box of cod-fish and narrowly missed pitching overboard in his anxiety to
get ashore. There had been no further interference, and no offered
encouragement. We were leaving it all behind, now; the narrow, busy,
indifferent world. There were no salutes, and if there were any flags,
or waving, I did not see them. Nobody had been down to see us off, and
impudent tugs steamed by and splashed water at us, just as if we were
going out for a day’s sail, and would be back in time for the roof
gardens.
Somewhat later I was joined by Edith Gale. It is customary to say “as
fresh as the morning,” when referring to a fair woman at such a time,
but, rare as the morning was, I could not have paid it a finer tribute
than to have compared it to Edith Gale.
She came forward and leaned over at the other side of the bow-sprit.
“How pretty the little rainbow is this morning,” she said, looking down.
“Yes, I have been accepting it as an omen of success.”
Edith Gale laughed.
“I hope it doesn’t mean that we are pursuing a rainbow. We never quite
capture it, you see.”
“I have been called a rainbow chaser all my life,” I answered, a little
sadly.
“I suppose there is always some rainbow just ahead of us all,” she
mused. “Even if we find the South Pole, and all the things we expect
there, then something else will come to wish for and look forward to.”
“I am sure of it,” I answered fervently, “I——”
Her father’s warning recurred to me opportunely. We were not yet out of
the harbor, and I did not wish to be set ashore at Sandy Hook.
“There is the ocean,” she said presently, “the Atlantic Ocean. How I
love it!”
We had already caught the slight swell from the sea. The added
exhilaration of it filled me with exultant joy. I stood up and drew in a
deep breath of the salt ambrosia.
“Oh,” I said, “it is wine—nectar! It is my birthright—I have always
known that I should come back to it, some day!”
Instinctively we turned for a last look at the harbor we were leaving.
Farther down the deck Ferratoni was pointing out some landmark to
Chauncey Gale, while from the bridge Captain Biffer was taking a silent
and solemn farewell of the sky-scrapers of Manhattan. Mr. Sturritt
presently came out of the cabin, beaming, and looked out to sea. The
land had no further attraction for him. Our provision and the materials
for his tablets were safely on board.
We faced seaward again. We were through the Narrows now, and the swell
was much stronger, a long steady swing. I heard the Captain give a word
of command to the helmsman and noticed that we were turning to the
southward. A shoreless expanse of ocean lay ahead.
“I should think all this would appear like a dream to you,” said Edith
Gale. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll wake up?”
“I have been trying to find something to convince me that I _am_ awake,”
I said.
“How splendid it was that Papa took up with your plans. You know he has
all sorts of things brought to him. A man came to him not long ago with
some scheme for buying stocks that he said would pay a hundred per cent.
a week on the investment. Papa gave him a dollar, and told him that if
his theory was correct he didn’t need any partner, for the dollar would
make him rich in six months.”
The pitch of the vessel became stronger. Then, too, it was not always
regular. Sometimes it swung off a bit to one side, and just when I felt
that it ought to lift us buoyantly and sustainingly it would disappoint
me by sinking away beneath us—falling down-hill, as it were—or it would
change its mind at the last minute and conclude to fall down some other
hill, or perhaps give up the notion altogether. I grew discontented and
wished it wouldn’t do these things. There was a bit of tarred lashing on
the bow-sprit near us. In the harbor the smell of it had been fine and
inspiring, but it did not attract me any more. It had become rather
obnoxious, in fact, and I moved a little to one side to avoid it.
Neither did I feel inclined to laugh at Edith Gale’s story. Somehow it
did not seem altogether in good taste. Perhaps she was disappointed, for
she referred to my own plans.
“And to think that Papa should believe in you from the start. He said he
had never seen any one so much in earnest about anything as you were in
your determination to find the South Pole.”
