There developed in Black Pawl a devil of unrest. It is in all men; it
was stronger in him, just as every function of the man was stronger than
a like function in other men. Beneath his mirthless laughter, beneath
his malign joviality, there was a hatred of the world, a hatred which
could not find expression.
It showed itself, curiously, in his attitude toward the crew. His fists
were ever ready; they struck more and more frequently as the days
passed. Yet when he struck, the man always laughed. It was as if his
laughter were the curb he put upon himself. It was possible to imagine
that if he had not laughed, his least impatience would become a
murderous rage. He might have killed for small offenses; but he laughed,
and so refrained.
His men, for the most part, felt this without understanding it. There
was always a strange loyalty in Black Pawl’s crews; this was well
known, and it puzzled those who knew. There were more blows struck on
his ship than on any other that pretended to decency; yet the crew were
loyal. Ashore they were ever ready to fight to defend him. They had, in
some sort, a love for him. They felt, without understanding why, a
sympathy for the man. Once one of the older men, who had sailed with him
four full cruises, put this into words.
“He means naught,” this man said. “The fist is a fashion of speech with
him. The man is torn, and weary o’ the world. That’s easy seen. There’s
a load on him.”
So they took his buffets, and picked themselves up, and grinned
good-naturedly, and would not take offense.
There were, on the <i>Deborah</i>, but two exceptions to this rule. One was
Red Pawl, his son and mate. When Red Pawl struck a man, there was murder
in the blow and poison in the eye that guided it.
Shunned by every man, and hating every man, he had no friend aboard. He
was like a mad dog in one thing; his deeper hatred was directed toward
his master, his father, the one man he should have loved and served.
Just as a dog that is mad will bite first the best-loved hand, just as
an elephant upon whom madness comes will trample first his own <i>mahout</i>,
in like fashion Red Pawl’s hatred centered on his father. It was this
hatred which gave the impulse to his efforts to cultivate the crew, to
breed discontent and to bring matters to a point that would end in the
Captain’s destruction.
He had, it is true, little success; nevertheless he persisted. The one
man aboard who listened to him willingly was Spiess, him whom Black Pawl
had struck that day they took the missionary and the girl aboard. This
Spiess was, aside from Red Pawl, the only man aboard who had not a
secret sympathy for the tragedy plain upon the Captain’s face. He hated
Black Pawl with the hatred of the weak for the strong; and the Captain
saw this, and took a mocking delight in nagging Spiess, and bullying
him, and driving him toward the point of open strife.
This was near, one day, when Black Pawl stepped down from the quarter
and started toward the waist of the schooner. Spiess was on his knees,
scrubbing the deck. The Captain, as he passed, kicked out at the man,
and Spiess was tumbled forward on his face, while Black Pawl laughed.
“Keep out o’ the path, Spiess,” the Captain warned him.
Spiess got up lumberingly, and looked around. Red Pawl was on the
quarter, and Spiess caught his eye. Beyond Red were Dan Darrin and the
girl. These two were much together as time passed; but Spiess saw only
Red Pawl, and read, perhaps, encouragement in his eye. For he turned and
rushed the Captain with the blind ferocity of a bull.
Black Pawl’s face set grimly as the man charged; and he met Spiess with
an open-handed blow on one cheek, and then on the other, that brought
the seaman up all standing and trembling with the dizzy nausea the
jarring blows induced. While he stood thus, helpless, Black Pawl struck
out like the kick of a mule and Spiess went spinning and teetering
across the deck till he came to the opposite rail, where he collapsed.
As Spiess lifted his head, Black Pawl laughed and said: “Bring better
than your fists, next time, Spiess.”
The man muttered under his breath: “Aye, I will.” And Black Pawl nodded
cheerfully, and forgot his errand in the waist and returned to the
quarter again. There Red Pawl, openly rebellious, warned him:
“I tell you, keep your hands off the men of my boat, sir.”
“Fiddle!” grinned his father. “Teach your men manners, boy.” And he
passed Red and joined the girl. She had watched, she was watching now,
with a white, still face. Black Pawl felt a curious necessity of
apologizing to her for what he had done. But he did not; for it was not
the nature of the man. He challenged her instead. “One way of handling
that like of man, Ruth,” he said.
She replied boldly: “A bad way, Cap’n Pawl.”
He laughed at that, and touched her under the chin, lightly. “Now, now!
It serves.”
She felt that she ought to condemn him, but she could not. The spell of
the man was upon her, as it was upon the others. She liked him, could
not forbear liking him, no matter what he might do. There was charm in
him; and there was, for all his strength and pride of strength, a
weakness that appealed to the mother heart of her. She was sorry for
him, without knowing why. Indeed she did not even know she was sorry for
him; she only knew she liked him, whatever he might do. So in spite of
herself she found she must smile at him now. He said, catching the
smile: “So, that’s better.”
“You’ll find the men don’t mind,” Dan Darrin had told her one day. “They
take it as a part of the game; and there never was a crew that would
stick closer in trouble.”
She nodded, and murmured thoughtfully: “I can believe that men would
stick with you.”
He looked forward along the length of his ship, an uninvited wistfulness
in eye and curve of lip. “Aye, Ruth, they do,” he said. Then, with his
mirthless laugh, he added: “Lord knows why!”
She wondered, when she was alone, why she felt so drawn to the man. He
personified, she thought, those brutalities which she should condemn;
yet she liked him, admired him--and something more. There was a
tenderness in her for Black Pawl that she could neither define nor
deny. It increased her wonder, even frightened her a little. She told
the old missionary of this; and he explained:
“There’s fundamental good in him; that is all. In spite of himself,
Black Pawl is a fine, good man.”
When she and Darrin were together, she made him tell her about Black
Pawl; and nothing more delighted Darrin. For he loved Black Pawl; and
the man he painted for the girl was of heroic proportions and Viking
strength, and the stories he told of his exploits were like legends.
Ruth asked him, one day, what Black Pawl’s name had been, and Dan told
her. “He was christened <i>Dan</i>; and his son too,” he said.
She smiled with surprise. “Three of you <i>Dans</i> about the <i>Deborah</i>; and
all officers!” Her eyes clouded thoughtfully, and she fell silent. She
remembered a thing her mother had once said to her. “Trust a man named
<i>Dan</i>,” her mother had said. “They’re good men, Ruth. It goes with the
name.”
She had wondered, then, whether her father had been named <i>Dan</i>, and
asked her mother. The woman shivered faintly, and said: “No; <i>Michael</i>
he was--<i>Michael Lytton</i>, Ruth. Never forget that name.”
Her mother had told her very little about this man who had been her
father. He had died, she said, when Ruth was still a baby. Thought of
him came to her now; then she put the thought aside and fell to talking
to Dan Darrin again, and their talk ran on and on.
“Trust a man named <i>Dan</i>,” her mother had said; and she had trusted and
liked Dan Darrin from the beginning. She was a girl; a girl’s fancies
run very tenderly on such things as names.
Yet she had not at all the same feeling toward Red Pawl, even though his
name were also <i>Dan</i>. She disliked him; and his insistent companionship
annoyed her. Sometimes she was hard put to be rid of him.
Black Pawl perceived this, one morning when she turned away from the
mate with hot cheeks and hurried below; and his eyes, as he looked on
his son thereafter, were lowering.
But Red Pawl did not see. He was looking toward the cabin companion,
down which the girl had disappeared.