THE BLOOD OF THE WINTERSLIPS
The days that followed proved that he was right. He seldom had a moment
alone with Barbara; when he did, Jennison seemed always to be hovering
near by, and he did not long delay making the group a threesome. At
first John Quincy resented this, but gradually he began to feel that it
didn't matter.
Nothing appeared to matter any more. A great calm had settled over the
waters and over John Quincy's soul. The Pacific was one vast sheet of
glass, growing a deeper blue with every passing hour. They seemed to be
floating in space in a world where nothing ever happened, nothing could
happen. Quiet restful days gave way to long brilliant nights. A little
walk, a little talk, and that was life.
Sometimes John Quincy chatted with Madame Maynard on the deck. She who
had known the Islands so many years had fascinating tales to tell, tales
of the monarchy and the missionaries. The boy liked her immensely, she
was a New Englander at heart despite her glamourous lifetime in Hawaii.
Bowker, too, he found excellent company. The steward was that rarity
even among college graduates, an educated man; there was no topic upon
which he could not discourse at length and brilliantly. In John
Quincy's steamer trunk were a number of huge imposing volumes--books he
had been meaning to tackle long ago, but it was Bowker who read them,
not John Quincy.
As the days slipped by, the blue of the water deepened to ultramarine,
the air grew heavier and warmer. Under-foot throbbed the engines that
were doing their best for Barbara and an early landing. The captain was
optimistic, he predicted they would make port late Monday afternoon. But
Sunday night a fierce sudden storm swept down upon them, and lashed the
ship with a wet fury until dawn. When the captain appeared at luncheon
Monday noon, worn by a night on the bridge, he shook his head.
"We've lost our bet, Miss Barbara," he said. "I can't possibly arrive
off Hololulu before midnight."
Barbara frowned. "But ships sail at any hour," she reminded him. "I
don't see why--if we sent radios ahead--"
"No use," he told her. "The Quarantine people keep early hours. No, I'll
have to lay by near the channel entrance until official sunrise--about
six. We'll get in ahead of the _Matsonia_ in the morning. That's the
best I can offer you."
"You're a dear, anyhow," Barbara smiled. "That old storm wasn't your
fault. We'll drown our sorrow to-night with one last glorious dance--a
costume party." She turned to Jennison. "I've got the loveliest fancy
dress--Marie Antoinette--I wore it at college. What do you say, Harry?"
"Fine!" Jennison answered. "We can all dig up some sort of costume.
Let's go."
Barbara hurried off to spread the news. After dinner that evening she
appeared, a blonde vision straight from the French Court, avid for
dancing. Jennison had rigged up an impromptu pirate dress, and was a
striking figure. Most of the other passengers had donned weird outfits;
on the Pacific boats a fancy dress party is warmly welcomed and
amusingly carried out.
John Quincy took small part in the gaiety, for he still suffered from
New England inhibitions. At a little past eleven he drifted into the
main saloon and found Madame Maynard seated there alone.
"Hello," she said. "Come to keep me company? I've sworn not to go to bed
until I see the light on Diamond Head."
"I'm with you," John Quincy smiled.
"But you ought to be dancing, boy. And you're not in costume."
"No," admitted John Quincy. He paused, seeking an explanation. "A--a
fellow can't make a fool of himself in front of a lot of strangers."
"I understand," nodded the old lady. "It's a fine delicacy, too. But
rather rare, particularly out this way."
Barbara entered, flushed and vibrant. "Harry's gone to get me a drink,"
she panted. She sat down beside Mrs. Maynard. "I've been looking for
you, my dear. You know, you haven't read my palm since I was a child.
She's simply wonderful--" this to John Quincy. "Can tell you the most
amazing things."
Mrs. Maynard vehemently shook her head. "I don't read 'em any more," she
said. "Gave it up. As I've grown older, I've come to understand how
foolish it is to peer into the future. To-day--that's enough for me.
That's all I care to think about."
"Oh, please," the girl pouted.
The old woman took Barbara's slim hand in hers, and studied the palm
for a moment. John Quincy thought he saw a shadow cross her face. Again
she shook her head.
"_Carpe diem_," she said. "Which my nephew once translated as 'grab the
day.' Dance and be happy to-night, and let's not try to look behind the
curtain. It doesn't pay, my dear. Take an old woman's word for that."
Harry Jennison appeared in the door. "Oh, here you are," he said. "I've
got your drink waiting in the smoking-room."
"I'm coming," the girl said, and went. The old woman stared after her.
"Poor Barbara," she murmured. "Her mother's life was none too happy,
either--"
"You saw something in her hand--" John Quincy suggested.
