THE "PELICAN"
The brigantine-rigged _Pelican_ was of but a hundred and fifty tons
burden; yet her royal yard stood athwart the sky nearly ninety feet
above the deck. She was not a pretty ship, despite her snowy
cleanliness, but she was tall enough; in her 'midships stood the
brick try-works, with two funnels, where blubber was rendered into
oil; and she reeked of the whale-juice that had soaked her stout
oaken timbers these forty years.
As she lay at anchor in Vancouver harbour, well up toward the second
narrows, there were several peculiar features about her--peculiar,
that is, to the trained seaman's eye.
She was bound for sea; yet she was altogether too late to get the
spring catch off the Siberian coast; and if she went up into the
Arctic to fill her hogsheads, she would certainly be ice-bound that
winter, and few whalers were taking chances on being ice-bound those
days! Then her crew had been all aboard for two days, and the
majority of them were Kanakas--both facts being unusual. Why the
_Pelican_ was still hanging about the harbour no one could say.
This old whaler had none too good a reputation, even among her kind;
but this was chiefly because of her officers. Manuel Mendez, the
black Cape Verde mate, was a strapping big man with a thin eagle-like
profile exactly like that of the mummy of Rameses--a great hooked
nose, and air of gentle refinement, and delicate lips. Manuel Mendez
played the flute beautifully and was said to be a killer of men.
The second officer was an old man, forty years a whaler. Mr. Leman
wore a fringe of white hair and whisker, stood six feet two and was
muscled like a bull moose; they said he had been known to take a
man's arm in his two hands and break it like a rotten stick. His
face was heavy and flat, the eyes small and bright and deeply set.
His nose had been crushed and had a crooked twist
One of the boat-steerers, Ericksen, was gone from the ship. The
other, like the mate, was a Cape Verde man; his name was a Portuguese
one, but he was called Corny. The brigantine had no cooper, for a
wonder; her cook, like Ericksen, was absent.
The steward was a vicious little Cockney pickpocket who wanted to get
out of Canada before the draught caught him; the cabin-boy was a
green farmer-lad named Jerry, a moon-faced boy who had run off the
farm a month previously. There was no one else aft.
In the forecastle were fifteen men. Ten of these were Kanakas--merry
brown men who spoke their own guttural tongue and some broken
English, and like all of their kind were noble seamen. The other
five were broken-down white men, scum of the city, who were kept
drunk and under hatches until the _Pelican_ should get to sea.
The ship was pervaded by a restless air--that is, in the after
cabins. Up forward the Kanakas sang and worked light-heartedly, and
the five bums snored in drunken repose. But aft all was different.
Restrained excitement, an air of suspense, much whispering and wild
speculating; thus the atmosphere seemed electrically charged.
Everyone knew that there was an invalid down below--a man in a
wheeled chair, a man who could not speak a single word or move a
finger. Jerry affirmed he could eat, and could use his ears, but
little more, as his eyes also were somewhat affected. Then, the
skipper's wife was aboard for the cruise; and when she came to the
deck, men smartened up--not because they loved her, but because they
feared and hated her. She was known to all aboard as the
Missus--that was her title.
It was five in the afternoon. Two bells had just been struck on the
brass ship's bell abaft the mizzenmast when the Missus appeared on
the quarter-deck. Sea-watches had been set, and Mr. Leman had the
deck, Mrs. Pontifex was a strapping big woman with iron-grey hair and
a jaw like rock; her unchanging expression was indomitable and not
too sweet.
"No sign of that boat, Mr. Leman?" she demanded in a raucous voice
which held a distinct Yankee twang.
"No, ma'am," meekly responded the second officer. "Train must ha'
been late. Them trains often is, I'm told."
The Missus espied a Kanaka sprawled in the waist; half-leaning
against the try-works, he was asleep in the westerning sun. She
strode to him and aroused him with a sturdy kick in the ribs.
"Do your sleepin' daown below, ye scouse!" she roared. "This is no
berth-deck. Yeou, Corny! Who went in Mr. Mendez' boat when he took
the Cap'n ashore?"
"Six of the Kanakas, ma'am," responded the black boat-steerer.
"Hm! Then they'll not run off. All ready for sea, Mr. Leman?"
"All ready, ma'am."
"The minute yeou sight that boat, break aout the signal for the tug.
When the boat comes alongside, yeou tell the cap'n that we've been
ordered to shift anchorage. That'll keep the girl and her fool
husband quiet, I reckon!"
"Yes, ma'am. And then?"
"Cast off the tug aoutside the Lion's Gate an' lay a course for
Unalaska."
"But, ma'am--how about Frenchy? We ain't got no cook 'cept him!"
Mr. Leman rubbed his fringe of whiskers in evident perturbation over
putting to sea without a cook. "You know, ma'am, Boatswain Joe wired
about him gettin' left behind."
"Never mind 'baout Dumont." Mrs. Pontifex's lips set in a grim line.
"He's got his orders, and I wired money to him. He'll go to Unalaska
by steamer and wait there until we put in."
"And who'll do the cookin' meantime?"
