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,BartlettandSilas Horneare discovered.Horneis 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. InBartlett,however, the evidence is marked. His hair has turned white. There are deephollows 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.
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,BartlettandSilas Horneare discovered.Horneis 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. InBartlett,however, the evidence is marked. His hair has turned white. There are deephollows 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 wantto 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 onslowly.] 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. [Hornedoes so.Bartlettpours out a half-tumbler full of rum for himself and shoves the bottle over toHorne.]
Horne—Luck to our vige, sir.
Bartlett—Aye, luck! [They drink.Bartlettleans over and tapsHorneon 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 andHorne.] 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 byMrs. Bartlett’svoice calling feebly, “Isaiah! Isaiah!”Bartlettstarts but makes no answer. He seems suddenly sunk in gloom again.Horneturns 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! [Hornegoes and unhooks the door.Mrs. Bartlettenters. 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.
Horne—I’ll be gettin’ back aboard, sir. [Starts to go.]
Bartlett—[In a tone almost of fear.] Wait. I’m goin’ with ye. [Turning to his wife—with a certain rough tenderness.] Ye oughtn’t to walk down the hill here, Sarah. The doctor told ye to rest in the house and save your strength.
Mrs. B.—I want to speak to you alone, Isaiah. You never come to home no more, hardly, so I had to come to ye. [Accusingly.] You know it ain’t walkin’ is sappin’ my strength, Isaiah.
Bartlett—[Very uneasily.] I’ve got to work on the schooner, Sarah. That’s why I’ve no time to home.
Mrs. B.—She’ll be sailin’ soon?
Bartlett—[Suddenly turning on her defiantly.] Tomorrow at dawn!
Mrs. B.—[With her eyes fired accusingly on his.] And you be goin’ with her?
Bartlett—[In the same defiant tone.] Yes, I be! Who else’d captain her?
Mrs. B.—On a craft without a name.
Bartlett—She’ll have that name.
Mrs. B.—No.
Bartlett—She’ll have that name, I tell ye.
Mrs. B.—No.
Bartlett—[Thoroughly aroused, his will tries to break hers, but finds her unbending. He mutters menacingly.] Ye’ll see! We’ll talk o’ that later, you and me. [With sudden apprehension.] But not now. They’s plenty o’ time yet for that. Come on, Horne, we’ll get aboard. [Without a further glance at his wife he strides past her and disappears through the doorway, followed byHorne.Mrs. Bartlettsinks down in the chair by the table. She appears suddenly weak and crushed. Then fromoutside comes a girl’s laughing voice.Mrs. Bartlettdoes not seem to hear, nor to noticeSueandDrewwhen they enter.Sueis a slender, pretty girl of about twenty, with large blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, and a healthy, sun-tanned, out-of-door complexion. In spite of the slightness of her figure there is a suggestion of great vitality and nervous strength about her.Drewis a well-set-up, tall young fellow of thirty. Not in any way handsome, his boyish face, tanned to a deep brown, possesses an engaging character of healthy, cheerful forcefullness that has its compelling charm. There would be no chance of mistaking him for anything but the ship’s officer he is. It is written on his face, his walk, his voice, his whole bearing.]
Sue—[As they enter.] He’ll either be here or on the schooner, Danny. [Then she sees her mother, with startled amazement.] Ma! Good heavens, what are you doing here? [Throwing her arms around her neck and kissing her.] Don’t you know you shouldn’t——
Mrs. B.—[With a start—turning to her daughter with a forced smile.] There, Sue, now! Don’t go scoldin’ me. [Then seeingDrew—in a tone of forced gaiety.] And if there ain’t Danny Drew—back home to port at last! You can kiss an old woman, Danny—without makin’ her jealous, I reckon.
Drew—[Kissing her—with a smile.] I don’t know about that, Ma Bartlett. [Heartily.] It certainly seems good to see you again—and be back again myself.
Mrs. B.—We’ve been expectin’ you right along this past month. Then we read in the paper t’other day where your ship’d reached San Francisco, and we knew you’d be down any day. Sue’s been on pins and needles ever since.
Sue—[Protestingly.] Ma!
Drew—We were delayed in Valparaiso, waiting for cargo. [With a grin.] It’s a long time to be away from Sue—four months.
