VIII

Mrs. March sat in a steamer-chair wedged in between the side of the

cabin and the lounge, the captain was smoking, and Drew held his book

unopened in his hand, when Hetty went below later in the morning.

"Well, I'm glad to see you," said Mrs. March. "I don't see how you

keep from tumbling overboard, we roll so. Why don't your father stop

it,--pour oil on the water, or something,--if he's such a good sailor?

But he only smokes. He doesn't even tell us how much worse it was on

some other trip. I thought sailors always did that. I'm sure they talk

of nothing else ashore. Just hear those dishes rattle!"

"If you'd only go up on deck, mother," Hetty advised, "you'd not mind

it so much. It doesn't seem so bad there. It's a beautiful day."

"No," her mother answered; "I'll stay here. You know how a pussy-cat

will crouch down and shut her eyes when you go to box her ears; well,

I'm like that. I don't want to see what's coming; I know well enough."

"That's like Billy Marvin," said Captain March, with a chuckle.

"Then Billy Marvin's smarter'n I ever took him to be," said Mrs. March.

The captain took his pipe from his mouth and turned to Drew.

"I don't know's you've ever met Billy," he said; "but he's one of our

Blackwater folks. He's been going to sea a good many years, but he's

never got beyond the galley. Five or six years ago he went out as

steward with Cap'n Dave Barker on the old _Maggie P. Monroe_, and off

Cape Fear one night they struck a pretty lively southeaster, and for a

time it looked pretty dubious. Cap'n Dave is kind of excitable in bad

weather, and he got to raving up and down the deck and declaring they

were all going to kingdom come before morning, and everybody was pretty

well scared. Well, Cap'n Dave's a good deal better sailor than he is

prophesier, and, the gale going down before daybreak, they all felt

pretty good, but tired out from being on deck all night, and sharp-set

for breakfast. Well, seven bells came, but no signs of Billy, so Cap'n

Dave sent the mate forward to stir him up. He found the galley closed,

with no sign of fire inside, and Billy fast asleep in his bunk just

off the galley. The mate picked up a dish-pan and banged it up against

the boarding right by Billy's head, expecting to see him jump straight

through the deck. All he did was to turn over slowly and look at the

mate. The mate said he didn't even blink. Well, he used some pretty

strong language, and Billy tumbled out and began to hustle around. He

said Cap'n Dave was so certain they were going to the bottom before

morning, that it seemed a pity wasting time and strength to wind his

clock and set the alarm, so he just tumbled in, thinking he might as

well be comfortable and get a good night's sleep, if it was going to be

his last. Then he turned to the mate--he was raking out his stove--and,

grinning sheepishly, said: 'Mr. Thompson, I thought you was the angel

Gabriel when you started all that racket, blest if I didn't!' Cap'n

Dave asked him afterward if he was disappointed when he saw the mate

standing over him instead of what he'd expected. Billy thought a

minute, and then said: 'Well, cap'n, if you'd kind o' set your mind on

seeing a first-class show performance, and then after you'd paid for

your seat and was good and ready, if the curtain should go up, and, lo

and behold! there wasn't nothing there but just Sam Thompson, what

would you 'a' been?'"

Mrs. March laughed with the rest, and, leaning forward, touched her

daughter's arm.

"Don't you remember the winter Billy's wife got religion?" she asked.

"I don't know about telling a minister that; he might think that

Blackwater was pretty stony soil. You see,"--she turned to Drew,--"the

vessel Billy was in was long overdue, and folks were getting uneasy

about her. There was a big revival that winter, and Billy's wife got

to coming every night and going forward to the mourners' bench; and,

first and last, a good many prayers were offered for her husband. Well,

when everybody had about given him up, the vessel got in, with Billy

safe and sound. That was the end of Maria's church-going. Finally the

minister went around to find out why she had lost all her interest, and

she told him. 'Mr. Snow,' she said, 'Billy wasn't in a bit of danger

all the time we was a-praying for him. He said they didn't have wind

enough to blow the smoke away from his galley stovepipe, and what we

ought to have done was to pray for a gale of wind. That kind o' made me

lose all faith in the deficiency of prayer.'"

"I suppose she thought that the good Lord could look out for folks at

sea a good deal better than those who didn't know the circumstances,"

commented Captain March. "That doesn't sound unreasonable." His eyes

twinkled as he looked at the minister.

"I fear there are many that have very queer notions about prayer," said

Drew, smiling. "Once I heard a man pray: 'O Lord, keep us from burning

the candle of life at both ends, and snuffing the ashes in thy face!'

It was a little startling."

"It does sound a little familiar," admitted Mrs. March. "It's funny

how free we can be with the Lord in our prayers, when, if we stood

face to face with him, we wouldn't dare whisper a word or lift our

eyes. I think a good many of us, if we ever do get to heaven, will feel

more like hiding our faces than rejoicing when we think of some of the

things we've prayed for. But maybe such people won't get there, after

all." She spoke with so great an air of relief that the others laughed.

"Don't you want them to go, mother?" asked Hetty.

