by Howard Fast
He fell into darkness, but in a confused interval before it, he realized several things: that he might be reeling into death, that if ever again he woke, he would be penniless, that his birthright had gone in a most—was the word incredible?—say, better, whimsical manner, and that he, John Preswick, was very much of a fool.
3
AND when he awoke, the thoughts were still with him. To John Preswick, it was as though he had closed his eyes and opened them immediately upon that. But his head ached, and his eyes burned, and his stomach throbbed, and there was a dry, bitter taste in his mouth. In pitch blackness, he was; eyes open, he could see absolutely nothing. And in the same, way the room had rocked, the place he occupied now was rocking, shifting itself unsteadily. Feeling about him, he found that he was resting upon sacks of what might have been grain of some sort. So confident was he that the money belt was gone, that he did not even bother to see. When later he did, he found that he had been right.
His eyes could not accustom themselves to the blackness; it was the blackness of ink, as though he were immersed in a pool of that liquid. Stuffing a hand into his mouth, he attempted to crowd out the bitterness.
He smiled, but no one could see his smile. It was over now, everything, but he did not feel so much despair as numbness. Even when a stronger movement rolled him over, causing his head to strike the floor, the pain did not penetrate as it might have. How his head ached!
About his heart there was more of the numb sensation. If he had not been smiling, he might have sobbed, so tantalizing in his own stupidity was the entire matter. Shrugging his shoulders slightly, he leaned back, closing his eyes, since with them open he had only a sensation of blindness.
He fell into a sort of stupor that was sleep and yet not sleep, a state in which he was awake but lifeless. He dreamt, and he knew he was dreaming. It was, perhaps, more like a nightmare than anything else describable. How long that went on, he did not know; but when again he came to his full senses, he was more rested, and his head was clearer. The rocking and shifting of the place he was in had not abated.
Now he lay quietly, gathering his senses and attempting to put together what had happened and what was happening now. The last thing he could remember was falling over the table and crashing with it to the ground. His eyes had rested for a moment upon the apron of Mr. Kwalkee; then there was darkness.
His money was gone, but he still wore the clothes he had set out with. Though he had no idea of the time that had elapsed, he knew it might include days. The sensation of instant awakening was, of course, delusory. His first task was to discover his whereabouts, and, with that in mind, he rose to his feet.
Painfully and suddenly, his head struck a beam, and he tumbled back upon the sacks. A few seconds he lay there, before he rose again, with more of caution this time. Feeling above him for the beam, he found that there were more of them, and he groped his way over the sacks, guiding himself with his hands above his head. Then the beam curved, banded itself to another, and changed from the horizontal to the vertical. In that moment, the realization came upon him, and he knew that he was in the hold of a ship. He had been pressed—as any common waterfront loafer is pressed; as any hoodlum seaman with a head too full of rum to know what the world about him was doing. The floor swayed, and he was thrown rudely to the sacks. There he lay, his head in his hands, wondering how it could be that in so short a space of time his world had come to an end. Was it not only a few hours past that he had caught hold of the stage, scarce out of sight of his inn, and climbed up to the jolting seat—was it not only a few hours? With his face in his hands, he crouched there.
After a time, he became conscious of another sensation—hunger, and thirst. Though some of the bitterness had passed, his mouth was more dry than ever, and his tongue clove stickily to the roof of it. Gasping, he swallowed painfully and spat out the pasty saliva. How long, he wondered, would they keep him there?—had they forgotten him?—did any one upon the ship know that he was there? But they must know. Once or twice he shouted, and, again, he stamped upon the floor; but as that produced no apparent result, he lay in silence. Then he slept.
He was awakened by something crawling across his face, something cold and muskish; he had a hand on it before it scampered away—a rat. His stomach welled up.
Now, as before, the utter darkness held. There was not the faintest suggestion of light. The floor swayed; he was hungrier, thirstier. His lips were dry; his mouth was dry; longingly, he thought of a glass of cold water. He cried aloud; many times he yelled, until the thickness of his throat clogged up his words, sending them back in a meaningless jumble. Then he was silent, being too weary and disgusted to pound upon the floor or the ceiling. Everything was giving way to a sensation of anger and hate.
