_The Life Story of the Gallant Captain Aaron Sproul_
_Written by His Affectionate Wife_
"You can put down what's true," he said, continuing a topic that they
had been pursuing, "that boxin' the compass and knowin' a jib
down-haul from a pound of saleratus ain't all there is to a master
mariner's business, not by a blamed sight. Them passuls of cat's meat
that they call sailormen in these days has to be handled,--well, the
superintendent of a Sunday-school wouldn't be fit for the job, unless
he had a little special trainin'."
Louada Murilla, the point of her pencil at her lips, caught a
vindictive gleam in his eyes.
"But it seems awful cruel, some of the things that you--you--I
suppose you had to do 'em, Aaron! And yet when you stop and think
that they've got immortal souls to save--"
"They don't carry any such duffle to sea in their dunnage-bags,"
snapped the skipper. "Moral suasion on them would be about like
tryin' to whittle through a turkle's shell with a hummin'-bird's
pin-feather. My rule most generally was to find one soft spot on 'em
somewhere that a marlin-spike would hurt, and then hit that spot hard
and often. That's the only way I ever got somewhere with a cargo and
got back ag'in the same year."
"I suppose it has to be," sighed his wife, making a note. "It's like
killing little calves for veal, and all such things that make the
fond heart ache."
The Cap'n was "leaving" the grimy pages of a log-book. He paused over
certain entries, and his face darkened. There was no more
vindictiveness in his expression. It was regret and a sort of vague
worry.
"What is it, Aaron?" asked his wife, with wistful apprehensiveness.
"Northin'," he growled.
"But I know it's something," she insisted, "and I'm always ready to
share your burdens."
Cap'n Sproul looked around on the peace of his home, and some deep
feeling seemed to surge in his soul.
"Louada Murilla," he said, sadly, "this isn't anything to be written
in the book, and I didn't ever mean to speak of it to you. But there
are times when a man jest has to talk about things, and he can't help
it. There was one thing that I've been sorry for. I've said so to
myself, and I'm goin' to say as much to you. Confession is good for
the soul, so they say, and it may help me out some to tell you."
The horrified look on her face pricked him to speak further. 'Tis
a titillating sensation, sometimes, to awe or shock those whom we
love, when we know that forgiveness waits ready at hand.
"There was once--there was one man--I hit him dretful hard. He was
a Portygee. But I hit him too hard. It was a case of mutiny. I reckon
I could have proved it was mutiny, with the witnesses. But I hit him
hard."
"Did he--?" gasped his wife.
"He did," replied the Cap'n, shortly, and was silent for a time.
"The thing for me to have done," he went on, despondently, "was to
report it, and stood hearin'. But it was six weeks after we'd dropped
him overboard--after the funeral, ye know--before we reached port.
And there was a cargo ashore jest dancin' up and down to slip through
the main hatch as soon as t' other one was over the rail--and freights
'way up and owners anxious for results, and me tryin' for a record,
and all that, ye know. All is, there wa'n't nothin' said by the crew,
for they wa'n't lookin' for trouble, and knowed the circumstances,
and so I lo'ded and sailed. And that's all to date."
"But they say 'murder will out.'" Her face was white.
"It wa'n't murder. It was discipline. And I didn't mean to. But either
his soft spot was too soft, or else I hit too hard. What I ought to
have done was to report when my witnesses was right handy. Since I've
settled and married and got property, I've woke up in the night,
sometimes, and thought what would happen to me if that Portygee's
relatives got track of me through one of the crew standin' in with
'em--blabbin' for what he could git out of it. I have to think about
those things, now that I've got time to worry. Things looks different
ashore from what they do aflo't, with your own ship under you and
hustlin' to make money." He gazed round the room again, and seemed
to luxuriate in his repentance.
"But if anything should be said, you could hunt up those men and--"
"Hunt what?" the Cap'n blurted. "Hunt tarheels once they've took
their dunnage-bags over the rail? Hunt whiskers on a flea! What are
you talkin' about? Why, Louada Murilla, I never even knowed what the
Portygee's name was, except that I called him Joe. A skipper don't
lo'd his mem'ry with that sculch any more'n he'd try to find names
for the hens in the deck-coop.
"I made a mistake," he continued, after a time, "in not havin' it
cleaned up, decks washed, and everything clewed snug at the time of
it. But ev'ry man makes mistakes. I made mine then. It would be
God-awful to have it come down on me when I couldn't prove nothin'
except that I give him the best funeral I could. There ain't much
of anything except grit in the gizzard of a United States court. They
seem to think the Govumment wants every one hung. I remember a captain
once who--"
He paused suddenly, for he caught sight of three muddy wagons
trundling in procession into the yard. In the first one sat Constable
Zeburee Nute, his obtrusive nickel badge on his overcoat.
Cap'n Sproul looked at Louada Murilla, and she stared at him, and
in sudden panic both licked dry lips and were silent. The topic they
had been pursuing left their hearts open to terror. There are moments
when a healthy body suddenly absorbs germs of consumption that it
has hitherto thrown off in hale disregard. There are moments when
the mind and courage are overwhelmed by panic that reason does not
pause to analyze.