AFTER THE BATTLE
Carleton’s downfall was known all over the Ledge and on board every
boat that lay at its wharf long before either he or Sanford regained
the open air. The means of communication was that same old silent
current that requires neither pole nor battery to put it into working
order. Within thirty seconds of the time the ominous words fell from
the general’s lips, the single word “Dennis,” the universal sobriquet
for a discharged man our working world over, was in every man’s mouth.
Whatever medium was used, the meaning was none the less clear and
unmistakable. The steward may have winked to the captain in the
pilothouse, or the cook shrugged his shoulders, opening his mouth with
the gasping motion of a strangling chicken, and so conveyed the news
to the forecastle; or one of the crew, with ears wide open, might have
found it necessary to uncoil a rope outside the cabin window at the
precise moment the general gave his decision, and have instantly
passed the news along to his nearest mate. Of one thing there was no
doubt: Carleton had given his last order on Shark Ledge.
An animated discussion followed among the men.
“Ought to give him six months,” blurted out Captain Bob Brandt, whose
limited experience of government inspecting boards led him to believe
that its officers were clothed with certain judicial powers. “Hadn’t
’a’ been for old Hamfats” (Nickles’s nickname) “an’ his pantry door,
he’d ’a’ swore Cap’n Joe’s character away.”
“Well, I’m kind’er sorry for him, anyway,” said Captain Joe, not
noticing the skipper’s humorous allusion. “Poor critter, he ain’t real
responsible. What’s he goin’ to do fur a livin’, now that the gov’ment
ain’t a-goin’ to support him no more?”
“Ain’t nobody cares; he’ll know better ’n to lie nex’ time,” grunted
Lonny Bowles. “Is he comin’ ashore here agin, Caleb, er has he dug a
hole fur himself ’board the tender in the coal bunkers?”
Caleb smiled grimly, but made no reply. He never liked to think of
Carleton, much less to talk of him. Since the night when he had
waylaid Betty coming home from Keyport, his name had not passed the
diver’s lips. He had always avoided him on the work, keeping out of
his way, not so much from fear of Carleton as from fear of
himself,—fear that in some uncontrollable moment he might fall upon
him and throttle him.
If a certain sigh of relief went up from the working force on the
Ledge over Carleton’s downfall and Sanford’s triumph, a much more
joyous feeling permeated the yacht. Not only were Jack and Smearly
jubilant, but even Sam, with a grin the width of his face, had a
little double shuffle of his own in the close quarters of the galley,
while the major began forthwith to concoct a brew in which to drink
Sanford’s health, and of such mighty power that for once Sam disobeyed
his instructions, and emptied a pint of Medford spring water instead
of an equal amount of old Holland gin into the seductive mixture.
“’Fo’ God, Mr. Sanford, dey wouldn’t one o’ dem ladies knowed deir
head from a whirlum-gig if dey’d drank dat punch,” he said afterwards
to his master, in palliation of his sin.
Sanford took the situation with a calmness customary to him when
things were going well. His principle in life was to do his best every
time, and leave the rest to fate. When he worried it was before a
crisis. He had not belittled the consequences of a rejection of the
work. He knew how serious it might have been. Had the Board become
thoroughly convinced that he had openly and without just cause
violated both the written contract and the instructions of the
superintendent, they might have been forced to make an example of him,
and to require all the upper masonry to be torn down and rebuilt on a
true level, a result which would have entailed the loss of thousands
of dollars.
His own reply to General Barton and the Board was a grim, reserved, “I
thank you, gentlemen,” with an added hope that the new superintendent
might be instructed to give written orders when any departure from the
contract was insisted upon, to which the chief engineer agreed.
His greatest satisfaction, though, was really over his men. The
vindication of his course was as much their triumph as his. He knew
who had been its master spirits; the credit was not due to him, but to
Captain Joe, Caleb, and Captain Brandt, whose pluck, skill, and
devotion both to himself and the work had made its success possible.
