The Mutiny of the Elsinore

They disappeared.  The bridge disappeared.  The Elsinore rolled to port and dipped her deck full from rail to rail.  Next, she plunged down by the head, and all this mass of water surged forward.  Through the creaming, foaming surface now and then emerged an arm, or a head, or a back, while cruel edges of jagged plank and twisted steel rods advertised that the bridge was turning over and over.  I wondered what men were beneath it and what mauling they were receiving.

And yet these men did not count.  I was aware of anxiety only for Mr. Pike.  He, in a way, socially, was of my caste and class.  He and I belonged aft in the high place; ate at the same table.  I was acutely desirous that he should not be hurt or killed.  The rest did not matter.  They were not of my world.  I imagine the old-time skippers, on the middle passage, felt much the same toward their slave-cargoes in the fetid ’tween decks.

The Elsinore’s bow tilted skyward while her stern fell into a foaming valley.  Not a man had gained his feet.  Bridge and men swept back toward me and fetched up against the mizzen-shrouds.  And then that prodigious, incredible old man appeared out of the water, on his two legs, upright, dragging with him, a man in each hand, the helpless forms of Nancy and the Faun.  My heart leapt at beholding this mighty figure of a man-killer and slave-driver, it is true, but who sprang first into the teeth of danger so that his slaves might follow, and who emerged with a half-drowned slave in either hand.

I knew augustness and pride as I gazed—pride that my eyes were blue, like his; that my skin was blond, like his; that my place was aft with him, and with the Samurai, in the high place of government and command.  I nearly wept with the chill of pride that was akin to awe and that tingled and bristled along my spinal column and in my brain.  As for the rest—the weaklings and the rejected, and the dark-pigmented things, the half-castes, the mongrel-bloods, and the dregs of long-conquered races—how could they count?  My heels were iron as I gazed on them in their peril and weakness.  Lord!  Lord!  For ten thousand generations and centuries we had stamped upon their faces and enslaved them to the toil of our will.

Again the Elsinore rolled to starboard and to port, while the spume spouted to our lower-yards and a thousand tons of South Atlantic surged across from rail to rail.  And again all were down and under, with jagged plank and twisted steel overriding them.  And again that amazing blond-skinned giant emerged, on his two legs upstanding, a broken waif like a rat in either hand.  He forced his way through rushing, waist-high water, deposited his burdens with the carpenter on the fife-rail, and returned to drag Larry reeling to his feet and help him to the fife-rail.  Out of the wash, Tony, the Greek, crawled on hands and knees and sank down helplessly at the fife-rail.  There was nothing suicidal now in his mood.  Struggle as he would, he could not lift himself until the mate, gripping his oilskin at the collar, with one hand flung him through the air into the carpenter’s arms.

Next came Shorty, his face streaming blood, one arm hanging useless, his sea-boots stripped from him.  Mr. Pike pitched him into the fife-rail, and returned for the last man.  It was Henry, the training-ship boy.  Him I had seen, unstruggling, motionless, show at the surface like a drowned man and sink again as the flood surged aft and smashed him against the cabin.  Mr. Pike, shoulder-deep, twice beaten to his knees and under by bursting seas, caught the lad, shouldered him, and carried him away for’ard.

An hour later, in the cabin, I encountered Mr. Pike going into breakfast.  He had changed his clothes, and he had shaved!  Now how could one treat a hero such as he save as I treated him when I remarked off-handedly that he must have had a lively watch?

“My,” he answered, equally off-handedly, “I did get a prime soaking.”

That was all.  He had had no time to see me at the poop-rail.  It was merely the day’s work, the ship’s work, the MAN’S work—all capitals, if you please, in MAN.  I was the only one aft who knew, and I knew because I had chanced to see.  Had I not been on the poop at that early hour no one aft ever would have known those gray, storm-morning deeds of his.

“Anybody hurt?” I asked.

