Falklands . The coast of the Argentine lies to the West, below the sea-line, and some time this morning we crossed the fiftieth parallel of south latitude. Here begins the passage of Cape Horn, for so it is reckoned by the navigators—fifty south in the Atlantic to fifty south in the Pacific.
And yet all is well with us in the matter of weather. The
Yesterday ominous preparations were made for the passage of the Horn. All the braces were taken from the main deck pin-rails and geared and arranged so that they may be worked from the tops of the houses.
Thus, the fore-braces run to the top of the forecastle, the main-braces to the top of the ’midship-house, and the mizzen-braces to the poop. It is evident that they expect our main deck frequently to be filled with water. So evident is it that a laden ship when in big seas is like a log awash, that fore and aft, on both sides, along the deck, shoulder-high, life-lines have been rigged. Also, the two iron doors, on port and starboard, that open from the cabin directly upon the main deck, have been barricaded and caulked. Not until we are in the Pacific and flying north will these doors open again.
And while we prepare to battle around the stormiest headland in the world our situation on board grows darker. This morning Petro Marinkovich, a sailor in Mr. Mellaire’s watch, was found dead on Number One hatch. The body bore several knife-wounds and the throat was cut. It was palpably done by some one or several of the forecastle hands; but not a word can be elicited. Those who are guilty of it are silent, of course; while others who may chance to know are afraid to speak.
Before midday the body was overside with the customary sack of coal. Already the man is a past episode. But the humans for’ard are tense with expectancy of what is to come. I strolled for’ard this afternoon, and noted for the first time a distinct hostility toward me. They recognize that I belong with the after-guard in the high place. Oh, nothing was said; but it was patent by the way almost every man looked at me, or refused to look at me. Only Mulligan Jacobs and Charles Davis were outspoken.
“Good riddance,” said Mulligan Jacobs. “The Guinea didn’t have the spunk of a louse. And he’s better off, ain’t he? He lived dirty, an’ he died dirty, an’ now he’s over an’ done with the whole dirty game. There’s men on board that oughta wish they was as lucky as him. Theirs is still a-coming to ’em.”
“You mean . . . ?” I queried.
“Whatever you want to think I mean,” the twisted wretch grinned malevolently into my face.
Charles Davis, when I peeped into his iron room, was exuberant.
“A pretty tale for the court in Seattle ,” he exulted. “It’ll only make my case that much stronger. And wait till the reporters get hold of it! The hell-ship
“I haven’t seen any hell-ship,” I said coldly.
“You’ve seen my treatment, ain’t you?” he retorted. “You’ve seen the hell I’ve got, ain’t you?”
“I know you for a cold-blooded murderer,” I answered.
“The court will determine that, sir. All you’ll have to do is to testify to facts.”
“I’ll testify that had I been in the mate’s place I’d have hanged you for murder.”
His eyes positively sparkled.
“I’ll ask you to remember this conversation when you’re under oath, sir,” he cried eagerly.
I confess the man aroused in me a reluctant admiration. I looked about his mean, iron-walled room. During the pampero the place had been awash. The white paint was peeling off in huge scabs, and iron-rust was everywhere. The floor was filthy. The place stank with the stench of his sickness. His pannikin and unwashed eating-gear from the last meal were scattered on the floor: His blankets were wet, his clothing was wet. In a corner was a heterogeneous mass of soggy, dirty garments. He lay in the very bunk in which he had brained O’Sullivan. He had been months in this vile hole. In order to live he would have to remain months more in it. And while his rat-like vitality won my admiration, I loathed and detested him in very nausea.
“Aren’t you afraid?” I demanded. “What makes you think you will last the voyage? Don’t you know bets are being made that you won’t?”
So interested was he that he seemed to prick up his ears as he raised on his elbow.
“I suppose you’re too scared to tell me about them bets,” he sneered.
“Oh, I’ve bet you’ll last,” I assured him.
“That means there’s others that bet I won’t,” he rattled on hastily. “An’ that means that there’s men aboard the
At this moment the steward, bound aft from the galley, paused in the doorway and listened, grinning. As for Charles Davis, the man had missed his vocation. He should have been a land-lawyer, not a sea-lawyer.
“Very well, sir,” he went on. “I’ll have you testify to that in Seattle , unless you’re lying to a helpless sick man, or unless you’ll perjure yourself under oath.”
He got what he was seeking, for he stung me to retort:
“Oh, I’ll testify. Though I tell you candidly that I don’t think I’ll win my bet.”
“You loose ’m bet sure,” the steward broke in, nodding his head. “That fellow him die damn soon.”
“Bet with’m, sir,” David challenged me. “It’s a straight tip from me, an’ a regular cinch.”
The whole situation was so gruesome and grotesque, and I had been swept into it so absurdly, that for the moment I did not know what to do or say.
“It’s good money,” Davis urged. “I ain’t goin’ to die. Look here, steward, how much you want to bet?”
“Five dollar, ten dollar, twenty dollar,” the steward answered, with a shoulder-shrug that meant that the sum was immaterial.
“Very well then, steward. Mr. Pathurst covers your money, say for twenty. Is it a go, sir?”
“Why don’t you bet with him yourself?” I demanded.
“Sure I will, sir. Here, you steward, I bet you twenty even I don’t die.”
The steward shook his head.
“I bet you twenty to ten,” the sick man insisted. “What’s eatin’ you, anyway?”
“You live, me lose, me pay you,” the steward explained. “You die, I win, you dead; no pay me.”
Still grinning and shaking his head, he went his way.
“Just the same, sir, it’ll be rich testimony,” David chuckled. “An’ can’t you see the reporters eatin’ it up?”
The Asiatic clique in the cook’s room has its suspicions about the death of Marinkovich, but will not voice them. Beyond shakings of heads and dark mutterings, I can get nothing out of Wada or the steward. When I talked with the sail-maker, he complained that his injured hand was hurting him and that he would be glad when he could get to the surgeons in Seattle . As for the murder, when pressed by me, he gave me to understand that it was no affair of the Japanese or Chinese on board, and that he was a Japanese.
But Louis, the Chinese half-caste with the Oxford accent, was more frank. I caught him aft from the galley on a trip to the lazarette for provisions.
“We are of a different race, sir, from these men,” he said; “and our safest policy is to leave them alone. We have talked it over, and we have nothing to say, sir, nothing whatever to say. Consider my position. I work for’ard in the galley; I am in constant contact with the sailors; I even sleep in their section of the ship; and I am one man against many. The only other countryman I have on board is the steward, and he sleeps aft. Your servant and the two sail-makers are Japanese. They are only remotely kin to us, though we’ve agreed to stand together and apart from whatever happens.”
“There is Shorty,” I said, remembering Mr. Pike’s diagnosis of his mixed nationality.
“But we do not recognize him, sir,” Louis answered suavely. “He is Portuguese; he is Malay; he is Japanese, true; but he is a mongrel, sir, a mongrel and a bastard. Also, he is a fool. And please, sir, remember that we are very few, and that our position compels us to neutrality.”
“But your outlook is gloomy,” I persisted. “How do you think it will end?”
“We shall arrive in Seattle most probably, some of us. But I can tell you this, sir: I have lived a long life on
