Then, suddenly, he awoke. His head was splitting; his month was parched. He opened his eyes, sat up and looked about him—and remembered.
She was gone. So! She had tricked him to sleep and fled; thus had she sought to escape him. Perhaps she had signaled to the shore.
Then he heard her moving in her cabin, next to his. He swung his stockinged feet to the floor, and sat on the edge of his bunk, swaying uncertainly.
And he thought at the same time, though without knowing why, of his son. Red would be working with his men now; he would be bringing them back to the ship presently in a mood for anything. Black Pawl flung back his head. So be it! But—his own son!
The overwhelming misery of the man at thought of his son’s treachery broke down his heart within him. He got up, moving softly on his unshod feet, and noiselessly opened his cabin door.
Her door was closed. He stood, gazing at it. Then he realized there was something in his hand; he looked down and saw the bottle.
He drained it and waited. But—it would not bite. Cursing himself for a weakling and a coward, he strode forward and struck her door with his knuckles.
She opened it quickly, and saw him, but did not fall back before his eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “You were asleep.”
“I’m awake,” he answered harshly. “I’m coming in.”
BLACK PAWL had knocked at Ruth’s door while she was preparing to put up her hair. It was about her shoulders now. He thought, abruptly, that with her hair thus, she looked very young, like a child—a child to be protected. It took the purpose out of him, to see her thus. He found himself thinking that his own daughter might have been like this, if she had lived; like this, with flowing hair, and sweetly curving lips, and the brave, calm eyes of a child.
She paid no heed to his words; she came out into the main cabin, braiding her hair and throwing it over her shoulder, out of the way. “Oh,” she said, “I thought you were asleep. You must come back and go to sleep. You will be sick, truly.”
“I was asleep,” he replied. “I woke up. I can’t sleep.”
“I shouldn’t have left you,” she reproved herself. “But I didn’t think you would wakeup. Come, I’ll put you to sleep again, and stay with you.”
“I don’t want to go to sleep.”
She smiled at him. “You don’t knowwhatyou want. You’re deadly tired, and sick. Come.”
Her hair was in a thick braid now, down her back. She looked more like a little child than ever; and he had a desire, almost overpowering, to yield, to go back, and sleep at her bidding. He fought it off, repeating stubbornly: “No, I don’t want to sleep.”
There were chairs by the cabin table, and she sat down in one of them and looked up at him and laughed. “What do you want, then? Do you know?”
He sat down, the table between them, and looked at her with his hot and aching eyes. He was dizzy and trembling with weakness. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Past twenty,” she told him. His child, his daughter, would have been that age. “Why?”
“With your hair like that, you look like a little girl,” he said thickly.
She nodded. “That’s all I am. I don’t feelgrown up, at all—except with Dan. Then I feel old enough to be his mother.”
“Dan,” he repeated under his breath, and she said softly:
“Yes, Dan Darrin.”
His head swayed a little, back and forth, lowering at her. “Him you think you—love?”
“Him I do love.”
“How do you know so surely?”
“Oh—I know.”
“But if you’re a child, how can you know?”
“I know,” she repeated. “I—just know.”
His eyes lowered to the table, and he thought, heavily. When he looked at her again, he asked: “Ever know many men?”
“Not many white men,” she said, “except—the missionary.”
Black Pawl laughed unpleasantly. “He’s not a man; he’s a woman.”
“He’s the finest and bravest of men.”
“Oh, aye,” said the Captain. “He’s a man, after his kind.”
“And I love him,” she declared.
“Him too?” Black Pawl mocked.
There was an implication in his tone thatcolored her cheeks; but she said nothing. Black Pawl leaned toward her. “Dan Darrin is all right,” he said deprecatingly. “But—he’s a boy. He’s not a man grown, yet. You’d do best to pick a man.”
“Dan’s a man,” she cried.
He shook his head stubbornly. “A good boy; but not a man yet. He needs ripening.”
She said thoughtfully: “Don’t you think it’s natural for people to—like people of their own age?”
“Blind children, maybe. But not those who are wise. You’re not overwise to throw yourself to Dan so swiftly.”
She smiled at him gayly. “I’m not throwing myself at him,” she said. “You’re not—considerate, to accuse me of that.”
“I said ‘to’ him, not ‘at’ him,” he reminded her.
“Throwing myself away?” she laughed.
“Aye.”
“I’ll—risk that with Dan.” She leaned toward him. “Please!” she said. “You know Dan is fine and good and strong. Don’t try to make me unhappy—because you can’t.”
His eyes burned her; he struck his fist upon the table. “I’m as much a man as Dan.”
She hesitated, watching him; and then she said, soberly: “Yes, you are.”
Her eyes were troubled.
“I tell you,” he exclaimed in a swift, harsh voice, “I tell you I’m as much a man as he! And I—” He was shaken by an abrupt confusion. “By the eternal, there’s something in you that draws me, Ruth. There’s something in you that cries out to me.”
She did not speak; and he asked, in a tone that was half entreaty: “Have you not felt this at all?”
She told him frankly: “Yes; I like and admire you immensely, Cap’n Pawl.”
He struck the table again. “I said it. Then why must you talk of this love that you say you have for Dan Darrin?”
“I love Dan; I but like you,” she told him.
He flung up his hand. “Words, words. I tell you, there’s something between us, you and me, more than liking. I’m not a man to be liked. Harsh, and cold, and rough with my men, God-denying, without scruple, called ‘Black Pawl’ for the sake of the deeds I have done. You’d not be ‘liking’ such a man. It’s more than ‘liking,’ Ruth. I tell you, there’s more.”
She shook her head slowly. “You are—all that which you say,” she agreed. “And yet—there’s good in the heart of you. I like that good in you.”