"Well, I don't think it's the place for folks who don't feel as though

they are going to enjoy every bit of it, do you?" Mrs. March replied.

Hetty laughed uneasily, and glanced at the minister.

"Mother," she said, "aren't you afraid Mr. Drew will think you speak

too lightly of sacred things? He doesn't know you as we do."

"Don't think me so narrow, please," Drew protested, smiling. "I

hope I can distinguish between perfect frankness of character and

irreverence."

Mrs. March looked from one to the other in silence, a trifle awed at

the thought of herself in the rĂ´le of blasphemer. Her confusion was

only momentary, however.

"Did I say anything very dreadful, my dear?" she asked. "I didn't know

it. I don't like moping here, and if I'm going to like it hereafter,

I shall be a good deal changed, that's all. And if I'm going to be so

much changed as not to be myself, I don't see what satisfaction it's

going to be. I might as well be like foolish Susan Burtis, and have no

character at all."

The others laughed, but Hetty scarcely heard her. She sat where she

could see through the narrow windows the line of sea and sky as the

brig rolled to port; then it flew up, and the bright sunlight flashed

across her face and along the floor of the cabin. Turning at last, her

eyes met Drew's.

"Did you learn how to make it?" he asked her.

"The knot? No, I gave it up."

"Like the reading?"

"I didn't give that up. You carried the book away."

"I can bring it back."

She shook her head.

"Not yet," she told him; then she turned to her father. "Isn't the wind

ever going to come again?" she asked.

"Well," replied Captain March, "it brought us here, and I guess it'll

carry us away. It generally does."

"It's very slow," she complained.

"It doesn't consider us, my dear," he replied. Then he rose slowly and

went up the companionway, and a moment later they heard him whistling

for a wind.

Hetty jumped to her feet.

"Father must see something--a catspaw at least," she exclaimed. "I'm

going to find out." With that she, too, sought the deck, followed by

Drew.

[Illustration: "They heard him whistling for a wind"]

Captain March stood sweeping the sea with his glass; but as they

approached him he lowered it, and went silently below.

"There isn't one--not one," said Hetty, as she looked about for the

dark streaks of catspaws. Three great rollers came sweeping in, and

they rocked and pitched with the might of them. The girl caught at the

rail for support. "It makes one think of the words, 'Who hath measured

the waters in the hollow of his hand,' doesn't it?" she said solemnly.

"Yes," he answered.

"It makes me feel humble, but useless, and I do not care to feel like

that," she said. "I want to be doing things. Doesn't life seem barren

to you here?"

He shook his head.

"No," he replied. "Life means just as much as we put into it, I fancy,

and these days have meant much for me. I should not care to have them

blotted out."

She had turned abruptly just as they rolled down on a long swell, and,

stumbling against the bitts, with a gasp fell outboard across the low

rail.

Drew leaped toward her just in time. His hand, flashing out, caught her

as she was slipping from the rail, and brought her back against his

breast. For an instant he held her there.

"Hetty! O Hetty!" he gasped, as their eyes met.

"Don't! for pity's sake, don't!" she whispered, and, pulling herself

free, sank upon the bitts, put her hands to her face, and laughed

hysterically. In a moment she looked up.

"Don't tell them," she said. "I should not like to have them know I

fell." Then she walked unsteadily toward the cabin door. Half-way

there, she looked back. "I ought to thank you," she said, in a low

voice, "and I do." And with that she disappeared.

Medbury, overhauling a spare sail on the main-deck, had not seen it,

but the sailor with him had, and his exclamation had made Medbury turn

quickly, only to see Hetty standing with Drew's arm about her. He

stooped to his work again with shaking fingers; but the sailor stood

still, staring.

Medbury glanced at him, his face growing white.

"Here!" he said savagely, and the sailor turned to his task again

without a word.

The day dragged interminably. Hetty remained steadily in her room;

through his watches on deck Medbury drove the men from one task to

another with a feverish harshness wholly unusual, and which brought his

watch to the forecastle at the end of the day in heated and profane

weariness. Drew spent the time on deck with a book, sometimes read

with slight comprehension, but more often closed over his finger,

while he watched the gleaming whiteness of the sea, seeing now a school

of flying-fish run like flashes of quicksilver through the long arcs

of their flight, and now the dorsal fin of a shark, like an inverted

ploughshare, cut the surface of the barren glebe. Even Captain March's

imperturbability became less rocklike. Once he paused at Drew's side

with a grumbling sound that was clearly a sigh.

"Well, it's 'Paddy's hurricane,' and no mistake," he said. "I never

saw anything like it. Usually there's a little air stirring somewhere

about. You'd think that something queer had got into things, wouldn't

you?"

He had been standing balancing himself easily to the swing of the deck,

but there came a vicious lunge, which stopped suddenly, as if arrested

by a great hand, and he went staggering down the slope with swaying

arms, like a collapsing sprinter. When he brought up against the rail,

he talked on in a level voice that recognized no interruption:

"It's queer about a calm: there's noise enough in it if a sea's

running, and it gets on your nerves; but when the wind blows again, you

feel as if you'd just come out of an air-tight room, and the sound of

the wind makes you want to shout. There's Mr. Medbury, now; he's been

nagging the men all the afternoon as if he was afraid without the sound

of his voice, like a boy whistling on a dark road. It's ridiculous in a

grown man, but it's natural enough."

