backs, +the quintessence of elegant leisure, sipped delicate tea from +beautiful, fragile cups, and looked on at these wretched ones whose +labour made possible the journey of our little world. We did not speak +to them, nor recognize their existence, any more than would they have +dared speak to us. + +And Miss West, with the appraising eye of a plantation mistress for the +condition of her field slaves, looked them over. + +“You see how they have fleshed up,” she said, as they coiled the last +turns of the ropes over the pins and faded away for’ard off the poop. +“It is the regular hours, the good weather, the hard work, the open +air, the sufficient food, and the absence of whisky. And they will keep +in this fettle until they get off the Horn. And then you will see them +go down from day to day. A winter passage of the Horn is always a +severe strain on the men. + +“But then, once we are around and in the good weather of the Pacific, +you will see them gain again from day to day. And when we reach Seattle +they will be in splendid shape. Only they will go ashore, drink up +their wages in several days, and ship away on other vessels in +precisely the same sodden, miserable condition that they were in when +they sailed with us from Baltimore.” + +And just then Captain West came out the chart-house door, strolled by +for a single turn up and down, and with a smile and a word for us and +an all-observant eye for the ship, the trim of her sails, the wind, and +the sky, and the weather promise, went back through the chart-house +door—the blond Aryan master, the king, the Samurai. + +And I finished sipping my tea of delicious and most expensive aroma, +and our slant-eyed, dark-skinned servitors carried the pretty gear +away, and I read, continuing De Casseres: + +“‘Instinct wills, creates, carries on the work of the species. The +Intellect destroys, negatives, satirizes and ends in pure nihilism, +instinct creates life, endlessly, hurling forth profusely and blindly +its clowns, tragedians and comedians. Intellect remains the eternal +spectator of the play. It participates at will, but never gives itself +wholly to the fine sport. The Intellect, freed from the trammels of the +personal will, soars into the ether of perception, where Instinct +follows it in a thousand disguises, seeking to draw it down to earth.’” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + +We are now south of Rio and working south. We are out of the latitude +of the trades, and the wind is capricious. Rain squalls and wind +squalls vex the _Elsinore_. One hour we may be rolling sickeningly in a +dead calm, and the next hour we may be dashing fourteen knots through +the water and taking off sail as fast as the men can clew up and lower +away. A night of calm, when sleep is well-nigh impossible in the +sultry, muggy air, may be followed by a day of blazing sun and an oily +swell from the south’ard, connoting great gales in that area of ocean +we are sailing toward—or all day long the _Elsinore_, under an overcast +sky, royals and sky sails furled, may plunge and buck under +wind-pressure into a short and choppy head-sea. + +And all this means work for the men. Taking Mr. Pike’s judgment, they +are very inadequate, though by this time they know the ropes. He growls +and grumbles, and snorts and sneers whenever he watches them doing +anything. To-day, at eleven in the morning, the wind was so violent, +continuing in greater gusts after having come in a great gust, that Mr. +Pike ordered the mainsail taken off. The great crojack was already off. +But the watch could not clew up the mainsail, and, after much vain +sing-songing and pull-hauling, the watch below was routed out to bear a +hand. + +“My God!” Mr. Pike groaned to me. “Two watches for a rag like that when +half a decent watch could do it! Look at that preventer bosun of mine!” + +Poor Nancy! He looked the saddest, sickest, bleakest creature I had +ever seen. He was so wretched, so miserable, so helpless. And Sundry +Buyers was just as impotent. The expression on his face was of pain and +hopelessness, and as he pressed his abdomen he lumbered futilely about, +ever seeking something he might do and ever failing to find it. He +pottered. He would stand and stare at one rope for a minute or so at a +time, following it aloft with his eyes through the maze of ropes and +stabs and gears with all the intentness of a man working out an +intricate problem. Then, holding his hand against his stomach, he would +lumber on a few steps and select another rope for study. + +“Oh dear, oh dear,” Mr. Pike lamented. “How can one drive with bosuns +like that and a crew like that? Just the same, if I was captain of this +ship I’d drive ’em. I’d show ’em what drive was, if I had to lose a few +of them. And when they grow weak off the Horn what’ll we do? It’ll be +both watches all the time, which will weaken them just that much the +faster.” + +Evidently this winter passage of the Horn is all that one has been led +to expect from reading the narratives of the navigators. Iron men like +the two mates are very respectful of “Cape Stiff,” as they call that +uttermost tip of the American continent. Speaking of the two mates, +iron-made and iron-mouthed that they are, it is amusing that in really +serious moments both of them curse with “Oh dear, oh dear.” + +In the spells of calm I take great delight in the little rifle. I have +already fired away five thousand rounds, and have come to consider +myself an expert. Whatever the knack of shooting may be, I’ve got it. +When I get back I shall take up target practice. It is a neat, deft +sport. + +Not only is Possum afraid of the sails and of rats, but he is afraid of +rifle-fire, and at the first discharge goes yelping and ki-yi-ing +below. The dislike Mr. Pike has developed for the poor little puppy is +ludicrous. He even told me that if it were his dog he’d throw it +overboard for a target. Just the same, he is an affectionate, +heart-warming little rascal, and has already crept so deep into my +heart that I am glad Miss West did not accept him. + +And—oh!—he insists on sleeping with me on top the bedding; a proceeding +which has scandalized the mate. “I suppose he’ll be using your +toothbrush next,” Mr. Pike growled at me. But the puppy loves my +companionship, and is never happier than when on the bed with me. Yet +the bed is not entirely paradise, for Possum is badly frightened when +ours is the lee side and the seas pound and smash against the glass +ports. Then the little beggar, electric with fear to every hair tip, +crouches and snarls menacingly and almost at the same time whimpers +appeasingly at the storm-monster outside. + +“Father _knows_ the sea,” Miss West said to me this afternoon. “He +understands it, and he loves it.” + +“Or it may be habit,” I ventured. + +She shook her head. + +“He does know it. And he loves it. That is why he has come back to it. +All his people before him were sea folk. His grandfather, Anthony West, +made forty-six voyages between 1801 and 1847. And his father, Robert, +sailed master to the north-west coast before the gold days and was +captain of some of the fastest Cape Horn clippers after the gold +discovery. Elijah West, father’s great-grandfather, was a privateersman +in the Revolution. He commanded the armed brig _New Defence_. And, even +before that, Elijah’s father, in turn, and Elijah’s father’s father, +were masters and owners on long-voyage merchant adventures. + +“Anthony West, in 1813 and 1814, commanded the _David Bruce_, with +letters of marque. He was half-owner, with Gracie & Sons as the other +half-owners. She was a two-hundred-ton schooner, built right up in +Maine. She carried a long eighteen-pounder, two ten-pounders, and ten +six-pounders, and she sailed like a witch. She ran the blockade off +Newport and got away to the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay. And, +do you know, though she only cost twelve thousand dollars all told, she +took over three hundred thousand dollars of British prizes. A brother +of his was on the _Wasp_. + +“So, you see, the sea is in our blood. She is our mother. As far back +as we can trace all our line was born to the sea.” She laughed and went +on. “We’ve pirates and slavers in our family, and all sorts of +disreputable sea-rovers. Old Ezra West, just how far back I don’t +remember, was executed for piracy and his body hung in chains at +Plymouth. + +“The sea is father’s blood. And he knows, well, a ship, as you would +know a dog or a horse. Every ship he sails has a distinct personality +for him. I have watched him, in high moments, and _seen_ him think. But +oh! the times I have seen him when he does not think—when he _feels_ +and knows everything without thinking at all. Really, with all that +appertains to the sea and ships, he is an artist. There is no other +word for it.” + +“You think a great deal of your father,” I remarked. + +“He is the most wonderful man I have ever known,” she replied. +“Remember, you are not seeing him at his best. He has never been the +same since mother’s death. If ever a man and woman were one, they +were.” She broke off, then concluded abruptly. “You don’t know him. You +don’t know him at all.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + +“I think we are going to have a fine sunset,” Captain West remarked +last evening. + +Miss West and I abandoned our rubber of cribbage and hastened on deck. +The sunset had not yet come, but all was preparing. As we gazed we +could see the sky gathering the materials, grouping the gray clouds in +long lines and towering masses, spreading its palette with +slow-growing, glowing tints and sudden blobs of colour. + +“It’s the Golden Gate!” Miss West cried, indicating the west. “See! +We’re just inside the harbour. Look to the south there. If that isn’t +the sky-line of San Francisco! There’s the Call Building, and there, +far down, the Ferry Tower, and surely that is the Fairmount.” Her eyes +roved back through the opening between the cloud masses, and she +clapped her hands. “It’s a sunset within a sunset! See! The +Farallones!”—swimming in a miniature orange and red sunset all their +own. “Isn’t it the Golden Gate, and San Francisco, and the Farallones?” +She appealed to Mr. Pike, who, leaning near, on the poop-rail, was +divided between gazing sourly at Nancy pottering on the main deck and +sourly at Possum, who, on the bridge, crouched with terror each time +the crojack flapped emptily above him. + +The mate turned his head and favoured the sky picture with a solemn +stare. + +“Oh, I don’t know,” he growled. “It may look like the Farallones to +you, but to me it looks like a battleship coming right in the Gate with +a bone in its teeth at a twenty-knot clip.” + +Sure enough. The floating Farallones had metamorphosed into a giant +warship. + +Then came the colour riot, the dominant tone of which was green. It was +green, green, green—the blue-green of the springing year, and sere and +yellow green and tawny-brown green of autumn. There were orange green, +gold green, and a copper green. And all these greens were rich green +beyond description; and yet the richness and the greenness passed even +as we gazed upon it, going out of the gray clouds and into the sea, +which assumed the exquisite golden pink of polished copper, while the +hollows of the smooth and silken ripples were touched by a most +ethereal pea green. + +The gray clouds became a long, low swathe of ruby red, or garnet +red—such as one sees in a glass of heavy burgundy when held to the +light. There was such depth to this red! And, below it, separated from +the main colour-mass by a line of gray-white fog, or line of sea, was +another and smaller streak of ruddy-coloured wine. + +I strolled across the poop to the port side. + +“Oh! Come back! Look! Look!” Miss West cried to me. + +“What’s the use?” I answered. “I’ve something just as good over here.” + +She joined me, and as she did so I noted, a sour grin on Mr. Pike’s +face. + +The eastern heavens were equally spectacular. That quarter of the sky +was sheer and delicate shell of blue, the upper portions of which +faded, changed, through every harmony, into a pale, yet warm, rose, all +trembling, palpitating, with misty blue tinting into pink. The +reflection of this coloured sky-shell upon the water made of the sea a +glimmering watered silk, all changeable, blue, Nile-green, and +salmon-pink. It was silky, silken, a wonderful silk that veneered and +flossed the softly moving, wavy water. + +And the pale moon looked like a wet pearl gleaming through the tinted +mist of the sky-shell. + +In the southern quadrant of the sky we discovered an entirely different +sunset—what would be accounted a very excellent orange-and-red sunset +anywhere, with grey clouds hanging low and lighted and tinted on all +their under edges. + +“Huh!” Mr. Pike muttered gruffly, while we were exclaiming over our +fresh discovery. “Look at the sunset I got here to the north. It ain’t +doing so badly now, I leave it to you.” + +And it wasn’t. The northern quadrant was a great fen of colour and +cloud, that spread ribs of feathery pink, fleece-frilled, from the +horizon to the zenith. It was all amazing. Four sunsets at the one time +in the sky! Each quadrant glowed, and burned, and pulsed with a sunset +distinctly its own. + +And as the colours dulled in the slow twilight, the moon, still misty, +wept tears of brilliant, heavy silver into the dim lilac sea. And then +came the hush of darkness and the night, and we came to ourselves, out +of reverie, sated with beauty, leaning toward each other as we leaned +upon the rail side by side. + +* * * * * + + +I never grow tired of watching Captain West. In a way he bears a sort +of resemblance to several of Washington’s portraits. He is six feet of +aristocratic thinness, and has a very definite, leisurely and stately +grace of movement. His thinness is almost ascetic. In appearance and +manner he is the perfect old-type New England gentleman. + +He has the same gray eyes as his daughter, although his are genial +rather than warm; and his eyes have the same trick of smiling. His skin +is pinker than hers, and his brows and lashes are fairer. But he seems +removed beyond passion, or even simple enthusiasm. Miss West is firm, +like her father; but there is warmth in her firmness. He is clean, he +is sweet and courteous; but he is coolly sweet, coolly courteous. With +all his certain graciousness, in cabin or on deck, so far as his social +equals are concerned, his graciousness is cool, elevated, thin. + +He is the perfect master of the art of doing nothing. He never reads, +except the Bible; yet he is never bored. Often, I note him in a +deck-chair, studying his perfect finger-nails, and, I’ll swear, not +seeing them at all. Miss West says he loves the sea. And I ask myself a +thousand times, “But how?” He shows no interest in any phase of the +sea. Although he called our attention to the glorious sunset I have +just described, he did not remain on deck to enjoy it. He sat below, in +the big leather chair, not reading, not dozing, but merely gazing +straight before him at nothing. + +* * * * * + + +The days pass, and the seasons pass. We left Baltimore at the tail-end +of winter, went into spring and on through summer, and now we are in +fall weather and urging our way south to the winter of Cape Horn. And +as we double the Cape and proceed north, we shall go through spring and +summer—a long summer—pursuing the sun north through its declination and +arriving at Seattle in summer. And all these seasons have occurred, and +will have occurred, in the space of five months. + +Our white ducks are gone, and, in south latitude thirty-five, we are +wearing the garments of a temperate clime. I notice that Wada has given +me heavier underclothes and heavier pyjamas, and that Possum, of +nights, is no longer content with the top of the bed but must crawl +underneath the bed-clothes. + +* * * * * + + +We are now off the Plate, a region notorious for storms, and Mr. Pike +is on the lookout for a pampero. Captain West does not seem to be on +the lookout for anything; yet I notice that he spends longer hours on +deck when the sky and barometer are threatening. + +Yesterday we had a hint of Plate weather, and to-day an awesome fiasco +of the same. The hint came last evening between the twilight and the +dark. There was practically no wind, and the _Elsinore_, just +maintaining steerage way by means of intermittent fans of air from the +north, floundered exasperatingly in a huge glassy swell that rolled up +as an echo from some blown-out storm to the south. + +Ahead of us, arising with the swiftness of magic, was a dense +slate-blackness. I suppose it was cloud-formation, but it bore no +semblance to clouds. It was merely and sheerly a blackness that towered +higher and higher until it overhung us, while it spread to right and +left, blotting out half the sea. + +And still the light puffs from the north filled our sails; and still, +as the _Elsinore_ floundered on the huge, smooth swells and the sails +emptied and flapped a hollow thunder, we moved slowly towards that +ominous blackness. In the east, in what was quite distinctly an active +thunder cloud, the lightning fairly winked, while the blackness in +front of us was rent with blobs and flashes of lightning. + +The last puffs left us, and in the hushes, between the rumbles of the +nearing thunder, the voices of the men aloft on the yards came to one’s +ear as if they were right beside one instead of being hundreds of feet +away and up in the air. That they were duly impressed by what was +impending was patent from the earnestness with which they worked. Both +watches toiled under both mates, and Captain West strolled the poop in +his usual casual way, and gave no orders at all, save in low +conversational tones, when Mr. Pike came upon the poop and conferred +with him. + +Miss West, having deserted the scene five minutes before, returned, a +proper sea-woman, clad in oil-skins, sou’wester, and long sea-boots. +She ordered me, quite peremptorily, to do the same. But I could not +bring myself to leave the deck for fear of missing something, so I +compromised by having Wada bring my storm-gear to me. + +And then the wind came, smack out of the blackness, with the abruptness +of thunder and accompanied by the most diabolical thunder. And with the +rain and thunder came the blackness. It was tangible. It drove past us +in the bellowing wind like so much stuff that one could feel. Blackness +as well as wind impacted on us. There is no other way to describe it +than by the old, ancient old, way of saying one could not see his hand +before his face. + +“Isn’t it splendid!” Miss West shouted into my ear, close beside me, as +we clung to the railing of the break of the poop. + +“Superb!” I shouted back, my lips to her ear, so that her hair tickled +my face. + +And, I know not why—it must have been spontaneous with both of us—in +that shouting blackness of wind, as we clung to the rail to avoid being +blown away, our hands went out to each other and my hand and hers +gripped and pressed and then held mutually to the rail. + +“Daughter of Herodias,” I commented grimly to myself; but my hand did +not leave hers. + +“What is happening?” I shouted in her ear. + +“We’ve lost way,” came her answer. “I think we’re caught aback! The +wheel’s up, but she could not steer!” + +The Gabriel voice of the Samurai rang out. “Hard over?” was his mellow +storm-call to the man at the wheel. “Hard over, sir,” came the +helmsman’s reply, vague, cracked with strain, and smothered. + +Came the lightning, before us, behind us, on every side, bathing us in +flaming minutes at a time. And all the while we were deafened by the +unceasing uproar of thunder. It was a weird sight—far aloft the black +skeleton of spars and masts from which the sails had been removed; +lower down, the sailors clinging like monstrous bugs as they passed the +gaskets and furled; beneath them the few set sails, filled backward +against the masts, gleaming whitely, wickedly, evilly, in the fearful +illumination; and, at the bottom, the deck and bridge and houses of the +_Elsinore_, and a tangled riff-raff of flying ropes, and clumps and +bunches of swaying, pulling, hauling, human creatures. + +It was a great moment, the master’s moment—caught all aback with all +our bulk and tonnage and infinitude of gear, and our heaven-aspiring +masts two hundred feet above our heads. And our master was there, in +sheeting flame, slender, casual, imperturbable, with two men—one of +them a murderer—under him to pass on and enforce his will, and with a +horde of inefficients and weaklings to obey that will, and pull, and +haul, and by the sheer leverages of physics manipulate our floating +world so that it would endure this fury of the elements. + +What happened next, what was done, I do not know, save that now and +again I heard the Gabriel voice; for the darkness came, and the rain in +pouring, horizontal sheets. It filled my mouth and strangled my lungs +as if I had fallen overboard. It seemed to drive up as well as down, +piercing its way under my sou’wester, through my oilskins, down my +tight-buttoned collar, and into my sea-boots. I was dizzied, +obfuscated, by all this onslaught of thunder, lightning, wind, +blackness, and water. And yet the master, near to me, there on the +poop, lived and moved serenely in all, voicing his wisdom and will to +the wisps of creatures who obeyed and by their brute, puny strength +pulled braces, slacked sheets, dragged courses, swung yards and lowered +them, hauled on buntlines and clewlines, smoothed and gasketed the huge +spreads of canvas. + +How it happened I know not, but Miss West and I crouched together, +clinging to the rail and to each other in the shelter of the thrumming +weather-cloth. My arm was about her and fast to the railing; her +shoulder pressed close against me, and by one hand she held tightly to +the lapel of my oilskin. + +An hour later we made our way across the poop to the chart-house, +helping each other to maintain footing as the _Elsinore_ plunged and +bucked in the rising sea and was pressed over and down by the weight of +wind on her few remaining set sails. The wind, which had lulled after +the rain, had risen in recurrent gusts to storm violence. But all was +well with the gallant ship. The crisis was past, and the ship lived, +and we lived, and with streaming faces and bright eyes we looked at +each other and laughed in the bright light of the chart-room. + +“Who can blame one for loving the sea?” Miss West cried out exultantly, +as she wrung the rain from her ropes of hair which had gone adrift in +the turmoil. “And the men of the sea!” she cried. “The masters of the +sea! You saw my father . . . ” + +“He is a king,” I said. + +“He is a king,” she repeated after me. + +And the _Elsinore_ lifted on a cresting sea and flung down on her side, +so that we were thrown together and brought up breathless against the +wall. + +I said good-night to her at the foot of the stairs, and as I passed the +open door to the cabin I glanced in. There sat Captain West, whom I had +thought still on deck. His storm-trappings were removed, his sea-boots +replaced by slippers; and he leaned back in the big leather chair, eyes +wide open, beholding visions in the curling smoke of a cigar against a +background of wildly reeling cabin wall. + +It was at eleven this morning that the Plate gave us a fiasco. Last +night’s was a real pampero—though a mild one. To-day’s promised to be a +far worse one, and then laughed at us as a proper cosmic joke. The +wind, during the night, had so eased that by nine in the morning we had +all our topgallant-sails set. By ten we were rolling in a dead calm. By +eleven the stuff began making up ominously in the south’ard. + +The overcast sky closed down. Our lofty trucks seemed to scrape the +cloud-zenith. The horizon drew in on us till it seemed scarcely half a +mile away. The _Elsinore_ was embayed in a tiny universe of mist and +sea. The lightning played. Sky and horizon drew so close that the +_Elsinore_ seemed on the verge of being absorbed, sucked in by it, +sucked up by it. + +Then from zenith to horizon the sky was cracked with forked lightning, +and the wet atmosphere turned to a horrid green. The rain, beginning +gently, in dead calm, grew into a deluge of enormous streaming drops. +It grew darker and darker, a green darkness, and in the cabin, although +it was midday, Wada and the steward lighted lamps. The lightning came +closer and closer, until the ship was enveloped in it. The green +darkness was continually a-tremble with flame, through which broke +greater illuminations of forked lightning. These became more violent as +the rain lessened, and, so absolutely were we centred in this +electrical maelstrom, there was no connecting any chain or flash or +fork of lightning with any particular thunder-clap. The atmosphere all +about us paled and flamed. Such a crashing and smashing! We looked +every moment for the _Elsinore_ to be struck. And never had I seen such +colours in lightning. Although from moment to moment we were dazzled by +the greater bolts, there persisted always a tremulous, pulsing lesser +play of light, sometimes softly blue, at other times a thin purple that +quivered on into a thousand shades of lavender. + +And there was no wind. No wind came. Nothing happened. The _Elsinore_, +naked-sparred, under only lower-topsails, with spanker and crojack +furled, was prepared for anything. Her lower-topsails hung in limp +emptiness from the yards, heavy with rain and flapping soggily when she +rolled. The cloud mass thinned, the day brightened, the green blackness +passed into gray twilight, the lightning eased, the thunder moved along +away from us, and there was no wind. In half an hour the sun was +shining, the thunder muttered intermittently along the horizon, and the +_Elsinore_ still rolled in a hush of air. + +“You can’t tell, sir,” Mr. Pike growled to me. “Thirty years ago I was +dismasted right here off the Plate in a clap of wind that come on just +as that come on.” + +It was the changing of the watches, and Mr. Mellaire, who had come on +the poop to relieve the mate, stood beside me. + +“One of the nastiest pieces of water in the world,” he concurred. +“Eighteen years ago the Plate gave it to me—lost half our sticks, +twenty hours on our beam-ends, cargo shifted, and foundered. I was two +days in the boat before an English tramp picked us up. And none of the +other boats ever was picked up.” + +“The _Elsinore_ behaved very well last night,” I put in cheerily. + +“Oh, hell, that wasn’t nothing,” Mr. Pike grumbled. “Wait till you see +a real pampero. It’s a dirty stretch hereabouts, and I, for one, ’ll be +glad when we get across It. I’d sooner have a dozen Cape Horn snorters +than one of these. How about you, Mr. Mellaire?” + +“Same here, sir,” he answered. “Those sou’-westers are honest. You know +what to expect. But here you never know. The best of ship-masters can +get tripped up off the Plate.” + +“‘As I’ve found out . . . +Beyond a doubt,” + + +Mr. Pike hummed from Newcomb’s _Celeste_, as he went down the ladder. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + +The sunsets grow more bizarre and spectacular off this coast of the +Argentine. Last evening we had high clouds, broken white and golden, +flung disorderly, generously, over the western half of the sky, while +in the east was painted a second sunset—a reflection, perhaps, of the +first. At any rate, the eastern sky was a bank of pale clouds that shed +soft, spread rays of blue and white upon a blue-grey sea. + +And the evening before last we had a gorgeous Arizona riot in the west. +Bastioned upon the ocean cloud-tier was piled upon cloud-tier, spacious +and lofty, until we gazed upon a Grand Canyon a myriad times vaster and +more celestial than that of the Colorado. The clouds took on the same +stratified, serrated, rose-rock formation, and all the hollows were +filled with the opal blues and purple hazes of the Painted Lands. + +The Sailing Directions say that these remarkable sunsets are due to the +dust being driven high into the air by the winds that blow across the +pampas of the Argentine. + +And our sunset to-night—I am writing this at midnight, as I sit propped +in my blankets, wedged by pillows, while the _Elsinore_ wallows +damnably in a dead calm and a huge swell rolling up from the Cape Horn +region, where, it does seem, gales perpetually blow. But our sunset. +Turner might have perpetrated it. The west was as if a painter had +stood off and slapped brushfuls of gray at a green canvas. On this +green background of sky the clouds spilled and crumpled. + +But such a background! Such an orgy of green! No shade of green was +missing in the interstices, large and small, between the milky, curdled +clouds—Nile-green high up, and then, in order, each with a thousand +shades, blue-green, brown-green, grey-green, and a wonderful +olive-green that tarnished into a rich bronze-green. + +During the display the rest of the horizon glowed with broad bands of +pink, and blue, and pale green, and yellow. A little later, when the +sun was quite down, in the background of the curdled clouds smouldered +a wine-red mass of colour, that faded to bronze and tinged all the +fading greens with its sanguinary hue. The clouds themselves flushed to +rose of all shades, while a fan of gigantic streamers of pale rose +radiated toward the zenith. These deepened rapidly into flaunting +rose-flame and burned long in the slow-closing twilight. + +And with all this wonder of the beauty of the world still glowing in my +brain hours afterward, I hear the snarling of Mr. Pike above my head, +and the trample and drag of feet as the men move from rope to rope and +pull and haul. More weather is making, and from the way sail is being +taken in it cannot be far off. + +* * * * * + + +Yet at daylight this morning we were still wallowing in the same dead +calm and sickly swell. Miss West says the barometer is down, but that +the warning has been too long, for the Plate, to amount to anything. +Pamperos happen quickly here, and though the _Elsinore_, under bare +poles to her upper-topsails, is prepared for anything, it may well be +that they will be crowding on canvas in another hour. + +Mr. Pike was so fooled that he actually had set the topgallant-sails, +and the gaskets were being taken off the royals, when the Samurai came +on deck, strolled back and forth a casual five minutes, then spoke in +an undertone to Mr. Pike. Mr. Pike did not like it. To me, a tyro, it +was evident that he disagreed with his master. Nevertheless, his voice +went out in a snarl aloft to the men on the royal-yards to make all +fast again. Then it was clewlines and buntlines and lowering of yards +as the topgallant-sails were stripped off. The crojack was taken in, +and some of the outer fore-and-aft handsails, whose order of names I +can never remember. + +A breeze set in from the south-west, blowing briskly under a clear sky. +I could see that Mr. Pike was secretly pleased. The Samurai had been +mistaken. And each time Mr. Pike glanced aloft at the naked topgallant- +and royal-yards, I knew his thought was that they might well be +carrying sail. I was quite convinced that the Plate had fooled Captain +West. So was Miss West convinced, and, being a favoured person like +myself, she frankly told me so. + +“Father will be setting sail in half an hour,” she prophesied. + +What superior weather-sense Captain West possesses I know not, save +that it is his by Samurai right. The sky, as I have said, was clear. +The air was brittle—sparkling gloriously in the windy sun. And yet, +behold, in a brief quarter of an hour, the change that took place. I +had just returned from a trip below, and Miss West was venting her +scorn on the River Plate and promising to go below to the +sewing-machine, when we heard Mr. Pike groan. It was a whimsical groan +of disgust, contrition, and acknowledgment of inferiority before the +master. + +“Here comes the whole River Plate,” was what he groaned. + +Following his gaze to the south-west, we saw it coming. It was a +cloud-mass that blotted out the sunlight and the day. It seemed to +swell and belch and roll over and over on itself as it advanced with a +rapidity that told of enormous wind behind it and in it. Its speed was +headlong, terrific; and, beneath it, covering the sea, advancing with +it, was a gray bank of mist. + +Captain West spoke to the mate, who bawled the order along, and the +watch, reinforced by the watch below, began clewing up the mainsail and +foresail and climbing into the rigging. + +“Keep off! Put your wheel over! Hard over!” Captain West called gently +to the helmsman. + +And the big wheel spun around, and the _Elsinore’s_ bow fell off so +that she might not be caught aback by the onslaught of wind. + +Thunder rode in that rushing, rolling blackness of cloud; and it was +rent by lightning as it fell upon us. + +Then it was rain, wind, obscureness of gloom, and lightning. I caught a +glimpse of the men on the lower-yards as they were blotted from view +and as the _Elsinore_ heeled over and down. There were fifteen men of +them to each yard, and the gaskets were well passed ere we were struck. +How they regained the deck I do not know, I never saw; for the +_Elsinore_, under only upper- and lower-topsails, lay down on her side, +her port-rail buried in the sea, and did not rise. + +There was no maintaining an unsupported upright position on that acute +slant of deck. Everybody held on. Mr. Pike frankly gripped the +poop-rail with both hands, and Miss West and I made frantic clutches +and scrambled for footing. But I noticed that the Samurai, poised +lightly, like a bird on the verge of flight, merely rested one hand on +the rail. He gave no orders. As I divined, there was nothing to be +done. He waited—that was all—in tranquillity and repose. The situation +was simple. Either the masts would go, or the _Elsinore_ would rise +with her masts intact, or she would never rise again. + +In the meantime she lay dead, her lee yardarms almost touching the sea, +the sea creaming solidly to her hatch-combings across the buried, +unseen rail. + +The minutes were as centuries, until the bow paid off and the +_Elsinore_, turned tail before it, righted to an even keel. Immediately +this was accomplished Captain West had her brought back upon the wind. +And immediately, thereupon, the big foresail went adrift from its +gaskets. The shock, or succession of shocks, to the ship, from the +tremendous buffeting that followed, was fearful. It seemed she was +being racked to pieces. Master and mate were side by side when this +happened, and the expressions on their faces typified them. In neither +face was apprehension. Mr. Pike’s face bore a sour sneer for the +worthless sailors who had botched the job. Captain West’s face was +serenely considerative. + +Still, nothing was to be done, could be done; and for five minutes the +_Elsinore_ was shaken as in the maw of some gigantic monster, until the +last shreds of the great piece of canvas had been torn away. + +“Our foresail has departed for Africa,” Miss West laughed in my ear. + +She is like her father, unaware of fear. + +“And now we may as well go below and be comfortable,” she said five +minutes later. “The worst is over. It will only be blow, blow, blow, +and a big sea making.” + +* * * * * + + +All day it blew. And the big sea that arose made the _Elsinore’s_ +conduct almost unlivable. My only comfort was achieved by taking to my +bunk and wedging myself with pillows buttressed against the bunk’s +sides by empty soap-boxes which Wada arranged. Mr. Pike, clinging to my +door-casing while his legs sprawled adrift in a succession of terrific +rolls, paused to tell me that it was a new one on him in the pampero +line. It was all wrong from the first. It had not come on right. It had +no reason to be. + +He paused a little longer, and, in a casual way, that under the +circumstances was ridiculously transparent, exposed what was at ferment +in his mind. + +First of all he was absurd enough to ask if Possum showed symptoms of +sea-sickness. Next, he unburdened his wrath for the inefficients who +had lost the foresail, and sympathized with the sail-makers for the +extra work thrown upon them. Then he asked permission to borrow one of +my books, and, clinging to my bunk, selected Buchner’s _Force and +Matter_ from my shelf, carefully wedging the empty space with the +doubled magazine I use for that purpose. + +Still he was loth to depart, and, cudgelling his brains for a pretext, +he set up a rambling discourse on River Plate weather. And all the time +I kept wondering what was behind it all. At last it came. + +“By the way, Mr. Pathurst,” he remarked, “do you happen to remember how +many years ago Mr. Mellaire said it was that he was dismasted and +foundered off here?” + +I caught his drift on the instant. + +“Eight years ago, wasn’t it?” I lied. + +Mr. Pike let this sink in and slowly digested it, while the _Elsinore_ +was guilty of three huge rolls down to port and back again. + +“Now I wonder what ship was sunk off the Plate eight years ago?” he +communed, as if with himself. “I guess I’ll have to ask Mr. Mellaire +her name. You can search me for all any I can recollect.” + +He thanked me with unwonted elaborateness for _Force and Matter_, of +which I knew he would never read a line, and felt his way to the door. +Here he hung on for a moment, as if struck by a new and most accidental +idea. + +“Now it wasn’t, by any chance, that he said eighteen years ago?” he +queried. + +I shook my head. + +“Eight years ago,” I said. “That’s the way I remember it, though why I +should remember it at all I don’t know. But that is what he said,” I +went on with increasing confidence. “Eight years ago. I am sure of it.” + +Mr. Pike looked at me ponderingly, and waited until the _Elsinore_ had +fairly righted for an instant ere he took his departure down the hall. + +I think I have followed the working of his mind. I have long since +learned that his memory of ships, officers, cargoes, gales, and +disasters is remarkable. He is a veritable encyclopædia of the sea. +Also, it is patent that he has equipped himself with Sidney Waltham’s +history. As yet, he does not dream that Mr. Mellaire is Sidney Waltham, +and he is merely wondering if Mr. Mellaire was a ship-mate of Sidney +Waltham eighteen years ago in the ship lost off the Plate. + +In the meantime, I shall never forgive Mr. Mellaire for this slip he +has made. He should have been more careful. