The After House
by Mary Roberts Rinehart
Contents
I. I PLAN A VOYAGE
II. THE PAINTED SHIP
III. I UNCLENCH MY HANDS
IV. I RECEIVE A WARNING
V. A TERRIBLE NIGHT
VI. IN THE AFTER HOUSE
VII. WE FIND THE AXE
VIII. THE STEWARDESS’S STORY
IX. PRISONERS
X. “THAT’S MUTINY”
XI. THE DEAD LINE
XII. THE FIRST MATE TALKS
XIII. THE WHITE LIGHT
XIV. FROM THE CROW’S NEST
XV. A KNOCKING IN THE HOLD
XVI. JONES STUMBLES OVER SOMETHING
XVII. THE AXE IS GONE
XVIII. A BAD COMBINATION
XIX. I TAKE THE STAND
XX. OLESON’S STORY
XXI. “A BAD WOMAN”
XXII. TURNER’S STORY
XXIII. FREE AGAIN
XXIV. THE THING
XXV. THE SEA AGAIN
CHAPTER I.
I PLAN A VOYAGE
By the bequest of an elder brother, I was left enough money to see me
through a small college in Ohio, and to secure me four years in a
medical school in the East. Why I chose medicine I hardly know.
Possibly the career of a surgeon attracted the adventurous element in
me. Perhaps, coming of a family of doctors, I merely followed the line
of least resistance. It may be, indirectly but inevitably, that I might
be on the yacht Ella on that terrible night of August 12, more than a
year ago.
I got through somehow. I played quarterback on the football team, and
made some money coaching. In summer I did whatever came to hand, from
chartering a sail-boat at a summer resort and taking passengers, at so
much a head, to checking up cucumbers in Indiana for a Western pickle
house.
I was practically alone. Commencement left me with a diploma, a new
dress-suit, an out-of-date medical library, a box of surgical
instruments of the same date as the books, and an incipient case of
typhoid fever.
I was twenty-four, six feet tall, and forty inches around the chest.
Also, I had lived clean, and worked and played hard. I got over the
fever finally, pretty much all bone and appetite; but—alive. Thanks to
the college, my hospital care had cost nothing. It was a good thing: I
had just seven dollars in the world.
The yacht Ella lay in the river not far from my hospital windows. She
was not a yacht when I first saw her, nor at any time, technically,
unless I use the word in the broad sense of a pleasure-boat. She was a
two-master, and, when I saw her first, as dirty and disreputable as are
most coasting-vessels. Her rejuvenation was the history of my
convalescence. On the day she stood forth in her first coat of white
paint, I exchanged my dressing-gown for clothing that, however loosely
it hung, was still clothing. Her new sails marked my promotion to
beefsteak, her brass rails and awnings my first independent excursion
up and down the corridor outside my door, and, incidentally, my return
to a collar and tie.
The river shipping appealed to me, to my imagination, clean washed by
my illness and ready as a child’s for new impressions: liners gliding
down to the bay and the open sea; shrewish, scolding tugs; dirty but
picturesque tramps. My enthusiasm amused the nurses, whose ideas of
adventure consisted of little jaunts of exploration into the abdominal
cavity, and whose aseptic minds revolted at the sight of dirty sails.
One day I pointed out to one of them an old schooner, red and brown,
with patched canvas spread, moving swiftly down the river before a
stiff breeze.
“Look at her!” I exclaimed. “There goes adventure, mystery, romance! I
should like to be sailing on her.”
“You would have to boil the drinking-water,” she replied dryly. “And
the ship is probably swarming with rats.”
“Rats,” I affirmed, “add to the local color. Ships are their native
habitat. Only sinking ships don’t have them.”
But her answer was to retort that rats carried bubonic plague, and to
exit, carrying the sugar-bowl. I was ravenous, as are all convalescent
typhoids, and one of the ways in which I eked out my still slender diet
was by robbing the sugar-bowl at meals.
That day, I think it was, the deck furniture was put out on the
Ella—numbers of white wicker chairs and tables, with bright cushions to
match the awnings. I had a pair of ancient opera-glasses, as obsolete
as my amputating knives, and, like them, a part of my heritage. By that
time I felt a proprietary interest in the Ella, and through my glasses,
carefully focused with a pair of scissors, watched the arrangement of
the deck furnishings. A girl was directing the men. I judged, from the
poise with which she carried herself, that she was attractive—and knew
it. How beautiful she was, and how well she knew it, I was to find out
before long. McWhirter to the contrary, she had nothing to do with my
decision to sign as a sailor on the Ella.
One of the bright spots of that long hot summer was McWhirter. We had
graduated together in June, and in October he was to enter a hospital
in Buffalo as a resident. But he was as indigent as I, and from June to
October is four months.
