He lay for a little while desperately trying to solve the problems

presented to him by his environment, with but little immediate success.

Finally, as a help toward clearing up the mystery, he decided upon

exploration. Though the undertaking was painful to him, he made an

effort to sit up. His head came in violent contact with something which

he had not noticed in the obscurity above him and nearly knocked him

senseless again. After another violent fit of sickness, he decided upon

a more circumspect investigation.

He felt about with his hands and discovered that he was in some box-like

enclosure one side of which seemed to be open save for a containing

strip against which he had been violently hurled several times and which

had prevented him from being thrown out. This enclosure was in

violently agitated motion. At first, in his confusion, he decided

vaguely upon a railroad train, a sleeping-car berth, but he realized

that not even the roughest freight car would produce such an effect as

that unless the train were running on the cross ties, in which case its

stoppage would be immediate. This pitching and tossing kept on. If he

had been in his clear senses, he would have known in an instant where he

was, but it was only after violent effort at concentration that his

aching head told him that he must be aboard a ship!

He was familiar with steamers of the more magnificent class, and with

his own yacht, and the pleasure craft of his friends, and he knew enough

from reading to decide that this was the forecastle of a ship. He

decided that it was a wooden ship. The outer planking against which he

lay was of wood. He listened next for the beat or throb of a screw, and

heard none. Thinking more and more clearly, it came to him that it was

a sailing ship. As his eyes became used to the obscurity, he saw abaft

his feet and to his left hand, for he lay head to the bows, well forward

on the port side, a square of light which betokened an open hatchway.

He strained his eyes up through the hatchway. He could make out

nothing. It was still daylight on deck, and that was all he could

decide.

As he lay staring stupidly, above the roar of the wind, and the creaking

and groaning of the straining ship and the thunder of great waves

against the bow as she plunged into the head seas, he heard harsh

voices. The tramping of many feet, hurried, irregular, came to him;

then a sudden silence; a command followed, and again the massed and

steady trampling of the same feet. A shrill, harsh-creaking sound

followed, as of taut rope straining through the dry sheaves of a heavy

block. Rude rhythmical sounds, sailors' chanties, penetrated the wooden

cave in one of the recesses of which he lay. It was a sailing ship,

obviously. They were mast-heading yards; apparently setting or taking

in sail.

What ship, and how came he aboard? By this time he was sufficiently

himself to come to a decision. He would get out of that berth. He

would mount the ladder, the top of which he could see dimly nearest the

hatch-combing, and get out on deck.

He thrust one leg over the side of the berth, and as the dim light fell

upon it, he discovered that he was barefoot. It had not yet occurred to

him to examine his clothes. Being asleep, he would naturally be wearing

the luxurious night gear he affected. Not so in this instance. Where

the white of his leg stopped he discerned a fringe of ragged trousers.

He felt them. They were tattered and torn, and indescribably foul and

dirty. Mystery on mystery! Cautiously, so as not to hit his head a

second time, he sat up and lowered himself to the deck. Continuing his

inspection, he was horrified at the shirt which covered the upper half

of his body, and which fully matched the trousers. Where were the

clothes he had worn the night before?

It came upon him like the proverbial flash of lightning from a clear

sky--that bachelor supper, the gay revelry, the wine he had drunk, his

sallying forth with George Harnash. He vaguely remembered their first

stop; after that--nothing. Where were his watch, his studs, his money?

He looked around carefully, with a faint hope that he might see them. A

dress suit was, of course, an absurdity at that hour and in that place,

but anything was better than those filthy rags. There was nothing to be

seen of them, of course.

The horror and unpleasantness of the place grew upon him. Lest he

should give way to another tearing fit of sickness, he must get up on

deck. Clothes would come later, and explanations. He staggered aft

toward the foot of the ladder, the violent motion of the ship--and in

his place, in the very eyes of her, the motion was worst--making

progress difficult. It was not that he lacked sea legs, nor was he

merely seasick. His unsteadiness and nausea came from other causes.

As he put his foot on the ladder, like another flash came the

recollection that this was his wedding day. He was, indeed, a day out

in his reckoning, but that was to develop later. He stopped, petrified

at the appalling thought. His wedding day, and he in this guise on a

ship! He groaned with horror, clapping his hands to his face, and the

next roll threw him violently against the ladder, opening a cut in his

head so that the blood began to trickle down the side of his cheek.

This seemed to have a good effect upon him. The blow, as it were,

dissipated some of his imaginings. It was an assault that quickened the

working of his mind. He rose to the provocative stimulus of it. He got

to his feet, brushed the blood out of his eyes, mounted the ladder, and

stepped over the hatch-combing.

He found himself on the deck of a large, old-fashioned, full-rigged

sailing ship. A lookout paced across the deck from side to side

forward. Way aft he saw a flying bridge just forward of the mizzenmast,

on which two officers stood. A number of men had tailed on to what he

realized were the foretops'l halliards, upon which they were swaying

violently, constantly urged to greater exertions by a big, rough-looking

man who stood over them. From time to time they broke into a rude

chant, in order to apply their efforts unitedly and rhythmically to the

task of raising the foretops'l yard, the sail of which had just been

double reefed. The men who had performed that task were tumbling down

from aloft on the shrouds on either side. Although he was an amateur

sailor, Beekman was familiar enough with ships to realize much of what

was going on.

It was a raw, rough day. There was a bite in the wind which struck cold

upon his unaccustomed body through his rags. It was already blowing a

half gale, with a fine promise of coming harder, apparently, and they

were reducing the canvas. As the ship was by the wind, sheets of cold

spray swept across the already wet decks.

While he stared, the men stopped jigging on the foretops'l halliards.

They were belayed, and at the mate's command the crew lined up on the

main tops'l halliards, ready to sway away at command, while those

topmen, whose business it was to handle the canvas on the mainmast,

sprang up on the sheer poles and rapidly ascended the ratlines.

In all these movements, which appeared confused, but which were not,

Beekman had stood unnoticed, but he was not to escape attention much

longer. The man who had been directing the men on the halliards caught

sight of him as they were belayed. He turned and walked forward.

"Here, you sojer," he began roughly, "what in hell do you mean by

standin' aroun' here doin' nothin'?"

"Are you talking to me?"

"Who else would I be talkin' to? D'ye think I'm addressin' a

congregation?"

"I'm not accustomed to this sort of speech, and I'll thank you to modify

it," answered Beekman, outraged by the other's brutal rudeness, and

quite forgetful of his appearance and condition.

He was a quick-tempered young man, and all his life he had received

deference and respect. He did not propose to let anybody talk to him

that way.

"Why, you infernal sea lawyer, you back-talkin' slob, you dirty

malingerer, what do you think you are; one of the officers on this ship;

a passenger?"

"Whatever I am, I'm not under your orders."

"You ain't, ain't ye! I'll learn you what you are. Git aft an' tail on

to them halliards, an' be quick about it."

"I'll see you damned first."

"What!" roared Bill Woywod. He balled his enormous fist and struck

viciously at Beekman. In a rough-and-tumble fight the latter would have

had no chance with the mate, for what the officer lacked in science he

made up in brute force. Beekman was in a horrible physical condition

from his excesses and the result of the knockout drops which had been

administered to him, but his spirit was as strong as ever, and his skill

as great. He parried the blow easily with his left, and sent a swift

right to Woywod's iron jaw.

The main tops'l halliards had not yet been cast off, and the men surged

forward. Captain Peleg Fish, with an amazing agility for one of his

years, disdaining the accommodation ladders, leaped over the rail of the

bridge, dropped to the deck, and ran forward, leaving the conning of the

ship to the second mate.

"Rank mutiny, by heck," shouted the captain, drawing a revolver. "Stand

clear, git back to them halliards, every mother's son of ye, or I'll let

daylight through ye. What's the matter here, Mr. Woywod?"

Now, if Beekman had been in good condition, that blow to the jaw might

have put Woywod out for a few moments, although that is questionable,

but as it was, it had merely staggered him. It lacked steam. But it

was hard enough to rouse all the devilry in the mate's heart.

"Do you need any help, sir?" continued Captain Peleg Fish, handling his

pistol.

"None. Stand back, men," he answered to the captain, and shouted to the

crew in one breath.

Woywod had taken one blow. He took another, for, as he leaped at

Beekman, who was not so thoroughly angry that he did not stop to reason,

the latter hit him with all his force. Woywod partly parried the blow,

and the next moment he had the young man in his arms. He crushed him

against his breast; he shook him to and fro. He finally shifted his

hands to the other's throat and choked him until he was insensible.

Then he threw him in the lee scuppers and turned aft, the crew falling

back before him and running to the halliards with almost ludicrous

haste.

"What was the trouble?" asked Captain Fish.

"The lazy swab refused to obey my orders to tail on the halliards with

the rest of the men, an' then he struck me."

"Rank mutiny," shouted the captain. "Shall we put him in irons?"

"No, sir. We're not any too full handed as it is. He evidently doesn't

know the law of the sea. Perhaps he's not quite himself. It's the

first time he's been on deck since we took our departure yesterday

mornin'. Leave him to me, sir; I'll turn him into a good, willin',

obedient sailorman afore I gits through with him."

"Very good. Bear a hand with the maintops'l," said the captain, turning

and walking aft. "It blows harder every minute. I don't want to rip

the sticks off her just yet, although I can carry on as long as any

master that sails the sea," he added for the benefit of Salver, the

second mate.

The sea was rising, and although the _Susquehanna_ was a dry ship, yet

the wind had nipped the tops of the waves and from time to time the

spray came aboard. There was water in the lee scuppers, and this

presently brought back consciousness to Beekman. He sat up finally,

and, no one paying him any attention, watched the proceedings until the

reefs had been taken in the tops'ls and the ship prepared for the

growing storm. He watched them with no degree of interest but with

black rage and murder in his heart. If he had a weapon, or the

strength, he thought he would have killed the mate as the latter came

toward him.

With a desire, natural under the circumstances, to be in position for

whatever might betide, he rose to his feet and clung desperately to the

pinrail, confronting the mate. The men of the crew had scattered to

their various stations and duties. All hands had been called, but the

ship having been made snug alow and aloft, the watch below had been

dismissed, and some of them were already tripping down the ladder into

the forepeak. Beekman was left entirely to his own devices. No one

presumed to interfere between the mate and this newest member of the

ship's people.

"Well, you," began Woywod with an oath. "Have you had your lesson? Do

you know who's who aboard this ship? Are you ready to turn to?"

"I'm ready for nothing," said Beekman hotly, "except to kill you if I

get a chance."

"Look here," said Woywod, "you're evidently a green hand. Probably

you've never been on a ship afore, an' you don't know the law of the

sea. 'T ain't to be expected that you would. We gits many aboard that

makes their first v'yage with us. But there's one thing you do know,

an' that's that I'm your master." His great hand shot out and shook

itself beneath Beekman's face. "An' I'm your master not only because

I'm first officer of this ship, but because I'm a better man than you

are. I flung you into the lee scuppers an' I can do it again. I'm

willin' an' wishful to do it, too. If you gimme any more mutinous back

talk; if you refuse to turn to an' do your duty accordin' to the

articles you signed when you come aboard, you'll git it again. If you

act like a man instead of a fool, you'll have no more trouble with me 's

long as you obey orders. D'ye git that?"

