Till he addressed her, Lydia had remained motionless, first with bewilderment, and then with open abhorrence. She could hardly have seen in South Bradfield a man who had been drinking. Even in haying, or other sharpest stress of farmwork, our farmer and his men stay themselves with nothing stronger than molasses-water, or, in extreme cases, cider with a little corn soaked in it; and the Mill Village, where she had taught school, was under the iron rule of a local vote for prohibition. She stared in stupefaction at Hicks’s heated, foolish face; she started at his wild movements, and listened with dawning intelligence to his hiccup-broken speech, with its thickened sibilants and its wandering emphasis. When he turned to her, and accompanied his words with a reassuring gesture, she recoiled, and as if breaking an ugly fascination she gave a low, shuddering cry, and looked at Staniford.
“Thomas,” he said, “Miss Blood was going to take her dessert on deck to-day. Dunham?”
Dunham sprang to his feet, and led her out of the cabin.
The movement met Hicks’s approval. “Tha’s right; ‘sert on deck, ‘joy landscape and pudding together, — Rhine steamer style. All right. Be up there m’self soon’s I get my coffee.” He winked again with drunken sharpness. “I know wha’s what. Be up there m’self, ‘n a minute.”
“If you offer to go up,” said Staniford, in a low voice, as soon as Lydia was out of the way, “I’ll knock you down!”
“Captain,” said Mr. Watterson, venturing, perhaps for the first time in his whole maritime history, upon a suggestion to his superior officer, “shall I clap him in irons?”
“Clap him in irons!” roared Captain Jenness. “Clap him in bed! Look here, you!” He turned to Hicks, but the latter, who had been bristling at Staniford’s threat, now relaxed in a crowing laugh: —
“Tha’s right, captain. Irons no go, ‘cept in case mutiny; bed perfectly legal ‘t all times. Bed is good. But trouble is t’ enforce it.”
“Where’s your bottle?” demanded the captain, rising from the seat in which a paralysis of fury had kept him hitherto. “I want your bottle.”
“Oh, bottle’s all right! Bottle’s under pillow. Empty, — empty’s Jonah’s gourd; ‘nother sea-faring party, — Jonah. S’cure the shadow ere the substance fade. Drunk all the brandy, old boy. Bottle’s a canteen; ‘vantage of military port to houseless stranger. Brought the brandy on board under my coat; nobody noticed, — so glad get me back. Prodigal son’s return, — fatted calf under his coat.”
The reprobate ended his boastful confession with another burst of hiccuping, and Staniford helplessly laughed.
“Do me proud,” said Hicks. “Proud, I ‘sure you. Gentleman, every time, Stanny. Know good thing when you see it — hear it, I mean.”
“Look here, Hicks,” said Staniford, choosing to make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness, if any good end might be gained by it. “You know you’re drunk, and you’re not fit to be about. Go back to bed, that’s a good fellow; and come out again, when you’re all right. You don’t want to do anything you’ll be sorry for.”
“No, no! No, you don’t, Stanny. Coffee’ll make me all right. Coffee always does. Coffee — Heaven’s lash besh gift to man. ‘Scovered subse-subs’quently to grape. See? Comes after claret in course of nature. Captain doesn’t understand the ‘lusion. All right, captain. Little learning dangerous thing.” He turned sharply on Mr. Watterson, who had remained inertly in his place. “Put me in irons, heh! You put me in irons, you old Triton. Put me in irons, will you?” His amiable mood was passing; before one could say so, it was past. He was meditating means of active offense. He gathered up the carving-knife and fork, and held them close under Mr. Watterson’s nose. “Smell that!” he said, and frowned as darkly as a man of so little eyebrow could.
At this senseless defiance Staniford, in spite of himself, broke into another laugh, and even Captain Jenness grinned. Mr. Watterson sat with his head drawn as far back as possible, and with his nose wrinkled at the affront offered it. “Captain,” he screamed, appealing even in this extremity to his superior, “shall I fetch him one?”
