I did not sleep well. To begin with, I read late. Not till two in the
morning did I reach up and turn out the kerosene reading-lamp which
Wada had purchased and installed for me. I was asleep
immediately—perfect sleep being perhaps my greatest gift; but almost
immediately I was awake again. And thereafter, with dozings and
cat-naps and restless tossings, I struggled to win to sleep, then gave
it up. For of all things, in my state of jangled nerves, to be
afflicted with hives! And still again, to be afflicted with hives in
cold winter weather!
At four I lighted up and went to reading, forgetting my irritated skin
in Vernon Lee’s delightful screed against William James, and his “will
to believe.” I was on the weather side of the ship, and from overhead,
through the deck, came the steady footfalls of some officer on watch. I
knew that they were not the steps of Mr. Pike, and wondered whether
they were Mr. Mellaire’s or the pilot’s. Somebody above there was
awake. The work was going on, the vigilant seeing and overseeing, that,
I could plainly conclude, would go on through every hour of all the
hours on the voyage.
At half-past four I heard the steward’s alarm go off, instantly
suppressed, and five minutes later I lifted my hand to motion him in
through my open door. What I desired was a cup of coffee, and Wada had
been with me through too many years for me to doubt that he had given
the steward precise instructions and turned over to him my coffee and
my coffee-making apparatus.
The steward was a jewel. In ten minutes he served me with a perfect cup
of coffee. I read on until daylight, and half-past eight found me,
breakfast in bed finished, dressed and shaved, and on deck. We were
still towing, but all sails were set to a light favouring breeze from
the north. In the chart-room Captain West and the pilot were smoking
cigars. At the wheel I noted what I decided at once was an efficient.
He was not a large man; if anything he was undersized. But his
countenance was broad-browed and intelligently formed. Tom, I later
learned, was his name—Tom Spink, an Englishman. He was blue-eyed,
fair-skinned, well-grizzled, and, to the eye, a hale fifty years of
age. His reply of “Good morning, sir” was cheery, and he smiled as he
uttered the simple phrase. He did not look sailor-like, as did Henry,
the training-ship boy; and yet I felt at once that he was a sailor, and
an able one.
It was Mr. Pike’s watch, and on asking him about Tom he grudgingly
admitted that the man was the “best of the boiling.”
Miss West emerged from the chart-house, with a rosy morning face and
her vital, springy limb-movement, and immediately began establishing
her contacts. On asking how I had slept, and when I said wretchedly,
she demanded an explanation. I told her of my affliction of hives and
showed her the lumps on my wrists.
“Your blood needs thinning and cooling,” she adjudged promptly. “Wait a
minute. I’ll see what can be done for you.”
And with that she was away and below and back in a trice, in her hand a
part glass of water into which she stirred a teaspoonful of cream of
tartar.
“Drink it,” she ordered, as a matter of course.
I drank it. And at eleven in the morning she came up to my deck-chair
with a second dose of the stuff. Also she reproached me soundly for
permitting Wada to feed meat to Possum. It was from her that Wada and I
learned how mortal a sin it was to give meat to a young puppy.
Furthermore, she laid down the law and the diet for Possum, not alone
to me and Wada, but to the steward, the carpenter, and Mr. Mellaire. Of
the latter two, because they ate by themselves in the big after-room
and because Possum played there, she was especially suspicious; and she
was outspoken in voicing her suspicions to their faces. The carpenter
mumbled embarrassed asseverations in broken English of past, present,
and future innocence, the while he humbly scraped and shuffled before
her on his huge feet. Mr. Mellaire’s protestations were of the same
nature, save that they were made with the grace and suavity of a
Chesterfield.
In short, Possum’s diet raised quite a tempest in the _Elsinore_
teapot, and by the time it was over Miss West had established this
particular contact with me and given me a feeling that we were the
mutual owners of the puppy. I noticed, later in the day, that it was to
Miss West that Wada went for instructions as to the quantity of warm
water he must use to dilute Possum’s condensed milk.
Lunch won my continued approbation of the cook. In the afternoon I made
a trip for’ard to the galley to make his acquaintance. To all intents
he was a Chinese, until he spoke, whereupon, measured by speech alone,
he was an Englishman. In fact, so cultured was his speech that I can
fairly say it was vested with an Oxford accent. He, too, was old, fully
sixty—he acknowledged fifty-nine. Three things about him were markedly
conspicuous: his smile, that embraced all of his clean-shaven Asiatic
face and Asiatic eyes; his even-rowed, white, and perfect teeth, which
I deemed false until Wada ascertained otherwise for me; and his hands
and feet. It was his hands, ridiculously small and beautifully
modelled, that led my scrutiny to his feet. They, too, were
ridiculously small and very neatly, almost dandifiedly, shod.