Sue—[Laughing.] It seems more like four years!
Drew—You remember, Ma, I left just after the big excitement here—when Captain Bartlett turned up after we’d all heard the Triton was wrecked and given him up for lost. That was sure a wonderful surprise when he walked into the house that day.
Mrs. B.—[Her face clouding—in a tone of deep sorrow.] Yes. [Drewis surprised and glances atSuequestioningly. She sighs.Mrs. Bartlettgets to her feet with difficulty, assisted byDrew.She forces a smile.] I’ve taken on a third leg since you was here, Danny!
Sue—We’ll help you back to the house. You can’t climb that steep hill alone.
Mrs. B.—Shucks! I’m sick o’ the house. I need sun and fresh air, and today’s so nice I couldn’t stayindoors. I’ll take your arm to hold on to, Danny. No, I ain’t goin’ up to the house yet awhile, so don’t you try to bully me into it, Sue. I’m goin’ to set in the shade o’ this shed out on the wharf and watch your Pa workin’ on the schooner. Ain’t much time left to see her, Sue. They’re sailin’ tomorrow at dawn, your Pa says.
Sue—Tomorrow? Then—you’re going to christen her?
Mrs. B.—[With grim determination.] No, I ain’t, Sue! [CatchingDrew’sglance fixed on her with puzzled curiosity, she immediately attempts to resume her joking tone.] Shucks! Here’s Danny wonderin’ what silliness we’re talkin’ of. It’s just this, Danny. Captain Bartlett, he’s got a crazy notion in his head that just because his ship was wrecked last vige he’ll give up whalin’ for life. He’s fitted out this little schooner for tradin’ in the Islands. More money in that, he says. But I don’t agree with no such lunatic notions, and I’m just that stubborn I’m not goin’ to set my approval on his craziness by christenin’ his ship with my name, like he wants me to. He’d ought to stick to whalin,’ like he’s done all his life. Don’t you think so, Danny?
Drew—[Embarrassed.] Why, sure—he’s rated one of the smartest whaling skippers here on the coast—and I should think——
Mrs. B.—Just what I tell him—only he’s that stubborn. I’d best get out quick while it’s stillsunny and warm. It’s damp in here for an old body. [Drewhelps her to the door on the left, opens it, and the two go out, followed bySue,who carries a chair. After a pause,SueandDrewreturn.Suecarefully shuts the door after them. Her face is troubled.]
Drew—[Looks at her for a minute, then comes and puts his arm around her and kisses her.] What’s the trouble, Sue?
Sue—[Trying to force a smile.] Nothing, Danny.
Drew—Oh, yes there is! No use putting me off that way. Why, I’ve felt it hanging about in the air ever since I first looked at your mother.
Sue—Yes, she’s failed terribly since you saw her last.
Drew—Oh, I don’t mean just sickness—only—did you notice how she had to—force herself—to joke about things? She used to be so cheerful natural. [Scratching his head in honest puzzlement.] But—that ain’t what I mean, either. What is it, Sue? Maybe I can help somehow. You look worried, too. Pshaw! You can tell me, can’t you?
Sue—Why, yes, Danny—of course—if I could tell—only I’m just as puzzled as you over what it comes from.
Drew—[Persuasively.] Well, you sit down and tell me what’s happened since I’ve been away. Then maybe we can put our heads together and figure out what’s wrong, and turn to get things ship-shapeagain. [Suesits down but does not speak.Drewremarks as if to get her started.] That schooner’s a smart little craft for sailing, I should say. I didn’t notice no one about working, though.
Sue—No. They’re probably below in the cabin, drinking. That’s all they’ve been doing lately. The schooner’s been ready to sail for two weeks—but Pa has kept waiting—I don’t know what for. Yes, I do know, too—I think I guess. He’s been waiting for Ma to give in and christen the ship with her name. But she won’t give in. You heard her.
Drew—Well, I suppose she does take it to heart that he’d give up the business he’s been in all his life to go in for something new—at his age.
Sue—He mortgaged the house to get money to buy and fit out this schooner. You know he lost most everything when the Triton was wrecked. He’d only had her two years, and she cost him a pile of money. Then, too, he’s lost a lot all his life—since he and Ma moved out here from the East—investing in all sorts of silly mining ventures—gold mines that always turned out to be only holes in the ground. As far back as I can remember he’s never seemed to care about the whaling business—the oil. Ambergris was what he was after. Finding one chunk of that meant more to him than a full cargo of oil.