"I get it, yes. It's plain enough, but it makes no difference to me."

"It don't, don't it?"

"No; and I'm not a member of this crew. I signed no articles, and I

don't propose to do a thing unless I please. I want to see the captain."

"You gimme the lie, do you?" said Woywod, approaching nearer.

"Now, look here," said Beekman; "I want you to understand one thing."

"What's that?"

"I'm not afraid of you. You can kill me. You've got the physical

strength to do it, although if I were not so sick, there might be an

argument as to that; so you might as well quit bullying me. Oh, yes, I

have no doubt but what you could knock me over again, but I'll die

fighting."

His hand clenched a belaying pin. He drew it out and lifted it up.

"Mr. Woywod," the captain's voice came from aft, "is that man givin' you

any trouble again?"

"I can deal with him, sir."

"Send him aft to me."

Of course, Woywod could not disobey so direct an order. He had no relish

for it, but there was no help for it. Beekman himself took action. He

shoved past the mate, who, under the circumstances, did not dare to hit

him, and made his way staggering along the deck to the bridge, where the

mate followed him. Two or three of the crew came aft, but the mate

drove them forward with curses and oaths.

"Young man," said the captain, an old man of short stature, but

immensely broad shouldered and powerful, "do you know what mutiny is?"

"I certainly do."

"Oh, you've been to sea before, have you?"

"Many times."

"On what ships?"

"Trans-Atlantic liners and my own yacht."

"Your own yacht!" The captain burst into a roar of laughter.

"That's what I said."

"Do you know I'm the master of this ship?"

"I presume so."

"Well, then, say 'sir' to me, an' be quick about it."

"It is your due," said Beekman; "I should have done it before. I beg

your pardon, sir."

"That's better. Now, what's this cock-an'-bull story you're try in' to

tell me? Look here, Smith--"

"That's not my name, sir."

"Well, that's the name you made your mark to on the ship's articles when

you were brought aboard, the drunkest sailor I ever seen."

"That's exactly it," said Beekman. "I'm no sailor, and my name is not

Smith."

"What's your name?"

"Beekman; Derrick Beekman."

"How came you aboard my ship?"

"I suppose I've been shanghaied. I don't know any more than you do;

perhaps not as much."

"You mean," roared the captain, "that I had any hand in bringing you

here?"

"I don't know anything about that. I only know that I was to be married

today, Thursday."

"'Tain't Thursday; it's Friday. You've been in a drunken stupor since

Thursday morning."

"Friday!"

Beekman looked about him with something like despair in his heart.

There was not even a ship to be seen in the whole expanse of leaden sea.

"Captain--What's your name, sir?"

"Well, the impudence of that," ejaculated Woywod.

"What difference does it make to you what the cap'n's name is," sneered

Salver.

"It's Peleg Fish, Smith-Beekman, or Beekman-Smith; Captain Peleg Fish."

"Well, Captain Fish, I'm a member of an old New York family and--"

"Families don't count for nothin' here," said the captain. "If that's

all you've got to say, I've seen a many of them last scions brought down

to the fok's'l."

"I was engaged to be married to the daughter of John Maynard. I presume

you've heard of him."

"Do you mean the president of the Inter-Oceanic Trading Company?"

"I do."

"Well, I've heard of him all right," laughed the captain. "This is the

_Susquehanna_. She belongs to his company. We fly his house flag. Do

you mean to tell me that you claim to have been engaged to his daughter;

a drunken ragamuffin like you, the off-scourin's of Water Street, which

the crimps unload on us poor, helpless, seafarin' men as able seamen?"

"I was. I am. The wedding was set for yesterday. We had a bachelor

dinner on Wednesday night, and I guess we all drank too much. At any

rate, I don't know anything further except that I woke up here."

"It's a likely story."

"That chap's got a rich imagination," sneered the second mate.

"He'd orter be writin' romances," ejaculated Woywod.

"Enough," said Captain Fish. "Your story may be true or it may not. I

don't think it is, but whether it is or not, it don't matter. You were

brought aboard at two o'clock Thursday morning. We tripped and sailed

at four. His name's on the articles, Mr. Woywod?"

"It is; John Smith. I witnessed his signature. He couldn't write at

the time, so someone held his hand an' he made his mark."

"This is an outrage," roared Beekman. "What became of my watch and

clothes?"

"You had nothin' but what you've got on now when you came aboard. Am I

right, cap'n?"

"You are, sir."

"So you see there's nothin' for you to do but turn to an' behave

yourself an' obey orders. When the ship reaches Vladivostok, an' we

pays off, you can take your discharge an' go where you please."

"I'll give you a thousand dollars to go back to New York and land me."

The captain grinned. Taking their cue from him, Mr. Woywod and Mr.

Salver exploded with laughter.

"You might as well make it ten thousand, while you're about it."

"I will make it ten thousand," said Beekman, desperately.

"Nonsense!"

"Well, then, will you trans-ship me to some vessel bound for New York?"

"We're short handed, sir," put in Woywod.

"Couldn't think of it," said the captain, who, of course, disbelieved

_in toto_ Beekman's highly improbable story.

This was the richest and most extravagant tale he had ever listened to.

To do him justice, every voyage he had ever sailed had produced someone

who strove to get out of the ship by urging some wildly improbable

excuse for his being there.

"Well, sir, if you won't do that, I suppose Colon will be your first

port of call, and you are going through the Panama Canal. Let me get on

the end of the cable there and I'll get you orders from Mr. Maynard

himself."

"I might be inclined to do that," said the captain facetiously, "but the

canal is blocked by another slide in the Culebra cut, an' we're goin'

around the Horn."

"Don't you touch anywhere?"

"Some South Sea island for vegetables an' water, mebbe, but no place

where there's a cable, if I can help it. When I takes my departure I

don't want nobody interferin' with me an' sendin' orders after me."

"Is there a wireless on the ship?"

"No. Now, if you've finished your questionin', perhaps you'll allow me

to say a word or two."

"An' you may be very thankful to the cap'n for his kind treatment, for I

never seed him so agreeable to a man tryin' to sojer out of work an'

shirk his job afore," said Woywod.

"Jestice, Mr. Woywod, an' fair treatment, even to the common sailor, is

my motto. As long as they obey orders, they've got nothin' to fear from

me, an' that goes for you, Smith."

"Beekman," insisted the young man.

"Smith it was, Smith it is, Smith it will be. That's the first order.

Now, I'll give you a little advice. Mr. Woywod and Mr. Salver is among

the gentlest officers I ever sailed with, so long as they ain't crossed.

You turn to an' do what you're told or you'll git it constantly; fist,

rope's end, belay'n pin, sea boots, or whatever comes handiest, an' if

you're obstinate enough, an' if it's serious enough, a charge of mutiny,

an' double irons. Understand?"

Beekman nodded; the captain's meaning was clear.

"Go for'ard, now, an' remember, mutiny means a term in prison at the end

of the voyage, an' mebbe worse. However you come aboard, you're here,

an' bein' here, you got to obey orders or take the consequences."

"I protest against this outrage. I'll have the law. I'll bring you to

justice."

"Belay that," said the captain, more or less indifferently. "It don't

git you nowhere. If you are well advised, you'll heed my suggestions,

that's all."

Beekman was absolutely helpless. There was nothing that he could do.

Although more angry and more resentful than ever, he fully realized his

impotency. He turned to go forward. Bill Woywod stopped him. The

passion that the mate saw in Beekman's face, as he fairly gritted his

teeth at him, startled him a little. Most liars and malingerers did not

take it that way. They accepted the inevitable with more or less grace.

"You're in my watch," said Woywod.

"More's the pity."

"An' it happens to be the watch below. One bell has jest struck;

four-thirty. The watch below takes the deck at four bells; six o'clock

for the second dogwatch. I'll give you till then to think about it. If

you don't turn to then with the rest an' do a man's duty, by God, you'll

suffer for it."

*CHAPTER VIII*

*THE ANVIL MUST TAKE THE POUNDING*

Beekman had never thought so hard in his life as he did in the next hour

and a half. Try as he would, he could see no way out of the hideous

_impasse_ into which fate had thrust him. He had not the faintest idea

that his situation was caused by the treachery of his friend. No

suspicion of betrayal entered his mind. He was certain it was simply

the result of accident, and no one was to blame except himself.

He had got beastly drunk after that dinner. He had driven down town

with Harnash. They had stopped on the way. They had finally separated.

He had been assaulted, robbed, and probably left senseless from drink

and the beating he had received. He hoped fervently that he had put up

a good fight before being beaten into insensibility. Some crimp had

picked him up, stripped him of his clothes, put him into these filthy

rags, and sent him aboard the ship. By a legal mockery which would yet

suffice, he had signed the articles. There was no way he could convince

the captain of the truth of his story. Unless stress of weather or

accident drove the ship to make port somewhere, he could communicate

with nobody for six months, or until they dropped anchor at Vladivostok.

He was a prisoner. Neither by physical force nor by mental alertness

and ability could he alter that fact or change conditions.

Fantastic schemes came into his mind, of course; among them the

organization of the crew, a mutiny, the seizure of the ship. But that

would not be possible unless conditions on the ship became absolutely

unbearable; and even if it were practicable, in all probability he might

be leading the whole body to death and disaster. Beekman knew something

about the organization and administration of the Inter-Oceanic Trading

Company. He knew their ships were always well found and well

provisioned. Given a well-found ship and plenty of good food to eat,

and a sailor will stand almost anything.

Besides, most of these men knew fully the character of Captain Fish, Mr.

Woywod, and Mr. Salver. They were as hard as iron, and as quick as

lightning, and as ruthless as the devil himself, but if the men did what

they were told, and did it quickly, and did it well, they got off with

abuse only, and a comparative freedom from manhandling.

All three officers were fine seamen. They could handle a ship in any

wind or sea as a skilled chauffeur handles a well-known car in heavy

traffic, and it is a great deal harder to handle a ship than a car,

especially a sailing ship. Blow high, blow low, come what would, these

men were equal to any demand, and all that could be got out of timber

and cordage and canvas, to say nothing of steel wire, these men could

get. Also they were drivers. They would carry to'gall'n'ts'l's when

other ships dared show no more than a close-reefed tops'l. Speed was a

prime requisite with the owners. The _Susquehanna_, in particular, had

to justify her use, and Captain Fish took a natural and pardonable pride

in striving for the steamer record. All this pleased the men. Sailors

will put up with much from a skillful, energetic, alert, daring, and

successful officer. They made quick runs and drew high pay. Many of

them had been attached to the _Susquehanna_ since she had been

commissioned. They had learned so to comport themselves as to avoid as

much trouble as possible.

Beekman was in the receipt of not a little rough, but common-sense,

advice from the watch below in the forecastle. His own better judgment

told him that the unpalatable advice must be followed. Fish, Woywod,

and Salver had it in their power to harry him to death. His spirit,

nevertheless, rebelled against any such knuckling down as would be

required. At three bells in the first dogwatch one of the ship's boys

came to him with a message.

"Are you John Smith?" he said, stopping before him.

Beekman took his first lesson then and there. His inclination was, as

it had been, to shout his own name to the trucks whenever he was

questioned, but what was the use? He bit his lips and nodded.

