THE WHEEL COMES FULL CIRCLE
The next morning I was up early, and went on deck. The sun had risen,
and in the moist atmosphere the tints of sky and sea were beautiful.
Everywhere was the warm ocean undulating lazily to the vague horizon.
A few lascars were still cleansing the decks; others were seated on their
haunches between decks, eating curry from a calabash; a couple of
passengers were indolently munching oranges; and Stone the quartermaster
was inspecting the work lately done by the lascars. Stone gave me a
pleasant good-morning, and we walked together the length of the deck
forward. I had got about three-fourths of the length back again, when I
heard a cry from aft--a sharp call of "Man overboard!" In a moment I had
travelled the intermediate deck, and was at the stern, looking below,
where, in the swirling waters, was the head of a man. With cries of "Man
overboard!" I threw two or three buoys after the disappearing head,
above which a bare arm thrust itself. I heard the rush of feet behind
me, and in a moment Hungerford and Stone were beside me. The signal was
given for the engines to stop; stewards and lascars came running on deck
in response to Hungerford's call, and the first officer now appeared.
Very soon a crew was gathered on the after-deck, about a boat on the port
side.
Passengers by this time showed in various stages of dressing--
women wringing their hands, men gesticulating. If there is anything
calculated to send a thrill of awe through a crowd, it is the cry of "Man
overboard!" And when one looked below, and saw above the drowning head
two white arms thrust from the sea, a horrible thing was brought home to
each of us. Besides, the scene before us on the deck was not reassuring.
There was trouble in getting the boat lowered. The first officer was
excited, the lascars were dazed, the stewards were hurried without being
confident; only Hungerford, Stone, and the gunner were collected. The
boat should have been launched in a minute, but still it hung between its
davits; its course downward was interrupted; something was wrong with the
ropes, "A false start, by --- !" said the bookmaker, looking through his
eye-glass. Colonel Ryder's face was stern, Clovelly was pale and
anxious, as moment after moment went, and the boat was not yet free.
Ages seemed to pass before the boat was let down even with the bulwarks,
and a crew of ten, with Hungerford in command, were in it, ready to be
lowered. Whether the word was given to lower, or whether it was any
one's fault, may never perhaps be known; but, as the boat hung there,
suddenly it shot down at the stern, some one having let go the ropes at
that end; and the bow being still fast, it had fallen like a trap-door.
It seemed, on the instant, as if the whole crew were tossed into the
water; but some had successfully clutched the boat's side, and Hungerford
hung by a rope with one hand. In the eddying water, however, about the
reversing screw, were two heads, and farther off was a man struggling.
The face of one of the men near the screw was upturned for a moment; it
was that of Stone the quartermaster.
A cry went up from the passengers, and they swayed forward to the
suspended boat; but Colonel Ryder turned almost savagely upon them.
"Keep quiet!" he said. "Stand back! What can you do? Give the
officers a chance." He knew that there had been a false start, and bad
work indeed; but he also saw that the task of the officers must not be
made harder. His sternness had effect. The excited passengers drew
back, and I took his place in front of them. When the first effort had
been made to lower the boat, I asked the first officer if I could
accompany the crew, but he said no. I could, therefore, do nothing but
wait. A change came on the crowd. It became painfully silent, none
speaking save in whispers, and all watching with anxious faces either the
receding heads in the water or the unfortunate boat's crew. Hungerford
showed himself a thorough sailor. Hanging to the davit, he quietly,
reassuringly, gave the order for righting the boat, virtually taking the
command out of the hands of the first officer, who was trembling with
nervousness. Hungerford was right; this man's days as a sailor were
over. The accident from which he had suffered had broken his nerve,
stalwart as he was. But Hungerford was as cool as if this were ordinary
boat-practice. Soon the boat was drawn up again, and others took the
place of those who had disappeared. Then it was lowered safely, and,
with Hungerford erect in the bows, it was pulled swiftly along the path
we had come.
At length, too, the great ship turned round, but not in her tracks. It
is a pleasant fiction that these great steamers are easily managed. They
can go straight ahead, but their huge proportions are not adapted for
rapid movement. However, the work of rescue was begun. Sailors were
aloft on watch, Captain Ascott was on the bridge, sweeping the sea with
his glass; order was restored. But the ship had the feeling of a home
from which some familiar inmate had been taken, to return no more.