Flexing his legs, flexing his arms, he ran his hands over his body, judging the strength and wideness of his muscles. From want of food and water, he was weak, and k was entirely possible that he would be weaker before they let him out of the place; but a time would come when he’d have his old strength, and then, what persons had put him in this hole would pay. Already he had decided that some day he would wring Mr. Kwalkee’s neck.
A rat scampered across his leg.
In the solid, tangible blackness, time passed slowly—no, maddeningly. An hour might have been a minute, but a minute might have drawn itself into a day. It seemed, indeed, that time did not pass at all, that he lay there in swarthy eternity, and suffered. For the first time, he knew what it was to have his tongue curl up in glue, to have his lips crack because there was not enough moisture in his mouth to wet them. When he attempted to speak, his voice cackled out in a falsetto. His long hair fell over, tangling itself in his face, but he had no desire to raise a hand and brush it away.
Then, again, he slept. To John Preswick, it seemed that he had lain awake for all time, but at last he slept while the rats scampered across his body.
When a broad shaft of light flashed down from above across his face, opening his eyes, he had scarce the strength to crawl to his feet. In the yellow light of day, he stood, swaying back and forth, blinded, but striving to see through the intensity of the flash. It settled itself, and he made out a hatch that had been opened above him, and the figures of two men, legs spread, standing upon either side of it, peering down at him.
“On your feet, eh? It’s a man that we have here!” one of them exclaimed.
The other laughed. “It will save us the bother of dragging him out, Mr. Cortlandt.” And to John Preswick: “There, you, come out of there.” And to Mr. Cortlandt: “Bless me, if he isn’t blinking like an owl I once fetched out of a pine in the midst of day!”
John Preswick stood and looked up at them, and, as he stared, rage rose in his heart, until he could imagine himself out on the deck, beating in the faces of each of them with great blows of his fists. Never had he known that there was within him capacity for such dark hate.
“Come out of there,” the man repeated. In a lower tone, the one called Mr. Cortlandt added:
“You had best be coming up—and with no nonsense.”
John Preswick caught the hatch above him, to swing himself out and up, all in one motion—only to crumple back upon the sacks. He knew, then, how weak he was. There he lay, his heart throbbing, pleading with himself for the power that was once his.
“Mr. Mitchell,” said Mr. Cortlandt in the same soft voice, “you had best drop down and help him. It’s been a time that he was without food.”
Mr. Mitchell seemed to hesitate; but then he drew himself over and nimbly dropped to John Preswick’s side. Significantly, he glanced at a wooden pin thrust into his belt, remarking: “Now come along, my lad, and behave yourself once and for all. You are in no condition for fight.”
“No,” John Preswick muttered, “I am not—thanks to the lot of you cowardly, rotten scum—”
Mr. Mitchell caught him with his open palm across the mouth, and then struck him again with the back of the same hand, the force of the blow
sending John Preswick back full length across the sacks. Unable to move, he lay, glaring from narrow blue eyes at the other, his dry, cracked lips caught in between his teeth.
“An officer, my pretty one,” Mr. Mitchell explained patiently, “is addressed as sir, or as, in my case, Mr. Mitchell. One speaks respectfully to an officer—”
“God damn me if I speak respectfully to such a swine—”
This time Mr. Mitchell sent his closed fist into the center of John Preswick’s face, catching the tip of his nose and his upper lip, bringing blood from the nostrils. As he drew back his hand, he wiped it upon John Preswick’s shirt, smiling at his feeble attempts to rise to his feet. And when, at last, John Preswick did stand erect, he placed a hand in the center of his chest, and flung him back over the sacks.
“For a while,” he said apologetically. “It will give your blood a chance to cool. I favor men with hot blood, but they must know how and when to use it, eh, Mr. Cortlandt?”
From above, Mr. Cortlandt nodded judiciously, saying nothing, his lips pursed, watching every bit of what was going on below.
