ON BOARD THE JEANNE D'ARC
If hard usage and obstacles could cure a knight-errant of his
sentiment, then Jimmy Hambleton had been free of his passion for the
Face. His plunge overboard had been followed by a joyous swim, a lusty
call to the yacht for "Help," and a growing amazement when he realized
that it was the yacht's intention to pass him by. He had swum
valiantly, determined to get picked up by that particular craft, when
suddenly his strength failed. He remembered thinking that it was all
up with him, and then he lost consciousness.
When he awoke he was on a hard bunk in a dim place, and a sailor was
jerking him about. His throat burned with a fiery liquid. Then he
felt the plunging and rising of the boat, and came to life sufficiently
to utter the stereotyped words, "Where am I?"
In Jim's case the question did not imply the confused groping back to
sense that it usually indicates, but rather an actual desire to know
whether or not he was on board the _Jeanne D'Arc_. Plainly his wits
had not been badly shattered by his experience overboard. But the
sailor who was attending him with such ministrations as he understood,
answered him with a sample of French which Jim had never met with in
his school-books, and he was not enlightened for some hours.
It turned out, indeed, to be the _Jeanne D'Arc_, as Jim proved for
himself the next day, and he was lying in the seamen's quarters in the
fo'cas'le. By morning he felt much better, hungry, and prepared in his
mind for striking a bargain with one of the sailors for clothes. He
could make out their lingo soon, he guessed, and then he would get a
suit of clothes and fare on deck. Suddenly he grasped his waist,
struck with an unpleasant thought; his money-belt was gone! He was
wearing a sailor's blue flannel shirt and nothing else. He turned over
on his hard bunk, thinking that he would have to wait a while before
making his entrance on the public stage of the _Jeanne D'Arc_.
And wait he did. Not a rag of clothing was in sight, and no cajolery
or promise of reward could persuade the ship's men into supplying his
need. He received consignments of food; short rations they would be,
he judged, for an able-bodied seaman. But inactivity and confinement
to the fo'cas'le soon worked havoc with his physique, so that appetite,
and even desire of life itself, temporarily disappeared in the gloom of
seasickness.
In spite of difficulties, Jim tried to find out something about the
boat. The seamen were none too friendly; but by patching up his almost
forgotten French and by signs, he learned something. His sudden
failure of strength in the water had been due to a blow from a floating
spar, as a bruise on his forehead testified; "the old man," whom Jim
supposed to be the captain, was a hard master; Monsieur Chatelard was
owner, or at least temporary proprietor, of the yacht; and the present
voyage was an unlucky one by all the signs and omens known to the
seamen's horoscope.
The sullenness of the men was apparent, and was not caused by the
enforced presence of a stranger among them. In fact, their bad temper
became so conspicuous that Jim began to believe that it might have
something to do with the mysterious actions of the man on shore. He
pondered the situation deeply; he evolved many foolish schemes to
compass his own enlightenment, and dismissed them one by one. He
grimly reflected that a man without clothes can scarcely be a hero,
whatever his spirit. Not since the days of Olympus was there any
record of man or god being received into any society whatever without
his sartorial shell, thought Jimmy. But in spite of his discomfort, he
was glad he was there. The intuition that had led him since that
memorable Sunday afternoon was strong within him still, and he never
questioned its authority. He believed his turn would come, even though
he were a prisoner in the fo'cas'le of the _Jeanne D'Arc_.
As the violence of his sickness passed, Jim began to cast about for
some means of helping himself. Gradually he was able to dive into the
forgotten shallows of his French learning. By much wrinkling of brows
he evolved a sentence, though he had to wait some hours before there
was a favorable chance to put it to use. At last his time came, with
the arrival of his former friend, the sailor.
"Oo avay-voo cashay mon money-belt?" he inquired with much confidence,
and with pure Yankee accent.
The sailor answered with a shrug and a spreading of empty hands.
"Pas de money-belt, pas de pantalon, pas de tous! Dam queer
Amayricain!"
Jim was not convinced of the sailor's innocence, but perceived that he
must give him the benefit of the doubt. As the sailor intimated, Jim,
himself, was open to suspicion, and couldn't afford to be too zealous
in calumniating others. He fell to thinking again, and attacked the
next Frenchman that came into the fo'cas'le with the following:
"Kond j'aytay malade don ma tate, kee a pree mon money-belt?"
It was the ship's cook this time, and he turned and stared at Jimmy as
though he had seen a ghost. When he found tongue he uttered a volume
of opinion and abuse which Jimmy knew by instinct was not fit to be
translated, and then he fled up the ladder.
On the fourth day, toward evening, James had a visitor. All day the
yacht had been pitching and rolling, and by afternoon she was laboring
in the violence of a storm and was listing badly.
James was a fearless seaman, but it crossed his mind more than once
that if he were captain, and if there were a port within reach, he
would put into it before midnight. But he could tell nothing of the
ship's course. He turned the subject over in his mind as he lay on his
bunk in that peculiar state half-way between sickness and health, when
the body is relaxed by a purely accidental illness and the mind is
abnormally alert. He wished intensely for a bath, a shave, and a fair
complement of clothes. He longed also to go up the hatchway for a
breath of air, and was considering the possibility of doing this later,
with a blanket and darkness for a shield, when he became conscious of a
pair of neatly trousered legs descending the ladder. It was quite a
different performance from the catlike climbing up and down of the
sailors.