Children clasped their mothers' hands and said, "Mother, was it the poor
quartermaster?" and men who the day before had got help from the petty
officers in the preparation of costumes, said mournfully: "Fife the
gunner was one of them."
But who was the man first to go overboard--and who was it first gave
the alarm? There were rumours, but no one was sure. All at once I
remembered something peculiar in that cry of "Man overboard!" and it
shocked me. I hurried below, and went to the cabin of Boyd Madras. It
was empty; but on a shelf lay a large envelope, addressed to Hungerford
and myself. I tore it open. There was a small packet, which I knew
contained the portrait he had worn on his bosom, addressed to Mrs.
Falchion; and the other was a single sheet directed to me, fully written
upon, and marked in the corner: "To be made public."
So, he had disappeared from the play? He had made his exit? He had
satisfied the code at last? Before opening the letter addressed to me,
I looked round. His clothes were folded upon one of the berths; but the
garments of masquerade were not in the cabin. Had he then gone out of
the world in the garb of a mummer? Not altogether, for the false beard
he had worn the night before lay beside the clothes. But this terrible
earnestness of his would look strange in last night's disguise.
I opened the packet addressed to Hungerford and myself, and saw that it
contained a full and detailed account of his last meeting with his wife.
The personal letter was short. He said that his gratitude was
unspeakable, and now must be so for ever. He begged us not to let the
world know who he was, nor his relationship to Mrs. Falchion, unless she
wished it; he asked me to hand privately to her the packet bearing her
name. Lastly, he requested that the paper for the public be given to the
captain of the 'Fulvia'.
Going out into the passage, I found a steward, who hurriedly told me that
just before the alarm was given he had seen Boyd Madras going aft in that
strange costume, which he mistook for a dressing-gown, and he had come to
see if, by any chance, it was he who had gone overboard. I told him that
it was. He disappeared, and soon the whole ship knew it. I went to the
captain, gave him the letter, and told him only what was necessary to
tell. He was on the bridge, and was occupied with giving directions, so
he asked me the substance of the letter, and handed it back to me,
requesting me to make a copy of it soon and leave it in his cabin. I
then took all the papers to my cabin, and locked them up. I give here
the substance of the letter which was to be made public:
Because you know how much I have suffered physically while on board
this ship, and because you have been kind to me, I wish, through
you, to say my last word to the world: though, indeed, this may seem
a strange form for gratitude to take. Dying men, however, make few
apologies, and I shall make none. My existence, as you know, is an
uncertain quantity, and may be cut short at any moment in the
ordinary course of things. But I have no future in the active
concerns of life; no past on which to dwell with satisfaction; no
friends to mourn for my misfortunes in life, nor for my death,
whether it be peaceful or violent; therefore, I have fewer
compunctions in ending a mistaken career and a worthless life.
Some one will profit by my death: who it is matters not, for it is
no friend of mine. My death adjusts a balance, perhaps not nicely,
yet it does it. And this is all I have to say. . . . I am
going. Farewell. . . .
After a brief farewell to me added, there came the subscription "Charles
Boyd;" and that was all. Why he cried out "Man overboard" (for now I
recognised that it was his voice which gave the alarm), I do not know,
except that he wished his body to be recovered, and to receive burial.
Just here, some one came fumbling at the curtain of my cabin. I heard a
gasp--"Doctor--my head! quick!"
I looked out. As I drew the curtain a worthless lascar sailor fell
fainting into my cabin. He had been drinking a good deal, and the horror
and excitement of the accident had brought on an apoplectic fit. This in
a very hot climate is suddenly fatal. In three minutes, in spite of me,
he was dead. Postponing report of the matter, I went on deck again among
the passengers.
I expected that Mrs. Falchion would be among them, for the news must have
gone to every part of the ship; but she was not there. On the outskirts
of one of the groups, however, I saw Justine Caron. I went to her, and
asked her if Mrs. Falchion had risen. She said that she had not: that
she had been told of the disaster, and had appeared shocked; but had
complained of a headache, and had not risen. I then asked Justine if
Mrs. Falchion had been told who the suicide was, and was answered in the
negative. At that moment a lady came to me and said in an awed whisper:
"Dr. Marmion, is it true that the man who committed suicide was a second-
class passenger, and that he appeared at the ball last night, and danced
with Mrs. Falchion?"
