On the second day afterward, the <i>Deborah</i> ran into the fringes of bad
weather. In mid-morning the wind began to rise unpleasantly; the glass
was falling, and the skies were overcast. Black Pawl had been driving
the schooner under full canvas. He was a bold man without being a
reckless one, and when the signs turned against him, he ordered topsails
furled and reefs in fore and main. It was Dan Darrin’s watch on deck,
and Dan went forward to direct the work. Black Pawl was aft, with the
old missionary. The mate was below in his cabin, Ruth in hers.
When the work was under way, the Captain turned and said: “Best come
below, Father. This wind’s a rough one.”
The old missionary shook his head. His cheeks were ruddy with the
buffets of wind and spray, and his eyes were shining. “There’s still sap
enough in this old body of mine to like it,” he said.
Black Pawl laughed. Then he caught Dan Darrin’s eye and bade him watch
for a space. He meant to go below for his storm gear and return to take
the deck. It was in his mind to be no more than a minute below; but when
he dropped down the companion, the ship, and the brewing storm and the
sea were all forgotten in what he beheld.
The door of the girl’s cabin was open. Beyond this open doorway Ruth was
struggling in the arms of Red Pawl. She was fighting silently, pushing
at him with her hands against his breast. And Red was laughing, and
whispering to her.
At the sight Black Pawl felt something surge in his breast that he had
not known was there, a hot flood of passion and anger. For an instant he
stood quite still, choking against the beating of his own heart; and his
face turned black. The girl saw him, and called softly across the cabin:
“Cap’n Pawl--please.”
He had time to mark, even then, that her voice was level and unafraid.
As she spoke, Red Pawl turned his head, and over his shoulder beheld
his father. He loosed the girl, and turned, half crouching. He moved
forward two steps, to the cabin table, and rested his great hands on it,
and gazed at Black Pawl eye to eye.
That instant the flood of passion in the Captain’s heart burst its
bounds. He leaped forward with the swift and silent ferocity of a beast;
and at sight of his convulsed face, the girl shuddered. But she held her
ground in the corner, watching. The cabin was so small that there was no
room for any maneuvering; the table in the center left only narrow ways
about the sides. It was like witnessing the battle of two lions in a
pit.
Black Pawl, in his charge, seemed not to see the table. He struck it
with his thighs; and stout as it was, and secure as it was in its place
upon the floor, it was wrenched loose and flung against Red Pawl,
bearing him back; and for an instant he was pinned against the wall, the
table against his legs, his father’s huge knotted fists lashing at him.
Since Red was a child, Black Pawl had never struck him in anger. And
now, at those first blows, the son was whipped to a fury as fierce as
that of Black Pawl. He ducked, bent his back, and thrust the table from
his knees; he came on Black Pawl then, from the side, head down. He got
his arms about the other’s middle; their two bodies crashed down upon
the table, smashing it to splinters.
The sudden tumult in the cabin had brought the missionary and Dan
Darrin, running. Pinned in his son’s arms, Black Pawl saw them, and he
called in stern, sure tones:
“Dan, on deck! Take the ship. Father, stand away. I’ve a lesson to teach
here.”
Dan obeyed instantly; the missionary paused by the companion, watching.
Tighter Red Pawl’s arms wound about his father, as though he would crush
the older man.
Red was the stronger. He was built broad, built thick, built solid upon
the ground, whereas Black Pawl was lean and long. Nevertheless, Black
Pawl had more of the lore of rough and tumble; and through the years his
strength had ripened, not decayed. Held down now by the heavier man,
crushed in that viselike grip, he cooled to a deadly ferocity; then
worked his long arm up for a blow that, when it fell, rocked Red’s head
upon his shoulders. For an instant only the other’s muscles slacked, but
the instant was enough to let Black Pawl get his elbow beneath the
other’s throat, and thrust up and away. Red was finally forced to yield,
for if he had not, his head must have been torn from his shoulders. He
writhed back, shifting to obtain a fresh hold, and Black Pawl squirmed
to one side, and to his feet, and so was free. He stepped back,
breathing deep into his strangled lungs; instantly Red sprang to his
feet, lowered his head and charged.
Black Pawl was too wise to send home a blow a-top that lowered head. He
had seen many an unwise man break a fist thus and lose thereby. As Red
came near, he stepped to one side with a lagging foot, and Red stumbled
over this foot, and went into the cabin wall with a crash that would
have stunned a weaker man. As he straightened, Black Pawl met him with a
blow full in the face that drove Red’s head back against the paneling.
Then the younger man ducked, and blocked with cunning elbows and
shoulders hunched high, and strove again to come to closer quarters.
Black Pawl was still too nimble for him. It was like a bullfight. Red
was the bull, and Black Pawl’s blows pricked him again and again as he
charged fruitlessly upon and past the older man. In the end, Red
understood that what he wished to do could not be done in this way; he
must stand and fight. And so he changed his tactics. Standing back, he
took his ease and caught his breath while Black Pawl pushed the
fighting. Red was content to guard, take what blows came, and wait till
his strength was restored again.
When he was ready, he lifted his head and began.