John Preswick glanced up, saw Mr. Cortlandt’s feet, and then returned his gaze to Mr. Mitchell, calm and imperturbable, gazing down at the nails of his upturned hands. Unchecked, the blood ran from his nose, over his shirt, sinking into it, clotting it to his skin. His dry upper lip was split, heavy, black blood welling forth to mingle with the red from his nostrils. Again he looked at Mr. Mitchell, broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, impersonally fingering his heavy, drooping mustache; and then he realized that the issue was his, just as at the inn, the drug inside of him, it had been Mr. Kwalkee’s. He said:
“I will go, but by myself I have not the strength.”
“Sir,” Mr. Mitchell suggested blandly and gently.
“Sir.”
“Then come along.” And he picked him up by the shoulders, lifting him to Mr. Cortlandt, who bent and drew him to the deck. Easily it was done, Mr. Mitchell following him, springing to the deck with a single bound.
The support of Mr. Cortlandt’s arms removed, John Preswick reeled, held his balance for an instant, and then tumbled to the deck. He crumpled there in a heap and lay with his face to the boards, the blood running in a little rivulet from his nose, staining the clear whiteness of the wood. When Mr. Mitchell came over and stirred him with the point of his boot, he did not move.
“You had best have a couple of men stow him in the forecastle, and tell the cook to bring him a bowl of hot broth,” Mr. Cortlandt suggested.
Still eying the unconscious man, Mr. Mitchell nodded. “Fine build of a fellow,” he remarked, “and I’m willing to wager it’s a pretty penny our good Kwalkee made out of him. After a while, he’ll do. The treatment does for the toughest of them. No seaman, though, and that’s a pity.” And then he walked away, calling to two sailors as he went.
They came over, and they took up John Preswick, one by the feet and one beneath the shoulders, and they walked with him to the forecastle, blood leaving a trail of thin drops in their wake.
While they were carrying him, he opened his eyes, and as they set him into a bunk, he studied them quizzically, saying nothing. One tore a piece from a handkerchief and plugged his nose. John Preswick nodded his thanks. When the broth came, he drank it, and after that he felt better. He drank a glass of water, too, and munched upon a piece of bread soaked to a degree of softness. Then, for a time, he lay silently upon his side, watching the men come in and out, each glancing at him with no great show of interest. At last, when darkness had settled down, he slept—an easy, restful sleep.
4
IT was not yet day when he awoke; he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and drank a cup of coffee some one handed him. While he was sitting there on the edge of the bunk, a tallish, thin man came to the entrance, looked in, and finally rested his eyes upon John Preswick. “Outside on the main deck!” he snapped, turning upon his heel, and finishing his words as he wheeled out.
“Third mate,” a seaman put in. “Best hurry.”
“What ship is this?” John Preswick asked.
“Brig Angel, out of Portsmouth.”
“Merchant ship?”
The seaman, a young fellow with an uncropped beard curling about his cheeks, smiled, and then nodded. “Yes—merchant.”
John Preswick rose, standing for a moment as lost in thought; then he said: “We dock in Charleston again—soon?”
“Soon?—I wouldn’t say that.”
“Where are we bound for?”
“Liverpool—then Venice.”
“What—” He was dulled; he shook his head. “You mean—?”
“I’d be getting on deck if I were you. The old man likes his crew on the alert.”
“But I am not the crew! I have been drugged, robbed, starved, beaten when I was too weak to lift a hand to defend myself. But I am not a part of this rotten hulk!—” The seaman was no longer listening to him. Still forms lay in the bunks about him, like, cadavers on the shelves of a mausoleum. Outside, there was a gray mist in the air. He went up the few steps and onto the deck.
To the east, the sun was rising. It was the first time John Preswick had ever seen a sunrise at sea. It threw its rays before it, so that the sky became pink and then vermilion behind the tracery of clouds, before even the edge of the disc showed itself. A violet color was striking in from somewhere, dappling the upper reaches of the heavens. Then the globe itself crept out of the horizon, slyly, and then flamboyantly, a haphazard clump of fire, dripping with the long blue flesh of the ocean. It crept up; and, transfixed, John Preswick watched it.