I knew that my reply would soon become common property, so I said:
"He was a first-class passenger, though until yesterday he travelled
second-class. I knew him. His name was Charles Boyd. I introduced him
to Mrs. Falchion last night, but he did not stay long on deck, because he
felt ill. He had heart trouble. You may guess that he was tired of
life." Then I told her of the paper which was for the public, and she
left me.
The search for the unfortunate men went on. No one could be seen near
the floating buoys which were here and there picked up by Hungerford's
boat. The long undulations of the water had been broken up in a large
area about the ship, but the sea was still comparatively smooth. We were
steaming back along the track we had come. There was less excitement on
board than might be expected. The tropical stillness of the air, the
quiet suddenness of the tragedy itself, the grim decisiveness of
Hungerford, the watchful silence of a few men like Colonel Ryder and
Clovelly, had effect upon even the emotion of those women, everywhere
found, who get a morbid enjoyment out of misery.
Nearly all were watching the rescue boat, though a few looked over the
sides of the ship as if they expected to find bodies floating about.
They saw sharks, instead, and a trail of blood, and this sent them away
sickened from the bulwarks. Then they turned their attention again upon
the rescue party. It was impossible not to note what a fine figure
Hungerford made, as he stood erect in the bow, his hand over his eyes,
searching the water. Presently we saw him stop the boat, and something
was drawn in. He signalled the ship. He had found one man--but dead or
alive? The boat was rapidly rowed back to the ship, Hungerford making
efforts for resuscitation. Arrived at the vessel, the body was passed up
to me.
It was that of Stone the quartermaster. I worked to bring back life, but
it was of no avail. A minute after, a man in the yards signalled that he
saw another. It was not a hundred yards away, and was floating near the
surface. It was a strange sight, for the water was a vivid green, and
the man wore garments of white and scarlet, and looked a part of some
strange mosaic: as one has seen astonishing figures set in balls of solid
glass. This figure framed in the sea was Boyd Madras. The boat was
signalled, it drew near, and two men dragged the body in, as a shark
darted forward, just too late, to seize it. The boat drew alongside the
'Fulvia'. I stood at the gangway to receive this castaway. I felt his
wrist and heart. As I did so I chanced to glance up at the passengers,
who were looking at this painful scene from the upper deck. There,
leaning over the railing, stood Mrs. Falchion, her eyes fixed with a
shocking wonder at the drooping, weird figure. Her lips parted, but at
first they made no sound. Then, she suddenly drew herself up with a
shudder. "Horrible! horrible!" she said, and turned away.
I had Boyd Madras taken to an empty cabin next to mine, which I used for
operations, and there Hungerford and myself worked to resuscitate him.
We allowed no one to come near. I had not much hope of bringing life
back, but still we worked with a kind of desperation, for it seemed to
Hungerford and myself that somehow we were responsible to humanity for
him. His heart had been weak, but there had been no organic trouble:
only some functional disorder, which open-air life and freedom from
anxiety might have overcome. Hungerford worked with an almost fierce
persistence. Once he said: "By God, I will bring him back, Marmion, to
face that woman down when she thinks she has got the world on the hip!"
I cannot tell what delight we felt when, after a little time, I saw a
quiver of the eyelids and a slight motion of the chest. Presently a
longer breath came, and the eyes opened; at first without recognition.
Then, in a few moments, I knew that he was safe--desperately against his
will, but safe.
His first sentient words startled me. He gasped, "Does she think I am
drowned?"
"Yes."
"Then she must continue to do so!"
"Why?"
"Because"--here he spoke faintly, as if sudden fear had produced
additional weakness--"because I had rather die a thousand deaths than
meet her now; because she hates me. I must begin the world again. You
have saved my life against my will: I demand that you give that life its
only chance of happiness."
As his words came to me, I remembered with a start the dead lascar, and,
leading Hungerford to my cabin, I pointed to the body, and whispered that
the sailor's death was only known to me. "Then this is the corpse of
Boyd Madras, and we'll bury it for him," he said with quick bluntness.
"Do not report this death to Captain Ascott--he would only raise
objections to the idea. This lascar was in my watch. It will be
supposed he fell overboard during the accident to the boat. Perhaps some
day the funeral of this nigger will be a sensation and surprise to her
blessed ladyship on deck."
I suggested that it seemed underhand and unprofessional, but the
entreating words of the resuscitated man in the next room conquered my
objections.