"That's what they call me."

"Well, Mr. Gersey wants to see you."

"Who is he?"

"He's the ship's Bo's'n."

"Am I at the beck and call of everybody on the ship?"

"Look here, young feller," said an old, down-east sailor named Templin,

who, on account of his age and experience, had been made the Bo's'n's

mate of the port watch. "You've had a lot of advice throwed into you,

which you may or may not foller. This last is worth 'bout as much as

all the rest. The Bo's'n ain't no certificated officer. He don't live

aft. He's got a position sort o' 'twixt fo'c's'l an' quarter-deck, but

there's no man aboard who can do more for you or agin you than him. You

seems to be a sort of a friendless damn fool. We don't none of us

believe your yarn, but we sympathize with you because we've been in the

same sitooation, all of us. Jim Gersey is a square man. You ain't had

no chance to run athwart his hawse, an' like enough he wants to do you a

good turn. You'd better go, an' go a-runnin'."

"Thank you," answered Beekman, rising and following the boy to the

boatswain's cabin, right abaft the forecastle.

"Look here, Smith--" began that grizzled and veteran mariner, who had

followed the sea all his life, and looked it.

"Smith is not my name."

"In course, it ain't, but it's the name you'll go by on this ship. I

don't know why it is, but every man I ever seed articled on a ship

without his consent got named Smith or Jones. I've knowed some mighty

respectable people o' them names, an' I don't see why they've got to be

saddled with all the offscourin's o' creation, meanin' no offense," said

the rough, but somehow kindly, old man. "Smith it is, an'--"

"Smith goes," said Beekman briefly. "What's my first name, if I may

ask?"

"Reads 'John' on the articles."

"John's as good as any."

"Now, you're takin' things in the right spirit. I heerd what you said

to the officers, an' I seen how you got involved with Mr. Woywod. I

sized you up good and plenty. Whether your yarn is true or not, an' I

ain't passin' no judgment on that, it's evident that you ain't used to

the sea, that you ain't used to rough work, I means, an' this yere is

new experience for you. I'm old enough to be your father, an' it jest

occurred to me that it would be a thing I'd like to remember when I

quits the sea an' settles down on a farm I got my eyes on, that I took a

young feller an' give him a friendly hand an' a word o' warnin', an'

that's why I sent for you."

"I appreciate it more than I can tell. As man to man, I assure you that

my story is absolutely true. If I ever get out of this alive, I'll

remember your conduct."

"'T ain't for that I'm tryin' to steer you a straight course."

"I believe it."

"You've got to knuckle down, take your medicine, turn to an' do your

dooty like a man. There ain't three harder men on the ocean to sail

with than the old man an' them two mates. I've been on many ships, an'

under many officers, but there couldn't be a worse hell ship than this

one'd be if the men didn't knuckle down. You can't talk back; you can't

even look sideways. You got to be on the jump all the time. You got to

do what you're told, an' you got to do it right. Tryin' won't git you

nowhere. It's doin' it. They're hell on every natural mistake."

"Why do men submit to it? How can they get a crew?" asked Beekman

fiercely. "I would almost rather die than stand it."

"No, you wouldn't, sonny," said the loquacious old boatswain quickly.

"If what you say is true, an' I ain't sayin' it ain't, you've got

somethin' to live for, an' even if it ain't true, you've probably got

something to live for ashore. If you're a fugitive from jestice, or

anything o' that kind, which we gits 'em of'en, there's plenty of other

lands where a man can disappear an' make a new start. An' men," he went

on, reverting to the other's question, "are willin' to ship on the

_Susquehanna_, an' do it over an' over agin, because she's well found,

the grub's A-1, she's a lucky ship, an' makes quick passages. The pay

is high, an' the officers are prime seamen, every inch o' them. If you

do your dooty, if you do it right, if you don't make no mistakes, you'll

git plenty o' hard language an' black looks, but that's all. If you

don't they'll haze you until your spirit's broke, aye, until your life's

gone. I'll do it myself," he added frankly. "I ain't talkin' to you now

as the Bo's'n of the ship, but jest as man to man; as an old man

advisin' a young one. If I find you shirkin', or sojerin', or puttin'

on any airs, or playin' any tricks, I won't be far behind Woywod and

Salver an' the old man. That's all."

"Mr. Gersey--"

"Cut out 'Mister.' I ain't no quarter-deck officer."

"Well, then, Bo's'n. I've thought it over. I'll accept your advice."

"It's the only thing you can do."

"That's true, and the only reason I do it. But, by heaven, if I ever

get ashore, and if I ever get Woywod ashore, I'll pay him for it."

"There's many would like to help you at that job," answered Gersey; "but

the trouble is to git him ashore. After ship's crews is paid off, they

generally scatters an' disappears, an' sailormen's memories is short.

They count on gittin' it hard from everybody, anyway. They've been

trained that way from the beginnin'. They grow so forgetful that after

they get on another ship there's nothin' too good to say of the last one

in comparison. Do you know anything about sailorin'?"

"I don't know any knot-and-splice seamanship, if that's what you mean;

but I'm a navigator, and I can sail my own yacht. I can do a trick at

the wheel. I've never been on a full-rigged ship."

"What was your yacht?"

"A steamer, of course."

"Show any canvas?"

"Not to speak of."

"Ever been aloft?"

"No."

"Well, I'll do my best to train you. You've got an awful hard course to

steer. You began bad by gittin' the mate down on you, an' I've no doubt

but what he'll be layin' for you all the time, anyway."

"So long as he keeps his hands off me, I'll give him no further chance

for trouble."

"An' if he don't?" asked the boatswain impressively.

"If he goes to that length--"

"You'll have to stand it jest the same. Mutiny on the high seas is the

worst crime a sailor can be found guilty of. Everybody ashore is on the

side of the officers--courts, an' jestices, an' juries."

"I'd like to get that brute in a court," said Beekman savagely. "I'd

almost be willing to mutiny to do it."

"Take my advice on this p'int, too," said Gersey earnestly. "The less a

sailor man has to do with law sharks an' courts ashore, the better off

he finds hisself."

Thus it happened that when four bells were struck, and all the port

watch were called, Beekman presented himself with the rest.

"So you've decided to turn to, have you, you dirty ragamuffin?" roared

Woywod as the watch came tumbling aft.

"I have."

"Say, 'sir,'" cried the mate.

He had a piece of rattan in his hand, and he struck Beekman a blow on

the arm. The hardest word he ever ejaculated in his life was that "sir"

which he threw out between his teeth.

"That's well," said Woywod. "Now, you assaulted me; you've been

technically guilty of mutiny, but I'll forgit that. You turn to an' do

your work like a man, an' you'll have nothin' to fear from me, but if I

catch you sojerin', I'll cut your heart out."

Beekman couldn't trust himself to speak. He stood rooted to his place

on the deck until Woywod turned away. It was singular how the

environment of a ship turned a fairly decent man ashore into a wolf, a

pitiless brute, at sea. Woywod knew no other way to command men. The

men with whom he had been thrown knew no other way to be commanded. The

mate had completely forgotten his friend's instructions to treat Beekman

with unusual consideration. As a matter of fact, Woywod was harder on

Beekman in his own heart and in his intentions than on any other man for

several reasons.

Beekman had faced him. He had refused to be cowed. He was not even

cowed now. Beekman had struck him and almost knocked him down. Beekman

was a gentleman. In every look, in every movement, he showed his

superiority over, and his contempt for, Woywod. Harnash had arrived at

the same social degree as Beekman, but he was careful, because of his

old affection, to treat Woywod exactly as he had treated him in days

gone by. Woywod knew--he was not without shrewdness--that he was not on

Harnash's social level, or even upon an intellectual parity with him,

but Harnash never allowed the slightest suggestion of inequality to

appear in their intercourse, because he really liked the man. When a

man of inferior temper, quality, and character is placed in

irresponsible charge of a man who surpasses him in everything, the

tendency to tyrannize is almost irresistible. In Woywod's mind, he

himself was, somehow, identified with justice and right. He was engaged

in serving a woman who, to his perverted apprehension, was to be forced

into a marriage with a man she hated, and that man was before him, in

his power.

Woywod was not all bad. He was the last exponent of a certain kind of

officer; a very bad kind, it must be admitted, but an efficient kind, as

well. There were certain rudimentary principles of justice and fair

dealing in him, and some of those whom he abused worst realized that,

and stood for more from him than they would otherwise; but in the case

of Beekman, both justice and fair play were in abeyance for the reasons

mentioned. Woywod was determined to break his spirit, and to ride him

down, and Beekman sensed that. It was to be a fight between him and the

mate from New York to Vladivostok, with every advantage on earth on the

side of the mate.

Beekman had as quick a temper as any man living. He had never been

forced to control it much. The world had given free passage everywhere

to him, backed as he had been by those things before which men bow down.

Whether he could control himself, whether he could submit to the end, he

did not dare to say. He did not hope that he could, but at least he

would give it a fair trial. In his secret heart he prayed that he might

control himself, for, if he did not, he was sure he would kill the mate

by fair means or foul. He wanted very much to live, if for no other

thing than to justify himself in the eyes of Stephanie Maynard, whose

present opinion of him he could well imagine.

He had not been the most ardent of lovers. He was not the most ardent

of lovers now. It was pride rather than passion that made him crave

that opportunity for justifying himself, although he deluded himself

with the idea that his heart was fairly breaking on account of her.

Indeed, a simple reflection might have convinced him of the falsity of

that proposition, because the predominant emotions that mastered him

were hatred of Woywod and longing for revenge.

What would have been those emotions if he had known that Woywod was but

an instrument in the hands of another, and that other a rival for the

affections of his promised wife, and one who had passed as his best

friend?

*CHAPTER IX*

*THE GAME AND THE END*

Having chosen his line of conduct, Beekman, with a strength of will and

purpose of which no one would have suspected him, adhered to it rigidly,

and the very fact that he was unable to goad him into revolt inflamed

the passion and developed the animosity and hatred of Woywod. The mate

was perfectly willing and, indeed, anxious to manhandle Beekman, but

that little fundamental streak of fair play made him keep his hands off

when he had no cause. To be sure, he sought diligently for cause and

occasion, and that he did not find it, angered him the more.

Beekman had never been face to face with a very difficult situation of

any kind. Life had been too easy for him. There had been no special

demands upon his character by any very pressing emergency, and perhaps

that made him study the position in which he found himself more

carefully. Among other things, he decided to make himself popular with

the crew, and to do it by gaining their respect. Unlike Ancient Pistol,

he would be by no means "base, common, and popular," if popularity was

to be procured in that way only. He had always been acclaimed a leader,

in athletics at any rate, both in the prep school, in the university,

and afterward among his friends and acquaintances.

Without stooping to their level, without truckling to their prejudices

by promises or bribery that is, he achieved that object. He was easily

the most popular man on the ship. And it was no small tribute to his

adaptability that one of his quality and station could gain the

universal approval of so many men so radically different. In little

ways that fact presently became apparent to the quarter deck, and Woywod

resented that especially. It irked him exceedingly that a man against

whom he imagined he had a just cause for grievance, and who had, from

his point of view, entirely merited his displeasure, should be upheld

and acclaimed by the rest of the men over whom he ruled with iron

severity. This was an affront to him, and an additional cause for

resentment, not to say hatred.