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + +An abominable night! A wonderful night! Sleep? I suppose I did sleep, +in catnaps, but I swear I heard every bell struck until three-thirty. +Then came a change, an easement. No longer was it a stubborn, loggy +fight against pressures. The _Elsinore_ moved. I could feel her slip, +and slide, and send, and soar. Whereas before she had been flung +continually down to port, she now rolled as far to one side as to the +other. + +I knew what had taken place. Instead of remaining hove-to on the +pampero, Captain West had turned tail and was running before it. This, +I understood, meant a really serious storm, for the north-east was the +last direction in which Captain West desired to go. But at any rate the +movement, though wilder, was easier, and I slept. I was awakened at +five by the thunder of seas that fell aboard, rushed down the main +deck, and crashed against the cabin wall. Through my open door I could +see water swashing up and down the hall, while half a foot of water +creamed and curdled from under my bunk across the floor each time the +ship rolled to starboard. + +The steward brought me my coffee, and, wedged by boxes and pillows, +like an equilibrist, I sat up and drank it. Luckily I managed to finish +it in time, for a succession of terrific rolls emptied one of my +book-shelves. Possum, crawling upward from my feet under the covered +way of my bed, yapped with terror as the seas smashed and thundered and +as the avalanche of books descended upon us. And I could not but grin +when the _Paste Board Crown_ smote me on the head, while the puppy was +knocked gasping with Chesterton’s _What’s Wrong with the World_? + +“Well, what do you think?” I queried of the steward who was helping to +set us and the books to rights. + +He shrugged his shoulders, and his bright slant eyes were very bright +as he replied: + +“Many times I see like this. Me old man. Many times I see more bad. Too +much wind, too much work. Rotten dam bad.” + +I could guess that the scene on deck was a spectacle, and at six +o’clock, as gray light showed through my ports in the intervals when +they were not submerged, I essayed the side-board of my bunk like a +gymnast, captured my careering slippers, and shuddered as I thrust my +bare feet into their chill sogginess. I did not wait to dress. Merely +in pyjamas I headed for the poop, Possum wailing dismally at my +desertion. + +It was a feat to travel the narrow halls. Time and again I paused and +held on until my finger-tips hurt. In the moments of easement I made +progress. Yet I miscalculated. The foot of the broad stairway to the +chart-house rested on a cross-hall a dozen feet in length. +Over-confidence and an unusually violent antic of the _Elsinore_ caused +the disaster. She flung down to starboard with such suddenness and at +such a pitch that the flooring seemed to go out from under me and I +hustled helplessly down the incline. I missed a frantic clutch at the +newel-post, flung up my arm in time to save my face, and, most +fortunately, whirled half about, and, still falling, impacted with my +shoulder muscle-pad on Captain West’s door. + +Youth will have its way. So will a ship in a sea. And so will a hundred +and seventy pounds of a man. The beautiful hardwood door-panel +splintered, the latch fetched away, and I broke the nails of the four +fingers of my right hand in a futile grab at the flying door, marring +the polished surface with four parallel scratches. I kept right on, +erupting into Captain West’s spacious room with the big brass bed. + +Miss West, swathed in a woollen dressing-gown, her eyes heavy still +with sleep, her hair glorious and for the once ungroomed, clinging in +the doorway that gave entrance on the main cabin, met my startled gaze +with an equally startled gaze. + +It was no time for apologies. I kept right on my mad way, caught the +foot stanchion, and was whipped around in half a circle flat upon +Captain West’s brass bed. + +Miss West was beginning to laugh. + +“Come right in,” she gurgled. + +A score of retorts, all deliciously inadvisable, tickled my tongue, so +I said nothing, contenting myself with holding on with my left hand +while I nursed my stinging right hand under my arm-pit. Beyond her, +across the floor of the main cabin, I saw the steward in pursuit of +Captain West’s Bible and a sheaf of Miss West’s music. And as she +gurgled and laughed at me, beholding her in this intimacy of storm, the +thought flashed through my brain: + +_She is a woman_. _She is desirable_. + +Now did she sense this fleeting, unuttered flash of mine? I know not, +save that her laughter left her, and long conventional training +asserted itself as she said: + +“I just knew everything was adrift in father’s room. He hasn’t been in +it all night. I could hear things rolling around . . . What is wrong? +Are you hurt?” + +“Stubbed my fingers, that’s all,” I answered, looking at my broken +nails and standing gingerly upright. + +“My, that _was_ a roll,” she sympathized. + +“Yes; I’d started to go upstairs,” I said, “and not to turn into your +father’s bed. I’m afraid I’ve ruined the door.” + +Came another series of great rolls. I sat down on the bed and held on. +Miss West, secure in the doorway, began gurgling again, while beyond, +across the cabin carpet, the steward shot past, embracing a small +writing-desk that had evidently carried away from its fastenings when +he seized hold of it for support. More seas smashed and crashed against +the for’ard wall of the cabin; and the steward, failing of lodgment, +shot back across the carpet, still holding the desk from harm. + +Taking advantage of favouring spells, I managed to effect my exit and +gain the newel-post ere the next series of rolls came. And as I clung +on and waited, I could not forget what I had just seen. Vividly under +my eyelids burned the picture of Miss West’s sleep-laden eyes, her +hair, and all the softness of her. _A woman and desirable_ kept +drumming in my brain. + +But I forgot all this, when, nearly at the top, I was thrown up the +hill of the stairs as if it had suddenly become downhill. My feet flew +from stair to stair to escape falling, and I flew, or fell, apparently +upward, until, at the top, I hung on for dear life while the stern of +the _Elsinore_ flung skyward on some mighty surge. + +Such antics of so huge a ship! The old stereotyped “toy” describes her; +for toy she was, the sheerest splinter of a plaything in the grip of +the elements. And yet, despite this overwhelming sensation of +microscopic helplessness, I was aware of a sense of surety. There was +the Samurai. Informed with his will and wisdom, the _Elsinore_ was no +cat’s-paw. Everything was ordered, controlled. She was doing what he +ordained her to do, and, no matter what storm-Titans bellowed about her +and buffeted her, she would continue to do what he ordained her to do. + +I glanced into the chart-room. There he sat, leaned back in a +screw-chair, his sea-booted legs, wedged against the settee, holding +him in place in the most violent rolls. His black oilskin coat +glistened in the lamplight with a myriad drops of ocean that advertised +a recent return from deck. His sou’wester, black and glistening, was +like the helmet of some legendary hero. He was smoking a cigar, and he +smiled and greeted me. But he seemed very tired and very old—old with +wisdom, however, not weakness. The flesh of his face, the pink pigment +quite washed and worn away, was more transparent than ever; and yet +never was he more serene, never more the master absolute of our tiny, +fragile world. The age that showed in him was not a matter of +terrestrial years. It was ageless, passionless, beyond human. Never had +he appeared so great to me, so far remote, so much a spirit visitant. + +And he cautioned and advised me, in silver-mellow beneficent voice, as +I essayed the venture of opening the chart-house door to gain outside. +He knew the moment, although I never could have guessed it for myself, +and gave the word that enabled me to win the poop. + +Water was everywhere. The _Elsinore_ was rushing through a blurring +whirr of water. Seas creamed and licked the poop-deck edge, now to +starboard, now to port. High in the air, over-towering and perilously +down-toppling, following-seas pursued our stern. The air was filled +with spindrift like a fog or spray. No officer of the watch was in +sight. The poop was deserted, save for two helmsmen in streaming +oilskins under the half-shelter of the open wheel-house. I nodded good +morning to them. + +One was Tom Spink, the elderly but keen and dependable English sailor. +The other was Bill Quigley, one of a forecastle group of three that +herded uniquely together, though the other two, Frank Fitzgibbon and +Richard Giller, were in the second mate’s watch. The three had proved +handy with their fists, and clannish; they had fought pitched +forecastle battles with the gangster clique and won a sort of +neutrality of independence for themselves. They were not exactly +sailors—Mr. Mellaire sneeringly called them the “bricklayers”—but they +had successfully refused subservience to the gangster crowd. + +To cross the deck from the chart-house to the break of the poop was no +slight feat, but I managed it and hung on to the railing while the wind +stung my flesh with the flappings of my pyjamas. At this moment, and +for the moment, the _Elsinore_ righted to an even keel, and dashed +along and down the avalanching face of a wave. And as she thus righted +her deck was filled with water level from rail to rail. Above this +flood, or knee-deep in it, Mr. Pike and half-a-dozen sailors were +bunched on the fife-rail of the mizzen-mast. The carpenter, too, was +there, with a couple of assistants. + +The next roll spilled half a thousand tons of water outboard sheer over +the starboard-rail, while all the starboard ports opened automatically +and gushed huge streams. Then came the opposite roll to port, with a +clanging shut of the iron doors; and a hundred tons of sea sloshed +outboard across the port-rail, while all the iron doors on that side +opened wide and gushed. And all this time, it must not be forgotten, +the _Elsinore_ was dashing ahead through the sea. + +The only sail she carried was three upper-topsails. Not the tiniest +triangle of headsail was on her. I had never seen her with so little +wind-surface, and the three narrow strips of canvas, bellied to the +seemingness of sheet-iron with the pressure of the wind, drove her +before the gale at astonishing speed. + +As the water on the deck subsided the men on the fife-rail left their +refuge. One group, led by the redoubtable Mr. Pike, strove to capture a +mass of planks and twisted steel. For the moment I did not recognize +what it was. The carpenter, with two men, sprang upon Number Three +hatch and worked hurriedly and fearfully. And I knew why Captain West +had turned tail to the storm. Number Three hatch was a wreck. Among +other things the great timber, called the “strong-back,” was broken. He +had had to run, or founder. Before our decks were swept again I could +make out the carpenter’s emergency repairs. With fresh timbers he was +bolting, lashing, and wedging Number Three hatch into some sort of +tightness. + +When the _Elsinore_ dipped her port-rail under and scooped several +hundred tons of South Atlantic, and then, immediately rolling her +starboard-rail under, had another hundred tons of breaking sea fall in +board upon her, all the men forsook everything and scrambled for life +upon the fife-rail. In the bursting spray they were quite hidden; and +then I saw them and counted them all as they emerged into view. Again +they waited for the water to subside. + +The mass of wreckage pursued by Mr. Pike and his men ground a hundred +feet along the deck for’ard, and, as the _Elsinore’s_ stern sank down +in some abyss, ground back again and smashed up against the cabin wall. +I identified this stuff as part of the bridge. That portion which +spanned from the mizzen-mast to the ’midship-house was missing, while +the starboard boat on the ’midship-house was a splintered mess. + +Watching the struggle to capture and subdue the section of bridge, I +was reminded of Victor Hugo’s splendid description of the sailor’s +battle with a ship’s gun gone adrift in a night of storm. But there was +a difference, I found that Hugo’s narrative had stirred me more +profoundly than was I stirred by this actual struggle before my eyes. + +I have repeatedly said that the sea makes one hard. I now realized how +hard I had become as I stood there at the break of the poop in my +wind-whipped, spray-soaked pyjamas. I felt no solicitude for the +forecastle humans who struggled in peril of their lives beneath me. +They did not count. Ah—I was even curious to see what might happen, did +they get caught by those crashing avalanches of sea ere they could gain +the safety of the fife-rail. + +And I saw. Mr. Pike, in the lead, of course, up to his waist in rushing +water, dashed in, caught the flying wreckage with a turn of rope, and +fetched it up short with a turn around one of the port mizzen-shrouds. +The _Elsinore_ flung down to port, and a solid wall of down-toppling +green upreared a dozen feet above the rail. The men fled to the +fife-rail. But Mr. Pike, holding his turn, held on, looked squarely +into the wall of the wave, and received the downfall. He emerged, still +holding by the turn the captured bridge. + +The feeble-minded faun (the stone-deaf man) led the way to Mr. Pike’s +assistance, followed by Tony, the suicidal Greek. Paddy was next, and +in order came Shorty, Henry the training-ship boy, and Nancy, last, of +course, and looking as if he were going to execution. + +The deck-water was no more than knee-deep, though rushing with +torrential force, when Mr. Pike and the six men lifted the section of +bridge and started for’ard with it. They swayed and staggered, but +managed to keep going. + +The carpenter saw the impending ocean-mountain first. I saw him cry to +his own men and then to Mr. Pike ere he fled to the fife-rail. But Mr. +Pike’s men had no chance. Abreast of the ’midship-house, on the +starboard side, fully fifteen feet above the rail and twenty above the +deck, the sea fell on board. The top of the ’midship-house was swept +clean of the splintered boat. The water, impacting against the side of +the house, spouted skyward as high as the crojack-yard. And all this, +in addition to the main bulk of the wave, swept and descended upon Mr. +Pike and his men. + +They disappeared. The bridge disappeared. The _Elsinore_ rolled to port +and dipped her deck full from rail to rail. Next, she plunged down by +the head, and all this mass of water surged forward. Through the +creaming, foaming surface now and then emerged an arm, or a head, or a +back, while cruel edges of jagged plank and twisted steel rods +advertised that the bridge was turning over and over. I wondered what +men were beneath it and what mauling they were receiving. + +And yet these men did not count. I was aware of anxiety only for Mr. +Pike. He, in a way, socially, was of my caste and class. He and I +belonged aft in the high place; ate at the same table. I was acutely +desirous that he should not be hurt or killed. The rest did not matter. +They were not of my world. I imagine the old-time skippers, on the +middle passage, felt much the same toward their slave-cargoes in the +fetid ’tween decks. + +The _Elsinore’s_ bow tilted skyward while her stern fell into a foaming +valley. Not a man had gained his feet. Bridge and men swept back toward +me and fetched up against the mizzen-shrouds. And then that prodigious, +incredible old man appeared out of the water, on his two legs, upright, +dragging with him, a man in each hand, the helpless forms of Nancy and +the Faun. My heart leapt at beholding this mighty figure of a +man-killer and slave-driver, it is true, but who sprang first into the +teeth of danger so that his slaves might follow, and who emerged with a +half-drowned slave in either hand. + +I knew augustness and pride as I gazed—pride that my eyes were blue, +like his; that my skin was blond, like his; that my place was aft with +him, and with the Samurai, in the high place of government and command. +I nearly wept with the chill of pride that was akin to awe and that +tingled and bristled along my spinal column and in my brain. As for the +rest—the weaklings and the rejected, and the dark-pigmented things, the +half-castes, the mongrel-bloods, and the dregs of long-conquered +races—how could they count? My heels were iron as I gazed on them in +their peril and weakness. Lord! Lord! For ten thousand generations and +centuries we had stamped upon their faces and enslaved them to the toil +of our will. + +Again the _Elsinore_ rolled to starboard and to port, while the spume +spouted to our lower-yards and a thousand tons of South Atlantic surged +across from rail to rail. And again all were down and under, with +jagged plank and twisted steel overriding them. And again that amazing +blond-skinned giant emerged, on his two legs upstanding, a broken waif +like a rat in either hand. He forced his way through rushing, +waist-high water, deposited his burdens with the carpenter on the +fife-rail, and returned to drag Larry reeling to his feet and help him +to the fife-rail. Out of the wash, Tony, the Greek, crawled on hands +and knees and sank down helplessly at the fife-rail. There was nothing +suicidal now in his mood. Struggle as he would, he could not lift +himself until the mate, gripping his oilskin at the collar, with one +hand flung him through the air into the carpenter’s arms. + +Next came Shorty, his face streaming blood, one arm hanging useless, +his sea-boots stripped from him. Mr. Pike pitched him into the +fife-rail, and returned for the last man. It was Henry, the +training-ship boy. Him I had seen, unstruggling, motionless, show at +the surface like a drowned man and sink again as the flood surged aft +and smashed him against the cabin. Mr. Pike, shoulder-deep, twice +beaten to his knees and under by bursting seas, caught the lad, +shouldered him, and carried him away for’ard. + +An hour later, in the cabin, I encountered Mr. Pike going into +breakfast. He had changed his clothes, and he had shaved! Now how could +one treat a hero such as he save as I treated him when I remarked +off-handedly that he must have had a lively watch? + +“My,” he answered, equally off-handedly, “I did get a prime soaking.” + +That was all. He had had no time to see me at the poop-rail. It was +merely the day’s work, the ship’s work, the MAN’S work—all capitals, if +you please, in MAN. I was the only one aft who knew, and I knew because +I had chanced to see. Had I not been on the poop at that early hour no +one aft ever would have known those gray, storm-morning deeds of his. + +“Anybody hurt?” I asked. + +“Oh, some of the men got wet. But no bones broke. Henry’ll be laid off +for a day. He got turned over in a sea and bashed his head. And +Shorty’s got a wrenched shoulder, I think.—But, say, we got Davis into +the top bunk! The seas filled him full and he had to climb for it. He’s +all awash and wet now, and you oughta seen me praying for more.” He +paused and sighed. “I’m getting old, I guess. I oughta wring his neck, +but somehow I ain’t got the gumption. Just the same, he’ll be overside +before we get in.” + +“A month’s wages against a pound of tobacco he won’t,” I challenged. + +“No,” said Mr. Pike slowly. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll bet +you a pound of tobacco even, or a month’s wages even, that I’ll have +the pleasure of putting a sack of coal to his feet that never will come +off.” + +“Done,” said I. + +“Done,” said Mr. Pike. “And now I guess I’ll get a bite to eat.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + +The more I see of Miss West the more she pleases me. Explain it in +terms of propinquity, or isolation, or whatever you will; I, at least, +do not attempt explanation. I know only that she is a woman and +desirable. And I am rather proud, in a way, to find that I am just a +man like any man. The midnight oil, and the relentless pursuit I have +endured in the past from the whole tribe of women, have not, I am glad +to say, utterly spoiled me. + +I am obsessed by that phrase—a _woman and desirable_. It beats in my +brain, in my thought. I go out of my way to steal a glimpse of Miss +West through a cabin door or vista of hall when she does not know I am +looking. A woman is a wonderful thing. A woman’s hair is wonderful. A +woman’s softness is a magic.—Oh, I know them for what they are, and yet +this very knowledge makes them only the more wonderful. I know—I would +stake my soul—that Miss West has considered me as a mate a thousand +times to once that I have so considered her. And yet—she is a woman and +desirable. + +And I find myself continually reminded of Richard Le Gallienne’s +inimitable quatrain: + +“Were I a woman, I would all day long +Sing my own beauty in some holy song, +Bend low before it, hushed and half afraid, +And say ‘I am a woman’ all day long.” + + +Let me advise all philosophers suffering from world-sickness to take a +long sea voyage with a woman like Miss West. + +In this narrative I shall call her “Miss West” no more. She has ceased +to be Miss West. She is Margaret. I do not think of her as Miss West. I +think of her as Margaret. It is a pretty word, a woman-word. What poet +must have created it! Margaret! I never tire of it. My tongue is +enamoured of it. Margaret West! What a name to conjure with! A name +provocative of dreams and mighty connotations. The history of our +westward-faring race is written in it. There is pride in it, and +dominion, and adventure, and conquest. When I murmur it I see visions +of lean, beaked ships, of winged helmets, and heels iron-shod of +restless men, royal lovers, royal adventurers, royal fighters. Yes, and +even now, in these latter days when the sun consumes us, still we sit +in the high seat of government and command. + +Oh—and by the way—she is twenty-four years old. I asked Mr. Pike the +date of the _Dixie’s_ collision with the river steamer in San Francisco +Bay. This occurred in 1901. Margaret was twelve years old at the time. +This is 1913. Blessings on the head of the man who invented arithmetic! +She is twenty-four. Her name is Margaret, and she is desirable. + +* * * * * + + +There are so many things to tell about. Where and how this mad voyage, +with a mad crew, will end is beyond all surmise. But the _Elsinore_ +drives on, and day by day her history is bloodily written. And while +murder is done, and while the whole floating drama moves toward the +bleak southern ocean and the icy blasts of Cape Horn, I sit in the high +place with the masters, unafraid, I am proud to say, in an ecstasy, I +am proud to say, and I murmur over and over to _myself_—_Margaret_, _a +woman_; _Margaret_, _and desirable_. + +But to resume. It is the first day of June. Ten days have passed since +the pampero. When the strong back on Number Three hatch was repaired +Captain West came back on the wind, hove to, and rode out the gale. +Since then, in calm, and fog, and damp, and storm, we have won south +until to-day we are almost abreast of the Falklands. The coast of the +Argentine lies to the West, below the sea-line, and some time this +morning we crossed the fiftieth parallel of south latitude. Here begins +the passage of Cape Horn, for so it is reckoned by the navigators—fifty +south in the Atlantic to fifty south in the Pacific. + +And yet all is well with us in the matter of weather. The _Elsinore_ +slides along with favouring winds. Daily it grows colder. The great +cabin stove roars and is white-hot, and all the connecting doors are +open, so that the whole after region of the ship is warm and +comfortable. But on the deck the air bites, and Margaret and I wear +mittens as we promenade the poop or go for’ard along the repaired +bridge to see the chickens on the ’midship-house. The poor, wretched +creatures of instinct and climate! Behold, as they approach the +southern mid-winter of the Horn, when they have need of all their +feathers, they proceed to moult, because, forsooth, this is the summer +time in the land they came from. Or is moulting determined by the time +of year they happen to be born? I shall have to look into this. +Margaret will know. + +Yesterday ominous preparations were made for the passage of the Horn. +All the braces were taken from the main deck pin-rails and geared and +arranged so that they may be worked from the tops of the houses. + +Thus, the fore-braces run to the top of the forecastle, the main-braces +to the top of the ’midship-house, and the mizzen-braces to the poop. It +is evident that they expect our main deck frequently to be filled with +water. So evident is it that a laden ship when in big seas is like a +log awash, that fore and aft, on both sides, along the deck, +shoulder-high, life-lines have been rigged. Also, the two iron doors, +on port and starboard, that open from the cabin directly upon the main +deck, have been barricaded and caulked. Not until we are in the Pacific +and flying north will these doors open again. + +And while we prepare to battle around the stormiest headland in the +world our situation on board grows darker. This morning Petro +Marinkovich, a sailor in Mr. Mellaire’s watch, was found dead on Number +One hatch. The body bore several knife-wounds and the throat was cut. +It was palpably done by some one or several of the forecastle hands; +but not a word can be elicited. Those who are guilty of it are silent, +of course; while others who may chance to know are afraid to speak. + +Before midday the body was overside with the customary sack of coal. +Already the man is a past episode. But the humans for’ard are tense +with expectancy of what is to come. I strolled for’ard this afternoon, +and noted for the first time a distinct hostility toward me. They +recognize that I belong with the after-guard in the high place. Oh, +nothing was said; but it was patent by the way almost every man looked +at me, or refused to look at me. Only Mulligan Jacobs and Charles Davis +were outspoken. + +“Good riddance,” said Mulligan Jacobs. “The Guinea didn’t have the +spunk of a louse. And he’s better off, ain’t he? He lived dirty, an’ he +died dirty, an’ now he’s over an’ done with the whole dirty game. +There’s men on board that oughta wish they was as lucky as him. Theirs +is still a-coming to ’em.” + +“You mean . . . ?” I queried. + +“Whatever you want to think I mean,” the twisted wretch grinned +malevolently into my face. + +Charles Davis, when I peeped into his iron room, was exuberant. + +“A pretty tale for the court in Seattle,” he exulted. “It’ll only make +my case that much stronger. And wait till the reporters get hold of it! +The hell-ship _Elsinore_! They’ll have pretty pickin’s!” + +“I haven’t seen any hell-ship,” I said coldly. + +“You’ve seen my treatment, ain’t you?” he retorted. “You’ve seen the +hell I’ve got, ain’t you?” + +“I know you for a cold-blooded murderer,” I answered. + +“The court will determine that, sir. All you’ll have to do is to +testify to facts.” + +“I’ll testify that had I been in the mate’s place I’d have hanged you +for murder.” + +His eyes positively sparkled. + +“I’ll ask you to remember this conversation when you’re under oath, +sir,” he cried eagerly. + +I confess the man aroused in me a reluctant admiration. I looked about +his mean, iron-walled room. During the pampero the place had been +awash. The white paint was peeling off in huge scabs, and iron-rust was +everywhere. The floor was filthy. The place stank with the stench of +his sickness. His pannikin and unwashed eating-gear from the last meal +were scattered on the floor: His blankets were wet, his clothing was +wet. In a corner was a heterogeneous mass of soggy, dirty garments. He +lay in the very bunk in which he had brained O’Sullivan. He had been +months in this vile hole. In order to live he would have to remain +months more in it. And while his rat-like vitality won my admiration, I +loathed and detested him in very nausea. + +“Aren’t you afraid?” I demanded. “What makes you think you will last +the voyage? Don’t you know bets are being made that you won’t?” + +So interested was he that he seemed to prick up his ears as he raised +on his elbow. + +“I suppose you’re too scared to tell me about them bets,” he sneered. + +“Oh, I’ve bet you’ll last,” I assured him. + +“That means there’s others that bet I won’t,” he rattled on hastily. +“An’ that means that there’s men aboard the _Elsinore_ right now +financially interested in my taking-off.” + +At this moment the steward, bound aft from the galley, paused in the +doorway and listened, grinning. As for Charles Davis, the man had +missed his vocation. He should have been a land-lawyer, not a +sea-lawyer. + +“Very well, sir,” he went on. “I’ll have you testify to that in +Seattle, unless you’re lying to a helpless sick man, or unless you’ll +perjure yourself under oath.” + +He got what he was seeking, for he stung me to retort: + +“Oh, I’ll testify. Though I tell you candidly that I don’t think I’ll +win my bet.” + +“You loose ’m bet sure,” the steward broke in, nodding his head. “That +fellow him die damn soon.” + +“Bet with’m, sir,” Davis challenged me. “It’s a straight tip from me, +an’ a regular cinch.” + +The whole situation was so gruesome and grotesque, and I had been swept +into it so absurdly, that for the moment I did not know what to do or +say. + +“It’s good money,” Davis urged. “I ain’t goin’ to die. Look here, +steward, how much you want to bet?” + +“Five dollar, ten dollar, twenty dollar,” the steward answered, with a +shoulder-shrug that meant that the sum was immaterial. + +“Very well then, steward. Mr. Pathurst covers your money, say for +twenty. Is it a go, sir?” + +“Why don’t you bet with him yourself?” I demanded. + +“Sure I will, sir. Here, you steward, I bet you twenty even I don’t +die.” + +The steward shook his head. + +“I bet you twenty to ten,” the sick man insisted. “What’s eatin’ you, +anyway?” + +“You live, me lose, me pay you,” the steward explained. “You die, I +win, you dead; no pay me.” + +Still grinning and shaking his head, he went his way. + +“Just the same, sir, it’ll be rich testimony,” Davis chuckled. “An’ +can’t you see the reporters eatin’ it up?” + +The Asiatic clique in the cook’s room has its suspicions about the +death of Marinkovich, but will not voice them. Beyond shakings of heads +and dark mutterings, I can get nothing out of Wada or the steward. When +I talked with the sail-maker, he complained that his injured hand was +hurting him and that he would be glad when he could get to the surgeons +in Seattle. As for the murder, when pressed by me, he gave me to +understand that it was no affair of the Japanese or Chinese on board, +and that he was a Japanese. + +But Louis, the Chinese half-caste with the Oxford accent, was more +frank. I caught him aft from the galley on a trip to the lazarette for +provisions. + +“We are of a different race, sir, from these men,” he said; “and our +safest policy is to leave them alone. We have talked it over, and we +have nothing to say, sir, nothing whatever to say. Consider my +position. I work for’ard in the galley; I am in constant contact with +the sailors; I even sleep in their section of the ship; and I am one +man against many. The only other countryman I have on board is the +steward, and he sleeps aft. Your servant and the two sail-makers are +Japanese. They are only remotely kin to us, though we’ve agreed to +stand together and apart from whatever happens.” + +“There is Shorty,” I said, remembering Mr. Pike’s diagnosis of his +mixed nationality. + +“But we do not recognize him, sir,” Louis answered suavely. “He is +Portuguese; he is Malay; he is Japanese, true; but he is a mongrel, +sir, a mongrel and a bastard. Also, he is a fool. And please, sir, +remember that we are very few, and that our position compels us to +neutrality.” + +“But your outlook is gloomy,” I persisted. “How do you think it will +end?” + +“We shall arrive in Seattle most probably, some of us. But I can tell +you this, sir: I have lived a long life on the sea, but I have never +seen a crew like this. There are few sailors in it; there are bad men +in it; and the rest are fools and worse. You will notice I mention no +names, sir; but there are men on board whom I do not care to +antagonize. I am just Louis, the cook. I do my work to the best of my +ability, and that is all, sir.” + +“And will Charles Davis arrive in Seattle?” I asked, changing the topic +in acknowledgment of his right to be reticent. + +“No, I do not think so, sir,” he answered, although his eyes thanked me +for my courtesy. “The steward tells me you have bet that he will. I +think, sir, it is a poor bet. We are about to go around the Horn. I +have been around it many times. This is midwinter, and we are going +from east to west. Davis’ room will be awash for weeks. It will never +be dry. A strong healthy man confined in it could well die of the +hardship. And Davis is far from well. In short, sir, I know his +condition, and he is in a shocking state. Surgeons might prolong his +life, but here in a wind-jammer it is shortened very rapidly. I have +seen many men die at sea. I know, sir. Thank you, sir.” + +And the Eurasian Chinese-Englishman bowed himself away. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + +Things are worse than I fancied. Here are two episodes within the last +seventy-two hours. Mr. Mellaire, for instance, is going to pieces. He +cannot stand the strain of being on the same vessel with the man who +has sworn to avenge Captain Somers’s murder, especially when that man +is the redoubtable Mr. Pike. + +For several days Margaret and I have been remarking the second mate’s +bloodshot eyes and pain-lined face and wondering if he were sick. And +to-day the secret leaked out. Wada does not like Mr. Mellaire, and this +morning, when he brought me breakfast, I saw by the wicked, gleeful +gleam in his almond eyes that he was spilling over with some fresh, +delectable ship’s gossip. + +For several days, I learned, he and the steward have been solving a +cabin mystery. A gallon can of wood alcohol, standing on a shelf in the +after-room, had lost quite a portion of its contents. They compared +notes and then made of themselves a Sherlock Holmes and a Doctor +Watson. First, they gauged the daily diminution of alcohol. Next they +gauged it several times daily, and learned that the diminution, +whenever it occurred, was first apparent immediately after meal-time. +This focussed their attention on two suspects—the second mate and the +carpenter, who alone sat in the after-room. The rest was easy. Whenever +Mr. Mellaire arrived ahead of the carpenter more alcohol was missing. +When they arrived and departed together, the alcohol was undisturbed. +The carpenter was never alone in the room. The syllogism was complete. +And now the steward stores the alcohol under his bunk. + +But wood alcohol is deadly poison. What a constitution this man of +fifty must have! Small wonder his eyes have been bloodshot. The great +wonder is that the stuff did not destroy him. + +I have not whispered a word of this to Margaret; nor shall I whisper +it. I should like to put Mr. Pike on his guard; and yet I know that the +revealing of Mr. Mellaire’s identity would precipitate another killing. +And still we drive south, close-hauled on the wind, toward the +inhospitable tip of the continent. To-day we are south of a line drawn +between the Straits of Magellan and the Falklands, and to-morrow, if +the breeze holds, we shall pick up the coast of Tierra del Fuego close +to the entrance of the Straits of Le Maire, through which Captain West +intends to pass if the wind favours. + +The other episode occurred last night. Mr. Pike says nothing, yet he +knows the crew situation. I have been watching some time now, ever +since the death of Marinkovich; and I am certain that Mr. Pike never +ventures on the main deck after dark. Yet he holds his tongue, confides +in no man, and plays out the bitter perilous game as a commonplace +matter of course and all in the day’s work. + +And now to the episode. Shortly after the close of the second dog-watch +last evening I went for’ard to the chickens on the ’midship-house on an +errand for Margaret. I was to make sure that the steward had carried +out her orders. The canvas covering to the big chicken coop had to be +down, the ventilation insured, and the kerosene stove burning properly. +When I had proved to my satisfaction the dependableness of the steward, +and just as I was on the verge of returning to the poop, I was drawn +aside by the weird crying of penguins in the darkness and by the +unmistakable noise of a whale blowing not far away. + +I had climbed around the end of the port boat, and was standing there, +quite hidden in the darkness, when I heard the unmistakable age-lag +step of the mate proceed along the bridge from the poop. It was a dim +starry night, and the _Elsinore_, in the calm ocean under the lee of +Tierra del Fuego, was slipping gently and prettily through the water at +an eight-knot clip. + +Mr. Pike paused at the for’ard end of the housetop and stood in a +listening attitude. From the main deck below, near Number Two hatch, +across the mumbling of various voices, I could recognize Kid Twist, +Nosey Murphy, and Bert Rhine—the three gangsters. But Steve Roberts, +the cow-boy, was also there, as was Mr. Mellaire, both of whom belonged +in the other watch and should have been turned in; for, at midnight, it +would be their watch on deck. Especially wrong was Mr. Mellaire’s +presence, holding social converse with members of the crew—a breach of +ship ethics most grievous. + +I have always been cursed with curiosity. Always have I wanted to know; +and, on the _Elsinore_, I have already witnessed many a little scene +that was a clean-cut dramatic gem. So I did not discover myself, but +lurked behind the boat. + +Five minutes passed. Ten minutes passed. The men still talked. I was +tantalized by the crying of the penguins, and by the whale, evidently +playful, which came so close that it spouted and splashed a +biscuit-toss away. I saw Mr. Pike’s head turn at the sound; he glanced +squarely in my direction, but did not see me. Then he returned to +listening to the mumble of voices from beneath. + +Now whether Mulligan Jacobs just happened along, or whether he was +deliberately scouting, I do not know. I tell what occurred. Up-and-down +the side of the ’midship-house is a ladder. And up this ladder Mulligan +Jacobs climbed so noiselessly that I was not aware of his presence +until I heard Mr. Pike snarl: + +“What the hell you doin’ here?” + +Then I saw Mulligan Jacobs in the gloom, within two yards of the mate. + +“What’s it to you?” Mulligan Jacobs snarled back. The voices below +hushed. I knew every man stood there tense and listening. No; the +philosophers have not yet explained Mulligan Jacobs. There is something +more to him than the last word has said in any book. He stood there in +the darkness, a fragile creature with curvature of the spine, facing +alone the first mate, and he was not afraid. + +Mr. Pike cursed him with fearful, unrepeatable words, and again +demanded what he was doing there. + +“I left me plug of tobacco here when I was coiling down last,” said the +little twisted man—no; he did not say it. He spat it out like so much +venom. + +“Get off of here, or I’ll throw you off, you and your tobacco,” raged +the mate. + +Mulligan Jacobs lurched closer to Mr. Pike, and in the gloom and with +the roll of the ship swayed in the other’s face. + +“By God, Jacobs!” was all the mate could say. + +“You old stiff,” was all the terrible little cripple could retort. + +Mr. Pike gripped him by the collar and swung him in the air. + +“Are you goin’ down?—or am I goin’ to throw you down?” the mate +demanded. + +I cannot describe their manner of utterance. It was that of wild +beasts. + +“I ain’t ate outa your hand yet, have I?” was the reply. + +Mr. Pike tried to say something, still holding the cripple suspended, +but he could do no more than strangle in his impotence of rage. + +“You’re an old stiff, an old stiff, an old stiff,” Mulligan Jacobs +chanted, equally incoherent and unimaginative with brutish fury. + +“Say it again and over you go,” the mate managed to enunciate thickly. + +“You’re an old stiff,” gasped Mulligan Jacobs. He was flung. He soared +through the air with the might of the fling, and even as he soared and +fell through the darkness he reiterated: + +“Old stiff! Old stiff!” + +He fell among the men on Number Two hatch, and there were confusion and +movement below, and groans. + +Mr. Pike paced up and down the narrow house and gritted his teeth. Then +he paused. He leaned his arms on the bridge-rail, rested his head on +his arms for a full minute, then groaned: + +“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” That was all. Then he went aft, +slowly, dragging his feet along the bridge. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + +The days grow gray. The sun has lost its warmth, and each noon, at +meridian, it is lower in the northern sky. All the old stars have long +since gone, and it would seem the sun is following them. The world—the +only world I know—has been left behind far there to the north, and the +hill of the earth is between it and us. This sad and solitary ocean, +gray and cold, is the end of all things, the falling-off place where +all things cease. Only it grows colder, and grayer, and penguins cry in +the night, and huge amphibians moan and slubber, and great albatrosses, +gray with storm-battling of the Horn, wheel and veer. + +* * * * * + + +“Land ho!” was the cry yesterday morning. I shivered as I gazed at +this, the first land since Baltimore a few centuries ago. There was no +sun, and the morning was damp and cold with a brisk wind that +penetrated any garment. The deck thermometer marked 30—two degrees +below freezing-point; and now and then easy squalls of snow swept past. + +All of the land that was to be seen was snow. Long, low chains of +peaks, snow-covered, arose out of the ocean. As we drew closer, there +were no signs of life. It was a sheer, savage, bleak, forsaken land. By +eleven, off the entrance of Le Maire Straits, the squalls ceased, the +wind steadied, and the tide began to make through in the direction we +desired to go. + +Captain West did not hesitate. His orders to Mr. Pike were quick and +tranquil. The man at the wheel altered the course, while both watches +sprang aloft to shake out royals and skysails. And yet Captain West +knew every inch of the risk he took in this graveyard of ships. + +When we entered the narrow strait, under full sail and gripped by a +tremendous tide, the rugged headlands of Tierra del Fuego dashed by +with dizzying swiftness. Close we were to them, and close we were to +the jagged coast of Staten Island on the opposite shore. It was here, +in a wild bight, between two black and precipitous walls of rock where +even the snow could find no lodgment, that Captain West paused in a +casual sweep of his glasses and gazed steadily at one place. I picked +the spot up with my own glasses and was aware of an instant chill as I +saw the four masts of a great ship sticking out of the water. Whatever +craft it was, it was as large as the _Elsinore_, and it had been but +recently wrecked. + +“One of the German nitrate ships,” said Mr. Pike. Captain West nodded, +still studying the wreck, then said: + +“She looks quite deserted. Just the same, Mr. Pike, send several of +your best-sighted sailors aloft, and keep a good lookout yourself. +There may be some survivors ashore trying to signal us.” + +But we sailed on, and no signals were seen. Mr. Pike was delighted with +our good fortune. He was guilty of walking up and down, rubbing his +hands and chuckling to himself. Not since 1888, he told me, had he been +through the Straits of Le Maire. Also, he said that he knew of +shipmasters who had made forty voyages around the Horn and had never +once had the luck to win through the straits. The regular passage is +far to the east around Staten Island, which means a loss of westing, +and here, at the tip of the world, where the great west wind, +unobstructed by any land, sweeps round and around the narrow girth of +earth, westing is the thing that has to be fought for mile by mile and +inch by inch. The Sailing Directions advise masters on the Horn +passage: _Make Westing_. _Whatever you do_, _make westing_. + +When we emerged from the straits in the early afternoon the same steady +breeze continued, and in the calm water under the lee of Tierra del +Fuego, which extends south-westerly to the Horn, we slipped along at an +eight-knot clip. + +Mr. Pike was beside himself. He could scarcely tear himself from the +deck when it was his watch below. He chuckled, rubbed his hands, and +incessantly hummed snatches from the Twelfth Mass. Also, he was +voluble. + +“To-morrow morning we’ll be up with the Horn. We’ll shave it by a dozen +or fifteen miles. Think of it! We’ll just steal around! I never had +such luck, and never expected to. Old girl _Elsinore_, you’re rotten +for’ard, but the hand of God is at your helm.” + +Once, under the weather cloth, I came upon him talking to himself. It +was more a prayer. + +“If only she don’t pipe up,” he kept repeating. “If only she don’t pipe +up.” + +Mr. Mellaire was quite different. + +“It never happens,” he told me. “No ship ever went around like this. +You watch her come. She always comes a-smoking out of the sou’west.” + +“But can’t a vessel ever steal around?” I asked. + +“The odds are mighty big against it, sir,” he answered. “I’ll give you +a line on them. I’ll wager even, sir, just a nominal bet of a pound of +tobacco, that inside twenty-four hours we’ll be hove to under +upper-topsails. I’ll wager ten pounds to five that we’re not west of +the Horn a week from now; and, fifty to fifty being the passage, twenty +pounds to five that two weeks from now we’re not up with fifty in the +Pacific.” + +As for Captain West, the perils of Le Maire behind, he sat below, his +slippered feet stretched before him, smoking a cigar. He had nothing to +say whatever, although Margaret and I were jubilant and dared duets +through all of the second dog-watch. + +* * * * * + + +And this morning, in a smooth sea and gentle breeze, the Horn bore +almost due north of us not more than six miles away. Here we were, well +abreast and reeling off westing. + +“What price tobacco this morning?” I quizzed Mr. Mellaire. + +“Going up,” he came back. “Wish I had a thousand bets like the one with +you, sir.” + +I glanced about at sea and sky and gauged the speed of our way by the +foam, but failed to see anything that warranted his remark. It was +surely fine weather, and the steward, in token of the same, was trying +to catch fluttering Cape pigeons with a bent pin on a piece of thread. + +For’ard, on the poop, I encountered Mr. Pike. It _was_ an encounter, +for his salutation was a grunt. + +“Well, we’re going right along,” I ventured cheerily. + +He made no reply, but turned and stared into the gray south-west with +an expression sourer than any I had ever seen on his face. He mumbled +something I failed to catch, and, on my asking him to repeat it, he +said: + +“It’s breeding weather. Can’t you see it?” + +I shook my head. + +“What d’ye think we’re taking off the kites for?” he growled. + +I looked aloft. The skysails were already furled; men were furling the +royals; and the topgallant-yards were running down while clewlines and +buntlines bagged the canvas. Yet, if anything, our northerly breeze +fanned even more gently. + +“Bless me if I can see any weather,” I said. + +“Then go and take a look at the barometer,” he grunted, as he turned on +his heel and swung away from me. + +In the chart-room was Captain West, pulling on his long sea-boots. That +would have told me had there been no barometer, though the barometer +was eloquent enough of itself. The night before it had stood at 30.10. +It was now 28.64. Even in the pampero it had not been so low as that. + +“The usual Cape Horn programme,” Captain West smiled to me, as he stood +up in all his lean and slender gracefulness and reached for his long +oilskin coat. + +Still I could scarcely believe. + +“Is it very far away?” I inquired. + +He shook his head, and forebore in the act of speaking to lift his hand +for me to listen. The _Elsinore_ rolled uneasily, and from without came +the soft and hollow thunder of sails emptying themselves against the +masts and gear. + +We had chatted a bare five minutes, when again he lifted his head. This +time the _Elsinore_ heeled over slightly and remained heeled over, +while the sighing whistle of a rising breeze awoke in the rigging. + +“It’s beginning to make,” he said, in the good old Anglo-Saxon of the +sea. + +And then I heard Mr. Pike snarling out orders, and in my heart +discovered a growing respect for Cape Horn—Cape Stiff, as the sailors +call it. + +An hour later we were hove to on the port tack under upper-topsails and +foresail. The wind had come out of the south-west, and our leeway was +setting us down upon the land. Captain West gave orders to the mate to +stand by to wear ship. Both watches had been taking in sail, so that +both watches were on deck for the manoeuvre. + +It was astounding, the big sea that had arisen in so short a time. The +wind was blowing a gale that ever, in recurring gusts, increased upon +itself. Nothing was visible a hundred yards away. The day had become +black-gray. In the cabin lamps were burning. The view from the poop, +along the length of the great labouring ship, was magnificent. Seas +burst and surged across her weather-rail and kept her deck half filled, +despite the spouting ports and gushing scuppers. + +On each of the two houses and on the poop the ship’s complement, all in +oilskins, was in groups. For’ard, Mr. Mellaire had charge. Mr. Pike +took charge of the ’midship-house and the poop. Captain West strolled +up and down, saw everything, said nothing; for it was the mate’s +affair. + +When Mr. Pike ordered the wheel hard up, he slacked off all the +mizzen-yards, and followed it with a partial slacking of the +main-yards, so that the after-pressures were eased. The foresail and +fore-lower- and-upper-topsails remained flat in order to pay the head +off before the wind. All this took time. The men were slow, not strong, +and without snap. They reminded me of dull oxen by the way they moved +and pulled. And the gale, ever snorting harder, now snorted +diabolically. Only at intervals could I glimpse the group on top the +for’ard-house. Again and again, leaning to it and holding their heads +down, the men on the ’midship-house were obliterated by the drive of +crested seas that burst against the rail, spouted to the lower-yards, +and swept in horizontal volumes across to leeward. And Mr. Pike, like +an enormous spider in a wind-tossed web, went back and forth along the +slender bridge that was itself a shaken thread in the blast of the +storm. + +So tremendous were the gusts that for the time the _Elsinore_ refused +to answer. She lay down to it; she was swept and racked by it; but her +head did not pay off before it, and all the while we drove down upon +that bitter, iron coast. And the world was black-gray, and violent, and +very cold, with the flying spray freezing to ice in every lodgment. + +We waited. The groups of men, head down to it, waited. Mr. Pike, +restless, angry, his blue eyes as bitter as the cold, his mouth as much +a-snarl as the snarl of the elements with which he fought, waited. The +Samurai waited, tranquil, casual, remote. And Cape Horn waited, there +on our lee, for the bones of our ship and us. + +And then the _Elsinore’s_ bow paid off. The angle of the beat of the +gale changed, and soon, with dreadful speed, we were dashing straight +before it and straight toward the rocks we could not see. But all doubt +was over. The success of the manoeuvre was assured. Mr. Mellaire, +informed by messenger along the bridge from Mr. Pike, slacked off the +head-yards. Mr. Pike, his eye on the helmsman, his hand signalling the +order, had the wheel put over to port to check the _Elsinore’s_ rush +into the wind as she came up on the starboard tack. All was activity. +Main- and mizzen-yards were braced up, and the _Elsinore_, snugged down +and hove to, had a lee of thousands of miles of Southern Ocean. + +And all this had been accomplished in the stamping ground of storm, at +the end of the world, by a handful of wretched weaklings, under the +drive of two strong mates, with behind them the placid will of the +Samurai. + +It had taken thirty minutes to wear ship, and I had learned how the +best of shipmasters can lose their ships without reproach. Suppose the +_Elsinore_ had persisted in her refusal to payoff? Suppose anything had +carried away? And right here enters Mr. Pike. It is his task ever to +see that every rope and block and all the myriad other things in the +vast and complicated gear of the _Elsinore_ are in strength not to +carry away. Always have the masters of our race required henchmen like +Mr. Pike, and it seems the race has well supplied those henchmen. + +Ere I went below I heard Captain West tell Mr. Pike that while both +watches were on deck it would be just as well to put a reef in the +foresail before they furled it. The mainsail and the crojack being off, +I could see the men black on the fore-yard. For half-an-hour I +lingered, watching them. They seemed to make no progress with the reef. +Mr. Mellaire was with them, having direct supervision of the job, while +Mr. Pike, on the poop, growled and grumbled and spat endless +blasphemies into the flying air. + +“What’s the matter?” I asked. + +“Two watches on a single yardarm and unable to put a reef in a +handkerchief like that!” he snorted. “What’ll it be if we’re off here a +month?” + +“A month!” I cried. + +“A month isn’t anything for Cape Stiff,” he said grimly. “I’ve been off +here seven weeks and then turned tail and run around the other way.” + +“Around the world?” I gasped. + +“It was the only way to get to ’Frisco,” he answered. “The Horn’s the +Horn, and there’s no summer seas that I’ve ever noticed in this +neighbourhood.” + +My fingers were numb and I was chilled through when I took a last look +at the wretched men on the fore-yard and went below to warm up. + +A little later, as I went in to table, through a cabin port I stole a +look for’ard between seas and saw the men still struggling on the +freezing yard. + +The four of us were at table, and it was very comfortable, in spite of +the _Elsinore’s_ violent antics. The room was warm. The storm-racks on +the table kept each dish in its place. The steward served and moved +about with ease and apparent unconcern, although I noticed an +occasional anxious gleam in his eyes when he poised some dish at a +moment when the ship pitched and flung with unusual wildness. + +And now and again I thought of the poor devils on the yard. Well, they +belonged there by right, just as we belonged here by right in this +oasis of the cabin. I looked at Mr. Pike and wagered to myself that +half-a-dozen like him could master that stubborn foresail. As for the +Samurai, I was convinced that alone, not moving from his seat, by a +tranquil exertion of will, he could accomplish the same thing. + +The lighted sea-lamps swung and leaped in their gimbals, ever battling +with the dancing shadows in the murky gray. The wood-work creaked and +groaned. The jiggermast, a huge cylinder of hollow steel that +perforated the apartment through deck above and floor beneath, was +hideously vocal with the storm. Far above, taut ropes beat against it +so that it clanged like a boiler-shop. There was a perpetual thunder of +seas falling on our deck and crash of water against our for’ard wall; +while the ten thousand ropes and gears aloft bellowed and screamed as +the storm smote them. + +And yet all this was from without. Here, at this well-appointed table, +was no draught nor breath of wind, no drive of spray nor wash of sea. +We were in the heart of peace in the midmost centre of the storm. +Margaret was in high spirits, and her laughter vied with the clang of +the jiggermast. Mr. Pike was gloomy, but I knew him well enough to +attribute his gloom, not to the elements, but to the inefficients +futilely freezing on the yard. As for me, I looked about at the four of +us—blue-eyed, gray-eyed, all fair-skinned and royal blond—and somehow +it seemed that I had long since lived this, and that with me and in me +were all my ancestors, and that their lives and memories were mine, and +that all this vexation of the sea and air and labouring ship was of old +time and a thousand times before. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + +“How are you for a climb?” Margaret asked me, shortly after we had left +the table. + +She stood challengingly at my open door, in oilskins, sou’wester, and +sea-boots. + +“I’ve never seen you with a foot above the deck since we sailed,” she +went on. “Have you a good head?” + +I marked my book, rolled out of my bunk in which I had been wedged, and +clapped my hands for Wada. + +“Will you?” she cried eagerly. + +“If you let me lead,” I answered airily, “and if you will promise to +hold on tight. Whither away?” + +“Into the top of the jigger. It’s the easiest. As for holding on, +please remember that I have often done it. It is with you the doubt +rests.” + +“Very well,” I retorted; “do you lead then. I shall hold on tight.” + +“I have seen many a landsman funk it,” she teased. “There are no +lubber-holes in our tops.” + +“And most likely I shall,” I agreed. “I’ve never been aloft in my life, +and since there is no hole for a lubber.” + +She looked at me, half believing my confession of weakness, while I +extended my arms for the oilskin which Wada struggled on to me. + +On the poop it was magnificent, and terrible, and sombre. The universe +was very immediately about us. It blanketed us in storming wind and +flying spray and grayness. Our main deck was impassable, and the relief +of the wheel came aft along the bridge. It was two o’clock, and for +over two hours the frozen wretches had laid out upon the fore-yard. +They were still there, weak, feeble, hopeless. Captain West, stepping +out in the lee of the chart-house, gazed at them for several minutes. + +“We’ll have to give up that reef,” he said to Mr. Pike. “Just make the +sail fast. Better put on double gaskets.” + +And with lagging feet, from time to time pausing and holding on as +spray and the tops of waves swept over him, the mate went for’ard along +the bridge to vent his scorn on the two watches of a four-masted ship +that could not reef a foresail. + +It is true. They could not do it, despite their willingness, for this I +have learned: _the men do their weak best whenever the order is given +to shorten sail_. It must be that they are afraid. They lack the iron +of Mr. Pike, the wisdom and the iron of Captain West. Always, have I +noticed, with all the alacrity of which they are capable, do they +respond to any order to shorten down. That is why they are for’ard, in +that pigsty of a forecastle, because they lack the iron. Well, I can +say only this: If nothing else could have prevented the funk hinted at +by Margaret, the sorry spectacle of these ironless, spineless creatures +was sufficient safeguard. How could I funk in the face of their +weakness—I, who lived aft in the high place? + +Margaret did not disdain the aid of my hand as she climbed upon the +pin-rail at the foot of the weather jigger-rigging. But it was merely +the recognition of a courtesy on her part, for the next moment she +released her mittened hand from mine, swung boldly outboard into the +face of the gale, and around against the ratlines. Then she began to +climb. I followed, almost unaware of the ticklishness of the exploit to +a tyro, so buoyed up was I by her example and by my scorn of the +weaklings for’ard. Where men could go, I could go. What men could do, I +could do. And no daughter of the Samurai could out-game me. + +Yet it was slow work. In the windward rolls against the storm-gusts one +was pinned helplessly, like a butterfly, against the rigging. At such +times, so great was the pressure one could not lift hand nor foot. +Also, there was no need for holding on. As I have said, one was pinned +against the rigging by the wind. + +Through the snow beginning to drive the deck grew small beneath me, +until a fall meant a broken back or death, unless one landed in the +sea, in which case the result would be frigid drowning. And still +Margaret climbed. Without pause she went out under the overhanging +platform of the top, shifted her holds to the rigging that went aloft +from it, and swung around this rigging, easily, carelessly, timing the +action to the roll, and stood safely upon the top. + +I followed. I breathed no prayers, knew no qualms, as I presented my +back to the deck and climbed out under the overhang, feeling with my +hands for holds I could not see. I was in an ecstasy. I could dare +anything. Had she sprung into the air, stretched out her arms, and +soared away on the breast of the gale, I should have unhesitatingly +followed her. + +As my head outpassed the edge of the top so that she came into view, I +could see she was looking at me with storm-bright eyes. And as I swung +around the rigging lightly and joined her, I saw approval in her eyes +that was quickly routed by petulance. + +“Oh, you’ve done this sort of thing before,” she reproached, calling +loudly, so that I might hear, her lips close to my ear. + +I shook a denial with my head that brightened her eyes again. She +nodded and smiled, and sat down, dangling her sea-boots into +snow-swirled space from the edge of the top. I sat beside her, looking +down into the snow that hid the deck while it exaggerated the depth out +of which we had climbed. + +We were all alone there, a pair of storm petrels perched in mid air on +a steel stick that arose out of snow and that vanished above into snow. +We had come to the tip of the world, and even that tip had ceased to +be. But no. Out of the snow, down wind, with motionless wings, driving +fully eighty or ninety miles an hour, appeared a huge albatross. He +must have been fifteen feet from wing-tip to wing-tip. He had seen his +danger ere we saw him, and, tilting his body on the blast, he +carelessly veered clear of collision. His head and neck were rimed with +age or frost—we could not tell which—and his bright bead-eye noted us +as he passed and whirled away on a great circle into the snow to +leeward. + +Margaret’s hand shot out to mine. + +“It alone was worth the climb!” she cried. And then the _Elsinore_ +flung down, and Margaret’s hand clutched tighter for holding, while +from the hidden depths arose the crash and thunder of the great west +wind drift upon our decks. + +Quickly as the snow-squall had come, it passed with the same sharp +quickness, and as in a flash we could see the lean length of the ship +beneath us—the main deck full with boiling flood, the forecastle-head +buried in a bursting sea, the lookout, stationed for very life back on +top the for’ard-house, hanging on, head down, to the wind-drive of +ocean, and, directly under us, the streaming poop and Mr. Mellaire, +with a handful of men, rigging relieving tackles on the tiller. And we +saw the Samurai emerge in the lee of the chart-house, swaying with +casual surety on the mad deck, as he spoke what must have been +instructions to Mr. Pike. + +The gray circle of the world had removed itself from us for several +hundred yards, and we could see the mighty sweep of sea. Shaggy +gray-beards, sixty feet from trough to crest, leapt out of the windward +murky gray, and in unending procession rushed upon the _Elsinore_, one +moment overtoppling her slender frailness, the next moment splashing a +hundred tons of water on her deck and flinging her skyward as they +passed beneath and foamed and crested from sight in the murky gray to +leeward. And the great albatrosses veered and circled about us, beating +up into the bitter violence of the gale and sweeping grandly away +before it far faster than it blew. + +Margaret forbore from looking to challenge me with eloquent, +questioning eyes. With numb fingers inside my thick mitten, I drew +aside the ear-flap of her sou’wester and shouted: + +“It is nothing new. I have been here before. In the lives of all my +fathers have I been here. The frost is on my cheek, the salt bites my +nostrils, the wind chants in my ears, and it is an old happening. I +know, now, that my forbears were Vikings. I was seed of them in their +own day. With them I have raided English coasts, dared the Pillars of +Hercules, forayed the Mediterranean, and sat in the high place of +government over the soft sun-warm peoples. I am Hengist and Horsa; I am +of the ancient heroes, even legendary to them. I have bearded and +bitten the frozen seas, and, aforetime of that, ere ever the ice-ages +came to be, I have dripped my shoulders in reindeer gore, slain the +mastodon and the sabre-tooth, scratched the record of my prowess on the +walls of deep-buried caves—ay, and suckled she-wolves side by side with +my brother-cubs, the scars of whose fangs are now upon me.” + +She laughed deliciously, and a snow-squall drove upon us and cut our +cheeks, and the _Elsinore_ flung over and down as if she would never +rise again, while we held on and swept through the air in a dizzying +arc. Margaret released a hand, still laughing, and pressed aside my +ear-flap. + +“I don’t know anything about it,” she cried. “It sounds like poetry. +But I believe it. It has to be, for it has been. I have heard it +aforetime, when skin-clad men sang in fire-circles that pressed back +the frost and night.” + +“And the books?” she queried maliciously, as we prepared to descend. + +“They can go hang, along with all the brain-sick, world-sick fools that +wrote them,” I replied. + +Again she laughed deliciously, though the wind tore the sound away as +she swung out into space, muscled herself by her arms while she caught +footholds beneath her which she could not see, and passed out of my +sight under the perilous overhang of the top. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + +“What price tobacco?” was Mr. Mellaire’s greeting, when I came on deck +this morning, bruised and weary, aching in every bone and muscle from +sixty hours of being tossed about. + +The wind had fallen to a dead calm toward morning, and the Elsinore, +her several spread sails booming and slatting, rolled more miserably +than ever. Mr. Mellaire pointed for’ard of our starboard beam. I could +make out a bleak land of white and jagged peaks. + +“Staten Island, the easterly end of it,” said Mr. Mellaire. + +And I knew that we were in the position of a vessel just rounding +Staten Island preliminary to bucking the Horn. And, yet, four days ago, +we had run through the Straits of Le Maire and stolen along toward the +Horn. Three days ago we had been well abreast of the Horn and even a +few miles past. And here we were now, starting all over again and far +in the rear of where we had originally started. + +* * * * * + + +The condition of the men is truly wretched. During the gale the +forecastle was washed out twice. This means that everything in it was +afloat and that every article of clothing, including mattresses and +blankets, is wet and will remain wet in this bitter weather until we +are around the Horn and well up in the good-weather latitudes. The same +is true of the ’midship-house. Every room in it, with the exception of +the cook’s and the sail-makers’ (which open for’ard on Number Two +hatch), is soaking. And they have no fires in their rooms with which to +dry things out. + +I peeped into Charles Davis’s room. It was terrible. He grinned to me +and nodded his head. + +“It’s just as well O’Sullivan wasn’t here, sir,” he said. “He’d +a-drowned in the lower bunk. And I want to tell you I was doing some +swimmin’ before I could get into the top one. And salt water’s bad for +my sores. I oughtn’t to be in a hole like this in Cape Horn weather. +Look at the ice, there, on the floor. It’s below freezin’ right now in +this room, and my blankets are wet, and I’m a sick man, as any man can +tell that’s got a nose.” + +“If you’d been decent to the mate you might have got decent treatment +in return,” I said. + +“Huh!” he sneered. “You needn’t think you can lose me, sir. I can grow +fat on this sort of stuff. Why, sir, when I think of the court doin’s +in Seattle I just couldn’t die. An’ if you’ll listen to me, sir, you’ll +cover the steward’s money. You can’t lose. I’m advisin’ you, sir, +because you’re a sort of decent sort. Anybody that bets on my going +over the side is a sure loser.” + +“How could you dare ship on a voyage like this in your condition?” I +demanded. + +“Condition?” he queried with a fine assumption of innocence. “Why, that +is why I did ship. I was in tiptop shape when I sailed. All this come +out on me afterward. You remember seein’ me aloft, an’ up to my neck in +water. And I trimmed coal below, too. A sick man couldn’t do it. And +remember, sir, you’ll have to testify to how I did my duty at the +beginning before I took down.” + +“I’ll bet with you myself if you think I’m goin’ to die,” he called +after me. + +Already the sailors show marks of the hardship they are enduring. It is +surprising, in so short a time, how lean their faces have grown, how +lined and seamed. They must dry their underclothing with their body +heat. Their outer garments, under their oilskins, are soggy. And yet, +paradoxically, despite their lean, drawn faces, they have grown very +stout. Their walk is a waddle, and they bulge with seeming corpulency. +This is due to the amount of clothing they have on. I noticed Larry, +to-day, had on two vests, two coats, and an overcoat, with his oilskin +outside of that. They are elephantine in their gait for, in addition to +everything else, they have wrapped their feet, outside their sea-boots, +with gunny sacking. + +It _is_ cold, although the deck thermometer stood at thirty-three +to-day at noon. I had Wada weigh the clothing I wear on deck. Omitting +oilskins and boots, it came to eighteen pounds. And yet I am not any +too warm in all this gear when the wind is blowing. How sailors, after +having once experienced the Horn, can ever sign on again for a voyage +around is beyond me. It but serves to show how stupid they must be. + +I feel sorry for Henry, the training-ship boy. He is more my own kind, +and some day he will make a henchman of the afterguard and a mate like +Mr. Pike. In the meantime, along with Buckwheat, the other boy who +berths in the ’midship-house with him, he suffers the same hardship as +the men. He is very fair-skinned, and I noticed this afternoon, when he +was pulling on a brace, that the sleeves of his oil-skins, assisted by +the salt water, have chafed his wrists till they are raw and bleeding +and breaking out in sea-boils. Mr. Mellaire tells me that in another +week there will be a plague of these boils with all hands for’ard. + +“When do you think we’ll be up with the Horn again?” I innocently +queried of Mr. Pike. + +He turned upon me in a rage, as if I had insulted him, and positively +snarled in my face ere he swung away without the courtesy of an answer. +It is evident that he takes the sea seriously. That is why, I fancy, he +is so excellent a seaman. + +* * * * * + + +The days pass—if the interval of sombre gray that comes between the +darknesses can be called day. For a week, now, we have not seen the +sun. Our ship’s position in this waste of storm and sea is conjectural. +Once, by dead reckoning, we gained up with the Horn and a hundred miles +south of it. And then came another sou’west gale that tore our +fore-topsail and brand new spencer out of the belt-ropes and swept us +away to a conjectured longitude east of Staten Island. + +Oh, I know now this Great West Wind that blows forever around the world +south of 55. And I know why the chart-makers have capitalized it, as, +for instance, when I read “The Great West Wind Drift.” And I know why +the _Sailing Directions_ advise: “_Whatever you do_, _make westing_! +_make westing_!” + +And the West Wind and the drift of the West Wind will not permit the +_Elsinore_ to make westing. Gale follows gale, always from the west, +and we make easting. And it is bitter cold, and each gale snorts up +with a prelude of driving snow. + +In the cabin the lamps burn all day long. No more does Mr. Pike run the +phonograph, nor does Margaret ever touch the piano. She complains of +being bruised and sore. I have a wrenched shoulder from being hurled +against the wall. And both Wada and the steward are limping. Really, +the only comfort I can find is in my bunk, so wedged with boxes and +pillows that the wildest rolls cannot throw me out. There, save for my +meals and for an occasional run on deck for exercise and fresh air, I +lie and read eighteen and nineteen hours out of the twenty-four. But +the unending physical strain is very wearisome. + +How it must be with the poor devils for’ard is beyond conceiving. The +forecastle has been washed out several times, and everything is soaking +wet. Besides, they have grown weaker, and two watches are required to +do what one ordinary watch could do. Thus, they must spend as many +hours on the sea-swept deck and aloft on the freezing yards as I do in +my warm, dry bunk. Wada tells me that they never undress, but turn into +their wet bunks in their oil-skins and sea-boots and wet undergarments. + +To look at them crawling about on deck or in the rigging is enough. +They are truly weak. They are gaunt-cheeked and haggard-gray of skin, +with great dark circles under their eyes. The predicted plague of +sea-boils and sea-cuts has come, and their hands and wrists and arms +are frightfully afflicted. Now one, and now another, and sometimes +several, either from being knocked down by seas or from general +miserableness, take to the bunk for a day or so off. This means more +work for the others, so that the men on their feet are not tolerant of +the sick ones, and a man must be very sick to escape being dragged out +to work by his mates. + +I cannot but marvel at Andy Fay and Mulligan Jacobs. Old and fragile as +they are, it seems impossible that they can endure what they do. For +that matter, I cannot understand why they work at all. I cannot +understand why any of them toil on and obey an order in this freezing +hell of the Horn. Is it because of fear of death that they do not cease +work and bring death to all of us? Or is it because they are +slave-beasts, with a slave-psychology, so used all their lives to being +driven by their masters that it is beyond their mental power to refuse +to obey? + +And yet most of them, in a week after we reach Seattle, will be on +board other ships outward bound for the Horn. Margaret says the reason +for this is that sailors forget. Mr. Pike agrees. He says give them a +week in the south-east trades as we run up the Pacific and they will +have forgotten that they have ever been around the Horn. I wonder. Can +they be as stupid as this? Does pain leave no record with them? Do they +fear only the immediate thing? Have they no horizons wider than a day? +Then indeed do they belong where they are. + +They _are_ cowardly. This was shown conclusively this morning at two +o’clock. Never have I witnessed such panic fear, and it was fear of the +immediate thing—fear, stupid and beast-like. It was Mr. Mellaire’s +watch. As luck would have it, I was reading Boas’s _Mind of Primitive +Man_ when I heard the rush of feet over my head. The _Elsinore_ was +hove to on the port tack at the time, under very short canvas. I was +wondering what emergency had brought the watch upon the poop, when I +heard another rush of feet that meant the second watch. I heard no +pulling and hauling, and the thought of mutiny flashed across my mind. + +Still nothing happened, and, growing curious, I got into my sea-boots, +sheepskin coat, and oilskin, put on my sou’wester and mittens, and went +on deck. Mr. Pike had already dressed and was ahead of me. Captain +West, who in this bad weather sleeps in the chart-room, stood in the +lee doorway of the house, through which the lamplight streamed on the +frightened faces of the men. + +Those of the ’midship-house were not present, but every man Jack of the +forecastle, with the exception of Andy Fay and Mulligan Jacobs, as I +afterwards learned, had joined in the flight aft. Andy Fay, who +belonged in the watch below, had calmly remained in his bunk, while +Mulligan Jacobs had taken advantage of the opportunity to sneak into +the forecastle and fill his pipe. + +“What is the matter, Mr. Pike?” Captain West asked. + +Before the mate could reply, Bert Rhine snickered: + +“The devil’s come aboard, sir.” + +But his snicker was palpably an assumption of unconcern he did not +possess. The more I think over it the more I am surprised that such +keen men as the gangsters should have been frightened by what had +occurred. But frightened they were, the three of them, out of their +bunks and out of the precious surcease of their brief watch below. + +So fear-struck was Larry that he chattered and grimaced like an ape, +and shouldered and struggled to get away from the dark and into the +safety of the shaft of light that shone out of the chart-house. Tony, +the Greek, was just as bad, mumbling to himself and continually +crossing himself. He was joined in this, as a sort of chorus, by the +two Italians, Guido Bombini and Mike Cipriani. Arthur Deacon was almost +in collapse, and he and Chantz, the Jew, shamelessly clung to each +other for support. Bob, the fat and overgrown youth, was sobbing, while +the other youth, Bony the Splinter, was shivering and chattering his +teeth. Yes, and the two best sailors for’ard, Tom Spink and the Maltese +Cockney, stood in the background, their backs to the dark, their faces +yearning toward the light. + +More than all other contemptible things in this world there are two +that I loathe and despise: hysteria in a woman; fear and cowardice in a +man. The first turns me to ice. I cannot sympathize with hysteria. The +second turns my stomach. Cowardice in a man is to me positively +nauseous. And this fear-smitten mass of human animals on our reeling +poop raised my gorge. Truly, had I been a god at that moment, I should +have annihilated the whole mass of them. No; I should have been +merciful to one. He was the Faun. His bright, pain-liquid, and +flashing-eager eyes strained from face to face with desire to +understand. He did not know what had occurred, and, being stone-deaf, +had thought the rush aft a response to a call for all hands. + +I noticed Mr. Mellaire. He may be afraid of Mr. Pike, and he is a +murderer; but at any rate he has no fear of the supernatural. With two +men above him in authority, although it was his watch, there was no +call for him to do anything. He swayed back and forth in balance to the +violent motions of the _Elsinore_ and looked on with eyes that were +amused and cynical. + +“What does the devil look like, my man?” Captain West asked. + +Bert Rhine grinned sheepishly. + +“Answer the captain!” Mr. Pike snarled at him. + +Oh, it was murder, sheer murder, that leapt into the gangster’s eyes +for the instant, in acknowledgment of the snarl. Then he replied to +Captain West: + +“I didn’t wait to see, sir. But it’s one whale of a devil.” + +“He’s as big as a elephant, sir,” volunteered Bill Quigley. “I seen’m +face to face, sir. He almost got me when I run out of the fo’c’s’le.” + +“Oh, Lord, sir!” Larry moaned. “The way he hit the house, sir. It was +the call to Judgment.” + +“Your theology is mixed, my man,” Captain West smiled quietly, though I +could not help seeing how tired was his face and how tired were his +wonderful Samurai eyes. + +He turned to the mate. + +“Mr. Pike, will you please go for’ard and interview this devil? Fasten +him up and tie him down and I’ll take a look at him in the morning.” + +“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Pike; and Kipling’s line came to me: + +“Woman, Man, or God or Devil, was there anything we feared?” + + +And as I went for’ard through the wall of darkness after Mr. Pike and +Mr. Mellaire along the freezing, slender, sea-swept bridge—not a sailor +dared to accompany us—other lines of “The Galley Slave” drifted through +my brain, such as: + +“Our bulkheads bulged with cotton and our masts were stepped in gold— +We ran a mighty merchandise of niggers in the hold. . . ” + + +And: + +“By the brand upon my shoulder, by the gall of clinging steel, +By the welts the whips have left me, by the scars that never heal . . . +” + + +And: + +“Battered chain-gangs of the orlop, grizzled draughts of years gone by +. . . ” + + +And I caught my great, radiant vision of Mr. Pike, galley slave of the +race, and a driver of men under men greater than he; the faithful +henchman, the able sailorman, battered and grizzled, branded and +galled, the servant of the sweep-head that made mastery of the sea. I +know him now. He can never again offend me. I forgive him +everything—the whiskey raw on his breath the day I came aboard at +Baltimore, his moroseness when sea and wind do not favour, his savagery +to the men, his snarl and his sneer. + +On top the ’midship-house we got a ducking that makes me shiver to +recall. I had dressed too hastily properly to fasten my oilskin about +my neck, so that I was wet to the skin. We crossed the next span of +bridge through driving spray, and were well upon the top of the +for’ard-house when something adrift on the deck hit the for’ard wall a +terrific smash. + +“Whatever it is, it’s playing the devil,” Mr. Pike yelled in my ear, as +he endeavoured to locate the thing by the dry-battery light-stick which +he carried. + +The pencil of light travelled over dark water, white with foam, that +churned upon the deck. + +“There it goes!” Mr. Pike cried, as the _Elsinore_ dipped by the head +and hurtled the water for’ard. + +The light went out as the three of us caught holds and crouched to a +deluge of water from overside. As we emerged, from under the +forecastle-head we heard a tremendous thumping and battering. Then, as +the bow lifted, for an instant in the pencil of light that immediately +lost it, I glimpsed a vague black object that bounded down the inclined +deck where no water was. What became of it we could not see. + +Mr. Pike descended to the deck, followed by Mr. Mellaire. Again, as the +_Elsinore_ dipped by the head and fetched a surge of sea-water from aft +along the runway, I saw the dark object bound for’ard directly at the +mates. They sprang to safety from its charge, the light went out, while +another icy sea broke aboard. + +For a time I could see nothing of the two men. Next, in the light +flashed from the stick, I guessed that Mr. Pike was in pursuit of the +thing. He evidently must have captured it at the rail against the +starboard rigging and caught a turn around it with a loose end of rope. +As the vessel rolled to windward some sort of a struggle seemed to be +going on. The second mate sprang to the mate’s assistance, and, +together, with more loose ends, they seemed to subdue the thing. + +I descended to see. By the light-stick we made it out to be a large, +barnacle-crusted cask. + +“She’s been afloat for forty years,” was Mr. Pike’s judgment. “Look at +the size of the barnacles, and look at the whiskers.” + +“And it’s full of something,” said Mr. Mellaire. “Hope it isn’t water.” + +I rashly lent a hand when they started to work the cask for’ard, +between seas and taking advantage of the rolls and pitches, to the +shelter under the forecastle-head. As a result, even through my +mittens, I was cut by the sharp edges of broken shell. + +“It’s liquor of some sort,” said the mate, “but we won’t risk broaching +it till morning.” + +“But where did it come from?” I asked. + +“Over the side’s the only place it could have come from.” Mr. Pike +played the light over it. “Look at it! It’s been afloat for years and +years.” + +“The stuff ought to be well-seasoned,” commented Mr. Mellaire. + +Leaving them to lash the cask securely, I stole along the deck to the +forecastle and peered in. The men, in their headlong flight, had +neglected to close the doors, and the place was afloat. In the +flickering light from a small and very smoky sea-lamp it was a dismal +picture. No self-respecting cave-man, I am sure, would have lived in +such a hole. + +Even as I looked a bursting sea filled the runway between the house and +rail, and through the doorway in which I stood the freezing water +rushed waist-deep. I had to hold on to escape being swept inside the +room. From a top bunk, lying on his side, Andy Fay regarded me steadily +with his bitter blue eyes. Seated on the rough table of heavy planks, +his sea-booted feet swinging in the water, Mulligan Jacobs pulled at +his pipe. When he observed me he pointed to pulpy book-pages that +floated about. + +“Me library’s gone to hell,” he mourned as he indicated the flotsam. +“There’s me Byron. An’ there goes Zola an’ Browning with a piece of +Shakespeare runnin’ neck an’ neck, an’ what’s left of _Anti-Christ_ +makin’ a bad last. An’ there’s Carlyle and Zola that cheek by jowl you +can’t tell ’em apart.” + +Here the _Elsinore_ lay down to starboard, and the water in the +forecastle poured out against my legs and hips. My wet mittens slipped +on the iron work, and I swept down the runway into the scuppers, where +I was turned over and over by another flood that had just boarded from +windward. + +I know I was rather confused, and that I had swallowed quite a deal of +salt water, ere I got my hands on the rungs of the ladder and climbed +to the top of the house. On my way aft along the bridge I encountered +the crew coming for’ard. Mr. Mellaire and Mr. Pike were talking in the +lee of the chart-house, and inside, as I passed below, Captain West was +smoking a cigar. + +After a good rub down, in dry pyjamas, I was scarcely back in my bunk +with the _Mind of Primitive Man_ before me, when the stampede over my +head was repeated. I waited for the second rush. It came, and I +proceeded to dress. + +The scene on the poop duplicated the previous one, save that the men +were more excited, more frightened. They were babbling and chattering +all together. + +“Shut up!” Mr. Pike was snarling when I came upon them. “One at a time, +and answer the captain’s question.” + +“It ain’t no barrel this time, sir,” Tom Spink said. “It’s alive. An’ +if it ain’t the devil it’s the ghost of a drownded man. I see ’m plain +an’ clear. He’s a man, or was a man once—” + +“They was two of ’em, sir,” Richard Giller, one of the “bricklayers,” +broke in. + +“I think he looked like Petro Marinkovich, sir,” Tom Spink went on. + +“An’ the other was Jespersen—I seen ’m,” Giller added. + +“They was three of ’em, sir,” said Nosey Murphy. “O’Sullivan, sir, was +the other one. They ain’t devils, sir. They’re drownded men. They come +aboard right over the bows, an’ they moved slow like drownded men. +Sorensen seen the first one first. He caught my arm an’ pointed, an’ +then I seen ’m. He was on top the for’ard-house. And Olansen seen ’m, +an’ Deacon, sir, an’ Hackey. We all seen ’m, sir . . . an’ the second +one; an’ when the rest run away I stayed long enough to see the third +one. Mebbe there’s more. I didn’t wait to see.” + +Captain West stopped the man. + +“Mr. Pike,” he said wearily, “will you straighten this nonsense out.” + +“Yes, sir,” Mr. Pike responded, then turned on the men. “Come on, all +of you! There’s three devils to tie down this time.” + +But the men shrank away from the order and from him. + +“For two cents . . . ” I heard Mr. Pike growl to himself, then choke +off utterance. + +He flung about on his heel and started for the bridge. In the same +order as on the previous trip, Mr. Mellaire second, and I bringing up +the rear, we followed. It was a similar journey, save that we caught a +ducking midway on the first span of bridge as well as a ducking on the +’midship-house. + +We halted on top the for’ard-house. In vain Mr. Pike flashed his +light-stick. Nothing was to be seen nor heard save the white-flecked +dark water on our deck, the roar of the gale in our rigging, and the +crash and thunder of seas falling aboard. We advanced half-way across +the last span of bridge to the fore-castle head, and were driven to +pause and hang on at the foremast by a bursting sea. + +Between the drives of spray Mr. Pike flashed his stick. I heard him +exclaim something. Then he went on to the forecastle-head, followed by +Mr. Mellaire, while I waited by the foremast, clinging tight, and +endured another ducking. Through the emergencies I could see the pencil +of light, appearing and disappearing, darting here and there. Several +minutes later the mates were back with me. + +“Half our head-gear’s carried away,” Mr. Pike told me. “We must have +run into something.” + +“I felt a jar, right after you’ went below, sir, last time,” said Mr. +Mellaire. “Only I thought it was a thump of sea.” + +“So did I feel it,” the mate agreed. “I was just taking off my boots. I +thought it was a sea. But where are the three devils?” + +“Broaching the cask,” the second mate suggested. + +We made the forecastle-head, descended the iron ladder, and went +for’ard, inside, underneath, out of the wind and sea. There lay the +cask, securely lashed. The size of the barnacles on it was astonishing. +They were as large as apples and inches deep. A down-fling of bow +brought a foot of water about our boots; and as the bow lifted and the +water drained away, it drew out from the shell-crusted cask streamers +of seaweed a foot or so in length. + +Led by Mr. Pike and watching our chance between seas, we searched the +deck and rails between the forecastle-head and the for’ard-house and +found no devils. The mate stepped into the forecastle doorway, and his +light-stick cut like a dagger through the dim illumination of the murky +sea-lamp. And we saw the devils. Nosey Murphy had been right. There +were three of them. + +Let me give the picture: A drenched and freezing room of rusty, +paint-scabbed iron, low-roofed, double-tiered with bunks, reeking with +the filth of thirty men, despite the washing of the sea. In a top bunk, +on his side, in sea-boots and oilskins, staring steadily with blue, +bitter eyes, Andy Fay; on the table, pulling at a pipe, with hanging +legs dragged this way and that by the churn of water, Mulligan Jacobs, +solemnly regarding three men, sea-booted and bloody, who stand side by +side, of a height and not duly tall, swaying in unison to the +_Elsinore’s_ down-flinging and up-lifting. + +But such men! I know my East Side and my East End, and I am accustomed +to the faces of all the ruck of races, yet with these three men I was +at fault. The Mediterranean had surely never bred such a breed; nor had +Scandinavia. They were not blonds. They were not brunettes. Nor were +they of the Brown, or Black, or Yellow. Their skin was white under a +bronze of weather. Wet as was their hair, it was plainly a colourless, +sandy hair. Yet their eyes were dark—and yet not dark. They were +neither blue, nor gray, nor green, nor hazel. Nor were they black. They +were topaz, pale topaz; and they gleamed and dreamed like the eyes of +great cats. They regarded us like walkers in a dream, these pale-haired +storm-waifs with pale, topaz eyes. They did not bow, they did not +smile, in no way did they recognize our presence save that they looked +at us and dreamed. + +But Andy Fay greeted us. + +“It’s a hell of a night an’ not a wink of sleep with these goings-on,” +he said. + +“Now where did they blow in from a night like this?” Mulligan Jacobs +complained. + +“You’ve got a tongue in your mouth,” Mr. Pike snarled. “Why ain’t you +asked ’em?” + +“As though you didn’t know I could use the tongue in me mouth, you old +stiff,” Jacobs snarled back. + +But it was no time for their private feud. Mr. Pike turned on the +dreaming new-comers and addressed them in the mangled and aborted +phrases of a dozen languages such as the world-wandering Anglo-Saxon +has had every opportunity to learn but is too stubborn-brained and +wilful-mouthed to wrap his tongue about. + +The visitors made no reply. They did not even shake their heads. Their +faces remained peculiarly relaxed and placid, incurious and pleasant, +while in their eyes floated profounder dreams. Yet they were human. The +blood of their injuries stained them and clotted on their clothes. + +“Dutchmen,” snorted Mr. Pike, with all due contempt for other breeds, +as he waved them to make themselves at home in any of the bunks. + +Mr. Pike’s ethnology is narrow. Outside his own race he is aware of +only three races: niggers, Dutchmen, and Dagoes. + +Again our visitors proved themselves human. They understood the mate’s +invitation, and, glancing first at one another, they climbed into three +top-bunks and closed their eyes. I could swear the first of them was +asleep in half a minute. + +“We’ll have to clean up for’ard, or we’ll be having the sticks about +our ears,” the mate said, already starting to depart. “Get the men +along, Mr. Mellaire, and call out the carpenter.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + +And no westing! We have been swept back three degrees of easting since +the night our visitors came on board. They are the great mystery, these +three men of the sea. “Horn Gypsies,” Margaret calls them; and Mr. Pike +dubs them “Dutchmen.” One thing is certain, they have a language of +their own which they talk with one another. But of our hotch-potch of +nationalities fore and aft there is no person who catches an inkling of +their language or nationality. + +Mr. Mellaire raised the theory that they were Finns of some sort, but +this was indignantly denied by our big-footed youth of a carpenter, who +swears he is a Finn himself. Louis, the cook, avers that somewhere over +the world, on some forgotten voyage, he has encountered men of their +type; but he can neither remember the voyage nor their race. He and the +rest of the Asiatics accept their presence as a matter of course; but +the crew, with the exception of Andy Fay and Mulligan Jacobs, is very +superstitious about the new-comers, and will have nothing to do with +them. + +“No good will come of them, sir,” Tom Spink, at the wheel, told us, +shaking his head forebodingly. + +Margaret’s mittened hand rested on my arm as we balanced to the easy +roll of the ship. We had paused from our promenade, which we now take +each day, religiously, as a constitutional, between eleven and twelve. + +“Why, what is the matter with them?” she queried, nudging me privily in +warning of what was coming. + +“Because they ain’t men, Miss, as we can rightly call men. They ain’t +regular men.” + +“It was a bit irregular, their manner of coming on board,” she gurgled. + +“That’s just it, Miss,” Tom Spink exclaimed, brightening perceptibly at +the hint of understanding. “Where’d they come from? They won’t tell. Of +course they won’t tell. They ain’t men. They’re spirits—ghosts of +sailors that drowned as long ago as when that cask went adrift from a +sinkin’ ship, an’ that’s years an’ years, Miss, as anybody can see, +lookin’ at the size of the barnacles on it.” + +“Do you think so?” Margaret queried. + +“We all think so, Miss. We ain’t spent our lives on the sea for +nothin’. There’s no end of landsmen don’t believe in the Flyin’ +Dutchman. But what do they know? They’re just landsmen, ain’t they? +They ain’t never had their leg grabbed by a ghost, such as I had, on +the _Kathleen_, thirty-five years ago, down in the hole ’tween the +water-casks. An’ didn’t that ghost rip the shoe right off of me? An’ +didn’t I fall through the hatch two days later an’ break my shoulder?” + +“Now, Miss, I seen ’em makin’ signs to Mr. Pike that we’d run into +their ship hove to on the other tack. Don’t you believe it. There +wasn’t no ship.” + +“But how do you explain the carrying away of our head-gear?” I +demanded. + +“There’s lots of things can’t be explained, sir,” was Tom Spink’s +answer. “Who can explain the way the Finns plays tom-fool tricks with +the weather? Yet everybody knows it. Why are we havin’ a hard passage +around the Horn, sir? I ask you that. Why, sir?” + +I shook my head. + +“Because of the carpenter, sir. We’ve found out he’s a Finn. Why did he +keep it quiet all the way down from Baltimore?” + +“Why did he tell it?” Margaret challenged. + +“He didn’t tell it, Miss—leastways, not until after them three others +boarded us. I got my suspicions he knows more about ’m than he’s +lettin’ on. An’ look at the weather an’ the delay we’re gettin’. An’ +don’t everybody know the Finns is regular warlocks an’ +weather-breeders?” + +My ears pricked up. + +“Where did you get that word _warlock_?” I questioned. + +Tom Spink looked puzzled. + +“What’s wrong with it, sir?” he asked. + +“Nothing. It’s all right. But where did you get it?” + +“I never got it, sir. I always had it. That’s what Finns is—warlocks.” + +“And these three new-comers—they aren’t Finns?” asked Margaret. + +The old Englishman shook his head solemnly. + +“No, Miss. They’re drownded sailors a long time drownded. All you have +to do is look at ’m. An’ the carpenter could tell us a few if he was +minded.” + +* * * * * + + +Nevertheless, our mysterious visitors are a welcome addition to our +weakened crew. I watch them at work. They are strong and willing. Mr. +Pike says they are real sailormen, even if he doesn’t understand their +lingo. His theory is that they are from some small old-country or +outlander ship, which, hove to on the opposite tack to the _Elsinore_, +was run down and sunk. + +I have forgotten to say that we found the barnacled cask nearly filled +with a most delicious wine which none of us can name. As soon as the +gale moderated Mr. Pike had the cask brought aft and broached, and now +the steward and Wada have it all in bottles and spare demijohns. It is +beautifully aged, and Mr. Pike is certain that it is some sort of a +mild and unheard-of brandy. Mr. Mellaire merely smacks his lips over +it, while Captain West, Margaret, and I steadfastly maintain that it is +wine. + +The condition of the men grows deplorable. They were always poor at +pulling on ropes, but now it takes two or three to pull as much as one +used to pull. One thing in their favour is that they are well, though +grossly, fed. They have all they want to eat, such as it is, but it is +the cold and wet, the terrible condition of the forecastle, the lack of +sleep, and the almost continuous toil of both watches on deck. Either +watch is so weak and worthless that any severe task requires the +assistance of the other watch. As an instance, we finally managed a +reef in the foresail in the thick of a gale. It took both watches two +hours, yet Mr. Pike tells me that under similar circumstances, with an +average crew of the old days, he has seen a single watch reef the +foresail in twenty minutes. + +I have learned one of the prime virtues of a steel sailing-ship. Such a +craft, heavily laden, does not strain her seams open in bad weather and +big seas. Except for a tiny leak down in the fore-peak, with which we +sailed from Baltimore and which is bailed out with a pail once in +several weeks, the _Elsinore_ is bone-dry. Mr. Pike tells me that had a +wooden ship of her size and cargo gone through the buffeting we have +endured, she would be leaking like a sieve. + +And Mr. Mellaire, out of his own experience, has added to my respect +for the Horn. When he was a young man he was once eight weeks in making +around from 50 in the Atlantic to 50 in the Pacific. Another time his +vessel was compelled to put back twice to the Falklands for repairs. +And still another time, in a wooden ship running back in distress to +the Falklands, his vessel was lost in a shift of gale in the very +entrance to Port Stanley. As he told me: + +“And after we’d been there a month, sir, who should come in but the old +_Lucy Powers_. She was a sight!