“Yes—oh, yes,” I admitted weakly, “I was in earnest, of course—but——”
The ship gave a peculiar roll and the salt spray came flying up from
below. Some of it got into my mouth. It took away any remaining interest
I may have had in Miss Gale’s conversation. I did not care for the South
Pole, either, and the rainbow of promise had become a mockery. I
remembered a particularly steady bit of rock in one of my father’s
meadows. As a child this rock had been the ship on which I had voyaged
through billowing seas of grass. I would have been willing now to give
all my interest in both poles, the ship, and even in Miss Gale herself,
to cruise once more for five minutes on that rock.
Edith Gale wiped the water from her own face, laughing merrily.
“I love the sea spray,” she said gaily, “can you taste the gold in it?”
I shook my head miserably.
“A man came to Papa, once, with a scheme to extract the gold from it,”
she ran on. “Papa told him that there was so much water that he guessed
he’d wait till the patent on the process became public, or ran out. Do
you suppose there really is gold in it?”
I could not answer immediately.
“Do you suppose there _is_?” she repeated, and I thought there was a
note of injury in her voice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I groaned wretchedly, “but I know what _will_ be
there, pretty soon, if this ship doesn’t stand still!”
She turned a startled face toward me. She said afterwards that all the
colors of the ocean were reflected in mine. She had been ready to laugh
at first, but her expression became one of compassion.
“Oh,” she said, “I never thought, I am such a good sailor—and the bow is
the very worst place for that. You must go back amid-ships. You are
seasick—I am sure of it!”
“So am I,” I gasped, “and I am also sure, now, that I am not dreaming!”
I stumbled feebly back to a steamer-chair and looked out on the horizon
that one instant sank far below the rail, and the next, lifted as far
above it. Between lay the tossing sea—my heritage. That which my
ancestors had lived and died for. I did not blame them for dying—I was
willing to do that, myself. Chauncey Gale came along just then.
“I’ve got a great scheme for the balloon boat,” he began, “a combination
wind and water propeller. Ferratoni can supply the power, and——”
He caught my expression just then and the words died in his throat.
“Hello,” he laughed, “you’ve got ’em, haven’t you? Storm last week left
it a little rough. Do you always get sick this way at sea?”
“I—yes—I don’t know. It—it’s my first experience.”
Gale regarded me with an amazement that was akin to respect.
“Oh, Lord!” he gasped. “Never been to sea before and planned a trip to
the South Pole! What’s a bluff without a show-down!”
“Do you think I’ll be like this all the way?” I asked.
“Oh, pshaw! No! I’ll have Bill give you some of his tablets. You’ll be
all right enough by lunch time.”
The suggestion of a food tablet at this particular time was the last
thing needed. I went hastily below.
Gale’s prediction was not quite realized. I was absent from luncheon,
but before evening the spirit of my ancestors rose within me—perhaps
because there was nothing else left for that purpose—and I ascended to
the dinner table.
“Well, you’ve concluded that this voyage is no dream, have you?” greeted
Gale.
“A good many more will come to that conclusion before it’s over,”
growled Captain Biffer, who was present.
Across the table, the place of Ferratoni was vacant. Edith Gale,
radiant, beamed upon me. I could afford to laugh, now, and did so.
And thus it was I came fully into my heritage.
VIII.
THE HALCYON WAY TO THE SOUTH.
A cold plunge next morning in water combed up from the very bottom of
the sea was my final baptismal ceremony. Fully restored I hastened on
deck. Chauncey and Edith Gale were already there, walking briskly up and
down, and I joined in the joyous march. A faint violet bank showed on
the western horizon. Looking through a glass I could see that it was
solid and unchanging in outline. It was land, they explained; we were
off Cape Charles, and would pass Hatteras during the afternoon. I
remembered an account in my old Fifth Reader of “The Last Cruise of the
Monitor.” It had been always my favorite selection in the reading class.
It gave me a curious feeling now to know that we were soon to pass over
the waters where the sturdy little fighter had gone down. However, I had
no longer a sense of unreality in my surroundings. I had been too
thoroughly waked up the day before.