Drew—[With a grin.] “Old Ambergris.” That’s what they call him along the coast—behind his back,of course. I reckon he was sort of prospecting the Pacific Ocean looking for an ambergris mine. [Apologetically.] Sounds as if I was making fun of him, but you remember how you’n’ me ’n’ Nat used to laugh about it together.
Sue—It’s past a laughing matter now, Danny.
Drew—And what do you reckon the real trouble is?
Sue—Something between him and Ma—something that only the two of them know. It all seemed to start one morning after you’d left—about a week after he’d come home with those three awful men. During that first week he acted all right—just like he used to—only he’d get talking kind of wild now and then about being glad the Triton was lost, and promising we’d all be millionaires once he started making trips on the schooner. Ma didn’t seem to mind his going in for trading then. Then, the night of the day he bought the schooner, something must have happened between them. Neither of them came down to breakfast. I went up to Ma, and found her so sick we sent for the doctor. He said she’d suffered a great shock of some kind, although she wouldn’t tell him a word. I found Pa down in this shed. He’d moved that cot down here, and said he’d have to sleep here after that because he wanted to be near the schooner. It’s been that way ever since. He’s slept down here and never come up to the house except at mealtimes. He’s never beenalone with Ma one second since then, I don’t believe. And she—she’s been trying to corner him, to get him alone. I’ve noticed it, although she does her best to hide it from Nat and me. And she’s been failing, growing weaker and sicker looking every day. [Breaking down.] Oh, Danny, these last months have been terrible! I’m so glad you’re back again.
Drew—[Soothing her.] There! It’ll all come out right.
Sue—I’m sure that’s why she’s crept down here today. She’s bound she’ll see him alone before he sails.
Drew—Well, maybe it’s for the best. Maybe when they’ve had it out, things’ll clear up.
Sue—Yes, perhaps. But I can’t help feeling—it’ll only make it worse.
Drew—[Frowning.] Seems to me it must be all your Pa’s fault, Sue—whatever it is. Have you tried to talk to him?
Sue—Yes—a good many times; but all he’s ever said was: “There’s things you wouldn’t take interest in, Sue. You’ll know when it’s time to know.”—and then he’d break off by asking me what I’d like most to have in the world if he had piles of money. And then, one time, he seemed to be terribly afraid of something, and he said to me: “You hustle up and marry Danny, Sue. You marry him and get out of this.”
Drew—[With an affectionate grin.] That doessound crazy—any man wanting to get rid of you that way. [A note of entreaty in his voice.] But I surely wish you’d take his advice, Sue! [He kisses her.]
Sue—[With intense longing.] Oh, I wish I could, Danny.
Drew—I’ve quite considerable saved now, Sue, and it won’t be so long before I get my own ship, I’m hoping, now that I’ve got my master’s certificate. I was hoping at the end of this voyage——
Sue—So was I, Danny—but it can’t be this time. With Ma so weak, and no one to take care of her but me—— [Shaking her head—in a tone of decision.] I couldn’t leave home now, Danny. It wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t feel really happy—until this thing—whatever it is—is settled between Pa and Ma and they’re just as they used to be again. [Pleadingly.] You understand, don’t you, Danny?
Drew—[Soberly.] Why—surely I do, Sue. [He pats her hand.] Only, it’s hard waiting. [He sighs.]
Sue—I know. It’s just as hard for me.
Drew—I thought maybe I could help; but this isn’t anything anyone outside your family could mix in. [Sueshakes her head. He goes on gloomily after a pause.] What’s the matter with Nat? Seems as if he ought to be able to step in and talk turkey to your Pa.
Sue—[Slowly.] You’ll find Nat changed, too, Danny—changed terribly. He’s caught the disease—whatever it is. You know how interested in his work he’s been ever since they put him in the designing department down in the shipyard?
Drew—Yes.
Sue—[With emphasis.] Well, all that’s changed. He hates it now, or at least he says he does. And when he comes home, he spends all his time prowling around the dock here, talking with those three awful men. And what do you think he told me only the other day? That he was bound he’d throw up his job and make this voyage on the schooner. He even asked me to ask Pa to let him go.