It was arranged that Madras should remain in the present cabin, of which
I had a key, until we reached Aden; then he should, by Hungerford's aid,
disappear.
We were conspirators, but we meant harm to nobody. I covered up the face
of the dead lascar and wrapped round him the scarlet and gold cloth that
Madras had worn. Then I got a sailor, who supposed Boyd Madras was
before him, and the body was soon sewed in its shotted shroud and carried
to where Stone the quartermaster lay.
At this day I cannot suppose I would do these things, but then it seemed
right to do as Madras wished: he was, under a new name, to begin life
afresh.
After giving directions for the disposition of the bodies, I went on
deck. Mrs. Falchion was still there. Some one said to her: "Did you
know the man who committed suicide?"
"He was introduced to me last night by Dr. Marmion," she replied, and she
shuddered again, though her face showed no remarkable emotion. She had
had a shock to the senses, not to the heart.
When I came to her on the deck, Justine was saying to her: "Madame, you
should not have come. You should not see such painful things when you
are not well."
She did not reply to this. She looked up at me and said: "A strange
whim, to die in those fanciful rags. It is dreadful to see; but he had
the courage."
I replied: "They have as much courage who make men do such things and
then live on."
Then I told her briefly that I held the packet for her, that I guessed
what was in it, and that I would hand it to her later. I also said that
he had written to me the record of last night's meeting with her, and
that he had left a letter which was to be made public. As I said these
things we were walking the decks, and, because eyes were on both of us,
I tried to show nothing more unusual in manner than the bare tragedy
might account for.
"Well," she said, with a curious coldness, "what use shall you make of
your special knowledge?"
"I intend," I said, "to respect his wish, that your relationship to him
be kept unknown, unless you declare otherwise."
"That is reasonable. If he had always been as reasonable! And," she
continued, "I do not wish the relationship to be known: practically there
is none. . . . Oh! oh!" she added, with a sudden change in her
voice, "why did he do as he did, and make everything else impossible--
impossible! . . . Send me, or give me the packet, when you wish: and
now please leave me, Dr. Marmion."
The last few words were spoken with some apparent feeling, but I knew she
was thinking of herself most, and I went from her angry.
I did not see her again before the hour that afternoon when we should
give the bodies of the two men to the ocean. No shroud could be prepared
for gunner Fife and able-seaman Winter, whose bodies had no Christian
burial, but were swallowed by the eager sea, not to be yielded up even
for a few hours. We were now steaming far beyond the place where they
were lost.
The burial was an impressive sight, as burials at sea mostly are. The
lonely waters stretching to the horizon helped to make it so. There was
a melancholy majesty in the ceremony.
The clanging bell had stopped. Captain Ascott was in his place at the
head of the rude draped bier. In the silence one only heard the swish of
water against the 'Fulvia's' side, as we sped on towards Aden. People do
not know how beautiful, how powerful, is the burial service in the Book
of Common Prayer, who have only heard it recited by a clergyman. To hear
it read by a hardy man, whose life is among stern duties, is to receive a
new impression. He knows nothing of lethargic monotone; he interprets as
he reads. And when the man is the home-spun captain of a ship, who sees
before him the poor shell of one that served him for ten years, "The Lord
gave and the Lord hath taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord," has
a strange significance. It is only men who have borne the shock of toil
and danger, and have beaten up against the world's buffetings, that are
fit to say last words over those gone down in the storm or translated in
the fiery chariot of duty.
The engines suddenly stopped. The effect was weird. Captain Ascott's
fingers trembled, and he paused for an instant and looked down upon the
dead, then out sorrowfully to the waiting sea, before he spoke the words,
"We therefore commit their bodies to the deep." But, the moment they
were uttered, the bier was lifted, there was a swift plunge, and only the
flag and the empty boards were left. The sobbing of women now seemed
almost unnatural; for around us was the bright sunlight, the gay dresses
of the lascars, the sound of the bell striking the hours, and children
playing on the deck. The ship moved on.
And Mrs. Falchion? As the burial service was read, she had stood, and
looked, not at the bier, but straight out to sea, calm and apparently
unsympathetic, though, as she thought, her husband was being buried.
