“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 Elsinore right now financially interested in my taking-off.”
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 the sea, but I have never seen a crew like this. There are few sailors in it; there are bad men in it; and the rest are fools and worse. You will notice I mention no names, sir; but there are men on board whom I do not care to antagonize. I am just Louis, the cook. I do my work to the best of my ability, and that is all, sir.”
“And will Charles Davis arrive in Seattle ?” I asked, changing the topic in acknowledgment of his right to be reticent.
“No, I do not think so, sir,” he answered, although his eyes thanked me for my courtesy. “The steward tells me you have bet that he will. I think, sir, it is a poor bet. We are about to go around the Horn. I have been around it many times. This is midwinter, and we are going from east to west. Davis ’ room will be awash for weeks. It will never be dry. A strong healthy man confined in it could well die of the hardship. And Davis is far from well. In short, sir, I know his condition, and he is in a shocking state. Surgeons might prolong his life, but here in a wind-jammer it is shortened very rapidly. I have seen many men die at sea. I know, sir. Thank you, sir.”
And the Eurasian Chinese-Englishman bowed himself away.
CHAPTER XXXII
Things are worse than I fancied. Here are two episodes within the last seventy-two hours. Mr. Mellaire, for instance, is going to pieces. He cannot stand the strain of being on the same vessel with the man who has sworn to avenge Captain Somers’s murder, especially when that man is the redoubtable Mr. Pike.
For several days Margaret and I have been remarking the second mate’s bloodshot eyes and pain-lined face and wondering if he were sick. And to-day the secret leaked out. Wada does not like Mr. Mellaire, and this morning, when he brought me breakfast, I saw by the wicked, gleeful gleam in his almond eyes that he was spilling over with some fresh, delectable ship’s gossip.
For several days, I learned, he and the steward have been solving a cabin mystery. A gallon can of wood alcohol, standing on a shelf in the after-room, had lost quite a portion of its contents. They compared notes and then made of themselves a Sherlock Holmes and a Doctor Watson. First, they gauged the daily diminution of alcohol. Next they gauged it several times daily, and learned that the diminution, whenever it occurred, was first apparent immediately after meal-time. This focussed their attention on two suspects—the second mate and the carpenter, who alone sat in the after-room. The rest was easy. Whenever Mr. Mellaire arrived ahead of the carpenter more alcohol was missing. When they arrived and departed together, the alcohol was undisturbed. The carpenter was never alone in the room. The syllogism was complete. And now the steward stores the alcohol under his bunk.