In all this, Beekman had not changed his opinion of Woywod in the least

degree. In return, he hated him with a good, healthy, genuine hatred

that grew with every passing hour. It became increasingly hard for him

to control himself and to follow out his course in the face of Woywod's

constant endeavors to arouse his temper. Indeed, quick and passionate

by inheritance, and by lack of restraint since childhood, Beekman found

himself marvelling at his own self-control.

If it had not been that his course so thoroughly angered the mate as in

a certain sense to enable Beekman to get even with him, he would have

lost that control again and again. As it was, his soul writhed under the

sneers, the insults, the brutal blackguarding, the foul language of

Woywod, to say nothing of the exactions, the unfair and almost

impossible tasks that were heaped upon him. And Salver, taking his cue

from his superior, did his little best to make life a burden to Beekman.

Grim, stern, ruthless Peleg Fish rather enjoyed it, too. With natural

keenness, the master of the ship realized that it was a battle and a

game between the two men, and he delighted in it as a sporting

proposition.

Perhaps the popularity Beekman had gained among the crew helped him to

bear these things. A few of them were quick enough mentally to look

beneath the surface. Jim Gersey was of that small number. The young

man had completely gained that old man's confidence. Beekman had seen

the uselessness of persisting in his story, and he had made no further

references to it among the crew after that first day, but with Gersey he

made an exception. The old boatswain was shrewd and worldly wise in a

guileless sort of way. The two had many long talks together, and the

younger had at last succeeded in convincing the older of the truth of

his tale. Without seeming to do it, the boatswain helped the newcomer

through many a difficult situation, and by ostentatiously joining in the

bullying he got from the quarter deck, and by keeping secret his

friendship, it was not suspected aft.

Beekman had no suspicion as to how he got on the ship. He supposed his

presence was due to blind fate. He knew that once he could get on the

end of a telegraphic cable he could free himself from his detestable

position, but he shrewdly suspected that if there were any way to

prevent that, Woywod, who acted with the consent and approval of Fish,

could be depended upon to stop it. Beekman had talked that matter over

with Gersey, and he had given the boatswain an address and a message

which the old man had laboriously committed to memory. If Beekman were

kept on the ship, Gersey would send the cable from Vladivostok, or from

whatever civilized port they made. For the rest, with a reckless

disregard of expenditure, Beekman discarded his filthy rags, and

comfortably outfitted himself from the ship's well-equipped slop-chest,

his extravagant outlay being deducted from his able seaman's pay, for

which, of course, he cared nothing.

In spite of the fact that she was well found, and the men were well fed,

and the passage was a quick one, and the ship fairly comfortable, by the

time the cruise drew on to its end, the ship was usually a smouldering

hell, and this voyage was no exception.

The men had been driven hard. A succession of westerly gales off Cape

Horn had kept them beating about that dreadful point for nearly two

weeks, and even after they had rounded it, for once the Pacific belied

its name. The wind shifted after they passed the fiftieth parallel, so

they had to face a long beat up to the line. Gale succeeded gale. Such

weather was unprecedented. It had never been heard of by the oldest and

most experienced seamen on board. The men were worn out; their nerves on

ragged edge. The severe straining the ship had got had made her take in

water, not seriously, but at a sufficiently rapid rate to require a good

deal of pumping. The steam pump broke down for a time and the crew had

to man the hand pumps. Their nerves were on edge and raw, and the

officers ground them down worse than ever.

If Beekman had not improved in his physical condition, he could not have

stood his share of the work. He had been an athlete at college, not

heavy enough to buck the center on a football team, but a marvelously

speedy end, and a champion at the lighter forms of athletics demanding

agility, alertness, and skill. In his after-college life, athletics had

continued to interest him if desultorily. He was still an A-1 tennis

player and a dashing horseman, but not much else.

With the hard work, the coarse but substantial food, and at first the

regular hours, he developed amazingly. He got to be as hard as nails.

He had always been a fair boxer. It was a science about which Woywod

knew nothing, and although the mate was twenty pounds heavier and

several inches taller, to say nothing of broader shouldered, than

Beekman, the latter began to feel that in a twenty-foot ring with foul

fighting barred, he could master the officer. There was no possibility

of a meeting of that kind, however, so the two, under the varying

positions of an unusually trying cruise, fought the battle of will and

wit down one ocean and half-way up the other, until the break came, the

marvel being not that it came when it did, but that it had been

postponed so long.

One of the members of the crew was a young Dutchman named Jacob Wramm.

He was not exactly half-witted. He could hardly be called defective,

even, but he was a dull, slow-thinking, very stupid lad who had been

shipped by the crimp as an A.B., but who would never be rated higher

than a landsman. Beekman, who rapidly learned knot-and-splice

seamanship, and all the ordinary and extraordinary duties of a sailor;

who could get to the main royal yard or the flying jibboom end as

quickly as any man on the ship; who could pass a weather earring in a

howling gale as securely as the most accomplished seaman; who could do

his trick at the wheel and hold her up to her course against a bucking,

jumping head sea with the best quartermaster afloat, endeavored to teach

and train Wramm in the niceties of the sailor's art. He made some

progress with him until Salver caught him instructing the stupid

Dutchman, who was in the second mate's watch. He mentioned it casually

in the cabin to Woywod, and the latter at once found a new object upon

which to vent his spleen and to provoke Beekman.

It was fortunate for Wramm that he was in the starboard watch. It was

only when all hands were called and Salver went forward, Woywod taking

charge amidships, where Wramm was stationed at the main mast, that he

got a chance at him. The slightest blunder on the part of the Dutchman

was treated as a crime. He was rope's ended, rattaned, kicked, beaten

like a dog. Only a certain slow, stubborn obstinacy and determination

in his disposition kept the unfortunate man from jumping overboard.

Probably if Beekman had been in the same watch with Wramm and both had

been under Woywod's command, something would have happened sooner, but

except when all hands were called, Beekman was never near Wramm, and

even then Beekman's station was aloft in taking in sail.

Wramm was not trusted on the yards. His duties were at the fife-rails

around the masts where the various ropes which led from above were

belayed. It was a responsible position, but Beekman had gone over and

over every bit of every rope belayed to the iron pins in the fife-rails

with him. When Wramm once got a thing in his head after a slow process,

it was apt to stay there, and the Dutchman finally became letter

perfect. He could put his hands on the various sheets, halliards,

clewlines, buntlines, and others unerringly even in the dark. That is,

he could if he were let alone and not hurried unduly.

One night, the starboard watch being on deck in the midwatch, at four

bells, or two in the morning, the port watch was called, all hands being

necessary for the taking in of sail. As usual, Captain Fish, annoyed

beyond measure at his bad luck and the head winds, had been holding on

to take advantage of a favorable slant in a whole-sail breeze, which was

developing into a hard gale. He had time and distance to make up and he

was going to lose no opportunity with either.

As the wind was rising, and the sea, too, he had remained on deck during

Salver's watch, and at one o'clock in the morning the watch had taken in

the royals and the flying jib. At two o'clock the captain, staring up

through the darkness at the jumping, quivering to'gall'nt masts, decided

that the time had come to furl the light canvas and take a double reef

in the tops'ls, in preparation for the blow obviously at hand. He

waited so long, however, before coming to this decision, that he

realized that he had perilously little time left in which to get the

canvas off her without losing a sail or perhaps a spar or two.

Like every man of his temperament, he held on till the last minute and

then summoned the port watch, which came tumbling up from below at the

call of the boatswain's mate, to find Captain Fish storming on the

bridge at their slowness. Salver went forward to the forecastle to

attend to the foremast. Mr. Woywod, in the natural bad humor that comes

to any one who is awakened from a sound sleep in the only four hours of

that particular night appointed for rest, took charge of the main, while

the captain himself looked out for things aft. The helm was shifted.

The ship forced up into the wind to spill the canvas. The braces were

tended. The sheets were manned. The order was given to round in and

settle away.

Wramm was the last man to get to his station. The men not stationed at

some place of observation during the watch on deck had snugged down in

such places as they could find for sleep until called. Wramm was a

heavy sleeper. He had not been feeling well and had been awake even

during his watches in the night before. He slept like a log. Woywod

saw that he was not at his place at the main fife-rail. Just before the

order was given for the light yard and topmen to lay aloft and furl and

reef, Woywod, raging like a lion, discovered Wramm sleeping in the lee

scuppers under the main pin-rail. He savagely kicked him awake, dragged

him to his feet, got his hand on his throat, shook him like a rat, and

finally flung him, choked and half-dazed, against the fife-rail, with

orders for him to look alive and stand by or he would get the life

beaten out of him.

When the order was given to slack away the main to'gall'nt halliards,

the slow-thinking, confused Dutchman made a grievous mistake. He cast

off and eased away the main top'sl halliards, the descent of the yard

began just as the ship fell away a bit under the pressure of a heavy

sea. The main to'gall'nts'l filled again, the men at the lee and weather

braces, supposing everything was right, easing off and rounding in,

respectively, until the yard whirled about, pointing nearly fore and

aft. The starboard to'gall'nt sheet gave way first under the drag of

the main tops'l yard, but not before the tremendous pressure of the wind

had snapped the to'gall'nt mast off at the hounds. There was a crash

above in the darkness. They caught a glimpse of white cloud toppling

overhead and streaming out in the darkness, and then the mast came

crashing down on the lee side of the main top and hung there threshing

wildly about in the fierce wind.

When the main topmen were sent aloft to clear away the wreck, the tops'l

halliards were belayed and then led along the deck and the tops'l

hoisted again. For once on the cruise Beekman was not at his station,

for the mate, instantly divining what had occurred, as every experienced

man on the ship had done, had leaped to the fife-rail, with a roar of

rage, and had struck the bewildered Dutchman, almost unaware of what had

happened, with a belaying pin, which he drew from the rail, and had

knocked him senseless to the deck. Even as Woywod rapidly belayed the

tops'l halliards, which Wramm had been easing off, he took occasion to

kick the prostrate man violently several times, and one of the kicks

struck him on the jaw and broke it.

Beekman, stopping with one foot on the sheer pole of the weather main

shrouds, had seen it all. The reason why he had not gone aloft with the

rest was because he had instantly stepped back to the rail, leaped to

the deck, and had run to the prostrate form of poor Wramm, which he had

dragged out of the way of the men, who had seized the halliards at the

mate's call. As it happened, the angry mate had struck harder than he

had intended. Wramm's skull was fractured, his jaw broken, and his body

was covered with bruises from Woywod's brutal assault.

When the wreck was cleared away, the canvas reduced, the ship made snug,

and the watch below dismissed for the hour of rest that still remained

to them, Woywod came forward. The watch had taken Wramm into the

forecastle and laid him out on his bunk.

"Where is that"--he qualified Wramm's name with a string of oaths and

expletives, the vileness of which also characterized him typically--"who

caused a perfectly good mainto'gall'nt mast to carry away?" said Woywod,

stopping halfway down the ladder leading into the forepeak.

There was a low murmur from the watch below, a murmur which was not

articulate, but which nevertheless expressed hate as well as the growl

of a baited animal does. Woywod was no coward. He was afraid of nothing

on earth. Bullies are sometimes that way, in spite of the proverb. It

was Beekman who spoke.

