IX

"Look at this, Doctor!" Claude caught Dr. Trueman on his way from

breakfast and handed him a written notice, signed D. T. Micks,

Chief Steward. It stated that no more eggs or oranges could be

furnished to patients, as the supply was exhausted.

The doctor squinted at the paper. "I'm afraid that's your

patient's death warrant. You'll never be able to keep him going

on anything else. Why don't you go and talk it over with Chessup?

He's a resourceful fellow. I'll join you there in a few minutes."

Claude had often been to Dr. Chessup's cabin since the epidemic

broke out,-rather liked to wait there when he went for medicines

or advice. It was a comfortable, personal sort of place with

cheerful chintz hangings. The walls were lined with books, held

in place by sliding wooden slats, padlocked at the ends. There

were a great many scientific works in German and English; the

rest were French novels in paper covers. This morning he found

Chessup weighing out white powders at his desk. In the rack over

his bunk was the book with which he had read himself to sleep

last night; the title, "Un Crime d'Amour," lettered in black on

yellow, caught Claude's eye. The doctor put on his coat and

pointed his visitor to the jointed chair in which patients were

sometimes examined. Claude explained his predicament.

The ship's doctor was a strange fellow to come from Canada, the

land of big men and rough. He looked like a schoolboy, with small

hands and feet and a pink complexion. On his left cheekbone was a

large brown mole, covered with silky hair, and for some reason

that seemed to make his face effeminate. It was easy to see why

he had not been successful in private practice. He was like

somebody trying to protect a raw surface from heat and cold; so

cursed with diffidence, and so sensitive about his boyish

appearance that he chose to shut himself up in an oscillating

wooden coop on the sea. The long run to Australia had exactly

suited him. A rough life and the pounding of bad weather had

fewer terrors for him than an office in town, with constant

exposure to human personalities.

"Have you tried him on malted milk?" he asked, when Claude had

told him how Farming's nourishment was threatened.

"Dr. Trueman hasn't a bottle left. How long do you figure we'll

be at sea?"

"Four days; possibly five."

"Then Lieutenant Wheeler will lose his pal," said Dr. Trueman,

who had just come in.

Chessup stood for a moment frowning and pulling nervously at the

brass buttons on his coat. He slid the bolt on his door and

turning to his colleague said resolutely: "I can give you some

information, if you won't implicate me. You can do as you like,

but keep my name out of it. For several hours last night cases of

eggs and boxes of oranges were being carried into the Chief

Steward's cabin by a flunky of his from the galley. Whatever port

we make, he can get a shilling each for the fresh eggs, and

perhaps sixpence for the oranges. They are your property, of

course, furnished by your government; but this is his customary

perquisite. I've been on this boat six years, and it's always

been so. About a week before we make port, the choicest of the

remaining stores are taken to his cabin, and he disposes of them

after we dock. I can't say just how he manages it, but he does.

The skipper may know of this custom, and there may be some reason

why he permits it. It's not my business to see anything. The

Chief Steward is a powerful man on an English vessel. If he has

anything against me, sooner or later he can lose my berth for me.

There you have the facts."

"Have I your permission to go to the Chief Steward?" Dr. Trueman

asked.

"Certainly not. But you can go without my knowledge. He's an ugly

man to cross, and he can make it uncomfortable for you and your

patients."

"Well, we'll say no more about it. I appreciate your telling me,

and I will see that you don't get mixed up in this. Will you go

down with me to look at that new meningitis case?"

Claude waited impatiently in his stateroom for the doctor's

return. He didn't see why the Chief Steward shouldn't be exposed

and dealt with like any other grafter. He had hated the man ever

since he heard him berating the old bath steward one morning.

Hawkins had made no attempt to defend himself, but stood like a

dog that has been terribly beaten, trembling all over, saying

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir," while his chief gave him a cold cursing in

a low, snarling voice. Claude had never heard a man or even an

animal addressed with such contempt. The Steward had a cruel

face,--white as cheese, with limp, moist hair combed back from a

high forehead,--the peculiarly oily hair that seems to grow only

on the heads of stewards and waiters. His eyes were exactly the

shape of almonds, but the lids were so swollen that the dull

pupil was visible only through a narrow slit. A long, pale

moustache hung like a fringe over his loose lips.

When Dr. Trueman came back from the hospital, he declared he was

now ready to call on Mr. Micks. "He's a nasty looking customer,

but he can't do anything to me."

They went to the Chief Steward's cabin and knocked.

"What's wanted?" called a threatening voice.

The doctor made a grimace to his companion and walked in. The

Steward was sitting at a big desk, covered with account books. He

turned in his chair. "I beg your pardon," he said coldly, "I do

not see any one here. I will be--"

The doctor held up his hand quickly. "That's all right, Steward.