When, however, the weighted body divided the water with a swingeing
sound, her face suddenly suffused, as though shame had touched her or
some humiliating idea had come. But she turned to Justine almost
immediately, and soon after said calmly: "Bring a play of Moliere, and
read to me, Justine."
I had the packet her supposed dead husband had left for her in my pocket.
I joined her, and we paced the deck, at first scarcely speaking, while
the passengers dispersed, some below, some to the smoking-rooms, some
upon deck-chairs to doze through the rest of the lazy afternoon. The
world had taken up its orderly course again. At last, in an unfrequented
corner of the deck, I took the packet from my pocket and handed it to
her. "You understand?" I asked.
"Yes, I understand. And now, may I beg that for the rest of your natural
life"--here she paused, and bit her lip in vexation that the unlucky
phrase had escaped her--"you will speak of this no more?"
"Mrs. Boyd Madras," I said (here she coloured indignantly),--"pardon me
for using the name, but it is only this once,--I shall never speak of the
matter to you again, nor to any one else, unless there is grave reason."
We walked again in silence. Passing the captain's cabin, we saw a number
of gentlemen gathered about the door, while others were inside. We
paused, to find what the incident was. Captain Ascott was reading the
letter which Boyd Madras had wished to be made public. (I had given it
to him just before the burial, and he was acting as though Boyd Madras
was really dead--he was quite ignorant of our conspiracy.) I was about to
move on, but Mrs. Falchion touched my arm. "Wait," she said. She stood
and heard the letter through. Then we walked on, she musing. Presently
she said: "It is a pity--a pity."
I looked at her inquiringly, but she offered no explanation of the
enigmatical words. But, at this moment, seeing Justine waiting, she
excused herself, and soon I saw her listening to Moliere. Later in the
day I saw her talking with Miss Treherne, and it struck me that she had
never looked so beautiful as then, and that Miss Treherne had never
seemed so perfect a product of a fine convention. But, watching them
together, one who had had any standard of good life could never have
hesitated between the two. It was plain to me that Mrs. Falchion was
bent upon making a conquest of this girl who so delicately withstood her;
and Belle Treherne has told me since, that, when in her presence, and
listening to her, she was irresistibly drawn to her; though at the same
time she saw there was some significant lack in her nature; some hardness
impossible to any one who had ever known love. She also told me that on
this occasion Mrs. Falchion did not mention my name, nor did she ever in
their acquaintance, save in the most casual fashion. Her conversation
with Miss Treherne was always far from petty gossip or that smart comedy
in which some women tell much personal history, with the guise of
badinage and bright cynicism. I confess, though, it struck me
unpleasantly at the time, that this fresh, high-hearted creature should
be in familiar conversation with a woman who, it seemed to me, was the
incarnation of cruelty.
Mrs. Falchion subscribed most liberally to the fund raised for the
children of the quartermaster and munificently to that for the crew which
had, under Hungerford, performed the rescue work. The only effect of
this was to deepen the belief that she was very wealthy, and could spend
her money without affectation; for it was noticeable that she, of all on
board, showed the least outward excitement at the time of the disaster.
It occurred to me that once or twice I had seen her eyes fixed on
Hungerford inquisitively, and not free from antipathy. It was something
behind her usual equanimity. Her intuitive observation had led her to
trace his hand in recent events. Yet I know she admired him too for his
brave conduct. The day following the tragedy we were seated at dinner.
The captain and most of the officers had risen, but Mrs. Falchion, having
come in late, was still eating, and I remained seated also. Hungerford
approached me, apologising for the interruption. He remarked that he was
going on the bridge, and wished to say something to me before he went.
It was an official matter, to which Mrs. Falchion apparently did not
listen. When he was about to turn away, he bowed to her rather
distantly; but she looked up at him and said, with an equivocal smile:
"Mr. Hungerford, we often respect brave men whom we do not like."
Then he, understanding her, but refusing to recognise the compliment, not
altogether churlishly replied: "And I might say the same of women, Mrs.
Falchion; but there are many women we dislike who are not brave."
"I think I could recognise a brave man without seeing his bravery," she
urged.
"But I am a blundering sailor," he rejoined, "who only believes his
eyes."
"You are young yet," she replied.
"I shall be older to-morrow," was his retort.
"Well, perhaps you will see better to-morrow," she rejoined, with
indolent irony.
"If I do, I'll acknowledge it," he added. Then Hungerford smiled at me
inscrutably. We two held a strange secret.