In the morning, after standing our regular watches, all hands felt
better.
I had been wondering how I could treat the affair of the log-book, and
how I could get courage to face the passengers at the breakfast-table.
I was quite angry at the treatment I had received, but, on thinking the
matter over during the night, I concluded to put on a bold front and act
as though nothing had happened to strain my feelings.
Ill luck, I reasoned, could not make a man mean unless the man already
had the instincts of a mean person to start with. It would only make him
a little more careful and more stern of purpose.
I knew that a man with ill luck always appears mean to women, because
women can seldom realize anything but success as a combination of all
the virtues in man. It is probably best for them that this is so, for it
dissolves a great many combinations between men and women which might
result in great discomfort to both. Therefore, I determined to dismiss
the matter from my mind.
We had lost two men during the gale, and there was work to be done on
our spars and rigging that would keep all hands busy for several days.
In spite of the feeling of relief which was expressed on the faces of
all the men, there was a silence among them that told plainly how the
loss of a shipmate will affect even the roughest sailor at first.
The dead man in the fo’c’sle was a ghastly sight, and the wounded one
groaned loudly at times, so it was little wonder that the men of the
starboard watch refused to heave down with a chorus when they trimmed
the braces.
O’Toole cursed them roundly for a half-hearted set of loafers. He always
cursed men from habit, and never struck them when his ideas and theirs
were found to be different. As the morning wore on, the sun shone at
brief intervals through the gaps between the flying gulf clouds, and its
warmth began to dry out our wet clothes and make things more cheerful.
Miss Waters joined us at breakfast, and appeared none the worse for the
shaking up she had been through.
She was dressed in a neat-fitting cloth jacket that showed off her
beautiful figure to great advantage, and she chatted and laughed in
gentle good humour.
I have been in almost all countries and have seen nearly all kinds of
women, but it seemed to me at that time that I had never seen one so
beautiful in face and figure, and so gentle in disposition.
The girl, however, always appeared more interested in the third mate
than in anything else.
Of course, I didn’t resent this, but it somehow made me feel conscious
of my rough appearance, and convinced me that my sailor manners were out
of place at the cabin table while she sat there. Her deep blue eyes had
a roguish look in them as she glanced across at me this morning.
I saw that she intended to say something to me, and I felt my cheeks
burn at the fear of some allusion to the unfortunate incident of the
evening before.
“Well, Mr. Gore,” she broke forth, “I suppose you are not going to
forgive me for wishing for that storm? You can’t be so superstitious as
to believe that my wishing had anything to do with the state of the
weather. You need never fear that I’ll wish for another, though, for I
never was so frightened before in all my life.”
“I suppose you know that we lost two men and that another was badly
injured?” I answered, quickly, and then immediately felt what a fool I
was to throw such a shadow over the young girl’s spirits.
“Why, no, indeed, I knew nothing of the kind,” she answered, and her
laugh was gone, and her face grew pale.
“Where is the injured man?”
“In the fo’castle,” I answered, and, as I did so, the skipper gave me a
warning frown.
“Uncle David, I want you to let me go with Mr. Gore to see the poor
man,” she said, quietly. “I had no idea anything so dreadful happened.”
The old skipper scowled at me and grunted out some reply, and I could
see that he was anything but pleased at my reference to the accident.
However, I had no sooner gone on deck, after breakfast, than Miss Waters
came to me and asked me to take her forward. The ship was running along
easily under t’gallantsails, and the main-deck was safe enough, so,
offering my arm for support, we started.
I noticed Brown hurrying along the port gangway and saw him enter the
fo’castle. Then, when we arrived, he came out and answered my look by
telling Miss Waters that she might enter.
It was no imagination on my part when I noticed the young girl shrink at
the sight of dirty, wet clothes and the none too clean floor as we
entered.
She still held to my arm, and we walked up to the form of a man lying in
one of the bunks. The third mate sprang quickly in front of us and
pointed to a bunk farther forward, just as I was about to address a
corpse.
The girl saw my quick movement as I turned my gaze in the right
direction, and, although only the back of the dead man’s head was
visible, she guessed the mistake I had made, for she trembled violently.
She went up to the wounded sailor, who stared at her in stupid wonder.
Then she asked him how he felt, and put her soft little hand on his face
and tried to cheer him up.
The poor fellow appeared almost frightened at this, and muttered some
nonsense about an angel. But he was a foul-looking dago of the lowest
class, and the girl could not understand him.
Finally, after promising to make him some gruel, she went on deck again,
much to my relief. I could not help admiring the feeling of sympathy she
showed for the man, but I felt that the fo’castle of a ship was not the
place for a girl to enter, even attended as she was.
When we went on deck, she drew a long breath and appeared thoughtful for
some moments. Finally she said:
“Are all forecastles on ships like that?”
“Yes,” I answered, “only most of them are a good deal dirtier and worse
ventilated. When I first went to sea, the fo’castle was always below,
’tween decks, and not a big, airy room, with windows in it, like the one
we’ve just left. I remember, on the old clipper _Mohawk_, we would have
thought a fo’castle like this one equal to the captain’s cabin.”
She was silent while we walked aft, and I supposed she was thinking of
the sailor forward. Just as we gained the poop she turned her head and
looked up at me, saying:
“And you were a sailor once and had to live in a place like that?”
“I am a sailor yet, I believe, and I will probably never be anything
else, except a fool, also,” I answered; “but as for living in places
like our fo’castle, I must confess that I’ve spent at least ten years in
them.”
She let go my arm and, I fancied, gave a hopeless little sigh.
“I think I’d rather be a cow and live in a comfortable barn,” she
remarked, rather drily.
“No objection on my part,” I answered, quickly.
Then she thanked me for going with her, and joined the skipper, who had
been standing near the quarter-rail watching us intently. He saw her
safely aft to the companionway and then returned to where I stood. He
was silent for some time and then looked at me and smiled. I have always
believed the old skipper was something of a mind-reader.
“Women are queer things,” he said.
I said nothing, but looked an affirmative answer.
“But with man,” he went on, “more is to be hoped from. He should not let
his thoughts dwell too much on the necessity of his getting married and
propagating his species. It is natural for a woman to wish to get
married for many reasons; but a man should not let this be the
principal object in his life. That this is, unfortunately, not always
the case is proved by his thoughts and actions.
“When you get to be an old shellback, like me, you will see that, while
love of women is good enough to a certain extent, there are other duties
for an honest man to perform before his cruise is out.
“Now, take yourself, for instance. You never made a fool of yourself
about women. And that’s the reason you had the _Southern Cross_--before
you lost her. Whereas, if you were like O’Toole, who is always reading
story-books, where would you be to-day? Story-books and women have kept
him down, and one is about the same thing as the other. I’ve had
hundreds of story-books sent aboard here by those women folks at the
sailors’ mission, and one and all had the getting married and
propagation of species as the central object for the yarn. Sometimes the
hero would differ a little in regards to the details of getting the
weather gauge of the sweet, beautiful, fine, handsome girl--but the
ends were all alike.
“No, sir, Mr. Gore, take my word for it, story-books and women, women
and story-books--they are all the same in the end. They’ve kept O’Toole
down for having them and you’ve worked your way up--to a certain
extent--by not having them. A man should stick to his duty and let them
alone until he gets old enough to understand them as I do.”
He was a rough, outspoken man, was old Captain Crojack.