I'm sorry to intrude, but I've something I must say to you in

private. I'll not detain you long." If he had hesitated for a

moment, Claude believed the Steward would have thrown him out,

but he went on rapidly. "This is Lieutenant Wheeler, Mr. Micks.

His fellow officer lies very ill with pneumonia in stateroom 96.

Lieutenant Wheeler has kept him alive by special nursing. He is

not able to retain anything in his stomach but eggs and orange

juice. If he has these, we may be able to keep up his strength

till the fever breaks, and carry him to a hospital in France. If

we can't get them for him, he will be dead within twenty-four

hours. That's the situation."

The steward rose and turned out the drop-light on his desk. "Have

you received notice that there are no more eggs and oranges on

board? Then I am afraid there is nothing I can do for you. I did

not provision this ship."

"No. I understand that. I believe the United States Government

provided the fruit and eggs and meat. And I positively know that

the articles I need for my patient are not exhausted. Without

going into the matter further, I warn you that I'm not going to

let a United States officer die when the means of saving him are

procurable. I'll go to the skipper, I'll call a meeting of the

army officers on board. I'll go any length to save this man."

"That is your own affair, but you will not interfere with me in

the discharge of my duties. Will you leave my cabin?"

"In a moment, Steward. I know that last night a number of cases

of eggs and oranges were carried into this room. They are here

now, and they belong to the A.E.F. If you will agree to provision

my man, what I know won't go any further. But if you refuse, I'll

get this matter investigated. I won't stop till I do."

The Steward sat down, and took up a pen. His large, soft hand

looked cheesy, like his face. "What is the number of the cabin?"

he asked indifferently.

"Ninety-six."

"Exactly what do you require?"

"One dozen eggs and one dozen oranges every twenty-four hours, to

be delivered at any time convenient to you."

"I will see what I can do."

The Steward did not look up from his writing pad, and his

visitors left as abruptly as they had come.

At about four o'clock every morning, before even the bath

stewards were on duty, there was a scratching at Claude's door,

and a covered basket was left there by a messenger who was

unwashed, half-naked, with a sacking apron tied round his middle

and his hairy chest splashed with flour. He never spoke, had only

one eye and an inflamed socket. Claude learned that he was a

half-witted brother of the Chief Steward, a potato peeler and

dish-washer in the galley.

Four day after their interview with Mr. Micks, when they were at

last nearing the end of the voyage, Doctor Trueman detained

Claude after medical inspection to tell him that the Chief

Steward had come down with the epidemic. "He sent for me last

night and asked me to take his case,--won't have anything to do

with Chessup. I had to get Chessup's permission. He seemed very

glad to hand the case over to me."

"Is he very bad?"

"He hasn't a look-in, and he knows it. Complications; chronic

Bright's disease. It seems he has nine children. I'll try to get

him into a hospital when we make port, but he'll only live a few

days at most. I wonder who'll get the shillings for all the eggs

and oranges he hoarded away. Claude, my boy," the doctor spoke

with sudden energy, "if I ever set foot on land again, I'm going

to forget this voyage like a bad dream. When I'm in normal

health, I'm a Presbyterian, but just now I feel that even the

wicked get worse than they deserve."

A day came at last when Claude was wakened from sleep by a sense

of stillness. He sprang up with a dazed fear that some one had

died; but Fanning lay in his berth, breathing quietly.

Something caught his eye through the porthole,--a great grey

shoulder of land standing up in the pink light of dawn, powerful

and strangely still after the distressing instability of the sea.

Pale trees and long, low fortifications... close grey

buildings with red roofs... little sailboats bounding seaward...

up on the cliff a gloomy fortress.

He had always thought of his destination as a country shattered

and desolated,--"bleeding France"; but he had never seen anything

that looked so strong, so self-sufficient, so fixed from the

first foundation, as the coast that rose before him. It was like

a pillar of eternity. The ocean lay submissive at its feet, and

over it was the great meekness of early morning.

This grey wall, unshaken, mighty, was the end of the long

preparation, as it was the end of the sea. It was the reason for

everything that had happened in his life for the last fifteen

months. It was the reason why Tannhauser and the gentle

Virginian, and so many others who had set out with him, were

never to have any life at all, or even a soldier's death. They

were merely waste in a great enterprise, thrown overboard like

rotten ropes. For them this kind release,--trees and a still

shore and quiet water,--was never, never to be. How long would

their bodies toss, he wondered, in that inhuman kingdom of

darkness and unrest?

He was startled by a weak voice from behind.

"Claude, are we over?"

"Yes, Fanning. We're over."