“I’m black to my soul,” he boasted. She laughed softly.
“No man’s that,” she told him. “No man’s that; and you least of all.”
He sat back in his chair, hands palm down on the table before him, and stared at his bony fingers. And at last he flung up his head and leveled his eyes on her. “Have it so,” he agreed. “Have it so, on your side. But on mine, this is no matter of liking. There’s a deeper bond. I—” He leaned toward her, his face working. “Ruth, I don’t know what it is,” he cried appealingly. “But it’s there; it’s there. I’m drawn to you, pulled to you. It’s there, I say.”
She met his eyes, and answered: “I’m—drawn to you, too, Cap’n Pawl. There is—affection in me for you. I would do a great deal to help you.”
“Ah, you love me,” he cried, leaning toward her. But she shook her head.
“No, I love Dan Darrin—in that way. It may be that I love you in another—as a brother, or a father—”
Black Pawl laughed angrily. “You’ll be a sister to me! Fiddle and all! I want no sisters. And—even though to you I may seem old enough for fathering, I’m not. I tell you I’m as much a boy as Dan Darrin, where you’re concerned. Father! Brother! Fiddling talk!”
“Friends, then,” she suggested straightforwardly. “We’ll always be friends.”
“I’m no hand for friends,” said Black Pawl. “It’s a milk-and-water word, where a man and a woman are in the matter.”
She said, a little impatiently: “You’re not very reasonable. And—you’d be the better for friends, Black Pawl.”
He leaned back in his chair, and his eyes fell; he thought, abruptly, of his son; and a great hopelessness settled down upon the man. He did not know just what he had hoped for; hehad not meant to speak thus to this girl. After all, what could he expect? Hers was the privilege to laugh at him. He was an old man, and he must accept youth’s judgment upon him.
Through the current of his thoughts, he heard Marvin, the cook, come down into the cabin to get food from the captain’s stores, below. He heard Ruth speak to the man, and heard them talk together. Ruth liked old Marvin; they were, in a fashion, cronies. She got up and stood and talked with him, while Black Pawl’s sick thoughts ran on.
He forgot the other two were there, and thought of himself, and of Red Pawl. He was sick with the sickness of despair. He felt himself weak and shaken, and cursed himself for being weak. He thought that he had thrown himself at this child’s feet, and she had laughed at him. Some day she would tell Dan Darrin, and they would laugh together at the weakness of Black Pawl. The thought was bitter, for strength was his pride and boast, and there was no living man who had seen that strength broken. All his life he had been known for a strong manand a ruthless one; and this frail girl had laughed at him. The tale would go abroad.
He did not care for that. Let men laugh; they would not laugh to his face. But the girl would laugh—she and Dan Darrin. And—would they not have the right to mock him? Was he not a jest and a joke upon the face of the waters? He was master of theDeborah, and master of all aboard her! Did she know that, this child? She must know; yet she was not afraid. Rather, she laughed.
He heard Marvin come up from the storeroom, and speak to the girl again. Here at least was fair target for his wrath. He stormed to his feet and toward the man. “On deck, you swipe!” he roared. “Get out o’ my sight.”
Marvin scuttled up the companion; and Black Pawl turned again to where the girl sat, and looked down at her with black and knitted brows. His hair was tumbled, his cheeks were lined, his eyes were sunken. He trembled weakly where he stood, and she was infinitely sorry for him; and stood up to face him, and said softly:
“Come, you’re tired. Do let me put you to sleep.”
“I tell you, I’m not minded to sleep,” he answered thickly.
“No matter,” she smiled. “You will be. It’s what you need.” She touched his arm. He flung her hand away.
“Mark this,” he said. “You’ve not understood what I’ve been telling you. I say Dan Darrin’s not to have you while I live. Is that clear to you?”
Faintly troubled, she said: “You’re sick, and tired. You don’t know what you say. Please lie down.”
“I do know what I say. I do mean what I say. This is my ship, theDeborah. Nothing passes here save with my will. I say, this matter of Dan is to be forgotten—till I say the word.”
She answered, eyes braving his: “You’re a strong man, Cap’n Pawl. And—master of the ship. But there are some things beyond your command. I am one of them; my heart the other. We’re Dan’s.”
“You’re overly brave,” he sneered.
“I am not afraid,” she answered.
“You told me once you could never be afraid of me.”
“I could never be afraid of you.”
“Why not?”
“I do not know.”
He lifted a hand in a tense, impatient gesture. “Listen,” he commanded. “Your Dan is a mile away; he’ll not be back this hour. None will come into this cabin save on my word. I tell you, I claim you from Dan Darrin, and I stick to that claim.”
“I tell you,” she said steadily, “that your strength and your claims are nothing to me. I’m Dan’s.”
His head lowered as he looked deep into her eyes for a flicker of panic. “You are not afraid, when I say this much to you?”
“No.”
The strength of her, the cold courage, the steady gaze, maddened him. For a long instant their eyes met and held; then he turned away from her, walked aimlessly across the cabin, turned by the companion to look back at her. His lips moved as though there were a bitter taste in his mouth, and the girl found herself longing to run to him, to comfort him and quiet him and bid him rest. She dropped her eyes,that he might not see this tenderness in them, and turned slowly back to her cabin.
It was no more than three paces from where she stood to her cabin door. But as she reached the door, she heard him moving; and she turned in the doorway and looked at him.
He was coming toward her slowly; his eyes were bitter and angry, and he stumbled as he came.
She waited in the open door. Within arm’s-length of her he stopped, swaying. He felt himself checked by a spiritual wall about her that barred him out. For a space he could not stir. He did not speak; she said no word. For seconds they stood thus, unmoving.