"He's here, sir," he began, in that smooth, even, cultivated voice which

Woywod hated to hear. "I think his skull is fractured. His jaw is

broken."

"An' a good thing, too. Perhaps the crack in his thick skull will let

some sense in him."

"It will probably let life out--sir," answered Beekman, with just an

appreciable pause before the sir.

"Mutinous, inefficient, stupid hound," said Woywod, but there was a note

of alarm in his voice, which Beekman detected instantly, and which some

of the others suspected. "Show a light here," he continued, coming down

to the deck and bending over the man. "One of you wash the blood off

his face," he said, after careful inspection. "I'll go aft an' git at

the medicine chest. He's too thick headed to suffer any serious hurt.

This'll be a lesson to him, an' to all of you. I'll be back in a few

minutes."

The mate was really alarmed, although he did his best not to show it.

"Beg your pardon, sir," said Beekman, "but I want to speak to the

captain."

"What you got to say to him?"

"I want to speak to him, sir."

"You can't do it now. Come to the mast tomorrow."

"I want to speak to him tonight."

"Let him speak to the cap'n," shouted Templin, one of the most reliable

men on the ship.

Instantly, as if given a cue, the whole watch broke into exclamations.

"We'll all go aft with him to speak to the cap'n."

"That won't be necessary," said Beekman, quietly, although every nerve

was throbbing with indignation and resentment. "Mr. Woywod will grant

my request. There's no need for the rest of you mixing up in this.

Won't you, Mr. Woywod?"

Now, Beekman was in his rights in appealing to the captain at any time.

Woywod cast a glance back at the still, unconscious figure of Wramm and

decided that perhaps it would be best for him to temporize. He wanted

to strike Beekman down, and if it had not been for Wramm's condition and

the mutinous outbreak of the men, he would have done so. He realized

instantly what Beekman's popularity meant.

"If Cap'n Fish ain't turned in," he said, surlily, "and is willin' to

see you, you can speak to him; if not, you'll have to wait till

mornin'."

"I think it's probable that he's still awake, sir," said Beekman.

"He'll undoubtedly want to know what the condition of Wramm is."

"I'll tell him."

"No, I'll tell him myself."

"You will," shouted Woywod, raising his fist.

Beekman never moved. The men came crowding around.

"By sea law," said Templin, "he's got a right to see the master of the

ship, an' we proposes to see that he gits that right."

"You mutinous dogs," cried Woywod, confronting them.

But they were not overawed, and they did not give back.

"Come along," he said to Beekman, "an' you'll be sorry you ever done

it."

Without looking behind him, he sprang up the ladder and, followed

closely by Beekman, he went aft, descended the companionway, and found

Captain Fish seated at the cabin table, on which a huge joint of cold

meat and bread were spread out, with some bottles and glasses to bear

them company. The captain was not alone. The steward, a Spanish

half-caste, named Manuel, had just brought in a steaming pot of coffee

from the galley.

"Well, Mr. Woywod," began Fish, "what about that infernal lubber that

caused the loss of the mainto'gall'nt mast?"

"Smith, here, has come aft demandin' to see you an' p'r'aps he'll tell

you. Will you see him?"

"What is it, Smith?" said the captain, sharply.

"Seaman Wramm," began Beekman, "is probably dying. I'm not a doctor, but

so near as I can make out he has a fractured skull; his jaw is certainly

broken and he is covered with bruises."

"How came he in that condition?" asked the captain.

"That murdering blackguard yonder struck him over the head with a

belaying pin, kicked him when he was down and--"

"By God!" cried Woywod, springing forward, "you dare refer to me in that

way?"

"Steady, Mr. Woywod," said Fish, his eyes gleaming. "I know how to deal

with this man. Are you aware--you pretend to be a gentleman of

education--that your language is in the highest degree mutinous, that I

can have you put in double irons, and--"

"Am I to stand by and see a poor, helpless, dull-witted man, who has

been hazed to death every day of this cruise by your blackguardly

assessors, beaten to death, killed without a word?"

"You'd better look out for yourself rather than for him."

"I don't care what becomes of me. I've had just about enough of it. If

that man dies, I'm going to bring a charge of murder against this

bullying scoundrel, and if you don't put him in irons I'll bring it

against you, too."

Beekman was beside himself with wrath. His temper was gone. His

control had vanished in thin air. The cumulative repression of three

months had been lost. He stepped forward, shaking his fist in the

captain's face.

"Manuel," said the captain, "tell Mr. Salver to send a couple of men

down here. Tell him to have the bo's'n fetch me some double irons."

Fish was white with wrath. "Do you think I'll allow any wharf rat like

you to talk like that to me on my own ship? I've no doubt but that

thick-headed Dutchman will recover, but whether he does or not I'll deal

with him. You'll prefer charges against me, will you? By God, you can

count yourself lucky if you're not swinging at a yardarm tomorrow. For

two cents I'd run you up now."

"With your permission, cap'n," began Woywod. "Keep fast, Manuel, I can

handle him alone. I've been itchin' fer this chance ever since he came

aboard. Now, Smith," he laughed, evilly, "I've got you. I knew you

couldn't keep your temper."

Woywod stepped toward him. Beekman did not give back an inch.

"If you lay a hand on me," he shouted, "if I have to die for it the next

minute, I'll--"

But Woywod, who did not give him a chance to finish the sentence, with

fist upraised leaped forward. Beekman hit him. It was a much more

powerful blow than the first he had delivered to the mate on the day

that he waked up and found himself shanghaied. Three months of hard

work and clean living and plain food had made a different man of him.

Woywod was lucky. He partly parried the blow, but it struck him full on

the chest and drove him smashing back against the bulkhead by the side

of Manuel. The frightened steward hauled him to his feet.

The captain had arisen and was bawling for the officer of the watch. He

was oblivious to the fact that one of the men was peering down into the

cabin over the combing of the skylight. There was a trample of feet on

the deck above. Salver himself appeared on the companion ladder, but

Woywod had got to his feet. He was black with rage, mad with passion.

He reached into the side pocket of his short peajacket and drew forth a

heavy revolver.

"You're witnesses that he struck me," he cried, as he raised the weapon,

but again Beekman was too quick for him.

A big, broad-bladed carving knife was lying by the side of a piece of

salt beef on the table. Beekman clutched it, and as Woywod pulled the

trigger, he leaped forward and buried it to the hilt in the mate's

breast.

*CHAPTER X*

*THE MYSTERY OF THE LAST WORDS*

So powerful was the stroke, so deep and inveterate the hate that nerved

the arm, that the sharp knife was driven clear to the handle into

Woywod's breast. The big mate threw up his arms. He staggered back.

The pistol went off harmlessly and dropped on the table. Then the huge

hulk of the stricken man collapsed on the deck. Quick as a flash

Captain Fish leaned over and seized the weapon.

"Make a move an' you're a dead man," he roared, covering Beekman. "Mr.

Salver, I'll keep Smith covered with this pistol until you get the

double irons on him. Log a charge of mutiny an' murder against him. If

he resists, you can go to any length to subdue him. I wouldn't like him

killed aboard ship, however. I'd rather see him hanged ashore."

Salver grabbed Beekman by the shoulder.

"You, Manuel, go to his assistance," said Fish, still keeping him

covered. "You infernal coward," he added to the steward, who was as

white as death and trembling like a weather brace in a heavy wind; "he

can't do you no harm. If he moves I'll put a bullet through him."

But Beekman had no desire to do any one any harm. The blow that had let

life out of Woywod had let the passion out of Beekman. He stood staring

and bending over, he caught the man's last broken words.

"Done--for--Tell Harnash--I--" and then silence.

Captain Fish came around the table as soon as Mr. Salver had got a firm

grip on one of Beekman's arms and the steward had gingerly taken the

other. Shoving the pistol close into Beekman's ribs, he ordered the

three men on deck. A passing glance at Woywod told the captain that his

mate was dead. He could attend to him later. Beekman must be secured

first.

The boatswain had been awakened, and, according to orders, he now came

aft with the irons. Beekman was handcuffed and irons were put on his

ankles. He was searched rapidly. His sailor's sheath knife was taken

from him and then--

"Where'll we stow him, sir?" asked Mr. Salver.

There was no "brig," as a prison is called on a man-o'-war, on the

_Susquehanna_. Forward a little room had been partitioned off on one

side of the ship abaft the forecastle for the boatswain. On the

opposite side there was another similar cabin occupied by the carpenter

and sailmaker. The captain thought a moment.

"Mr. Gersey," he said, at last, "you'll come aft to take the second

mate's watch. Mr. Salver will act as the mate. Clear your belongings

out of your cabin. We'll stow him there for the present. Take a couple

of men to help you shift aft, an' be quick about it. When he's safely

locked in bring me the key. There's been mutiny an' murder aboard my

ship," he continued, loudly, for the benefit of the watch. "This dog

has put a knife in Mr. Woywod's heart. Not a thing was bein' done to

him. We were jest reasonin' with him, treatin' him kind, as we do every

man on this ship. Manuel, here, can swear to that, can't you?"

"Yes, sir, of course, sir," cringed the steward, who was completely

under the domination of the brutal ship-master.

"I'll prepare a proper statement and enter it in the log, to be signed

by the steward and myself, in case anything should happen to us," he

continued.

"What'll I do with this man, sir, while we're waitin' for Mr. Gersey to

git his cabin cleaned out?" asked Salver.

"Lash him to the bridge yonder. I'll keep my eyes on him until you git

him safe in the bo's'n's cabin. See that the door is locked yourself

personally, and bring me the key. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"We don't dare to take no chances with such a desperate murderer."

"No, sir; of course not."

"Men," shouted the captain, "you heard what's been said?"

"We did, sir; an' we seen it all from the beginnin'," answered a voice

out of the darkness, a voice full of ugly threat and menace, which the

captain did not recognize and thought best to pass unnoticed.

"Poor Mr. Woywod's been killed, you understand. Mr. Salver will take

his place as mate of the ship. Mr. Gersey will come aft as second mate,

to be obeyed and respected accordin'."

"Damn good riddance," yelled another voice out of the darkness,

carefully disguised.

This was too much. He could not overlook a remark of this kind, and yet

in the black night there was little he could do, since the speaker was

unrecognizable.

"Who said that?" blustered the captain, handling his pistol and peering

forward.

There was no answer, of course.

"If the man who made that remark dares to repeat it in daylight, I'll

cut his heart out. An' if I hear any more such talk, I'll let fly at

the bunch of you as it is. Get for'ard an' to your stations."

The unknown commentator had obviously expressed the prevalent opinion

aboard the ship on the death of Mr. Woywod. There was nothing else to

be said or done then. The captain's orders were carried out as a matter

of course. The excited men dispersed without comment, but with a feeling

that all the honors were with them. The boatswain came aft, having

stripped his cabin. The prisoner was finally locked therein and left to

himself. Bread and water were handed to him sufficient to keep life in

him and not much else. The ship was hove to and Woywod was buried the

next morning with due ceremony, the captain himself reading the service,

the whole crew being mustered in due form, but never a man was shot down

into the vasty deep with less of the spirit of prayer and forgiveness

following him than the mate who had met his just deserts, if the looks

of the crew, to which the captain was perforce oblivious, gave any

indication of their feelings.

