The more I see of Miss West the more she pleases me. Explain it in
terms of propinquity, or isolation, or whatever you will; I, at least,
do not attempt explanation. I know only that she is a woman and
desirable. And I am rather proud, in a way, to find that I am just a
man like any man. The midnight oil, and the relentless pursuit I have
endured in the past from the whole tribe of women, have not, I am glad
to say, utterly spoiled me.
I am obsessed by that phrase—a _woman and desirable_. It beats in my
brain, in my thought. I go out of my way to steal a glimpse of Miss
West through a cabin door or vista of hall when she does not know I am
looking. A woman is a wonderful thing. A woman’s hair is wonderful. A
woman’s softness is a magic.—Oh, I know them for what they are, and yet
this very knowledge makes them only the more wonderful. I know—I would
stake my soul—that Miss West has considered me as a mate a thousand
times to once that I have so considered her. And yet—she is a woman and
desirable.
And I find myself continually reminded of Richard Le Gallienne’s
inimitable quatrain:
“Were I a woman, I would all day long
Sing my own beauty in some holy song,
Bend low before it, hushed and half afraid,
And say ‘I am a woman’ all day long.”
Let me advise all philosophers suffering from world-sickness to take a
long sea voyage with a woman like Miss West.
In this narrative I shall call her “Miss West” no more. She has ceased
to be Miss West. She is Margaret. I do not think of her as Miss West. I
think of her as Margaret. It is a pretty word, a woman-word. What poet
must have created it! Margaret! I never tire of it. My tongue is
enamoured of it. Margaret West! What a name to conjure with! A name
provocative of dreams and mighty connotations. The history of our
westward-faring race is written in it. There is pride in it, and
dominion, and adventure, and conquest. When I murmur it I see visions
of lean, beaked ships, of winged helmets, and heels iron-shod of
restless men, royal lovers, royal adventurers, royal fighters. Yes, and
even now, in these latter days when the sun consumes us, still we sit
in the high seat of government and command.
Oh—and by the way—she is twenty-four years old. I asked Mr. Pike the
date of the _Dixie’s_ collision with the river steamer in San Francisco
Bay. This occurred in 1901. Margaret was twelve years old at the time.
This is 1913. Blessings on the head of the man who invented arithmetic!
She is twenty-four. Her name is Margaret, and she is desirable.
* * * * *
There are so many things to tell about. Where and how this mad voyage,
with a mad crew, will end is beyond all surmise. But the _Elsinore_
drives on, and day by day her history is bloodily written. And while
murder is done, and while the whole floating drama moves toward the
bleak southern ocean and the icy blasts of Cape Horn, I sit in the high
place with the masters, unafraid, I am proud to say, in an ecstasy, I
am proud to say, and I murmur over and over to _myself_—_Margaret_, _a
woman_; _Margaret_, _and desirable_.
But to resume. It is the first day of June. Ten days have passed since
the pampero. When the strong back on Number Three hatch was repaired
Captain West came back on the wind, hove to, and rode out the gale.
Since then, in calm, and fog, and damp, and storm, we have won south
until to-day we are almost abreast of the Falklands. The coast of the
Argentine lies to the West, below the sea-line, and some time this
morning we crossed the fiftieth parallel of south latitude. Here begins
the passage of Cape Horn, for so it is reckoned by the navigators—fifty
south in the Atlantic to fifty south in the Pacific.
And yet all is well with us in the matter of weather. The _Elsinore_
slides along with favouring winds. Daily it grows colder. The great
cabin stove roars and is white-hot, and all the connecting doors are
open, so that the whole after region of the ship is warm and
comfortable. But on the deck the air bites, and Margaret and I wear
mittens as we promenade the poop or go for’ard along the repaired
bridge to see the chickens on the ’midship-house. The poor, wretched
creatures of instinct and climate! Behold, as they approach the
southern mid-winter of the Horn, when they have need of all their
feathers, they proceed to moult, because, forsooth, this is the summer
time in the land they came from. Or is moulting determined by the time
of year they happen to be born? I shall have to look into this.
Margaret will know.
Yesterday ominous preparations were made for the passage of the Horn.
