FROM THE CROW’S NEST
The night passed without incident, except for one thing that we were
unable to verify. At six bells, during the darkest hour of the night
that precedes the early dawn of summer, Adams, from the crow’s-nest,
called down, in a panic, that there was something crawling on all fours
on the deck below him.
Burns, on watch at the companionway, ran forward with his revolver, and
narrowly escaped being brained—Adams at that moment flinging down a
marlinespike that he had carried aloft with him.
I heard the crash and joined Burns, and together we went over the deck
and, both houses. Everything was quiet: the crew in various attitudes
of exhausted sleep, their chests and dittybags around them; Oleson at
the wheel; and Singleton in his jail-room, breathing heavily.
Adams’s nerve was completely gone, and, being now thoroughly awake, I
joined him in the crow’s-nest. Nothing could convince him that he had
been the victim of a nervous hallucination. He stuck to his story
firmly.
“It was on the forecastle-head first,” he maintained. “I saw it
gleaming.”
“Gleaming?”
“Sort of shining,” he explained. “It came up over the rail, and at
first it stood up tall, like a white post.”
“You didn’t say before that it was white.”
“It was shining,” he said slowly, trying to put his idea into words.
“Maybe not exactly white, but light-colored. It stood still for so
long, I thought I must be mistaken—that it was a light on the rigging.
Then I got to thinking that there wasn’t no place for a light to come
from just there.”
That was true enough.
“First it was as tall as a man, or taller maybe,” he went on. “Then it
seemed about half that high and still in the same place. Then it got
lower still, and it took to crawling along on its belly. It was then I
yelled.”
I looked down. The green starboard light threw a light over only a
small part of the deck. The red light did no better. The masthead was
possibly thirty feet above the hull, and served no illuminating purpose
whatever. From the bridge forward the deck was practically dark.
“You yelled, and then what happened?”
His reply was vague—troubled.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “It seemed to fade away. The white got
smaller—went to nothing, like a cloud blown away in a gale. I flung the
spike.”
I accepted the story with outward belief and a mental reservation. But
I did not relish the idea of the spike Adams had thrown lying below on
deck. No more formidable weapon short of an axe, could be devised. I
said as much.
“I’m going down for it,” I said; “if you’re nervous, you’d better keep
it by you. But don’t drop it on everything that moves below. You almost
got Burns.”
I went down cautiously, and struck a match where Adams had indicated
the spike. It was not there. Nor had Burns picked it up. A splintered
board showed where it had struck, and a smaller indentation where it
had rebounded; but the marlinespike was gone, and Burns had not seen
it. We got a lantern and searched systematically, without result. Burns
turned to me a face ghastly in the oil light.
“Somebody has it,” he said, “and there will be more murder! Oh, my God,
Leslie!”
“When you went back after the alarm, did you count the men?”
“No; Oleson said no one had come forward. They could not have passed
without his seeing them. He has the binnacle lantern and two other
lights.”
“And no one came from the after house?”
“No one.”
Eight bells rang out sharply. The watch changed. I took the revolver
and Burns’s position at the companionway, while Burns went aft. He
lined up the men by the binnacle light, and went over them carefully.
The marlinespike was not found; but he took from the cook a long
meat-knife, and brought both negro and knife forward to me. The man was
almost collapsing with terror. He maintained that he had taken the
knife for self-protection, and we let him go with a warning.
Dawn brought me an hour’s sleep, the first since my awakening in the
storeroom. When I roused, Jones at the wheel had thrown an extra
blanket over me, for the morning was cool and a fine rain was falling.
The men were scattered around in attitudes of dejection, one or two of
them leaning over the rail, watching the jolly-boat, riding easily
behind us. Jones heard me moving, and turned.
“Your friend below must be pretty bad, sir,” he said. “Your lady-love
has been asking for you. I wouldn’t let them wake you.”
“My—what?”
He waxed apologetic at once.
“That’s just my foolishness, Leslie,” he said. “No disrespect to the
lady, I’m sure. If it ain’t so, it ain’t, and no harm done. If it is
so, why, you needn’t be ashamed, boy. ‘The way of a man with a maid,’
says the Book.”
“You should have called me, Jones,” I said sharply. “And no nonsense of
that sort with the men.”
He looked hurt, but made no reply beyond touching his cap. And, while I
am mentioning that, I may speak of the changed attitude of the men
toward me from the time they put me in charge. Whether the deference
was to the office rather than the man, or whether in placing me in
authority they had merely expressed a general feeling that I was with
them rather than of them, I do not know. I am inclined to think the
former. The result, in any case, was the same. They deferred to me
whenever possible, brought large and small issues alike to me, served
me my food alone, against my protestations, and, while navigating the
ship on their own responsibility, took care to come to me for authority
for everything.