We were presently joined by Ferratoni—spiritually pale, but triumphant.
I was not sorry, for I could not help caring for the man, and it seemed
to me that after all his devotion to Edith Gale might be rather a
tribute to an ideal than a genuine passion of the heart. We ascended to
the bridge where we found the First Officer on watch. His name was
Larkins—Terence Larkins—a sturdy Newfoundlander of forty, whose life
ashore had been limited to childhood only—a period now lost in the
cloudland of myth and fable. He had no prejudices concerning our
destination. He was ready at any moment to go anywhere that the sea
touched, and to maintain a pleasant discourse at any stage of the
journey. He was big and blond, with a touch of ancestry in his speech
and a proper disregard of facts—a merry Munchausen of the sea. He
saluted as we approached, and pointed shoreward.
“Farrmers’ day ashore,” he said, with a serious air. “All the farrmers
come to the beach to-day for their annual shwim.”
“Is this the day?” I asked, looking where he pointed. “I’ve heard of it,
but I had forgotten the date.”
“Sure it is, man; an’ can’t ye see thim over there, dhriving down to the
beach with their teams? An’ thim fellies puttin’ up the limonade
shtands, an’ merry-go-rounds fer the farrmer lads an’ their
shweetheartses?”
I reached for the glass and took a long look. The solid purple wall was
as solid and purple as it had been before.
“No, really, Mr. Larkins,” I admitted, “I do not.”
“Let _me_ look, Larkins,” said Gale.
He leveled the glass and began to testify.
“Why, of course! And there’s a new addition laid out just below, and a
little sign stuck up with—let me see—M-A-R-S-H-S-I-D-E on it. Well,
that’s a funny name for an addition, ‘Marshside!’”
Edith Gale seized the glass. After a hasty glance she declared:
“Of course Mr. Chase couldn’t see anything! And you and Mr. Larkins
didn’t, either.”
Ferratoni who had been gazing through another glass also shook his head.
Chauncey Gale and Mr. Larkins joined in a hearty laugh at our expense.
“Oh, now,” consoled the latter, “it’s because yer eyes are not thrained
to lookin’ over the sea. By the time ye get back from the South Pole
they’ll be opened to a great many things.”
There came the summons to breakfast and we went below—certainly with no
reluctance on my part, this time.
And now passed beautiful days; glorious shipboard days to which the
slight uncertainty of a rival’s relative position gave only added zest.
Ferratoni, it is true, may have had somewhat different views in this
matter. He was obliged to spend the greater part of his time with Gale
in the modeling of the new electrical propelling apparatus, which the
latter was perfecting for the balloon. In the matter of constructive
detail my assistance was not highly regarded by Gale who had really a
mechanical turn of mind, as the Billowcrest itself proved; for whatever
may have been the vessel’s faults from the seaman’s standpoint it was
certainly all that a landsman could desire. Below stairs there was a
splendidly appointed workshop, and the engineers on the Billowcrest were
also skilled workers in wood and metals. The boat-car for the
Cloudcrest, as we had decided to name the balloon, was a matter of daily
discussion among us all, but at the point of technical intricacy I was
promptly relieved for the good of all concerned.
It was but natural, therefore, that I should be a good deal in Edith
Gale’s company. Also that I should feel a gentle solicitude for
Ferratoni—a sweet soul whom all presently grew to love; it seemed too
bad that he should not come in for his full share of paradise. My own
fancies had been called poetic, but I realized daily that Ferratoni
lived in a world which to me could be never more than borderland. And
this I hoped consoled him somewhat for what he was missing by tinkering
away his days with Gale on a dynamo for my balloon car, while I was
revelling in the seventh delight of the daughter’s company, above
stairs.
We cared for pretty much the same things. We liked to walk up and down
the decks, discussing the books we had read, the pictures we had seen,
and the purpose and possibilities of art.
“Beauty, the secret of the universe,
The thought that gives the soul eternal peace.”
was the quotation most frequently on her lips.