Drew—Your Pa doesn’t want him to, eh?
Sue—Why, of course not! Leave a fine position he worked so hard to get just for this crazy notion! Pa’d never let him. He’s even ordered him to keep off the schooner and not to talk to those men.
Drew—Funny Nat’d like to go to sea. He’s always seemed to want to fight shy of it.
Sue—The terrible part is, he’s got Ma worried to death—as if she wasn’t upset enough already. She’s so afraid he’ll go—that Pa’ll let him at the last moment. She’s always pleading with Nat not to think of it—so that he keeps out of her way, too. Poor Ma! She’s only got me to talk to.
Drew—Maybe I can help after all. I can talk to Nat.
Sue—[Shaking her head.] He’s not the same Nat, Danny.
Drew—[Trying to be consoling.] Pshaw, Sue! I think you just get to imagining things. [As he finishes speaking, the door in the rear opens andNatappears. He is a tall, loose-framed boy of eighteen, who bears a striking resemblance to his father. His face, like his father’s, is large and bony, with deep-set black eyes, an aquiline nose, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. There is no suggestion inNat,however, of the older man’s physical health and great strength. He appears an indoor product, undeveloped in muscle, with a sallow complexion and stooped shoulders. His thick hair is a deep black. His voice recalls his father’s, hollow and penetrating. He is dressed in a grey flannel shirt and corduroy trousers.Drewcalls out to him, heartly.] Hello, Nat! Speak of the Devil! Sue and I were just talking about you. [He goes towardNat,his hand outstretched.]
Nat—[Comes toward them, meetsDrew,and shakes his hand with evident pleasure.] Hello, Danny! You’re a sight for sore eyes! [His manner undergoes a sudden change. He casts a quick, suspicious glance fromDrewto his sister.] You were talking about me? What about?
Sue—[Quickly—with a warning glance atDrew.] About your work down at the shipyard.
Nat—[Disgustedly.] Oh, that. [In a tone of reasonless irritation.] For God’s sake, Sue, let me alone about my work. Don’t I have to live with the damn thing all day, without your shoving it in my face the minute I get home? I want to forget it—get away!
Drew—Go to sea, eh?
Nat—[Suspiciously.] Maybe. Why? What do you mean?
Drew—[Warned by a glance from Sue, says carelessly.] Well, that’s where you’d be apt to go, isn’t it?
Nat—[Suspiciously.] That isn’t what you were thinking, Danny. [Turning to his sister—angrily.] What have you been telling Danny?
Sue—I was talking about the schooner—telling him that she sails tomorrow.
Nat—[Dumfounded.] Tomorrow? [Overcome by sudden, nervous excitement.] It can’t be. How do you know? Who told you?
Sue—Ma. Pa told her.
Nat—Then she’s been talking to him—telling him not to take me, I’ll bet. [Angrily.] Oh, I wish Ma’d mind her own business!
Sue—Nat!
Nat—Well, Sue, how would you like it? I’m not a little boy any more. I know what I want to do. I want to go with them. I want to go more than I’ve ever wanted anything else in my life before.He—he doesn’t want me. He’s afraid I—But I think I can force him to—— [He glances atDrew’samazed face and stops abruptly—sullenly.] Where is Pa?
Sue—He’s aboard the schooner.
Nat—[Disappointedly.] Then it’s no good trying to see him now. I’ll have to wait.
Drew—Sound’s funny to hear you talking about going to sea. Why, you always used——
Nat—[Wearily.] I know. This is different.
Drew—You want to see the Islands, I suppose?
Nat—[Suspiciously.] Maybe. Why not?
Drew—What group is your Pa heading for first?
Nat—[More suspiciously.] You’ll have to ask him. Why do you want to know? [Abruptly.] You better be getting up to the house, Sue—if we’re to have any supper. Danny must be hungry. [He turns his back on them. They exchange meaning glances.]
Sue—[With a sigh.] It must be getting late. Come on, Danny. You can see Pa later on. [They go toward the door in the rear.] Aren’t you coming, Nat?
Nat—No. I’ll wait. [Impatiently.] Go ahead. I’ll be up before long.
Drew—See you later, then, Nat.