Jimmy watched in the dim light until the whole figure was complete,
fantastically supplying, in his imagination, the coat, the shirt, the
collar and the tie to go with the trousers--all the things which he
himself lacked. Was there also a hat? Jimmy couldn't make out, and so
he asked.
"Have you got on a hat?"
A frigid voice answered, "I beg your pardon!"
"I said, are you wearing a hat? I couldn't see, you know."
"Monsieur takes the liberty of being impertinent."
"Oh, excuse me--I beg your pardon. But it's so beastly hot and dark in
here, you know, and I've never been seasick before."
"No? Monsieur is fortunate." The visitor advanced a little, drew from
a recess a shoe-blacking outfit, pulled over it one of the stiff
blankets from a neighboring bunk, and sat down rather cautiously.
Little by little James made out more of the look of the man. He was
large and rather blond, well-dressed, clean-shaven. He spoke English
easily, but with a foreign accent.
"I wish to inquire to what unfortunate circumstances we are indebted
for your company on board the _Jeanne D'Arc_." The voice was cool, and
sharp as a meat-ax.
"Why, to your own kind-heartedness. I was a derelict and you took me
in--saved my life, in fact; for which I am profoundly grateful. And I
hope my presence here is not too great a burden?"
"I am obliged to say that your presence here is most unwelcome.
Moreover, I am aware that your previous actions are open to suspicion,
to express it mildly. You threw yourself off the tug; and as this as
not a pleasure yacht, but the vessel of a high official speeding on a
most important business matter, I said to the captain, 'Let him swim!
Or, if he wishes to die, why should we thwart him?' But the captain
referred to the 'etiquette of the line,' as he calls it, and picked you
up. So you have not me to thank for not being among the fishes this
minute."
Jimmy pulled his blanket about and sat up on his bunk. The sarcastic
voice stirred his bile, and suddenly there boomed in his memory a
woman's call for help. The hooded motor-car, the muffled cry of
terror, the inert figure being lifted over the side of the yacht--these
things crowded on his brain and fired him to a sudden, unreasoning
fury. He leaned over, looking sharply into the other's face.
"You damned scoundrel!" he said, choking with his anger. The blood
surged into his face and eyes; he was, for an instant, a primitive
savage. He could have laid violent hands on the other man and done him
to death, in the fashion of the half-gods who lived in the twilight of
history.
The visitor in the fo'cas'le exhibited a neat row of teeth and no
resentment whatever at Jim's remark, But a sharp glitter shot from his
eyes as he replied suavely:
"Monsieur has doubtless mistaken this ship, and probably its master
also, for some other less worthy adventurer on the sea. For that very
reason I have come to set you right. It may be that I have my quixotic
moments. At any rate, I have a fancy to give you a gentleman's chance.
Monsieur, I regret the necessity of being inhospitable, but I am forced
to say that you must quit the shelter of this yacht within twenty-four
hours."
The thin, sarcastic voice and clean-cut syllables fanned the flame of
Jimmy's rage. He felt impotent, moreover, which never serves as a
poultice to anger. But he got himself in hand, though imitation
courtesy was not much in his line. He tuned his big hearty voice to a
pitch with the Frenchman's nasal pipe, and clipped off his words in
mimicry.
"And to whom, pray, shall I have the honor to say farewell, at the
auspicious moment when I jump overboard?"
"Gently, you American, gently!" said the other. "My friends, and some
of my enemies, know me as Monsieur Chatelard." As he paused for an
impressive instant, Jim, grabbing his blanket, stood up in derision and
executed an elaborate bow in as foreign a manner as he could command.
Monsieur Chatelard politely waved him down and continued:
"But pray do not trouble to give me your card! I had rather say adieu
to Monsieur the Unknown, whose daring and temper I so much admire. But
I certainly misunderstood your violent remark a moment ago, did I not?
You can not possibly have any ground of quarrel with me."
"I thought you stole my money-belt."
Monsieur smiled and waved a deprecatory hand. "You have already
dismissed that idea, I am certain. A money-belt, between gentlemen!
Moreover, you should thank me for so much as recognizing the gentleman
in you, since you are without the customary trappings of our class."
"Oh, I don't know," said Jim. But Monsieur Chatelard was now
imperturbable. He continued blandly:
"Since you are fond of sea-baths, you will no doubt enjoy a
plunge--to-night possibly. As we have made rather slow progress, we
are really not so far from shore. Yes, on second thought, I would by
all means advise you to take your departure tonight. Swim back to
shore the way you came. In any case, your absence is desired. There
will be no room or provision or water for you on board the _Jeanne
D'Arc_ after to-night. Is my meaning clear?"