Beekman's reflections could easily be imagined. To his dying day he

would never forget the surprised, puzzled look on the mate's face, the

change of his countenance from mad passion to astonishment, from that

amazement to pain, to horror, to deadly fear! He would never forget the

convulsive struggle of the man on the deck at his feet, the white bone

handle of the knife sticking out of his breast and shining in the light

of the big hanging lamp against his blue shirt. There was a human life

on his hands, calloused and hardened as they were. There was blood upon

them. Had the blood been shed righteously? Had he been well advised to

give way to his passion? Had the fact that he had gone there in behalf

of another, a helpless weakling, dying himself from the ruthless

treatment meted out to him, entitled him to take the mate's life? Would

the mate have shot him with that pistol? Was it self-defense? Had that

only been back of his blow and his thrust?

Beekman had to admit that he hated the mate; that he had lusted to kill

him. He realized in the flash of time that had intervened between the

blow and the thrust that he had been glad of the excuse. Was he a

murderer in the eyes of the law, in his own consciousness, in his heart?

He had killed the mate, but the mate had beaten him in the long struggle

between them. He had sworn that the latter should not provoke him, but

he had done so and now he was in peril of his life, grave peril. The

presumption of guilt is always against the sailor in charges of mutiny.

It would require the strongest evidence to establish his innocence. He

knew of no witnesses, save the captain and the steward. The steward was

one man on the ship whom he had not won. Indeed, having most of his

relations aft and living there in a bunk off his pantry, the steward was

hated by the men. He was a tale-bearer and a sneak. He had to live aft

for his own protection. He was purely a creature of the captain's. He

would swear to anything the captain dictated. Beekman knew that, of

course.

Before he had been bound to the ladder of the bridge Beekman had heard

what the captain had said. The crew, of course, could testify as to

Woywod's character, but he knew enough of sailors to realize they would

scatter as soon as they could get away from the ship. He could scarcely

depend upon them. There was old Gersey, but what could he do? What

could he hope from the Russian authorities at Vladisvostok? The captain

would be hand and glove with them, naturally. Things looked black for

Beekman.

After a time, reviewing again all the scenes of the dreadful drama his

mind reverted to those final words of Woywod's. He remembered them

perfectly. They were etched upon his brain.

"Done for. Tell Harnash I--"

He repeated those words. The first two were clear. But the last

three--

"Tell Harnash I--"

Tell Harnash what? Why tell Harnash anything? What did he have to do

with the present situation? Harnash was his friend. Harnash had

arranged his bachelor dinner. Harnash had jokingly plied him with wine,

but so had the others. Beekman was an abstemious, temperate chap. He

drank occasionally, in a moderate way, but never to excess. It was

Harnash who had taken the lead in urging him. He had gone out from that

dinner in the small hours of the morning with Harnash, and the last

person he remembered was Harnash. Could Harnash have--

Good God, no! It was impossible. It could not be. Such treachery, such

criminality was unthinkable by a loyal man like Beekman. There was no

motive for it. The business affairs of the firm were prosperous. At

his partner's insistence an expert had gone over the books on his return

from Hawaii. There was not a thing wrong. He would have trusted

Harnash with everything he owned, and with right. He could not have

wanted to get him out of the way, unless--

Why had Harnash looked so haggard and miserable? Why had Stephanie

presented the same countenance? Could those two-- He would not think

it. Yet what could Woywod have meant?

Suddenly Beekman remembered that he had heard Harnash had a sailor

friend, who at infrequent intervals was accustomed to visit him. There

had been some reference to it. Beekman had never heard the man's name,

and he never chanced to have met him. Woywod had never referred to

Harnash in Beekman's hearing on that cruise until those faltered words

as he died. Could it be Woywod? It must. Was it merely chance that

Beekman had fallen into the hands of Harnash's friend on the very night

before his wedding, when his last companion had been Harnash himself?

Now, Beekman was an intensely loyal man and he resolutely put these

suspicions out of his mind, but they would not stay out. Why should

Woywod stare up at him with fast closing eyes as he spoke? Did Woywod

know who Beekman was? Were those muttered words an admission? By

heaven, could it be that Harnash was in love with Stephanie and she with

him?

When Beekman asked himself that question he began to go over the times

in which he had seen the two together. Little things, unnoticed and

unmarked before now, grew strangely significant. Beekman loathed

himself for entertaining the suspicions. It was not possible, yet--

Could Stephanie herself be a party to it? That, too, was unthinkable.

So it was that Harnash-- Yet those words! Well, if he could get out of

this horrible situation now, so much worse than it had been, he

certainly would tell Harnash and Harnash should tell him. Meanwhile,

there was added to his horror and regret the fact that Woywod was dead

and that he had killed him.

A strange and terrible reality, that, to this sometime dilettante in

life.

*CHAPTER XI*

*THE TRIANGLE BECOMES A QUADRILATERAL*

Perhaps no one ever realizes so completely the immensity of the world

and the littleness of man as he who is alone on the face of the waters.

The deep becomes indeed vasty when seen from a small boat in the center

of an unbroken horizon. It is a question whether the loneliness of the

desert is greater than the loneliness of the sea. Perhaps it depends

upon the thinker and his temperament. There is, of course, life in the

sea in that it is usually quick, in motion, and there is sound that

accompanies it.

The desert is still, but in the desert you can get somewhere. You know

that beyond the horizon is some place. Not even the flattest land but

suggests change as it is traversed. Somewhere within reaching distance

hills rise, mountains lift themselves in the air, oases beckon

attractively. In the sea you may go for days and days and days, each

day like the other, and still find only the waste of waters and the

unbroken horizon.

Beekman had sailed every one of the seven seas, but in some luxurious

yacht or some mighty ocean liner. This was the first time in his life

he had ever been alone in a small boat. Even the _Susquehanna_ had long

since faded out of his view. The lights from her stern windows had been

lost during the night, and when day broke, although he eagerly searched

the northwest, there was no sign of her. Not even when he rose high on

some uptossed wave could he catch a glimpse of a to'gall'nts'l or a

royal against the blue line of the horizon.

He was glad and he was sorry to be alone. The gladness manifested

itself presently, but at first he was overwhelmed by the sense of

loneliness. The crew of the _Susquehanna_ had not mutinied openly, but

they had taken matters in their own hands and had done the best they

could for the man who had relieved them, whether righteously or

unrighteously they did not stop to speculate, from a tyranny that had

become unsupportable; because, in his animosity to Beekman, Woywod had

been harder than ever before on the rest.

They had deliberately, if surreptitiously, provisioned the whaleboat

which hung from the davits astern. They had filled her water breakers,

had added a compass, had overhauled her mast and sail, had thrown in a

couple of blankets, a tarpaulin, an axe and some tools and whatever else

they could come at, including a little bag of silver dollars from their

own scanty store, which might prove valuable in the end. They had done

this very quietly in the darkness, under the leadership of Templin on

the night following the death of the mate.

They had chosen Mr. Gersey's watch for their operations and he had been

conveniently blind. Possessing themselves of the carpenter's tools,

they had bored holes around the lock of the boatswain's room and had

freed Beekman. With cold chisels and hammers they had struck the

fetters from his wrists and ankles, grievously cutting him and bruising

him in the process.

"Mr. Gersey told us," said Templin to the astonished prisoner, "that he

heard the old man an' Salver plottin' the ship's position at noon today.

There are islands with white people on 'em about a hundred leagues to

the west'ard. The course'll be about sou'west-by-west. We've

pervisioned the whaleboat. She's unsinkable, with her airtight tanks

for'ard an' aft an' a good sailer. I follered you aft, pertendin' to

overhaul the gear on the mizzen mast last night. Through the skylight I

seen the mate threatenin' you with a pistol in the cabin. We all

believes you done perfectly right. Wramm's dead. Died tonight, without

never regainin' consciousness. Woywod was a murderer, if ever there was

one, an' he got his jest desarts. We don't want to mutiny an' git hung

for it. Some of us has families. But we don't mean you to suffer. The

only way to save you is to git you out of the ship afore we lands at

Vladivostok. It seemed to us that a good sailor like you could easily

make them islands, an' then you can shift for yourself. It's a big

world. They'll never find you again. Here," he added, "is a little bag

o' dollars." He passed a bulging little bag into the hands of the

astonished Beekman. "'Tain't much, but it's all we got. I guess that's

all."

"But I don't want to leave the ship."

"You'll be hung at the end of the v'yage if you don't," said Templin,

inexorably. "Them Russians ain't more'n half civilized, anyway, an'

they'll do pretty much as the cap'n says. This is your only chance."

"Does Gersey know?"

"Of course. He's the one that made the whole plan, only the officers

ain't to know that."

"You don't expect to be able to lower that boat and cast it adrift

without attracting attention, do you?"

"In course not, but it's a dark night an' we're goin' to git you down

an' afloat, whatever happens."

"But the captain will immediately come after me."

"He can't brace the yards hisself an' work the ship alone with only

Salver an' the bo's'n, can he?"

"I see, but I don't want to get you in trouble."

"Every man on the ship 'ceptin' the steward is with you, an' we're

simply not goin' to let him hang you."

"Templin, I want you to remember two names and an address."

"What are they?"

"Harnash and Beekman, 33 Broadway, New York."

"That's easy," said Templin, repeating the words. "Why?"

"That's my address when I'm home. If I ever get home and any of you men

want a friend, come there. I want you to pass that around among the

crew, every one of them. You fellows didn't believe me, but now that I'm

going I want to tell you for the last time my story is true, and if you

want to be fixed for life, just come and see me there."

"Well, I hopes you gits there, Smith, or--"

"Beekman."

"Beekman, then."

"And I, and I, and I," was heard from the various members of the watch

gathered about and speaking in low tones.

"Now, come aft," said Templin, "an' tread soft. There's no use arousin'

the old man if we can help it. Only needs four of us to overhaul the

gear an' lower away," continued the ringleader, picking out three

associates. "The rest of you git down in the shadder of the rail on the

lee side of the waist near the bridge. Mr. Gersey is keepin' a bright

lookout to windward. If you hear any noise, come aft on the run."

Without making a sound, Beekman and his four devoted friends passed

under the bridge, crouching down in the shadow of the lee rail until

they were well aft and sheltered from observation by the broad canvas of

the spanker. Mr. Gersey was on the other side of the bridge, staring

hard forward and up to windward in the most approved fashion.

"You'll find everything ready for steppin' the mast an' spreadin' sail,"

whispered Templin. "The sea's fairly smooth, the wind's blowin' from

the east'ard. You'd better git the canvas on her soon's you can. You

hadn't ought to be in sight of us at daybreak."

"What time is it now?"

Three bells were struck forward at the moment, a couplet and then a

single bell.

"Three bells, you hears," answered Templin. "You'll have three hours,

and with you goin' one way an' us another, we'll be out of sight before

daybreak. Remember, your course is sou'west-by-west."

"I shan't forget that or anything. When you have a chance bid Gersey

good-bye for me and tell him not to forget the cable. God only knows

where I'll turn up or when I'll get back, but when I do--well, remember

what I said, Harnash and Beekman, 33 Broadway, New York."