She had seen so much more of the world and its glories than I, and her
understanding of nature was a marvel to me. She taught me to see colors
that I had been blind to before. Sometimes she brought up her materials
and sketched, while I looked on and loved her. When she would let me I
photographed her. One day I ventured to show her some verses that I had
written, and the fact that she really seemed to care for them gave me a
higher opinion of us both.
And the sea racing past made a fine accompaniment to these pleasant
things. She liked to watch the surge along the side and listen to its
music. So did I, and often together we leaned over the rail to watch and
hear it rush by.
We discussed metaphysics, and talked of life, and love, and death.
Remembering Chauncey Gale’s advice, I was careful to avoid the personal
note at such times. Ferratoni had touched now and then upon his theories
in these matters, and these suggested speculations of our own. I was not
displeased to find that Edith Gale did not quite accord with, or perhaps
altogether grasp, his filmy philosophies. I preferred that she should be
less ethereal—what she was, in fact—a splendid reality of flesh and
blood and soul, with a love of all the joys of earth and sky. The clouds
scudding across the blue, the white joy of the sunlit sails, the smash
of the spray over the bow, a merry game of shuffle-board, and even
hop-scotch—these things gave her life and sustenance—and then, at the
end of the day, came the good dinner, and the untroubled sleep of a
healthy child.
IX.
ADMONITION AND COUNSEL.
Our progress southward was hurried. We had touched at Charleston for a
full supply of coal, but we were sailing under canvas only. It was still
bleak winter below Cape Horn, and we did not wish to enter those somber
seas before November, the beginning of the Antarctic spring.
Sometimes Edith Gale and I drew steamer chairs to the extreme bow of the
boat, and looking away to the horizon, imagined the land of our quest
lying just beyond. At night, from this point, we watched the new
constellations of the tropics rising from the sea, and those of the
North falling back, behind us.
Chauncey Gale and Ferratoni frequently joined us, and at times I was
constrained through courtesy to leave Ferratoni and Edith Gale together.
Perhaps it was not quite wise—the stars and sea form a dangerous
combination to a man like Ferratoni.
After one such evening I was taking a morning constitutional on the deck
forward when I saw a female figure emerge from the cabin. Edith Gale had
often joined me in these walks, but it was not she. Neither was it our
stewardess—a brawny, non-committal Scotch woman, of whom Mr. Sturritt,
though her superior in rank, stood in wholesome awe. It proved to be
Miss Gale’s maid and former nurse, the stout colored woman, Zarelda, or
Zar, as she was commonly called. Miss Gale had long since told me of
some of the peculiar sayings and eccentricities of this privileged
person, but thus far my interest in her had been rather casual. Now,
however, she planted herself at one end of my promenade and sternly
faced my approach. I bade her a respectful and even engaging “good
morning” as I came on, but the severity of her features did not relax.
She nodded ominously, and proceeded to open fire.
“Look heah,” she demanded, “I wan’ know wheah you gwine wid dis ship?”
“Why, down to the Antarctics,” I said winningly. “I thought everybody
knew that.”
I felt a sense of relief in being able to answer so readily. It seemed I
was not quite through, however.
“Yes, down to Aunt Ar’tics!” she snorted, “I should say down to Aunt
Ar’tics! I like to know whose kinfolks dat Aunt Ar’tics is, anyway! I
ain’ nevah heard o’ none o’ Mistah Gale’s people by dat name, an’ if she
some o’ yo’ po’ relation, I don’ see what foh _we_-all mus’ go trailin’
off down to de mos’ Godforlonesomest spot on dis earth, to visit in de
dead o’ wintah. An’ what my Miss Edith goin’ foh, anyway? What my Miss
Edith got to do wid yo’ old Aunt Ar’tics, dat’s what I wan’ to know?
Humph! moah antics dan Ar’tics—dat’s what I think!”
My emotions during this assault had been rather conflicting, but I
managed to maintain a proper degree of calmness.