All the braces were taken from the main deck pin-rails and geared and
arranged so that they may be worked from the tops of the houses.
Thus, the fore-braces run to the top of the forecastle, the main-braces
to the top of the ’midship-house, and the mizzen-braces to the poop. It
is evident that they expect our main deck frequently to be filled with
water. So evident is it that a laden ship when in big seas is like a
log awash, that fore and aft, on both sides, along the deck,
shoulder-high, life-lines have been rigged. Also, the two iron doors,
on port and starboard, that open from the cabin directly upon the main
deck, have been barricaded and caulked. Not until we are in the Pacific
and flying north will these doors open again.
And while we prepare to battle around the stormiest headland in the
world our situation on board grows darker. This morning Petro
Marinkovich, a sailor in Mr. Mellaire’s watch, was found dead on Number
One hatch. The body bore several knife-wounds and the throat was cut.
It was palpably done by some one or several of the forecastle hands;
but not a word can be elicited. Those who are guilty of it are silent,
of course; while others who may chance to know are afraid to speak.
Before midday the body was overside with the customary sack of coal.
Already the man is a past episode. But the humans for’ard are tense
with expectancy of what is to come. I strolled for’ard this afternoon,
and noted for the first time a distinct hostility toward me. They
recognize that I belong with the after-guard in the high place. Oh,
nothing was said; but it was patent by the way almost every man looked
at me, or refused to look at me. Only Mulligan Jacobs and Charles Davis
were outspoken.
“Good riddance,” said Mulligan Jacobs. “The Guinea didn’t have the
spunk of a louse. And he’s better off, ain’t he? He lived dirty, an’ he
died dirty, an’ now he’s over an’ done with the whole dirty game.
There’s men on board that oughta wish they was as lucky as him. Theirs
is still a-coming to ’em.”
“You mean . . . ?” I queried.
“Whatever you want to think I mean,” the twisted wretch grinned
malevolently into my face.
Charles Davis, when I peeped into his iron room, was exuberant.
“A pretty tale for the court in Seattle,” he exulted. “It’ll only make
my case that much stronger. And wait till the reporters get hold of it!
The hell-ship _Elsinore_! They’ll have pretty pickin’s!”
“I haven’t seen any hell-ship,” I said coldly.
“You’ve seen my treatment, ain’t you?” he retorted. “You’ve seen the
hell I’ve got, ain’t you?”
“I know you for a cold-blooded murderer,” I answered.
“The court will determine that, sir. All you’ll have to do is to
testify to facts.”
“I’ll testify that had I been in the mate’s place I’d have hanged you
for murder.”
His eyes positively sparkled.
“I’ll ask you to remember this conversation when you’re under oath,
sir,” he cried eagerly.
I confess the man aroused in me a reluctant admiration. I looked about
his mean, iron-walled room. During the pampero the place had been
awash. The white paint was peeling off in huge scabs, and iron-rust was
everywhere. The floor was filthy. The place stank with the stench of
his sickness. His pannikin and unwashed eating-gear from the last meal
were scattered on the floor: His blankets were wet, his clothing was
wet. In a corner was a heterogeneous mass of soggy, dirty garments. He
lay in the very bunk in which he had brained O’Sullivan. He had been
months in this vile hole. In order to live he would have to remain
months more in it. And while his rat-like vitality won my admiration, I
loathed and detested him in very nausea.
“Aren’t you afraid?” I demanded. “What makes you think you will last
the voyage? Don’t you know bets are being made that you won’t?”
So interested was he that he seemed to prick up his ears as he raised
on his elbow.
“I suppose you’re too scared to tell me about them bets,” he sneered.
“Oh, I’ve bet you’ll last,” I assured him.
“That means there’s others that bet I won’t,” he rattled on hastily.
“An’ that means that there’s men aboard the _Elsinore_ right now
financially interested in my taking-off.”
At this moment the steward, bound aft from the galley, paused in the
doorway and listened, grinning. As for Charles Davis, the man had
missed his vocation. He should have been a land-lawyer, not a
sea-lawyer.
“Very well, sir,” he went on. “I’ll have you testify to that in
Seattle, unless you’re lying to a helpless sick man, or unless you’ll
perjure yourself under oath.”
