Andie unfolded his arms and faced around. "Eh? Oh! How do you do, sir?
He comes to me, Mr. Lavis--an' 'twas somethin' beyond the fear o' death
was in his eyes--an' he says: 'Andie, your work's done. 'Twas her
death-blow they give her, an' she'll not live much longer now. Go above
you now, Andie,' he says, 'and I'll stay here.' 'If you don't mind, I'll
stay with you, sir,' I says. 'Don't be foolish, Andie,' he says.
'There's small reputation goes with eight pounds in the month. There's
none will be lookin' in the papers to see did you desert your post, but
there's many will be sayin' what a grand fool you was you didn't go when
you could.'
"'I know you mean that, sir, for the wharf-rats that ships an' shirks
for one voyage, and stays drunk ashore for three more,' I says. 'I've no
call to leave this ship while one passenger is aboard of her. An' more,
Mister Linnell, many an' many's the watch I've stood under you, an',
'less you forbids it, I'll stand this last watch wi' you. Only, if you
won't forbid me, sir, I'll go up on deck at the last, an' have a look at
God's own sky before she goes.'"
"And what did he say to that, Andie?"
"He said naught to that, sir, excep' to shake hands wi' me. I was that
embarrassed wi' the grup o' the hand he gave, I takes out my pipe an'
baccy from the locker where the sea wasn't yet reached to, an' I cuts
myself a pipeful an' lights up. An' he says, smilin'-like: 'Andie, is it
the same old Buccaneer brand you're smokin'?' An' I says: 'The same,
sir.' 'Well,' says he, 'I've always maintained it was the most
outrageousest-smellin' baccy ever was brought into an engine-room. An' I
won't change my opinion now, but if you will spare me a pipeful I'll
risk my health to ha' a smoke wi' you now, Andie.'
"An' while we was smokin', sir, man to man like he says: 'Andie, did
ever you get it into your head you'd like to be marryin'?' And I
answers, 'I did, sir,' an' I told him o' the Brighton lass I'd once
courted, unobtrusive-like, between voyages, goin' on two year, and I
would 'a' been most pleased to marry her, till of an evenin' we was
sittin' out by the end o' the long pier, wi' the little waves from the
Channel cooing among the pilin's where the long skelps o' sea-grass was
clingin' to 'em under the planks at our feet. She was a doctor's wife's
maid. An' I axed her, an' she says: 'The marster, an' my missus, too,
says when ye're gettin' your twelve pound in the month, Andie, I'm to
marry you.'
"'Wherever will I be findin' twelve pound in the month?' I says. 'Your
danged old doctor himsel' is collectin' but little more nor that of his
bills in the month, him wi' his red herrin' an' oatmeal porridge for
breakfast every mornin' of his life!' I says. She'd told me herself o'
the red herrin'. An' I left her clickin' her fancy high heels together
under her penny chair, an' I'd paid tuppence each for the two of us at
the gate comin' in. 'But you wasn't ever thinkin' o' gettin' marrit
yourself, Mr. Linnell?' I says.
"'Maybe you noticed a large photograph, Andie, above my desk whenever
you come to my room?' he asks. I said as how I did. 'And you had no
suspicions?' he says. 'Well, sir,' I says, 'I did make suspicion it
wasn't altogether by way of exercisin' o' your muscles you dusted the
gold frame of it so frequent.'
"'I was only waitin',' he says, 'till I'd made a bit more reputation,
and only to-night it was, me makin' my rounds, that I was thinkin' at
last I had made it.' And he stop there, an' lets his pipe go out the
while he looks down at his beautiful engines, an' then he has the loan
of another match of me, an' he says: 'Andie, but it does seem hard that
your life an' mine must be smashed through the misbehavior of others.'
An' I thought myself it was, without meanin' to cast blame, sir, on
others.
"An' we finished our pipeful together, an' he stands up an' says, 'Good
luck to you, Andie, lad,' and I knew he was wishful to be alone. An' so,
'Good luck to you, Mister Linnell,' I says, an' we gave each other
another long grup o' the hand. I was wantin' to tell him he was the best
chief ever I worked under, but he wasn't ever the kind, you see, sir,
to be praisin' to his face. An' at the top of the ladder I looks down,
an' there he was wi' his arms folded across the shiny brass railin', an'
he lookin' down, aweary-like, at his engines."
Lavis took Andie's hand. "A good man, Andie. And a good man yourself,
Andie. Good-by, and God bless you!"
"Thank you, sir. Good-by, sir. And the same to you." Andie turned to the
rail and with folded arms set his face to the impassive sea.
Lavis passed on to where from a tarpaulined hatch a Catholic priest was
saying a litany, while around him a body of kneeling men and women were
responding. He had donned his cassock, and a shining silver crucifix was
on his breast, and his biretta at his feet. His voice was even and
unhurried, his features composed.
"Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world----"
"_Spare us, O Lord!_" came the response.
"Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world----"
"_Graciously hear us, O Lord!_"
"Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world----"
"_Have mercy on us!_"
"Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God----"
"_That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ!_"
The priest rose from his knees. "And bear in mind, my children, that no
matter what sin you may have committed, God will forgive you. No one
born into this world of sin but has sinned at some time, so do not
despair. Offer up your prayers, your heart, to God. He will hear you. He
could save us, any one of us, or every one of us even now, if he so
willed. If he does not, it is because it is better so. But merely to be
saved in the body--what is that? A passing moment here, but the next
world--for eternity. It is your soul, not your body, which is to live in
eternity. Prepare your soul for that. And now our time is growing short,
compose your minds and your hearts, and all kneel and say with me an act
of contrition: O my God----"
"_O my God_--" came from them like a chanted hymn.
"I am most heartily sorry for all my sins----"
"_I am most heartily sorry for all my sins_----"
Lavis knelt and prayed also. When he rose from his knees it was to go to
the side of the Polish woman, who was also kneeling at the edge of the
crowd. He found her weeping.
"Why do you weep? Do you fear death so very much?"
"I weep for my baby."
"But your baby is safe--out there in the boat. They will bring him to
his father, who will be there waiting on the dock in New York."
"Yes, yes; but who will be there to give him the breast when he wakes?"
"Who will give--Father in heaven! Come--come with me." Lavis helped her
to her feet.