Then Black Pawl cursed. “Hell’s fire!” he muttered, and dropping his great hands upon her shoulders, he pushed her slowly backward, into her narrow cabin. Once inside, he thrust her from him, and she caught and steadied herself against the cabin wall. He swung the door shut, then setting his shoulders against it, looked at her.
She met his eyes without flinching.
“Well, are you still so brave!” he demanded hoarsely, his lips twisting in a mocking smile.
“I am not afraid,” she answered.
His brows knit. He asked dully: “What do you mean, child? How can you say that? How can you help fearing? Why are you not afraid?”
She dropped her eyes, as though she were thinking; and after a little she looked up at him again. “I’ll tell you, if I can, Cap’n Pawl,” she said.
“Tell on,” he bade her. “Tell on. There’s time.”
“I don’t know whether you will understand,” she began, half to herself. “But—I believe in God. Just as all men do! Just as all men must, in their hearts, believe. I believe there is a God; I believe He is a very real God, caring for us. I believe He is caring for me. So I can never be afraid.
“And—there is another thing,” she said. “I told you there is good in you, even though men do call you Black Pawl. I am not afraid of you, because of that good in you. I—understand you, perhaps, better than you understand yourself.You are tired out, with your fighting the storm. You are unhappy for Red Pawl’s sake. You are sick with—the liquor you have been drinking. It is almost true of you that you know not what you do.
“But you do know; and there is too much good in you to lie silent through the doing. It would never let you do that which you try to wish to do, Cap’n Pawl.” She smiled suddenly, looking confidently up at him. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “if you could have driven yourself on—But you can never do it, Cap’n Pawl. You could not. So, I am not afraid.”
He had listened to her, frowning with the effort at thought; and when she ceased speaking, he remained silent, as though considering. His head was splitting with a throbbing ache; his eyes were coals. He could not think. Of all that she had said, he only understood that she was not afraid. It was like a challenge flung in his teeth. He said thickly:
“Not afraid? By the eternal, we’ll try that!”
His right hand dropped on her shoulder, and he made to jerk her toward him, against his breast, but she came passively, unresisting. Hecaught her head in the crook of his arm and gazed down into her eyes. And then suddenly he felt a sickening shame as though he were beating a child. And she had not resisted! Why did she not resist, fight him, give him obstacles to overcome?
She remained passive; but it was hard for her to breathe. When her lungs were choking, she was forced to set her hands against his breast and push herself away from him.
He cried out at that. So! She was fighting at last. He let her go, for the exultant triumph of recapturing her. When she was free of him, he reached out and caught her shoulder again.
Under his harsh hand, the light fabric of her waist was torn. A wave of sickness at what he had done swept over him, and he dropped his hand.
And then he saw, hanging by a thin gold chain about her neck, a locket of gold. It was such a locket as he had given to his wife, long years ago.
WHEN Black Pawl saw the locket, his hands fell and hung limply at his sides. He stared at the little golden thing; and his eyes blurred, and he brushed his knuckles across them, and stared again.
Under his gaze, bent thus upon her throat, the girl crimsoned; she did not understand, but she saw that a change had come in the man. She was breathless, wondering and bewildered. She put up her hands to gather her waist together; and Black Pawl caught her wrists gently, and held them aside; and then he fumbled the locket in his thick fingers, and bent near her, so that his mop of iron-gray hair brushed her face. She looked down and saw that he was trying to open the locket with a blunted thumb-nail.
When the locket was open, he cried out, hoarsely. For it held, on the one side a daguerreotype of a little boy; and on the other, an oldand faded photograph of a woman. A long time he gazed at it; then he closed it and lifting his eyes, looked into Ruth Lytton’s eyes as he did so. She saw the black tragedy that was eating him, and touched his arm pityingly. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right, truly.” She knew the man was broken with shame, even though she did not understand.
He was studying her with glazing eyes. His daughter! She was his daughter—his daughter, and mirror of his love of the years agone.
He tottered, as though under a succession of blows. He swayed where he stood; and abruptly he lifted his hands and cried out, in the agony of this new knowledge, and in a passionate abasement, to the God he had forgotten.
Silent, then, he seemed to listen for an answer. And when no answer came, the man’s head drooped, and he turned stumblingly, and opened the door of Ruth’s cabin, and went out. He dropped into a chair by the table in the cabin. His head fell forward on his crossed arms.
The girl was blankly bewildered by what had passed. There was no fear in Ruth Lytton; there had never been fear in her. There was infinite charity in her for Black Pawl’s sins.And—she knew the man was not himself, was half sick, was broken.
The matter of the locket meant nothing to her. She supposed that sight of it had evoked some ancient memory, but she had no guess as to what that memory might be. Standing alone in her cabin,—he had closed the door behind him,—she was trembling at the thought, not of her own peril, but of the terrible remorse and abasement in Black Pawl’s cry to God. She had never seen a man thus completely broken and helpless before the Unseen; and there was a majesty about the sight that gripped her.
Nevertheless, after a moment, she felt a quite human anxiety. She had seen the full depths of Black Pawl’s self-contempt; she was suddenly afraid that the man would harm himself. And when she thought of the chance of this, she forgot everything else in her haste to find him, and comfort him, and tell him all was well.
She opened the cabin door to come out; she saw Black Pawl at the table, his head dropped on his hands.
She was, at first, a little awed by this sight of a strong man crushed. Then the woman in hercried out with soft compassion; and she crossed quickly and stood beside him and touched his head.
“It’s all right,” she told him softly. “It’s all right, Cap’n Pawl.”
She could think of nothing else to say.