Nat—Yes. [They go out, rear.Natpaces up and down in a great state of excitement. The door on the left is opened andBartlettenters. His eyesare wild, as if he had been drinking heavily, but he shows no other effects. Father and son stand looking at one another for a second.Nattakes a step backward as if in fear, then straightens up defiantly.]
Bartlett—[Slowly.] Is this the way ye mind my orders, boy? I’ve told ye time an’ again not to be sneakin’ and spyin’ around this wharf.
Nat—I’m not sneaking and spying. I wanted to talk to you, Pa.
Bartlett—[Sits down by the table.] Well, here I be.
Nat—Sue said the schooner sails tomorrow.
Bartlett—Aye!
Nat—[Resolutely.] I want to go with you, Pa.
Bartlett—[Briefly—as if dismissing the matter.] Ye can’t. I’ve told ye that before. Let this be the last time ye ask it.
Nat—But why? Why can’t I go?
Bartlett—Ye’ve your own work to do—good work. Attend to that and leave me to mine.
Nat—But you always wanted me to go on voyages to learn whaling with you.
Bartlett—This be different.
Nat—[With excited indignation.] Yes, this is different! Don’t I know it? Do you think you can hide that from me? It is different, and that’s why I want to go.
Bartlett—Ye can’t, I say.
Nat—[Pleadingly.] But why not, Pa? I’m not a boy. I can do a man’s work on a ship, or anywhere else.
Bartlett—[Roughly.] Let’s have done with talk! Your place is here, with Sue and your Ma, and here you’ll stay.
Nat—[Angrily.] That isn’t any reason. But I know your real one. You’re afraid——
Bartlett—[Half rising to his feet.] Ye say that to me? [Recovering himself with an effort and settling down again.] Keep a clapper on your jaw, boy. That’s talk I’ll not put up with. [With a touch of uneasiness—forcing a scornful laugh.] Afeerd! Afeerd o’ what? Did ye ever know me to be afeerd?
Nat—Afraid of what I know, of what I might find out if I went with you.
Bartlett—[With the same forced, uneasy scorn.] And what d’ye think ye’d find out, Nat?
Nat—First of all that it’s not a trading venture you’re going on. Oh, I’m not a fool! That story is all right to fool the neighbors and girls like Sue. But I know better.
Bartlett—What d’ye know?
Nat—You’re going for something else.
Bartlett—What would that be?
Nat—I don’t know—exactly. Something—on that island.
Bartlett—What?
Nat—I don’t know. But I could guess a lot of things. [With sudden excitement.] Ambergris! That’s it! Is that it? It must be. That’s what you’ve been hunting for years.
Bartlett—Aye—and never found! [He gets to his feet with a forced burst of laughter.] Ambergris! Ye fool of a boy! Ye got that notion out o’ some fool book ye’ve been reading, didn’t ye? And I thought ye’d growed to be a man! [More and more wild in his forced scorn.] Ye’ll be tellin’ me next it’s buried treasure I be sailin’ after—pirates’ gold buried on that island—all in a chest—and a map to guide me with a cross marked on it where the gold is hid! And then they be ghosts guardin’ it, ben’t they—spirits o’ murdered men? They always be, in the books. [He laughs scornfully.]
Nat—[Gazing at him with fascinated eyes.] No, not that last. That’s silly—but I did think you might have found—
Bartlett—[Laughing again.] Treasure? Gold? [With forced sternness.] Nat, I be ashamed of ye. Ye’ve had schoolin’, and ye’ve been doin’ a man’s work in the world, and doin’ it well, and I’d hoped ye’d take my place here to home when I be away, and look after your Ma and Sue. But ye’ve owned up to bein’ little better nor a boy in short britches, dreamin’ o’ pirates’ gold that never was ’cept in books.
Nat—But you—you’re to blame. When you first came home you did nothing but talk mysteriously of how rich we’d all be when the schooner got back.
Bartlett—[Roughly.] But what’s that to do with silly dreams? It’s in the line o’ trade I meant.
Nat—But why be so mysterious about trade? There’s something you’re hiding. You can’t say no because I feel it.
Bartlett—[Insinuatingly—with a crafty glance at his son.] Supposin’ in one of them Eastern trading ports I’d run across a bit o’ business with a chance for a fortune in it for a man that wasn’t afeerd of the law, and could keep his mouth shut?
