SCENE--_Interior of an old boat-shed on the wharf of the Bartlett
place on the California coast. In the rear, a double doorway
looking out over the end of the wharf to the bay with the open sea
beyond. On the left, two windows, and another door, opening on the
dock. Near this door, a cot with blankets and a pillow without a
slip. In the center, front, a table with a bottle and glasses on
it, and three cane-bottomed chairs. On the right, a fishing dory.
Here and there about the shed all sorts of odds and ends pertaining
to a ship--old anchors, ropes, tackle, paint-pots, old spars, etc._
_It is late afternoon of a day six months later. Sunlight filters
feebly through the stained, cobwebby window panes._
_As the curtain rises_, BARTLETT _and_ SILAS HORNE _are
discovered_. HORNE _is in working clothes of paint-stained
dungaree. If his sufferings on the island have left any marks on
his dry wizened face, they are undiscoverable. In_ BARTLETT,
_however, the evidence is marked. His hair has turned white. There
are deep hollows under his cheek-bones. His jaw and tight-lipped
mouth, express defiant determination, as if he were fighting back
some weakness inside himself, a weakness found in his eyes, which
have something in them of fear, of a wishing to avoid other eyes.
He is dressed much the same as when on the island. He sits by the
table, center, his abstracted gaze bent on the floor before him._
HORNE--[_Who is evidently waiting for the Captain to my something--after
a pause, glancing at him uneasily._] I’d best be gettin’ back aboard the
schooner, sir. [_Receiving no answer he starts for the door on the
left._]
BARTLETT--[_Rousing himself with an effort._] Wait. [_After a pause._]
The full tide’s at dawn tomorrow, ye said?
HORNE--Yes, sir.
BARTLETT--They know we’ll be sailin’ then, don’t they--Cates and Jimmy?
HORNE--Yes, sir. They’re all ready. Oh, Cates and Jimmy’ll be glad o’
the word--and me, too, sir. [_With a greedy grin._] It’s all we’ve been
talkin’ of since ye brought us down here--diggin’ up the gold!
BARTLETT--[_Passionately._] Aye, the gold! We’ll have it before long,
now, I reckon. That schooner--the way we’ve fitted her up--she’d take a
man safe to the Pole and back! We’ll drop anchor here with the chest on
board in six months, unless---- [_Hesitates._]
HORNE--[_Uneasily._] What, sir?
BARTLETT--[_Brusquely._] The weather, ye fool! Can ye take count before
o’ storms an’ calms?
HORNE--We’ll trust to luck for that. [_Glancing at the Captain
curiously._] And speakin’ o’ luck, sir--the schooner ain’t been
christened yet.
BARTLETT--[_Betraying a sudden, fierce determination._] She will be!
HORNE--There’d be no luck for a ship sailin’ out without a name.
BARTLETT--She’ll have a name, I tell ye! A name that’ll take all curse
away and leave her clean. She’ll be named the Sarah Allen, and Sarah’ll
christen her herself.
HORNE--It oughter been done, by rights, when we launched her a month
back.
BARTLETT--[_Sternly._] I know that as well as ye. [_After a pause._] She
wasn’t willin’ to do it then. Women has queer notions--when they’re
sick, like. [_Defiantly--as if he were addressing someone outside of the
room._] But Sarah’ll be willin’ now! She’ll be willin’ in spite o’----
[_Catching himself and abruptly lowering his voice._] The schooner’ll be
christened tomorrow at dawn afore she sails.
HORNE--Yes, sir. [_He again turns to go, as if he were anxious to get
away._]
BARTLETT--Wait! There’s somethin’ else I want to ask ye. Nat, he’s been
hangin’ round the schooner all his spare time o’ late. I seen him
talkin’ to you and Cates and Jimmy. [_With rising anger._] I hope ye’ve
remembered what I ordered ye, all three. Not a word o’ it to him! I said
I’d keep him out o’ this, for his own good, mind! And if I thought any
of ye---- [_His fist is raised threateningly, and he glares savagely at
Horne._]
HORNE--[_Retreating a step--hastily._] No fear o’ that, sir! We’ve been
keerful. But it’s hard. He’s a sharp one, Nat is. And when we tells him
the schooner’s fitted out for tradin’ in the islands, he just laughs.
He’s gettin’ the wind on somethin’--without any o’ us sayin’ a word.
BARTLETT--[_In relieved tones._] Let him s’spect all he’s a mind to--as
long as he don’t know. It ain’t that I’m afeerd to tell him o’ the gold,
Silas Horne. He’ll share that, anyway. [_Slowly._] It’s them--other
things--I’d keep him clear of.
