The _China Castle_! She had been a wonderful ship in her day, a
Bath-built clipper. John Hawkins, husband of Keturah Hawkins, uncle by
marriage of Keturah Smiley, had been the first master of her; Captain
Vanton had come to her cabin much later, in the days of her decline.
It was John Hawkins and not Buel Vanton who had made the passage from
New York to Honolulu in 90 days. Young Tom Lupton had not known or
remembered the name of the three skysail-yarder whose glory descended
upon every master who trod her quarterdeck. Only a few persons in Blue
Port, indeed, recalled anything when they heard that Captain Vanton had
been master of the _China Castle_. “Eh?” said these old fogies to each
other. “She was John Hawkins’s ship!” This Captain Vanton could not, of
course, have been the mariner that John Hawkins was, for Captain John
had sailed his fine, fast vessel to California, making quick passages,
and afterward took her into the China trade for which she had been
built. Nevertheless, out of a sense of politeness, these oldtimers had,
on one occasion or another, attempted to address Captain Vanton; it
was a sort of duty to let him know that he was not a total stranger in
Blue Port. No man could have a better sponsor than a ship John Hawkins
had sailed. They were frozen by Captain Vanton’s hard stare. At the
mention of the _China Castle_ he merely looked through their eyes and
out the backs of their heads and into the bar of the Roncador House.
At the various polite and hearty references to “Cap’n John Hawkins” he
had but one course of behaviour: uttering a loud “Humph!” he would turn
squarely on his heel, and lurch away evenly in the opposite direction.
An exasperating man; did he think himself above everybody ashore, as
if he were still the master of a vessel? Be hornswoggled if _we’d_ go
out of our way again to speak to such an uncivil devil. He could take
his money and his pindling boy and his sick wife--she always appeared
to be just convalescing--and shut himself up in his expensive house
and be hanged to him. Why, Cap’n John Hawkins!--and then the oldtimers
would go off into reminiscences all wool, a yard wide and the afternoon
long, sitting about the stove in the store and postoffice in winter
or in back-tilted chairs on the store porch in summer. When Captain
Vanton came in for his mail there was a momentary silence, faces were
carefully averted, and tobacco juice was sprinkled on the floor.
Buel Vanton never noticed the idlers. He never noticed anybody.
Therefore Mermaid was stricken almost mute with astonishment one day
when, answering a peremptory rap at the door, not the side front door,
but the frontest front door leading into the small hall that gave into
the front parlour, she opened it to find the bulky form of Captain
Vanton standing before her. As usual he did not look at her, but merely
asked in a loud, hard voice if this had been John Hawkins’s house.
Mermaid affirmed it; he then asked if her mother were in.
“Miss Smiley is in. She is not my mother. I just live with her,” the
girl replied. Captain Vanton made no response, but as he continued to
stand there she added, “I will call her.”
She did not invite him to enter, and as she went in search of Keturah
Smiley she murmured to herself, “Rude old man! She can ask him in, I
won’t!”
Keturah Smiley, summoned, confronted the visitor and asked abruptly,
“You wish to see me?”
Captain Vanton did not indicate whether he did or not. His eyes dropped
for the merest instant and he replied: “I was told this was John
Hawkins’s house.”
“It was in his lifetime,” said Keturah, shortly. “He was my uncle,” she
added. “Mother’s sister’s husband.”
Captain Vanton made no reply. He said, as if it were relevant: “I
commanded the _China Castle_ after he left her. Some time after,” he
added. “Did he ever speak of a man named King?” And now he looked
Keturah Smiley straight in the eyes. Keturah gave his stare back.
“King?” she rasped. “I can’t say he did, and I can’t say he didn’t.
What King?”
“First officer, Boston to Shanghai, third voyage,” answered Buel Vanton
in his hard, uninflected tones. “Triced up by the thumbs and flogged
before the crew by Captain Hawkins’s orders. First officer, too!
Insulted Mrs. Hawkins.”
Keturah Smiley’s face settled into its severest lines.
“You’re likely mistaken,” she said with a bite in her words. “Captain
Hawkins would never have flogged a man for that: he’d have killed him!”
“Did almost. Killing too easy. Better to flog. Torture,” declared
Buel Vanton, reflectively. “Afterward Captain King. Knew him in San
Francisco. Retired. Devil. Swore he’d get even. Then Captain Hawkins
died. King heard of it. Near crazy. I’ve come to tell you he’s dead!”
“Dead?” echoed Keturah Smiley, who had become slightly confused by the
visitor’s elliptical language. “Captain Hawkins is dead. Of course he’s
dead, what of it?”
“Not Hawkins, King!” barked Captain Vanton from his impassive face
framed in the spreading sidewhiskers. “He’s done you all the harm he
ever will. All of you. He’s dead. ‘The King is dead. Long live the
King!”’ He uttered a harsh sound, a bitter laugh. Turning squarely
about he started off the porch and away from the house. Keturah Smiley,
who had been eyeing him with amazement, suddenly called after him, “How
do you know he’s dead?”
Captain Vanton half turned his head.
“Killed him myself,” he declared abruptly, and lurched away.