"I will. Naow yeou get hove up on that hawser, so's yeou can jerk up
the hook in a hurry."
Mr. Leman hastened forward, bawling orders as he went.
Now, if there was one thing in particular for which Tom Dennis was
not in the least prepared, it was for the reception which awaited him
at Vancouver. He had anticipated a seaman's cottage in the suburbs,
a protracted stay at an hotel or boarding-house, and so forth.
Instead of this, upon alighting from the train he found himself and
Florence shaking hands with Captain Pontifex to whom Ericksen
introduced them with much delight. The "Skipper" was not, to the
suspicious eye of Dennis, prepossessing in appearance. His curled
black moustache, his swarthy cavernous features, his alert dark eyes,
were all well enough; but the moustache concealed a cruel and bitter
mouth; the features were high-boned and sharp; and the eyes were of
the heavy-lidded type--the eyes of a master of men, the eyes of a
Hindenburg.
First impressions were almost effaced, however, by the polished
cordiality of Pontifex. He was a man of education, of intense
personality, and he was at some pains to make himself agreeable.
Florence's first question was for her father.
"We have taken him aboard the _Pelican_, Mrs. Dennis; he seemed to
miss the salt air, and the lease on our cottage was up," responded
Pontifex. "This way, please--I have a taxicab waiting! I have a
cabin all ready for you aboard ship, and Mrs. Pontifex promised to
have a bang-up dinner at six sharp; so we've just time to make the
ship. If you'll let me have your trunk-checks, Mr. Dennis----"
"But Captain, we can't impose upon your hospitality!" interrupted Tom
Dennis. "It's mighty good of you, but----"
"Nonsense, my dear chap!" Pontifex laughed and seized his arm,
impelling him, toward the cab. "It's a great pleasure, I assure you!
Of course you young married folks will be glad of solitude after you
get settled down with the old cap'n, but--I suppose Ericksen told you
the business we had in hand?"
"Ericksen told us nothing," returned Dennis.
"Good for the Boatswain!" Pontifex laughed again. "I warned him to
keep a close tongue. Well, suppose we pass up business for to-night,
and in the morning we'll get together, eh? The directors of the
company will be all aboard then; you'll be our guests for a time."
"What company?" interjected Florence.
"Ah, that's the secret!" Pontifex bowed her into the cab, his white
teeth showing in a smile. "A surprise for you, madam! It was odd,
the way I happened to pick up your father--poor man, stuck away in a
sailor's home, unable to tell so much as his name! You know, we were
always pretty good friends, Miles and I."
Tom Dennis found his suspicions fading, and his first dislike of
Pontifex was lulled to rest by the man's vivid personality. Pontifex
had character, plenty of it, and like all strong men could make
himself greatly liked or greatly hated almost at will. He appeared
to be a good-humoured, masterly sort of man, heartily loving a joke,
and radiating an air of alert and genial manliness. Dennis adjudged
him a good friend but a bad enemy.
"We hope that the shock of seeing you, Mrs. Dennis, will restore your
father's power of speech," went on Pontifex. "For that reason we've
not told him----"
"But how can he be so paralysed?" demanded Florence quickly. "Can he
hear, and not speak? Why----"
"My dear young lady, the best doctors in Vancouver can't account for
it!" Pontifex shook his head with an air of paternal solicitude.
"It's one of the freak cases of paralysis; but it's not at all an
unusual case. He can move his eyelids slightly, his eyes perfectly;
he can eat and drink fairly well; yet his vocal cords are entirely
paralysed."
Without opportunity for further converse they reached the
water-front, and Captain Pontifex led the way toward the
landing-stage. Tom Dennis had his own grip, a huge affair as large
as a small trunk, and two bags belonging to Florence; of these latter
the skipper had assumed charge.
Upon reaching the boat with its six merry Kanaka rowers, Manuel
Mendez was introduced by Pontifex. Mendez made up for his broken
English by a wide grin, and assisted Florence down into the
stern-sheets of the boat, beside the Skipper, who took charge of the
long steering-oar. Dennis climbed into the bow with Mendez.
After a short wait Ericksen appeared, a truckman helping him bear the
one trunk which Florence had brought; this was stowed in the boat.
Ericksen shook hands with Mendez, flinging a laughing greeting to the
men; the Skipper, standing, flung an impatient word at Ericksen, and
the latter turned to Dennis.
"I didn't see nothin' of that square suitcase, Mr. Dennis--the one
you took out o' that other compartment."
Tom Dennis laughed unconcernedly. "Oh, that! There was nothing in
it I wanted, Boatswain Joe; I gave it to the porter the first night
out."
Ericksen dropped his pipe to the wharf and stooped for it, with a
rumbling of low words which did not sound like blessings. Captain
Pontifex changed countenance, then snapped a command at the boat
steerer. His voice was suddenly metallic, piercing.
"Hurry up, there, Boatswain! We've no time to dally around."
Boatswain Joe, looking very much like a dog who is about to receive a
sound thrashing, jumped down into the boat. The bowman shoved off.
The oars flashed. The whaleboat swung out into the estuary.
