ON THE OPEN SEA
The _Myra_ laboured heavily. With every rise and fall of her high bows a
whipping spray lashed the faces of those on deck. The bitter
north-easterly gale churned the ocean into a white fury, and the sky was
a-race with leaden masses of cloud. There was no break anywhere. Sky and
sea alike were fiercely threatening, and the wind howled through the
vessel's top gear.
Bull Sternford had been sharing the storm with the sturdy skipper on
the bridge. He had been listening to the old man's talk of fierce
experience on the coast of Labrador. It had all been interesting to the
landsman in view of the present storm, but at last he could no longer
endure the exposure of the shelterless bridge.
"It's me for the deck and a sheltered corner," he finally declared,
preparing to pass down the iron "companion."
And the Captain grinned.
"I don't blame you," he bellowed in the shriek of the gale. "But I guess
I'd as lief have it this way. It's better than a flat sea an' fog, which
is mostly the alternative this time o' year. The Atlantic don't offer
much choice about now. She's like a shrew woman. Her smile ain't ever
easy. An' when you get it you've most always got to pay good. She can
blow herself sick with this homeward bound breeze for all I care."
"That's all right," Bull shouted back at him. "Guess you've lost your
sense of the ease of things working this coast so long. It 'ud be me for
the flat sea and fog all the time. I like my chances taken standing
square on two feet. So long."
He passed below, beating his hands for warmth. And as he went he glanced
back at the sturdy, oil-skinned figure clinging to the rail of the
bridge. The man's far-off gaze was fixed on the storm-swept sky, reading
every sign with the intimate knowledge of long years of experience. It
was a reassuring figure that must have put heart into the veriest
weakling. But Bull Sternford needed no such support. In matters of life
and death he was without emotion.
He scrambled his way to the leeward side of the engines where a certain
warmth and shelter was to be had, and where a number of hardly tested
deck chairs were securely lashed. It was the resting place of those few
beset passengers who could endure no longer the indifferent, odorous
accommodation of the _Myra's_ saloon. Only one chair was occupied. For
the rest the deck was completely deserted.
Bull's first glance at the solitary passenger was sufficient. The gleam
of red hair under the fur cap told him all he wanted to know, and he
groped his way along the slippery deck, and deposited his bulk safely
into the chair beside Nancy McDonald.
"Say," he cried, with a cheerful grin, as he struggled with his rug,
"this sort of thing's just about calculated to leave a feller feeling
sympathy with the boy who hasn't more sense than to spend his time
trying to climb outside more Rye whisky than he was built to hold. It
makes you wonder at the fool thing that lies back of it all. I mean the
fuss going on out yonder."
Nancy smiled round from amidst her furs.
"It does seem like useless mischief," she agreed readily. Then she
laughed outright. "But to see you crawling along the deck just now,
grabbing any old thing for support, and often missing it, was a sight to
leave one wondering how much dignity owes to personality, and how much
to environment. Guess environment's an easy win."
"Did I look so darn foolish?"
Bull's eyes were smiling, and Nancy laughed again.
"Just about as foolish as that fellow with the Rye whisky you were
talking about."
The man settled himself comfortably.
"That's tough. And I guess I was doing my best, too. Say," he went on
with a laugh, "just look at those flapping sea-gulls, or whatever they
are out there. Makes you wonder to see 'em racing along over this fool
waste of water. Look at 'em fighting, struggling, and using up a whole
heap of good energy to keep level with this old tub. You know they've
only to turn away westward to find land and shelter where they could
build nests and make things mighty comfortable for themselves. I don't
get it. You know it seems to me Nature got in a bad muss handing out
ordinary sense. I'd say She never heard of a card index. Maybe Her
bookkeeper was a drunken guy who didn't know a ledger from a scrap book.