His shoulders shook with a convulsive tremor; and she knew that he was crying, crying like a child, with his head upon his arms. A woman’s tears confuse a man; but a man’s tears frighten and appal a woman. Ruth was shaken by the knowledge that Black Pawl was sobbing; she did not know what to do. She could only plead: “Please! Please don’t! It’s all right, truly.”
With a curious abruptness he was calm. He lifted his head and looked up at her. His face was streaked with tears; and yet it was strangely serene. It was haggard, and yet it was at peace. There was none of the old mockery in his eyes, and none of the evil. It was as though his tears had washed him clean. He looked up at her; and she smiled at him, hand on his hand, and pleaded:
“Don’t be unhappy!”
He was studying her countenance, line by line.And after a moment, he said in a quiet deep voice that was unlike him:
“Will you sit down? Across the table there? I want to talk with you.”
She said, “Of course,” and she crossed and sat down facing him. Again, for a little, he did not speak. Then he held out his hand.
“Will you let me see your locket?” he asked.
She unclasped the chain about her throat, and passed chain and locket across to him. He held them in his hands for a moment; then he opened the locket and looked long at the two pictures inside, and there were tears in his eyes again. She asked softly:
“What do they mean to you?”
He did not answer her question; he asked one of his own. “Ruth, where did you get this locket?”
“My mother gave it to me,” she said.
“Who was your mother?”
“Anna Lytton.”
He touched the daguerreotype in the locket. “Who is this?”
“My brother,” she told him. “He died before I was born.”
“And who is—this other?” He touched the photograph of his wife.
“My mother.”
He hesitated; then he asked: “Is it a—good picture of her?”
“Oh, yes. It was taken before I was born. But it was very like her.”
The man wetted his lips with his tongue. “Who was your father?” he asked.
“His name was Michael Lytton.”
“What was he like?”
The girl shook her head. “I never knew him.”
His head bowed over the locket. When he looked up again it was to ask: “Where have you lived? What was your life? Will you tell me?”
She nodded. “We—had a strange life,” she said. “Ever since I was a little girl, we have lived among the islanders. My mother was a missionary; she knew how to make sick people well, and they loved her. We stayed with them always; but she always told me that when she died, I must go home.”
“Home?” he asked. “Where did she say your home was?”
“She said I was to go to people named Chase, who live in a town called Hingham, in Massachusetts.”
He nodded, as though he had expected this. His wife had been Anna Chase of Hingham, in the days when he wooed her.
“Do you remember any other life but this among the islanders?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. I know we came out on a ship, Mother and I, and landed at the islands, and stayed there. I think the captain of the ship was unkind to my mother. I think we slipped away from him. But—she never told me this. It is half memory, half guess.”
“You never went home while your mother lived?”
“No.”
“Did she ever tell you why?”
“She said her work was in the islands, that she could not leave them.”
“Was she happy?”
The girl considered; and her eyes were dim. “Not always,” she said.
The man leaned back, resting his hands against the table-rim. “You know,” he said humbly, “I wish you would talk to me. Tell me about your mother.”
“What do you want to know?” she asked uncertainly.
“Everything.”
There was an intensity in his voice that startled her. Nevertheless she began, obediently, to tell him of her mother. And once she had begun, there was no faltering. She was so full of things to tell, and it was so pleasant to be able to speak to one who cared to listen to these things.
They were both so absorbed that they did not hear when the boats returned to the ship. The missionary, coming a little uneasily down the cabin companion, found them still sitting at the table, facing each other; and the girl was talking swiftly and eagerly to the listening man.
When Black Pawl saw the missionary, he got up from where he sat. “Ah, Father,” he said softly, “I have been waiting for you.”
The missionary had an eye trained to see into the souls of men. He saw that a great changehad come upon Black Pawl; and he saw that the change was good. His old eyes lighted.
“I am here,” he said.
Black Pawl looked toward the girl. “Ruth,” he told her gently, “your Dan is back. Go bid him welcome.”
The girl started toward the companion; then abruptly remembering, she turned back to her cabin—her waist was torn. She was out in a matter of minutes, in a fresh one. The missionary had asked Black Pawl: “What is it you wish of me?” But Black Pawl signed to him to wait.
When the girl came out and saw the two men, and saw their steady faces, and the somber grief in Black Pawl’s eyes, she went to the Captain’s side. “Cap’n Pawl,” she said to him under her breath, “you must not be unhappy. Please. You are a good man.... Kiss me.”
He bent with a swift rush of feeling and kissed her forehead; and she smiled up at him, then turned and fled to the deck where Dan waited for her.
Black Pawl faced the missionary. He turned to the table. “Father,” he said, “sit down.”
The missionary obeyed. He took the chair the girl had occupied. Black Pawl sat across the table; and after a minute, he began. “I’ve a thing to say that is hard saying,” he told the old man. “But—it has got to be told. Listen, Father.”
And so, straightforwardly, he told his story. He did not excuse himself; he did not palliate that which he had meant to do. He painted it in its ugliest colors, painted himself as black as the pit. He began with the moment when he and Ruth were left alone upon the schooner; he told how each step had come to pass. And he came at last to the moment when his rough hand had torn her waist, and he saw the locket at her throat. There was no heat in the man, no hysteria. He told it baldly; and at the last said:
“So I knew she was my daughter—my daughter.”
He was still, with that word. He seemed to wait upon the missionary; but the old man did not speak. Black Pawl watched him; and as he watched, into the Captain’s eyes stole something of that old, hard mockery of all the world. “So,Father!” he exclaimed harshly. “Is that not the unforgivable sin?”
The missionary looked up at him in mild surprise. “It seemed to me that Ruth had forgiven you,” he suggested.
Black Pawl said hoarsely: “Oh, aye! But—there’s none other like her in the world.”