Tom Dennis entertained an uneasy feeling that he had been bodily
abducted--and laughed at himself for a simpleton. Mendez pointed out
the _Pelican_ as they approached her, and from the other direction a
tug was crawling up to the brigantine. As the boat drew under the
brown side of the ship, a flat white-whiskered face appeared above
the ladder; Mendez informed Dennis that this was the second mate, Mr.
Leman.
"Ahoy, Cap'n!" called Leman in unexpectedly stentorian tones. "We've
been ordered to shift our anchorage, sir--port authorities. Tug
comin' now!"
"Very well, Mr. Leman," returned Pontifex briskly. "Pass a line from
the forward bitts and stand ready to heave up the hook. Mr. Mendez,
will you attend to this luggage? All ready, Miss--pardon, Mrs.
Dennis! May I assist you up the ladder?"
If Florence entertained any shrinking from that steep approach, she
concealed it well, and with the aid of Pontifex was soon on the deck
above being introduced to the Missus. Tom Dennis followed. The
Missus gave him a mighty hand-grip, then turned to Florence.
"Supper's all ready," announced Mrs. Pontifex. "I suppose, poor
dear, yeou'd sooner see your poor father first? Then come with
me--do. Cap'n, yeou make that man Ericksen wash his face and hands
before he sits daown to table! And put a clean shirt on him."
Boatswain Joe was just then coming up the side, and heard the words.
"You hear?" snapped Pontifex.
"Yes sir," he responded meekly, and his freckled face looked rather
white.
Mrs. Pontifex departed with Florence, and Tom Dennis joined them at a
glance from the latter. All three passed down the after companion.
In a wheeled chair set beside the stern windows of the cabin sat
Miles Hathaway. He was not as Tom Dennis had seen him pictured, for
his rocky and indomitable face was half-concealed by a growth of
shaggy grey beard. His hair, too, had grown long and was streaked
with grey. He sat motionless, hands in lap. His eyes, wide glowing
brown eyes like those of Florence, were fastened upon the three who
entered.
The meeting was pitiful almost to tragedy. With a wordless cry
Florence ran to her father and knelt beside him, clasping him in her
arms, her head against his broad and massive chest. The man sat
there unstirring, helpless. His eyes seemed to lack the swift play
of cheek-muscles and lids which gives expression; yet, as those eyes
dwelt upon the upturned face of Florence, they seemed to dilate with
incredulous horror.
"We've brought your daughter, Cap'n Hathaway," announced Mrs.
Pontifex stridently, "and her husband, Mr. Dennis."
The eyes of the helpless man turned to Dennis and rested upon his
gaze. The mouth of Miles Hathaway opened; he tried terribly and
frightfully to stir himself, to break the invisible bonds which held
him tied down--and he failed. He could not speak or move. Yet his
eyes, fastened upon the face of Dennis, seemed filled with some awful
and momentous message.
"I'm so glad we've found you, Father dear!" said Florence softly,
tears on her cheeks. "Tom and I are going to take care of you
always, and if only Mother were here--she never knew that you were
alive."
Again the mouth of Miles Hathaway opened spasmodically, but he could
not speak His eyes were horrible to see, so dumbly eloquent were they
of the useless will of the man. Tom Dennis could not bear the scene
further, and touched the arm of Mrs. Pontifex.
"Leave them--for a little while."
The woman nodded. They left father and daughter together. The
Missus led the way to the mess-cabin, where they found Pontifex
opening a bottle of wine. Up above, feet were trampling the deck,
and the brig was heeling a trifle.
"A real dinner!" exclaimed Pontifex heartily. "A real wedding
dinner, eh? Mr. Leman has the deck, my dear, and he's called all
hands; so for once we'll have a quiet family meal, eh? Where's Mrs.
Dennis? Oh, with her father, of course. A sad meeting for her!"
"Yes. But for you, Captain Pontifex, there would have been none at
all," said Dennis warmly. "We owe you a good deal----"
"There, there, don't mention it!" Pontifex gave his curled mustache
a twirl, and his white teeth flashed out in a smile. "We'll have our
pay, never fear, the Missus and I. Talk it over in the morning, eh?
I suppose you're pretty familiar with your Dumas, Mr. Dennis? Well,
well--a bother having to change our anchorage this way, but the port
authorities know their business these war-times, of course. Well,
sit down."
The dinner was excellent--although, owing to the motion of the ship,
the dishes joggled more than a little. Captain Pontifex made light
of it, explaining that they might not reach their new anchorage until
midnight.
With the coffee was served a liqueur, the most peculiar and biting
Tom Dennis had ever tasted. The skipper stated that it was a queer
distillation made from flour and molasses by a Siberian Eskimo--quite
a rarity. Perhaps it was this liqueur which made Tom Dennis most
unaccountably sleepy; indeed, he could hardly stumble off to the
mate's cabin which had been assigned him and Florence. And as he
retired, he could faintly hear the roaring bellow of Boatswain Joe,
somewhere on deck:
"She was waiting for a fair wind to get under way,
A _long_ time ago!"
The last vague thought of Tom Dennis was a mental query as to why
Captain Pontifex had asked him if he were familiar with Dumas. He
was to remember it later, also.