Nat—[Disappointed.] You mean illegal trading?
Bartlett—I mean what I mean, Nat—and I’d be a fool to tell an overgrown boy, or two women—or any man in the world, for the matter o’ that—what I do mean.
Nat—[Turning toward the door in the rear—disgustedly.] If it’s only that, I don’t want to hear it. [He walks toward the door—stops and turns again to his father.] No, I don’t believe it. That’s not like you. You’re not telling the truth, Pa.
Bartlett—[Rising to his feet—with a savage sternness in which there is a wild note of entreaty.] I’ve listened to your fool’s talk enough. Get up to the house where ye belong! I’ll stand no more o’ your meddling in business o’ mine. I’ve been patient with ye, but there’s an end to that! Take heed o’ what I’m sayin’, if ye know what’s good for ye! I’d rather see ye dead tonight than sail on that schooner at dawn. I’d kill ye with my own hands first! [With a sort of sombre pride.] I’ll stand alone in this business and finish it out alone if I go to hell for it. Ye hear me?
Nat—[Alarmed by this outburst—submissively.] Yes, Pa.
Bartlett—Then see that ye heed. [After a pause—asNatlingers.] They’ll be waitin’ for ye at the house.
Nat—All right. I’ll go. [He turns to the doorway on the left, but before he gets to it, the door is pushed open andMrs. Bartlettenters.Natstops, startled.] Ma!
Mrs. Bartlett—[With a forced smile.] Run along, Nat. It’s all right. I want to speak with your Pa.
Bartlett—[Uneasily.] Ye’d best go up with Nat, Sarah. I’ve work to do.
Mrs. Bartlett—[Fixing her eyes on her husband.] I want to talk with you alone, Isaiah.
Bartlett—[Grimly—as if he were accepting a challenge.] As ye like, then.
Mrs. Bartlett—[DismissingNatwith a feeble attempt at a smile.] Tell Sue I’ll be comin’ up directly, Nat.
Nat—[Hesitates for a moment, looking from oneto the other uneasily.] All right, Ma. [He goes out.]
Bartlett—[Waits forNatto get out of hearing.] Won’t ye set, Sarah? [She comes forward and sits by the table. He sits by the other side.]
Mrs. Bartlett—[Shuddering as she sees the bottle on the table.] Will drinkin’ this poison make you forget, Isaiah?
Bartlett—[Gruffly.] I’ve naught to forget—leastways naught that’s in your mind. But they’s things about the stubborn will o’ woman I’d like to forget. [They look at each other across the table. There is a pause. Finally he cannot stand her accusing glance. He looks away, gets to his feet, walks about, then sits down again, his face set determinedly—with a grim smile.] Well, here we be, Sarah—alone together for the first time since—
Mrs. Bartlett—[Quickly.] Since that night, Isaiah.
Bartlett—[As if he hadn’t heard.] Since I come back to you, almost. Did ye ever stop to think o’ how strange it be we’d ever come to this? I never dreamed a day’d come when ye’d force me to sleep away from ye, alone in a shed like a mangy dog!
Mrs. Bartlett—[Gently.] I didn’t drive you away, Isaiah. You came o’ your own will.
Bartlett—Because o’ your naggin’ tongue, woman—and the wrong ye thought o’ me.
Mrs. Bartlett—[Shaking her head, slowly.]
It wasn’t me you ran from, Isaiah. You ran away from your own self—the conscience God put in you that you think you can fool with lies.
Bartlett—[Starting to his feet—angrily.] Lies?
Mrs. Bartlett—It’s the truth, Isaiah, only you be too weak to face it.
Bartlett—[With defiant bravado.] Ye’ll find I be strong enough to face anything, true or lie! [Then protestingly.] What call have ye to think evil o’ me, Sarah? It’s mad o’ ye to hold me to account for things I said in my sleep—for the damned nightmares that set me talkin’ wild when I’d just come home and my head was still cracked with the thirst and the sun I’d borne on that island. Is that right, woman, to be blamin’ me for mad dreams?
Mrs. Bartlett—You confessed the rest of what you said was true—of the gold you’d found and buried there.