“No, no!” cried Staniford, springing from his chair; “don’t hit him! He isn’t responsible. Let’s get him into his room.”
“Fetch me one, heh?” said Hicks, rising, with dignity, and beginning to turn up his cuffs. “One! It’ll take more than one, fetch me. Stan’ up, ‘f you’re man enough.” He was squaring at Mr. Watterson, when he detected signs of strategic approach in Staniford and Captain Jenness. He gave a wild laugh, and shrank into a corner. “No! No, you don’t, boys,” he said.
They continued their advance, one on either side, and reinforced by Mr. Watterson hemmed him in. The drunken man has the advantage of his sober brother in never seeming to be on the alert. Hicks apparently entered into the humor of the affair. “Sur-hic-surrender!” he said, with a smile in his heavy eyes. He darted under the extended arms of Captain Jenness, who was leading the centre of the advance, and before either wing could touch him he was up the gangway and on the deck.
Captain Jenness indulged one of those expressions, very rare with him, which are supposed to be forgiven to good men in moments of extreme perplexity, and Mr. Watterson profited by the precedent to unburden his heart in a paraphrase of the captain’s language. Staniford’s laugh had as much cursing in it as their profanity.
He mechanically followed Hicks to the deck, prepared to renew the attempt for his capture there. But Hicks had not stopped near Dunham and Lydia. He had gone forward on the other side of the ship, and was leaning quietly on the rail, and looking into the sea. Staniford paused irresolute for a moment, and then sat down beside Lydia, and they all tried to feign that nothing unpleasant had happened, or was still impending. But their talk had the wandering inconclusiveness which was inevitable, and the eyes of each from time to time furtively turned toward Hicks.
For half an hour he hardly changed his position. At the end of that time, they found him looking intently at them; and presently he began to work slowly back to the waist of the ship, but kept to his own side. He was met on the way by the second mate, when nearly opposite where they sat.
“Ain’t you pretty comfortable where you are?” they heard the mate asking. “Guess I wouldn’t go aft any further just yet.”
“You’re all right, Mason,” Hicks answered. “Going below — down cellar, ‘s feller says; go to bed.”
“Well, that’s a pious idea,” said the mate. “You couldn’t do better than that. I’ll lend you a hand.”
“Don’t care ‘f I do,” responded Hicks, taking the mate’s proffered arm. But he really seemed to need it very little; he walked perfectly well, and he did not look across at the others again.
At the head of the gangway he encountered Captain Jenness and Mr. Watterson, who had completed the perquisition they had remained to make in his state-room. Mr. Watterson came up empty-handed; but the captain bore the canteen in which the common enemy had been so artfully conveyed on board. He walked, darkly scowling, to the rail, and flung the canteen into the sea. Hicks, who had saluted his appearance with a glare as savage as his own, yielded to his whimsical sense of the futility of this vengeance. He gave his fleeting, drunken laugh: “Good old boy, Captain Jenness. Means well — means well. But lacks — lacks — forecast. Pounds of cure, but no prevention. Not much on bite, but death on bark. Heh?” He waggled his hand offensively at the captain, and disappeared, loosely floundering down the cabin stairs, holding hard by the hand-rail, and fumbling round with his foot for the steps before he put it down.
“As soon as he’s in his room, Mr. Watterson, you lock him in.” The captain handed his officer a key, and walked away forward, with a hang-dog look on his kindly face, which he kept averted from his passengers.
The sound of Hicks’s descent had hardly ceased when clapping and knocking noises were heard again, and the face of the troublesome little wretch reappeared. He waved Mr. Watterson aside with his left hand, and in default of specific orders the latter allowed him
to mount to the deck again. Hicks stayed himself a moment, and lurched to where Staniford and Dunham sat with Lydia.