Before I went below that morning, I suggested that some of the spare
canvas be used to erect a shelter on the after deck, and this was done.
The rain by that time was driving steadily—a summer rain without wind.
The men seemed glad to have occupation, and, from that time on, the
tent which they erected over the hatchway aft of the wheel was their
living and eating quarters. It added something to their comfort: I was
not so certain that it added to their security.
Turner was violent that day. I found all four women awake and dressed,
and Mrs. Turner, whose hour it was on duty, in a chair outside the
door. The stewardess, her arm in a sling, was making tea over a
spirit-lamp, and Elsa was helping her. Mrs. Johns was stretched on a
divan, and on the table lay a small revolver.
Clearly, Elsa had told the incident of the key. I felt at once the
atmosphere of antagonism. Mrs. Johns watched me coolly from under
lowered eyelids. The stewardess openly scowled. And Mrs. Turner rose
hastily, and glanced at Mrs. Johns, as if in doubt. Elsa had her back
to me, and was busy with the cups.
“I’m afraid you’ve had a bad night,” I said.
“A very bad night,” Mrs. Turner replied stiffly.
“Delirium?”
“Very marked. He has talked of a white figure—we cannot quite make it
out. It seems to be Wilmer—Mr. Vail.”
She had not opened the door, but stood, nervously twisting her fingers,
before it.
“The bromides had no effect?”
She glanced helplessly at the others. “None,” she said, after a moment.
Elsa Lee wheeled suddenly and glanced scornfully at her sister.
“Why don’t you tell him?” she demanded. “Why don’t you say you didn’t
give the bromides?”
“Why not?”
Mrs. Johns raised herself on her elbow and looked at me.
“Why should we?” she asked. “How do we know what you are giving him?
You are not friendly to him or to us. We know what you are trying to
do—you are trying to save yourself, at any cost. You put a guard at the
companionway. You rail off the deck for our safety. You drop the
storeroom key in Mr. Turner’s cabin, where Elsa will find it, and will
be obliged to acknowledge she found it, and then take it from her by
force, so you can show it later on and save yourself!”
Elsa turned on her quickly.
“I told you how he got it, Adele. I tried to throw it—”
“Oh, if you intend to protect him!”
“I am rather bewildered,” I said slowly; “but, under the circumstances,
I suppose you do not wish me to look after Mr. Turner?”
“We think not”—from Mrs. Turner.
“How will you manage alone?”
Mrs. Johns got up and lounged to the table. She wore a long satin
negligee of some sort, draped with lace. It lay around her on the floor
in gleaming lines of soft beauty. Her reddish hair was low on her neck,
and she held a cigarette, negligently, in her teeth. All the women
smoked, Mrs. Johns incessantly.
She laid one hand lightly on the revolver, and flicked the ash from her
cigarette with the other.
“We have decided,” she said insolently, “that, if the crew may
establish a dead-line, so may we. Our dead-line is the foot of the
companionway. One of us will be on watch always. I am an excellent
shot.”
“I do not doubt it.” I faced her. “I am afraid you will suffer for air;
otherwise, the arrangement is good. You relieve me of part of the
responsibility for your safety. Tom will bring your food to the steps
and leave it there.”
“Thank you.”
“With good luck, two weeks will see us in port; and then—”
“In port! You are taking us back?”
“Why not?”
She picked up the revolver and examined it absently. Then she glanced
at me, and shrugged her shoulders. “How can we know? Perhaps this is a
mutiny, and you are on your way to some God forsaken island. That’s the
usual thing among pirates, isn’t it?”
“I have no answer to that, Mrs. Johns,” I said quietly, and turned to
where Elsa sat.
“I shall not come back unless you send for me,” I said. “But I want you
to know that my one object in life from now on is to get you back
safely to land; that your safety comes first, and that the vigilance on
deck in your interest will not be relaxed.”
“Fine words!” the stewardess muttered.
The low mumbling from Turner’s room had persisted steadily. Now it rose
again in the sharp frenzy that had characterized it through the long
night.
“Don’t look at me like that, man!” he cried, and then “He’s lost a
hand! A hand!”
Mrs. Turner went quickly into the cabin, and the sounds ceased. I
looked at Elsa, but she avoided my eyes. I turned heavily and went up
the companionway.