Now if She'd engaged you an' me to keep tab of things for Her, we'd have
done a deal better. Those poor blamed sea-gulls, or whatever they are,
would have been squatting around on elegant beds of moulted feathers,
laid out on steam-heat radiators, feeding on oyster cocktails and
things, and handing out the instructive dope of a highbrow politician
working up a press reputation, and learning their kids the decent habits
of folk who're yearning to keep out of penitentiary as long as the
police'll let 'em. No. It's no use. Nature got busy. Look at the result.
Those fool birds'll follow us till they're tired, in the hope that some
guy'll dump the contents of the _Myra's_ swill barrel their way. Then
they'll have one disgusting orgy on the things other folks don't fancy,
and start right in to fly again to ease their digestions. It's a crazy
game anyway. And it leaves me with a mighty big slump in Nature's
stock."
Nancy listened delightedly to the man's pleasant fooling.
"It's worse than that," she cried, falling in with his humour. "Look at
some of them taking a rest, swimming about in that terribly cold water.
Ugh! No, if we'd fixed their sense we'd have made it so they'd have had
enough to get on dry land, like any other reasonable folk yearning for a
rest."
The man studied the girl's pretty profile, and a great sense of regret
stirred him that the Skandinavia had been able to buy her services. What
a perfect creature to have been supported by in the work he was engaged
on.
"That sounds good," he said. "Reasonable folks!" He shook his head.
"Nature again. Guess we're all reasonable till we're found out. No. Even
the greatest men and women on earth are fools at heart, you know."
The girl sat up as the vessel lurched more heavily and flung their
chairs forward, straining dangerously.
"How?" she questioned, glancing down anxiously at the moorings of her
chair.
"They're safe--so far," Bull reassured her. Then he leant back again,
and produced and lit a cigar. "Guess I'll smoke," he said. "Maybe
that'll help me tell you--'how.'"
The girl watched him light his cigar and her eyes were full of laughter.
"It's a real pity women can't sit themselves behind a cigar," she said
at last, with a pretence of regret. "It's the wisest looking thing a man
does. A cigarette kind of makes him seem pleasantly undependable. A pipe
makes you feel he's full of just everyday notions. But a cigar! My! It
sort of dazzles me when I see a man with a big cigar. I feel like a
lowgrade earthworm, don't you know. Say," she cried, with an
indescribable gesture of her gloved hands, "he handles that cigar, he
sort of fondles it. He cocks it. He depresses it. He rolls it across his
lips to the opposite corner of his mouth, and finally blows a thin,
thoughtful stream of smoke gently between his pursed lips. And that
stream is immeasurable in its suggestion of wise thought and keen
calculation. I'd say a man's cigar is his best disguise."
Bull nodded.
"That's fine," he cried. "But you've forgotten the other feller. The man
who 'chews.'"
Nancy laughed happily.
"Easy," she cried promptly. "When he of the bulged cheek gets around
just watch your defences. He's mostly tough. He's on the jump, and
hasn't much fancy for the decencies of life. The harder he chews the
more he's figgering up his adversary. And when he spits, get your
weapons ready. When the chewing man succeeds in life I guess he's
dangerous. And it's because his force and character have generally
lifted him from the bottom of things."
Bull shook his head in mock despair.
Nancy settled herself back in her chair.
"That's fixed it. Guess you'll need to tell _me_ 'how.'"
"No, sir," she cried. "You can't go back. 'The greatest men and women in
the world are fools at heart.' That's what you said."
"Yes. I seem to remember."
The man stirred and sat up. He folded the rug more closely about his
feet. Then he turned with a whimsical smile in his eyes.
"Well?" he cried. "And isn't it so? What do we work, and fight, and hate
for? What do we spend our lives worrying to beat the other feller for?