“What I wish say Miss Blood is,” he began,— “what I wish say is, peculiar circumstances make no difference with man if man’s gentleman. What I say is, everybody ‘spec’s — What I say is, circumstances don’t alter cases; lady’s a lady — What I want do is beg you fellows’ pardon — beg her pardon — if anything I said that firs’ morning—”
“Go away!” cried Staniford, beginning to whiten round the nostrils. “Hold your tongue!”
Hicks fell back a pace, and looked at him with the odd effect of now seeing him for the first time. “What you want?” he asked. “What you mean? Slingin’ criticism ever since you came on this ship! What you mean by it? Heh? What you mean?”
Staniford rose, and Lydia gave a start. He cast an angry look at her. “Do you think I’d hurt him?” he demanded.
Hicks went on: “Sorry, very sorry, ‘larm a lady, — specially lady we all respec’. But this particular affair. Touch — touches my honor. You said,” he continued, “‘f I came on deck, you’d knock me down. Why don’t you do it? Wha’s the matter with you? Sling criticism ever since you been on ship, and ‘fraid do it! ‘Fraid, you hear? ‘F-ic— ‘fraid, I say.” Staniford slowly walked away forward, and Hicks followed him, threatening him with word and gesture. Now and then Staniford thrust him aside, and addressed him some expostulation, and Hicks laughed and submitted. Then, after a silent excursion to the other side of the ship, he would return and renew his one-sided quarrel. Staniford seemed to forbid the interference of the crew, and alternately soothed and baffled his tedious adversary, who could still be heard accusing him of slinging criticism, and challenging him to combat. He leaned with his back to the rail, and now looked quietly into Hicks’s crazy face, when the latter paused in front of him, and now looked down with a worried, wearied air. At last he crossed to the other side, and began to come aft again.
“Mr. Dunham!” cried Lydia, starting up. “I know what Mr. Staniford wants to do. He wants to keep him away from me. Let me go down to the cabin. I can’t walk; please help me!” Her eyes were full of tears, and the hand trembled that she laid on Dunham’s arm, but she controlled her voice.
He softly repressed her, while he intently watched Staniford. “No, no!”
“But he can’t bear it much longer,” she pleaded. “And if he should—”
“Staniford would never strike him,” said Dunham, calmly. “Don’t be afraid. Look! He’s coming back with him; he’s trying to get him below; they’ll shut him up there. That’s the only chance. Sit down, please.” She dropped into her seat, hid her eyes for an instant, and then fixed them again on the two young men.
Hicks had got between Staniford and the rail. He seized him by the arm, and, pulling him round, suddenly struck at him. It was too much for his wavering balance: his feet shot from under him, and he went backwards in a crooked whirl and tumble, over the vessel’s side.
Staniford uttered a cry of disgust and rage. “Oh, you little brute!” he shouted, and with what seemed a single gesture he flung off his coat and the low shoes he wore, and leaped the railing after him.
The cry of “Man overboard!” rang round the ship, and Captain Jenness’s order, “Down with your helm! Lower a boat, Mr. Mason!” came, quick as it was, after the second mate had prepared to let go; and he and two of the men were in the boat, and she was sliding from her davits, while the Aroostook was coming up to the light wind and losing headway.
When the boat touched the water, two heads had appeared above the surface terribly far away. “Hold on, for God’s sake! We’ll be there in a second.”
“All right!” Staniford’s voice called back. “Be quick.” The heads rose and sank with the undulation of the water. The swift boat appeared to crawl.
By the time it reached the place where they had been seen, the heads disappeared, and the men in the boat seemed to be rowing blindly about. The mate stood upright. Suddenly he dropped and clutched at something over the boat’s side. The people on the ship could see three hands on her gunwale; a figure was pulled up into the boat, and proved to be Hicks; then Staniford, seizing the gunwale with both hands, swung himself in.
A shout went up from the ship, and Staniford waved his hand. Lydia waited where she hung upon the rail, clutching it hard with her hands, till the boat was along-side. Then from white she turned fire-red, and ran below and locked herself in her room.