A hand fell upon his shoulder, and he was spun about. It was the genial Mr. Mitchell of the black mustache and the dark eyes; he stood with his thumbs hooked into his belt, his legs widespread and solid. “Lovely, eh?” he remarked, nodding at the sun.
Like a tiger prepared to spring, John Preswick glared at him, his broken lips narrowed, his eyes bits of sullen blue. Mr. Mitchell shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I shouldn’t. It really doesn’t pay. One is here, and here one must remain. Now go aft! You’ll find Mr. Cortlandt in the lee of the poop.”
Unmovingly, John Preswick stood, tensing his fists, his arms. He felt that his strength was back; he sensed it flowing with the throb of blood to his temples.
“Go aft!” Mr. Mitchell snapped.
Shrugging his shoulders, John Preswick smiled. But he made no move to go; he said: “I have been told that I am one of the crew. You’ll discover differently. America is not England. You cannot impress a free man and a citizen.”
Then Mr. Mitchell struck out, his arm the lash of a whip; and though John Preswick dodged, the blow glanced off his cheekbone, sending him reeling back against the rail. As he sprang forward, mad with the desire to have the other’s throat in his fingers, Mr. Mitchell drew the wooden pin from his belt and laid it across John Preswick’s head. He went down all in a heap, crouched silent for a moment, and then attempted to draw himself erect. Unsteadily he came to his feet, facing Mr. Mitchell, who said in the same even tone of voice: “Go aft.”
It came to John Preswick that he was pitted against odds too great for him, that he was being beaten systematically, and as unemotionally as a caged animal, and that if he persisted, they would pound the very heart out of him. His anger faded, giving way to a sensation of indignation, of hurt. He wondered, in a puzzled way, just what he had done to merit all of this. To Mr. Mitchell, he said: “Yes.”
“Sir.”
“Sir.”
Then he plodded aft, to where the taller and leaner figure of Mr. Cortlandt stood in the shadow of the poop. As he walked, he noted two squat carronades, roped to the deck, and, glancing behind him to the bow of the vessel, he saw a long, slim gun, mounted upon a swivel. He was almost upon Mr. Cortlandt now, and he found that the man was following his eyes. There was something curiously mild about Mr. Cortlandt, perhaps his pale, almost colorless eyes and his curling side whiskers.
“Good m
orning,” Mr. Cortlandt said to him, good-naturedly.
Taken aback, he nodded.
“I see that you were looking over our little vessel. Are you by any chance familiar with—ships?”
“No—sir.”
Wagging his head, Mr. Cortlandt smiled. “You will do,” he decided. “Only a fool or an animal fights when he is beaten. But I like a fighter.”
John Preswick stared at him, turquoise into watery blue. He said nothing.
“Let us have the matter straight,” Mr. Cortlandt suggested. “You were impressed while in a state of unconsciousness. Of that we know nothing. You were brought on board by Mr. Kwalkee, whom we have always known as an honorable man. He said that you would appreciate a trip upon the sea, and he gave me some small sum of money to assure himself that you would not again return to Charleston. But I am not a murderer. And now, several days out to sea, we discover, to our surprise, that you had no intentions of pursuing the sea as a career. Have you any money!”
Involuntarily, John Preswick’s fingers slid to his waist. Then he smiled, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and shrugged. “I had three thousand dollars—for which Mr. Kwalkee will some day pay with his life. You know damn’ well that I have nothing now!”
“Softly—softly. Three thousand dollars. Well, that is a sum, though I should not have thought it of Kwalkee. And now you have nothing.”
“Nothing.”
“Sir.”
“Sir.”
Sympathetically, Mr. Cortlandt shook his head. “That only leaves two alternatives: work, or go over the side, and I shouldn’t advise the latter; land is some hundreds of miles away.”
“I’ll work.” John Preswick had come to that decision rather suddenly. Yet it was not only the obvious, but the only, thing for him to do.
“You have never been to sea?”
“No—sir.”
“Farmer?”
“Innkeeper.”
“What is your name?”