He had only inspired them to do their best.
Later, when he called them together on the Ledge and gave them the
details of the interview,—he never kept anything of this kind from
his working force,—he cautioned one and all of them to exercise the
greatest patience and good temper toward the new superintendent,
whoever he might be, who was promised in a few days, so that nothing
might happen which would incur his ill will; reminding them that it
would not do for a second superintendent to be disgruntled, no matter
whose fault it was, to which Captain Joe sententiously replied:—
“All right; let ’em send who they like; sooner the better. But one
thing I kin tell ’em, an’ that is that none on ’em can’t stop us now
from gittin’ through, no matter how ornery they be.”
But of all the happy souls that breathed the air of this lovely autumn
day Mrs. Leroy was the happiest. She felt, somehow, that the decision
of the committee was a triumph for both Sanford and herself: for
Sanford because of his constant fight against the elements, for her
because of her advice and encouragement. As the words fell from
Sanford’s lips, telling her of the joyful news,—he had found her
aboard the yacht and had told her first of all,—her face flushed, and
her eyes lighted with genuine pleasure.
“What did I tell you!” she said, holding out her hand in a hearty,
generous way, as a man would have done. “I knew you would do it. Oh, I
am so proud of you, you great splendid fellow!”
Then a sudden inspiration seized her. She darted back again to the
Ledge in search of Captain Joe, her dainty skirts raised about her
tiny boots to keep them from the rough platforms.
“Do come and lunch with us, Captain Bell!” she exclaimed in her joyous
way. “I really want you, and the ladies would so love to talk to you.”
She had not forgotten his tenderness over Betty the morning he came
for her; more than that, he had stood by Sanford.
The captain stopped, somewhat surprised, and looked down into her eyes
with the kindly expression of a big mastiff diagnosing a kitten.
“Well, that’s real nice o’ ye, an’ I thank ye kindly,” he answered,
his eyes lighting up at her evident sincerity. “But ye see yer vittles
would do me no good. So if ye won’t take no offense I’ll kind’er grub
in with the other men. Cook’s jes’ give notice to all hands.”
As she looked into his eyes her thoughts reverted to that morning in
the hospital when the captain’s same sense of the fitness of things
had saved her from being established as nurse to the wounded men. She
was about to press her request again when her glance fell on Caleb
standing by himself a little way off. She turned and walked toward
him. But it was not to ask him to luncheon.
“I have heard Mr. Sanford speak so often of you that I wanted to know
you before I left the work,” she said, holding out her little gloved
hand. Caleb looked into her face and touched the dainty glove with two
of his fingers,—he was afraid to do more, it was so small,—and, with
his eyes on hers, listened while she spoke in a tender, sympathetic
tone, lowering her voice so that no one could hear but himself,—not
even Sanford: “I have heard all about your troubles, Mr. West, and I
am so sorry for you both; she stayed with me one night last summer.
She said, poor child, she was very miserable; it’s an awful thing to
be alone in the world.”
Sanford watched her as she flitted over the rough platforms like a
bird that sings as it flies. Unaccountable as it was to him even in
the happiness of his triumph, a strange feeling of disappointment came
over him. He began in an utterly unreasonable way to wonder whether
their intimacy would now be as close as before, and whether the daily
conferences would end, since he had no longer any anxieties to lay
before her.
Something in her delight, and especially in the frank way in which she
had held out her hand like a man friend in congratulation, had chilled
rather than cheered him. He felt hurt without knowing why. A sense of
indefinable personal loss came over him. In the rush of contending
emotions suddenly assailing him, he began to doubt whether she had
understood his motives that night on the veranda when he had kissed
her hand,—whether in fact he had ever understood her. Had she really
conquered her feelings as he had his? Or had there been nothing to
conquer? Then another feeling rose in his heart,—a vague jealousy of
the very work which had bound them so closely together, and which now
seemed to claim all her interest.