XVII.
Dunham followed Staniford to their room, and helped him off with his wet clothes. He tried to say something ideally fit in recognition of his heroic act, and he articulated some bald commonplaces of praise, and shook Staniford’s clammy hand. “Yes,” said the latter, submitting; “but the difficulty about a thing of this sort is that you don’t know whether you haven’t been an ass. It has been pawed over so much by the romancers that you don’t feel like a hero in real life, but a hero of fiction. I’ve a notion that Hicks and I looked rather ridiculous going over the ship’s side; I know we did, coming back. No man can reveal his greatness of soul in wet clothes. Did Miss Blood laugh?”
“Staniford!” said Dunham, in an accent of reproach. “You do her great injustice. She felt what you had done in the way you would wish, — if you cared.”
“What did she say?” asked Staniford, quickly.
“Nothing. But—”
“That’s an easy way of expressing one’s admiration of heroic behavior. I hope she’ll stick to that line. I hope she won’t feel it at all necessary to say anything in recognition of my prowess; it would be extremely embarrassing. I’ve got Hicks back again, but I couldn’t stand any gratitude for it. Not that I’m ashamed of the performance. Perhaps if it had been anybody but Hicks, I should have waited for them to lower a boat. But Hicks had peculiar claims. You couldn’t let a man you disliked so much welter round a great while. Where is the poor old fellow? Is he clothed and in his right mind again?”
“He seemed to be sober enough,” said Dunham, “when he came on board; but I don’t think he’s out yet.”
“We must let Thomas in to gather up this bathing-suit,” observed Staniford. “What a Newportish flavor it gives the place!” He was excited, and in great gayety of spirits.
He and Dunham went out into the cabin, where they found Captain Jenness pacing to and fro. “Well, sir,” he said, taking Staniford’s hand, and crossing his right with his left, so as to include Dunham in his congratulations, “you ought to have been a sailor!” Then he added, as if the unqualified praise might seem fulsome, “But if you’d been a sailor, you wouldn’t have tried a thing like that. You’d have had more sense. The chances were ten to one against you.”
Staniford laughed. “Was it so bad as that? I shall begin to respect myself.”
The captain did not answer, but his iron grip closed hard upon Staniford’s hand, and he frowned in keen inspection of Hicks, who at that moment came out of his state-room, looking pale and quite sobered. Captain Jenness surveyed him from head to foot, and then from foot to head, and pausing at the level of his eyes he said, still holding Staniford by the hand: “The trouble with a man aboard ship is that he can’t turn a blackguard out-of-doors just when he likes. The Aroostook puts in at Messina. You’ll be treated well till we get there, and then if I find you on my vessel five minutes after she comes to anchor, I’ll heave you overboard, and I’ll take care that nobody jumps after you. Do you hear? And you won’t find me doing any such fool kindness as I did when I took you on board, soon again.”
“Oh, I say, Captain Jenness,” began Staniford.
“He’s all right,” interrupted Hicks. “I’m a blackguard; I know it; and I don’t think I was worth fishing up. But you’ve done it, and I mustn’t go back on you, I suppose.” He lifted his poor, weak, bad little face, and looked Staniford in the eyes with a pathos that belied the slang of his speech. The latter released his hand from Captain Jenness and gave it to Hicks, who wrung it, as he kept look
ing him in the eyes, while his lips twitched pitifully, like a child’s. The captain gave a quick snort either of disgust or of sympathy, and turned abruptly about and bundled himself up out of the cabin.
“I say!” exclaimed Staniford, “a cup of coffee wouldn’t be bad, would it? Let’s have some coffee, Thomas, about as quick as the cook can make it,” he added, as the boy came out from his stateroom with a lump of wet clothes in his hands. “You wanted some coffee a little while ago,” he said to Hicks, who hung his head at the joke.