Why do we set our noses into other folks' affairs and worry them to
death to think, and act, and feel the way we do? And all the while it
don't matter a thing. Of course we're fools. We'll hand over when the
time comes, and the old world'll roll on, and it's not been shifted a
hair's-breadth for our having lived, in spite of the obituaries the
news-sheets hand out like a Sunday School mam at prize time. Say, here,
it's no use fooling ourselves. Life's one great big thing that don't
take shape by reason of our acts. What's the civilisation we love to pat
ourselves on the back for? I'll tell you. It's just a thing we've
invented, like--wireless telegraphy, or soap, or steam-heat; and it
hands us a cloak to cover up the evil that man and woman'll never quit
doing. Before we made civilisation a feller got up on to his hind legs
and hit the other feller over the head with a club; and if he was hungry
he used him as a lunch. Now we don't do that. We break him for his
dollars and leave him and his poor wife and kids hungry, while we buy a
lunch with the stuff we beat out of him. Why do we work? For one of two
elegant notions. It's either to fill ourselves up with the things we've
dreamt about when appetite was sharp set, and hate to death when we get,
or it's to satisfy a conceit that leaves us hoping and believing the
rest of the world'll hand us an epitaph like it handed no other feller
since ever it got to be a habit burying up the garbage death produces.
Why do we fight and hate? Because we're poor darn fools that don't know
better, and don't know the easy thing life would be without those
things. And as for settin' our noses into the affairs of other folk,
that's mostly disease. But it isn't all. No, sir. There's more to it
than that," he laughed. "If it was just disease it wouldn't matter a
lot, but it isn't. There isn't a fool man or woman born into this world
that doesn't reckon he or she can put right the fool notions and acts of
other fools. And when the other feller persuades them the game's not the
one-sided racket they guessed it was, then they get mad, and start
groping and scheming how to boost their notions on to a world that's
spent a whole heap of time fixing things, mostly foolish, to its own
mighty good satisfaction. I say right here we're fools if we aren't
crooks, which is the exception. There's a dandy world around us full of
sun to warm us and food to eat, and birds to sing to us, and flowers and
things to make us feel good. If we needed more I guess Providence would
have handed it out. But it didn't. And so we got busy with our own
notions till we've turned God's elegant creation into a home for crazes
and cranks. I could almost fancy the Archangels hovering around, like
those silly sea-gulls, with a bunch of straight-jackets to wrap about us
when we jump the limit they figger we've a right to. Fools, yes? Why, I
guess so--sure."
Nancy breathed a deep sigh.
"My, but that's a big say."
Then she broke into a laugh which found prompt response in the other. It
was cut short, however. A sea thundered against the staunch side of the
vessel and left her staggering. The girl's eyes became seriously
anxious. The straining chairs held, and presently the deck swung up to a
comparative level.
"I had visions of the--"
"Scuppers?" Bull laughed. "Yes. That sea's one of the elegant things
Providence handed out for our happiness."
Nancy nodded.
"So man built things like the _Myra_, which, of course, was--foolish?"
"An' set out sailing around in a winter storm off Labrador, instead of
basking in a pleasant tropical sun, which hasn't any--sense."
Bull chuckled.
"All because two mighty fine enterprises reckoned they'd common
interests which were jeopardised by rivalry, which was also--foolishly?"
Bull's cigar ash tumbled into his lap.
"But not ha'f so foolish as the notion that a girl has to suffer the
worries and dangers of one hell of a trip on the worst sea that God ever
made to try and square the things between them."
Nancy shook her head.
"I can't grant that," she cried quickly.
"No?"
"I mean--oh, psha! Don't you see, or does your cynical philosophy blind
you? We're fools, maybe. The things Providence sends us aren't the
things we've got a notion for. Maybe we know better than Providence, and
can't find happiness in the things it's handed us. What then? As you
say, we start right in chasing happiness in the way we fancy. It seems
to me the only real happiness in life is in doing. Ease, wealth, love,
all the things folk talk and write about are just dreams of happiness
that aren't real. Work, achievement, even if it's wrong-headed--that's
life; that's happiness. That's why I'd say there's nothing foolish in a
girl putting up with dangers and discomforts to bring two enterprises to
an understanding, calculated to promote a greater achievement for both.
It's my little notion of snatching a bunch of happiness for myself."