We had put the pilot off at midday, but the _Britannia_ towed us well
into the afternoon and did not cast us off until the ocean was wide
about us and the land a faint blur on the western horizon. Here, at the
moment of leaving the tug, we made our “departure”—that is to say,
technically began the voyage, despite the fact that we had already
travelled a full twenty-four hours away from Baltimore.
It was about the time of casting off, when I was leaning on the
poop-rail gazing for’ard, when Miss West joined me. She had been busy
below all day, and had just come up, as she put it, for a breath of
air. She surveyed the sky in weather-wise fashion for a full five
minutes, then remarked:
“The barometer’s very high—30.60. This light north wind won’t last. It
will either go into a calm or work around into a north-east gale.”
“Which would you prefer?” I asked.
“The gale, by all means. It will help us off the land, and it will put
me through my torment of sea-sickness more quickly. Oh, yes,” she
added, “I’m a good sailor, but I do suffer dreadfully at the beginning
of every voyage. You probably won’t see me for a couple of days now.
That’s why I’ve been so busy getting settled first.”
“Lord Nelson, I have read, never got over his squeamishness at sea,” I
said.
“And I’ve seen father sea-sick on occasion,” she answered. “Yes, and
some of the strongest, hardest sailors I have ever known.”
Mr. Pike here joined us for a moment, ceasing from his everlasting
pacing up and down to lean with us on the poop-rail.
Many of the crew were in evidence, pulling on ropes on the main deck
below us. To my inexperienced eye they appeared more unprepossessing
than ever.
“A pretty scraggly crew, Mr. Pike,” Miss West remarked.
“The worst ever,” he growled, “and I’ve seen some pretty bad ones.
We’re teachin’ them the ropes just now—most of ’em.”
“They look starved,” I commented.
“They are, they almost always are,” Miss West answered, and her eyes
roved over them in the same appraising, cattle-buyer’s fashion I had
marked in Mr. Pike. “But they’ll fatten up with regular hours, no
whiskey, and solid food—won’t they, Mr. Pike?”
“Oh, sure. They always do. And you’ll see them liven up when we get ’em
in hand . . . maybe. They’re a measly lot, though.”
I looked aloft at the vast towers of canvas. Our four masts seemed to
have flowered into all the sails possible, yet the sailors beneath us,
under Mr. Mellaire’s direction, were setting triangular sails, like
jibs, between the masts, and there were so many that they overlapped
one another. The slowness and clumsiness with which the men handled
these small sails led me to ask:
“But what would you do, Mr. Pike, with a green crew like this, if you
were caught right now in a storm with all this canvas spread?”
He shrugged his shoulders, as if I had asked what he would do in an
earthquake with two rows of New York skyscrapers falling on his head
from both sides of a street.
“Do?” Miss West answered for him. “We’d get the sail off. Oh, it can be
done, Mr. Pathurst, with any kind of a crew. If it couldn’t, I should
have been drowned long ago.”
“Sure,” Mr. Pike upheld her. “So would I.”
“The officers can perform miracles with the most worthless sailors, in
a pinch,” Miss West went on.
Again Mr. Pike nodded his head and agreed, and I noted his two big
paws, relaxed the moment before and drooping over the rail, quite
unconsciously tensed and folded themselves into fists. Also, I noted
fresh abrasions on the knuckles. Miss West laughed heartily, as from
some recollection.
“I remember one time when we sailed from San Francisco with a most
hopeless crew. It was in the _Lallah Rookh_—you remember her, Mr.
Pike?”
“Your father’s fifth command,” he nodded. “Lost on the West Coast
afterwards—went ashore in that big earthquake and tidal wave. Parted
her anchors, and when she hit under the cliff, the cliff fell on her.”
“That’s the ship. Well, our crew seemed mostly cow-boys, and
bricklayers, and tramps, and more tramps than anything else. Where the
boarding-house masters got them was beyond imagining. A number of them
were shanghaied, that was certain. You should have seen them when they
were first sent aloft.” Again she laughed. “It was better than circus
clowns. And scarcely had the tug cast us off, outside the Heads, when
it began to blow up and we began to shorten down. And then our mates
performed miracles. You remember Mr. Harding—Silas Harding?”
“Don’t I though!” Mr. Pike proclaimed enthusiastically. “He was some
man, and he must have been an old man even then.”
“He was, and a terrible man,” she concurred, and added, almost
reverently: “And a wonderful man.” She turned her face to me. “He was
our mate. The men were sea-sick and miserable and green. But Mr.
Harding got the sail off the _Lallah Rookh_ just the same. What I
wanted to tell you was this:
“I was on the poop, just like I am now, and Mr. Harding had a lot of
those miserable sick men putting gaskets on the main-lower-topsail. How
far would that be above the deck, Mr. Pike?”
“Let me see . . . the _Lallah Rookh_.” Mr. Pike paused to consider.
“Oh, say around a hundred feet.”