“If she has forgiven, there is no one else to blame you,” said the missionary.
“What of God?” Black Pawl asked humbly; and the missionary looked at him and smiled a wise and kindly smile.
“You do not call him ‘my God,’”he suggested.
Black Pawl shook his head. “No—no. He’s mine too. There’s no escaping Him. But—what will He say to this matter, Father?”
The missionary rested his hands on the table, and his eyes met Black Pawl’s. “It seems to me, Cap’n Pawl, that you are a new man, reborn, this hour. Is it so?”
“Aye,” said Black Pawl. “It is so.”
“Then—this ugly matter. Perhaps it was God’s way of awakening you.”
“Harsh measures, Father.”
“Harsh measures were needed, my son,” said the missionary gently.
Black Pawl nodded. His eyes clouded thoughtfully; he studied the other. “Father,” he said at last, “you must have guessed this thing from what I told you.”
“I did guess,” said the other honestly.
“Why did you not tell me?”
“I was in doubt,” said the missionary humbly. “I was in doubt. But—it seemed to me that matter was in His hands.”
Black Pawl nodded. “Oh, aye.” Then he was still again, with his thoughts. After a time, he asked like a child seeking knowledge: “Will there be punishment, Father?”
The missionary shook his head. “I do not know. Have you not suffered?”
“I would die to wipe the thing away,” Black Pawl cried passionately.
“To die is not hard,” said the missionary. “It is often merely release from unhappiness and pain.”
“There is nothing I would not do to wipe the thing away,” amended the Captain steadily. The other lifted his hand to dismiss the thought.
“Eh, Cap’n Pawl,” he said quietly, “if there is to be punishment, it will come. If there is to be a cup of atonement, it will be offered to your lips.”
The two men sat thoughtfully silent for a space, upon that word; and it may have been that their thoughts took the same channel, for Black Pawl was thinking of his son when the missionary asked at last: “Will you tell Red Pawl of this?”
Black Pawl hesitated. “I do not know.” And he added, after a moment: “Father, I fear Red Pawl. And—I never feared him before. I am afraid for Ruth’s sake. Not for my own, by the eternal!”
“Would telling him—protect her?” the missionary asked. Black Pawl laughed bitterly.
“I’ve taught him never a scruple in all the world,” he said. “And—for what this would mean to him—God knows!”
The old man said sternly: “Red Pawl is a charge upon your soul.”
“Aye,” said Black Pawl “And heavy there!”
They said no more of Red then. The missionary asked: “You told Ruth who you were?”
Black Pawl shook his head. “No, I told her nothing. What right have I to thrust such a father on the child?”
The man of the church smiled. “There’s no matter of thrusting,” he said. “You are her father; and—I know Ruth. She will want to know.” He got up and went purposefully toward the companion. Black Pawl came swiftly to his feet.
“No, Father!”
But the missionary was calling up to the deck, “Ruth!” She answered. “Will you come below?”
She came down the companion. The missionary took her by the hand. Black Pawl stood rigid by the table. She looked from one to the other.
It was the missionary who told her—very simply, and very briefly. Not all that was to be told, not the matter of her mother’s flight from this man; that was left for a quieter hour. But he told her enough so that she must see, and believe.
When he was silent, Ruth looked at her father, and she moved slowly toward him. She wanted to clasp him close; she wanted to cry; she wanted to hold the strong man’s tired head against her breast. But this girl had strength, and understanding. And she saw that Black Pawl was near the breaking-point, that his jangling nerves might give way at a wrong touch. So, when she came near him, she did not cry out and throw herself into his arms as she would have liked to do. His own arms were hanging at his sides; she took hold of them at the elbow and shook him a little, back and forth; and she laughed a choking little laugh, and she said:
“I told you I wanted you to be a father to me, Black Pawl!”
His arms went around her then, gently. His head came down; his face was buried in her hair. They did not stir; they did not speak.
The old missionary smiled, and he went on deck and left them together there.
BLACK PAWL and his daughter were together through that afternoon, below, in the cabin; and there they cast up the old accounts of the year. And there were times when they were unhappy; but for the most part they were very happy together. There was no more rancor in Black Pawl; he loved the world, and he loved his daughter, and he loved the memories she evoked in him. Into these few hours of life Black Pawl compressed more happiness than he had seen for twenty years; he was like a boy again, gay and youthful and mirthful. Yet was there a humility about him, and a deference.
At dusk he went on deck. Red Pawl was there, superintending the work on the bowsprit. Black Pawl looked at what was being done; and he said:
“Good work, Red!”
There was in him a desire to placate his son, to win back the old comradeship, to redeem RedPawl from the evil that obsessed the man. But the mate looked up at his father’s words and said dourly:
“I do my work. No fear!”
Black Pawl scowled, for the old, quick anger was not entirely dead in him; nevertheless he curbed himself and turned away. Red was surprised at this. It was not like the Captain. Was his father slacking, weakening, losing his grip? He smiled furtively at his own thoughts, and his heart began to pound.
After supper Black Pawl went to his cabin, alone. He wanted to sleep; he undressed and blew out the whale-oil lamp that hung near his bunk’s head, and lay down.
But there was no sleep in him; he thought of Ruth, and could not sleep for happiness; he thought of his son, and could not sleep for sorrow and concern. He thought of his wife and he spoke with her in his thoughts.
There was a great peace between him and her in this communion in the night. Black Pawl was filled with peace. Even when he thought of his son, he was not disturbed; he was only sorrowful. He no longer blamed himself so bitterly onRed’s account; he felt himself in some measure absolved. It was as though he had made an atonement; it may have been that he was provisioning the immediate atonement he must make. He loved Red, his son; but in his heart, he condemned the man—condemned him with the stern justice which is both justice and love.