There was no laughter in Nancy's eyes now. They were quite serious. Her
words were alive with vehemence. Bull was watching her intently,
probing, in his searching way, the depths which her hazel eyes hinted
at. The things she said pleased him. Her tone thrilled him. He wanted
more.
"I wonder," he said, as he rolled the cigar across his lips in the way
Nancy had laughingly pointed. "You reckon it's handed you
happiness--this thing?"
The girl was stirred.
"Surely," she cried. "Later, when things get fixed up between the
Skandinavia and Sachigo, I'll get a focus of my little share in the
business of it--the achievement. Then I'll get warm all through with a
glow of happiness because I--helped it along."
Bull nodded as he watched the rising colour in the perfect cheeks. The
girl was very, very beautiful.
"Yes, I suppose you will," he said. Then he went on provocatively. "But
do you guess it's always so? I mean that always happens? Isn't it to do
with temperament? Now, take the forest-jacks. Do you guess they feel
happiness in a tree dropped right? Do you guess there's happiness for
the poor fool who don't know better than to spend his days in a forest
risking his life boosting logs on the river jamb? Do you guess there's
any sort of old joy for the feller turned adrift, when he's getting old
in the tooth, and there's no room for him on the pay roll of the camp,
in the thought that he _was_ the best axeman the forest ever bred? It
seems like a crazy sort of happiness that way. Happiness in
achievement's great while the achieving's going on. But at the finish
we get right back to Nature. And when that time comes Nature doesn't do
much to help us out."
Nancy sat up.
"What are you doing? That great Sachigo!" she demanded challengingly.
"You're building, building one magnificent enterprise. Is there
happiness in it for you?"
"Sure," Bull admitted frankly. "Oh, yes. But I've no illusions," he
said. "I don't go back on the things I said. Nature as she dopes out
life couldn't hand me a hundredth part of the happiness I get that way.
But when I'm through, like that lumber-jack who's struck off the pay
roll, how's it going to be with me? A trained mind without the bodily
ability to thrust on in the game of life. It'll be hell--just hell. The
one hope is to die in harness. Like the forest-jack who drowns under the
logs on the river, or who gets up against the other feller's knife in a
drunken scrap. That way lies happiness. The rest is a sort of passing
dream with the years of old age for regret."
The girl spread out her hands.
"I can't believe you feel that way," she cried, with something very like
distress. "Oh, if I had your power, your ability. Why, I'd say there's
no end to the things you could achieve, not only now, but right through,
right through that time when you're old in body, but still strong in
brain. A limited goal for achievement isn't the notion in my foolish
head. Why, if I'd only the strength to knit socks for the folks who need
them, there'd still be happiness and to spare. But let's keep to our own
ground. The forest-jack. I guess you're one big man who employs
thousands. What of those boys when they're struck off the--pay roll. Is
there nothing to be achieved that way--nothing to last you to your last
living moment? Think of their needs. Think of the happiness you could
hand yourself in handing them comfort and happiness when
they're--through. It's a thing I've promised myself, if luck ever hands
me the chance. You've got the pity of their lives. Your words tell that.
Well?"
The man had forgotten the storm. He had forgotten everything but the
charm of the girl's hot enthusiasm. And the picture of superlative
beauty she made in her animation.
He shook his head.
"It's a bully notion," he demurred, "but it's not for me. No. You see,
I'm just a tough sort of man who's big for a scrap. I haven't patience
or sympathy for the feller who don't feel the same. You've seen the
forest boys?"
"I've been through the Shagaunty."
"Ah!"
Bull Sternford's ejaculation was sharp. The problem of Father Adam's
letter was partially solved.
"Well, I guess you're a woman," he went on. "And I'd like to say right
here a woman's sympathy is just about the best thing on this old earth.