"No matter," the old lady snapped. "There's trouble waiting for us all,
if we look far enough ahead. Now, let's go on deck. It's getting on
toward midnight."
She led him out to the starboard rail. A solitary light, like a star,
gleamed in the distance. Land, land at last. "Diamond Head?" John Quincy
asked.
"No," she said. "That's the beacon on Makapuu Point. We shall have to
round Koko Head before we sight Honolulu." She stood for a moment by the
rail, one frail hand resting upon it. "But that's Oahu," she said
gently. "That's home. A sweet land, boy. Too sweet, I often think. I
hope you'll like it."
"I'm sure I shall," replied John Quincy gallantly.
"Let's sit down here." They found deck chairs. "Yes, a dear land," she
went on. "But we're all sorts, in Hawaii--just as it is the whole world
over--honest folks and rascals. From the four corners of the globe men
come to us--often because they were no longer welcome at home. We offer
them a paradise, and some repay us by becoming good citizens, while
others rot away. I often think it will take a lot of stamina to make
good in Heaven--and Hawaii is the same."
The tall emaciated figure of the Reverend Mr. Upton appeared before
them. He bowed. "Good evening, Madame. You're nearly home."
"Yes," she said. "Glad of it, too."
He turned to John Quincy. "You'll be seeing Dan Winterslip in the
morning, young man."
"I expect I shall," John Quincy replied.
"Just ask him if he recalls that day on Apiang Island in the 'eighties.
The Reverend Frank Upton."
"Of course," replied John Quincy. "But you haven't told me much about
it, you know."
"No, I haven't." The missionary dropped into a chair. "I don't like to
reveal any secrets about a man's past," he said. "However, I understand
that the story of Dan Winterslip's early life has always been known in
Honolulu." He glanced toward Madame Maynard.
"Dan was no saint," she remarked. "We all know that."
He crossed his thin legs. "As a matter of fact, I'm very proud of my
meeting with Dan Winterslip," he went on. "I feel that in my humble way
I persuaded him to change his course--for the better."
"Humph," said the old lady. She was dubious, evidently.
John Quincy was not altogether pleased at the turn the conversation had
taken. He did not care to have the name of a Winterslip thus bandied
about. But to his annoyance, the Reverend Mr. Upton was continuing.
"It was in the 'eighties, as I told you," said the missionary. "I had a
lonely station on Apiang, in the Gilbert group. One morning a brig
anchored just beyond the reef, and a boat came ashore. Of course, I
joined the procession of natives down to the beach to meet it. I saw few
enough men of my own race.
"There was a ruffianly crew aboard, in charge of a dapper, rather
handsome young white man. And I saw, even before they beached her,
midway in the boat, a long pine box.
"The white man introduced himself. He said he was First Officer
Winterslip, of the brig _Maid of Shiloh_. And when he mentioned the name
of the ship, of course I knew at once. Knew her unsavory trade and
history. He hurried on to say that their captain had died the day
before, and they had brought him ashore to bury him on land. It had been
the man's last wish.
"Well." The Reverend Mr. Upton stared at the distant shore line of Oahu.
"I looked over at that rough pine box--four Malay sailors were carrying
it ashore. 'So Tom Brade's in there,' I said. Young Winterslip nodded.
'He's in there, right enough,' he answered. And I knew I was looking on
at the final scene in the career of a famous character of the South
Seas, a callous brute who knew no law, a pirate and adventurer, the
master of the notorious _Maid of Shiloh_. Tom Brade, the blackbirder."
"Blackbirder?" queried John Quincy.
The missionary smiled. "Ah, yes--you come from Boston. A blackbirder, my
boy, is a shipping-master who furnishes contract labor to the
plantations at so much a head. It's pretty well wiped out now, but in
the eighties! A horrible business--the curse of God was on it.
Sometimes the laborers came willingly. Sometimes. But mostly they came
at the point of a knife or the muzzle of a gun. A bloody, brutal
business.
"Winterslip and his men went up the beach and began to dig a grave under
a cocoanut palm. I followed. I offered to say a prayer. Winterslip
laughed--not much use, he said. But there on that bright morning under
the palm I consigned to God the soul of a man who had so much to answer
for. Winterslip agreed to come to my house for lunch. He told me that
save for a recruiting agent who had remained aboard the brig, he was now
the only white man on the ship.
"During lunch, I talked to him. He was so young--I discovered this was
his first trip. 'It's no trade for you,' I told him. And after a time,
he agreed with me. He said he had two hundred blacks under the hatches
that he must deliver to a plantation over in the Kings-mill group, and
that after he'd done that, he was through. 'I'll take the _Maid_ back to
Sydney, Dominie,' he promised, 'and turn her over. Then I'm pau. I'm
going home to Honolulu.'"