Drew flushed, but made no reply. He, too, had been thinking of Medbury,

but his thoughts were not enviable. He had been false to a man who had

trusted him, he told himself, and he had shown feeling that he had no

moral right to show. It was in vain that he tried to convince himself

that his right to Hetty was as great as Medbury's own; in his heart

he felt that it was not. And what of the girl? he asked himself, in

growing remorse. After his action of the morning, could he again meet

her on the old footing of friendly fellowship? He could not go on, but

how could he now draw back? In any way that he looked, he could see

nothing but his moral cowardice.

In a mental restlessness that he could not allay, he rose to his feet

and walked forward to the break in the deck. The sun, a copper-colored

ball, was nearing the horizon, and Medbury and his men were gathering

up the sail that they had been patching; one of the crew was sweeping

up the deck. The querulous complaining of Medbury's voice floated aft,

the human undertone in the jangling noises of disturbed nature.

For a moment Drew watched the scene before him, and then descending the

steps and, hurrying across the plank that was blocked high above the

water that swashed across the deck from scupper to scupper, he stopped

at the galley door. The steward looked up gloomily, but, seeing Drew,

showed his gleaming teeth in a perfunctory smile that had none of its

usual geniality. Through the high slide in the partition between the

galley and the forecastle Drew could hear the watch trooping in with

angry mutterings against the mate.

The steward grinned, and jerked his head toward the forecastle.

"Yo' heah dat?" he said. "Dese heah cahms trouble-breedehs faw shuah.

Ole mahn Satan done chase dat buckra mate's soul roun' de stump all

eb'nin'. Two, t'ree bad mahns aboa'd dis hookeh, en two, t'ree cowahds.

Dose cowahds been da worse--some dahk night. Dat buckra mate betteh

watch out." He laughed.

Drew stirred uneasily. The threats of the crew and the scarcely

understood warning of the West Indian steward had to his mind something

of the character of a Greek tragic chorus foretelling doom, and

presently he moved away out of hearing, not caring to have even

negatively any part in the moving finger of Fate.

He wandered about aimlessly for a while, dreading to approach Medbury,

who, now that his work was done, stood near the main-rigging with his

pipe in his mouth, his spirit for the moment at peace. Drew had little

knowledge of sailors, but he was sufficiently a man of the world to

know that the irrepressible threats of the forecastle meant little.

Still, the steward had hinted at danger, and, yielding to the other's

better knowledge of his little world, Drew finally went aft to warn the

mate.

Medbury looked up sharply as Drew approached, but turned his eyes away

immediately. In the silence that followed neither stirred, but, resting

their arms upon the sheer-pole, each seemed absorbed in the cloudless

panorama of the closing day.

The sun sank lower and lower; one by one the crew came out of the

forecastle, and, dipping up buckets of water, sluiced themselves with

the noisy abandon of water-spaniels. The pungent scent of tobacco

floated aft, and now the sound of a laugh, or the scuffle of feet upon

the deck. From the galley came the soft, slurred speech of the steward,

lifted high in a quick exchange of wit with his forecastle neighbors,

and followed by the almost continuous flood of his unrestrained

cachinnation. Clearly the day was ending in peace.

This peacefulness, so at variance with the scarcely restrained passion

that, a moment before, had sent him aft to warn Medbury of danger, left

Drew strangely bewildered. He turned to his companion, and with a smile

said:

"Do you know, a moment ago I thought that the crew was on the verge of

mutiny; now I feel as if I had been dreaming. I don't understand it.

They are like care-free children now. I can't believe they are such

consummate actors."

Medbury turned to him and grinned.

"What made you think that?" he asked.

"I was at the galley door and heard them making threats. The steward

seemed to think there was danger--to you," Drew answered. "I thought I

ought to warn you; but now it seems silly."

"A sailorman's threat doesn't mean anything," Medbury told him, "and

prophesying evil is the 'doctor's' trade. He's a big voodoo out home in

Santa Cruz, and half the negroes on the island will go five miles out

of their way to avoid him."

Drew paused a moment before speaking, then he said slowly:

"Well, my crisis was only a mare's nest, it seems. I was beginning to

think it was to be a day of adventures. One seemed enough."

"One?" queried Medbury, looking up sharply.

"Yes; Miss March fell across the rail. I caught her just in time. I

thought you saw."

Medbury's face flushed.

"I didn't see," he said. "I didn't understand."

It was Drew's face that flushed now.

"I ought to explain," he began, but Medbury broke in:

"You haven't anything to explain to me. I'm the mate of this vessel;

nothing more. That's all the interest I've got here, and all I want."

With that he walked away. He knew it was childish, but, having let

himself go, he was no longer able to exercise his self-restraint till

the whole madness had passed.