He had a great faith that Red should never harm Ruth. It was his task to guard her; and if his strength were not sufficient, strength would be given him. There was strength in her, for that matter. Thinking of this daughter of his, he was immensely proud of her. She was a woman, even as her mother had been. He thought, without disloyalty, that she was finer than her mother. And—she would never come to harm.
But—Red? What of him? Black Pawl wondered whether to tell Red that Ruth was his sister. He put the thought away. He had a feeling that this would be cowardice and shirking, that the issue was between Red and him. He was likeFrankenstein; Red was a monster he had himself created and for which he must take responsibility. He could not beg off.
He had somewhat the attitude of the missionary. The man of the church, guessing Ruth was Black Pawl’s daughter, had yet kept silent. He had said that he felt the whole matter was in God’s hands. Black Pawl thought his problem was the same. He found peace in the thought. He could do his duty as he saw it—no more.
He said softly, in the darkness, to this God he had found that day: “It’s in Your hands, Sir.”
And he added: “But I’ll do my part of what’s to be done.”
So passed the night.
AT dawn Black Pawl rose and dressed himself. Though he had not slept, he was not weary. Strength had flowed into him during the night, and happiness, and peace, and a great love of life. When light began to come through the cabin ports, he felt a hunger to be on deck, with the sea wide about him, and the wind upon his cheek. He wanted to meet the new sun with something like a prayer; he felt this new day of the world was also a new day in his life.
He dressed slowly. There was a certain lassitude upon him. He was strong, but he enjoyed tasting this strength in sips. He made no quick motions. He buttoned his garments with steady, sure fingers; he took a certain joy in merely watching the perfect functioning of these fingers of his, and he thought how wonderful an instrument is the human hand.
He liked the rough feeling of his shirt about his throat. He liked the snug belt that circledhis waist. There was comfort in the harsh strength of the familiar shoes he drew upon his feet. He washed himself, and he combed and brushed his hair. He was accustomed to wear his coat loose, his shirt open at the throat; but this day he buttoned the shirt and put on a tie that he had not worn for months, and he buttoned his coat about him. He laughed at himself for doing these things. “Like a bridegroom going to his wedding,” he said cheerfully. “But why not, Black Pawl? Why not?”
He had marked a hole in his woolen socks when he drew them on; and he thought Ruth would mend his socks for him now. That would be a pleasant thing. All life lay pleasantly before him—marred only by Red Pawl, his son.
He would not think of Red Pawl now. That issue might be postponed; this day was for happiness. Happiness was a new thing to Black Pawl. He wished to drink deep of it.
He went out of his cabin, and paused in the doorway and looked back at the familiar belongings. This was his farewell to them; and it may have been the man felt this was true, for he looked longer than the simple fittings of thecabin seemed to warrant, and there was a wistful twist to his smile.
In the main cabin he stopped again and looked about. Ruth’s door was closed. She would be still asleep. He wanted to go in and kiss her as she slept, but he would not. Dan Darrin was in his cabin also. Asleep, no doubt! And—Black Pawl smiled; he could hear the missionary snoring softly. Even the most spiritual of men may snore. Black Pawl chuckled at the thought.
There was a book on the cabin table, which Ruth had been reading the night before. Black Pawl picked it up and looked at it, and laid it down again. His eyes roved around the familiar place. He was loath to leave it. He went reluctantly to the companion at last, and climbed to the deck.
Red Pawl was there, on the break of the quarter, talking with Spiess. The sailor had a bucket on a rope; and he and two or three of the men were scrubbing down the deck from the quarter forward. When they heard Black Pawl, the two men looked toward him, and Spiess turned to his work. Red watched his father.
The sun was just breaking above the horizon.Black Pawl glanced toward it, cast an eye about the sky. “A fair wind, Red,” he said good-humoredly. “Are you thinking we’ll be ready to get away this day?”
Red studied the skies, and he bit at the back of his hand. “I don’t know,” he said.
“You’ve done the work quickly,” said Black Pawl. “A good job of it.”
Red looked at his father and grinned, as though the older man were lying, and he knew it.
“I’m pleased with it,” Black Pawl added.
Red said: “It’s well you’re pleased.” There was a sardonic threat in his tone. But Black Pawl ignored it; he was in no mood to take swift offense at trifles. He walked to the after rail and stood there alone; presently he came back to where Red was, and said idly:
“Red, I’m thinking I’ll quit the sea after this cruise.”
Red Pawl said, grinning: “Aye, you’re getting old.”
Black Pawl shook his head good-humoredly. “No; ’tis not that, so much. But the sea irks me. I’d like to keep my feet on dry land for a spell before I die.”
“You’ll find few to take on land what they take at sea,” said the mate.
The Captain smiled. “Aye, the sea’s rough. Maybe there’s no need of so much roughness on land.” And he added, looking at Red: “It’s like you’ll have the ship when I step out, Red.”
Red looked swiftly toward where Spiess was working; but Black Pawl did not mark the glance. “It’s like,” Red agreed curtly.
Black Pawl turned then and considered his son with thoughtful eyes; and at last he said: “Red, I’ve been thinking. You and I have not always jibed as father and son should jibe.”
Red looked at his father silently.
“I’m sorry for that, son,” said Black Pawl. “It’s not a fitting thing. Like it’s been mostly my fault, too. I’ve not been all to you that I should, not led you as wisely as I should. I’m sorry for these things, Red Pawl.”
There was no softness in Red’s voice when he replied. “I’ve no whines to make,” he said. “I can hold my end—against any man.”
“I’m sorry we—fought, a space ago,” said Black Pawl gently.
Red’s lips drew back.