—her foremast clean gone out of her and +half her spars, the old man killed from one of the spars falling on +him, the mate with two broken arms, the second mate sick, and what was +left of the crew at the pumps. We’d lost our ship, so my skipper took +charge, refitted her, doubled up both crews, and we headed the other +way around, pumping two hours in every watch clear to Honolulu.” + +The poor wretched chickens! Because of their ill-judged moulting they +are quite featherless. It is a marvel that one of them survives, yet so +far we have lost only six. Margaret keeps the kerosene stove going, +and, though they have ceased laying, she confidently asserts that they +are all layers and that we shall have plenty of eggs once we get fine +weather in the Pacific. + +There is little use to describe these monotonous and perpetual westerly +gales. One is very like another, and they follow so fast on one +another’s heels that the sea never has a chance to grow calm. So long +have we rolled and tossed about that the thought, say, of a solid, +unmoving billiard-table is inconceivable. In previous incarnations I +have encountered things that did not move, but . . . they were in +previous incarnations. + +We have been up to the Diego Ramirez Rocks twice in the past ten days. +At the present moment, by vague dead reckoning, we are two hundred +miles east of them. We have been hove down to our hatches three times +in the last week. We have had six stout sails, of the heaviest canvas, +furled and double-gasketed, torn loose and stripped from the yards. +Sometimes, so weak are our men, not more than half of them can respond +to the call for all hands. + +Lars Jacobson, who had his leg broken early in the voyage, was knocked +down by a sea several days back and had the leg rebroken. Ditman +Olansen, the crank-eyed Norwegian, went Berserker last night in the +second dog-watch and pretty well cleaned out his half of the +forecastle. Wada reports that it required the bricklayers, Fitzgibbon +and Gilder, the Maltese Cockney, and Steve Roberts, the cowboy, finally +to subdue the madman. These are all men of Mr. Mellaire’s watch. In Mr. +Pike’s watch John Hackey, the San Francisco hoodlum, who has stood out +against the gangsters, has at last succumbed and joined them. And only +this morning Mr. Pike dragged Charles Davis by the scruff of the neck +out of the forecastle, where he had caught him expounding sea-law to +the miserable creatures. Mr. Mellaire, I notice on occasion, remains +unduly intimate with the gangster clique. And yet nothing serious +happens. + +And Charles Davis does not die. He seems actually to be gaining in +weight. He never misses a meal. From the break of the poop, in the +shelter of the weather cloth, our decks a thunder and rush of freezing +water, I often watch him slip out of his room between seas, mug and +plate in hand, and hobble for’ard to the galley for his food. He is a +keen judge of the ship’s motions, for never yet have I seen him get a +serious ducking. Sometimes, of course, he may get splattered with spray +or wet to the knees, but he manages to be out of the way whenever a big +graybeard falls on board. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + +A wonderful event to-day! For five minutes, at noon, the sun was +actually visible. But such a sun!—a pale and cold and sickly orb that +at meridian was only 90 degrees 18 minutes above the horizon. And +within the hour we were taking in sail and lying down to the snow-gusts +of a fresh south-west gale. + +_Whatever you do_, _make westing_! _make westing_!—this sailing rule of +the navigators for the Horn has been bitten out of iron. I can +understand why shipmasters, with a favouring slant of wind, have left +sailors, fallen overboard, to drown without heaving-to to lower a boat. +Cape Horn is iron, and it takes masters of iron to win around from east +to west. + +And we make easting! This west wind is eternal. I listen incredulously +when Mr. Pike or Mr. Mellaire tells of times when easterly winds have +blown in these latitudes. It is impossible. Always does the west wind +blow, gale upon gale and gales everlasting, else why the “Great West +Wind Drift” printed on the charts! We of the afterguard are weary of +this eternal buffeting. Our men have become pulpy, washed-out, +sore-corroded shadows of men. I should not be surprised, in the end, to +see Captain West turn tail and run eastward around the world to +Seattle. But Margaret smiles with surety, and nods her head, and +affirms that her father will win around to 50 in the Pacific. + +How Charles Davis survives in that wet, freezing, paint-scabbed room of +iron in the ’midship-house is beyond me—just as it is beyond me that +the wretched sailors in the wretched forecastle do not lie down in +their bunks and die, or, at least, refuse to answer the call of the +watches. + +Another week has passed, and we are to-day, by observation, sixty miles +due south of the Straits of Le Maire, and we are hove-to, in a driving +gale, on the port tack. The glass is down to 28.58, and even Mr. Pike +acknowledges that it is one of the worst Cape Horn snorters he has ever +experienced. + +In the old days the navigators used to strive as far south as 64 +degrees or 65 degrees, into the Antarctic drift ice, hoping, in a +favouring spell, to make westing at a prodigious rate across the +extreme-narrowing wedges of longitude. But of late years all +shipmasters have accepted the hugging of the land all the way around. +Out of ten times ten thousand passages of Cape Stiff from east to west, +this, they have concluded, is the best strategy. So Captain West hugs +the land. He heaves-to on the port tack until the leeward drift brings +the land into perilous proximity, then wears ship and heaves-to on the +port tack and makes leeway off shore. + +I may be weary of all this bitter movement of a labouring ship on a +frigid sea, but at the same time I do not mind it. In my brain burns +the flame of a great discovery and a great achievement. I have found +what makes all the books go glimmering; I have achieved what my very +philosophy tells me is the greatest achievement a man can make. I have +found the love of woman. I do not know whether she cares for me. Nor is +that the point. The point is that in myself I have risen to the +greatest height to which the human male animal can rise. + +I know a woman and her name is Margaret. She is Margaret, a woman and +desirable. My blood is red. I am not the pallid scholar I so proudly +deemed myself to be. I am a man, and a lover, despite the books. As for +De Casseres—if ever I get back to New York, equipped as I now am, I +shall confute him with the same ease that he has confuted all the +schools. Love is the final word. To the rational man it alone gives the +super-rational sanction for living. Like Bergson in his overhanging +heaven of intuition, or like one who has bathed in Pentecostal fire and +seen the New Jerusalem, so I have trod the materialistic dictums of +science underfoot, scaled the last peak of philosophy, and leaped into +my heaven, which, after all, is within myself. The stuff that composes +me, that is I, is so made that it finds its supreme realization in the +love of woman. It is the vindication of being. Yes, and it is the wages +of being, the payment in full for all the brittleness and frailty of +flesh and breath. + +And she is only a woman, like any woman, and the Lord knows I know what +women are. And I know Margaret for what she is—mere woman; and yet I +know, in the lover’s soul of me, that she is somehow different. Her +ways are not as the ways of other women, and all her ways are +delightful to me. In the end, I suppose, I shall become a nest-builder, +for of a surety nest-building is one of her pretty ways. And who shall +say which is the worthier—the writing of a whole library or the +building of a nest? + +The monotonous days, bleak and gray and soggy cold, drag by. It is now +a month since we began the passage of the Horn, and here we are, not so +well forward as a month ago, because we are something like a hundred +miles south of the Straits of Le Maire. Even this position is +conjectural, being arrived at by dead reckoning, based on the leeway of +a ship hove-to, now on the one tack, now on the other, with always the +Great West Wind Drift making against us. It is four days since our last +instrument-sight of the sun. + +This storm-vexed ocean has become populous. No ships are getting round, +and each day adds to our number. Never a brief day passes without our +sighting from two or three to a dozen hove-to on port tack or starboard +tack. Captain West estimates there must be at least two hundred sail of +us. A ship hove-to with preventer tackles on the rudder-head is +unmanageable. Each night we take our chance of unavoidable and +disastrous collision. And at times, glimpsed through the snow-squalls, +we see and curse the ships, east-bound, that drive past us with the +West Wind and the West Wind Drift at their backs. And so wild is the +mind of man that Mr. Pike and Mr. Mellaire still aver that on occasion +they have known gales to blow ships from east to west around the Horn. +It surely has been a year since we of the _Elsinore_ emerged from under +the lee of Tierra Del Fuego into the snorting south-west gales. A +century, at least, has elapsed since we sailed from Baltimore. + +* * * * * + + +And I don’t give a snap of my fingers for all the wrath and fury of +this dim-gray sea at the tip of the earth. I have told Margaret that I +love her. The tale was told in the shelter of the weather cloth, where +we clung together in the second dog-watch last evening. And it was told +again, and by both of us, in the bright-lighted chart-room after the +watches had been changed at eight bells. Yes, and her face was +storm-bright, and all of her was very proud, save that her eyes were +warm and soft and fluttered with lids that just would flutter maidenly +and womanly. It was a great hour—our great hour. + +A poor devil of a man is most lucky when, loving, he is loved. Grievous +indeed must be the fate of the lover who is unloved. And I, for one, +and for still other reasons, congratulate myself upon the vastitude of +my good fortune. For see, were Margaret any other sort of a woman, were +she . . . well, just the lovely and lovable and adorably snuggly sort +who seem made just precisely for love and loving and nestling into the +strong arms of a man—why, there wouldn’t be anything remarkable or +wonderful about her loving me. But Margaret is Margaret, strong, +self-possessed, serene, controlled, a very mistress of herself. And +there’s the miracle—that such a woman should have been awakened to love +by me. It is almost unbelievable. I go out of my way to get another +peep into those long, cool, gray eyes of hers and see them grow melting +soft as she looks at me. She is no Juliet, thank the Lord; and thank +the Lord I am no Romeo. And yet I go up alone on the freezing poop, and +under my breath chant defiantly at the snorting gale, and at the +graybeards thundering down on us, that I am a lover. And I send +messages to the lonely albatrosses veering through the murk that I am a +lover. And I look at the wretched sailors crawling along the +spray-swept bridge and know that never in ten thousand wretched lives +could they experience the love I experience, and I wonder why God ever +made them. + +* * * * * + + +“And the one thing I had firmly resolved from the start,” Margaret +confessed to me this morning in the cabin, when I released her from my +arms, “was that I would not permit you to make love to me.” + +“True daughter of Herodias,” I gaily gibed, “so such was the drift of +your thoughts even as early as the very start. Already you were looking +upon me with a considerative female eye.” + +She laughed proudly, and did not reply. + +“What possibly could have led you to expect that I would make love to +you?” I insisted. + +“Because it is the way of young male passengers on long voyages,” she +replied. + +“Then others have . . . ?” + +“They always do,” she assured me gravely. + +And at that instant I knew the first ridiculous pang of jealousy; but I +laughed it away and retorted: + +“It was an ancient Chinese philosopher who is first recorded as having +said, what doubtlessly the cave men before him gibbered, namely, that a +woman pursues a man by fluttering away in advance of him.” + +“Wretch!” she cried. “I never fluttered. When did I ever flutter!” + +“It is a delicate subject . . . ” I began with assumed hesitancy. + +“When did I ever flutter?” she demanded. + +I availed myself of one of Schopenhauer’s ruses by making a shift. + +“From the first you observed nothing that a female could afford to miss +observing,” I charged. “I’ll wager you knew as quickly as I the very +instant when I first loved you.” + +“I knew the first time you hated me,” she evaded. + +“Yes, I know, the first time I saw you and learned that you were coming +on the voyage,” I said. “But now I repeat my challenge. You knew as +quickly as I the first instant I loved you.” + +Oh, her eyes were beautiful, and the repose and certitude of her were +tremendous, as she rested her hand on my arm for a moment and in a low, +quiet voice said: + +“Yes, I . . . I think I know. It was the morning of that pampero off +the Plate, when you were thrown through the door into my father’s +stateroom. I saw it in your eyes. I knew it. I think it was the first +time, the very instant.” + +I could only nod my head and draw her close to me. And she looked up at +me and added: + +“You were very ridiculous. There you sat, on the bed, holding on with +one hand and nursing the other hand under your arm, staring at me, +irritated, startled, utterly foolish, and then . . . how, I don’t know +. . . I knew that you had just come to know . . . ” + +“And the very next instant you froze up,” I charged ungallantly. + +“And that was why,” she admitted shamelessly, then leaned away from me, +her hands resting on my shoulders, while she gurgled and her lips +parted from over her beautiful white teeth. + +One thing I, John Pathurst, know: that gurgling laughter of hers is the +most adorable laughter that was ever heard. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + +I wonder. I wonder. Did the Samurai make a mistake? Or was it the +darkness of oncoming death that chilled and clouded that star-cool +brain of his, and made a mock of all his wisdom? Or was it the blunder +that brought death upon him beforehand? I do not know, I shall never +know; for it is a matter no one of us dreams of hinting at, much less +discussing. + +I shall begin at the beginning—yesterday afternoon. For it was +yesterday afternoon, five weeks to a day since we emerged from the +Straits of Le Maire into this gray storm-ocean, that once again we +found ourselves hove to directly off the Horn. At the changing of the +watches at four o’clock, Captain West gave the command to Mr. Pike to +wear ship. We were on the starboard tack at the time, making leeway off +shore. This manoeuvre placed us on the port tack, and the consequent +leeway, to me, seemed on shore, though at an acute angle, to be sure. + +In the chart-room, glancing curiously at the chart, I measured the +distance with my eye and decided that we were in the neighbourhood of +fifteen miles off Cape Horn. + +“With our drift we’ll be close up under the land by morning, won’t we?” +I ventured tentatively. + +“Yes,” Captain West nodded; “and if it weren’t for the West Wind Drift, +and if the land did not trend to the north-east, we’d be ashore by +morning. As it is, we’ll be well under it at daylight, ready to steal +around if there is a change, ready to wear ship if there is no change.” + +It did not enter my head to question his judgment. What he said had to +be. Was he not the Samurai? + +And yet, a few minutes later, when he had gone below, I noticed Mr. +Pike enter the chart-house. After several paces up and down, and a +brief pause to watch Nancy and several men shift the weather cloth from +lee to weather, I strolled aft to the chart-house. Prompted by I know +not what, I peeped through one of the glass ports. + +There stood Mr. Pike, his sou’wester doffed, his oilskins streaming +rivulets to the floor, while he, dividers and parallel rulers in hand, +bent over the chart. It was the expression of his face that startled +me. The habitual sourness had vanished. All that I could see was +anxiety and apprehension . . . yes, and age. I had never seen him look +so old; for there, at that moment, I beheld the wastage and weariness +of all his sixty-nine years of sea-battling and sea-staring. + +I slipped away from the port and went along the deck to the break of +the poop, where I held on and stood staring through the gray and spray +in the conjectural direction of our drift. Somewhere, there, in the +north-east and north, I knew was a broken, iron coast of rocks upon +which the graybeards thundered. And there, in the chart-room, a +redoubtable sailorman bent anxiously over a chart as he measured and +calculated, and measured and calculated again, our position and our +drift. + +And I knew it could not be. It was not the Samurai but the henchman who +was weak and wrong. Age was beginning to tell upon him at last, which +could not be otherwise than expected when one considered that no man in +ten thousand had weathered age so successfully as he. + +I laughed at my moment’s qualm of foolishness and went below, well +content to meet my loved one and to rest secure in her father’s wisdom. +Of course he was right. He had proved himself right too often already +on the long voyage from Baltimore. + +At dinner Mr. Pike was quite distrait. He took no part whatever in the +conversation, and seemed always to be listening to something from +without—to the vexing clang of taut ropes that came down the hollow +jiggermast, to the muffled roar of the gale in the rigging, to the +smash and crash of the seas along our decks and against our iron walls. + +Again I found myself sharing his apprehension, although I was too +discreet to question him then, or afterwards alone, about his trouble. +At eight he went on deck again to take the watch till midnight, and as +I went to bed I dismissed all forebodings and speculated as to how many +more voyages he could last after this sudden onslaught of old age. + +I fell asleep quickly, and awoke at midnight, my lamp still burning, +Conrad’s _Mirror of the Sea_ on my breast where it had dropped from my +hands. I heard the watches change, and was wide awake and reading when +Mr. Pike came below by the booby-hatch and passed down my hall by my +open door, on his way to his room. + +In the pause I had long since learned so well I knew he was rolling a +cigarette. Then I heard him cough, as he always did, when the cigarette +was lighted and the first inhalation of smoke flushed his lungs. + +At twelve-fifteen, in the midst of Conrad’s delightful chapter, “The +Weight of the Burden,” I heard Mr. Pike come along the hall. + +Stealing a glance over the top of my book, I saw him go by, sea-booted, +oilskinned, sou’westered. It was his watch below, and his sleep was +meagre in this perpetual bad weather, yet he was going on deck. + +I read and waited for an hour, but he did not return; and I knew that +somewhere up above he was staring into the driving dark. I dressed +fully, in all my heavy storm-gear, from sea-boots and sou’-wester to +sheepskin under my oilskin coat. At the foot of the stairs I noted +along the hall that Margaret’s light was burning. I peeped in—she keeps +her door open for ventilation—and found her reading. + +“Merely not sleepy,” she assured me. + +Nor in the heart of me do I believe she had any apprehension. She does +not know even now, I am confident, the Samurai’s blunder—if blunder it +was. As she said, she was merely not sleepy, although there is no +telling in what occult ways she may have received though not recognized +Mr. Pike’s anxiety. + +At the head of the stairs, passing along the tiny hall to go out the +lee door of the chart-house, I glanced into the chart-room. On the +couch, lying on his back, his head uncomfortably high, I thought, slept +Captain West. The room was warm from the ascending heat of the cabin, +so that he lay unblanketed, fully dressed save for oilskins and boots. +He breathed easily and steadily, and the lean, ascetic lines of his +face seemed softened by the light of the low-turned lamp. And that one +glance restored to me all my surety and faith in his wisdom, so that I +laughed at myself for having left my warm bed for a freezing trip on +deck. + +Under the weather cloth at the break of the poop I found Mr. Mellaire. +He was wide awake, but under no strain. Evidently it had not entered +his mind to consider, much less question, the manoeuvre of wearing ship +the previous afternoon. + +“The gale is breaking,” he told me, waving his mittened hand at a +starry segment of sky momentarily exposed by the thinning clouds. + +But where was Mr. Pike? Did the second mate know he was on deck? I +proceeded to feel Mr. Mellaire out as we worked our way aft, along the +mad poop toward the wheel. I talked about the difficulty of sleeping in +stormy weather, stated the restlessness and semi-insomnia that the +violent motion of the ship caused in me, and raised the query of how +bad weather affected the officers. + +“I noticed Captain West, in the chart-room, as I came up, sleeping like +a baby,” I concluded. + +We leaned in the lee of the chart-house and went no farther. + +“Trust us to sleep just the same way, Mr. Pathurst,” the second mate +laughed. “The harder the weather the harder the demand on us, and the +harder we sleep. I’m dead the moment my head touches the pillow. It +takes Mr. Pike longer, because he always finishes his cigarette after +he turns in. But he smokes while he’s undressing, so that he doesn’t +require more than a minute to go deado. I’ll wager he hasn’t moved, +right now, since ten minutes after twelve.” + +So the second mate did not dream the first was even on deck. I went +below to make sure. A small sea-lamp was burning in Mr. Pike’s room, +and I saw his bunk unoccupied. I went in by the big stove in the +dining-room and warmed up, then again came on deck. I did not go near +the weather cloth, where I was certain Mr. Mellaire was; but, keeping +along the lee of the poop, I gained the bridge and started for’ard. + +I was in no hurry, so I paused often in that cold, wet journey. The +gale was breaking, for again and again the stars glimmered through the +thinning storm-clouds. On the ’midship-house was no Mr. Pike. I crossed +it, stung by the freezing, flying spray, and carefully reconnoitred the +top of the for’ard-house, where, in such bad weather, I knew the +lookout was stationed. I was within twenty feet of them, when a wider +clearance of starry sky showed me the figures of the lookout, whoever +he was, and of Mr. Pike, side by side. Long I watched them, not making +my presence known, and I knew that the old mate’s eyes were boring like +gimlets into the windy darkness that separated the _Elsinore_ from the +thunder-surfed iron coast he sought to find. + +Coming back to the poop I was caught by the surprised Mr. Mellaire. + +“Thought you were asleep, sir,” he chided. + +“I’m too restless,” I explained. “I’ve read until my eyes are tired, +and now I’m trying to get chilled so that I can fall asleep while +warming up in my blankets.” + +“I envy you, sir,” he answered. “Think of it! So much of all night in +that you cannot sleep. Some day, if ever I make a lucky strike, I shall +make a voyage like this as a passenger, and have all watches below. +Think of it! All blessed watches below! And I shall, like you, sir, +bring a Jap servant along, and I’ll make him call me at every changing +of the watches, so that, wide awake, I can appreciate my good fortune +in the several minutes before I roll over and go to sleep again.” + +We laughed good night to each other. Another peep into the chart-room +showed me Captain West sleeping as before. He had not moved in general, +though all his body moved with every roll and fling of the ship. Below, +Margaret’s light still burned, but a peep showed her asleep, her book +fallen from her hands just as was the so frequent case with my books. + +And I wondered. Half the souls of us on the _Elsinore_ slept. The +Samurai slept. Yet the old first mate, who should have slept, kept a +bitter watch on the for’ard-house. Was his anxiety right? Could it be +right? Or was it the crankiness of ultimate age? Were we drifting and +leewaying to destruction? Or was it merely an old man being struck down +by senility in the midst of his life-task? + +Too wide awake to think of sleeping, I ensconced myself with _The +Mirror of the Sea_ at the dining-table. Nor did I remove aught of my +storm-gear save the soggy mittens, which I wrung out and hung to dry by +the stove. Four bells struck, and six bells, and Mr. Pike had not +returned below. At eight bells, with the changing of the watches, it +came upon me what a night of hardship the old mate was enduring. Eight +to twelve had been his own watch on deck. He had now completed the four +hours of the second mate’s watch and was beginning his own watch, which +would last till eight in the morning—twelve consecutive hours in a Cape +Horn gale with the mercury at freezing. + +Next—for I had dozed—I heard loud cries above my head that were +repeated along the poop. I did not know till afterwards that it was Mr. +Pike’s command to hard-up the helm, passed along from for’ard by the +men he had stationed at intervals on the bridge. + +All that I knew at this shock of waking was that something was +happening above. As I pulled on my steaming mittens and hurried my best +up the reeling stairs, I could hear the stamp of men’s feet that for +once were not lagging. In the chart-house hall I heard Mr. Pike, who +had already covered the length of the bridge from the for’ard-house, +shouting: + +“Mizzen-braces! Slack, damn you! Slack on the run! But hold a turn! +Aft, here, all of you! Jump! Lively, if you don’t want to swim! Come +in, port-braces! Don’t let ’m get away! Lee-braces!—if you lose that +turn I’ll split your skull! Lively! Lively!—Is that helm hard over! Why +in hell don’t you answer?” + +All this I heard as I dashed for the lee door and as I wondered why I +did not hear the Samurai’s voice. + +Then, as I passed the chart-room door, I saw him. + +He was sitting on the couch, white-faced, one sea-boot in his hands, +and I could have sworn his hands were shaking. That much I saw, and the +next moment was out on deck. + +At first, just emerged from the light, I could see nothing, although I +could hear men at the pin-rails and the mate snarling and shouting +commands. But I knew the manoeuvre. With a weak crew, in the big, +tail-end sea of a broken gale, breakers and destruction under her lee, +the _Elsinore_ was being worn around. We had been under lower-topsails +and a reefed foresail all night. Mr. Pike’s first action, after putting +the wheel up, had been to square the mizzen-yards. With the +wind-pressure thus eased aft, the stern could more easily swing against +the wind while the wind-pressure on the for’ard-sails paid the bow off. + +But it takes time to wear a ship, under short canvas, in a big sea. +Slowly, very slowly, I could feel the direction of the wind altering +against my cheek. The moon, dim at first, showed brighter and brighter +as the last shreds of a flying cloud drove away from before it. In vain +I looked for any land. + +“Main-braces!—all of you!—jump!” Mr. Pike shouted, himself leading the +rush along the poop. And the men really rushed. Not in all the months I +had observed them had I seen such swiftness of energy. + +I made my way to the wheel, where Tom Spink stood. He did not notice +me. With one hand holding the idle wheel, he was leaning out to one +side, his eyes fixed in a fascinated stare. I followed its direction, +on between the chart-house and the port-jigger shrouds, and on across a +mountain sea that was very vague in the moonlight. And then I saw it! +The _Elsinore’s_ stern was flung skyward, and across that cold ocean I +saw land—black rocks and snow-covered slopes and crags. And toward this +land the _Elsinore_, now almost before the wind, was driving. + +From the ’midship-house came the snarls of the mate and the cries of +the sailors. They were pulling and hauling for very life. Then came Mr. +Pike, across the poop, leaping with incredible swiftness, sending his +snarl before him. + +“Ease that wheel there! What the hell you gawkin’ at? Steady her as I +tell you. That’s all you got to do!” + +From for’ard came a cry, and I knew Mr. Mellaire was on top of the +for’ard-house and managing the fore-yards. + +“Now!”—from Mr. Pike. “More spokes! Steady! Steady! And be ready to +check her!” + +He bounded away along the poop again, shouting for men for the +mizzen-braces. And the men appeared, some of his watch, others of the +second mate’s watch, routed from sleep—men coatless, and hatless, and +bootless; men ghastly-faced with fear but eager for once to spring to +the orders of the man who knew and could save their miserable lives +from miserable death. Yes—and I noted the delicate-handed cook, and +Yatsuda, the sail-maker, pulling with his one unparalysed hand. It was +all hands to save ship, and all hands knew it. Even Sundry Buyers, who +had drifted aft in his stupidity instead of being for’ard with his own +officer, forebore to stare about and to press his abdomen. For the +nonce he pulled like a youngling of twenty. + +The moon covered again, and it was in darkness that the _Elsinore_ +rounded up on the wind on the starboard tack. This, in her case, under +lower-topsails only, meant that she lay eight points from the wind, or, +in land terms, at right angles to the wind. + +Mr. Pike was splendid, marvellous. Even as the _Elsinore_ was rounding +to on the wind, while the head-yards were still being braced, and even +as he was watching the ship’s behaviour and the wheel, in between his +commands to Tom Spink of “A spoke! A spoke or two! Another! Steady! +Hold her! Ease her!” he was ordering the men aloft to loose sail. I had +thought, the manoeuvre of wearing achieved, that we were saved, but +this setting of all three upper-topsails unconvinced me. + +The moon remained hidden, and to leeward nothing could be seen. As each +sail was set, the _Elsinore_ was pressed farther and farther over, and +I realized that there was plenty of wind left, despite the fact that +the gale had broken or was breaking. Also, under this additional +canvas, I could feel the _Elsinore_ moving through the water. Pike now +sent the Maltese Cockney to help Tom Spink at the wheel. As for +himself, he took his stand beside the booby-hatch, where he could gauge +the _Elsinore_, gaze to leeward, and keep his eye on the helmsmen. + +“Full and by,” was his reiterated command. “Keep her a good full—a +rap-full; but don’t let her fall away. Hold her to it, and drive her.” + +He took no notice whatever of me, although I, on my way to the lee of +the chart-house, stood at his shoulder a full minute, offering him a +chance to speak. He knew I was there, for his big shoulder brushed my +arm as he swayed and turned to warn the helmsmen in the one breath to +hold her up to it but to keep her full. He had neither time nor +courtesy for a passenger in such a moment. + +Sheltering by the chart-house, I saw the moon appear. It grew brighter +and brighter, and I saw the land, dead to leeward of us, not three +hundred yards away. It was a cruel sight—black rock and bitter snow, +with cliffs so perpendicular that the _Elsinore_ could have laid +alongside of them in deep water, with great gashes and fissures, and +with great surges thundering and spouting along all the length of it. + +Our predicament was now clear to me. We had to weather the bight of +land and islands into which we had drifted, and sea and wind worked +directly on shore. The only way out was to drive through the water, to +drive fast and hard, and this was borne in upon me by Mr. Pike bounding +past to the break of the poop, where I heard him shout to Mr. Mellaire +to set the mainsail. + +Evidently the second mate was dubious, for the next cry of Mr. Pike’s +was: + +“Damn the reef! You’d be in hell first! Full mainsail! All hands to +it!” + +The difference was appreciable at once when that huge spread of canvas +opposed the wind. The _Elsinore_ fairly leaped and quivered as she +sprang to it, and I could feel her eat to windward as she at the same +time drove faster ahead. Also, in the rolls and gusts, she was forced +down till her lee-rail buried and the sea foamed level across to her +hatches. Mr. Pike watched her like a hawk, and like certain death he +watched the Maltese Cockney and Tom Spink at the wheel. + +“Land on the lee bow!” came a cry from for’ard, that was carried on +from mouth to mouth along the bridge to the poop. + +I saw Mr. Pike nod his head grimly and sarcastically. He had already +seen it from the lee-poop, and what he had not seen he had guessed. A +score of times I saw him test the weight of the gusts on his cheek and +with all the brain of him study the _Elsinore’s_ behaviour. And I knew +what was in his mind. Could she carry what she had? Could she carry +more? + +Small wonder, in this tense passage of time, that I had forgotten the +Samurai. Nor did I remember him until the chart-house door swung open +and I caught him by the arm. He steadied and swayed beside me, while he +watched that cruel picture of rock and snow and spouting surf. + +“A good full!” Mr. Pike snarled. “Or I’ll eat your heart out. God damn +you for the farmer’s hound you are, Tom Spink! Ease her! Ease her! Ease +her into the big ones, damn you! Don’t let her head fall off! Steady! +Where in hell did you learn to steer? What cow-farm was you raised on?” + +Here he bounded for’ard past us with those incredible leaps of his. + +“It would be good to set the mizzen-topgallant,” I heard Captain West +mutter in a weak, quavery voice. “Mr. Pathurst, will you please tell +Mr. Pike to set the mizzen-topgallant?” + +And at that very instant Mr. Pike’s voice rang out from the break of +the poop: + +“Mr. Mellaire!—the mizzen-topgallant!” + +Captain West’s head drooped until his chin rested on his breast, and so +low did he mutter that I leaned to hear. + +“A very good officer,” he said. “An excellent officer. Mr. Pathurst, if +you will kindly favour me, I should like to go in. I . . . I haven’t +got on my boots.” + +The muscular feat was to open the heavy iron door and hold it open in +the rolls and plunges. This I accomplished; but when I had helped +Captain West across the high threshold he thanked me and waived further +services. And I did not know even then he was dying. + +Never was a Blackwood ship driven as was the _Elsinore_ during the next +half-hour. The full-jib was also set, and, as it departed in shreds, +the fore-topmast staysail was being hoisted. For’ard of the +’midship-house it was made unlivable by the bursting seas. Mr. +Mellaire, with half the crew, clung on somehow on top the +’midship-house, while the rest of the crew was with us in the +comparative safety of the poop. Even Charles Davis, drenched and +shivering, hung on beside me to the brass ring-handle of the +chart-house door. + +Such sailing! It was a madness of speed and motion, for the _Elsinore_ +drove over and through and under those huge graybeards that thundered +shore-ward. There were times, when rolls and gusts worked against her +at the same moment, when I could have sworn the ends of her +lower-yardarms swept the sea. + +It was one chance in ten that we could claw off. All knew it, and all +knew there was nothing more to do but await the issue. And we waited in +silence. The only voice was that of the mate, intermittently cursing, +threatening, and ordering Tom Spink and the Maltese Cockney at the +wheel. Between whiles, and all the while, he gauged the gusts, and ever +his eyes lifted to the main-topgallant-yard. He wanted to set that one +more sail. A dozen times I saw him half-open his mouth to give the +order he dared not give. And as I watched him, so all watched him. +Hard-bitten, bitter-natured, sour-featured and snarling-mouthed, he was +the one man, the henchman of the race, the master of the moment. “And +where,” was my thought, “O where was the Samurai?” + +One chance in ten? It was one in a hundred as we fought to weather the +last bold tooth of rock that gashed into sea and tempest between us and +open ocean. So close were we that I looked to see our far-reeling +skysail-yards strike the face of the rock. So close were we, no more +than a biscuit toss from its iron buttress, that as we sank down into +the last great trough between two seas I can swear every one of us held +breath and waited for the _Elsinore_ to strike. + +Instead we drove free. And as if in very rage at our escape, the storm +took that moment to deal us the mightiest buffet of all. The mate felt +that monster sea coming, for he sprang to the wheel ere the blow fell. +I looked for’ard, and I saw all for’ard blotted out by the mountain of +water that fell aboard. The _Elsinore_ righted from the shock and +reappeared to the eye, full of water from rail to rail. Then a gust +caught her sails and heeled her over, spilling half the enormous burden +outboard again. + +Along the bridge came the relayed cry of “Man overboard!” + +I glanced at the mate, who had just released the wheel to the helmsmen. +He shook his head, as if irritated by so trivial a happening, walked to +the corner of the half-wheelhouse, and stared at the coast he had +escaped, white and black and cold in the moonlight. + +Mr. Mellaire came aft, and they met beside me in the lee of the +chart-house. + +“All hands, Mr. Mellaire,” the mate said, “and get the mainsail off of +her. After that, the mizzen-topgallant.” + +“Yes, sir,” said the second. + +“Who was it?” the mate asked, as Mr. Mellaire was turning away. + +“Boney—he was no good, anyway,” came the answer. + +That was all. Boney the Splinter was gone, and all hands were answering +the command of Mr. Mellaire to take in the mainsail. But they never +took it in; for at that moment it started to blow away out of the +bolt-ropes, and in but few moments all that was left of it was a few +short, slatting ribbons. + +“Mizzen-topgallant-sail!” Mr. Pike ordered. Then, and for the first +time, he recognized my existence. + +“Well rid of it,” he growled. “It never did set properly. I was always +aching to get my hands on the sail-maker that made it.” + +On my way below a glance into the chart-room gave me the cue to the +Samurai’s blunder—if blunder it can be called, for no one will ever +know. He lay on the floor in a loose heap, rolling willy-nilly with +every roll of the _Elsinore_. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + + +There is so much to write about all at once. In the first place, +Captain West. Not entirely unexpected was his death. Margaret tells me +that she was apprehensive from the start of the voyage—and even before. +It was because of her apprehension that she so abruptly changed her +plans and accompanied her father. + +What really happened we do not know, but the agreed surmise is that it +was some stroke of the heart. And yet, after the stroke, did he not +come out on deck? Or could the first stroke have been followed by +another and fatal one after I had helped him inside through the door? +And even so, I have never heard of a heart-stroke being preceded hours +before by a weakening of the mind. Captain West’s mind seemed quite +clear, and must have been quite clear, that last afternoon when he wore +the _Elsinore_ and started the lee-shore drift. In which case it was a +blunder. The Samurai blundered, and his heart destroyed him when he +became aware of the blunder. + +At any rate the thought of blunder never enters Margaret’s head. She +accepts, as a matter of course, that it was all a part of the oncoming +termination of his sickness. And no one will ever undeceive her. +Neither Mr. Pike, Mr. Mellaire, nor I, among ourselves, mention a +whisper of what so narrowly missed causing disaster. In fact, Mr. Pike +does not talk about the matter at all.