Four more days have passed; the gale has blown itself out; we are not
more than three hundred and fifty miles off Valparaiso; and the
_Elsinore_, this time due to me and my own stubbornness, is rolling in
the wind and heading nowhere in a light breeze at the rate of nothing
but driftage per hour.
In the height of the gusts, in the three days and nights of the gale,
we logged as much as eight, and even nine, knots. What bothered me was
the acquiescence of the mutineers in my programme. They were sensible
enough in the simple matter of geography to know what I was doing. They
had control of the sails, and yet they permitted me to run for the
South American coast.
More than that, as the gale eased on the morning of the third day, they
actually went aloft, set top-gallant-sails, royals, and skysails, and
trimmed the yards to the quartering breeze. This was too much for the
Saxon streak in me, whereupon I wore the _Elsinore_ about before the
wind, fetched her up upon it, and lashed the wheel. Margaret and I are
agreed in the hypothesis that their plan is to get inshore until land
is sighted, at which time they will desert in the boats.
“But we don’t want them to desert,” she proclaims with flashing eyes.
“We are bound for Seattle. They must return to duty. They’ve got to,
soon, for they are beginning to starve.”
“There isn’t a navigator aft,” I oppose.
Promptly she withers me with her scorn.
“You, a master of books, by all the sea-blood in your body should be
able to pick up the theoretics of navigation while I snap my fingers.
Furthermore, remember that I can supply the seamanship. Why, any
squarehead peasant, in a six months’ cramming course at any seaport
navigation school, can pass the examiners for his navigator’s papers.
That means six hours for you. And less. If you can’t, after an hour’s
reading and an hour’s practice with the sextant, take a latitude
observation and work it out, I’ll do it for you.”
“You mean you know?”
She shook her head.
“I mean, from the little I know, that I know I can learn to know a
meridian sight and the working out of it. I mean that I can learn to
know inside of two hours.”
Strange to say, the gale, after easing to a mild breeze, recrudesced in
a sort of after-clap. With sails untrimmed and flapping, the consequent
smashing, crashing, and rending of our gear can be imagined. It brought
out in alarm every man for’ard.
“Trim the yards!” I yelled at Bert Rhine, who, backed for counsel by
Charles Davis and the Maltese Cockney, actually came directly beneath
me on the main deck in order to hear above the commotion aloft.
“Keep a-runnin, an’ you won’t have to trim,” the gangster shouted up to
me.
“Want to make land, eh?” I girded down at him. “Getting hungry, eh?
Well, you won’t make land or anything else in a thousand years once you
get all your top-hamper piled down on deck.”
I have forgotten to state that this occurred at midday yesterday.
“What are you goin’ to do if we trim?” Charles Davis broke in.
“Run off shore,” I replied, “and get your gang out in deep sea where it
will be starved back to duty.”
“We’ll furl, an’ let you heave to,” the gangster proposed.
I shook my head and held up my rifle. “You’ll have to go aloft to do
it, and the first man that gets into the shrouds will get this.”
“Then she can go to hell for all we care,” he said, with emphatic
conclusiveness.
And just then the fore-topgallant-yard carried away—luckily as the bow
was down-pitched into a trough of sea-and when the slow, confused, and
tangled descent was accomplished the big stick lay across the wreck of
both bulwarks and of that portion of the bridge between the foremast
and the forecastle head.
Bert Rhine heard, but could not see, the damage wrought. He looked up
at me challengingly, and sneered:
“Want some more to come down?”
It could not have happened more apropos. The port-brace, and
immediately afterwards the starboard-brace, of the crojack-yard—carried
away. This was the big, lowest spar on the mizzen, and as the huge
thing of steel swung wildly back and forth the gangster and his
followers turned and crouched as they looked up to see. Next, the
gooseneck of the truss, on which it pivoted, smashed away. Immediately
the lifts and lower-topsail sheets parted, and with a fore-and-aft
pitch of the ship the spar up-ended and crashed to the deck upon Number
Three hatch, destroying that section of the bridge in its fall.
All this was new to the gangster—as it was to me—but Charles Davis and
the Maltese Cockney thoroughly apprehended the situation.
“Stand out from under!” I yelled sardonically; and the three of them
cowered and shrank away as their eyes sought aloft for what new spar
was thundering down upon them.
The lower-topsail, its sheets parted by the fall of the crojack-yard,
was tearing out of the bolt-ropes and ribboning away to leeward and
making such an uproar that they might well expect its yard to carry
away. Since this wreckage of our beautiful gear was all new to me, I
was quite prepared to see the thing happen.
The gangster-leader, no sailor, but, after months at sea, intelligent
enough and nervously strong enough to appreciate the danger, turned his
head and looked up at me. And I will do him the credit to say that he
took his time while all our world of gear aloft seemed smashing to
destruction.
“I guess we’ll trim yards,” he capitulated.