In such fighting as this, Black Pawl had all the advantage; he was
taller, and swifter of foot, and he had three inches the reach of the
other man. His knuckles cut Red’s cheek, smashed Red’s mouth, beat a
tattoo upon his face that would have killed another man. As for Red, he
did not strike for the head. He was plugging at Black Pawl’s ribs, but
Black Pawl’s fists had a way of tapping Bed’s biceps or wrists in a
fashion that took the strength from these blows. Meanwhile, he landed
almost at will upon his son; and any one of a dozen blows he struck
would have plunged a weaker man swiftly into oblivion.
After a time this became plain to both of them. Red realized that Black
Pawl could not hurt him, that he could endure the worst the older man
could send; and Black Pawl knew this as quickly as his son.
Nevertheless, he would cut Red to pieces with his blows. The mate must
weaken in the end. He struck, and struck, and struck again.
Red lowered his head into the shelter of his left shoulder and rested
his right arm, fending with the left. And he began to wait, and wait,
and watch for the chance he sought. Soon or late, his father’s chin must
come within reach of that waiting fist. And when it did--
His chance came quickly. He ducked a straightforward blow that slid
across his shoulder, and brought Black Pawl’s face within a few inches
of his own. Before the Captain could guard, Red’s right whipped up
squarely on the chin, a little to the left of the point, where the full
jolt of it was instantly communicated through jawbone and skull to those
nerves which bear to the muscles the messages of the brain. Black Pawl
went spinning backward, slack and weak and helpless; and Red gathered
his breath and leaped.
There was no more than a second’s space between Red’s blow and his
charge, but that second was long enough for the sickness to pass--long
enough for Black Pawl to gain control of his shaking body once more.
Then Red had him around the waist again; he felt his son’s hip thrust
against his thigh and knew what was coming--the throw for which there is
no guard, no defense except to yield to it. Black Pawl let himself go
limply, but as his feet left the floor, his hands reached out and got
the grip he sought. His long fingers closed on his son’s neck. He sank
them home, pressing--pressing.
He was in the air, all his weight flying. Yet his hands still gripped
the other’s throat. So the momentum of his own throw dragged Red Pawl
forward, overbalancing him. He fell a-top Black Pawl in a rolling heap,
and Black Pawl’s thumbs sank in between the great muscles at the side of
the neck, and the gullet in front. Their paralyzing pressure stopped
Red’s breath, stopped the blood in the great arteries that feed the
brain. He felt insensibility enveloping him; then with a mighty effort
he flung his elbow into Black Pawl’s throat and broke the hold. For an
instant again he was free of that choking terror. They were grappling,
entwined like snakes in a knot upon the floor.
Black Pawl’s hand slid beneath his son’s arm; and with all his strength
he drove his thumb in against the tender flesh that covers the ribs at
the armpit. There is no more excruciating pain; Red Pawl screamed with
it, and fumbled frantically for his father’s wrist.
Instantly Black Pawl’s fingers found the other’s throat again; Red
slackened and choked, and was limp. Black Pawl shook him, once, and
twice; and then he flung him to one side, and rose upright, and stood
gazing down upon his prostrate son.
His shirt was torn away; his iron-gray hair was down about his eyes.
Blood smeared his shoulder and his mouth. Still he was an heroic and
unconquerable figure, strong and sure. The girl who had watched it all
in silence from the doorway now uttered a soft, almost breathless cry.
Black Pawl looked toward her, and laughed through his bloody lips, and
then looked down again upon his son, who was choking back to life. The
missionary had stood impassive by the companion throughout the fight,
watching the two men.
All three now watched the man on the floor. Red Pawl groaned and gasped,
and so at last could breathe again. He sat up weakly, supporting himself
on his arm. Black Pawl bent and lifted him with a hand upon his collar;
he slapped Red harshly on the cheek.
“On deck!” he said. “On deck with you. And sharp, now!”
With one murderous look at his father, Red Pawl turned and staggered to
the companion. Halfway up, he paused and looked again at the Captain
through level eyes. Black Pawl laughed and waved a careless hand.
“Sharp, there!” he said.
Red went up to the deck, disappearing from their sight. When he was
gone, his father glanced uncertainly around and began to tremble and
sway upon his feet. Then he sank softly to the floor, and leaning
heavily against the cabin wall, he closed his eyes.
The girl came running to him, sobbing; and when he opened his eyes and
saw her face bent above him, he smiled; the old mockery danced in his
eyes, and he flung an arm about her neck and drew her down and kissed
her, still laughing.
“I’ve earned that, haven’t I?” he challenged.
She crimsoned and into her eyes flashed a look of hurt and sorrow. The
old missionary turned from one to the other, but said nothing.
“Come, you don’t grudge that kiss?” Black Pawl demanded of her gayly.
She answered quietly: “I’d have--given it. I’m sorry that you took it
so.”
“Then give it,” the Captain bade her.
And she bent and kissed him on the forehead, her hand upon his hair. And
the heart in his bosom leaped at the caress.
“Was not that a fight worth seeing, Ruth?” he cried. “Worth winning?”
“It was terrible,” she told him. “Oh, even though he is your son, I’m
afraid for you. There was death in his eyes, Cap’n Pawl.”
At that the Captain laughed again, and stumbling to his feet, stood
swaying above them. “Fiddle!” he said. “He’s fanciful. But he’s not a
man to fear, not Red Pawl.”
The girl looked at the missionary, and saw her own fear mirrored in his
eyes, and something of sorrow as well. But she said no more.