He shook Templin's hand and nodded to the other three and stepped into

the boat.

"Lower away," whispered Templin.

Now the night was quiet. The breeze was not strong. The creaking of the

falls, since the sailors had taken precaution to grease them, was

reduced to a minimum; still, some sound was made. Gersey had kept his

eyes steadily forward, although he knew, of course, everything that was

happening. He glanced around just as the whaleboat disappeared below

the rail.

As luck would have it, Captain Fish, who slept, of course, in the stern

cabin, happened to be wakeful. With an ear trained and accustomed to

all the ordinary noises of the ship, anything out of common raised his

suspicions. He heard the slight creaking. He sat up in his berth and

listened. The noise came from aft, overhead. He ran to the stern

window and peered through the open transom just at the moment that the

keel of the descending whaleboat came on a level with the window. Fish

slept with a revolver under his pillow. He leaped back, grabbed the

pistol, jumped to the transom again to find himself staring into the

face of Beekman.

"Keep fast those falls," he roared, presenting his pistol.

Beekman was standing up in the boat, fending her off from the stern with

a boathook. Fish had turned on the electric light--the _Susquehanna_

was provided with a dynamo--and he was clearly visible. Beekman struck

his arm with the boathook, knocking the pistol into the sea. The next

instant there was a sudden roar on the deck above from Gersey, who

judged that it was now safe to give the alarm. This outcry was followed

by the trampling of many feet and a swift rush of the falls through the

blocks. There was no necessity for concealment now. Templin and his

men lowered the boat with a run.

Beekman worked smartly. As soon as the boat was water-borne he cast off

the tackles and began tugging frantically at the mast. With seamanlike

care, it had been so arranged that what had been almost an impossible

task for one man in a hurry he could easily accomplish. The

_Susquehanna_ was sailing at a smart rate and she had drawn some

distance ahead before Captain Fish reached the deck. He was in a

towering rage.

"Mr. Gersey," he roared, "what does this mean, sir? The prisoner has

escaped, an' in your watch?"

"I know it, sir," answered Gersey. "The men have got out of hand, sir."

"They have," exclaimed Fish. He had mounted half-way up the

accommodation ladder of the bridge. Although he was unarmed and clad

only in his pajamas, he did not hesitate on that account.

"I'll see about that," he roared. "I'll have no mutiny on my ship." He

ran toward the group seen blackly against the white rail aft, shouting,

"The man that did this will swing for it."

"Scatter," cried a voice.

The group instantly dissolved in the darkness of the deck. Fish made a

grab at the nearest one, but a man behind him ran violently into him.

He lost his hold. In a moment the quarter deck was deserted. The

_Susquehanna_ on her present course had the wind broad abeam.

"Mr. Gersey," roared the captain, "call all hands and stand by to wear

ship. We must pick up that boat with that murdering mutineer aboard."

"Aye, aye, sir. For'ard there. Call the other watch."

Now the other watch was awake and waiting. Some of them, indeed, had

participated in the affair of the night. Scarcely had the boatswain's

mate sounded the call, when the watch below came tumbling up from the

forecastle. Mr. Salver also joined the group on the bridge, rubbing his

eyes sleepily. The captain took charge himself.

"Hands to the weather braces," he cried, "ease off the spanker sheet.

Flatten in the head sails for'ard. Hard up with the helm."

Not a man on the deck stirred. No one ran to the weather braces. No

one cast off the lee braces. The helmsman remained immobile. The

spanker sheet was not eased off. The sheets of the head sails were not

hauled aft. The captain stared a moment in astonishment.

"Wear ship," he cried, "don't you hear me?"

"We heerd you," answered a voice out of the darkness, "but we're not

goin' to wear the ship."

"You refuse to obey orders?"

"We'll obey all other orders, same as we have allus done, but we don't

propose to pick up that there whaleboat."

"Who spoke?" roared the captain.

There was a movement in the groups of men in the darkness. Templin's

voice, well disguised, came first from one side of the deck to the

other, as he moved about while he spoke.

"You might as well make up your mind to it, Cap'n Fish. We're determined

that no harm is to come to Smith. He's gone. For the rest, we'll work

the ship to Vladisvostok, which we signed on for. You'll find us

obeyin' orders same as ever in the mornin'."

Captain Fish was black with rage.

"Mr. Gersey," he roared, "do you know anything about this?"

"Not a thing, sir."

"We done it ourselves," came up from the waist.

"Keep fast the braces," said the captain at last; "keep her on her

course."

Inasmuch as she had never been off her course and the braces had not

been touched, the commands were useless. They were simply given to save

the captain's face a little.

"Mr. Salver," he continued, "it's your watch below. I want to speak to

you in the cabin. Pipe down the watch off, Mr. Gersey. We'll settle

this matter in the morning."

But the captain knew and the men knew that the matter was already

settled. If the men hung together there was no way by which the captain

could discover the ringleader. And he could not imprison the whole

ship's company. They had beaten him. The flight had been carefully

planned and carried out in a bold and seamanlike way.

"You've beat me," said the captain the next morning to the crew as the

watches were changed, "but there's a standin' offer of five hundred

dollars for any one who'll gimme the details an' the names of the

ringleaders. Meanwhile, if any one of you gives me the least cause I'll

shoot him like a dog. Mr. Salver an' Mr. Gersey are both armed like

me," he tapped the heavy revolver hanging at his waist, "so look out for

yourselves. I've no doubt some of you'll squeal. I'll find out yet.

God help the men that did it when I do."

The captain's bribe was a large one. There were men in the forecastle

who would have jumped at it, but a very clear realization of what would

be meted out to them by their fellows if they turned traitor, kept them

quiet. The loyal men among the mutineers knew pretty well who were to

be suspected and kept close watch on them.

Beekman knew nothing of all that, of course, the next morning as he made

his meager breakfast. He did not know how long it would take him to

reach those islands, the very name of which he was ignorant, and it

behooved him to husband his resources. After his breakfast he laid his

course by the compass. The breeze held steady. All he had to do was to

steer the boat. At nightfall he decided to furl sail and drift. For

one thing he needed the sleep.

The next day, however, the breeze came stronger. It gradually shifted

from the southeast toward the north. He reefed the sail down until it

barely showed a scrap of canvas and drove ahead of it. There was no

sleep for him through the night. He did not dare to leave the boat to

her own devices in that wind and sea. The wind rose with every hour.

The next morning it was blowing a howling gale from the northeast. He

could no longer keep sail on the boat. He could not row against it.

Fortunately, he had foreseen the situation. He unstepped the mast and

unshipped the yard with which he pried up some of the seats and with

these and spare oars he made himself a serviceable sea anchor, which he

attached to the boat's painter forward, cast overboard, and by this

means drifted with the storm being at the same time wet, cold, lonely,

and very miserable. He knew the boat was a lifeboat; its air tanks would

keep it from sinking, but if it ever fell into the trough of the sea it

would be rolled over and over like a cork. It would fill with water and

refill in spite of his constant bailing. He could only trust to his sea

anchor to keep the boat's head to the huge seas by which it was

alternately uplifted and cast down in vast, prodigious motion. Had it

not been provided with those air tanks the boat would have been swamped

inevitably.

His provisions got thoroughly wetted. One of the water breakers was

torn from its lashing and the same wave that worked that damage dashed

it against the other, staving it in. His boat compass and tools were

swept away. Only what was in the lockers forward and aft remained. The

boat was swept clean. He had bailed as long as he had strength, but

even the bailing tin finally disappeared. At last he sank down

exhausted. The waves beat over him. The seas rolled him from side to

side. He had strength enough to lash himself to the aftermost thwart

before he fell into a state of complete collapse.

So he drifted on through the night. Toward morning the gale blew itself

out. The next day the sun rose in a cloudless sky. The breeze

subsided. The seas still rose mightily, but he knew that if no more

wind came they would presently subside. He swallowed some of the

sodden, hard bread in the forward locker for breakfast and then with the

top of an empty biscuit tin from the same place he made shift to free

the boat of water, at least sufficiently so for her to rise on the waves

of the still rough and tumbling seas. He was too exhausted to get in

his sea anchor. Indeed, so many things had carried away that he could

not have stepped the mast or spread the sail. The canvas itself was

gone with his blankets and tarpaulin. He could not use the oars. He

could only drift.

How many days he sat in that boat under that burning sun he could not

tell. Where he drifted as it fell dead calm he did not know. If he had

been less crazed by the awful heat of the unshaded sun and the more

awful thirst which made him forget his hunger--he simply could not

swallow the hard, dry bread and the salt meat after a time--he might

have kept a sort of dead reckoning. He was too weak even to take

bearings by sun or stars. Not a sail, not the smoke of a steamer, met

his burning stare--his eyes were hot, blazing in their sockets like the

sun overhead, he fancied--around him as day after day he surveyed that

ever unbroken horizon, himself a dot in the center of a vast periphery

of emptiness.

He lost track of the days, of course. As he thought of it afterward it

seemed to him that he went mad. The only concrete fact that finally

came to him was at the darkest hour of a certain night that closed what

he had felt must be his last day. He was conscious of a violent shock.

It seemed to him that the boat had struck something. There was a swift

motion of rebound, a splashing of water over him, another heavy forward

surge, another shock, a crash as of splintering timber, and then all the

motion ceased. All around him was a strange roaring. He was too feeble

to speculate as to what had happened. He could only wait for the dawn.

The first gray of morning brought him a faint hope of life. The light

of day showed him the whaleboat, her bottom hopelessly shattered, caught

firmly on a rocky reef. Around him, once in a while over him, great

waves were breaking; the whole mighty Pacific sweeping down from the

line falling in crashing assault upon this barrier of jagged stones.

Back of him was the sea--unbroken to the horizon--over which he had

come. In front of him stretched a space of still water. On the other

side of this lagoon rose huge, precipitous rocks, bare, gaunt,

forbidding. As he stood up tremblingly and peered beneath his hand he

thought he could detect at the foot of these mighty cliffs a stretch of

golden sand.

Even with the inspiration of land at last and probable food and drink it

was difficult in his lack of strength to wrench loose a shattered plank.

Still, by desperate effort he accomplished that at last. With that to

buoy him up he stumbled across the reef and launched into the smooth

waters of the lagoon. The swim would have been nothing under ordinary

circumstances, but in his terrible prostration, even with the aid of the

plank, it was a long, difficult passage. Half a dozen times he was on

the point of throwing up his hands and going under, but something--love

of life, hope indestructible, eternal, remains of determination,

instinctive unwillingness to acknowledge himself beaten--kept him up.

He pressed on through the smooth waters of the lagoon. Finally his feet

touched the strand. Standing trembling but triumphant a few moments to

recover himself, he staggered across it.

He discovered as he did so an opening in the rock concealed previously

from him by an overlap of the cliff. The rift in the cliff wall was

perhaps thirty yards wide. It could only be seen from one direction.

The waters of the lagoon ran inward through it. The sand narrowed and

stopped at the opening. From, that beach he could not see within.

Climbing a little distance up the edge of the cliff and peering around

it, he saw at the end of the inlet a deep bay, a harbor roughly

circular, perhaps half a mile in diameter. He surveyed it long and

carefully in the half light which made it impossible to see clearly.