—And then, again, might it not +have been something different from heart disease? Or heart disease +complicated with something else that obscured his mind that afternoon +before his death? Well, no one knows, and I, for one, shall not sit, +even in secret judgment, on the event. + +* * * * * + + +At midday of the day we clawed off Tierra Del Fuego the _Elsinore_ was +rolling in a dead calm, and all afternoon she rolled, not a score of +miles off the land. Captain West was buried at four o’clock, and at +eight bells that evening Mr. Pike assumed command and made a few +remarks to both watches. They were straight-from-the-shoulder remarks, +or, as he called them, they were “brass tacks.” + +Among other things he told the sailors that they had another boss, and +that they would toe the mark as they never had before. Up to this time +they had been loafing in an hotel, but from this time on they were +going to work. + +“On this hooker, from now on,” he perorated, “it’s going to be like old +times, when a man jumped the last day of the voyage as well as the +first. And God help the man that don’t jump. That’s all. Relieve the +wheel and lookout.” + +* * * * * + + +And yet the men are in terribly wretched condition. I don’t see how +they can jump. Another week of westerly gales, alternating with brief +periods of calm, has elapsed, making a total of six weeks off the Horn. +So weak are the men that they have no spirit left in them—not even the +gangsters. And so afraid are they of the mate that they really do their +best to jump when he drives them, and he drives them all the time. Mr. +Mellaire shakes his head. + +“Wait till they get around and up into better weather,” he astonished +me by telling me the other afternoon. “Wait till they get dried out, +and rested up, with more sleep, and their sores healed, and more flesh +on their bones, and more spunk in their blood—then they won’t stand for +this driving. Mr. Pike can’t realize that times have changed, sir, and +laws have changed, and men have changed. He’s an old man, and I know +what I am talking about.” + +“You mean you’ve been listening to the talk of the men?” I challenged +rashly, all my gorge rising at the unofficerlike conduct of this ship’s +officer. + +The shot went home, for, in a flash, that suave and gentle film of +light vanished from the surface of the eyes, and the watching, fearful +thing that lurked behind inside the skull seemed almost to leap out at +me, while the cruel gash of mouth drew thinner and crueller. And at the +same time, on my inner sight, was grotesquely limned a picture of a +brain pulsing savagely against the veneer of skin that covered that +cleft of skull beneath the dripping sou’-wester. Then he controlled +himself, the mouth-gash relaxed, and the suave and gentle film drew +again across the eyes. + +“I mean, sir,” he said softly, “that I am speaking out of a long sea +experience. Times have changed. The old driving days are gone. And I +trust, Mr. Pathurst, that you will not misunderstand me in the matter, +nor misinterpret what I have said.” + +Although the conversation drifted on to other and calmer topics, I +could not ignore the fact that he had not denied listening to the talk +of the men. And yet, even as Mr. Pike grudgingly admits, he is a good +sailorman and second mate save for his unholy intimacy with the men +for’ard—an intimacy which even the Chinese cook and the Chinese steward +deplore as unseamanlike and perilous. + +Even though men like the gangsters are so worn down by hardship that +they have no heart of rebellion, there remain three of the frailest +for’ard who will not die, and who are as spunky as ever. They are Andy +Fay, Mulligan Jacobs, and Charles Davis. What strange, abysmal vitality +informs them is beyond all speculation. Of course, Charles Davis should +have been overside with a sack of coal at his feet long ago. And Andy +Fay and Mulligan Jacobs are only, and have always been, wrecked and +emaciated wisps of men. Yet far stronger men than they have gone over +the side, and far stronger men than they are laid up right now in +absolute physical helplessness in the soggy forecastle bunks. And these +two bitter flames of shreds of things stand all their watches and +answer all calls for both watches. + +Yes; and the chickens have something of this same spunk of life in +them. Featherless, semi-frozen despite the oil-stove, sprayed dripping +on occasion by the frigid seas that pound by sheer weight through +canvas tarpaulins, nevertheless not a chicken has died. Is it a matter +of selection? Are these the iron-vigoured ones that survived the +hardships from Baltimore to the Horn, and are fitted to survive +anything? Then for a De Vries to take them, save them, and out of them +found the hardiest breed of chickens on the planet! And after this I +shall always query that phrase, most ancient in our +language—“chicken-hearted.” Measured by the _Elsinore’s_ chickens, it +is a misnomer. + +Nor are our three Horn Gypsies, the storm-visitors with the dreaming, +topaz eyes, spunkless. Held in superstitious abhorrence by the rest of +the crew, aliens by lack of any word of common speech, nevertheless +they are good sailors and are always first to spring into any +enterprise of work or peril. They have gone into Mr. Mellaire’s watch, +and they are quite apart from the rest of the sailors. And when there +is a delay, or wait, with nothing to do for long minutes, they shoulder +together, and stand and sway to the heave of deck, and dream far dreams +in those pale, topaz eyes, of a country, I am sure, where mothers, with +pale, topaz eyes and sandy hair, birth sons and daughters that breed +true in terms of topaz eyes and sandy hair. + +But the rest of the crew! Take the Maltese Cockney. He is too keenly +intelligent, too sharply sensitive, successfully to endure. He is a +shadow of his former self. His cheeks have fallen in. Dark circles of +suffering are under his eyes, while his eyes, Latin and English +intermingled, are cavernously sunken and as bright-burning as if aflame +with fever. + +Tom Spink, hard-fibred Anglo-Saxon, good seaman that he is, long tried +and always proved, is quite wrecked in spirit. He is whining and +fearful. So broken is he, though he still does his work, that he is +prideless and shameless. + +“I’ll never ship around the Horn again, sir,” he began on me the other +day when I greeted him good morning at the wheel. “I’ve sworn it +before, but this time I mean it. Never again, sir. Never again.” + +“Why did you swear it before?” I queried. + +“It was on the _Nahoma_, sir, four years ago. Two hundred and thirty +days from Liverpool to ’Frisco. Think of it, sir. Two hundred and +thirty days! And we was loaded with cement and creosote, and the +creosote got loose. We buried the captain right here off the Horn. The +grub gave out. Most of us nearly died of scurvy. Every man Jack of us +was carted to hospital in ’Frisco. It was plain hell, sir, that’s what +it was, an’ two hundred and thirty days of it.” + +“Yet here you are,” I laughed; “signed on another Horn voyage.” + +And this morning Tom Spink confided the following tome: + +“If only we’d lost the carpenter, sir, instead of Boney.” + +I did not catch his drift for the moment; then I remembered. The +carpenter was the Finn, the Jonah, the warlock who played tricks with +the winds and despitefully used poor sailormen. + +* * * * * + + +Yes, and I make free to confess that I have grown well weary of this +eternal buffeting by the Great West Wind. Nor are we alone in our +travail on this desolate ocean. Never a day does the gray thin, or the +snow-squalls cease that we do not sight ships, west-bound like +ourselves, hove-to and trying to hold on to the meagre westing they +possess. And occasionally, when the gray clears and lifts, we see a +lucky ship, bound east, running before it and reeling off the miles. I +saw Mr. Pike, yesterday, shaking his fist in a fury of hatred at one +such craft that flew insolently past us not a quarter of a mile away. + +And the men are jumping. Mr. Pike is driving with those block-square +fists of his, as many a man’s face attests. So weak are they, and so +terrible is he, that I swear he could whip either watch single-handed. +I cannot help but note that Mr. Mellaire refuses to take part in this +driving. Yet I know that he is a trained driver, and that he was not +averse to driving at the outset of the voyage. But now he seems bent on +keeping on good terms with the crew. I should like to know what Mr. +Pike thinks of it, for he cannot possibly be blind to what is going on; +but I am too well aware of what would happen if I raised the question. +He would insult me, snap my head off, and indulge in a three-days’ +sea-grouch. Things are sad and monotonous enough for Margaret and me in +the cabin and at table, without invoking the blight of the mate’s +displeasure. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + + +Another brutal sea-superstition vindicated. From now on and for always +these imbeciles of ours will believe that Finns are Jonahs. We are west +of the Diego de Ramirez Rocks, and we are running west at a twelve-knot +clip with an easterly gale at our backs. And the carpenter is gone. His +passing, and the coming of the easterly wind, were coincidental. + +It was yesterday morning, as he helped me to dress, that I was struck +by the solemnity of Wada’s face. He shook his head lugubriously as he +broke the news. The carpenter was missing. The ship had been searched +for him high and low. There just was no carpenter. + +“What does the steward think?” I asked. “What does Louis think?—and +Yatsuda?” + +“The sailors, they kill ’m carpenter sure,” was the answer. “Very bad +ship this. Very bad hearts. Just the same pig, just the same dog. All +the time kill. All the time kill. Bime-by everybody kill. You see.” + +The old steward, at work in his pantry, grinned at me when I mentioned +the matter. + +“They make fool with me, I fix ’em,” he said vindictively. “Mebbe they +kill me, all right; but I kill some, too.” + +He threw back his coat, and I saw, strapped to the left side of his +body, in a canvas sheath, so that the handle was ready to hand, a meat +knife of the heavy sort that butchers hack with. He drew it forth—it +was fully two feet long—and, to demonstrate its razor-edge, sliced a +sheet of newspaper into many ribbons. + +“Huh!” he laughed sardonically. “I am Chink, monkey, damn fool, eh?—no +good, eh? all rotten damn to hell. I fix ’em, they make fool with me.” + +And yet there is not the slightest evidence of foul play. Nobody knows +what happened to the carpenter. There are no clues, no traces. The +night was calm and snowy. No seas broke on board. Without doubt the +clumsy, big-footed, over-grown giant of a boy is overside and dead. The +question is: did he go over of his own accord, or was he put over? + +At eight o’clock Mr. Pike proceeded to interrogate the watches. He +stood at the break of the poop, in the high place, leaning on the rail +and gazing down at the crew assembled on the main deck beneath him. + +Man after man he questioned, and from each man came the one story. They +knew no more about it than did we—or so they averred. + +“I suppose you’ll be chargin’ next that I hove that big lummux +overboard with me own hands,” Mulligan Jacobs snarled, when he was +questioned. “An’ mebbe I did, bein’ that husky an’ rampagin’ +bull-like.” + +The mate’s face grew more forbidding and sour, but without comment he +passed on to John Hackey, the San Francisco hoodlum. + +It was an unforgettable scene—the mate in the high place, the men, +sullen and irresponsive, grouped beneath. A gentle snow drifted +straight down through the windless air, while the _Elsinore_, with +hollow thunder from her sails, rolled down on the quiet swells so that +the ocean lapped the mouths of her scuppers with long-drawn, shuddering +sucks and sobs. And all the men swayed in unison to the rolls, their +hands in mittens, their feet in sack-wrapped sea-boots, their faces +worn and sick. And the three dreamers with the topaz eyes stood and +swayed and dreamed together, incurious of setting and situation. + +And then it came—the hint of easterly air. The mate noted it first. I +saw him start and turn his cheek to the almost imperceptible draught. +Then I felt it. A minute longer he waited, until assured, when, the +dead carpenter forgotten, he burst out with orders to the wheel and the +crew. And the men jumped, though in their weakness the climb aloft was +slow and toilsome; and when the gaskets were off the topgallant-sails +and the men on deck were hoisting yards and sheeting home, those aloft +were loosing the royals. + +While this work went on, and while the yards were being braced around, +the _Elsinore_, her bow pointing to the west, began moving through the +water before the first fair wind in a month and a half. + +Slowly that light air fanned to a gentle breeze while all the time the +snow fell steadily. The barometer, down to 28.80, continued to fall, +and the breeze continued to grow upon itself. Tom Spink, passing by me +on the poop to lend a hand at the final finicky trimming of the +mizzen-yards, gave me a triumphant look. Superstition was vindicated. +Events had proved him right. Fair wind had come with the going of the +carpenter, which said warlock had incontestably taken with him overside +his bag of wind-tricks. + +Mr. Pike strode up and down the poop, rubbing his hands, which he was +too disdainfully happy to mitten, chuckling and grinning to himself, +glancing at the draw of every sail, stealing adoring looks astern into +the gray of snow out of which blew the favouring wind. He even paused +beside me to gossip for a moment about the French restaurants of San +Francisco and how, therein, the delectable California fashion of +cooking wild duck obtained. + +“Throw ’em through the fire,” he chanted. “That’s the way—throw ’em +through the fire—a hot oven, sixteen minutes—I take mine fourteen, to +the second—an’ squeeze the carcasses.” + +By midday the snow had ceased and we were bowling along before a stiff +breeze. At three in the afternoon we were running before a growing +gale. It was across a mad ocean we tore, for the mounting sea that made +from eastward bucked into the West End Drift and battled and battered +down the huge south-westerly swell. And the big grinning dolt of a +Finnish carpenter, already food for fish and bird, was astern there +somewhere in the freezing rack and drive. + +Make westing! We ripped it off across these narrowing degrees of +longitude at the southern tip of the planet where one mile counts for +two. And Mr. Pike, staring at his bending topgallant-yards, swore that +they could carry away for all he cared ere he eased an inch of canvas. +More he did. He set the huge crojack, biggest of all sails, and +challenged God or Satan to start a seam of it or all its seams. + +He simply could not go below. In such auspicious occasions all watches +were his, and he strode the poop perpetually with all age-lag banished +from his legs. Margaret and I were with him in the chart-room when he +hurrahed the barometer, down to 28.55 and falling. And we were near +him, on the poop, when he drove by an east-bound lime-juicer, hove-to +under upper-topsails. We were a biscuit-toss away, and he sprang upon +the rail at the jigger-shrouds and danced a war-dance and waved his +free arm, and yelled his scorn and joy at their discomfiture to the +several oilskinned figures on the stranger vessel’s poop. + +Through the pitch-black night we continued to drive. The crew was sadly +frightened, and I sought in vain, in the two dog-watches, for Tom +Spink, to ask him if he thought the carpenter, astern, had opened wide +the bag-mouth and loosed all his tricks. For the first time I saw the +steward apprehensive. + +“Too much,” he told me, with ominous rolling head. “Too much sail, +rotten bad damn all to hell. Bime-by, pretty quick, all finish. You +see.” + +“They talk about running the easting down,” Mr. Pike chortled to me, as +we clung to the poop-rail to keep from fetching away and breaking ribs +and necks. “Well, this is running your westing down if anybody should +ride up in a go-devil and ask you.” + +It was a wretched, glorious night. Sleep was impossible—for me, at any +rate. Nor was there even the comfort of warmth. Something had gone +wrong with the big cabin stove, due to our wild running, I fancy, and +the steward was compelled to let the fire go out. So we are getting a +taste of the hardship of the forecastle, though in our case everything +is dry instead of soggy or afloat. The kerosene stoves burned in our +staterooms, but so smelly was mine that I preferred the cold. + +To sail on one’s nerve in an over-canvassed harbour cat-boat is all the +excitement any glutton can desire. But to sail, in the same fashion, in +a big ship off the Horn, is incredible and terrible. The Great West +Wind Drift, setting squarely into the teeth of the easterly gale, +kicked up a tideway sea that was monstrous. Two men toiled at the +wheel, relieving in pairs every half-hour, and in the face of the cold +they streamed with sweat long ere their half-hour shift was up. + +Mr. Pike is of the elder race of men. His endurance is prodigious. +Watch and watch, and all watches, he held the poop. + +“I never dreamed of it,” he told me, at midnight, as the great gusts +tore by and as we listened for our lighter spars to smash aloft and +crash upon the deck. “I thought my last whirling sailing was past. And +here we are! Here we are! + +“Lord! Lord! I sailed third mate in the little _Vampire_ before you +were born. Fifty-six men before the mast, and the last Jack of ’em an +able seaman. And there were eight boys, an’ bosuns that was bosuns, an’ +sail-makers an’ carpenters an’ stewards an’ passengers to jam the +decks. An’ three driving mates of us, an’ Captain Brown, the Little +Wonder. He didn’t weigh a hundredweight, an’ he drove us—he drove _us_, +three drivin’ mates that learned from him what drivin’ was. + +“It was knock down and drag out from the start. The first hour of +puttin’ the men to fair perished our knuckles. I’ve got the smashed +joints yet to show. Every sea-chest broke open, every sea-bag turned +out, and whiskey bottles, knuckle-dusters, sling-shots, bowie-knives, +an’ guns chucked overside by the armful. An’ when we chose the watches, +each man of fifty-six of ’em laid his knife on the main-hatch an’ the +carpenter broke the point square off.—Yes, an’ the little _Vampire_ +only eight hundred tons. The _Elsinore_ could carry her on her deck. +But she was ship, all ship, an’ them was men’s days.” + +Margaret, save for inability to sleep, did not mind the driving, +although Mr. Mellaire, on the other hand, admitted apprehension. + +“He’s got my goat,” he confided to me. “It isn’t right to drive a +cargo-carrier this way. This isn’t a ballasted yacht. It’s a coal-hulk. +I know what driving was, but it was in ships made to drive. Our +iron-work aloft won’t stand it. Mr. Pathurst, I tell you frankly that +it is criminal, it is sheer murder, to run the _Elsinore_ with that +crojack on her. You can see yourself, sir. It’s an after-sail. All its +tendency is to throw her stern off and her bow up to it. And if it ever +happens, sir, if she ever gets away from the wheel for two seconds and +broaches to . . . ” + +“Then what?” I asked, or, rather, shouted; for all conversation had to +be shouted close to ear in that blast of gale. + +He shrugged his shoulders, and all of him was eloquent with the +unuttered, unmistakable word—“finish.” + +At eight this morning Margaret and I struggled up to the poop. And +there was that indomitable, iron old man. He had never left the deck +all night. His eyes were bright, and he appeared in the pink of +well-being. He rubbed his hands and chuckled greeting to us, and took +up his reminiscences. + +“In ’51, on this same stretch, Miss West, the _Flying Cloud_, in +twenty-four hours, logged three hundred and seventy-four miles under +her topgallant-sails. That was sailing. She broke the record, that day, +for sail an’ steam.” + +“And what are we averaging, Mr. Pike?” Margaret queried, while her eyes +were fixed on the main deck, where continually one rail and then the +other dipped under the ocean and filled across from rail to rail, only +to spill out and take in on the next roll. + +“Thirteen for a fair average since five o’clock yesterday afternoon,” +he exulted. “In the squalls she makes all of sixteen, which is going +some, for the _Elsinore_.” + +“I’d take the crojack off if I had charge,” Margaret criticised. + +“So would I, so would I, Miss West,” he replied; “if we hadn’t been six +weeks already off the Horn.” + +She ran her eyes aloft, spar by spar, past the spars of hollow steel to +the wooden royals, which bent in the gusts like bows in some invisible +archer’s hands. + +“They’re remarkably good sticks of timber,” was her comment. + +“Well may you say it, Miss West,” he agreed. “I’d never a-believed +they’d a-stood it myself. But just look at ’m! Just look at ’m!” + +There was no breakfast for the men. Three times the galley had been +washed out, and the men, in the forecastle awash, contented themselves +with hard tack and cold salt horse. Aft, with us, the steward scalded +himself twice ere he succeeded in making coffee over a kerosene-burner. + +At noon we picked up a ship ahead, a lime-juicer, travelling in the +same direction, under lower-topsails and one upper-topsail. The only +one of her courses set was the foresail. + +“The way that skipper’s carryin’ on is shocking,” Mr. Pike sneered. “He +should be more cautious, and remember God, the owners, the +underwriters, and the Board of Trade.” + +Such was our speed that in almost no time we were up with the stranger +vessel and passing her. Mr. Pike was like a boy just loosed from +school. He altered our course so that we passed her a hundred yards +away. She was a gallant sight, but, such was our speed, she appeared +standing still. Mr. Pike jumped upon the rail and insulted those on her +poop by extending a rope’s end in invitation to take a tow. + +Margaret shook her head privily to me as she gazed at our bending +royal-yards, but was caught in the act by Mr. Pike, who cried out: + +“What kites she won’t carry she can drag!” + +An hour later I caught Tom Spink, just relieved from his shift at the +wheel and weak from exhaustion. + +“What do you think now of the carpenter and his bag of tricks?” I +queried. + +“Lord lumme, it should a-ben the mate, sir,” was his reply. + +By five in the afternoon we had logged 314 miles since five the +previous day, which was two over an average of thirteen knots for +twenty-four consecutive hours. + +“Now take Captain Brown of the little _Vampire_,” Mr. Pike grinned to +me, for our sailing made him good-natured. “He never would take in +until the kites an’ stu’n’sails was about his ears. An’ when she was +blown’ her worst an’ we was half-fairly shortened down, he’d turn in +for a snooze, an’ say to us, ‘Call me if she moderates.’ Yes, and I’ll +never forget the night when I called him an’ told him that everything +on top the houses had gone adrift, an’ that two of the boats had been +swept aft and was kindling-wood against the break of the cabin. ‘Very +well, Mr. Pike,’ he says, battin’ his eyes and turnin’ over to go to +sleep again. ‘Very well, Mr. Pike,’ says he. ‘Watch her. An’ Mr. Pike . +. .’ ‘Yes, sir,’ says I. ‘Give me a call, Mr. Pike, when the windlass +shows signs of comin’ aft.’ That’s what he said, his very words, an’ +the next moment, damme, he was snorin’.” + +* * * * * + + +It is now midnight, and, cunningly wedged into my bunk, unable to +sleep, I am writing these lines with flying dabs of pencil at my pad. +And no more shall I write, I swear, until this gale is blown out, or we +are blown to Kingdom Come. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + + +The days have passed and I have broken my resolve; for here I am again +writing while the _Elsinore_ surges along across a magnificent, smoky, +dusty sea. But I have two reasons for breaking my word. First, and +minor, we had a real dawn this morning. The gray of the sea showed a +streaky blue, and the cloud-masses were actually pink-tipped by a +really and truly sun. + +Second, and major, _we are around the Horn_! We are north of 50 in the +Pacific, in Longitude 80.49, with Cape Pillar and the Straits of +Magellan already south of east from us, and we are heading +north-north-west. _We are around the Horn_! The profound significance +of this can be appreciated only by one who has wind-jammed around from +east to west. Blow high, blow low, nothing can happen to thwart us. No +ship north of 50 was ever blown back. From now on it is plain sailing, +and Seattle suddenly seems quite near. + +All the ship’s company, with the exception of Margaret, is better +spirited. She is quiet, and a little down, though she is anything but +prone to the wastage of grief. In her robust, vital philosophy God’s +always in heaven. I may describe her as being merely subdued, and +gentle, and tender. And she is very wistful to receive gentle +consideration and tenderness from me. She is, after all, the genuine +woman. She wants the strength that man has to give, and I flatter +myself that I am ten times a stronger man than I was when the voyage +began, because I am a thousand times a more human man since I told the +books to go hang and began to revel in the human maleness of the man +that loves a woman and is loved. + +Returning to the ship’s company. The rounding of the Horn, the better +weather that is continually growing better, the easement of hardship +and toil and danger, with the promise of the tropics and of the balmy +south-east trades before them—all these factors contribute to pick up +our men again. The temperature has already so moderated that the men +are beginning to shed their surplusage of clothing, and they no longer +wrap sacking about their sea-boots. Last evening, in the second +dog-watch, I heard a man actually singing. + +The steward has discarded the huge, hacking knife and relaxed to the +extent of engaging in an occasional sober romp with Possum. Wada’s face +is no longer solemnly long, and Louis’ Oxford accent is more +mellifluous than ever. Mulligan Jacobs and Andy Fay are the same +venomous scorpions they have always been. The three gangsters, with the +clique they lead, have again asserted their tyrrany and thrashed all +the weaklings and feeblings in the forecastle. Charles Davis resolutely +refuses to die, though how he survived that wet and freezing room of +iron through all the weeks off the Horn has elicited wonder even from +Mr. Pike, who has a most accurate knowledge of what men can stand and +what they cannot stand. + +How Nietzsche, with his eternal slogan of “Be hard! Be hard!” would +have delighted in Mr. Pike! + +And—oh!—Larry has had a tooth removed. For some days distressed with a +jumping toothache, he came aft to the mate for relief. Mr. Pike refused +to “monkey” with the “fangled” forceps in the medicine-chest. He used a +tenpenny nail and a hammer in the good old way to which he was brought +up. I vouch for this. I saw it done. One blow of the hammer and the +tooth was out, while Larry was jumping around holding his jaw. It is a +wonder it wasn’t fractured. But Mr. Pike avers he has removed hundreds +of teeth by this method and never known a fractured jaw. Also, he avers +he once sailed with a skipper who shaved every Sunday morning and never +touched a razor, nor any cutting-edge, to his face. What he used, +according to Mr. Pike, was a lighted candle and a damp towel. Another +candidate for Nietzsche’s immortals who are hard! + +As for Mr. Pike himself, he is the highest-spirited, best-conditioned +man on board. The driving to which he subjected the _Elsinore_ was meat +and drink. He still rubs his hands and chuckles over the memory of it. + +“Huh!” he said to me, in reference to the crew; “I gave ’em a taste of +real old-fashioned sailing. They’ll never forget this hooker—at least +them that don’t take a sack of coal overside before we reach port.” + +“You mean you think we’ll have more sea-burials?” I inquired. + +He turned squarely upon me, and squarely looked me in the eyes for the +matter of five long seconds. + +“Huh!” he replied, as he turned on his heel. “Hell ain’t begun to pop +on this hooker.” + +He still stands his mate’s watch, alternating with Mr. Mellaire, for he +is firm in his conviction that there is no man for’ard fit to stand a +second mate’s watch. Also, he has kept his old quarters. Perhaps it is +out of delicacy for Margaret; for I have learned that it is the +invariable custom for the mate to occupy the captain’s quarters when +the latter dies. So Mr. Mellaire still eats by himself in the big +after-room, as he has done since the loss of the carpenter, and bunks +as before in the ’midship-house with Nancy. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + + +Mr. Mellaire was right. The men would not accept the driving when the +_Elsinore_ won to easier latitudes. Mr. Pike was right. Hell had not +begun to pop. But it has popped now, and men are overboard without even +the kindliness of a sack of coal at their feet. And yet the men, though +ripe for it, did not precipitate the trouble. It was Mr. Mellaire. Or, +rather, it was Ditman Olansen, the crank-eyed Norwegian. Perhaps it was +Possum. At any rate, it was an accident, in which the several-named, +including Possum, played their respective parts. + +To begin at the beginning. Two weeks have elapsed since we crossed 50, +and we are now in 37—the same latitude as San Francisco, or, to be +correct, we are as far south of the equator as San Francisco is north +of it. The trouble was precipitated yesterday morning shortly after +nine o’clock, and Possum started the chain of events that culminated in +downright mutiny. It was Mr. Mellaire’s watch, and he was standing on +the bridge, directly under the mizzen-top, giving orders to Sundry +Buyers, who, with Arthur Deacon and the Maltese Cockney, was doing +rigging work aloft. + +Get the picture and the situation in all its ridiculousness. Mr. Pike, +thermometer in hand, was coming back along the bridge from taking the +temperature of the coal in the for’ard hold. Ditman Olansen was just +swinging into the mizzen-top as he went up with several turns of rope +over one shoulder. Also, in some way, to the end of this rope was +fastened a sizable block that might have weighed ten pounds. Possum, +running free, was fooling around the chicken-coop on top the +’midship-house. And the chickens, featherless but indomitable, were +enjoying the milder weather as they pecked at the grain and grits which +the steward had just placed in their feeding-trough. The tarpaulin that +covered their pen had been off for several days. + +Now observe. I am at the break of the poop, leaning on the rail and +watching Ditman Olansen swing into the top with his cumbersome burden. +Mr. Pike, proceeding aft, has just passed Mr. Mellaire. Possum, who, on +account of the Horn weather and the tarpaulin, has not seen the +chickens for many weeks, is getting reacquainted, and is investigating +them with that keen nose of his. And a hen’s beak, equally though +differently keen, impacts on Possum’s nose, which is as sensitive as it +is keen. + +I may well say, now that I think it over, that it was this particular +hen that started the mutiny. The men, well-driven by Mr. Pike, were +ripe for an explosion, and Possum and the hen laid the train. + +Possum fell away backwards from the coop and loosed a wild cry of pain +and indignation. This attracted Ditman Olansen’s attention. He paused +and craned his neck out in order to see, and, in this moment of +carelessness, the block he was carrying fetched away from him along +with the several turns of rope around his shoulder. Both the mates +sprang away to get out from under. The rope, fast to the block and +following it, lashed about like a blacksnake, and, though the block +fell clear of Mr. Mellaire, the bight of the rope snatched off his cap. + +Mr. Pike had already started an oath aloft when his eyes caught sight +of the terrible cleft in Mr. Mellaire’s head. There it was, for all the +world to read, and Mr. Pike’s and mine were the only eyes that could +read it. The sparse hair upon the second mate’s crown served not at all +to hide the cleft. It began out of sight in the thicker hair above the +ears, and was exposed nakedly across the whole dome of head. + +The stream of abuse for Ditman Olansen was choked in Mr. Pike’s throat. +All he was capable of for the moment was to stare, petrified, at that +enormous fissure flanked at either end with a thatch of grizzled hair. +He was in a dream, a trance, his great hands knotting and clenching +unconsciously as he stared at the mark unmistakable by which he had +said that he would some day identify the murderer of Captain Somers. +And in that moment I remembered having heard him declare that some day +he would stick his fingers in that mark. + +Still as in a dream, moving slowly, right hand outstretched like a +talon, with the fingers drawn downward, he advanced on the second mate +with the evident intention of thrusting his fingers into that cleft and +of clawing and tearing at the brain-life beneath that pulsed under the +thin film of skin. + +The second mate backed away along the bridge, and Mr. Pike seemed +partially to come to himself. His outstretched arm dropped to his side, +and he paused. + +“I know you,” he said, in a strange, shaky voice, blended of age and +passion. “Eighteen years ago you were dismasted off the Plate in the +_Cyrus Thompson_. She foundered, after you were on your beam ends and +lost your sticks. You were in the only boat that was saved. Eleven +years ago, on the _Jason Harrison_, in San Francisco, Captain Somers +was beaten to death by his second mate. This second mate was a survivor +of the _Cyrus Thompson_. This second mate’d had his skull split by a +crazy sea-cook. Your skull is split. This second mate’s name was Sidney +Waltham. And if you ain’t Sidney Waltham . . . ” + +At this point Mr. Mellaire, or, rather, Sidney Waltham, despite his +fifty years, did what only a sailor could do. He went over the +bridge-rail side-wise, caught the running gear up-and-down the +mizzen-mast, and landed lightly on his feet on top of Number Three +hatch. Nor did he stop there. He ran across the hatch and dived through +the doorway of his room in the ’midship-house. + +Such must have been Mr. Pike’s profundity of passion, that he paused +like a somnambulist, actually rubbed his eyes with the back of his +hand, and seemed to awaken. + +But the second mate had not run to his room for refuge. The next moment +he emerged, a thirty-two Smith and Wesson in his hand, and the instant +he emerged he began shooting. + +Mr. Pike was wholly himself again, and I saw him perceptibly pause and +decide between the two impulses that tore at him. One was to leap over +the bridge-rail and down at the man who shot at him; the other was to +retreat. He retreated. And as he bounded aft along the narrow bridge +the mutiny began. Arthur Deacon, from the mizzen-top, leaned out and +hurled a steel marlin-spike at the fleeing mate. The thing flashed in +the sunlight as it hurtled down. It missed Mr. Pike by twenty feet and +nearly impaled Possum, who, afraid of firearms, was wildly rushing and +ki-yi-ing aft. It so happened that the sharp point of the marlin-spike +struck the wooden floor of the bridge, and it penetrated the planking +with such force that after it had fetched to a standstill it vibrated +violently for long seconds. + +I confess that I failed to observe a tithe of what occurred during the +next several minutes. Piece together as I will, after the event, I know +that I missed much of what took place. I know that the men aloft in the +mizzen descended to the deck, but I never saw them descend. I know that +the second mate emptied the chambers of his revolver, but I did not +hear all the shots. I know that Lars Johnson left the wheel, and on his +broken leg, rebroken and not yet really mended, limped and scuttled +across the poop, down the ladder, and gained for’ard. I know he must +have limped and scuttled on that bad leg of his; I know that I must +have seen him; and yet I swear that I have no impression of seeing him. + +I do know that I heard the rush of feet of men from for’ard along the +main deck. And I do know that I saw Mr. Pike take shelter behind the +steel jiggermast. Also, as the second mate manoeuvred to port on top of +Number Three hatch for his last shot, I know that I saw Mr. Pike duck +around the corner of the chart-house to starboard and get away aft and +below by way of the booby-hatch. And I did hear that last futile shot, +and the bullet also as it ricochetted from the corner of the +steel-walled chart-house. + +As for myself, I did not move. I was too interested in seeing. It may +have been due to lack of presence of mind, or to lack of habituation to +an active part in scenes of quick action; but at any rate I merely +retained my position at the break of the poop and looked on. I was the +only person on the poop when the mutineers, led by the second mate and +the gangsters, rushed it. I saw them swarm up the ladder, and it never +entered my head to attempt to oppose them. Which was just as well, for +I would have been killed for my pains, and I could never have stopped +them. + +I was alone on the poop, and the men were quite perplexed to find no +enemy in sight. As Bert Rhine went past, he half fetched up in his +stride, as if to knife me with the sheath knife, sharp-pointed, which +he carried in his right hand; then, and I know I correctly measured the +drift of his judgment, he unflatteringly dismissed me as unimportant +and ran on. + +Right here I was impressed by the lack of clear-thinking on any of +their parts. So spontaneously had the ship’s company exploded into +mutiny that it was dazed and confused even while it acted. For +instance, in the months since we left Baltimore there had never been a +moment, day or night, even when preventer tackles were rigged, that a +man had not stood at the wheel. So habituated were they to this, that +they were shocked into consternation at sight of the deserted wheel. +They paused for an instant to stare at it. Then Bert Rhine, with a +quick word and gesture, sent the Italian, Guido Bombini, around the +rear of the half-wheelhouse. The fact that he completed the circuit was +proof that nobody was there. + +Again, in the swift rush of events, I must confess that I saw but +little. I was aware that more of the men were climbing up the ladder +and gaining the poop, but I had no eyes for them. I was watching that +sanguinary group aft near the wheel and noting the most important +thing, namely, that it was Bert Rhine, the gangster, and not the second +mate, who gave orders and was obeyed. + +He motioned to the Jew, Isaac Chantz, who had been wounded earlier in +the voyage by O’Sullivan, and Chantz led the way to the starboard +chart-house door. While this was going on, all in flashing fractions of +seconds, Bert Rhine was cautiously inspecting the lazarette through the +open booby-hatch. + +Isaac Chantz jerked open the chart-house door, which swung outward. +Things did happen so swiftly! As he jerked the iron door open a +two-foot hacking butcher knife, at the end of a withered, yellow hand, +flashed out and down on him. It missed head and neck, but caught him on +top of the left shoulder. + +All hands recoiled before this, and the Jew reeled across to the rail, +his right hand clutching at his wound, and between the fingers I could +see the blood welling darkly. Bert Rhine abandoned his inspection of +the booby-hatch, and, with the second mate, the latter still carrying +his empty Smith & Wesson, sprang into the press about the chart-house +door. + +O wise, clever, cautious, old Chinese steward! He made no emergence. +The door swung emptily back and forth to the rolling of the _Elsinore_, +and no man knew but what, just inside, with that heavy, hacking knife +upraised, lurked the steward. And while they hesitated and stared at +the aperture that alternately closed and opened with the swinging of +the door, the booby-hatch, situated between chart-house and wheel, +erupted. It was Mr. Pike, with his .44 automatic Colt. + +There were shots fired, other than by him. I know I heard them, like +“red-heads” at an old-time Fourth of July; but I do not know who +discharged them. All was mess and confusion. Many shots were being +fired, and through the uproar I heard the reiterant, monotonous +explosions from the Colt’s .44 + +I saw the Italian, Mike Cipriani, clutch savagely at his abdomen and +sink slowly to the deck. Shorty, the Japanese half-caste, clown that he +was, dancing and grinning on the outskirts of the struggle, with a +final grimace and hysterical giggle led the retreat across the poop and +down the poop-ladder. Never had I seen a finer exemplification of mob +psychology. Shorty, the most unstable-minded of the individuals who +composed this mob, by his own instability precipitated the retreat in +which the mob joined. When he broke before the steady discharge of the +automatic in the hand of the mate, on the instant the rest broke with +him. Least-balanced, his balance was the balance of all of them. + +Chantz, bleeding prodigiously, was one of the first on Shorty’s heels. +I saw Nosey Murphy pause long enough to throw his knife at the mate. +The missile went wide, with a metallic clang struck the brass tip of +one of the spokes of the _Elsinore’s_ wheel, and clattered on the deck. +The second mate, with his empty revolver, and Bert Rhine with his +sheath-knife, fled past me side by side. + +Mr. Pike emerged from the booby-hatch and with an unaimed shot brought +down Bill Quigley, one of the “bricklayers,” who fell at my feet. The +last man off the poop was the Maltese Cockney, and at the top of the +ladder he paused to look back at Mr. Pike, who, holding the automatic +in both hands, was taking careful aim. The Maltese Cockney, disdaining +the ladder, leaped through the air to the main deck. But the Colt +merely clicked. It was the last bullet in it that had fetched down Bill +Quigley. + +And the poop was ours. + +Events still crowded so closely that I missed much. I saw the steward, +belligerent and cautious, his long knife poised for a slash, emerge +from the chart-house. Margaret followed him, and behind her came Wada, +who carried my .22 Winchester automatic rifle. As he told me +afterwards, he had brought it up under instructions from her. + +Mr. Pike was glancing with cool haste at his Colt to see whether it was +jammed or empty, when Margaret asked him the course. + +“By the wind,” he shouted to her, as he bounded for’ard. “Put your helm +hard up or we’ll be all aback.” + +Ah!