“Four months,” he said to me. “Even at two meals a day, boy, that’s
something over two hundred and forty. And I can eat four times a day,
without a struggle! Wouldn’t you think one of these
overworked-for-the-good-of-humanity dubs would take a vacation and give
me a chance to hold down his practice?”
Nothing of the sort developing, McWhirter went into a drug-store, and
managed to pull through the summer with unimpaired cheerfulness,
confiding to me that he secured his luncheons free at the soda counter.
He came frequently to see me, bringing always a pocketful of chewing
gum, which he assured me was excellent to allay the gnawings of hunger,
and later, as my condition warranted it, small bags of gum-drops and
other pharmacy confections.
McWhirter it was who got me my berth on the Ella. It must have been
about the 20th of July, for the Ella sailed on the 28th. I was strong
enough to leave the hospital, but not yet physically able for any
prolonged exertion. McWhirter, who was short and stout, had been
alternately flirting with the nurse, as she moved in and out preparing
my room for the night, and sizing me up through narrowed eyes.
“No,” he said, evidently following a private line of thought; “you
don’t belong behind a counter, Leslie. I’m darned if I think you belong
in the medical profession, either. The British army’d suit you.”
“The—what?”
“You know—Kipling idea—riding horseback, head of a column—undress
uniform—colonel’s wife making eyes at you—leading last hopes and all
that.”
“The British army with Kipling trimmings being out of the question, the
original issue is still before us. I’ll have to work, Mac, and work
like the devil, if I’m to feed myself.”
There being no answer to this, McWhirter contented himself with eyeing
me.
“I’m thinking,” I said, “of going to Europe. The sea is calling me,
Mac.”
“So was the grave a month ago, but it didn’t get you. Don’t be an ass,
boy. How are you going to sea?”
“Before the mast.” This apparently conveying no meaning to McWhirter, I
supplemented—“as a common sailor.”
He was indignant at first, offering me his room and a part of his small
salary until I got my strength; then he became dubious; and finally, so
well did I paint my picture of long, idle days on the ocean, of sweet,
cool nights under the stars, with breezes that purred through the
sails, rocking the ship to slumber—finally he waxed enthusiastic, and
was even for giving up the pharmacy at once and sailing with me.
He had been fitting out the storeroom of a sailing-yacht with drugs, he
informed me, and doing it under the personal direction of the owner’s
wife.
“I’ve made a hit with her,” he confided. “Since she’s learned I’m a
graduate M.D., she’s letting me do the whole thing. I’ve made up some
lotions to prevent sunburn, and that seasick prescription of old
Larimer’s, and she thinks I’m the whole cheese. I’ll suggest you as
ship’s doctor.”
“How many men in the crew?”
“Eight, I think, or ten. It’s a small boat, and carries a small crew.”
“Then they don’t want a ship’s doctor. If I go, I’ll go as a sailor,” I
said firmly. “And I want your word, Mac, not a word about me, except
that I am honest.”
“You’ll have to wash decks, probably.”
“I am filled with a wild longing to wash decks,” I asserted, smiling at
his disturbed face. “I should probably also have to polish brass.
There’s a great deal of brass on the boat.”
“How do you know that?”
When I told him, he was much excited, and, although it was dark and the
Ella consisted of three lights, he insisted on the opera-glasses, and
was persuaded he saw her. Finally he put down the glasses and came
over, to me.
“Perhaps you are right, Leslie,” he said soberly. “You don’t want
charity, any more than they want a ship’s doctor. Wherever you go and
whatever you do, whether you’re swabbing decks in your bare feet or
polishing brass railings with an old sock, you’re a man.”
He was more moved than I had ever seen him, and ate a gum-drop to cover
his embarrassment. Soon after that he took his departure, and the
following day he telephoned to say that, if the sea was still calling
me, he could get a note to the captain recommending me. I asked him to
get the note.
Good old Mac! The sea was calling me, true enough, but only dire
necessity was driving me to ship before the mast—necessity and perhaps
what, for want of a better name, we call destiny. For what is fate but
inevitable law, inevitable consequence.
The stirring of my blood, generations removed from a seafaring
ancestor; my illness, not a cause, but a result; McWhirter, filling
prescriptions behind the glass screen of a pharmacy, and fitting out,
in porcelain jars, the medicine-closet of the Ella; Turner and his
wife, Schwartz, the mulatto Tom, Singleton, and Elsa Lee; all thrown
together, a hodge-podge of characters, motives, passions, and
hereditary tendencies, through an inevitable law working together
toward that terrible night of August 22, when hell seemed loose on a
painted sea.