“Oh, some of the men got wet.  But no bones broke.  Henry’ll be laid off for a day.  He got turned over in a sea and bashed his head.  And Shorty’s got a wrenched shoulder, I think.—But, say, we got Davis into the top bunk!  The seas filled him full and he had to climb for it.  He’s all awash and wet now, and you oughta seen me praying for more.”  He paused and sighed.  “I’m getting old, I guess.  I oughta wring his neck, but somehow I ain’t got the gumption.  Just the same, he’ll be overside before we get in.”

“A month’s wages against a pound of tobacco he won’t,” I challenged.

“No,” said Mr. Pike slowly.  “But I’ll tell you what I will do.  I’ll bet you a pound of tobacco even, or a month’s wages even, that I’ll have the pleasure of putting a sack of coal to his feet that never will come off.”

“Done,” said I.

“Done,” said Mr. Pike.  “And now I guess I’ll get a bite to eat.”

CHAPTER XXXI

The more I see of Miss West the more she pleases me.  Explain it in terms of propinquity, or isolation, or whatever you will; I, at least, do not attempt explanation.  I know only that she is a woman and desirable.  And I am rather proud, in a way, to find that I am just a man like any man.  The midnight oil, and the relentless pursuit I have endured in the past from the whole tribe of women, have not, I am glad to say, utterly spoiled me.

I am obsessed by that phrase—a woman and desirable .  It beats in my brain, in my thought.  I go out of my way to steal a glimpse of Miss West through a cabin door or vista of hall when she does not know I am looking.  A woman is a wonderful thing.  A woman’s hair is wonderful.  A woman’s softness is a magic.—Oh, I know them for what they are, and yet this very knowledge makes them only the more wonderful.  I know—I would stake my soul—that Miss West has considered me as a mate a thousand times to once that I have so considered her.  And yet—she is a woman and desirable.

And I find myself continually reminded of Richard Le Gallienne’s inimitable quatrain:

“Were I a woman, I would all day long

Sing my own beauty in some holy song,

Bend low before it, hushed and half afraid,

And say ‘I am a woman’ all day long.”

Let me advise all philosophers suffering from world-sickness to take a long sea voyage with a woman like Miss West.

In this narrative I shall call her “Miss West” no more.  She has ceased to be Miss West.  She is Margaret.  I do not think of her as Miss West.  I think of her as Margaret.  It is a pretty word, a woman-word.  What poet must have created it!  Margaret!  I never tire of it.  My tongue is enamoured of it.  Margaret West!  What a name to conjure with!  A name provocative of dreams and mighty connotations.  The history of our westward-faring race is written in it.  There is pride in it, and dominion, and adventure, and conquest.  When I murmur it I see visions of lean, beaked ships, of winged helmets, and heels iron-shod of restless men, royal lovers, royal adventurers, royal fighters.  Yes, and even now, in these latter days when the sun consumes us, still we sit in the high seat of government and command.

Oh—and by the way—she is twenty-four years old.  I asked Mr. Pike the date of the Dixie’s collision with the river steamer in San Francisco Bay .  This occurred in 1901.  Margaret was twelve years old at the time.  This is 1913.  Blessings on the head of the man who invented arithmetic!  She is twenty-four.  Her name is Margaret, and she is desirable.

* * * * *

There are so many things to tell about.  Where and how this mad voyage, with a mad crew, will end is beyond all surmise.  But the Elsinore drives on, and day by day her history is bloodily written.  And while murder is done, and while the whole floating drama moves toward the bleak southern ocean and the icy blasts of Cape Horn, I sit in the high place with the masters, unafraid, I am proud to say, in an ecstasy, I am proud to say, and I murmur over and over to myself — Margaret, a woman ; Margaret, and desirable .

But to resume.  It is the first day of June.  Ten days have passed since the pampero.  When the strong back on Number Three hatch was repaired Captain West came back on the wind, hove to, and rode out the gale.  Since then, in calm, and fog, and damp, and storm, we have won south until to-day we are almost abreast of the