As nearly as he could guess the height of the cliffs ranged from three

hundred to five hundred feet. In niches and shelves here and there a

few bits of green appeared. The tops of the cliffs seemed as bare as

the sides. No way to surmount them appeared. Sometimes they ran

straight down into the deep, dark water. At the base of the walls here

and there were little stretches of sand. The place was still dark and

gloomy, and somehow terrible. The sunlight had not penetrated into it

yet; would not, he judged, for some time, or until the sun got into

exactly the right position to shine through that narrow opening.

An unusual mental alertness had taken the place of his lethargy. Hope

had made the change. He must, first of all, find water, then food, and

then he must reach the top of the cliffs. On the other side of the

shoulder of wall where he stood ran one of the stretches of sand. How

could he get around that shoulder and pass through that opening? He did

not dare to attempt to swim around it yet. He must climb over it.

Painfully, with ebbing strength but with growing hope, he managed at the

imminent risk of his life to climb around the point and finally set foot

upon that narrow strip of sand. He looked back only to find the wall

behind him rising sheer above his head, just as the walls opposite had.

It was like being imprisoned in a vast tower, one side of which had been

riven from top to bottom. And the dark, forbidding gloom oppressed him

still more. The morning was still, there was no breeze in that enclosed

place, but he shivered nevertheless and would have given anything for

human companionship. He even tried to cry aloud to break the appalling

stillness, but no sound came from cracked lips and parched, constricted

throat. Was he to fail, having come so far?

In frantic terror he broke into a feeble run aimlessly forward.

Rounding another jut of the wall, he saw that which meant life--a

slender stream of water falling in long, broken leaps from the top to

the bottom of the wall. It had cut a channel through the sand and was

lost in the bay. At the sight, strange to say, his strength left him.

Fear had drawn him on and now fear and everything else were forgot. He

fell to his knees, but still had strength and determination to crawl on.

At last he reached it, fell on his face, and drank. It needed all his

resolution, all his courage, all his mental and physical power not to

drink and die. He knew he must drink sparingly and he did so.

When he had satisfied his thirst by slow degrees, he sat down on the

sand to consider his situation. The cool, sweet water put new life into

him. He was suddenly conscious of a terrible, gripping hunger, but the

first and greatest of his needs had been satisfied. There must be some

way to the top of those cliffs. Where there was fresh water there must

be life. No island in the south seas could be so lonely, so

sequestered, so unvisited as not to have a life and vegetation of its

own. Wherever there was water and earth, especially in those latitudes,

were to be found the kindly fruits thereof.

He decided that he would go back to the whaleboat, that he would get

what crumbs that were left of the hard bread that he had been unable to

eat and the remaining scraps of the salt meat that had choked him. He

could swallow them now. Then he would come back and after he had been

strengthened by his meal he would examine every foot of the cliffs to

find a way upward. Meanwhile, he would rest a little. He threw himself

down on the sand on his back and stared upward. As he did so he noticed

the sun had reached such a position that it shone full through the

entrance, suddenly illuminating the whole gloomy tower with light and

changing the entire aspect of it.

He put his hand behind him to raise himself, intending to take advantage

of the flood of light, which he saw would be there but for a short time,

for a further inspection of the place. But his eyes were still cast

upward. In the center of his vision the top of the cliff cut the

brightening sky. Suddenly, as if formed instantly out of thin air, over

the edge appeared a human figure. This figure was poised upon the very

highest point of the towerlike wall, and was staring seaward through the

great rift.

In the clear air and the bright sunlight he had not the slightest

difficulty in discerning details. Perhaps his sight was sharpened by

his anxiety and desire.

The figure was that of a woman and her skin was whiter than his own!

*BOOK II*

*"An' they talks a lot o' lovin',

But wot do they understand?"*

*CHAPTER XII*

*THE HARDEST OF CONFESSIONS*

Six months after the departure of the _Susquehanna_ with its unwilling

member of the crew, Harnash found himself in a position of advantage far

beyond his wildest dream. The active search for Beekman had of

necessity been abandoned long since, although the authorities still kept

the matter in view. No one had yet connected his disappearance with the

_Susquehanna_ because her clearance papers had been taken out the day

before, although her actual sailing had been delayed. She had slipped

away unmarked in the early dawn, under her own canvas, the wind being

favorable, and as Captain Fish knew the channel well she had even

dispensed with the pilot.

In the search and the negotiations connected with it George Harnash had

been thrown rather intimately and closely with John Maynard. There had

been no business associations between them at first, but Maynard's

growing appreciation of the ability of Harnash, which was very

considerable, was heightened by a rather brilliant coup which the young

man pulled off and from which Maynard suffered; not seriously, of

course, from Maynard's point of view, although the results were of a

very considerable financial gain to Harnash.

Now there was none of the mean spirit of revenge in Maynard. It was his

policy to convert a brilliant enemy into a friend, if possible. Of

course, some enemies were too big for that purpose, and those Maynard

fought to a finish. Harnash was not in that category. Maynard was

getting along in years. The excitement of battle had begun somewhat to

pall upon him. He loved fighting for its own sake, but he had fought so

long and so hard and so successfully that he was willing to withdraw

gradually from the more active conflict, leaving warfare to youth, to

which indeed it appertains.

Among the young men he gathered around him there was none who stood

quite as high in his good graces as Harnash. No suspicion of the love

affair between Harnash and Stephanie had arisen in the old man's mind,

but he was not unaware that Stephanie greatly liked the young man. At

first he had thought that the liking had developed from the other man's

affection for Beekman.

Against that young man his resentment grew hotter and hotter. The

police scouted the conclusion that Beekman was dead. His case, they

alleged, was just one of the many mysterious disappearances from New

York, most of which were eventually explained. There was not a scrap of

evidence anywhere to account for Beekman's disappearance. Probably the

labels had been torn from his clothing before it had been disposed of,

if it had been sold. His watch case might have been melted down for old

gold, obviously, if it had not accompanied him. At any rate, the works

had not been traced. And no pawn shop or fence yielded the slightest

clew to any other jewelry. The great reward still standing brought no

information whatever.

Maynard was finally convinced that Beekman had deliberately run away

from his daughter, and the world also accepted that solution. Only

Harnash and Stephanie knew the contrary. Seeing them so much together,

it had often occurred to Maynard that possibly Harnash might succeed in

consoling his daughter. It was not on that account, however, that he

took him into business after three months of association and finally

made him his personal representative and confidential man.

Now Harnash had been unremitting in his attentions to Stephanie. She

did not hesitate to avow her affection to him and to continue in that

avowal, but she had not receded an inch from her position that before

Harnash could even speak to her father, and certainly before he could

claim her, Beekman must be found and his consent gained.

Harnash had concealed nothing from the woman he loved except what he had

done with Beekman. He met her refusal to marry him with a refusal to

reveal that. In keeping that secret he was as obstinate in his way as

she was in hers. Of course, Harnash would ultimately be compelled to

tell the whole story, and as the months slipped by and the time of the

arrival of the _Susquehanna_ at Vladivostok, where she would be in cable

communication with the rest of the world, approached he naturally grew

more and more apprehensive and showed it to Stephanie's keen and

searching eyes, at least.

When Maynard trusted a man he trusted him all in all. It was a part of

his policy. If a man were not worth trusting he did not want him around

and he did not have him around, as a matter of fact. Therefore among

other duties devolved upon the new confidential assistant was the

opening of the great financier's mail. Harnash had never made up his

mind just what he should do when the necessity for confession and

explanation was presented. He had tried to plan his course, but so much

depended upon circumstances that he had always put the decision by.

Stephanie loved him--and it was easy to see that her passion for him was

growing and that it almost matched his own--but she was a high spirited

girl with certain unspoiled notions of right and wrong, and with a

certain amount of her father's unyielding firmness which made her

conduct in the threatening emergency something of a problem.

The problem changed from the abstract to the concrete one morning about

a half year after that bachelor dinner. The _Susquehanna_ was overdue at

Vladivostok. From the shipping experts in the Inter-Oceanic Trading

Company Harnash had found that out and it had greatly increased his

anxiety by giving it a new turn--suppose something had befallen the

ship? Every day of delay added to his mental distress. And although

the shipping people manifested no special apprehension--ships were often

longer overdue, especially sailing ships--Harnash grew more and more

uneasy.

One morning while he was going over the mail at the office prior to

Maynard's arrival a messenger boy brought in a cable from Honolulu. He

signed for it, dismissed the boy, and without the slightest apprehension

tore open the envelope. This is the message that stared at him:

Regret to report _Susquehanna_ burned at sea, sunk by explosion of

cargo. Third officer and six survivors landed here yesterday in small

boat. Captain refused to abandon ship. One other boat got away,

probably lost. Cable instructions.

It was signed by Smithfield, the agent of the Inter-Oceanic Trading

Company in the Hawaiian Islands. One glance, one horrified inspection

stamped the facts on Harnash's brain and consciousness. The

_Susquehanna_ was lost with all her people except the third officer and

six men; that meant Woywod too. Was Beekman among those six, or had

Harnash sent him to his death? Could he have been in the other boat?

Was there a chance that it would turn up? Somehow Harnash jumped at a

conviction, of which he could not disabuse his mind, that Beekman was

among the missing. This he had not planned. That it could happen he

had never dreamed, even remotely.

Now Harnash faced the greatest temptation of his life. He was quick

enough to see that if Woywod and Beekman had been lost, in all

probability the secret would never be known and all he had to do was to

say nothing to be safe. But Harnash had never liked Beekman so much as

at that very moment. Forgetful for the time being even of Stephanie,

his mind reverted to their college associations, their subsequent

business career, the unfailing courtesy and kindness and trust which

Beekman, high-placed and rich, had extended to him, relatively humble

and poor, his cordial cooperation and confidence, his help. While

Harnash was the business and brains of the firm, he could have

accomplished little without Beekman.

He recalled the genial, pleasant humor of his friend, the good times

they had enjoyed together, and as he did so he put his head in his hands

and groaned aloud. Harnash felt like a murderer. He believed indeed

that he was one. It was the turning point in his career. If he spoke

he would brand himself in the eyes of all to whom the story might become

known--John Maynard, of course, and Stephanie, the woman he loved truly

and whole heartedly, even though his love had made him do an unworthy

and ignoble thing. If he kept silent, with the start he had gained in

John Maynard's graces and with Stephanie's affection, he would

eventually marry her. If he did not tell her, if he put her off with

some carefully manufactured story, he could probably persuade her after

a time to marry him. In that event he saw himself doomed to a long life

with the woman he loved so passionately and whom he would fain trust

with everything, with a hideous secret between them. To win her under

such conditions was to lose her. Which was the better course?

Many a man gives way to an evil impulse under the strain of a great

temptation, but it does not necessarily follow that he cannot recover

from that impulse, that his moral nature is broken down completely by

the one lapse, even though it be a great one. As a matter of fact, a

woman like Stephanie Maynard could scarcely have loved George Harnash as

she did if he had not been on the whole much better than his worst.

Then and there Harnash came to a decision. Not without much inward

wrestling and many groanings of spirit did he reach the conclusion that

it was better not to try to cover up what he had done. To him entered

Maynard. The cheery good morning of the elder man died on his lips as

he noted the strain and anxiety in his young friend's face.