THE FO’CS’LE
Next day Sagesse shewed signs neither of his intoxication of the past
night nor of the worry that had preceded it. Neither did the deck shew
sign of Pedro.
Was the man dead, or was he lying in his hammock, recovering from his
injuries? It was impossible to say; the faces of the crew told nothing.
The weather was perfect, blue and warm, and _La Belle Arlésienne_, with
every rag of canvas set, was making good way.
If a ship could develop a character, one might have fancied _La Belle
Arlésienne_ infected with the character of Sagesse; at least so it
seemed to Gaspard. There was something stealthy and almost underhand
in this old tramp of the ocean. He could remember, the first day he
sighted her hull down on the horizon, how she had grown upon the
sky-line, how she had come towards him as he lay drifting in the open
boat like an angel to his rescue, and then, the light and wind dying
with the sunset, how she had all at once seemed to forget him.
How she had vanished for a moment in the darkness, and then had come
stealing along in the starlight.
She was sixty years old, and more, built in Havannah in the early
forties; age was telling against her, and it may have been the touch of
age, added to the cut of her ill-fitting sails and some trend in her
build, that gave her distinction over other ships. Who knows? But the
fact remains that she was a “character,” picturesque in any port of the
world, and romantic with a suggestion of villainy and deceit.
But to-day she moved with a freedom and youthfulness, as though
rejoicing in the depths of her old heart at the business on hand.
At eight bells, four o’clock, there was still no sign of Pedro on deck,
nor word about him. Sagesse was nowhere to be seen, the deck-house door
was closed, and Gaspard determined on a bold stroke.
He must verify his suspicions. If Pedro had been done to death by
Sagesse it was important for him to have first-hand knowledge of the
fact, which would be a weapon against this villain should he give
trouble in the future.
He went forward, passing the green-painted bell from which one of the
crew had just rung out the hour.
Several of the hands were on deck, but not Jules. This man, though
he was mate and had a knowledge of navigation sufficient to work the
vessel, berthed in the fo’cs’le with the others. He was no doubt there.
Now, the fo’cs’le of a ship is sacred to the hands. It is entered
by the ship’s officers rarely, and only on extraordinary occasions.
Gaspard knew this fact, but the knowledge did not deter him.
He went to the fo’cs’le hatch, and descended the ladder into gloom and
a stifling atmosphere.
It was a roomy enough place, as fo’cs’les go, and considering the
tonnage of _La Belle Arlésienne_, but all the winds of heaven could
never have purged it of the scent of blackbeetles and negroes. The
slush lamps that had lit it for sixty years, the tobacco, from
Perique to twist, that had been smoked there, the men, from Dagoes to
Africans, who had lived there, all had left a reminiscence, a taint,
almost one might say a colour.
Bunks lined the sides; there was only one hammock, it belonged to
Jules; only one sea-chest, Jules’; the rest of the crew did not trouble
about luggage very much—a knotted handkerchief or an old fish-mat
serving them for bags and chests. The bunks ran up to where the heel of
the bowsprit came into the place between the knightheads.
There were five men here, all asleep; Jules in his hammock and the
four others in bunks; naked, for they had kicked off the last of their
clothes in the stifling heat; and looking like bronze figures cast by
some fantastic sculptor, fresh from the mould, and flung here and there
to cool.
Pedro was not here.
Gaspard carefully verified the fact. The man must have died in the
night and been cast overboard like a dog. There could be no doubt of
the fact, for on _La Belle Arlésienne_ there was no other place where
he could be but here, unless he were stowed in the lazarette, in the
caboose, in the harness cask or shot down the main hatch. Overboard
was a much more tenable supposition. The thing had probably been done
before dawn, and as Gaspard recognised the fact and looked around
him at these grim figures lost in sleep, his own position on board,
should anything bring him into opposition with Sagesse, came before him
vividly.
Without clothes, naked, and barbaric, lit by the dim rays of the
swinging lamp, here were the men who would give him short shrift and
a plunge in the sea at the word of their commander. Pedro was one of
themselves, yet they had made no opposition to his murder.
As he stood looking, a man in one of the starboard bunks tossed his
arms and moved in his sleep. Gaspard did not wait. A moment later he
was on deck. He had been lucky; the cook who had been in the caboose
had not left it, the men on deck, all except the man at the wheel,
were lazing in the afternoon sunshine. Three of them were seated with
their backs to the after part of the main hatch, chewing tobacco, and
yarning; he could see the tops of their heads and hear their voices
yaw-yawing, their laughter and an occasional oath; two were leaning
over the side of the vessel to leeward, yarning, and spitting into the
sea.
The door of the deck-house was still closed. There was no lookout
forward, the individual who ought to have been the eyes of the ship was
leaning over the rail to leeward.
Discipline in this respect was rather lax on board _La Belle
Arlésienne_. She took chances in fine weather; she seemed blind very
often, yet she found her way about, rarely making a serious mistake.
Gaspard imagined that the crew of this blind and easy-going vessel
were unobservant and that his expedition into the fo’cs’le had passed
unnoticed. In this he was wrong.