“I saw it myself. One of the green hands, a tramp—and he must already
have got a taste of Mr. Harding—fell off the lower-topsail-yard. I was
only a little girl, but it looked like certain death, for he was
falling from the weather side of the yard straight down on deck. But he
fell into the belly of the mainsail, breaking his fall, turned a
somersault, and landed on his feet on deck and unhurt. And he landed
right alongside of Mr. Harding, facing him. I don’t know which was the
more astonished, but I think Mr. Harding was, for he stood there
petrified. He had expected the man to be killed. Not so the man. He
took one look at Mr. Harding, then made a wild jump for the rigging and
climbed right back up to that topsail-yard.”
Miss West and the mate laughed so heartily that they scarcely heard me
say:
“Astonishing! Think of the jar to the man’s nerves, falling to apparent
death that way.”
“He’d been jarred harder by Silas Harding, I guess,” was Mr. Pike’s
remark, with another burst of laughter, in which Miss West joined.
Which was all very well in a way. Ships were ships, and judging by what
I had seen of our present crew harsh treatment was necessary. But that
a young woman of the niceness of Miss West should know of such things
and be so saturated in this side of ship life was not nice. It was not
nice for me, though it interested me, I confess,—and strengthened my
grip on reality. Yet it meant a hardening of one’s fibres, and I did
not like to think of Miss West being so hardened.
I looked at her and could not help marking again the fineness and
firmness of her skin. Her hair was dark, as were her eyebrows, which
were almost straight and rather low over her long eyes. Gray her eyes
were, a warm gray, and very steady and direct in expression,
intelligent and alive. Perhaps, taking her face as a whole, the most
noteworthy expression of it was a great calm. She seemed always in
repose, at peace with herself and with the external world. The most
beautiful feature was her eyes, framed in lashes as dark as her brows
and hair. The most admirable feature was her nose, quite straight, very
straight, and just the slightest trifle too long. In this it was
reminiscent of her father’s nose. But the perfect modelling of the
bridge and nostrils conveyed an indescribable advertisement of race and
blood.
Hers was a slender-lipped, sensitive, sensible, and generous
mouth—generous, not so much in size, which was quite average, but
generous rather in tolerance, in power, and in laughter. All the health
and buoyancy of her was in her mouth, as well as in her eyes. She
rarely exposed her teeth in smiling, for which purpose she seemed
chiefly to employ her eyes; but when she laughed she showed strong
white teeth, even, not babyish in their smallness, but just the firm,
sensible, normal size one would expect in a woman as healthy and normal
as she.
I would never have called her beautiful, and yet she possessed many of
the factors that go to compose feminine beauty. She had all the beauty
of colouring, a white skin that was healthy white and that was
emphasized by the darkness of her lashes, brows, and hair. And, in the
same way, the darkness of lashes and brows and the whiteness of skin
set off the warm gray of her eyes. The forehead was, well, medium-broad
and medium high, and quite smooth. No lines nor hints of lines were
there, suggestive of nervousness, of blue days of depression and white
nights of insomnia. Oh, she bore all the marks of the healthy, human
female, who never worried nor was vexed in the spirit of her, and in
whose body every process and function was frictionless and automatic.
“Miss West has posed to me as quite a weather prophet,” I said to the
mate. “Now what is your forecast of our coming weather?”
“She ought to be,” was Mr. Pike’s reply as he lifted his glance across
the smooth swell of sea to the sky. “This ain’t the first time she’s
been on the North Atlantic in winter.” He debated a moment, as he
studied the sea and sky. “I should say, considering the high barometer,
we ought to get a mild gale from the north-east or a calm, with the
chances in favour of the calm.”
She favoured me with a triumphant smile, and suddenly clutched the rail
as the _Elsinore_ lifted on an unusually large swell and sank into the
trough with a roll from windward that flapped all the sails in hollow
thunder.
“The calm has it,” Miss West said, with just a hint of grimness. “And
if this keeps up I’ll be in my bunk in about five minutes.”
She waved aside all sympathy. “Oh, don’t bother about me, Mr. Pathurst.
Sea-sickness is only detestable and horrid, like sleet, and muddy
weather, and poison ivy; besides, I’d rather be sea-sick than have the
hives.”
Something went wrong with the men below us on the deck, some stupidity
or blunder that was made aware to us by Mr. Mellaire’s raised voice.
Like Mr. Pike, he had a way of snarling at the sailors that was
distinctly unpleasant to the ear.
On the faces of several of the sailors bruises were in evidence. One,
in particular, had an eye so swollen that it was closed.
“Looks as if he had run against a stanchion in the dark,” I observed.
Most eloquent, and most unconscious, was the quick flash of Miss West’s
eyes to Mr. Pike’s big paws, with freshly abraded knuckles, resting on
the rail. It was a stab of hurt to me. _She knew_.