“We’ll not fight again,” said Black Pawl, “—not my son and I. I say, Red, that for every wrong I’ve done you, I’m sorry this day.”
If there was an appeal in his voice, Red did not respond. There was no melting in the mate’s eyes. There was only black hate; and when the father saw this in the face of the son, he turned away. He was suddenly weary.
When Black Pawl turned away from Red Pawl, he stepped down from the quarter to the main-deck. He started forward toward the waist of the ship, driven by the desire to escape that which he saw in Red Pawl’s eyes.
Spiess was on hands and knees on the deck, his bucket of water by his side. As Black Pawl passed him, Spiess tipped the bucket so that a sudden flood of water poured out. Intentionally or not, it wet the Captain’s shoes. Automatically, as though from long habit, Black Pawl kicked out at the kneeling man and swore at him, then passed on.
As he moved on toward the waist of the ship, his back was turned to Spiess. The man got noiselessly to his feet. He lifted the heavybucket by the rope and swung it in a whistling, circling arc.
It came down on Black Pawl’s head. If it had struck squarely, it must have crushed his skull. But it struck in such fashion that his head met the side of the bucket; and the stout pail flew to pieces under the force of the blow. It did not kill Black Pawl; it but stunned him. He was not unconscious; but his senses reeled, and he fell forward on his face.
He tried, automatically, to get to hands and knees and rise and turn; but while he was on hands and knees, Spiess leaped on his back.
Then the man drove his knife to the hilt between Black Pawl’s shoulders.
IT was as though the blade of the knife touched a spring of life within Black Pawl. He came to his feet with a swift, fierce movement that flung Spiess off his back and sent the man sprawling to one side. Then Black Pawl turned, and stared down at him, and Spiess got up, the red knife in his hand. He watched Black Pawl; and he crouched a little, his knees bent for a spring.
Black Pawl looked at Spiess, and then he looked at his son. The mate was standing on the quarter, watching as though what passed did not concern him. Black Pawl understood, then. Red had planned this, permitted it.
Black Pawl laughed at Spiess; and then he walked slowly past the man, toward the quarter-deck. He paid no more attention to Spiess; and when the man saw this, he wiped his knife on the leg of his trousers and thrust it back into its sheath. Then he looked at Red Pawl; and whenthe mate said nothing, did nothing, Spiess got down on his hands and knees and went back to his scrubbing.
The other seamen, who had been sharing this work with him, and who had sprung to their feet at the first hint of the tragedy, stood in a little whispering group now, watching. All had passed so quietly; there was no word spoken now. The ship was as still as death; for Death was hovering over theDeborah’sdecks in that hour.
Black Pawl walked to the quarter; and the men saw a red stain spreading through the coat upon his back. He climbed the steps to the quarter-deck; he hesitated for a little, then turned aside and sat down on the deck, his back against the rail. Then his eyes half closed, and his head lolled on one shoulder. He might have been dead even then, for all seeming.
But he was not dead. His mind had never been so clear, so acute. His body was numb; but his brain was vividly alive. He felt no pain, felt no sensation except a warm, moist stickiness that spread down his back. Also it was a little hard to breathe. There was a bubbling in histhroat, and something wet upon his lips; and when he touched his lips with a weak hand, the fingers came away red.
He saw this through half-closed eyes, still sitting there, head drooping on one side.
All had passed so quietly. This was the horror of it. There had been an instant’s scuffle, then nothing. The work of the schooner was going on now. Spiess was scrubbing the deck, not looking toward Black Pawl. The mate stood against the rail idly, as though nothing had happened. The little group of men by the mainmast whispered together, their faces white. They were the only jarring note in the peaceful scene.
Black Pawl was thinking. He was thinking hard and swiftly, considering what had been done, what must be done. His thoughts covered vast spaces in seconds of time. They were racing like trained runners.
He decided that he was dying. He would be dead very soon. So! Well, he was not afraid to die—not afraid to die, so he died with clean books. But—were his books clean? There was Red Pawl—his son.
Red Pawl had killed him. This was as certain and as true as though Red’s own hand had whipped that knife between his shoulder-blades. Red had encouraged Spiess; no doubt he had promised the man protection. If proof of this were needed, the proof lay in Red’s attitude now. If there were any innocence in the man, he would have struck Spiess down. Or—Black Pawl knew the mate always carried a revolver—he would have shot Spiess dead within a matter of seconds after the striking of the blow.
Aye, Red Pawl had killed him—Red Pawl, his son.
The Captain felt no surge of anger at Red Pawl, with this conclusion. He was not surprised. For—Red Pawl was as he, Black Pawl, had made him. He had shown Red the ways of violence and ruthlessness. He had taught Red never a virtue of them all, save bravery, perhaps. He had taught the boy strength, and brutality, and outrage; he had taught him cruelty; he had taught him to hate the world. He had taught him to bully men and despise all women. He had made Red into the man he was. And if Red had killed him, that too was Black Pawl’s teaching. He had shown Red how to kill.
Red would be master of theDeborahnow. He would step into Black Pawl’s shoes as captain. He would enter this incident in the log. No doubt he would make it most favorable to the man Spiess. And no doubt Spiess would have a chance to escape before ever they reached port. That was to be expected; that was an essential part of the whole. Red had moved Spiess to kill Black Pawl; now Red must save Spiess from the consequences. So be it! Black Pawl had no grudge against Spiess. He hated him as little as he hated the knife Spiess had thrust between his ribs. Spiess was the instrument; Red Pawl was the murderer.
Black Pawl’s senses clouded for a little; his life was ebbing. Silence still held the ship. The sun climbed higher, striking into Black Pawl’s face. The wind soothed him; the circling birds squawked their unmusical cries. The men whispered by the mainmast. Spiess scrubbed on. Red Pawl leaned against the rail, watching his father die.