“Why,” I said gravely, “this ‘Antarctics’ bears a relationship to us
all—to the whole world, in fact.”
I rather prided myself on the cleverness of this rejoinder, but it
appeared after all to have been rather poorly thought out.
“Dat’s enough! Dat settles it,” she exploded. “Now I know mighty well
dey ain’ no sech pussun. Kinfolks to de whole worl’. Look heah, me an’
my Miss Edith has jes’ been deceptified long enough! I know wheah you
gwine wid dis boat! You gwine to de Souf Pole—dat’s wheah you gwine! I
done heah de Cap’n say so las’ night, an’ dat when he got dar he gwine
to sail her off into space wid de whole kit an’ possum of us! I know
mighty well somp’n gone wrong when I put Miss Edith to baid. She ain’
said two words, an’ befoah dat she been mighty chipper de whole trip. I
didn’t know what it was, an’ I set an’ hol’ her han’ an’ sing to her,
an’ it seem like she ain’ _nevah_ goin’ to sleep. But bimeby when I slip
up on deck a li’l’, to look at de sky, I heah de Cap’n an’ Mistah
Lahkins argifyin’ up on de bridge, an’ I heah de Cap’n say dat we goin’
to de Souf Pole an’, ’scusin’ de libe’ty, sah, dat you gone plum crazy
on de subjec’, and dat you got de Admiral an’ Mistah Macarony an’ Mistah
Sturritt all crazy, laikewise; an’ dat he gwine to sail you-all to de
Souf Pole, case dat wheah you-all b’long, an’ dat you-all nevah get
home, case when he get dere he gwine straight off into space wid de
ship, an’ de whole caboodle in it. An’ den right away, I knowed what’s
de mattah wid my Miss Edith. I knowed she been up dar a-hearin’ somp’n,
too. An’ I make up my min’, right den an’ dar, dat me an’ my Miss Edith
ain’ gwine. I like to see me an’ my Miss Edith flyin’ off into space,
an’ us wid no wings yit, an’ fallin’ down to de bottomless pit an’ lake
o’ fiah! Humph! We’s gwine de other way, we is!”
She hesitated a moment for breath, and I took advantage of the recess.
“What did Mr. Larkins say about it?” I asked.
“Mistah Lahkins! Humph, Mistah Lahkins! What he always say? He jes’
laugh an’ say dat de Souf Pole ’bout de onliest stick o’ timbah he ain’
tie up to yit, but he reckon dat it strong enough to hol’ us f’m gwine
off into space. Anyway, he willin’ to take chances wid de res’. ‘An’ de
Cap’n say, ‘Dat’s all right, same here,’ but dat de bosen, Frenchy, been
talkin’ ’roun’ ’mong de sailors, an’ dat some get mighty oneasy an’ wan’
to be put ashoah. An’ dat’s what _I_ want. I wan’ me an’ my Miss Edith
put ashoah. Den if you-all _mus’_ go on aftah de Souf Pole, why jes’
_go_, and leave me an’ my Miss Edith to go back home; an’ nex’ time tell
folks wheah you gwine, an’ not make out like you takin’ all dis
perwision down to some po’ kinfolks dat everybody related to, an’ nobody
don’t know about.”
There was another brief intermission. The incident was entertaining
enough, but there was a grave note in it as well. In the bosen, Frenchy,
I recognized the sailor who on the first day had barred my entrance to
the Billowcrest. I recalled my unfavorable impression of the man. He
would be altogether the one, I thought, to stir up discontent among the
sailors—an unpleasant prospect.
“Please, sah, won’t you put me an’ my Miss Edith ashoah, sah?” In my
more serious consideration I had temporarily forgotten Zar’s presence.
She had believed me hesitating, perhaps, and had adopted a persuasive
tone in consequence. “Miss Edith mighty sad las’ night,” she added, “an’
I know you don’ want dat po’ gal to go spillin’ off into space like a
lil’ robin when he nes’ break!”