That's why I'd like to cry like a kid when I see it going out to the
things that haven't any sort of excuse for getting it. It's good to hear
you talk for those boys. It isn't they deserve it, but--as I said,
you're a woman. Talk it all you fancy, but leave it at talk. Don't let
it get a holt. Don't waste one moment of your hard earned happiness on
'em. I was a forest-jack. I know 'em. I know it--the life. And if you
knew the thing I know you wouldn't harden all up as you listen to the
things I'm saying:--"
"But--"
Bull flung his cigar away with vicious force.
"Let me say this thing out," he went on. "There's a man in the forest I
know, every jack knows. He's a feller who sort of lives in the twilight.
You see, he sort of comes and goes; and no one knows a thing about him,
except he haunts the forests like a shadow. Well, he's settin' the
notion you feel into practice--in a way. He's out for the boys. To help
'em, physically, spiritually, the whole time. They love him. We all love
him to death. Well, ask him how far he gets. Maybe he'd tell you, and I
guess his story 'ud break the heart of a stone image. He'll tell
you--and he speaks the truth--there isn't a thing to be done but heal
'em, and feed 'em, and just help 'em how you can. The rest's a dream.
You see, these jacks come from nowhere particular. They take to the
forests because it's far off; and it's dark, and covers most things up.
And they go nowhere particular, except it's to the hell waiting on most
of us if we don't live life the way that's intended for us. No. Quit
worrying for the forest-jack. Maybe life's going to hand you all sorts
of queer feelings as you go along. And the good heart that sees
suffering and injustice is going to ache mighty bad. The forest wasn't
built for daylight, and the folks living there don't fancy it. And there
isn't a broom big enough in the world to clean up the muck you'll find
there."
"You're talking of Father Adam?"
Nancy's interest had redoubled. It had instantly centred itself on the
man she had met in the Shagaunty forests. The lumber-jacks were
forgotten.
"Yes." Bull nodded. "Do you know him?" There was eagerness in his
question.
"I met him on the Shagaunty."
The man had produced a fresh cigar. But the renewed heavy rolling of the
vessel delayed its lighting. Nancy gazed out to sea in some concern.
"It's getting worse," she said.
Bull struck a match and covered it with both hands.
"It seems that way," he replied indifferently. Then after a moment he
looked up. His cigar was alight. "He's a great fellow--Father Adam," he
said reflectively.
"He's just--splendid."
The girl's enthusiasm told Bull something of the thing he wanted to
know.
"Yes," he said. "He's the best man I know. The world doesn't mean a
thing to him. Why he's there I don't know, and I guess it's not my
business anyway. But if God's mercy's to be handed to any human creature
it seems to me it won't come amiss--Say!"
He broke off, startled. He sat up with a jump. A great gust of wind
broke down upon the vessel. It came with a shriek that rose in a fierce
crescendo. His startled eyes were riveted upon a new development in the
sky. An inky cloud bank was sweeping down upon them out of the
north-east, and the wind seemed to roar its way out of its very heart.
The vessel heeled over. Again the wind tore at the creaking gear. It was
a moment of breathless suspense for those seated helplessly looking on.
Then something crashed. A vast sea beat on the quarter and deluged the
decks, and the chairs were torn from their moorings.
Bull Sternford was sprawling in the race of water. Nancy, too, was
hurled floundering in the scuppers. They were flung and beaten, crashing
about in the swirling sea that swept over the vessel's submerged rail.
Bull struggled furiously. Every muscle was straining with the effort of
it. A fierce anxiety was in his eyes as he fought his way foot by foot
towards the saloon companion. The handicap was terrible. There was
practically no foothold, for the vessel was riding at an angle of
something like forty-five degrees. Then, too, he had but one hand with
which to help himself along. The other was supporting the dead-weight of
the body of the unconscious girl.
At last, breathless and nearly beaten, he reached his goal and clutched
desperately at the door-casing of the companion. He staggered within.
And as he did so relief found expression in one fierce exclamation.
"Hell!" he cried. And clambered down, bearing his unconscious burden
into the safety of the vessel's interior.