SCENE: CAPTAIN KEENEY'S cabin on board the steam whaling ship
Atlantic Queen--a small, square compartment, about eight feet
high, with a skylight in the centre looking out on the poop deck.
On the left (_the stern of the ship_) a long bench with rough
cushions is built in against the wall. In front of the bench, a
table. Over the bench, several curtained portholes.
In the rear, left, a door leading to the captain's
sleeping-quarters. To the right of the door a small organ,
looking as if it were brand-new, is placed against the wall.
On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped, sideboard. On the
sideboard, a woman's sewing-basket. Farther forward, a doorway
leading to the companion way, and past the officers' quarters to
the main deck.
In the centre of the room, a stove. From the middle of the
ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are
painted white.
There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes
through the skylight is sickly and faint, indicating one of those
gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence
is unbroken except for the measured tread of someone walking up
and down on the poop deck overhead.
It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a day
in the year 1895.
At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence.
Then the STEWARD enters and commences to clear the table of the
few dishes which still remain on it after the CAPTAIN'S dinner.
He is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater,
and a woolen cap with ear-flaps. His manner is sullen and angry.
He stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward
at the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and
listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes
his face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise
from the doorway on the right, and he darts back to the table.
BEN enters. He is an over-grown, gawky boy with a long, pinched
face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are
chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove, where he
stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping
them against his sides, on the verge of crying.
THE STEWARD (_in relieved tones--seeing who it is_). Oh, 'tis you,
is it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye
belong and ye'll find no need of chatterin'.
BEN. It's c-c-old. (_Trying to control his chattering
teeth--derisively_) Who d' ye think it were--the Old Man?
THE STEWARD. (_He makes a threatening move--BEN shrinks away._)
None o' your lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. (_More kindly_) Where
was it ye've been all o' the time--the fo'c's'le?
BEN. Yes.
THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkey-shinin'
with the handstand ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a
hurry.
BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. (_A trace of awe in his tones--he
glances upward._) He just walks up and down like he didn't notice
nobody--and stares at the ice to the no'th'ard.
THE STEWARD (_the same tone of awe creeping into his voice_). He's
always starin' at the ice. (_In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at
the skylight_) Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin'
us in for nigh on a year--nothin' to see but ice--stuck in it
like a fly in molasses!
BEN (_apprehensively_). Ssshh! He'll hear ye.
THE STEWARD (_raging_). Aye, damn him, and damn the Arctic seas,
and damn this stinkin' whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a
fool to ever ship on it! (_Subsiding, as if realizing the
uselessness of this outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deep
conviction_) He's a hard man--as hard a man as ever sailed the
seas.
BEN (_solemnly_). Aye.
THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this
day. Blessed Christ! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck in
the fishin', and the hands half starved with the food runnin'
low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back for
home! (_Bitterly_) Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on
land again. (_Excitedly_) What is it he thinks he's goin' to do?
Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the last
man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly
to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men
goin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'le?
BEN (_going over to him--in a half-whisper_). They said if he don't
put back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny.
THE STEWARD (_with grim satisfaction_). Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only
thing they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's
treated them--'s if they weren't no better nor dogs.
BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'rd. They's clear water's
far's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back
for home, the men says.
THE STEWARD (_bitterly_). He won't look nowheres but no'th'rd where
they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water.
All he thinks on is gittin' the ile--'s if it was our fault he
ain't had good luck with the whales. (_Shaking his head_) I think
the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses.
BEN (_awed_). D' you really think he's crazy?
THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye hear
ever of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? (_Pointing
to the door in rear_) Who but a man that's mad would take his
woman--and as sweet a woman as ever was--on a stinkin' whalin'
ship to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the rotten ice for
nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever--for it's sure
she'll never be the same again.
BEN (_sadly_). She useter be awful nice to me before--(_his eyes
grow wide and frightened_) she got--like she is.
THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'T would have been
hell on board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hard
man--a driver if there ever was one. (_With a grim laugh_) I hope
he's satisfied now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind.
And who could blame her? 'T is a God's wonder we're not a ship
full of crazed people--with the damned ice all the time, and the
quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice.
BEN (_with a frightened glance toward the door on right_). She
don't never speak to me no more--jest looks at me's if she didn't
know me.
THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks to
him--when she does talk--right enough.
BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and then
she cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her.
THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back.
BEN (_tiptoes over to the door and listens_). She's cryin' now.
THE STEWARD (_furiously--shaking his fist_). God send his soul to
hell for the devil he is!