HORNE--[_Immediately guessing what he means--reassuringly._] We was all
out o’ our heads with thirst and sun when them things happened, sir.
BARTLETT--Mad? Aye! But I ain’t forgot--them two. [_Harshly._] I’d
rather be you nor me, Silas Horne. You be too rotten bad to care. And
I’d rather be Cates or Jimmy. Cates be too dull to remember, and Jimmy
be proud as a boy o’ what he done. [_He represses a shudder--then goes
on slowly._] Do they ever come back to you--when you’re asleep, I mean?
HORNE--[_Pretending mystification._] Who’s that, sir?
BARTLETT--[_With sombre emphasis._] That cook and that boy. They come to
me. I’m gettin’ to be afeered o’ goin’ to sleep--not ’feered o’ them, I
don’t mean. [_With sudden defiant bravado._] Not all the ghosts out o’
hell kin keep me from a thing I’ve set my mind on. [_Collecting
himself._] But I’ve waked up talkin’ out loud--to them--and I’m afeerd
there might be someone hear me. That’s why I’ve been sleepin’ down here
to the boat-house all alone.
HORNE--[_Uneasily--with an attempt to be reassuring._] You ain’t all
cured o’ that sun and thirst on the island yet, sir.
BARTLETT--[_Evidently reassured--roughly._] O’ course! D’ye think I’d
really believe in things in nightmares? [_With an attempt at
conviviality._] Sit down a bit, Horne, and take a grog. [HORNE _does
so_. BARTLETT _pours out a half-tumbler full of rum for himself and
shoves the bottle over to_ HORNE.]
HORNE--Luck to our vige, sir.
BARTLETT--Aye, luck! [_They drink._ BARTLETT _leans over and taps_ HORNE
_on the arm_.] Aye, it takes time to get cured o’ thirst and sun! Lucky
that tradin’ schooner picked us up the time she did.
HORNE--If she hadn’t--we’d been as dead men--as them two.
BARTLETT--[_Somberly--after a pause._] I spoke no word, Silas Horne,
d’ye remember?
HORNE--Nor me. Jimmy did it alone. [_Craftily._] We’d all three swear
Bible oaths to that in any court. And even if ye’d given the word, there
ain’t no good thinkin’ more o’ it, sir. Didn’t they deserve all they
got--that thief o’ a cook and that boy? Wasn’t they plottin’ on the sly
to steal the gold?
BARTLETT--[_His eyes gleaming._] Aye!
HORNE--And when you said he’d get no share of it, didn’t he lie to your
face that it wasn’t gold--thinkin’ we’d leave it be and he’d git it all
for himself?
BARTLETT--[_With sudden rage._] Aye, brass and junk, he said, the lyin’
scum! That’s what he keeps sayin’ when I see him in sleep! He didn’t
believe--makin’ a mock o’ me--an’ then he owned up himself ’twas gold!
He knew! He lied a-purpose! He was a cunnin’ rat--a thief ashore afore
they shipped him with us, I reckon.
HORNE--[_Eagerly._] Most like, sir.
BARTLETT--[_Rising to his feet--with confident defiance._] They deserved
no better nor they got. Let ’em rot! [_Pouring out another drink for
himself and_ HORNE.] We’ll drink, an’ then ye get back to the ship. Tell
Cates and Jimmy we sail at dawn--sure! [_He drinks._]
HORNE--Luck, sir! [_He drinks. There is a knock at the door on the left
followed by_ MRS. BARTLETT’S _voice calling feebly_, “ISAIAH! ISAIAH!”
BARTLETT _starts but makes no answer. He seems suddenly sunk in gloom
again._ HORNE _turns to him questioningly._] It’s Mrs. Bartlett, sir.
Shall I open the door?
BARTLETT--No. I ain’t aimin’ to see her--yet awhile. [_Then with sudden
reasonless rage._] Let her in, damn ye! [HORNE _goes and unhooks the
door_. MRS. BARTLETT _enters. She is a slight, slender little woman of
fifty. Sickness, or the inroads of a premature old age, have bowed her
shoulders, whitened her hair, and forced her to walk feebly with the aid
of a cane. A resolute spirit still flashes from her eyes, however, and
there is a look of fixed determination on her face. She stands gazing at
her husband. There is something accusing in her stare._]
BARTLETT--[_Avoiding her eyes--brusquely._] Well? What is it ye want o’
me, Sarah?
MRS. B.--I want to speak with you alone, Isaiah.