Bartlett—[With a sudden fierce exultation.] Aye—that be true as Bible, Sarah. When I’ve sailed back in the schooner, ye’ll see for yourself. There be a big chest o’ it, yellow and heavy, and fixed up with diamonds, emeralds and sech, that be worth more, even, nor the gold. We’ll be rich, Sarah—rich like I’ve always dreamed we’d be! There’ll be silks and carriages for ye—all the woman’s truck in the world ye’ve a mind to want—and all that Nat and Sue’ll want, too.
Mrs. Bartlett—[With a shudder.] Are you tryin’ to bribe me, Isaiah—with a treasure that’s been cursed by God?
Bartlett—[As if he hadn’t heard.] D’ye remember long ago, back East, just after we was married, and I was skipper o’ my first whalin’ ship, how that foreigner come to me with the map o’ the pirates’ gold and asked me to charter the ship? D’ye remember o’ how I’d talk to ye o’ findin’ ambergris, a pile o’ it on one vige that’d make us rich? Ye used to take interest then, and all th’ voyage with me ye’d be hopin’ I’d find it, too.
Mrs. Bartlett—That was my sin o’ greed that I’m bein’ punished for now.
Bartlett—[Again as if he hadn’t heard.] And now when it’s come to us at last—bigger nor I ever dreamed on—ye drive me away from ye and say it’s cursed.
Mrs. Bartlett—[Inexorably.] Cursed with the blood o’ the man and boy ye murdered!
Bartlett—[In a mad rage.] Ye lie, woman! I spoke no word!
Mrs. Bartlett—That’s what you kept repeatin’ in your sleep, night after night that first week you was home, till I knew the truth, and could bear no more. “I spoke no word!” you kept sayin’, as if ’twas your own soul had you at the bar of judgment. And “That cook, he didn’t believe ’twas gold,” you’d say, and curse him.
Bartlett—[Wildly.] He was lyin’, the thief! Lyin’ so’s he and the boy could steal th’ gold. I made him own up he was lyin’. What if it’s all true, what ye heard? Hadn’t we the right to do away with two thieves? And we was all mad with thirst and sun. Can ye hold madmen to account for the things they do?
Mrs. Bartlett—You wasn’t so crazed but you remember.
Bartlett—I remember I spoke no word, Sarah—as God’s my judge!
Mrs. Bartlett—But you could have prevented it with a word, couldn’t you, Isaiah? That heathen savage lives in the fear of you. He’d not have done it if——
Bartlett—[Gloomily.] That’s woman’s talk. There be three o’ us can swear in any court I spoke no word.
Mrs. Bartlett—What are courts? Can you swear it to yourself? You can’t, and it’s that’s drivin’ you mad, Isaiah. Oh, I’d never have believed it of you for all you said in sleep, if it wasn’t for the way you looked and acted out of sleep. I watched you that first week, Isaiah, till the fear of it had me down sick. I had to watch you, you was so strange and fearful to me. At first I kept sayin’, ’twas only you wasn’t rid o’ the thirst and the sun yet. But then, all to once, God gave me sight, and I saw ’twasguilt written on your face, on the queer stricken way you acted, and guilt in your eyes. [She stares into them.] I see it now, as I always see it when you look at me. [She covers her face with her hands with a sob.]
Bartlett—[His face haggard and drawn—hopelessly, as if he were too beaten to oppose her further—in a hoarse whisper.] What would ye have me do, Sarah?
Mrs. Bartlett—[Taking her hands from her face—her eyes lighting up with religious fervor.] Confess your sin, Isaiah! Confess to God and men, and make your peace and take your punishment. Forget that gold that’s cursed and the voyage you be settin’ out on, and make your peace. [Passionately.] I ask you to do this for my sake and the children’s, and your own most of all! I’ll get down on my knees, Isaiah, and pray you to do it, as I’ve prayed to God to send you his grace! Confess and wash your soul of the stain o’ blood that’s on it. I ask you that, Isaiah—and God asks you—to make your peace with Him.