“Better get the skysails and royals off,” Margaret said in my ear.
“While you’re about it, get in the skysails and royals!” I shouted
down. “And make a decent job of the gasketing!”
Both Charles Davis and the Maltese Cockney advertised their relief in
their faces as they heard my words, and, at a nod from the gangster,
they started for’ard on the run to put the orders into effect.
Never, in the whole voyage, did our crew spring to it in more lively
fashion. And lively fashion was needed to save our gear. As it was,
they cut away the remnants of the mizzen-lower-topsail with their
sheath-knives, and they loosed the main-skysail out of its bolt-ropes.
The first infraction of our agreement was on the main-lower-topsail.
This they attempted to furl. The carrying away of the crojack and the
blowing away of the mizzen-lower-topsail gave me freedom to see and
aim, and when the tiny messengers from my rifle began to spat through
the canvas and to spat against the steel of the yard, the men strung
along it desisted from passing the gaskets. I waved my will to Bert
Rhine, who acknowledged me and ordered the sail set again and the yard
trimmed.
“What is the use of running off-shore?” I said to Margaret, when the
kites were snugged down and all yards trimmed on the wind. “Three
hundred and fifty miles off the land is as good as thirty-five hundred
so far as starvation is concerned.”
So, instead of making speed through the water toward deep sea, I hove
the _Elsinore_ to on the starboard tack with no more than leeway
driftage to the west and south.
But our gallant mutineers had their will of us that very night. In the
darkness we could hear the work aloft going on as yards were run down,
sheets let go, and sails clew up and gasketed. I did try a few random
shots, and all my reward was to hear the whine and creak of ropes
through sheaves and to receive an equally random fire of
revolver-shots.
It is a most curious situation. We of the high place are masters of the
steering of the _Elsinore_, while those for’ard are masters of the
motor power. The only sail that is wholly ours is the spanker. They
control absolutely—sheets, halyards, clewlines, buntlines, braces, and
down-hauls—every sail on the fore and main. We control the braces on
the mizzen, although they control the canvas on the mizzen. For that
matter, Margaret and I fail to comprehend why they do not go aloft any
dark night and sever the mizzen-braces at the yard-ends. All that
prevents this, we are decided, is laziness. For if they did sever the
braces that lead aft into our hands, they would be compelled to rig new
braces for’ard in some fashion, else, in the rolling, would the
mizzenmast be stripped of every spar.
And still the mutiny we are enduring is ridiculous and grotesque. There
was never a mutiny like it. It violates all standards and precedents.
In the old classic mutinies, long ere this, attacking like tigers, the
seamen should have swarmed over the poop and killed most of us or been
most of them killed.
Wherefore I sneer at our gallant mutineers, and recommend trained
nurses for them, quite in the manner of Mr. Pike. But Margaret shakes
her head and insists that human nature is human nature, and that under
similar circumstances human nature will express itself similarly. In
short, she points to the number of deaths that have already occurred,
and declares that on some dark night, sooner or later, whenever the
pinch of hunger sufficiently sharpens, we shall see our rascals
storming aft.
And in the meantime, except for the tenseness of it, and for the
incessant watchfulness which Margaret and I alone maintain, it is more
like a mild adventure, more like a page out of some book of romance
which ends happily.
It is surely romance, watch and watch for a man and a woman who love,
to relieve each other’s watches. Each such relief is a love passage and
unforgettable. Never was there wooing like it—the muttered surmises of
wind and weather, the whispered councils, the kissed commands in palms
of hands, the dared contacts of the dark.
Oh, truly, I have often, since this voyage began, told the books to go
hang. And yet the books are at the back of the race-life of me. I am
what I am out of ten thousand generations of my kind. Of that there is
no discussion. And yet my midnight philosophy stands the test of my
breed. I must have selected my books out of the ten thousand
generations that compose me. I have killed a man—Steve Roberts. As a
perishing blond without an alphabet I should have done this
unwaveringly. As a perishing blond with an alphabet, plus the contents
in my brain of the philosophizing of all philosophers, I have killed
this same man with the same unwaveringness. Culture has not emasculated
me. I am quite unaffected. It was in the day’s work, and my kind have
always been day-workers, doing the day’s work, whatever it might be, in
high adventure or dull ploddingness, and always doing it.
Never would I ask to set back the dial of time or event. I would kill
Steve Roberts again, under the same circumstances, as a matter of
course. When I say I am unaffected by this happening I do not quite
mean it. I am affected. I am aware that the spirit of me is informed
with a sober elation of efficiency. I have done something that had to
be done, as any man will do what has to be done in the course of the
day’s work.
Yes, I am a perishing blond, and a man, and I sit in the high place and
bend the stupid ones to my will; and I am a lover, loving a royal woman
of my own perishing breed, and together we occupy, and shall occupy,
the high place of government and command until our kind perish from the
earth.