The Reverend Mr. Upton rose slowly. "I learned later that he kept his
word," he finished. "Yes, Dan Winterslip went home, and the South Seas
saw him no more. I've always been a little proud of my part in that
decision. I've had few rewards. It's not everywhere that the
missionaries have prospered in a worldly way--as they did in Hawaii." He
glanced at Madame Maynard. "But I've had satisfactions. And one of them
arose from that meeting on the shore at Apiang. It's long past my bed
hour--I must say good night."
He moved away. John Quincy sat turning this horror over and over in his
mind. A Winterslip in the blackbirding business! That was pretty. He
wished he was back on Beacon Street.
"Sweet little dig for me," the old lady was muttering indignantly. "That
about the missionaries in Hawaii. And he needn't be so cocky. If Dan
Winterslip dropped blackbirding, it was only because he'd found
something more profitable, I fancy." She stood up suddenly. "At last,"
she said.
John Quincy rose and stood beside her. Far away a faint yellow eye was
winking. For a moment the old lady did not speak.
"Well, that's that," she said finally, in a low voice. "I've seen
Diamond Head again. Good night, my boy."
"Good night," John Quincy answered.
He stood alone by the rail. The pace of the _President Tyler_ was
slowing perceptibly. The moon came from behind a cloud, crept back
again. A sort of unholy calm was settling over the hot, airless, deep
blue world. The boy felt a strange restlessness in his heart.
He ascended to the boat deck, seeking a breath of air. There, in a
secluded spot, he came upon Barbara and Jennison--and stopped, shocked.
His cousin was in the man's arms, and their bizarre costumes added a
weird touch to the scene. They did not see John Quincy, for in their
world at that moment there were only two. Their lips were crushed
together, fiercely--
John Quincy fled. Good lord! He had kissed a girl or two himself, but it
had been nothing like that.
He went to the rail outside his stateroom. Well, what of it? Barbara was
nothing to him, a cousin, yes, but one who seemed to belong to an alien
race. He had sensed that she was in love with Jennison; this was no
surprise. Why did he feel that frustrated pang deep in his heart? He was
engaged to Agatha Parker.
He gripped the rail, and sought to see again Agatha's aristocratic face.
But it was blurred, indistinct. All Boston was blurred in his memory.
The blood of the roaming Winterslips, the blood that led on to
blackbirding and hot breathless kisses in the tropic night--was it
flowing in his veins too? Oh, lord--he should have stayed at home where
he belonged.
Bowker, the steward, came along. "Well, here we are," he said. "We'll
anchor in twelve fathoms and wait for the pilot and the doctor in the
morning. I heard they'd been having Kona weather out this way, but I
imagine this is the tail end of it. There'll be a moon shortly, and by
dawn the old trades will be on the job again, God bless them."
John Quincy did not speak. "I've returned all your books, sir," the
steward went on, "except that one by Adams on _Revolutionary New
England_. It's a mighty interesting work. I intend to finish it
to-night, so I can give it to you before you go ashore."
"Oh, that's all right," John Quincy said. He pointed to dim harbor
lights in the distance. "Honolulu's over there, I take it."
"Yeah--several miles away. A dead town, sir. They roll up the sidewalks
at nine. And let me give you a tip. Keep away from the okolehau."
"The what?" asked John Quincy.
"The okolehau. A drink they sell out here."
"What's it made of?"
"There," said Bowker, "you have the plot for a big mystery story. What
_is_ it made of? Judging by the smell, of nothing very lovely. A few
gulps, and you hit the ceiling of eternity. But oh, boy--when you drop!
Keep off it, sir. I'm speaking as one who knows."
"I'll keep off it," John Quincy promised.
Bowker disappeared. John Quincy remained by the rail, that restless
feeling growing momentarily. The moon was hidden still, the ship crept
along through the muggy darkness. He peered across the black waters
toward the strange land that awaited him.
Somewhere over there, Dan Winterslip waited for him too. Dan Winterslip,
blood relative of the Boston Winterslips, and ex-blackbirder. For the
first time, the boy wished he had struck first in that dark attic in San
Francisco, wished he had got that strong box and cast it overboard in
the night. Who could say what new scandal, what fresh blot on the
honored name of Winterslip, might have been averted had he been quicker
with his fists?
As John Quincy turned and entered his cabin, he made a firm resolution.
He would linger but briefly at this, his journey's end. A few days to
get his breath, perhaps, and then he would set out again for Boston. And
Aunt Minerva would go with him, whether she wanted to or not.