Bartlett—[His face tortured by the inward struggle—as if the word strangled him.] Confess and let someone steal the gold! [This thought destroys her influence over him in a second. His obsession regains possession of him instantly, filling him with rebellious strength. He laughs harshly.] Ye’d make an old woman o’ me, would ye, Sarah?—an old, Sunday go-to-meetin’ woman snivvelin’ and prayin’ to God for pardon! Pardon for what? Because two sneakin’ thieves are dead and done for? I spoke no word, I tell ye—but if I had, I’d not repent it. What I’ve done I’ve done, and I’ve never asked pardon o’ God or men for ought I’ve done, and never will. Confess, and give up the gold I’ve dreamed of all my life that I’ve found at last! By thunder, ye must think I’m crazed!
Mrs. Bartlett—[Seeming to shrivel up on her chair as she sees she has lost—weakly.] You be lost, Isaiah—no one can stop you.
Bartlett—[Triumphantly.] Aye, none’ll stop me. I’ll go my course alone. I’m glad ye see that, Sarah.
Mrs. Bartlett—[Feebly trying to get to her feet.] I’ll go to home.
Bartlett—Ye’ll stay, Sarah. Ye’ve had your say, and I’ve listened to ye; now I’ll have mine and ye listen to me. [Mrs. Bartlettsinks back in her chair exhaustedly.Bartlettcontinues slowly.] The schooner sails at dawn on the full tide. I ask ye again and for the last time, will ye christen her with your name afore she sails?
Mrs. Bartlett—[Firmly.] No.
Bartlett—[Menacingly.] Take heed, Sarah, o’ what ye’re sayin’! I’m your husband ye’ve sworn to obey. By right I kin order ye, not ask.
Mrs. Bartlett—I’ve never refused in anything that’s right—but this be wicked wrong.
Bartlett—It’s only your stubborn woman’s spite makes ye refuse. Ye’ve christened every ship I’ve ever been skipper on, and it’s brought me luck o’ a kind, though not the luck I wanted. And we’ll christen this one with your own name to bring me the luck I’ve always been seekin’.
Mrs. Bartlett—[Resolutely.] I won’t, Isaiah.
Bartlett—Ye will, Sarah, for I’ll make ye. Ye force me to it.
Mrs. Bartlett—[Again trying to get up.] Is this the way you talk to me who’ve been a good wife to you for more than thirty years?
Bartlett—[Commandingly.] Wait! [Threateningly.] If ye don’t christen her afore she sails, I’ll take Nat on the vige along with me. [Mrs. Bartlettsinks back in her chair, stunned.] He wants to go, ye know it. He’s asked me a hundred times. He s’spects—’bout the gold—but he don’t know for sartin. But I’ll tell him the truth o’ it, and he’ll come with me, unless—
Mrs. Bartlett—[Looking at him with terror-stricken eyes—imploringly.] You won’t do that, Isaiah? You won’t take Nat away from me and drag him into sin? I know he’ll go if you give him the word, in spite of what I say. [Pitifully.] You be only frightenin’ me! You can’t be so wicked cruel as that.
Bartlett—I’ll do it, I take my oath—unless—
Mrs. Bartlett—[With hysterical anger.] Then I’ll tell him myself—of the murders you did, and—
Bartlett—[Grimly.] And I’ll say ’twas done in fair fight to keep them from stealin’ the gold! I’ll tell him your’s is a woman’s notion, and he’ll believe me, not you. He’s his father’s son, and he’s set to go. Ye know it, Sarah. [She falls back in the chair hopelessly staring at him with horrified eyes. He turns away and adds after a pause.] So ye’ll christen the Sarah Allen in the mornin’ afore she sails, won’t ye, Sarah?
Mrs. Bartlett—[In a terrified tone.] Yes—if it’s needful to save Nat—and God’ll forgive me when He sees my reason. But you—Oh, Isaiah! [She shudders and then breaks down, sobbing.]
Bartlett—[After a pause, turns to her humbly as if asking her forgiveness.] Ye mustn’t think hard o’ me that I want your name. It’s because it’s a good woman’s name, and I know it’ll bring luck to our vige. I’d find it hard to sail without it—the way things be.
Mrs. Bartlett—[Getting to her feet—in a state of feverish fear of him.] I’m goin’ to home.
Bartlett—[Going to her.] I’ll help ye to the top o’ the hill, Sarah.
Mrs. Bartlett—[Shrinking from him in terror.] No. Don’t you touch me! Don’t you touch me![She hobbles quickly out of the door in the rear, looking back frightenedly over her shoulder to see if he is following as
[The Curtain Falls]