For the rest of the day Staniford was the hero of the ship. The men looked at him from a distance, and talked of him together. Mr. Watterson hung about whenever Captain Jenness drew near him, as if in the hope of overhearing some acceptable expression in which he could second his superior officer. Failing this, and being driven to despair, “Find the water pretty cold, sir?” he asked at last; and after that seemed to feel that he had discharged his duty as well as might be under the extraordinary circumstances.
The second mate, during the course of the afternoon, contrived to pass near Staniford. “Why, there wa’n’t no need of your doing it,” he said, in a bated tone. “I could ha’ had him out with the boat, soon enough.”
Staniford treasured up these meagre expressions of the general approbation, and would not have had them different. From this time, within the narrow bounds that brought them all necessarily together in some sort, Hicks abolished himself as nearly as possible. He chose often to join the second mate at meals, which Mr. Mason, in accordance with the discipline of the ship, took apart both from the crew and his superior officers. Mason treated the voluntary outcast with a sort of sarcastic compassion, as a man whose fallen state was not without its points as a joke to the indifferent observer, and yet might appeal to the pity of one who knew such cases through the misery they inflicted. Staniford heard him telling Hicks about his brother-in-law, and dwelling upon the peculiar relief which the appearance of his name in the mortality list gave all concerned in him. Hicks listened in apathetic patience and acquiescence; but Staniford thought that he enjoyed, as much as he could enjoy anything, the second officer’s frankness. For his own part, he found that having made bold to keep this man in the world he had assumed a curious responsibility towards him. It became his business to show him that he was not shunned by his fellow-creatures, to hearten and cheer him up. It was heavy work. Hicks with his joke was sometimes odious company, but he was also sometimes amusing; without it, he was of a terribly dull conversation. He accepted Staniford’s friendliness too meekly for good comradery; he let it add, apparently, to his burden of gratitude, rather than lessen it. Staniford smoked with him, and told him stories; he walked up and down with him, and made a point of parading their good understanding, but his spirits seemed to sink the lower. “Deuce take him!” mused his benefactor; “he’s in love with her!” But he now had the satisfaction, such as it was, of seeing that if he was in love he was quite without hope. Lydia had never relented in her abhorrence of Hicks since the day of his disgrace. There seemed no scorn in her condemnation, but neither was there any mercy. In her simple life she had kept unsophisticated the severe morality of a child, and it was this that judged him, that found him unpardonable and outlawed him. He had never ventured to speak to her since that day, and Staniford never saw her look at him except when Hicks was not looking, and then with a repulsion which was very curious. Staniford could have pitied him, and might have interceded so far as to set him nearer right in her eyes; but he felt that she avoided him, too; there were no more walks on the deck, no more readings in the cabin; the checker-board, which professed to be the History of England, In 2 Vols., remained a closed book. The good companionship of a former time, in which they had so often seemed like brothers and sister, was gone. “Hicks has smashed our Happy Family,” Staniford said to Dunham, with little pleasure in his joke. “Upon my word, I think I had better have left him in the water.” Lydia kept a great deal in her own room; sometimes when Staniford came down into the cabin he found her there, talking with Thomas of little things that amuse children; sometimes when he went on deck in the evening she would be there in her accustomed seat, and the second mate, with face and figure half averted, and staying himself by one hand on the shrouds, would be telling her something to which she listened with lifted chin and attentive eyes. The mate would go away when Staniford appeared, but that did not help matters, for then Lydia went too. At table she said very little; she had the effect of placing herself more and more under the protection of the captain. The golden age, when they had all laughed and jested so freely and fearlessly together, under her pretty sovereignty, was past, and they seemed far dispersed in a common exile. Staniford imagined she grew pale and thin; he asked Dunham if he did not see it, but Dunham had not observed. “I think matters have taken a very desirable shape, socially,” he said. “Miss Blood will reach her friends as fancy-free as she left home.”
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 72