But Black Pawl was not yet ready to die. There were still problems to be solved; there was still life to be met and conquered. He couldnot die. He came slowly back to consciousness again, his mind keen and lucid and unswerving.
Red Pawl would be master of theDeborah. He would save Spiess from punishment. What else would he do?
Black Pawl nodded his weary head. Now he was coming to it, the crux of it all. Ruth? What of her? What would her life be, with Red the master of the schooner’s tiny and constricted world? What would come to her?
There was no mercy in Red Pawl. The Captain knew that. There was no scruple in him to stay his hand. And that was Black Pawl’s doing. Red was dark peril personified. He was a living threat, a red danger to the girl.
The missionary? That is to say, God? Perhaps. But—men must do their share. He had promised that he would do his share. Must God do everything?
Dan Darrin, then? Could Dan guard the girl who loved him? Perhaps—perhaps not. Dan was brave enough, strong enough. But—he was straightforward, fearless, strong, and that was all. There was no craft in him. Red Pawl might easily befuddle him, blind his eyes, strike whenDan was off guard. And—Red had killed his father; he would scarce scruple to kill Dan Darrin.
So Dan was no sure shield. Who else remained? One by one, Black Pawl considered each expedient. And there was none that satisfied him; there was no power aboard theDeborahto protect the girl, once he, Black Pawl, was gone.
There was no evasion in Black Pawl, no shirking his responsibility. Red was his responsibility.
The conclusion was inescapable. There was no anger in him toward his son; there was no hatred. There was only a deep love, and a deeper sorrow and grief. He stirred where he sat; and slowly, by infinite degrees, he opened his eyes.
He saw theDeborah, the schooner he loved, the world he had ruled. He saw the blue sky above him, and the furled canvas on the boom. He saw the group of white-faced men by the mainmast, and he saw Spiess scrubbing grimly at the deck, oblivious of all that passed. He wondered if Dan Darrin would be coming ondeck soon. Dan and the missionary and the girl must still be asleep in their cabins, below. It was as well.
He swept his weary eyes about the whole spread of deck before him; and he found Red Pawl. Red had not moved. He was still leaning against the rail, watching his father die.
Black Pawl tried to speak; but there was a bubbling in his throat, and it was hard. He conquered that handicap by sheer will to conquer; and he said in a voice that was firm enough, though it was very low:
“Red, he’s killed me.”
Red Pawl did not answer for a moment; then he said evenly: “Aye, he’s killed you.”
The Captain was mustering strength. “Come here, Red,” he said. “I’ve—things to say. And it’s hard—talking.”
Red hesitated; then he came slowly across and stood above his father, looking down at him.
“He’s killed me,” said Black Pawl again. And Red nodded.
“I don’t—mind dying.” Black Pawl whispered. “But Red, I—hate to be—stuck—like a pig.”
Red Pawl looked at Spiess, and back at his father again. “Aye, like a pig,” he said. There was no softness in his tone, nor any relenting.
Black Pawl looked toward Spiess. “Shoot him down for me to see, Red,” he murmured.
Red shook his head at that “No. There’s been enough quick death. I’ll see to him, in due time—no fear.”
“Shoot him,” Black Pawl begged.
Red shook his head. The Captain lifted a weak hand. “Then—Red—get me my gun. In my cabin. I’ll shoot him. Do that much for me.”
The mate considered; then he said: “No. He’d finish you while I was below.”
Black Pawl’s head drooped. “Aye,” he agreed. “He’d finish me.” He was thoughtful, silent for a little. Red saw his shoulders heaving with the hardly won breath. Then the Captain looked wearily up at him.
“Give me your gun, Red,” he whispered, “—if you’ll not get mine.”
Red Pawl hesitated; and he thought swiftly. He was cold and without scruple. Would this profit him? Suppose Black Pawl shot at Spiess—and missed! Then Spiess would be an enemy to be reckoned with; he would consider Red Pawl had betrayed him. But—Red was not afraid of Spiess. He could always handle the man. On the other hand, suppose Black Pawl shot straight. Then Spiess would be out of the way. There was virtue in that; it would be convenient. It would clear his own skirts; it would remove the evidence against him. Yes, he could bear to have Spiess die. And thus—there would be justice in it, and no difficulty with the log. Black Pawl would probably miss. His hand must be weak and nerveless by this; yet he was a crack shot, had always been. There was a good chance.
He looked toward Spiess, and he winked as he caught the man’s eye. That was for reassurance; it would give him a talking-point to explain that he had known Black Pawl would miss—if the Captain did miss. If he shot straight, then the wink had done no harm. Spiess went stolidly on with his scrubbing.
Black Pawl had seen his son’s glance at Spiess. He read it.
Red said curtly: “All right—if you like.” He took his revolver from the pocket of his coat and held it toward Black Pawl. The Captain took it in both hands carefully.
It might not be loaded. He fumbled with the mechanism, “broke” the revolver and saw the fat cartridges in their chambers. Loaded!
So, he was ready. He looked up at Red Pawl. “Kneel down,” he said. “Hold me up. I am very weak, my son.”
If Red Pawl had any friends among the fates, they forsook him then. He stepped toward his father, and knelt down before him, and put his arms on Black Pawl’s shoulders to draw the Captain to a sitting posture.
Their faces were not six inches apart. Black Pawl said softly: “I always loved you, son.”
Red Pawl grinned sneeringly at that. While the grin was still on his face, the dying man mustered the last ounce of his strength. He lifted the revolver. He jammed the muzzle against his son’s breast, and shot Red Pawl through the heart.