(_There is the noise of someone coming slowly down the
companionway stairs._ THE STEWARD _hurries to his stacked-up
dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top
one, which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast,
trembling with dread. BEN is violently rubbing off the organ with
a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket_, CAPTAIN
KEENEY _appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin,
removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty,
around five-ten in height, but looking much shorter on account of
the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is
massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak
hardness, and a tightly clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick
hair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and
blue pants stuffed into his sea-boots._
_He is followed into the cabin by the_ SECOND MATE, _a rangy
six-footer with a lean, weatherbeaten face._ The MATE _is dressed
about the same as the captain. He is a man of thirty or so._)
KEENEY. (_Comes toward the_ STEWARD--_with a stern look on his
face. The_ STEWARD _is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes
rattles in his trembling hands._ KEENEY _draws back his fist and
the_ STEWARD _shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and_
KEENEY _speaks slowly._) 'T would be like hitting a worm. It Is
nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet.
THE STEWARD (_stammering_). Y-y-yes, sir.
KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here
gossipin' old woman's talk with that boy. (_To_ BEN _fiercely_) Get
out o' this, you! Clean up the chartroom. (BEN _darts past the_
MATE _to the open doorway._) Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward!
THE STEWARD (_doing so with difficulty_). Yes, sir.
KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in
the Bering Sea at the end of a rope.
THE STEWARD (_tremblingly_). Yes, sir.
(_He hurries out. The_ SECOND MATE _walks slowly over to the_
CAPTAIN.)
MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should
catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to
come below.
KEENEY (_impatiently_). Speak your say, Mr. Slocum.
MATE (_unconsciously lowering his voice_). I'm afeard there'll be
trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn
ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two
years they signed up for is up to-day.
KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me somethin' new, Mr.
Slocum? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think
I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?
(_The door in rear is opened and_ MRS. KEENEY _stands in the
doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman primly dressed
in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and
pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands
as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and
unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at
her._)
KEENEY (_with rough tenderness_). Well, Annie?
MRS. KEENEY (_as if awakening from a dream_). David, I--(_She is
silent. The_ MATE _starts for the doorway._)
KEENEY (_turning to him--sharply_). Wait!
MATE. Yes, sir.
KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?
MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause, during which she seems to be
endeavoring to collect her thoughts_). I thought maybe--I'd go up
on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air.
(_She stand's humbly awaiting his permission. He and the_ MATE
_exchange a significant glance._)
KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below to-day.
There's nothing to look at on deck--but ice.
MRS. KEENEY (_monotonously_). I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's
nothing to see down here but these walls.
(_She makes a gesture of loathing._)
KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of
home.
KEENEY (_a touch of resentment in his voice_). I got it jest for
you.
MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I know. (_She turns away from them and walks
slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and
looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy._) Ah,
water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after
all these months of ice! (_She turns round to them, her face
transfigured with joy._) Ah, now I must go upon deck and look at
it, David.
KEENEY (_frowning_). Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day
when the sun shines.
MRS. KEENEY (_desperately_). But the sun never shines in this
terrible place.
KEENEY (_a tone of command in his voice_). Best not to-day, Annie.
MRS. KEENEY (_crumbling before this command--abjectly_). Very well,
David.
(_She stands there staring straight before her as if in a daze.
The two men look at her uneasily._)
KEENEY (_sharply_). Annie!
MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). Yes, David.
KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about--ship's
business.
MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David.
(_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three quarters
shut behind her._)
KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any
trouble.
MATE. Yes, sir.
KEENEY. And trouble they's goin' to be. I feel it in my bones.
(_Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it._)
Got yourn?
MATE. Yes, sir.
KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breed
of dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. (_Grimly_) I ain't never
been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by
sea's long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I
reckon.
MATE (_hesitatingly_). Then you ain't goin'--to turn back?
KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin'
s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in
the hold?
MATE (_hastily_). No, sir--but the grub's gittin' low.
KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful
with it; and they's plenty o' water.
MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the two
years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble
for you in the courts when we git home.
KEENEY. To hell with 'em! Let them make what law trouble they
kin. I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the
ile! (_Glancing sharply at the_ MATE) You ain't turnin' no damned
sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?
MATE (_flushing_). Not by a hell of a sight, sir.
KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o'
the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep 'em in chewin' terbacco.
MATE (_slowly_). They wants to git back to their folks an' things,
I s'pose.
KEENEY (_looking at him searchingly_). 'N' you want to turn back,
too. (THE MATE _looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze._)
Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. (_With
grim sarcasm_) I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the
men agin me.
MATE (_indignantly_). That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.
KEENEY (_with satisfaction_). I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom.
You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No
man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one.
MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, I
mean. (_Desperately_) But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain't
jest satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' bad
luck an' the ice an' all.
KEENEY (_his face clouding--rebukingly but not severely_). That's
my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o'
that. (_A pause._) The ice'll break up soon to no'th'rd. I could
see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun,
Annie'll perk up. (_Another pause--then he bursts forth_) It ain't
the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom.
But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel
of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days
without a full ship. Ain't that truth?