Jim was watching, as well as he could, the immobile, expressionless
face, and did not immediately note that Monsieur Chatelard had drawn a
small, shiny object from his hip pocket and was holding it carelessly
in his lap. As his gaze focussed on the revolver, however, he did the
one thing, perhaps, which at that moment could have put the Frenchman
off his guard. He threw his head back and laughed aloud.
But before his laugh had time to echo in the narrow fo'cas'le, Jim
leaped from his bunk upon his tormentor, like a cat upon a mouse,
seized his right hand in a paralyzing grip, and was himself thrown
violently to the floor. The struggle was brief, for the Frenchman was
no match for Jim in strength and scarcely superior to him in skill; but
it took one of Jim's old wrestling feints to get the better of his
opponent. He came out, in five seconds, with the pistol in his hand.
Monsieur Chatelard, a bit breathless, but not greatly discomposed,
peered out at him from the edge of the opposite bunk, where he sat
uncomfortably. His cynical voice capped the struggle like a streak of
pitch.
"Pray keep the weapon. You are welcome, though your methods are
somewhat surprising. Had I known them earlier, I might have offered
you my little toy."
"Oh, don't mention it," said Jimmy. "I thought you might not be used
to firearms, that's all."
The varnished surface of Monsieur Chatelard's countenance gave no
evidence of his having heard Jim's remark.
"Don't fancy that your abrupt movements, have deprived me of what
authority I may happen to possess on this vessel. My request as to
your future action still stands, unless you had rather one of my
faithful men should assist you in carrying out my purpose."
Hambleton stood with legs wide apart to keep his balance, regarding the
weapon in his hand, from which his gaze traveled to the man on the
bunk. When it came to dialogue, he was no match for this sarcastic
purveyor of words. He wondered whether Monsieur Chatelard was actually
as cool as he appeared. As he stood there, the _Jeanne D'Arc_ pitched
forward until it seemed that she could never right herself, then slowly
and laboriously she rode the waves again.
"You are a more picturesque villain than I thought," remarked James.
"You have all the tricks of the stage hero--secret passages, fancy
weapons, and--crowning glory--a fatal gift of gab!"
Monsieur Chatelard arose, making his way toward the hatch.
"Many thanks. I can not return the compliment in such a happy choice
of English," he scoffed, "but I can truthfully say that I have rarely
seen so striking and unique a figure as I now behold; certainly never
on the stage, to which you so politely refer."
But James was too deeply intent on his next move to be embarrassed by
his lack of clothes. Not in vain had his gorge risen almost at first
sight of this man. He stepped quickly in front of Monsieur Chatelard,
blocking his exit up the ladder, while the revolver in his hand looked
straight between the Frenchman's eyes.
Whatever Chatelard's crimes were, he was not a coward. He did not
flinch, but his eyes gleamed like cold steel as Jim cornered him.
"Now," said Jim, "I have my turn." Wrath burned in his heart.
"Captain Paquin! Antoine, Antoine!" called Chatelard. No one answered
the call of the master of the ship, but even as the two men measured
their force one against the other, they were arrested by a commotion
above. Voices were heard shouting, trampling feet were running back
and forth over the deck, and a moment later the ship's cook came
tumbling down the hatchway, screaming in terror. He glared unheeding
at the two men, and his teeth chattered. Fear had possession of him.
Jim lifted his revolver well out of reach, and backed off from
Chatelard. For the first time during the interview between the
American and the Frenchman, the two now faced each other as man to man,
with the mask of their suspicions, their vanities and their hate cast
aside.
"What is the matter? What is this fool saying?" Jim asked in loathing.
At last Monsieur Chatelard looked at Jim with eyes of fear. His face
became so pale and drawn that it resembled a sponge from which the last
drop of water had been pressed.
"He says the yacht is half full of water--that she is sinking," the
Frenchman said.
"Sinking!" echoed Jim, bearing down again, with lowered revolver, on
his enemy. "Well and good! You're going to be drowned, not shot,
after all! And now you shall speak, you scamp! Your game's up,
whatever happens. Get up and lead the way, quick, and show me in what
part of this infernal boat you are hiding Agatha Redmond."
Chatelard started toward the hatchway, followed sharply by Jim's
revolver, but at the foot of the ladder he turned his contemptuous,
sneering face toward Jim, with the remark:
"Your words are the words of a fool, you pig of an American! There is
no lady aboard this yacht, and I never so much as heard of your Agatha
Redmond. Otherwise, I'd be pleased to play Mercury to your Venus."
To Jim's ears, every syllable the Frenchman spoke was an insult, and
the last words rekindled the fire in his blood.
"You shall pay for that speech here and now!" he yelled; and,
discarding his revolver, he dealt the Frenchman a short-arm blow.
Chatelard, trying to dodge, tripped over the base of the ladder and
went down heavily on the floor of the fo'cas'le. He had apparently
lost consciousness.
As Jim saw his victim stretched on the floor, he turned away with
loathing. He picked up his revolver and went up the ladder. It was
already dark, and confusion reigned on deck. But through the clamor,
Jim made out something near the truth: the _Jeanne D'Arc_ was leaking
badly, and no time was to be lost if she, with her passengers and crew,
were to be saved.