He got what he was seeking, for he stung me to retort:
“Oh, I’ll testify. Though I tell you candidly that I don’t think I’ll
win my bet.”
“You loose ’m bet sure,” the steward broke in, nodding his head. “That
fellow him die damn soon.”
“Bet with’m, sir,” Davis challenged me. “It’s a straight tip from me,
an’ a regular cinch.”
The whole situation was so gruesome and grotesque, and I had been swept
into it so absurdly, that for the moment I did not know what to do or
say.
“It’s good money,” Davis urged. “I ain’t goin’ to die. Look here,
steward, how much you want to bet?”
“Five dollar, ten dollar, twenty dollar,” the steward answered, with a
shoulder-shrug that meant that the sum was immaterial.
“Very well then, steward. Mr. Pathurst covers your money, say for
twenty. Is it a go, sir?”
“Why don’t you bet with him yourself?” I demanded.
“Sure I will, sir. Here, you steward, I bet you twenty even I don’t
die.”
The steward shook his head.
“I bet you twenty to ten,” the sick man insisted. “What’s eatin’ you,
anyway?”
“You live, me lose, me pay you,” the steward explained. “You die, I
win, you dead; no pay me.”
Still grinning and shaking his head, he went his way.
“Just the same, sir, it’ll be rich testimony,” Davis chuckled. “An’
can’t you see the reporters eatin’ it up?”
The Asiatic clique in the cook’s room has its suspicions about the
death of Marinkovich, but will not voice them. Beyond shakings of heads
and dark mutterings, I can get nothing out of Wada or the steward. When
I talked with the sail-maker, he complained that his injured hand was
hurting him and that he would be glad when he could get to the surgeons
in Seattle. As for the murder, when pressed by me, he gave me to
understand that it was no affair of the Japanese or Chinese on board,
and that he was a Japanese.
But Louis, the Chinese half-caste with the Oxford accent, was more
frank. I caught him aft from the galley on a trip to the lazarette for
provisions.
“We are of a different race, sir, from these men,” he said; “and our
safest policy is to leave them alone. We have talked it over, and we
have nothing to say, sir, nothing whatever to say. Consider my
position. I work for’ard in the galley; I am in constant contact with
the sailors; I even sleep in their section of the ship; and I am one
man against many. The only other countryman I have on board is the
steward, and he sleeps aft. Your servant and the two sail-makers are
Japanese. They are only remotely kin to us, though we’ve agreed to
stand together and apart from whatever happens.”
“There is Shorty,” I said, remembering Mr. Pike’s diagnosis of his
mixed nationality.
“But we do not recognize him, sir,” Louis answered suavely. “He is
Portuguese; he is Malay; he is Japanese, true; but he is a mongrel,
sir, a mongrel and a bastard. Also, he is a fool. And please, sir,
remember that we are very few, and that our position compels us to
neutrality.”
“But your outlook is gloomy,” I persisted. “How do you think it will
end?”
“We shall arrive in Seattle most probably, some of us. But I can tell
you this, sir: I have lived a long life on the sea, but I have never
seen a crew like this. There are few sailors in it; there are bad men
in it; and the rest are fools and worse. You will notice I mention no
names, sir; but there are men on board whom I do not care to
antagonize. I am just Louis, the cook. I do my work to the best of my
ability, and that is all, sir.”
“And will Charles Davis arrive in Seattle?” I asked, changing the topic
in acknowledgment of his right to be reticent.
“No, I do not think so, sir,” he answered, although his eyes thanked me
for my courtesy. “The steward tells me you have bet that he will. I
think, sir, it is a poor bet. We are about to go around the Horn. I
have been around it many times. This is midwinter, and we are going
from east to west. Davis’ room will be awash for weeks. It will never
be dry. A strong healthy man confined in it could well die of the
hardship. And Davis is far from well. In short, sir, I know his
condition, and he is in a shocking state. Surgeons might prolong his
life, but here in a wind-jammer it is shortened very rapidly. I have
seen many men die at sea. I know, sir. Thank you, sir.”
And the Eurasian Chinese-Englishman bowed himself away.