THE PAINTED SHIP
The Ella had been a coasting-vessel, carrying dressed lumber to South
America, and on her return trip bringing a miscellaneous cargo—hides
and wool, sugar from Pernambuco, whatever offered. The firm of Turner
and Sons owned the line of which the Ella was one of the smallest
vessels.
The gradual elimination of sailing ships and the substitution of
steamers in the coasting trade, left the Ella, with others, out of
commission. She was still seaworthy, rather fast, as such vessels go,
and steady. Marshall Turner, the oldest son of old Elias Turner, the
founder of the business, bought it in at a nominal sum, with the
intention of using it as a private yacht. And, since it was a
superstition of the house never to change the name of one of its
vessels, the schooner Ella, odorous of fresh lumber or raw rubber, as
the case might be, dingy gray in color, with slovenly decks on which
lines of seamen’s clothing were generally hanging to dry, remained, in
her metamorphosis, still the Ella.
Marshall Turner was a wealthy man, but he equipped his new
pleasure-boat very modestly. As few changes as were possible were made.
He increased the size of the forward house, adding quarters for the
captain and the two mates, and thus kept the after house for himself
and his friends. He fumigated the hold and the forecastle—a precaution
that kept all the crew coughing for two days, and drove them out of the
odor of formaldehyde to the deck to sleep. He installed an electric
lighting and refrigerating plant, put a bath in the forecastle, to the
bewilderment of the men, who were inclined to think it a reflection on
their habits, and almost entirely rebuilt, inside, the old officers’
quarters in the after house.
The wheel, replaced by a new one, white and gilt, remained in its old
position behind the after house, the steersman standing on a raised
iron grating above the wash of the deck. Thus from the chart-room,
which had become a sort of lounge and card-room, through a small barred
window it was possible to see the man at the wheel, who, in his turn,
commanded a view of part of the chartroom, but not of the floor.
The craft was schooner-rigged, carried three lifeboats and a
collapsible raft, and was navigated by a captain, first and second
mates, and a crew of six able-bodied sailors and one gaunt youth whose
sole knowledge of navigation had been gained on an Atlantic City
catboat. Her destination was vague—Panama perhaps, possibly a South
American port, depending on the weather and the whim of the owner.
I do not recall that I performed the nautical rite of signing articles.
Armed with the note McWhirter had secured for me, and with what I
fondly hoped was the rolling gait of the seafaring man, I approached
the captain—a bearded and florid individual. I had dressed the part—old
trousers, a cap, and a sweater from which I had removed my college
letter. McWhirter, who had supervised my preparations, and who had
accompanied me to the wharf, had suggested that I omit my morning
shave. The result was, as I look back, a lean and cadaverous six-foot
youth, with the hospital pallor still on him, his chin covered with a
day’s beard, his hair cropped short, and a cannibalistic gleam in his
eyes. I remember that my wrists, thin and bony, annoyed me, and that
the girl I had seen through the opera-glasses came on board, and stood
off, detached and indifferent, but with her eyes on me, while the
captain read my letter.
When he finished, he held it out to me.
“I’ve got my crew,” he said curtly.
“There isn’t—I suppose there’s no chance of your needing another hand?”
“No.” He turned away, then glanced back at the letter I was still
holding, rather dazed. “You can leave your name and address with the
mate over there. If anything turns up he’ll let you know.”
My address! The hospital?
I folded the useless letter and thrust it into my pocket. The captain
had gone forward, and the girl with the cool eyes was leaning against
the rail, watching me.
“You are the man Mr. McWhirter has been looking after, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I pulled off my cap, and, recollecting myself—“Yes, miss.”
“You are not a sailor?”
“I have had some experience—and I am willing.”
“You have been ill, haven’t you?”
“Yes—miss.”
“Could you polish brass, and things like that?”
“I could try. My arms are strong enough. It is only when I walk—”
But she did not let me finish. She left the rail abruptly, and
disappeared down the companionway into the after house. I waited
uncertainly. The captain saw me still loitering, and scowled. A
procession of men with trunks jostled me; a colored man, evidently a
butler, ordered me out of his way while he carried down into the cabin,
with almost reverent care, a basket of wine.
When the girl returned, she came to me, and stood for a moment, looking
me over with cool, appraising eyes. I had been right about her
appearance: she was charming—or no, hardly charming. She was too aloof
for that. But she was beautiful, an Irish type, with blue-gray eyes and
almost black hair. The tilt of her head was haughty. Later I came to
know that her hauteur was indifference: but at first I was frankly
afraid of her, afraid of her cool, mocking eyes and the upward thrust
of her chin.
“My brother-in-law is not here,” she said after a moment, “but my
sister is below in the cabin. She will speak to the captain about you.
Where are your things?”
I glanced toward the hospital, where my few worldly possessions,
including my dress clothes, my amputating set, and such of my books as
I had not been able to sell, were awaiting disposition. “Very near,
miss,” I said.
“Better bring them at once; we are sailing in the morning.” She turned
away as if to avoid my thanks, but stopped and came back.
“We are taking you as a sort of extra man,” she explained. “You will
work with the crew, but it is possible that we will need you—do you
know anything about butler’s work?”
I hesitated. If I said yes, and then failed—
“I could try.”
“I thought, from your appearance, perhaps you had done something of the
sort.” Oh, shades of my medical forebears, who had bequeathed me, along
with the library, what I had hoped was a professional manner! “The
butler is a poor sailor. If he fails us, you will take his place.”
She gave a curt little nod of dismissal, and I went down the gangplank
and along the wharf. I had secured what I went for; my summer was
provided for, and I was still seven dollars to the good. I was
exultant, but with my exultation was mixed a curious anger at
McWhirter, that he had advised me not to shave that morning.
My preparation took little time. Such of my wardrobe as was worth
saving, McWhirter took charge of. I sold the remainder of my books, and
in a sailor’s outfitting-shop I purchased boots and slickers—the
sailors’ oil skins. With my last money I bought a good revolver,
second-hand, and cartridges. I was glad later that I had bought the
revolver, and that I had taken with me the surgical instruments,
antiquated as they were, which, in their mahogany case, had accompanied
my grandfather through the Civil War, and had done, as he was wont to
chuckle, as much damage as a three-pounder. McWhirter came to the wharf
with me, and looked the Ella over with eyes of proprietorship.
“Pretty snappy-looking boat,” he said. “If the nigger gets sick, give
him some of my seasick remedy. And take care of yourself, boy.” He
shook hands, his open face flushed with emotion. “Darned shame to see
you going like this. Don’t eat too much, and don’t fall in love with
any of the women. Good-bye.”
He started away, and I turned toward the ship; but a moment later I
heard him calling me. He came back, rather breathless.
“Up in my neighborhood,” he panted, “they say Turner is a devil.
Whatever happens, it’s not your mix-in. Better—better tuck your gun
under your mattress and forget you’ve got it. You’ve got some
disposition yourself.”
The Ella sailed the following day at ten o’clock. She carried nineteen
people, of whom five were the Turners and their guests. The cabin was
full of flowers and steamer-baskets.
Thirty-one days later she came into port again, a lifeboat covered with
canvas trailing at her stern.