At dawn Black Pawl rose and dressed himself. Though he had not slept, he
was not weary. Strength had flowed into him during the night, and
happiness, and peace, and a great love of life. When light began to come
through the cabin ports, he felt a hunger to be on deck, with the sea
wide about him, and the wind upon his cheek. He wanted to meet the new
sun with something like a prayer; he felt this new day of the world was
also a new day in his life.
He dressed slowly. There was a certain lassitude upon him. He was
strong, but he enjoyed tasting this strength in sips. He made no quick
motions. He buttoned his garments with steady, sure fingers; he took a
certain joy in merely watching the perfect functioning of these fingers
of his, and he thought how wonderful an instrument is the human hand.
He liked the rough feeling of his shirt about his throat. He liked the
snug belt that circled his waist. There was comfort in the harsh
strength of the familiar shoes he drew upon his feet. He washed himself,
and he combed and brushed his hair. He was accustomed to wear his coat
loose, his shirt open at the throat; but this day he buttoned the shirt
and put on a tie that he had not worn for months, and he buttoned his
coat about him. He laughed at himself for doing these things. “Like a
bridegroom going to his wedding,” he said cheerfully. “But why not,
Black Pawl? Why not?”
He had marked a hole in his woolen socks when he drew them on; and he
thought Ruth would mend his socks for him now. That would be a pleasant
thing. All life lay pleasantly before him--marred only by Red Pawl, his
son.
He would not think of Red Pawl now. That issue might be postponed; this
day was for happiness. Happiness was a new thing to Black Pawl. He
wished to drink deep of it.
He went out of his cabin, and paused in the doorway and looked back at
the familiar belongings. This was his farewell to them; and it may have
been the man felt this was true, for he looked longer than the simple
fittings of the cabin seemed to warrant, and there was a wistful twist
to his smile.
In the main cabin he stopped again and looked about. Ruth’s door was
closed. She would be still asleep. He wanted to go in and kiss her as
she slept, but he would not. Dan Darrin was in his cabin also. Asleep,
no doubt! And--Black Pawl smiled; he could hear the missionary snoring
softly. Even the most spiritual of men may snore. Black Pawl chuckled at
the thought.
There was a book on the cabin table, which Ruth had been reading the
night before. Black Pawl picked it up and looked at it, and laid it down
again. His eyes roved around the familiar place. He was loath to leave
it. He went reluctantly to the companion at last, and climbed to the
deck.
Red Pawl was there, on the break of the quarter, talking with Spiess.
The sailor had a bucket on a rope; and he and two or three of the men
were scrubbing down the deck from the quarter forward. When they heard
Black Pawl, the two men looked toward him, and Spiess turned to his
work. Red watched his father.
The sun was just breaking above the horizon. Black Pawl glanced toward
it, cast an eye about the sky. “A fair wind, Red,” he said
good-humoredly. “Are you thinking we’ll be ready to get away this day?”
Red studied the skies, and he bit at the back of his hand. “I don’t
know,” he said.
“You’ve done the work quickly,” said Black Pawl. “A good job of it.”
Red looked at his father and grinned, as though the older man were
lying, and he knew it.
“I’m pleased with it,” Black Pawl added.
Red said: “It’s well you’re pleased.” There was a sardonic threat in his
tone. But Black Pawl ignored it; he was in no mood to take swift offense
at trifles. He walked to the after rail and stood there alone; presently
he came back to where Red was, and said idly:
“Red, I’m thinking I’ll quit the sea after this cruise.”
Red Pawl said, grinning: “Aye, you’re getting old.”
Black Pawl shook his head good-humoredly. “No; ’tis not that, so much.
But the sea irks me. I’d like to keep my feet on dry land for a spell
before I die.”
“You’ll find few to take on land what they take at sea,” said the mate.
The Captain smiled. “Aye, the sea’s rough. Maybe there’s no need of so
much roughness on land.” And he added, looking at Red: “It’s like you’ll
have the ship when I step out, Red.”
Red looked swiftly toward where Spiess was working; but Black Pawl did
not mark the glance. “It’s like,” Red agreed curtly.
Black Pawl turned then and considered his son with thoughtful eyes; and
at last he said: “Red, I’ve been thinking. You and I have not always
jibed as father and son should jibe.”
Red looked at his father silently.
“I’m sorry for that, son,” said Black Pawl. “It’s not a fitting thing.
Like it’s been mostly my fault, too. I’ve not been all to you that I
should, not led you as wisely as I should. I’m sorry for these things,
Red Pawl.”
There was no softness in Red’s voice when he replied. “I’ve no whines to
make,” he said. “I can hold my end--against any man.”
“I’m sorry we--fought, a space ago,” said Black Pawl gently.
Red’s lips drew back.
“We’ll not fight again,” said Black Pawl, “--not my son and I. I say,
Red, that for every wrong I’ve done you, I’m sorry this day.”
If there was an appeal in his voice, Red did not respond. There was no
melting in the mate’s eyes. There was only black hate; and when the
father saw this in the face of the son, he turned away. He was suddenly
weary.
When Black Pawl turned away from Red Pawl, he stepped down from the
quarter to the main-deck. He started forward toward the waist of the
ship, driven by the desire to escape that which he saw in Red Pawl’s
eyes.
Spiess was on hands and knees on the deck, his bucket of water by his
side. As Black Pawl passed him, Spiess tipped the bucket so that a
sudden flood of water poured out. Intentionally or not, it wet the
Captain’s shoes. Automatically, as though from long habit, Black Pawl
kicked out at the kneeling man and swore at him, then passed on.
As he moved on toward the waist of the ship, his back was turned to
Spiess. The man got noiselessly to his feet. He lifted the heavy bucket
by the rope and swung it in a whistling, circling arc.
It came down on Black Pawl’s head. If it had struck squarely, it must
have crushed his skull. But it struck in such fashion that his head met
the side of the bucket; and the stout pail flew to pieces under the
force of the blow. It did not kill Black Pawl; it but stunned him. He
was not unconscious; but his senses reeled, and he fell forward on his
face.
He tried, automatically, to get to hands and knees and rise and turn;
but while he was on hands and knees, Spiess leaped on his back.
Then the man drove his knife to the hilt between Black Pawl’s
shoulders.