“Not for the South Pole, Antarctics, and the whole world, Zar!” I said
with a fervency that made the woman suddenly regard me with a new
interest. There was a rustle behind her, and Edith Gale stepped out on
deck. “Here is Miss Gale to speak for herself,” I added, with some
confusion.
“What’s the matter, Zar? What do you want of Mr. Chase?”
“I want him to put we ’uns ashoah,” began the old woman. “I tol’ him we
done foun’ out about gwine to de Souf Pole, an’ dat you an’ me wan’ to
get off right heah, an’ go ashoah.”
“But I don’t want to get off, Zar. I’ve known all along where we are
going. I _want_ to go to the South Pole with—with Papa, and we’re going
to bring it back with us.”
Zar regarded her mistress a moment in silence. Then she said in a voice
of grave wonderment:
“I wish you tell me what dat Paw of yours gwine to do wid dat Souf Pole
when he gits it? Ain’ he got money ’nuff already? Anyhow, who gwine to
buy dat pole? An’ how dey gwine know hit’s de sho nuff Souf Pole when
dey sees hit? What’s to hender us gwine ’shoah right heah, an’ hackin’
down any ole pole, an’ gwine home again widout any moah foolishness?
Ain’ none dem folks up in New York gwine know de diff’ence!”
“Why, Zar,” laughed Miss Gale, “and you such a good church member!”
“Well, den, if yo’ Paw boun’ to go aftah de sho’ nuff pole, let him go,
but don’ _you_ go. You cain’t he’p him any!”
“But, Zar, you know I wouldn’t leave Papa. I never could.”
The old woman tossed her head.
“Humph! Bettah not be too suah!” She regarded me with a fierceness that
somehow warmed me to the soul. “Dey ain’ no man livin’ I’d go to de Souf
Pole foh,” she concluded, and with this final shot she disappeared, and
went rumbling down the companion-way, “no, sah, not even if I could be
wid him all de way an’ back again.”
“See, there’s a vessel,” said Edith Gale. “Bring the glass, please, and
let’s try to make her out.”
I hastened to obey, though with no great interest in the result. The
tropics and distant vessels had been wonderfully fascinating to me, but
just at this moment I was dwelling fondly on Zar’s parting salute.
A little later she sought me again.
“Look heah,” she counselled solemnly, “you turn dis ship right ’round,
now, an’ go back home. You go off down dar wid my Miss Edith, an’ bofe
die an’ get all froze stiff, an’ den what good is you to each other, I
like to know? What good is you?”
Zar had meant this for remonstrance and admonition, but I was her sworn
friend and champion from that moment.
Chauncey Gale found me staring off at the horizon and building a fair
castle in which the South Pole had no part.
“Chase,” he said, “don’t you make a mistake, too, and forget what I told
you about Johnnie.”
The abruptness of it startled me a bit, but there was a quality in his
voice that called for confidence and sincerity.
“Thank you, Mr. Gale, and—and I believe you spoke just in time.”
“I had my suspicions of it,” he admitted. “Tony got his medicine last
night, I guess.”
“Oh!” I had started a bit, and Zar’s report of Miss Gale’s depression
took on a new meaning.
“Yes, he’s no good this morning. He got all tangled up on his dynamo and
we had an explosion that nearly set the ship afire. Then he went off
half crying and I haven’t seen him since. I guess he wishes himself
ashore, now, but wishin’ won’t do any good. He might get a message there
all right, but he’s got to have something more than vibrations to get
himself there. You see this ain’t any matrimonial excursion. We ain’t
got any preacher along, and Biff’s license don’t cover that sort of a
splice. Emory’s got a doctor’s diploma, but that wouldn’t fit the case,
either.”
Mr. Emory was the Second Officer of the Billowcrest—a quiet, unobtrusive
man whose love for the sea had led him back to it through devious ways.
A runaway cabin boy, he had returned home in early manhood to become a
country doctor, a naval hospital surgeon, a ship’s doctor and officer by
turns, and was now serving us in the double capacity of the last two.