—yeoman and henchman of the race, he could not fail in his fidelity +to the ship under his command. The iron of all his years of iron +training was there manifest. While mutiny spread red, and death was on +the wing, he could not forget his charge, the ship, the _Elsinore_, the +insensate fabric compounded of steel and hemp and woven cotton that was +to him glorious with personality. + +Margaret waved Wada in my direction as she ran to the wheel. As Mr. +Pike passed the corner of the chart-house, simultaneously there was a +report from amidships and the ping of a bullet against the steel wall. +I saw the man who fired the shot. It was the cowboy, Steve Roberts. + +As for the mate, he ducked in behind the sheltering jiggermast, and +even as he ducked his left hand dipped into his side coat-pocket, so +that when he had gained shelter it was coming out with a fresh clip of +cartridges. The empty clip fell to the deck, the loaded clip slipped up +the hollow butt, and he was good for eight more shots. + +Wada turned the little automatic rifle over to me, where I still stood +under the weather cloth at the break of the poop. + +“All ready,” he said. “You take off safety.” + +“Get Roberts,” Mr. Pike called to me. “He’s the best shot for’ard. If +you can’t get ’m, jolt the fear of God into him anyway.” + +It was the first time I had a human target, and let me say, here and +now, that I am convinced I am immune to buck fever. There he was before +me, less than a hundred feet distant, in the gangway between the door +to Davis’ room and the starboard-rail, manoeuvring for another shot at +Mr. Pike. + +I must have missed Steve Roberts that first time, but I came so near +him that he jumped. The next instant he had located me and turned his +revolver on me. But he had no chance. My little automatic was +discharging as fast as I could tickle the trigger with my fore-finger. +The cowboy’s first shot went wild of me, because my bullet arrived ere +he got his swift aim. He swayed and stumbled backward, but the +bullets—ten of them—poured from the muzzle of my Winchester like water +from a garden hose. It was a stream of lead I played upon him. I shall +never know how many times I hit him, but I am confident that after he +had begun his long staggering fall at least three additional bullets +entered him ere he impacted on the deck. And even as he was falling, +aimlessly and mechanically, stricken then with death, he managed twice +again to discharge his weapon. + +And after he struck the deck he never moved. I do believe he died in +the air. + +As I held up my gun and gazed at the abruptly-deserted main-deck I was +aware of Wada’s touch on my arm. I looked. In his hand were a dozen +little .22 long, soft-nosed, smokeless cartridges. He wanted me to +reload. I threw on the safety, opened the magazine, and tilted the +rifle so that he could let the fresh cartridges of themselves slide +into place. + +“Get some more,” I told him. + +Scarcely had he departed on the errand when Bill Quigley, who lay at my +feet, created a diversion. I jumped—yes, and I freely confess that I +yelled—with startle and surprise, when I felt his paws clutch my ankles +and his teeth shut down on the calf of my leg. + +It was Mr. Pike to the rescue. I understand now the Western hyperbole +of “hitting the high places.” The mate did not seem in contact with the +deck. My impression was that he soared through the air to me, landing +beside me, and, in the instant of landing, kicking out with one of +those big feet of his. Bill Quigley was kicked clear away from me, and +the next moment he was flying overboard. It was a clean throw. He never +touched the rail. + +Whether Mike Cipriani, who, till then, had lain in a welter, began +crawling aft in quest of safety, or whether he intended harm to +Margaret at the wheel, we shall never know; for there was no +opportunity given him to show his purpose. As swiftly as Mr. Pike could +cross the deck with those giant bounds, just that swiftly was the +Italian in the air and following Bill Quigley overside. + +The mate missed nothing with those eagle eyes of his as he returned +along the poop. Nobody was to be seen on the main deck. Even the +lookout had deserted the forecastle-head, and the _Elsinore_, steered +by Margaret, slipped a lazy two knots through the quiet sea. Mr. Pike +was apprehensive of a shot from ambush, and it was not until after a +scrutiny of several minutes that he put his pistol into his side +coat-pocket and snarled for’ard: + +“Come out, you rats! Show your ugly faces! I want to talk with you!” + +Guido Bombini, gesticulating peaceable intentions and evidently thrust +out by Bert Rhine, was the first to appear. When it was observed that +Mr. Pike did not fire, the rest began to dribble into view. This +continued till all were there save the cook, the two sail-makers, and +the second mate. The last to come out were Tom Spink, the boy +Buckwheat, and Herman Lunkenheimer, the good-natured but simple-minded +German; and these three came out only after repeated threats from Bert +Rhine, who, with Nosey Murphy and Kid Twist, was patently in charge. +Also, like a faithful dog, Guido Bombini fawned close to him. + +“That will do—stop where you are,” Mr. Pike commanded, when the crew +was scattered abreast, to starboard and to port, of Number Three hatch. + +It was a striking scene. _Mutiny on the high seas_! That phrase, +learned in boyhood from my Marryatt and Cooper, recrudesced in my +brain. This was it—mutiny on the high seas in the year nineteen +thirteen—and I was part of it, a perishing blond whose lot was cast +with the perishing but lordly blonds, and I had already killed a man. + +Mr. Pike, in the high place, aged and indomitable; leaned his arm on +the rail at the break of the poop and gazed down at the mutineers, the +like of which I’ll wager had never been assembled in mutiny before. +There were the three gangsters and ex-jailbirds, anything but seamen, +yet in control of this affair that was peculiarly an affair of the sea. +With them was the Italian hound, Bombini, and beside them were such +strangely assorted men as Anton Sorensen, Lars Jacobsen, Frank +Fitzgibbon, and Richard Giller—also Arthur Deacon the white slaver, +John Hackey the San Francisco hoodlum, the Maltese Cockney, and Tony +the suicidal Greek. + +I noticed the three strange ones, shouldering together and standing +apart from the others as they swayed to the lazy roll and dreamed with +their pale, topaz eyes. And there was the Faun, stone deaf but +observant, straining to understand what was taking place. Yes, and +Mulligan Jacobs and Andy Fay were bitterly and eagerly side by side, +and Ditman Olansen, crank-eyed, as if drawn by some affinity of +bitterness, stood behind them, his head appearing between their heads. +Farthest advanced of all was Charles Davis, the man who by all rights +should long since be dead, his face with its wax-like pallor +startlingly in contrast to the weathered faces of the rest. + +I glanced back at Margaret, who was coolly steering, and she smiled to +me, and love was in her eyes—she, too, of the perishing and lordly race +of blonds, her place the high place, her heritage government and +command and mastery over the stupid lowly of her kind and over the ruck +and spawn of the dark-pigmented breeds. + +“Where’s Sidney Waltham?” the mate snarled. “I want him. Bring him out. +After that, the rest of you filth get back to work, or God have mercy +on you.” + +The men moved about restlessly, shuffling their feet on the deck. + +“Sidney Waltham, I want you—come out!” Mr. Pike called, addressing +himself beyond them to the murderer of the captain under whom once he +had sailed. + +The prodigious old hero! It never entered his head that he was not the +master of the rabble there below him. He had but one idea, an idea of +passion, and that was his desire for vengeance on the murderer of his +old skipper. + +“You old stiff!” Mulligan Jacobs snarled back. + +“Shut up, Mulligan!” was Bert Rhine’s command, in receipt of which he +received a venomous stare from the cripple. + +“Oh, ho, my hearty,” Mr. Pike sneered at the gangster. “I’ll take care +of your case, never fear. In the meantime, and right now, fetch out +that dog.” + +Whereupon he ignored the leader of the mutineers and began calling, +“Waltham, you dog, come out! Come out, you sneaking cur! Come out!” + +_Another lunatic_, was the thought that flashed through my mind; +another lunatic, the slave of a single idea. He forgets the mutiny, his +fidelity to the ship, in his personal thirst for vengeance. + +But did he? Even as he forgot and called his heart’s desire, which was +the life of the second mate, even then, without intention, +mechanically, his sailor’s considerative eye lifted to note the draw of +the sails and roved from sail to sail. Thereupon, so reminded, he +returned to his fidelity. + +“Well?” he snarled at Bert Rhine. “Go on and get for’ard before I spit +on you, you scum and slum. I’ll give you and the rest of the rats two +minutes to return to duty.” + +And the leader, with his two fellow-gangsters, laughed their weird, +silent laughter. + +“I guess you’ll listen to our talk, first, old horse,” Bert Rhine +retorted. “—Davis, get up now and show what kind of a spieler you are. +Don’t get cold feet. Spit it out to Foxy Grandpa an’ tell ’m what’s +doin’.” + +“You damned sea-lawyer!” Mr. Pike snarled as Davis opened his mouth to +speak. + +Bert Rhine shrugged his shoulders, and half turned on his heel as if to +depart, as he said quietly: + +“Oh, well, if you don’t want to talk . . . ” + +Mr. Pike conceded a point. + +“Go on!” he snarled. “Spit the dirt out of your system, Davis; but +remember one thing: you’ll pay for this, and you’ll pay through the +nose. Go on!” + +The sea-lawyer cleared his throat in preparation. + +“First of all, I ain’t got no part in this,” he began. + +“I’m a sick man, an’ I oughta be in my bunk right now. I ain’t fit to +be on my feet. But they’ve asked me to advise ’em on the law, an’ I +have advised ’em—” + +“And the law—what is it?” Mr. Pike broke in. + +But Davis was uncowed. + +“The law is that when the officers is inefficient, the crew can take +charge peaceably an’ bring the ship into port. It’s all law an’ in the +records. There was the _Abyssinia_, in eighteen ninety-two, when the +master’d died of fever and the mates took to drinkin’—” + +“Go on!” Mr. Pike shut him off. “I don’t want your citations. What d’ye +want? Spit it out.” + +“Well—and I’m talkin’ as an outsider, as a sick man off duty that’s +been asked to talk—well, the point is our skipper was a good one, but +he’s gone. Our mate is violent, seekin’ the life of the second mate. We +don’t care about that. What we want is to get into port with our lives. +An’ our lives is in danger. We ain’t hurt nobody. You’ve done all the +bloodshed. You’ve shot an’ killed an’ thrown two men overboard, as +witnesses’ll testify to in court. An’ there’s Roberts, there, dead, +too, an’ headin’ for the sharks—an’ what for? For defendin’ himself +from murderous an’ deadly attack, as every man can testify an’ tell the +truth, the whole truth, an’ nothin’ but the truth, so help ’m, +God—ain’t that right, men?” + +A confused murmur of assent arose from many of them. + +“You want my job, eh?” Mr. Pike grinned. “An’ what are you goin’ to do +with me?” + +“You’ll be taken care of until we get in an’ turn you over to the +lawful authorities,” Davis answered promptly. “Most likely you can +plead insanity an’ get off easy.” + +At this moment I felt a stir at my shoulder. It was Margaret, armed +with the long knife of the steward, whom she had put at the wheel. + +“You’ve got another guess comin’, Davis,” Mr. Pike said. “I’ve got no +more talk with you. I’m goin’ to talk to the bunch. I’ll give you +fellows just two minutes to choose, and I’ll tell you your choices. +You’ve only got two choices. You’ll turn the second mate over to me an’ +go back to duty and take what’s comin’ to you, or you’ll go to jail +with the stripes on you for long sentences. You’ve got two minutes. The +fellows that want jail can stand right where they are. The fellows that +don’t want jail and are willin’ to work faithful, can walk right back +to me here on the poop. Two minutes, an’ you can keep your jaws stopped +while you think over what it’s goin’ to be.” + +He turned his head to me and said in an undertone, “Be ready with that +pop-gun for trouble. An’ don’t hesitate. Slap it into ’em—the swine +that think they can put as raw a deal as this over on us.” + +It was Buckwheat who made the first move; but so tentative was it that +it got no farther than a tensing of the legs and a sway forward of the +shoulders. Nevertheless it was sufficient to start Herman Lunkenheimer, +who thrust out his foot and began confidently to walk aft. Kid Twist +gained him in a single spring, and Kid Twist, his wrist under the +German’s throat from behind; his knee pressed into the German’s back, +bent the man backward and held him. Even as the rifle came to my +shoulder, the hound Bombini drew his knife directly beneath Kid Twist’s +wrist across the up-stretched throat of the man. + +It was at this instant that I heard Mr. Pike’s “Plug him!” and pulled +the trigger; and of all ungodly things the bullet missed and caught the +Faun, who staggered back, sat down on the hatch, and began to cough. +And even as he coughed he still strained with pain-eloquent eyes to try +to understand. + +No other man moved. Herman Lunkenheimer, released by Kid Twist, sank +down on the deck. Nor did I shoot again. Kid Twist stood again by the +side of Bert Rhine and Guido Bombini fawned near. + +Bert Rhine actually visibly smiled. + +“Any more of you guys want to promenade aft?” he queried in velvet +tones. + +“Two minutes up,” Mr. Pike declared. + +“An’ what are you goin’ to do about it, Grandpa?” Bert Rhine sneered. + +In a flash the big automatic was out of the mate’s pocket and he was +shooting as fast as he could pull trigger, while all hands fled to +shelter. But, as he had long since told me, he was no shot and could +effectively use the weapon only at close range—muzzle to stomach +preferably. + +As we stared at the main deck, deserted save for the dead cowboy on his +back and for the Faun who still sat on the hatch and coughed, an +eruption of men occurred over the for’ard edge of the ’midship-house. + +“Shoot!” Margaret cried at my back. + +“Don’t!” Mr. Pike roared at me. + +The rifle was at my shoulder when I desisted. Louis, the cook, led the +rush aft to us across the top of the house and along the bridge. Behind +him, in single file and not wasting any time, came the Japanese +sail-makers, Henry the training-ship boy, and the other boy Buckwheat. +Tom Spink brought up the rear. As he came up the ladder of the +’midship-house somebody from beneath must have caught him by a leg in +an effort to drag him back. We saw half of him in sight and knew that +he was struggling and kicking. He fetched clear abruptly, gained the +top of the house in a surge, and raced aft along the bridge until he +overtook and collided with Buckwheat, who yelled out in fear that a +mutineer had caught him. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + + +We who are aft, besieged in the high place, are stronger in numbers +than I dreamed until now, when I have just finished taking the ship’s +census. Of course Margaret, Mr. Pike, and myself are apart. We alone +represent the ruling class. With us are servants and serfs, faithful to +their salt, who look to us for guidance and life. + +I use my words advisedly. Tom Spink and Buckwheat are serfs and nothing +else. Henry, the training-ship boy, occupies an anomalous +classification. He is of our kind, but he can scarcely be called even a +cadet of our kind. He will some day win to us and become a mate or a +captain, but in the meantime, of course, his past is against him. He is +a candidate, rising from the serf class to our class. Also, he is only +a youth, the iron of his heredity not yet tested and proven. + +Wada, Louis, and the steward are servants of Asiatic breed. So are the +two Japanese sail-makers—scarcely servants, not to be called slaves, +but something in between. + +So, all told, there are eleven of us aft in the citadel. But our +followers are too servant-like and serf-like to be offensive fighters. +They will help us defend the high place against all attack; but they +are incapable of joining with us in an attack on the other end of the +ship. They will fight like cornered rats to preserve their lives; but +they will not advance like tigers upon the enemy. Tom Spink is faithful +but spirit-broken. Buckwheat is hopelessly of the stupid lowly. Henry +has not yet won his spurs. On our side remain Margaret, Mr. Pike, and +myself. The rest will hold the wall of the poop and fight thereon to +the death, but they are not to be depended upon in a sortie. + +At the other end of the ship—and I may as well give the roster, are: +the second mate, either to be called Mellaire or Waltham, a strong man +of our own breed but a renegade; the three gangsters, killers and +jackals, Bert Rhine, Nosey Murphy, and Kid Twist; the Maltese Cockney +and Tony the crazy Greek; Frank Fitzgibbon and Richard Giller, the +survivors of the trio of “bricklayers”; Anton Sorensen and Lars +Jacobsen, stupid Scandinavian sailor-men; Ditman Olansen, the +crank-eyed Berserk; John Hackey and Arthur Deacon, respectively hoodlum +and white slaver; Shorty, the mixed-breed clown; Guido Bombini, the +Italian hound; Andy Fay and Mulligan Jacobs, the bitter ones; the three +topaz-eyed dreamers, who are unclassifiable; Isaac Chantz, the wounded +Jew; Bob, the overgrown dolt; the feeble-minded Faun, lung-wounded; +Nancy and Sundry Buyers, the two hopeless, helpless bosuns; and, +finally, the sea-lawyer, Charles Davis. + +This makes twenty-seven of them against the eleven of us. But there are +men, strong in viciousness, among them. They, too, have their serfs and +bravos. Guido Bombini and Isaac Chantz are certainly bravos. And +weaklings like Sorensen, and Jacobsen, and Bob, cannot be anything else +than slaves to the men who compose the gangster clique. + +I failed to tell what happened yesterday, after Mr. Pike emptied his +automatic and cleared the deck. The poop was indubitably ours, and +there was no possibility of the mutineers making a charge on us in +broad daylight. Margaret had gone below, accompanied by Wada, to see to +the security of the port and starboard doors that open from the cabin +directly on the main deck. These are still caulked and tight and +fastened on the inside, as they have been since the passage of Cape +Horn began. + +Mr. Pike put one of the sail-makers at the wheel, and the steward, +relieved and starting below, was attracted to the port quarter, where +the patent log that towed astern was made fast. Margaret had returned +his knife to him, and he was carrying it in his hand when his attention +was attracted astern to our wake. Mike Cipriani and Bill Quigley had +managed to catch the lazily moving log-line and were clinging to it. +The _Elsinore_ was moving just fast enough to keep them on the surface +instead of dragging them under. Above them and about them circled +curious and hungry albatrosses, Cape hens, and mollyhawks. Even as I +glimpsed the situation one of the big birds, a ten-footer at least, +with a ten-inch beak to the fore, dropped down on the Italian. +Releasing his hold with one hand, he struck with his knife at the bird. +Feathers flew, and the albatross, deflected by the blow, fell clumsily +into the water. + +Quite methodically, just as part of the day’s work, the steward chopped +down with his knife, catching the log-line between the steel edge and +the rail. At once, no longer buoyed up by the _Elsinore’s_ two-knot +drag ahead, the wounded men began to swim and flounder. The circling +hosts of huge sea-birds descended upon them, with carnivorous beaks +striking at their heads and shoulders and arms. A great screeching and +squawking arose from the winged things of prey as they strove for the +living meat. And yet, somehow, I was not very profoundly shocked. These +were the men whom I had seen eviscerate the shark and toss it +overboard, and shout with joy as they watched it devoured alive by its +brethren. They had played a violent, cruel game with the things of +life, and the things of life now played upon them the same violent, +cruel game. As they that rise by the sword perish by the sword, just so +did these two men who had lived cruelly die cruelly. + +“Oh, well,” was Mr. Pike’s comment, “we’ve saved two sacks of mighty +good coal.” + +* * * * * + + +Certainly our situation might be worse. We are cooking on the +coal-stove and on the oil-burners. We have servants to cook and serve +for us. And, most important of all, we are in possession of all the +food on the _Elsinore_. + +Mr. Pike makes no mistake. Realizing that with our crowd we cannot rush +the crowd at the other end of the ship, he accepts the siege, which, as +he says, consists of the besieged holding all food supplies while the +besiegers are on the imminent edge of famine. + +“Starve the dogs,” he growls. “Starve ’m until they crawl aft and lick +our shoes. Maybe you think the custom of carrying the stores aft just +happened. Only it didn’t. Before you and I were born it was +long-established and it was established on brass tacks. They knew what +they were about, the old cusses, when they put the grub in the +lazarette.” + +Louis says there is not more than three days’ regular whack in the +galley; that the barrel of hard-tack in the forecastle will quickly go; +and that our chickens, which they stole last night from the top of the +’midship-house, are equivalent to no more than an additional day’s +supply. In short, at the outside limit, we are convinced the men will +be keen to talk surrender within the week. + +We are no longer sailing. In last night’s darkness we helplessly +listened to the men loosing headsail-halyards and letting yards go down +on the run. Under orders of Mr. Pike I shot blindly and many times into +the dark, but without result, save that we heard the bullets of +answering shots strike against the chart-house. So to-day we have not +even a man at the wheel. The _Elsinore_ drifts idly on an idle sea, and +we stand regular watches in the shelter of chart-house and jiggermast. +Mr. Pike says it is the laziest time he has had on the whole voyage. + +I alternate watches with him, although when on duty there is little to +be done, save, in the daytime, to stand rifle in hand behind the +jiggermast, and, in the night, to lurk along the break of the poop. +Behind the chart-house, ready to repel assault, are my watch of four +men: Tom Spink, Wada, Buckwheat, and Louis. Henry, the two Japanese +sail-makers, and the old steward compose Mr. Pike’s watch. + +It is his orders that no one for’ard is to be allowed to show himself, +so, to-day, when the second mate appeared at the corner of the +’midship-house, I made him take a quick leap back with the thud of my +bullet against the iron wall a foot from his head. Charles Davis tried +the same game and was similarly stimulated. + +Also, this evening, after dark, Mr. Pike put block-and-tackle on the +first section of the bridge, heaved it out of place, and lowered it +upon the poop. Likewise he hoisted in the ladder at the break of the +poop that leads down to the main deck. The men will have to do some +climbing if they ever elect to rush us. + +I am writing this in my watch below. I came off duty at eight o’clock, +and at midnight I go on deck to stay till four to-morrow morning. Wada +shakes his head and says that the Blackwood Company should rebate us on +the first-class passage paid in advance. We are working our passage, he +contends. + +Margaret takes the adventure joyously. It is the first time she has +experienced mutiny, but she is such a thorough sea-woman that she +appears like an old hand at the game. She leaves the deck to the mate +and me; but, still acknowledging his leadership, she has taken charge +below and entirely manages the commissary, the cooking, and the +sleeping arrangements. We still keep our old quarters, and she has +bedded the new-comers in the big after-room with blankets issued from +the slop-chest. + +In a way, from the standpoint of her personal welfare, the mutiny is +the best thing that could have happened to her. It has taken her mind +off her father and filled her waking hours with work to do. This +afternoon, standing above the open booby-hatch, I heard her laugh ring +out as in the old days coming down the Atlantic. Yes, and she hums +snatches of songs under her breath as she works. In the second +dog-watch this evening, after Mr. Pike had finished dinner and joined +us on the poop, she told him that if he did not soon re-rig his +phonograph she was going to start in on the piano. The reason she +advanced was the psychological effect such sounds of revelry would have +on the starving mutineers. + +* * * * * + + +The days pass, and nothing of moment happens. We get nowhere. The +_Elsinore_, without the steadying of her canvas, rolls emptily and +drifts a lunatic course. Sometimes she is bow on to the wind, and at +other times she is directly before it; but at all times she is circling +vaguely and hesitantly to get somewhere else than where she is. As an +illustration, at daylight this morning she came up into the wind as if +endeavouring to go about. In the course of half an hour she worked off +till the wind was directly abeam. In another half hour she was back +into the wind. Not until evening did she manage to get the wind on her +port bow; but when she did, she immediately paid off, accomplished the +complete circle in an hour, and recommenced her morning tactics of +trying to get into the wind. + +And there is nothing for us to do save hold the poop against the attack +that is never made. Mr. Pike, more from force of habit than anything +else, takes his regular observations and works up the _Elsinore’s_ +position. This noon she was eight miles east of yesterday’s position, +yet to-day’s position, in longitude, was within a mile of where she was +four days ago. On the other hand she invariably makes northing at the +rate of seven or eight miles a day. + +Aloft, the _Elsinore_ is a sad spectacle. All is confusion and +disorder. The sails, unfurled, are a slovenly mess along the yards, and +many loose ends sway dismally to every roll. The only yard that is +loose is the main-yard. It is fortunate that wind and wave are mild, +else would the iron-work carry away and the mutineers find the huge +thing of steel about their ears. + +There is one thing we cannot understand. A week has passed, and the men +show no signs of being starved into submission. Repeatedly and in vain +has Mr. Pike interrogated the hands aft with us. One and all, from the +cook to Buckwheat, they swear they have no knowledge of any food +for’ard, save the small supply in the galley and the barrel of hardtack +in the forecastle. Yet it is very evident that those for’ard are not +starving. We see the smoke from the galley-stove and can only conclude +that they have food to cook. + +Twice has Bert Rhine attempted a truce, but both times his white flag, +as soon as it showed above the edge of the ’midship-house, was fired +upon by Mr. Pike. The last occurrence was two days ago. It is Mr. +Pike’s intention thoroughly to starve them into submission, but now he +is beginning to worry about their mysterious food supply. + +Mr. Pike is not quite himself. He is obsessed, I know beyond any doubt, +with the idea of vengeance on the second mate. On divers occasions, +now, I have come unexpectedly upon him and found him muttering to +himself with grim set face, or clenching and unclenching his big square +fists and grinding his teeth. His conversation continually runs upon +the feasibility of our making a night attack for’ard, and he is +perpetually questioning Tom Spink and Louis on their ideas of where the +various men may be sleeping—the point of which always is: _Where is the +second mate likely to be sleeping_? + +No later than yesterday afternoon did he give me most positive proof of +his obsession. It was four o’clock, the beginning of the first +dog-watch, and he had just relieved me. So careless have we grown, that +we now stand in broad daylight at the exposed break of the poop. Nobody +shoots at us, and, occasionally, over the top of the for’ard-house, +Shorty sticks up his head and grins or makes clownish faces at us. At +such times Mr. Pike studies Shorty’s features through the telescope in +an effort to find signs of starvation. Yet he admits dolefully that +Shorty is looking fleshed-up. + +But to return. Mr. Pike had just relieved me yesterday afternoon, when +the second mate climbed the forecastle-head and sauntered to the very +eyes of the _Elsinore_, where he stood gazing overside. + +“Take a crack at ’m,” Mr. Pike said. + +It was a long shot, and I was taking slow and careful aim, when he +touched my arm. + +“No; don’t,” he said. + +I lowered the little rifle and looked at him inquiringly. + +“You might hit him,” he explained. “And I want him for myself.” + +* * * * * + + +Life is never what we expect it to be. All our voyage from Baltimore +south to the Horn and around the Horn has been marked by violence and +death. And now that it has culminated in open mutiny there is no more +violence, much less death. We keep to ourselves aft, and the mutineers +keep to themselves for’ard. There is no more harshness, no more +snarling and bellowing of commands; and in this fine weather a general +festival obtains. + +Aft, Mr. Pike and Margaret alternate with phonograph and piano; and +for’ard, although we cannot see them, a full-fledged “foo-foo” band +makes most of the day and night hideous. A squealing accordion that Tom +Spink says was the property of Mike Cipriani is played by Guido +Bombini, who sets the pace and seems the leader of the foo-foo. There +are two broken-reeded harmonicas. Someone plays a jew’s-harp. Then +there are home-made fifes and whistles and drums, combs covered with +paper, extemporized triangles, and bones made from ribs of salt horse +such as negro minstrels use. + +The whole crew seems to compose the band, and, like a lot of +monkey-folk rejoicing in rude rhythm, emphasizes the beat by hammering +kerosene cans, frying-pans, and all sorts of things metallic or +reverberant. Some genius has rigged a line to the clapper of the ship’s +bell on the forecastle-head and clangs it horribly in the big foo-foo +crises, though Bombini can be heard censuring him severely on occasion. +And to cap it all, the fog-horn machine pumps in at the oddest moments +in imitation of a big bass viol. + +And this is mutiny on the high seas! Almost every hour of my +deck-watches I listen to this infernal din, and am maddened into desire +to join with Mr. Pike in a night attack and put these rebellious and +inharmonious slaves to work. + +Yet they are not entirely inharmonious. Guido Bombini has a respectable +though untrained tenor voice, and has surprised me by a variety of +selections, not only from Verdi, but from Wagner and Massenet. Bert +Rhine and his crowd are full of rag-time junk, and one phrase that has +caught the fancy of all hands, and which they roar out at all times, +is: “_It’s a bear_! _It’s a bear_! _It’s a bear_!” This morning Nancy, +evidently very strongly urged, gave a doleful rendering of _Flying +Cloud_. Yes, and in the second dog-watch last evening our three +topaz-eyed dreamers sang some folk-song strangely sweet and sad. + +And this is mutiny! As I write I can scarcely believe it. Yet I know +Mr. Pike keeps the watch over my head. I hear the shrill laughter of +the steward and Louis over some ancient Chinese joke. Wada and the +sail-makers, in the pantry, are, I know, talking Japanese politics. And +from across the cabin, along the narrow halls, I can hear Margaret +softly humming as she goes to bed. + +But all doubts vanish at the stroke of eight bells, when I go on deck +to relieve Mr. Pike, who lingers a moment for a “gam,” as he calls it. + +“Say,” he said confidentially, “you and I can clean out the whole gang. +All we got to do is sneak for’ard and turn loose. As soon as we begin +to shoot up, half of ’em’ll bolt aft—lobsters like Nancy, an’ Sundry +Buyers, an’ Jacobsen, an’ Bob, an’ Shorty, an’ them three castaways, +for instance. An’ while they’re doin’ that, an’ our bunch on the poop +is takin’ ’em in, you an’ me can make a pretty big hole in them that’s +left. What d’ye say?” + +I hesitated, thinking of Margaret. + +“Why, say,” he urged, “once I jumped into that fo’c’s’le, at close +range, I’d start right in, blim-blam-blim, fast as you could wink, +nailing them gangsters, an’ Bombini, an’ the Sheeny, an’ Deacon, an’ +the Cockney, an’ Mulligan Jacobs, an’ . . . an’ . . . Waltham.” + +“That would be nine,” I smiled. “You’ve only eight shots in your Colt.” + +Mr. Pike considered a moment, and revised his list. “All right,” he +agreed, “I guess I’ll have to let Jacobs go. What d’ye say? Are you +game?” + +Still I hesitated, but before I could speak he anticipated me and +returned to his fidelity. + +“No, you can’t do it, Mr. Pathurst. If by any luck they got the both of +us . . . No; we’ll just stay aft and sit tight until they’re starved to +it . . . But where they get their tucker gets me. For’ard she’s as bare +as a bone, as any decent ship ought to be, and yet look at ’em, rolling +hog fat. And by rights they ought to a-quit eatin’ a week ago.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + + +Yes, it is certainly mutiny. Collecting water from the leaders of the +chart-house in a shower of rain this morning, Buckwheat exposed +himself, and a long, lucky revolver-shot from for’ard caught him in the +shoulder. The bullet was small-calibre and spent ere it reached him, so +that he received no more than a flesh-wound, though he carried on as if +he were dying until Mr. Pike hushed his noise by cuffing his ears. + +I should not like to have Mr. Pike for my surgeon. He probed for the +bullet with his little finger, which was far too big for the aperture; +and with his little finger, while with his other hand he threatened +another ear-clout, he gouged out the leaden pellet. Then he sent the +boy below, where Margaret took him in charge with antiseptics and +dressings. + +I see her so rarely that a half-hour alone with her these days is an +adventure. She is busy morning to night in keeping her house in order. +As I write this, through my open door I can hear her laying the law +down to the men in the after-room. She has issued underclothes all +around from the slop-chest, and is ordering them to take a bath in the +rain-water just caught. And to make sure of their thoroughness in the +matter, she has told off Louis and the steward to supervise the +operation. Also, she has forbidden them smoking their pipes in the +after-room. And, to cap everything, they are to scrub walls, ceiling, +everything, and then start to-morrow morning at painting. All of which +serves to convince me almost that mutiny does not obtain and that I +have imagined it. + +But no. I hear Buckwheat blubbering and demanding how he can take a +bath in his wounded condition. I wait and listen for Margaret’s +judgment. Nor am I disappointed. Tom Spink and Henry are told off to +the task, and the thorough scrubbing of Buckwheat is assured. + +* * * * * + + +The mutineers are not starving. To-day they have been fishing for +albatrosses. A few minutes after they caught the first one its carcase +was flung overboard. Mr. Pike studied it through his sea-glasses, and I +heard him grit his teeth when he made certain that it was not the mere +feathers and skin but the entire carcass. They had taken only its +wing-bones to make into pipe-stems. The inference was obvious: +_starving men would not throw meat away in such fashion_. + +But where do they get their food? It is a sea-mystery in itself, +although I might not so deem it were it not for Mr. Pike. + +“I think, and think, till my brain is all frazzled out,” he tells me; +“and yet I can’t get a line on it. I know every inch of space on the +_Elsinore_, and know there isn’t an ounce of grub anywhere for’ard, and +yet they eat! I’ve overhauled the lazarette. As near as I can make it +out, nothing is missing. Then where do they get it? That’s what I want +to know. Where do they get it?” + +I know that this morning he spent hours in the lazarette with the +steward and the cook, overhauling and checking off from the lists of +the Baltimore agents. And I know that they came up out of the +lazarette, the three of them, dripping with perspiration and baffled. +The steward has raised the hypothesis that, first of all, there were +extra stores left over from the previous voyage, or from previous +voyages, and, next, that the stealing of these stores must have taken +place during the night-watches when it was Mr. Pike’s turn below. + +At any rate, the mate takes the food mystery almost as much to heart as +he takes the persistent and propinquitous existence of Sidney Waltham. + +I am coming to realize the meaning of watch-and-watch. To begin with, I +spend on deck twelve hours, and a fraction more, of each twenty-four. A +fair portion of the remaining twelve is spent in eating, in dressing, +and in undressing, and with Margaret. As a result, I feel the need for +more sleep than I am getting. I scarcely read at all, now. The moment +my head touches the pillow I am asleep. Oh, I sleep like a baby, eat +like a navvy, and in years have not enjoyed such physical well-being. I +tried to read George Moore last night, and was dreadfully bored. He may +be a realist, but I solemnly aver he does not know reality on that +tight, little, sheltered-life archipelago of his. If he could wind-jam +around the Horn just one voyage he would be twice the writer. + +And Mr. Pike, for practically all of his sixty-nine years, has stood +his watch-and-watch, with many a spill-over of watches into watches. +And yet he is iron. In a struggle with him I am confident that he would +break me like so much straw. He is truly a prodigy of a man, and, so +far as to-day is concerned, an anachronism. + +The Faun is not dead, despite my unlucky bullet. Henry insisted that he +caught a glimpse of him yesterday. To-day I saw him myself. He came to +the corner of the ’midship-house and gazed wistfully aft at the poop, +straining and eager to understand. In the same way I have often seen +Possum gaze at me. + +It has just struck me that of our eight followers five are Asiatic and +only three are our own breed. Somehow it reminds me of India and of +Clive and Hastings. + +And the fine weather continues, and we wonder how long a time must +elapse ere our mutineers eat up their mysterious food and are starved +back to work. + +We are almost due west of Valparaiso and quite a bit less than a +thousand miles off the west coast of South America. The light northerly +breezes, varying from north-east to west, would, according to Mr. Pike, +work us in nicely for Valparaiso if only we had sail on the _Elsinore_. +As it is, sailless, she drifts around and about and makes nowhere save +for the slight northerly drift each day. + +* * * * * + + +Mr. Pike is beside himself. In the past two days he has displayed +increasing possession of himself by the one idea of vengeance on the +second mate. It is not the mutiny, irksome as it is and helpless as it +makes him; it is the presence of the murderer of his old-time and +admired skipper, Captain Somers. + +The mate grins at the mutiny, calls it a snap, speaks gleefully of how +his wages are running up, and regrets that he is not ashore, where he +would be able to take a hand in gambling on the reinsurance. But the +sight of Sidney Waltham, calmly gazing at sea and sky from the +forecastle-head, or astride the far end of the bowsprit and fishing for +sharks, maddens him. Yesterday, coming to relieve me, he borrowed my +rifle and turned loose the stream of tiny pellets on the second mate, +who coolly made his line secure ere he scrambled in-board. Of course, +it was only one chance in a hundred that Mr. Pike might have hit him, +but Sidney Waltham did not care to encourage the chance. + +And yet it is not like mutiny—not like the conventional mutiny I +absorbed as a boy, and which has become classic in the literature of +the sea. There is no hand-to-hand fighting, no crash of cannon and +flash of cutlass, no sailors drinking grog, no lighted matches held +over open powder-magazines. Heavens!—there isn’t a single cutlass nor a +powder-magazine on board. And as for grog, not a man has had a drink +since Baltimore. + +* * * * * + + +Well, it is mutiny after all. I shall never doubt it again. It may be +nineteen-thirteen mutiny on a coal-carrier, with feeblings and +imbeciles and criminals for mutineers; but at any rate mutiny it is, +and at least in the number of deaths it is reminiscent of the old days. +For things have happened since last I had opportunity to write up this +log. For that matter, I am now the keeper of the _Elsinore’s_ official +log as well, in which work Margaret helps me. + +And I might have known it would happen. At four yesterday morning I +relieved Mr. Pike. When in the darkness I came up to him at the break +of the poop, I had to speak to him twice to make him aware of my +presence. And then he merely grunted acknowledgment in an absent sort +of way. + +The next moment he brightened up, and was himself save that he was too +bright. He was making an effort. I felt this, but was quite unprepared +for what followed. + +“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, as he put his leg over the rail +and lightly and swiftly lowered himself down into the darkness. + +There was nothing I could do. To cry out or to attempt to reason with +him would only have drawn the mutineers’ attention. I heard his feet +strike the deck beneath as he let go. Immediately he started for’ard. +Little enough precaution he took. I swear that clear to the +’midship-house I heard the dragging age-lag of his feet. Then that +ceased, and that was all. + +I repeat. That was all. Never a sound came from for’ard. I held my +watch till daylight. I held it till Margaret came on deck with her +cheery “What ho of the night, brave mariner?” I held the next watch +(which should have been the mate’s) till midday, eating both breakfast +and lunch behind the sheltering jiggermast. And I held all afternoon, +and through both dog-watches, my dinner served likewise on the deck. + +And that was all. Nothing happened. The galley-stove smoked three +times, advertising the cooking of three meals. Shorty made faces at me +as usual across the rim of the for’ard-house. The Maltese Cockney +caught an albatross. There was some excitement when Tony the Greek +hooked a shark off the jib-boom, so big that half a dozen tailed on to +the line and failed to land it. But I caught no glimpse of Mr. Pike nor +of the renegade Sidney Waltham. + +In short, it was a lazy, quiet day of sunshine and gentle breeze. There +was no inkling to what had happened to the mate. Was he a prisoner? Was +he already overside? Why were there no shots? He had his big automatic. +It is inconceivable that he did not use it at least once. Margaret and +I discussed the affair till we were well a-weary, but reached no +conclusion. + +She is a true daughter of the race. At the end of the second dog-watch, +armed with her father’s revolver, she insisted on standing the first +watch of the night. I compromised with the inevitable by having Wada +make up my bed on the deck in the shelter of the cabin skylight just +for’ard of the jiggermast. Henry, the two sail-makers and the steward, +variously equipped with knives and clubs, were stationed along the +break of the poop. + +And right here I wish to pass my first criticism on modern mutiny. On +ships like the _Elsinore_ there are not enough weapons to go around. +The only firearms now aft are Captain West’s .38 Colt revolver, and my +.22 automatic Winchester. The old steward, with a penchant for hacking +and chopping, has his long knife and a butcher’s cleaver. Henry, in +addition to his sheath-knife, has a short bar of iron. Louis, despite a +most sanguinary array of butcher-knives and a big poker, pins his +cook’s faith on hot water and sees to it that two kettles are always +piping on top the cabin stove. Buckwheat, who on account of his wound +is getting all night in for a couple of nights, cherishes a hatchet. + +The rest of our retainers have knives and clubs, although Yatsuda, the +first sail-maker, carries a hand-axe, and Uchino, the second +sail-maker, sleeping or waking, never parts from a claw-hammer. Tom +Spink has a harpoon. Wada, however, is the genius. By means of the +cabin stove he has made a sharp pike-point of iron and fitted it to a +pole. To-morrow be intends to make more for the other men. + +It is rather shuddery, however, to speculate on the terrible assortment +of cutting, gouging, jabbing and slashing weapons with which the +mutineers are able to equip themselves from the carpenter’s shop. If it +ever comes to an assault on the poop there will be a weird mess of +wounds for the survivors to dress. For that matter, master as I am of +my little rifle, no man could gain the poop in the day-time. Of course, +if rush they will, they will rush us in the night, when my rifle will +be worthless. Then it will be blow for blow, hand-to-hand, and the +strongest pates and arms will win. + +But no. I have just bethought me. We shall be ready for any night-rush. +I’ll take a leaf out of modern warfare, and show them not only that we +are top-dog (a favourite phrase of the mate), but _why_ we are top-dog. +It is simple—night illumination. As I write I work out the +idea—gasoline, balls of oakum, caps and gunpowder from a few +cartridges, Roman candles, and flares blue, red, and green, shallow +metal receptacles to carry the explosive and inflammable stuff; and a +trigger-like arrangement by which, pulling on a string, the caps are +exploded in the gunpowder and fire set to the gasoline-soaked oakum and +to the flares and candles. It will be brain as well as brawn against +mere brawn. + +* * * * * + + +I have worked like a Trojan all day, and the idea is realized. Margaret +helped me out with suggestions, and Tom Spink did the sailorizing. Over +our head, from the jiggermast, the steel stays that carry the three +jigger-trysails descend high above the break of the poop and across the +main deck to the mizzenmast. A light line has been thrown over each +stay, and been thrown repeatedly around so as to form an unslipping +knot. Tom Spink waited till dark, when he went aloft and attached loose +rings of stiff wire around the stays below the knots. Also he bent on +hoisting-gear and connected permanent fastenings with the sliding +rings. And further, between rings and fastenings, is a slack of fifty +feet of light line. + +This is the idea: after dark each night we shall hoist our three metal +wash-basins, loaded with inflammables, up to the stays. The arrangement +is such that at the first alarm of a rush, by pulling a cord the +trigger is pulled that ignites the powder, and the very same pull +operates a trip-device that lets the rings slide down the steel stays. +Of course, suspended from the rings, are the illuminators, and when +they have run down the stays fifty feet the lines will automatically +bring them to rest. Then all the main deck between the poop and the +mizzen-mast will be flooded with light, while we shall be in +comparative darkness. + +Of course each morning before daylight we shall lower all this +apparatus to the deck, so that the men for’ard will not guess what we +have up our sleeve, or, rather, what we have up on the trysail-stays. +Even to-day the little of our gear that has to be left standing aroused +their curiosity. Head after head showed over the edge of the +for’ard-house as they peeped and peered and tried to make out what we +were up to. Why, I find myself almost looking forward to an attack in +order to see the device work. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + + +And what has happened to Mr. Pike remains a mystery. For that matter, +what has happened to the second mate? In the past three days we have by +our eyes taken the census of the mutineers. Every man has been seen by +us with the sole exception of Mr. Mellaire, or Sidney Waltham, as I +assume I must correctly name him. He has not appeared—does not appear; +and we can only speculate and conjecture. + +In the past three days various interesting things have taken place. +Margaret stands watch and watch with me, day and night, the clock +around; for there is no one of our retainers to whom we can entrust the +responsibility of a watch. Though mutiny obtains and we are besieged in +the high place, the weather is so mild and there is so little call on +our men that they have grown careless and sleep aft of the chart-house +when it is their watch on deck. Nothing ever happens, and, like true +sailors, they wax fat and lazy. Even have I found Louis, the steward, +and Wada guilty of cat-napping. In fact, the training-ship boy, Henry, +is the only one who has never lapsed. + +Oh, yes, and I gave Tom Spink a thrashing yesterday. Since the +disappearance of the mate he had had little faith in me, and had been +showing vague signs of insolence and insubordination. Both Margaret and +I had noted it independently. Day before yesterday we talked it over. + +“He is a good sailor, but weak,” she said. “If we let him go on, he +will infect the rest.” + +“Very well, I’ll take him in hand,” I announced valorously. + +“You will have to,” she encouraged. “Be hard. Be hard. You must be +hard.” + +Those who sit in the high places must be hard, yet have I discovered +that it is hard to be hard. For instance, easy enough was it to drop +Steve Roberts as he was in the act of shooting at me. Yet it is most +difficult to be hard with a chuckle-headed retainer like Tom +Spink—especially when he continually fails by a shade to give +sufficient provocation. For twenty-four hours after my talk with +Margaret I was on pins and needles to have it out with him, yet rather +than have had it out with him I should have preferred to see the poop +rushed by the gang from the other side. + +Not in a day can the tyro learn to employ the snarling immediacy of +mastery of Mr. Pike, nor the reposeful, voiceless mastery of a Captain +West. Truly, the situation was embarrassing. I was not trained in the +handling of men, and Tom Spink knew it in his chuckle-headed way. Also, +in his chuckle-headed way, he was dispirited by the loss of the mate. +Fearing the mate, nevertheless he had depended on the mate to fetch him +through with a whole skin, or at least alive. On me he has no +dependence. What chance had the gentleman passenger and the captain’s +daughter against the gang for’ard? So he must have reasoned, and, so +reasoning, become despairing and desperate. + +After Margaret had told me to be hard I watched Tom Spink with an eagle +eye, and he must have sensed my attitude, for he carefully forebore +from overstepping, while all the time he palpitated just on the edge of +overstepping. Yes, and it was clear that Buckwheat was watching to +learn the outcome of this veiled refractoriness. For that matter, the +situation was not being missed by our keen-eyed Asiatics, and I know +that I caught Louis several times verging on the offence of offering me +advice. But he knew his place and managed to keep his tongue between +his teeth. + +At last, yesterday, while I held the watch, Tom Spink was guilty of +spitting tobacco juice on the deck. + +Now it must be understood that such an act is as grave an offence of +the sea as blasphemy is of the Church. + +It was Margaret who came to where I was stationed by the jiggermast and +told me what had occurred; and it was she who took my rifle and +relieved me so that I could go aft. + +There was the offensive spot, and there was Tom Spink, his cheek +bulging with a quid. + +“Here, you, get a swab and mop that up,” I commanded in my harshest +manner. + +Tom Spink merely rolled his quid with his tongue and regarded me with +sneering thoughtfulness. I am sure he was no more surprised than was I +by the immediateness of what followed. My fist went out like an arrow +from a released bow, and Tom Spink staggered back, tripped against the +corner of the tarpaulin-covered sounding-machine, and sprawled on the +deck. He tried to make a fight of it, but I followed him up, giving him +no chance to set himself or recover from the surprise of my first +onslaught. + +Now it so happens that not since I was a boy have I struck a person +with my naked fist, and I candidly admit that I enjoyed the trouncing I +administered to poor Tom Spink. Yes, and in the rapid play about the +deck I caught a glimpse of Margaret. She had stepped out of the shelter +of the mast and was looking on from the corner of the chart-house. Yes, +and more; she was looking on with a cool, measuring eye. + +Oh, it was all very grotesque, to be sure. But then, mutiny on the high +seas in the year nineteen-thirteen is also grotesque. No lists here +between mailed knights for a lady’s favour, but merely the trouncing of +a chuckle-head for spitting on the deck of a coal-carrier. +Nevertheless, the fact that my lady looked on added zest to my +enterprise, and, doubtlessly, speed and weight to my blows, and at +least half a dozen additional clouts to the unlucky sailor. + +Yes, man is strangely and wonderfully made. Now that I coolly consider +the matter, I realize that it was essentially the same spirit with +which I enjoyed beating up Tom Spink, that I have in the past enjoyed +contests of the mind in which I have out-epigrammed clever opponents. +In the one case, one proves himself top-dog of the mind; in the other, +top-dog of the muscle. Whistler and Wilde were just as much +intellectual bullies as I was a physical bully yesterday morning when I +punched Tom Spink into lying down and staying down. + +And my knuckles are sore and swollen. I cease writing for a moment to +look at them and to hope that they will not stay permanently enlarged. + +At any rate, Tom Spink took his disciplining and promised to come in +and be good. + +“Sir!” I thundered at him, quite in Mr. Pike’s most bloodthirsty +manner. + +“Sir,” he mumbled with bleeding lips. “Yes, sir, I’ll mop it up, sir. +Yes, sir.” + +I could scarcely keep from laughing in his face, the whole thing was so +ludicrous; but I managed to look my haughtiest, and sternest, and +fiercest, while I superintended the deck-cleansing. The funniest thing +about the affair was that I must have knocked Tom Spink’s quid down his +throat, for he was gagging and hiccoughing all the time he mopped and +scrubbed. + +The atmosphere aft has been wonderfully clear ever since. Tom Spink +obeys all orders on the jump, and Buckwheat jumps with equal celerity. +As for the five Asiatics, I feel that they are stouter behind me now +that I have shown masterfulness. By punching a man’s face I verily +believe I have doubled our united strength. And there is no need to +punch any of the rest. The Asiatics are keen and willing. Henry is a +true cadet of the breed, Buckwheat will follow Tom Spink’s lead, and +Tom Spink, a proper Anglo-Saxon peasant, will lead Buckwheat all the +better by virtue of the punching. + +* * * * * + + +Two days have passed, and two noteworthy things have happened. The men +seem to be nearing the end of their mysterious food supply, and we have +had our first truce. + +I have noted, through the glasses, that no more carcasses of the +mollyhawks they are now catching are thrown overboard. This means that +they have begun to eat the tough and unsavoury creatures, although it +does not mean, of course, that they have entirely exhausted their other +stores. + +It was Margaret, her sailor’s eye on the falling barometer and on the +“making” stuff adrift in the sky, who called my attention to a coming +blow. + +“As soon as the sea rises,” she said, “we’ll have that loose main-yard +and all the rest of the top-hamper tumbling down on deck.” + +So it was that I raised the white flag for a parley. Bert Rhine and +Charles Davis came abaft the ’midship-house, and, while we talked, many +faces peered over the for’ard edge of the house and many forms slouched +into view on the deck on each side of the house. + +“Well, getting tired?” was Bert Rhine’s insolent greeting. “Anything we +can do for you?” + +“Yes, there is,” I answered sharply. “You can save your heads so that +when you return to work there will be enough of you left to do the +work.” + +“If you are making threats—” Charles Davis began, but was silenced by a +glare from the gangster. + +“Well, what is it?” Bert Rhine demanded. “Cough it off your chest.” + +“It’s for your own good,” was my reply. “It is coming on to blow, and +all that unfurled canvas aloft will bring the yards down on your heads. +We’re safe here, aft. You are the ones who will run risks, and it is up +to you to hustle your crowd aloft and make things fast and ship-shape.” + +“And if we don’t?” the gangster sneered. + +“Why, you’ll take your chances, that is all,” I answered carelessly. “I +just want to call your attention to the fact that one of those steel +yards, end-on, will go through the roof of your forecastle as if it +were so much eggshell.” + +Bert Rhine looked to Charles Davis for verification, and the latter +nodded. + +“We’ll talk it over first,” the gangster announced. + +“And I’ll give you ten minutes,” I returned. “If at the end of ten +minutes you’ve not started taking in, it will be too late. I shall put +a bullet into any man who shows himself.” + +“All right, we’ll talk it over.” + +As they started to go back, I called: + +“One moment.” + +They stopped and turned about. + +“What have you done to Mr. Pike?” I asked. + +Even the impassive Bert Rhine could not quite conceal his surprise. + +“An’ what have you done with Mr. Mellaire!” he retorted. “You tell us, +an’ we’ll tell you.” + +I am confident of the genuineness of his surprise. Evidently the +mutineers have been believing us guilty of the disappearance of the +second mate, just as we have been believing them guilty of the +disappearance of the first mate. The more I dwell upon it the more it +seems the proposition of the Kilkenny cats, a case of mutual +destruction on the part of the two mates. + +“Another thing,” I said quickly. “Where do you get your food?” + +Bert Rhine laughed one of his silent laughs; Charles Davis assumed an +expression of mysteriousness and superiority; and Shorty, leaping into +view from the corner of the house, danced a jig of triumph. + +I drew out my watch. + +“Remember,” I said, “you’ve ten minutes in which to make a start.” + +They turned and went for’ard, and, before the ten minutes were up, all +hands were aloft and stowing canvas. All this time the wind, out of the +north-west, was breezing up. The old familiar harp-chords of a rising +gale were strumming along the rigging, and the men, I verily believe +from lack of practice, were particularly slow at their work. + +“It would be better if the upper-and-lower top-sails are set so that we +can heave to,” Margaret suggested. “They will steady her and make it +more comfortable for us.” + +I seized the idea and improved upon it. + +“Better set the upper and lower topsails so that we can handle the +ship,” I called to the gangster, who was ordering the men about, quite +like a mate, from the top of the ’midship-house. + +He considered the idea, and then gave the proper orders, although it +was the Maltese Cockney, with Nancy and Sundry Buyers under him, who +carried the orders out. + +I ordered Tom Spink to the long-idle wheel, and gave him the course, +which was due east by the steering compass. This put the wind on our +port quarter, so that the _Elsinore_ began to move through the water +before a fair breeze. And due east, less than a thousand miles away, +lay the coast of South America and the port of Valparaiso. + +Strange to say, none of our mutineers objected to this, and after dark, +as we tore along before a full-sized gale, I sent my own men up on top +the chart-house to take the gaskets off the spanker. This was the only +sail we could set and trim and in every way control. It is true the +mizzen-braces were still rigged aft to the poop, according to Horn +practice. But, while we could thus trim the mizzen-yards, the sails +themselves, in setting or furling, were in the hands of the for’ard +crowd. + +Margaret, beside me in the darkness at the break of the poop, put her +hand in mine with a warm pressure, as both our tiny watches swayed up +the spanker and as both of us held our breaths in an effort to feel the +added draw in the _Elsinore’s_ speed. + +“I never wanted to marry a sailor,” she said. “And I thought I was safe +in the hands of a landsman like you. And yet here you are, with all the +stuff of the sea in you, running down your easting for port. Next +thing, I suppose, I’ll see you out with a sextant, shooting the sun or +making star-observations.” + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. + + +Four more days have passed; the gale has blown itself out; we are not +more than three hundred and fifty miles off Valparaiso; and the +_Elsinore_, this time due to me and my own stubbornness, is rolling in +the wind and heading nowhere in a light breeze at the rate of nothing +but driftage per hour. + +In the height of the gusts, in the three days and nights of the gale, +we logged as much as eight, and even nine, knots. What bothered me was +the acquiescence of the mutineers in my programme. They were sensible +enough in the simple matter of geography to know what I was doing. They +had control of the sails, and yet they permitted me to run for the +South American coast. + +More than that, as the gale eased on the morning of the third day, they +actually went aloft, set top-gallant-sails, royals, and skysails, and +trimmed the yards to the quartering breeze. This was too much for the +Saxon streak in me, whereupon I wore the _Elsinore_ about before the +wind, fetched her up upon it, and lashed the wheel. Margaret and I are +agreed in the hypothesis that their plan is to get inshore until land +is sighted, at which time they will desert in the boats. + +“But we don’t want them to desert,” she proclaims with flashing eyes. +“We are bound for Seattle. They must return to duty. They’ve got to, +soon, for they are beginning to starve.” + +“There isn’t a navigator aft,” I oppose. + +Promptly she withers me with her scorn. + +“You, a master of books, by all the sea-blood in your body should be +able to pick up the theoretics of navigation while I snap my fingers. +Furthermore, remember that I can supply the seamanship. Why, any +squarehead peasant, in a six months’ cramming course at any seaport +navigation school, can pass the examiners for his navigator’s papers. +That means six hours for you. And less. If you can’t, after an hour’s +reading and an hour’s practice with the sextant, take a latitude +observation and work it out, I’ll do it for you.” + +“You mean you know?” + +She shook her head. + +“I mean, from the little I know, that I know I can learn to know a +meridian sight and the working out of it. I mean that I can learn to +know inside of two hours.” + +Strange to say, the gale, after easing to a mild breeze, recrudesced in +a sort of after-clap. With sails untrimmed and flapping, the consequent +smashing, crashing, and rending of our gear can be imagined. It brought +out in alarm every man for’ard. + +“Trim the yards!” I yelled at Bert Rhine, who, backed for counsel by +Charles Davis and the Maltese Cockney, actually came directly beneath +me on the main deck in order to hear above the commotion aloft. + +“Keep a-runnin, an’ you won’t have to trim,” the gangster shouted up to +me. + +“Want to make land, eh?” I girded down at him. “Getting hungry, eh? +Well, you won’t make land or anything else in a thousand years once you +get all your top-hamper piled down on deck.” + +I have forgotten to state that this occurred at midday yesterday. + +“What are you goin’ to do if we trim?” Charles Davis broke in. + +“Run off shore,” I replied, “and get your gang out in deep sea where it +will be starved back to duty.” + +“We’ll furl, an’ let you heave to,” the gangster proposed. + +I shook my head and held up my rifle. “You’ll have to go aloft to do +it, and the first man that gets into the shrouds will get this.” + +“Then she can go to hell for all we care,” he said, with emphatic +conclusiveness. + +And just then the fore-topgallant-yard carried away—luckily as the bow +was down-pitched into a trough of sea-and when the slow, confused, and +tangled descent was accomplished the big stick lay across the wreck of +both bulwarks and of that portion of the bridge between the foremast +and the forecastle head. + +Bert Rhine heard, but could not see, the damage wrought. He looked up +at me challengingly, and sneered: + +“Want some more to come down?” + +It could not have happened more apropos. The port-brace, and +immediately afterwards the starboard-brace, of the crojack-yard—carried +away. This was the big, lowest spar on the mizzen, and as the huge +thing of steel swung wildly back and forth the gangster and his +followers turned and crouched as they looked up to see. Next, the +gooseneck of the truss, on which it pivoted, smashed away. Immediately +the lifts and lower-topsail sheets parted, and with a fore-and-aft +pitch of the ship the spar up-ended and crashed to the deck upon Number +Three hatch, destroying that section of the bridge in its fall. + +All this was new to the gangster—as it was to me—but Charles Davis and +the Maltese Cockney thoroughly apprehended the situation. + +“Stand out from under!” I yelled sardonically; and the three of them +cowered and shrank away as their eyes sought aloft for what new spar +was thundering down upon them. + +The lower-topsail, its sheets parted by the fall of the crojack-yard, +was tearing out of the bolt-ropes and ribboning away to leeward and +making such an uproar that they might well expect its yard to carry +away. Since this wreckage of our beautiful gear was all new to me, I +was quite prepared to see the thing happen. + +The gangster-leader, no sailor, but, after months at sea, intelligent +enough and nervously strong enough to appreciate the danger, turned his +head and looked up at me. And I will do him the credit to say that he +took his time while all our world of gear aloft seemed smashing to +destruction. + +“I guess we’ll trim yards,” he capitulated. + +“Better get the skysails and royals off,” Margaret said in my ear. + +“While you’re about it, get in the skysails and royals!” I shouted +down. “And make a decent job of the gasketing!” + +Both Charles Davis and the Maltese Cockney advertised their relief in +their faces as they heard my words, and, at a nod from the gangster, +they started for’ard on the run to put the orders into effect. + +Never, in the whole voyage, did our crew spring to it in more lively +fashion. And lively fashion was needed to save our gear. As it was, +they cut away the remnants of the mizzen-lower-topsail with their +sheath-knives, and they loosed the main-skysail out of its bolt-ropes. + +The first infraction of our agreement was on the main-lower-topsail. +This they attempted to furl. The carrying away of the crojack and the +blowing away of the mizzen-lower-topsail gave me freedom to see and +aim, and when the tiny messengers from my rifle began to spat through +the canvas and to spat against the steel of the yard, the men strung +along it desisted from passing the gaskets. I waved my will to Bert +Rhine, who acknowledged me and ordered the sail set again and the yard +trimmed. + +“What is the use of running off-shore?” I said to Margaret, when the +kites were snugged down and all yards trimmed on the wind. “Three +hundred and fifty miles off the land is as good as thirty-five hundred +so far as starvation is concerned.” + +So, instead of making speed through the water toward deep sea, I hove +the _Elsinore_ to on the starboard tack with no more than leeway +driftage to the west and south. + +But our gallant mutineers had their will of us that very night. In the +darkness we could hear the work aloft going on as yards were run down, +sheets let go, and sails clew up and gasketed. I did try a few random +shots, and all my reward was to hear the whine and creak of ropes +through sheaves and to receive an equally random fire of +revolver-shots. + +It is a most curious situation. We of the high place are masters of the +steering of the _Elsinore_, while those for’ard are masters of the +motor power. The only sail that is wholly ours is the spanker. They +control absolutely—sheets, halyards, clewlines, buntlines, braces, and +down-hauls—every sail on the fore and main. We control the braces on +the mizzen, although they control the canvas on the mizzen. For that +matter, Margaret and I fail to comprehend why they do not go aloft any +dark night and sever the mizzen-braces at the yard-ends. All that +prevents this, we are decided, is laziness. For if they did sever the +braces that lead aft into our hands, they would be compelled to rig new +braces for’ard in some fashion, else, in the rolling, would the +mizzenmast be stripped of every spar. + +And still the mutiny we are enduring is ridiculous and grotesque. There +was never a mutiny like it. It violates all standards and precedents. +In the old classic mutinies, long ere this, attacking like tigers, the +seamen should have swarmed over the poop and killed most of us or been +most of them killed. + +Wherefore I sneer at our gallant mutineers, and recommend trained +nurses for them, quite in the manner of Mr. Pike. But Margaret shakes +her head and insists that human nature is human nature, and that under +similar circumstances human nature will express itself similarly. In +short, she points to the number of deaths that have already occurred, +and declares that on some dark night, sooner or later, whenever the +pinch of hunger sufficiently sharpens, we shall see our rascals +storming aft. + +And in the meantime, except for the tenseness of it, and for the +incessant watchfulness which Margaret and I alone maintain, it is more +like a mild adventure, more like a page out of some book of romance +which ends happily. + +It is surely romance, watch and watch for a man and a woman who love, +to relieve each other’s watches. Each such relief is a love passage and +unforgettable. Never was there wooing like it—the muttered surmises of +wind and weather, the whispered councils, the kissed commands in palms +of hands, the dared contacts of the dark. + +Oh, truly, I have often, since this voyage began, told the books to go +hang. And yet the books are at the back of the race-life of me. I am +what I am out of ten thousand generations of my kind. Of that there is +no discussion. And yet my midnight philosophy stands the test of my +breed. I must have selected my books out of the ten thousand +generations that compose me. I have killed a man—Steve Roberts. As a +perishing blond without an alphabet I should have done this +unwaveringly. As a perishing blond with an alphabet, plus the contents +in my brain of the philosophizing of all philosophers, I have killed +this same man with the same unwaveringness. Culture has not emasculated +me. I am quite unaffected. It was in the day’s work, and my kind have +always been day-workers, doing the day’s work, whatever it might be, in +high adventure or dull ploddingness, and always doing it. + +Never would I ask to set back the dial of time or event. I would kill +Steve Roberts again, under the same circumstances, as a matter of +course. When I say I am unaffected by this happening I do not quite +mean it. I am affected. I am aware that the spirit of me is informed +with a sober elation of efficiency. I have done something that had to +be done, as any man will do what has to be done in the course of the +day’s work. + +Yes, I am a perishing blond, and a man, and I sit in the high place and +bend the stupid ones to my will; and I am a lover, loving a royal woman +of my own perishing breed, and together we occupy, and shall occupy, +the high place of government and command until our kind perish from the +earth. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + + +Margaret was right. The mutiny is not violating standards and +precedents. We have had our hands full for days and nights. Ditman +Olansen, the crank-eyed Berserker, has been killed by Wada, and the +training-ship boy, the one lone cadet of our breed, has gone overside +with the regulation sack of coal at his feet. The poop has been rushed. +My illuminating invention has proved a success. The men are getting +hungry, and we still sit in command in the high place. + +First of all the attack on the poop, two nights ago, in Margaret’s +watch. No; first, I have made another invention. Assisted by the old +steward, who knows, as a Chinese ought, a deal about fireworks, and +getting my materials from our signal rockets and Roman candles, I +manufactured half a dozen bombs. I don’t really think they are very +deadly, and I know our extemporized fuses are slower than our voyage is +at the present time; but nevertheless the bombs have served the +purpose, as you shall see. + +And now to the attempt to rush the poop. It was in Margaret’s watch, +from midnight till four in the morning, when the attack was made. +Sleeping on the deck by the cabin skylight, I was very close to her +when her revolver went off, and continued to go off. + +My first spring was to the tripping-lines on my illuminators. The +igniting and releasing devices worked cleverly. I pulled two of the +tripping-lines, and two of the contraptions exploded into light and +noise and at the same time ran automatically down the +jigger-trysail-stays, and automatically fetched up at the ends of their +lines. The illumination was instantaneous and gorgeous. Henry, the two +sail-makers, and the steward—at least three of them awakened from sound +sleep, I am sure—ran to join us along the break of the poop. All the +advantage lay with us, for we were in the dark, while our foes were +outlined against the light behind them. + +But such light! The powder crackled, fizzed, and spluttered and spilled +out the excess of gasolene from the flaming oakum balls so that streams +of fire dripped down on the main deck beneath. And the stuff of the +signal-flares dripped red light and blue and green. + +There was not much of a fight, for the mutineers were shocked by our +fireworks. Margaret fired her revolver haphazardly, while I held my +rifle for any that gained the poop. But the attack faded away as +quickly as it had come. I did see Margaret overshoot some man, scaling +the poop from the port-rail, and the next moment I saw Wada, charging +like a buffalo, jab him in the chest with the spear he had made and +thrust the boarder back and down. + +That was all. The rest retreated for’ard on the dead run, while the +three trysails, furled at the foot of the stays next to the mizzen and +set on fire by the dripping gasolene, went up in flame and burned +entirely away and out without setting the rest of the ship on fire. +That is one of the virtues of a ship steel-masted and steel-stayed. + +And on the deck beneath us, crumpled, twisted, face hidden so that we +could not identify him, lay the man whom Wada had speared. + +And now I come to a phase of adventure that is new to me. I have never +found it in the books. In short, it is carelessness coupled with +laziness, or vice versa. I had used two of my illuminators. Only one +remained. An hour later, convinced of the movement aft of men along the +deck, I let go the third and last and with its brightness sent them +scurrying for’ard. Whether they were attacking the poop tentatively to +learn whether or not I had exhausted my illuminators, or whether or not +they were trying to rescue Ditman Olansen, we shall never know. The +point is: they did come aft; they were compelled to retreat by my +illuminator; and it was my last illuminator. And yet I did not start +in, there and then, to manufacture fresh ones. This was carelessness. +It was laziness. And I hazarded our lives, perhaps, if you please, on a +psychological guess that I had convinced our mutineers that we had an +inexhaustible stock of illuminators in reserve. + +The rest of Margaret’s watch, which I shared with her, was undisturbed. +At four I insisted that she go below and turn in, but she compromised +by taking my own bed behind the skylight. + +At break of day I was able to make out the body, still lying as last I +had seen it. At seven o’clock, before breakfast, and while Margaret +still slept, I sent the two boys, Henry and Buckwheat, down to the +body. I stood above them, at the rail, rifle in hand and ready. But +from for’ard came no signs of life; and the lads, between them, rolled +the crank-eyed Norwegian over so that we could recognize him, carried +him to the rail, and shoved him stiffly across and into the sea. Wada’s +spear-thrust had gone clear through him. + +But before twenty-four hours were up the mutineers evened the score +handsomely. They more than evened it, for we are so few that we cannot +so well afford the loss of one as they can. To begin with—and a thing I +had anticipated and for which I had prepared my bombs—while Margaret +and I ate a deck-breakfast in the shelter of the jiggermast a number of +the men sneaked aft and got under the overhang of the poop. Buckwheat +saw them coming and yelled the alarm, but it was too late. There was no +direct way to get them out. The moment I put my head over the rail to +fire at them, I knew they would fire up at me with all the advantage in +their favour. They were hidden. I had to expose myself. + +Two steel doors, tight-fastened and caulked against the Cape Horn seas, +opened under the overhang of the poop from the cabin on to the main +deck. These doors the men proceeded to attack with sledge-hammers, +while the rest of the gang, sheltered by the ’midship-house, showed +that it stood ready for the rush when the doors were battered down. + +Inside, the steward guarded one door with his hacking knife, while with +his spear Wada guarded the other door. Nor, while I had dispatched them +to this duty, was I idle. Behind the jiggermast I lighted the fuse of +one of my extemporized bombs. When it was sputtering nicely I ran +across the poop to the break and dropped the bomb to the main deck +beneath, at the same time making an effort to toss it in under the +overhang where the men battered at the port-door. But this effort was +distracted and made futile by a popping of several revolver shots from +the gangways amidships. One _is_ jumpy when soft-nosed bullets +putt-putt around him. As a result, the bomb rolled about on the open +deck. + +Nevertheless, the illuminators had earned the respect of the mutineers +for my fireworks. The sputtering and fizzling of the fuse were too much +for them, and from under the poop they ran for’ard like so many +scuttling rabbits. I know I could have got a couple with my rifle had I +not been occupied with lighting the fuse of a second bomb. Margaret +managed three wild shots with her revolver, and the poop was +immediately peppered by a scattering revolver fire from for’ard. + +Being provident (and lazy, for I have learned that it takes time and +labour to manufacture home-made bombs), I pinched off the live end of +the fuse in my hand. But the fuse of the first bomb, rolling about on +the main deck, merely fizzled on; and as I waited I resolved to shorten +my remaining fuses. Any of the men who fled, had he had the courage, +could have pinched off the fuse, or tossed the bomb overboard, or, +better yet, he could have tossed it up amongst us on the poop. + +It took fully five minutes for that blessed fuse to burn its slow +length, and when the bomb did go off it was a sad disappointment. I +swear it could have been sat upon with nothing more than a jar to one’s +nerves. And yet, in so far as the intimidation goes, it did its work. +The men have not since ventured under the overhang of the poop. + +That the mutineers were getting short of food was patent. The +_Elsinore_, sailless, drifted about that morning, the sport of wind and +wave; and the gang put many lines overboard for the catching of +mollyhawks and albatrosses. Oh, I worried the hungry fishers with my +rifle. No man could show himself for’ard without having a bullet whop +against the iron-work perilously near him. And still they caught +birds—not, however, without danger to themselves, and not without +numerous losses of birds due to my rifle. + +Their procedure was to toss their hooks and bait over the rail from +shelter and slowly to pay the lines out as the slight windage of the +_Elsinore’s_ hull, spars, and rigging drifted her through the water. +When a bird was hooked they hauled in the line, still from shelter, +till it was alongside. This was the ticklish moment. The hook, merely a +hollow and acute-angled triangle of sheet-copper floating on a piece of +board at the end of the line, held the bird by pinching its curved beak +into the acute angle. The moment the line slacked the bird was +released. So, when alongside, this was the problem: to lift the bird +out of the water, straight up the side of the ship, without once +jamming and easing and slacking. When they tried to do this from +shelter invariably they lost the bird. + +They worked out a method. When the bird was alongside the several men +with revolvers turned loose on me, while one man, overhauling and +keeping the line taut, leaped to the rail and quickly hove the bird up +and over and inboard. I know this long-distance revolver fire seriously +bothered me. One cannot help jumping when death, in the form of a piece +of flying lead, hits the rail beside him, or the mast over his head, or +whines away in a ricochet from the steel shrouds. Nevertheless, I +managed with my rifle to bother the exposed men on the rail to the +extent that they lost one hooked bird out of two. And twenty-six men +require a quantity of albatrosses and mollyhawks every twenty-four +hours, while they can fish only in the daylight. + +As the day wore along I improved on my obstructive tactics. When the +_Elsinore_ was up in the eye of the wind, and making sternway, I found +that by putting the wheel sharply over, one way or the other, I could +swing her bow off. Then, when she had paid off till the wind was abeam, +by reversing the wheel hard across to the opposite hard-over I could +take advantage of her momentum away from the wind and work her off +squarely before it. This made all the wood-floated triangles of +bird-snares tow aft along her sides. + +The first time I was ready for them. With hooks and sinkers on our own +lines aft, we tossed out, grappled, captured, and broke off nine of +their lines. But the next time, so slow is the movement of so large a +ship, the mutineers hauled all their lines safely inboard ere they +towed aft within striking distance of my grapnels. + +Still I improved. As long as I kept the _Elsinore_ before the wind they +could not fish. I experimented. Once before it, by means of a +winged-out spanker coupled with patient and careful steering, I could +keep her before it. This I did, hour by hour one of my men relieving +another at the wheel. As a result all fishing ceased. + +Margaret was holding the first dog-watch, four to six. Henry was at the +wheel steering. Wada and Louis were below cooking the evening meal over +the big coal-stove and the oil-burners. I had just come up from below +and was standing beside the sounding-machine, not half a dozen feet +from Henry at the wheel. Some obscure sound from the ventilator must +have attracted me, for I was gazing at it when the thing happened. + +But first, the ventilator. This is a steel shaft that leads up from the +coal-carrying bowels of the ship beneath the lazarette and that wins to +the outside-world via the after-wall of the chart-house. In fact, it +occupies the hollow inside of the double walls of the afterwall of the +chart-house. Its opening, at the height of a man’s head, is screened +with iron bars so closely set that no mature-bodied rat can squeeze +between. Also, this opening commands the wheel, which is a scant +fifteen feet away and directly across the booby-hatch. Some mutineer, +crawling along the space between the coal and the deck of the lower +hold, had climbed the ventilator shaft and was able to take aim through +the slits between the bars. + +Practically simultaneously, I saw the out-rush of smoke and heard the +report. I heard a grunt from Henry, and, turning my head, saw him cling +to the spokes and turn the wheel half a revolution as he sank to the +deck. It must have been a lucky shot. The boy was perforated through +the heart or very near to the heart—we have no time for post-mortems on +the _Elsinore_. + +Tom Spink and the second sail-maker, Uchino, sprang to Henry’s side. +The revolver continued to go off through the ventilator slits, and the +bullets thudded into the front of the half wheel-house all about them. +Fortunately they were not hit, and they immediately scrambled out of +range. The boy quivered for the space of a few seconds, and ceased to +move; and one more cadet of the perishing breed perished as he did his +day’s work at the wheel of the _Elsinore_ off the west coast of South +America, bound from Baltimore to Seattle with a cargo of coal. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + + +The situation is hopelessly grotesque. We in the high place command the +food of the _Elsinore_, but the mutineers have captured her +steering-gear. That is to say, they have captured it without coming +into possession of it. They cannot steer, neither can we. The poop, +which is the high place, is ours. The wheel is on the poop, yet we +cannot touch the wheel. From that slitted opening in the +ventilator-shaft they are able to shoot down any man who approaches the +wheel. And with that steel wall of the chart-house as a shield they +laugh at us as from a conning tower. + +I have a plan, but it is not worth while putting into execution unless +its need becomes imperative. In the darkness of night it would be an +easy trick to disconnect the steering-gear from the short tiller on the +rudder-head, and then, by re-rigging the preventer tackles, steer from +both sides of the poop well enough for’ard to be out of the range of +the ventilator. + +In the meantime, in this fine weather, the _Elsinore_ drifts as she +lists, or as the windage of her lists and the sea-movement of waves +lists. And she can well drift. Let the mutineers starve. They can best +be brought to their senses through their stomachs. + +* * * * * + + +And what are wits for, if not for use? I am breaking the men’s hungry +hearts. It is great fun in its way. The mollyhawks and albatrosses, +after their fashion, have followed the _Elsinore_ up out of their own +latitudes. This means that there are only so many of them and that +their numbers are not recruited. Syllogism: major premise, a definite +and limited amount of bird-meat; minor premise, the only food the +mutineers now have is bird-meat; conclusion, destroy the available food +and the mutineers will be compelled to come back to duty. + +I have acted on this bit of logic. I began experimentally by tossing +small chunks of fat pork and crusts of stale bread overside. When the +birds descended for the feast I shot them. Every carcass thus left +floating on the surface of the sea was so much less meat for the +mutineers. + +But I bettered the method. Yesterday I overhauled the medicine-chest, +and I dosed my chunks of fat pork and bread with the contents of every +bottle that bore a label of skull and cross-bones. I even added +rough-on-rats to the deadliness of the mixture—this on the suggestion +of the steward. + +And to-day, behold, there is no bird left in the sky. True, while I +played my game yesterday, the mutineers hooked a few of the birds; but +now the rest are gone, and that is bound to be the last food for the +men for’ard until they resume duty. + +Yes; it is grotesque. It is a boy’s game. It reads like Midshipman +Easy, like Frank Mildmay, like Frank Reade, Jr.; and yet, i’ faith, +life and death’s in the issue. I have just gone over the toll of our +dead since the voyage began. + +First, was Christian Jespersen, killed by O’Sullivan when that maniac +aspired to throw overboard Andy Fay’s sea-boots; then O’Sullivan, +because he interfered with Charles Davis’ sleep, brained by that worthy +with a steel marlin-spike; next Petro Marinkovich, just ere we began +the passage of the Horn, murdered undoubtedly by the gangster clique, +his life cut out of him with knives, his carcass left lying on deck to +be found by us and be buried by us; and the Samurai, Captain West, a +sudden though not a violent death, albeit occurring in the midst of all +elemental violence as Mr. Pike clawed the _Elsinore_ off the lee-shore +of the Horn; and Boney the Splinter, following, washed overboard to +drown as we cleared the sea-gashing rock-tooth where the southern tip +of the continent bit into the storm-wrath of the Antarctic; and the +big-footed, clumsy youth of a Finnish carpenter, hove overside as a +Jonah by his fellows who believed that Finns control the winds; and +Mike Cipriani and Bill Quigley, Rome and Ireland, shot down on the poop +and flung overboard alive by Mr. Pike, still alive and clinging to the +log-line, cut adrift by the steward to be eaten alive by great-beaked +albatrosses, mollyhawks, and sooty-plumaged Cape hens; Steve Roberts, +one-time cowboy, shot by me as he tried to shoot me; Herman +Lunkenheimer, his throat cut before all of us by the hound Bombini as +Kid Twist stretched the throat taut from behind; the two mates, Mr. +Pike and Mr. Mellaire, mutually destroying each other in what must have +been an unwitnessed epic combat; Ditman Olansen, speared by Wada as he +charged Berserk at the head of the mutineers in the attempt to rush the +poop; and last, Henry, the cadet of the perishing house, shot at the +wheel, from the ventilator-shaft, in the course of his day’s work. + +No; as I contemplate this roll-call of the dead which I have just made +I see that we are not playing a boy’s game. Why, we have lost a third +of us, and the bloodiest battles of history have rarely achieved such a +percentage of mortality. Fourteen of us have gone overside, and who can +tell the end? + +Nevertheless, here we are, masters of matter, adventurers in the +micro-organic, planet-weighers, sun-analysers, star-rovers, +god-dreamers, equipped with the human wisdom of all the ages, and yet, +quoting Mr. Pike, to come down to brass tacks, we are a lot of +primitive beasts, fighting bestially, slaying bestially, pursuing +bestially food and water, air for our lungs, a dry space above the +deep, and carcasses skin-covered and intact. And over this menagerie of +beasts Margaret and I, with our Asiatics under us, rule top-dog. We are +all dogs—there is no getting away from it. And we, the fair-pigmented +ones, by the seed of our ancestry rulers in the high place, shall +remain top-dog over the rest of the dogs. Oh, there is material in +plenty for the cogitation of any philosopher on a windjammer in mutiny +in this Year of our Lord 1913. + +* * * * * + + +Henry was the fourteenth of us to go overside into the dark and salty +disintegration of the sea. And in one day he has been well avenged; for +two of the mutineers have followed him. The steward called my attention +to what was taking place. He touched my arm half beyond his servant’s +self, as he gloated for’ard at the men heaving two corpses overside. +Weighted with coal, they sank immediately, so that we could not +identify them. + +“They have been fighting,” I said. “It is good that they should fight +among themselves.” + +But the old Chinese merely grinned and shook his head. + +“You don’t think they have been fighting?” I queried. + +“No fight. They eat’m mollyhawk and albatross; mollyhawk and albatross +eat’m fat pork; two men he die, plenty men much sick, you bet, damn to +hell me very much glad. I savve.” + +And I think he was right. While I was busy baiting the sea-birds the +mutineers were catching them, and of a surety they must have caught +some that had eaten of my various poisons. + +The two poisoned ones went over the side yesterday. Since then we have +taken the census. Two men only have not appeared, and they are Bob, the +fat and overgrown feebling youth, and, of all creatures, the Faun. It +seems my fate that I had to destroy the Faun—the poor, tortured Faun, +always willing and eager, ever desirous to please. There is a madness +of ill luck in all this. Why couldn’t the two dead men have been +Charles Davis and Tony the Greek? Or Bert Rhine and Kid Twist? or +Bombini and Andy Fay? Yes, and in my heart I know I should have felt +better had it been Isaac Chantz and Arthur Deacon, or Nancy and Sundry +Buyers, or Shorty and Larry. + +* * * * * + + +The steward has just tendered me a respectful bit of advice. + +“Next time we chuck’m overboard like Henry, much better we use old +iron.” + +“Getting short of coal?” I asked. + +He nodded affirmation. We use a great deal of coal in our cooking, and +when the present supply gives out we shall have to cut through a +bulkhead to get at the cargo. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. + + +The situation grows tense. There are no more sea-birds, and the +mutineers are starving. Yesterday I talked with Bert Rhine. To-day I +talked with him again, and he will never forget, I am certain, the +little talk we had this morning. + +To begin with, last evening, at five o’clock, I heard his voice issuing +from between the slits of the ventilator in the after-wall of the +chart-house. Standing at the corner of the house, quite out of range, I +answered him. + +“Getting hungry?” I jeered. “Let me tell you what we are going to have +for dinner. I have just been down and seen the preparations. Now, +listen: first, caviare on toast; then, clam bouillon; and creamed +lobster; and tinned lamb chops with French peas—you know, the peas that +melt in one’s mouth; and California asparagus with mayonnaise; and—oh, +I forgot to mention fried potatoes and cold pork and beans; and peach +pie; and coffee, real coffee. Doesn’t it make you hungry for your East +Side? And, say, think of the free lunch going to waste right now in a +thousand saloons in good old New York.” + +I had told him the truth. The dinner I described (principally coming +out of tins and bottles, to be sure) was the dinner we were to eat. + +“Cut that,” he snarled. “I want to talk business with _you_.” + +“Right down to brass tacks,” I gibed. “Very well, when are you and the +rest of your rats going to turn to?” + +“Cut that,” he reiterated. “I’ve got you where 1 want you now. Take it +from me, I’m givin’ it straight. I’m not tellin’ you how, but I’ve got +you under my thumb. When I come down on you, you’ll crack.” + +“Hell is full of cocksure rats like you,” I retorted; although I never +dreamed how soon he would be writhing in the particular hell preparing +for him. + +“Forget it,” he sneered back. “I’ve got you where I want you. I’m just +tellin’ you, that’s all.” + +“Pardon me,” I replied, “when I tell you that I’m from Missouri. You’ll +have to show _me_.” + +And as I thus talked the thought went through my mind of how I +naturally sought out the phrases of his own vocabulary in order to make +myself intelligible to him. The situation was bestial, with sixteen of +our complement already gone into the dark; and the terms I employed, +perforce, were terms of bestiality. And I thought, also, of I who was +thus compelled to dismiss the dreams of the utopians, the visions of +the poets, the king-thoughts of the king-thinkers, in a discussion with +this ripened product of the New York City inferno. To him I must talk +in the elemental terms of life and death, of food and water, of +brutality and cruelty. + +“I give you your choice,” he went on. “Give in now, an’ you won’t be +hurt, none of you.” + +“And if we don’t?” I dared airily. + +“You’ll be sorry you was ever born. You ain’t a mush-head, you’ve got a +girl there that’s stuck on you. It’s about time you think of her. You +ain’t altogether a mutt. You get my drive?” + +Ay, I did get it; and somehow, across my brain flashed a vision of all +I had ever read and heard of the siege of the Legations at Peking, and +of the plans of the white men for their womenkind in the event of the +yellow hordes breaking through the last lines of defence. Ay, and the +old steward got it; for I saw his black eyes glint murderously in their +narrow, tilted slits. He knew the drift of the gangster’s meaning. + +“You get my drive?” the gangster repeated. + +And I knew anger. Not ordinary anger, but cold anger. And I caught a +vision of the high place in which we had sat and ruled down the ages in +all lands, on all seas. I saw my kind, our women with us, in forlorn +hopes and lost endeavours, pent in hill fortresses, rotted in jungle +fastnesses, cut down to the last one on the decks of rocking ships. And +always, our women with us, had we ruled the beasts. We might die, our +women with us; but, living, we had ruled. It was a royal vision I +glimpsed. Ay, and in the purple of it I grasped the ethic, which was +the stuff of the fabric of which it was builded. It was the sacred +trust of the seed, the bequest of duty handed down from all ancestors. + +And I flamed more coldly. It was not red-brute anger. It was +intellectual. It was based on concept and history; it was the +philosophy of action of the strong and the pride of the strong in their +own strength. Now at last I knew Nietzsche. I knew the rightness of the +books, the relation of high thinking to high-conduct, the transmutation +of midnight thought into action in the high place on the poop of a +coal-carrier in the year nineteen-thirteen, my woman beside me, my +ancestors behind me, my slant-eyed servitors under me, the beasts +beneath me and beneath the heel of me. God! I felt kingly. I knew at +last the meaning of kingship. + +My anger was white and cold. This subterranean rat of a miserable +human, crawling through the bowels of the ship to threaten me and mine! +A rat in the shelter of a knot-hole making a noise as beast-like as any +rat ever made! And it was in this spirit that I answered the gangster. + +“When you crawl on your belly, along the open deck, in the broad light +of day, like a yellow cur that has been licked to obedience, and when +you show by your every action that you like it and are glad to do it, +then, and not until then, will I talk with you.” + +Thereafter, for the next ten minutes, he shouted all the Billingsgate +of his kind at me through the slits in the ventilator. But I made no +reply. I listened, and I listened coldly, and as I listened I knew why +the English had blown their mutinous Sepoys from the mouths of cannon +in India long years ago. + +* * * * * + + +And when, this morning, I saw the steward struggling with a five-gallon +carboy of sulphuric acid, I never dreamed the use he intended for it. + +In the meantime I was devising another way to overcome that deadly +ventilator shaft. The scheme was so simple that I was shamed in that it +had not occurred to me at the very beginning. The slitted opening was +small. Two sacks of flour, in a wooden frame, suspended by ropes from +the edge of the chart-house roof directly above, would effectually +cover the opening and block all revolver fire. + +No sooner thought than done. Tom Spink and Louis were on top the +chart-house with me and preparing to lower the flour, when we heard a +voice issuing from the shaft. + +“Who’s in there now?” I demanded. “Speak up.” + +“I’m givin’ you a last chance,” Bert Rhine answered. + +And just then, around the corner of the house, stepped the steward. In +his hand he carried a large galvanized pail, and my casual thought was +that he had come to get rain-water from the barrels. Even as I thought +it, he made a sweeping half-circle with the pail and sloshed its +contents into the ventilator-opening. And even as the liquid flew +through the air I knew it for what it was—undiluted sulphuric acid, two +gallons of it from the carboy. + +The gangster must have received the liquid fire in the face and eyes. +And, in the shock of pain, he must have released all holds and fallen +upon the coal at the bottom of the shaft. His cries and shrieks of +anguish were terrible, and I was reminded of the starving rats which +had squealed up that same shaft during the first months of the voyage. +The thing was sickening. I prefer that men be killed cleanly and +easily. + +The agony of the wretch I did not fully realize until the steward, his +bare fore-arms sprayed by the splash from the ventilator slats, +suddenly felt the bite of the acid through his tight, whole skin and +made a mad rush for the water-barrel at the corner of the house. And +Bert Rhine, the silent man of soundless laughter, screaming below there +on the coal, was enduring the bite of the acid in his eyes! + +We covered the ventilator opening with our flour-device; the screams +from below ceased as the victim was evidently dragged for’ard across +the coal by his mates; and yet I confess to a miserable forenoon. As +Carlyle has said: “Death is easy; all men must die”; but to receive two +gallons of full-strength sulphuric acid full in the face is a vastly +different and vastly more horrible thing than merely to die. +Fortunately, Margaret was below at the time, and, after a few minutes, +in which I recovered my balance, I bullied and swore all our hands into +keeping the happening from her. + +* * * * * + + +Oh, well, and we have got ours in retaliation. Off and on, through all +of yesterday, after the ventilator tragedy, there were noises beneath +the cabin floor or deck. We heard them under the dining-table, under +the steward’s pantry, under Margaret’s stateroom. + +This deck is overlaid with wood, but under the wood is iron, or steel +rather, such as of which the whole _Elsinore_ is builded. + +Margaret and I, followed by Louis, Wada, and the steward, walked about +from place to place, wherever the sounds arose of tappings and of +cold-chisels against iron. The tappings seemed to come from everywhere; +but we concluded that the concentration necessary on any spot to make +an opening large enough for a man’s body would inevitably draw our +attention to that spot. And, as Margaret said: + +“If they do manage to cut through, they must come up head-first, and, +in such emergence, what chance would they have against us?” + +So I relieved Buckwheat from deck duty, placed him on watch over the +cabin floor, to be relieved by the steward in Margaret’s watches. + +In the late afternoon, after prodigious hammerings and clangings in a +score of places, all noises ceased. Neither in the first and second +dog-watches, nor in the first watch of the night, were the noises +resumed. When I took charge of the poop at midnight Buckwheat relieved +the steward in the vigil over the cabin floor; and as I leaned on the +rail at the break of the poop, while my four hours dragged slowly by, +least of all did I apprehend danger from the cabin—especially when I +considered the two-gallon pail of raw sulphuric acid ready to hand for +the first head that might arise through an opening in the floor not yet +made. Our rascals for’ard might scale the poop; or cross aloft from +mizzenmast to jigger and descend upon our heads; but how they could +invade us through the floor was beyond me. + +But they did invade. A modern ship is a complex affair. How was I to +guess the manner of the invasion? + +It was two in the morning, and for an hour I had been puzzling my head +with watching the smoke arise from the after-division of the +for’ard-house and with wondering why the mutineers should have up steam +in the donkey-engine at such an ungodly hour. Not on the whole voyage +had the donkey-engine been used. Four bells had just struck, and I was +leaning on the rail at the break of the poop when I heard a prodigious +coughing and choking from aft. Next, Wada ran across the deck to me. + +“Big trouble with Buckwheat,” he blurted at me. “You go quick.” + +I shoved him my rifle and left him on guard while I raced around the +chart-house. A lighted match, in the hands of Tom Spink, directed me. +Between the booby-hatch and the wheel, sitting up and rocking back and +forth with wringings of hands and wavings of arms, tears of agony +bursting from his eyes, was Buckwheat. My first thought was that in +some stupid way he had got the acid into his own eyes. But the terrible +fashion in which he coughed and strangled would quickly have undeceived +me, had not Louis, bending over the booby-companion, uttered a startled +exclamation. + +I joined him, and one whiff of the air that came up from below made me +catch my breath and gasp. I had inhaled sulphur. On the instant I +forgot the _Elsinore_, the mutineers for’ard, everything save one +thing. + +The next I know, I was down the booby-ladder and reeling dizzily about +the big after-room as the sulphur fumes bit my lungs and strangled me. +By the dim light of a sea-lantern I saw the old steward, on hands and +knees, coughing and gasping, the while he shook awake Yatsuda, the +first sail-maker. Uchino, the second sail-maker, still strangled in his +sleep. + +It struck me that the air might be better nearer the floor, and I +proved it when I dropped on my hands and knees. I rolled Uchino out of +his blankets with a quick jerk, wrapped the blankets about my head, +face, and mouth, arose to my feet, and dashed for’ard into the hall. +After a couple of collisions with the wood-work I again dropped to the +floor and rearranged the blankets so that, while my mouth remained +covered, I could draw or withdraw, a thickness across my eyes. + +The pain of the fumes was bad enough, but the real hardship was the +dizziness I suffered. I blundered into the steward’s pantry, and out of +it, missed the cross-hall, stumbled through the next starboard opening +in the long hall, and found myself bent double by violent collision +with the dining-room table. + +But I had my bearings. Feeling my way around the table and bumping most +of the poisoned breath out of me against the rotund-bellied stove, I +emerged in the cross-hall and made my way to starboard. Here, at the +base of the chart-room stairway, I gained the hall that led aft. By +this time my own situation seemed so serious that, careless of any +collision, I went aft in long leaps. + +Margaret’s door was open. I plunged into her room. The moment I drew +the blanket-thickness from my eyes I knew blindness and a modicum of +what Bert Rhine must have suffered. Oh, the intolerable bite of the +sulphur in my lungs, nostrils, eyes, and brain! No light burned in the +room. I could only strangle and stumble for’ard to Margaret’s bed, upon +which I collapsed. + +She was not there. I felt about, and I felt only the warm hollow her +body had left in the under-sheet. Even in my agony and helplessness the +intimacy of that warmth her body had left was very dear to me. Between +the lack of oxygen in my lungs (due to the blankets), the pain of the +sulphur, and the mortal dizziness in my brain, I felt that I might well +cease there where the linen warmed my hand. + +Perhaps I should have ceased, had I not heard a terrible coughing from +along the hall. It was new life to me. I fell from bed to floor and +managed to get upright until I gained the hall, where again I fell. +Thereafter I crawled on hands and knees to the foot of the stairway. By +means of the newel-post I drew myself upright and listened. Near me +something moved and strangled. I fell upon it and found in my arms all +the softness of Margaret. + +How describe that battle up the stairway? It was a crucifixion of +struggle, an age-long nightmare of agony. Time after time, as my +consciousness blurred, the temptation was upon me to cease all effort +and let myself blur down into the ultimate dark. I fought my way step +by step. Margaret was now quite unconscious, and I lifted her body step +by step, or dragged it several steps at a time, and fell with it, and +back with it, and lost much that had been so hardly gained. And yet out +of it all this I remember: that warm soft body of hers was the dearest +thing in the world—vastly more dear than the pleasant land I remotely +remembered, than all the books and all the humans I had ever known, +than the deck above, with its sweet pure air softly blowing under the +cool starry sky. + +As I look back upon it I am aware of one thing: the thought of leaving +her there and saving myself never crossed my mind. The one place for me +was where she was. + +Truly, this which I write seems absurd and purple; yet it was not +absurd during those long minutes on the chart-room stairway. One must +taste death for a few centuries of such agony ere he can receive +sanction for purple passages. + +And as I fought my screaming flesh, my reeling brain, and climbed that +upward way, I prayed one prayer: that the chart-house doors out upon +the poop might not be shut. Life and death lay right there in that one +point of the issue. Was there any creature of my creatures aft with +common sense and anticipation sufficient to make him think to open +those doors? How I yearned for one man, for one proved henchman, such +as Mr. Pike, to be on the poop! As it was, with the sole exception of +Tom Spink and Buckwheat, my men were Asiatics. + +I gained the top of the stairway, but was too far gone to rise to my +feet. Nor could I rise upright on my knees. I crawled like any +four-legged animal—nay, I wormed my way like a snake, prone to the +deck. It was a matter of several feet to the doorway. I died a score of +times in those several feet; but ever I endured the agony of +resurrection and dragged Margaret with me. Sometimes the full strength +I could exert did not move her, and I lay with her and coughed and +strangled my way through to another resurrection. + +And the door was open. The doors to starboard and to port were both +open; and as the _Elsinore_ rolled a draught through the chart-house +hall my lungs filled with pure, cool air. As I drew myself across the +high threshold and pulled Margaret after me, from very far away I heard +the cries of men and the reports of rifle and revolver. And, ere I +fainted into the blackness, on my side, staring, my pain gone so beyond +endurance that it had achieved its own anæsthesia, I glimpsed, +dream-like and distant, the sharply silhouetted poop-rail, dark forms +that cut and thrust and smote, and, beyond, the mizzen-mast brightly +lighted by our illuminators. + +* * * * * + + +Well, the mutineers failed to take the poop. My five Asiatics and two +white men had held the citadel while Margaret and I lay unconscious +side by side. + +The whole affair was very simple. Modern maritime quarantine demands +that ships shall not carry vermin that are themselves plague-carriers. +In the donkey-engine section of the for’ard house is a complete +fumigating apparatus. The mutineers had merely to lay and fasten the +pipes aft across the coal, to chisel a hole through the double-deck of +steel and wood under the cabin, and to connect up and begin to pump. +Buckwheat had fallen asleep and been awakened by the strangling sulphur +fumes. We in the high place had been smoked out by our rascals like so +many rats. + +It was Wada who had opened one of the doors. The old steward had opened +the other. Together they had attempted the descent of the stairway and +been driven back by the fumes. Then they had engaged in the struggle to +repel the rush from for’ard. + +Margaret and I are agreed that sulphur, excessively inhaled, leaves the +lungs sore. Only now, after a lapse of a dozen hours, can we draw +breath in anything that resembles comfort. But still my lungs were not +so sore as to prevent my telling her what I had learned she meant to +me. And yet she is only a woman—I tell her so; I tell her that there +are at least seven hundred and fifty millions of two-legged, +long-haired, gentle-voiced, soft-bodied, female humans like her on the +planet, and that she is really swamped by the immensity of numbers of +her sex and kind. But I tell her something more. I tell her that of all +of them she is the only one. And, better yet, to myself and for myself, +I believe it. I know it. The last least part of me and all of me +proclaims it. + +Love _is_ wonderful. It is the everlasting and miraculous amazement. +Oh, trust me, I know the old, hard scientific method of weighing and +calculating and classifying love. It is a profound foolishness, a +cosmic trick and quip, to the contemplative eye of the philosopher—yes, +and of the futurist. But when one forsakes such intellectual flesh-pots +and becomes mere human and male human, in short, a lover, then all he +may do, and which is what he cannot help doing, is to yield to the +compulsions of being and throw both his arms around love and hold it +closer to him than is his own heart close to him. This is the summit of +his life, and of man’s life. Higher than this no man may rise. The +philosophers toil and struggle on mole-hill peaks far below. He who has +not loved has not tasted the ultimate sweet of living. I know. I love +Margaret, a woman. She is desirable. + + + + +CHAPTER L. + + +In the past twenty-four hours many things have happened. To begin with, +we nearly lost the steward in the second dog-watch last evening. +Through the slits in the ventilator some man thrust a knife into the +sacks of flour and cut them wide open from top to bottom. In the dark +the flour poured to the deck unobserved. + +Of course, the man behind could not see through the screen of empty +sacks, but he took a blind pot-shot at point-blank range when the +steward went by, slip-sloppily dragging the heels of his slippers. +Fortunately it was a miss, but so close a miss was it that his cheek +and neck were burned with powder grains. + +At six bells in the first watch came another surprise. Tom Spink came +to me where I stood guard at the for’ard end of the poop. His voice +shook as he spoke. + +“For the love of God, sir, they’ve come,” he said. + +“Who?” I asked sharply. + +“Them,” he chattered. “The ones that come aboard off the Horn, sir, the +three drownded sailors. They’re there, aft, sir, the three of ’em, +standin’ in a row by the wheel.” + +“How did they get there?” + +“Bein’ warlocks, they flew, sir. You didn’t see ’m go by you, did you, +sir?” + +“No,” I admitted. “They never went by me.” + +Poor Tom Spink groaned. + +“But there are lines aloft there on which they could cross over from +mizzen to jigger,” I added. “Send Wada to me.” + +When the latter relieved me I went aft. And there in a row were our +three pale-haired storm-waifs with the topaz eyes. In the light of a +bull’s-eye, held on them by Louis, their eyes never seemed more like +the eyes of great cats. And, heavens, they purred! At least, the +inarticulate noises they made sounded more like purring than anything +else. That these sounds meant friendliness was very evident. Also, they +held out their hands, palms upward, in unmistakable sign of peace. Each +in turn doffed his cap and placed my hand for a moment on his head. +Without doubt this meant their offer of fealty, their acceptance of me +as master. + +I nodded my head. There was nothing to be said to men who purred like +cats, while sign-language in the light of the bull’s-eye was rather +difficult. Tom Spink groaned protest when I told Louis to take them +below and give them blankets. + +I made the sleep-sign to them, and they nodded gratefully, hesitated, +then pointed to their mouths and rubbed their stomachs. + +“Drowned men do not eat,” I laughed to Tom Spink. “Go down and watch +them. Feed them up, Louis, all they want. It’s a good sign of short +rations for’ard.” + +At the end of half an hour Tom Spink was back. + +“Well, did they eat?” I challenged him. + +But he was unconvinced. The very quantity they had eaten was a +suspicious thing, and, further, he had heard of a kind of ghost that +devoured dead bodies in graveyards. Therefore, he concluded, mere +non-eating was no test for a ghost. + +The third event of moment occurred this morning at seven o’clock. The +mutineers called for a truce; and when Nosey Murphy, the Maltese +Cockney, and the inevitable Charles Davis stood beneath me on the main +deck, their faces showed lean and drawn. Famine had been my great ally. +And in truth, with Margaret beside me in that high place of the break +of the poop, as I looked down on the hungry wretches I felt very +strong. Never had the inequality of numbers fore and aft been less than +now. The three deserters, added to our own nine, made twelve of us, +while the mutineers, after subtracting Ditman Olansen, Bob and the +Faun, totalled only an even score. And of these Bert Rhine must +certainly be in a bad way, while there were many weaklings, such as +Sundry Buyers, Nancy, Larry, and Lars Jacobsen. + +“Well, what do you want?” I demanded. “I haven’t much time to waste. +Breakfast is ready and waiting.” + +Charles Davis started to speak, but I shut him off. + +“I’ll have nothing out of you, Davis. At least not now. Later on, when +I’m in that court of law you’ve bothered me with for half the voyage, +you’ll get your turn at talking. And when that time comes don’t forget +that I shall have a few words to say.” + +Again he began, but this time was stopped by Nosey Murphy. + +“Aw, shut your trap, Davis,” the gangster snarled, “or I’ll shut it for +you.” He glanced up to me. “We want to go back to work, that’s what we +want.” + +“Which is not the way to ask for it,” I answered. + +“Sir,” he added hastily. + +“That’s better,” I commented. + +“Oh, my God, sir, don’t let ’m come aft.” Tom Spink muttered hurriedly +in my ear. “That’d be the end of all of us. And even if they didn’t get +you an’ the rest, they’d heave me over some dark night. They ain’t +never goin’ to forgive me, sir, for joinin’ in with the afterguard.” + +I ignored the interruption and addressed the gangster. + +“There’s nothing like going to work when you want to as badly as you +seem to. Suppose all hands get sail on her just to show good +intention.” + +“We’d like to eat first, sir,” he objected. + +“I’d like to see you setting sail, first,” was my reply. “And you may +as well get it from me straight that what I like goes, aboard this +ship.”—I almost said “hooker.” + +Nosey Murphy hesitated and looked to the Maltese Cockney for counsel. +The latter debated, as if gauging the measure of his weakness while he +stared aloft at the work involved. Finally he nodded. + +“All right, sir,” the gangster spoke up. “We’ll do it . . . but can’t +something be cookin’ in the galley while we’re doin’ it?” + +I shook my head. + +“I didn’t have that in mind, and I don’t care to change my mind now. +When every sail is stretched and every yard braced, and all that mess +of gear cleared up, food for a good meal will be served out. You +needn’t bother about the spanker nor the mizzen-braces. We’ll make your +work lighter by that much.” + +In truth, as they climbed aloft they showed how miserably weak they +were. There were some too feeble to go aloft. Poor Sundry Buyers +continually pressed his abdomen as he toiled around the deck-capstans; +and never was Nancy’s face quite so forlorn as when he obeyed the +Maltese Cockney’s command and went up to loose the mizzen-skysail. + +In passing, I must note one delicious miracle that was worked before +our eyes. They were hoisting the mizzen-upper-topsail-yard by means of +one of the patent deck-capstans. Although they had reversed the gear so +as to double the purchase, they were having a hard time of it. Lars +Jacobsen was limping on his twice-broken leg, and with him were Sundry +Buyers, Tony the Greek, Bombini, and Mulligan Jacobs. Nosey Murphy held +the turn. + +When they stopped from sheer exhaustion Murphy’s glance chanced to fall +on Charles Davis, the one man who had not worked since the outset of +the voyage and who was not working now. + +“Bear a hand, Davis,” the gangster called. + +Margaret gurgled low laughter in my ear as she caught the drift of the +episode. + +The sea-lawyer looked at the other in amazement ere he answered: + +“I guess not.” + +After nodding Sundry Buyers over to him to take the turn Murphy +straightened his back and walked close to Davis, then said very +quietly: + +“I guess yes.” + +That was all. For a space neither spoke. Davis seemed to be giving the +matter judicial consideration. The men at the capstan panted, rested, +and looked on—all save Bombini, who slunk across the deck until he +stood at Murphy’s shoulder. + +Under such circumstances the decision Charles Davis gave was eminently +the right one, although even then he offered a compromise. + +“I’ll hold the turn,” he volunteered. + +“You’ll lump around one of them capstan-bars,” Murphy said. + +The sea-lawyer made no mistake. He knew in all absoluteness that he was +choosing between life and death, and he limped over to the capstan and +found his place. And as the work started, and as he toiled around and +around the narrow circle, Margaret and I shamelessly and loudly laughed +our approval. And our own men stole for’ard along the poop to peer down +at the spectacle of Charles Davis at work. + +All of which must have pleased Nosey Murphy, for, as he continued to +hold the turn and coil down, he kept a critical eye on Davis. + +“More juice, Davis!” he commanded with abrupt sharpness. + +And Davis, with a startle, visibly increased his efforts. + +This was too much for our fellows, who, Asiatics and all, applauded +with laughter and hand-clapping. And what could I do? It was a gala +day, and our faithful ones deserved some little recompense of +amusement. So I ignored the breach of discipline and of poop etiquette +by strolling away aft with Margaret. + +At the wheel was one of our storm-waifs. I set the course due east for +Valparaiso, and sent the steward below to bring up sufficient food for +one substantial meal for the mutineers. + +“When do we get our next grub, sir?” Nosey Murphy asked, as the steward +served the supplies down to him from the poop. + +“At midday,” I answered. “And as long as you and your gang are good, +you’ll get your grub three times each day. You can choose your own +watches any way you please. But the ship’s work must be done, and done +properly. If it isn’t, then the grub stops. That will do. Now go +for’ard.” + +“One thing more, sir,” he said quickly. “Bert Rhine is awful bad. He +can’t see, sir. It looks like he’s going to lose his face. He can’t +sleep. He groans all the time.” + +* * * * * + + +It was a busy day. I made a selection of things from the medicine-chest +for the acid-burned gangster; and, finding that Murphy knew how to +manipulate a hypodermic syringe, entrusted him with one. + +Then, too, I practised with the sextant and think I fairly caught the +sun at noon and correctly worked up the observation. But this is +latitude, and is comparatively easy. Longitude is more difficult. But I +am reading up on it. + +All afternoon a gentle northerly fan of air snored the _Elsinore_ +through the water at a five-knot clip, and our course lay east for +land, for the habitations of men, for the law and order that men +institute whenever they organize into groups. Once in Valparaiso, with +police flag flying, our mutineers will be taken care of by the shore +authorities. + +Another thing I did was to rearrange our watches aft so as to split up +the three storm-visitors. Margaret took one in her watch, along with +the two sail-makers, Tom Spink, and Louis. Louis is half white, and all +trustworthy, so that, at all times, on deck or below, he is told off to +the task of never letting the topaz-eyed one out of his sight. + +In my watch are the steward, Buckwheat, Wada, and the other two +topaz-eyed ones. And to one of them Wada is told off; and to the other +is assigned the steward. We are not taking any chances. Always, night +and day, on duty or off, these storm-strangers will have one of our +proved men watching them. + +* * * * * + + +Yes; and I tried the stranger men out last evening. It was after a +council with Margaret. She was sure, and I agreed with her, that the +men for’ard are not blindly yielding to our bringing them in to be +prisoners in Valparaiso. As we tried to forecast it, their plan is to +desert the _Elsinore_ in the boats as soon as we fetch up with the +land. Also, considering some of the bitter lunatic spirits for’ard, +there would be a large chance of their drilling the _Elsinore’s_ steel +sides and scuttling her ere they took to the boats. For scuttling a +ship is surely as ancient a practice as mutiny on the high seas. + +So it was, at one in the morning, that I tried out our strangers. Two +of them I took for’ard with me in the raid on the small boats. One I +left beside Margaret, who kept charge of the poop. On the other side of +him stood the steward with his big hacking knife. By signs I had made +it clear to him, and to his two comrades who were to accompany me +for’ard, that at the first sign of treachery he would be killed. And +not only did the old steward, with signs emphatic and unmistakable, +pledge himself to perform the execution, but we were all convinced that +he was eager for the task. + +With Margaret I also left Buckwheat and Tom Spink. Wada, the two +sail-makers, Louis, and the two topaz-eyed ones accompanied me. In +addition to fighting weapons we were armed with axes. We crossed the +main deck unobserved, gained the bridge by way of the ’midship-house, +and by way of the bridge gained the top of the for’ard-house. Here were +the first boats we began work on; but, first of all, I called in the +lookout from the forecastle-head. + +He was Mulligan Jacobs; and he picked his way back across the wreck of +the bridge where the fore-topgallant-yard still lay, and came up to me +unafraid, as implacable and bitter as ever. + +“Jacobs,” I whispered, “you are to stay here beside me until we finish +the job of smashing the boats. Do you get that?” + +“As though it could fright me,” he growled all too loudly. “Go ahead +for all I care. I know your game. And I know the game of the hell’s +maggots under our feet this minute. ’Tis they that’d desert in the +boats. ’Tis you that’ll smash the boats an’ jail ’m kit an’ crew.” + +“S-s-s-h,” I vainly interpolated. + +“What of it?” he went on as loudly as ever. “They’re sleepin’ with full +bellies. The only night watch we keep is the lookout. Even Rhine’s +asleep. A few jolts of the needle has put a clapper to his eternal +moanin’. Go on with your work. Smash the boats. ’Tis nothin’ I care. +’Tis well I know my own crooked back is worth more to me than the necks +of the scum of the world below there.” + +“If you felt that way, why didn’t you join us?” I queried. + +“Because I like you no better than them an’ not half so well. They are +what you an’ your fathers have made ’em. An’ who in hell are you an’ +your fathers? Robbers of the toil of men. I like them little. I like +you and your fathers not at all. Only I like myself and me crooked back +that’s a livin’ proof there ain’t no God and makes Browning a liar.” + +“Join us now,” I urged, meeting him in his mood. “It will be easier for +your back.” + +“To hell with you,” was his answer. “Go ahead an’ smash the boats. You +can hang some of them. But you can’t touch me with the law. ’Tis me +that’s a crippled creature of circumstance, too weak to raise a hand +against any man—a feather blown about by the windy contention of men +strong in their back an’ brainless in their heads.” + +“As you please,” I said. + +“As I can’t help pleasin’,” he retorted, “bein’ what I am an’ so made +for the little flash between the darknesses which men call life. Now +why couldn’t I a-ben a butterfly, or a fat pig in a full trough, or a +mere mortal man with a straight back an’ women to love me? Go on an’ +smash the boats. Play hell to the top of your bent. Like me, you’ll end +in the darkness. And your darkness’ll be—as dark as mine.” + +“A full belly puts the spunk back into you,” I sneered. + +“’Tis on an empty belly that the juice of my dislike turns to acid. Go +on an’ smash the boats.” + +“Whose idea was the sulphur?” I asked. + +“I’m not tellin’ you the man, but I envied him until it showed failure. +An’ whose idea was it—to douse the sulphuric into Rhine’s face? He’ll +lose that same face, from the way it’s shedding.” + +“Nor will I tell you,” I said. “Though I will tell you that I am glad +the idea was not mine.” + +“Oh, well,” he muttered cryptically, “different customs on different +ships, as the cook said when he went for’ard to cast off the spanker +sheet.” + +Not until the job was done and I was back on the poop did I have time +to work out the drift of that last figure in its terms of the sea. +Mulligan Jacobs might have been an artist, a philosophic poet, had he +not been born crooked with a crooked back. + +And we smashed the boats. With axes and sledges it was an easier task +than I had imagined. On top of both houses we left the boats masses of +splintered wreckage, the topaz-eyed ones working most energetically; +and we regained the poop without a shot being fired. The forecastle +turned out, of course, at our noise, but made no attempt to interfere +with us. + +And right here I register another complaint against the sea-novelists. +A score of men for’ard, desperate all, with desperate deeds behind +them, and jail and the gallows facing them not many days away, should +have only begun to fight. And yet this score of men did nothing while +we destroyed their last chance for escape. + +“But where did they get the grub?” the steward asked me afterwards. + +This question he has asked me every day since the first day Mr. Pike +began cudgelling his brains over it. I wonder, had I asked Mulligan +Jacobs the question, if he would have told me? At any rate, in court at +Valparaiso that question will be answered. In the meantime I suppose I +shall submit to having the steward ask me it daily. + +“It is murder and mutiny on the high seas,” I told them this morning, +when they came aft in a body to complain about the destruction of the +boats and to demand my intentions. + +And as I looked down upon the poor wretches from the break of the poop, +standing there in the high place, the vision of my kind down all its +mad, violent, and masterful past was strong upon me. Already, since our +departure from Baltimore, three other men, masters, had occupied this +high place and gone their way—the Samurai, Mr. Pike, and Mr. Mellaire. +I stood here, fourth, no seaman, merely a master by the blood of my +ancestors; and the work of the _Elsinore_ in the world went on. + +Bert Rhine, his head and face swathed in bandages, stood there beneath +me, and I felt for him a tingle of respect. He, too, in a subterranean, +ghetto way was master over his rats. Nosey Murphy and Kid Twist stood +shoulder to shoulder with their stricken gangster leader. It was his +will, because of his terrible injury, to get in to land and doctors as +quickly as possible. He preferred taking his chance in court against +the chance of losing his life, or, perhaps, his eyesight. + +The crew was divided against itself; and Isaac Chantz, the Jew, his +wounded shoulder with a hunch to it, seemed to lead the revolt against +the gangsters. His wound was enough to convict him in any court, and +well he knew it. Beside him, and at his shoulders, clustered the +Maltese Cockney, Andy Fay, Arthur Deacon, Frank Fitzgibbon, Richard +Giller, and John Hackey. + +In another group, still allegiant to the gangsters, were men such as +Shorty, Sorensen, Lars Jacobsen, and Larry. Charles Davis was +prominently in the gangster group. A fourth group was composed of +Sundry Buyers, Nancy, and Tony the Greek. This group was distinctly +neutral. And, finally, unaffiliated, quite by himself, stood Mulligan +Jacobs—listening, I fancy, to far echoes of ancient wrongs, and +feeling, I doubt not, the bite of the iron-hot hooks in his brain. + +“What are you going to do with us, sir?” Isaac Chantz demanded of me, +in defiance to the gangsters, who were expected to do the talking. + +Bert Rhine lurched angrily toward the sound of the Jew’s voice. +Chantz’s partisans drew closer to him. + +“Jail you,” I answered from above. “And it shall go as hard with all of +you as I can make it hard.” + +“Maybe you will an’ maybe you won’t,” the Jew retorted. + +“Shut up, Chantz!” Bert Rhine commanded. + +“And you’ll get yours, you wop,” Chantz snarled, “if I have to do it +myself.” + +I am afraid that I am not so successfully the man of action that I have +been priding myself on being; for, so curious and interested was I in +observing the moving drama beneath me that for the moment I failed to +glimpse the tragedy into which it was culminating. + +“Bombini!” Bert Rhine said. + +His voice was imperative. It was the order of a master to the dog at +heel. Bombini responded. He drew his knife and started to advance upon +the Jew. But a deep rumbling, animal-like in its _sound_ and menace, +arose in the throats of those about the Jew. + +Bombini hesitated and glanced back across his shoulder at the leader, +whose face he could not see for bandages and who he knew could not see. + +“’Tis a good deed—do it, Bombini,” Charles Davis encouraged. + +“Shut your face, Davis!” came out from Bert Rhine’s bandages. + +Kid Twist drew a revolver, shoved the muzzle of it first into Bombini’s +side, then covered the men about the Jew. + +Really, I felt a momentary twinge of pity for the Italian. He was +caught between the mill-stones, “Bombini, stick that Jew,” Bert Rhine +commanded. + +The Italian advanced a step, and, shoulder to shoulder, on either side, +Kid Twist and Nosey Murphy advanced with him. + +“I cannot see him,” Bert Rhine went on; “but by God I will see him!” + +And so speaking, with one single, virile movement he tore away the +bandages. The toll of pain he must have paid is beyond measurement. I +saw the horror of his face, but the description of it is beyond the +limits of any English I possess. I was aware that Margaret, at my +shoulder, gasped and shuddered. + +“Bombini!—stick him,” the gangster repeated. “And stick any man that +raises a yap. Murphy! See that Bombini does his work.” + +Murphy’s knife was out and at the bravo’s back. Kid Twist covered the +Jew’s group with his revolver. And the three advanced. + +It was at this moment that I suddenly recollected myself and passed +from dream to action. + +“Bombini!” I said sharply. + +He paused and looked up. + +“Stand where you are,” I ordered, “till I do some talking.—Chantz! Make +no mistake. Rhine is boss for’ard. You take his orders . . . until we +get into Valparaiso; then you’ll take your chances along with him in +jail. In the meantime, what Rhine says goes. Get that, and get it +straight. I am behind Rhine until the police come on board.—Bombini! do +whatever Rhine tells you. I’ll shoot the man who tries to stop +you.—Deacon! Stand away from Chantz. Go over to the fife-rail.” + +All hands knew the stream of lead my automatic rifle could throw, and +Arthur Deacon knew it. He hesitated barely a moment, then obeyed. + +“Fitzgibbon!—Giller!—Hackey!” I called in turn, and was obeyed. “Fay!” +I called twice, ere the response came. + +Isaac Chantz stood alone, and Bombini now showed eagerness. + +“Chantz!” I said; “don’t you think it would be healthier to go over to +the fife-rail and be good?” + +He debated the matter not many seconds, resheathed his knife, and +complied. + +The tang of power! I was minded to let literature get the better of me +and read the rascals a lecture; but thank heaven I had sufficient +proportion and balance to refrain. + +“Rhine!” I said. + +He turned his corroded face up to me and blinked in an effort to see. + +“As long as Chantz takes your orders, leave him alone. We’ll need every +hand to work the ship in. As for yourself, send Murphy aft in half an +hour and I’ll give him the best the medicine-chest affords. That is +all. Go for’ard.” + +And they shambled away, beaten and dispirited. + +“But that man—his face—what happened to him?” Margaret asked of me. + +Sad it is to end love with lies. Sadder still is it to begin love with +lies. I had tried to hide this one happening from Margaret, and I had +failed. It could no longer be hidden save by lying; and so I told her +the truth, told her how and why the gangster had had his face dashed +with sulphuric acid by the old steward who knew white men and their +ways. + +* * * * * + + +There is little more to write. The mutiny of the _Elsinore_ is over. +The divided crew is ruled by the gangsters, who are as intent on +getting their leader into port as I am intent on getting all of them +into jail. The first lap of the voyage of the _Elsinore_ draws to a +close. Two days, at most, with our present sailing, will bring us into +Valparaiso. And then, as beginning a new voyage, the _Elsinore_ will +depart for Seattle. + +* * * * * + + +One thing more remains for me to write, and then this strange log of a +strange cruise will be complete. It happened only last night. I am yet +fresh from it, and athrill with it and with the promise of it. + +Margaret and I spent the last hour of the second dog-watch together at +the break of the poop. It was good again to feel the _Elsinore_ +yielding to the wind-pressure on her canvas, to feel her again slipping +and sliding through the water in an easy sea. + +Hidden by the darkness, clasped in each other’s arms, we talked love +and love plans. Nor am I shamed to confess that I was all for +immediacy. Once in Valparaiso, I contended, we would fit out the +_Elsinore_ with fresh crew and officers and send her on her way. As for +us, steamers and rapid travelling would fetch us quickly home. +Furthermore, Valparaiso being a place where such things as licences and +ministers obtained, we would be married ere we caught the fast steamers +for home. + +But Margaret was obdurate. The Wests had always stood by their ships, +she urged; had always brought their ships in to the ports intended or +had gone down with their ships in the effort. The _Elsinore_ had +cleared from Baltimore for Seattle with the Wests in the high place. +The _Elsinore_ would re-equip with officers and men in Valparaiso, and +the _Elsinore_ would arrive in Seattle with a West still on board. + +“But think, dear heart,” I objected. “The voyage will require months. +Remember what Henley has said: ‘Every kiss we take or give leaves us +less of life to live.’” + +She pressed her lips to mine. + +“We kiss,” she said. + +But I was stupid. + +* * * * * + + +“Oh, the weary, weary months,” I complained. “You dear silly,” she +gurgled. “Don’t you understand?” + +“I understand only that it is many a thousand miles from Valparaiso to +Seattle,” I answered. + +“You won’t understand,” she challenged. + +“I am a fool,” I admitted. “I am aware of only one thing: I want you. I +want you.” + +“You are a dear, but you are very, very stupid,” she said, and as she +spoke she caught my hand and pressed the palm of it against her cheek. +“What do you feel?” she asked. + +“Hot cheeks—cheeks most hot.” + +“I am blushing for what your stupidity compels me to say,” she +explained. “You have already said that such things as licences and +ministers obtain in Valparaiso . . . and . . . and, well . . . ” + +“You mean . . . ?” I stammered. + +“Just that,” she confirmed. + +“The honeymoon shall be on the _Elsinore_ from Valparaiso all the way +to Seattle?” I rattled on. + +“The many thousands of miles, the weary, weary months,” she teased in +my own intonations, until I stifled her teasing with my lips. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MUTINY OF THE ELSINORE *** + +***** This file should be named 2415-0.txt or 2415-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/1/2415/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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