Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (76 page)

But the best fun was when the boys were put on the wheel together, Tom Platt within hail, and she cuddled her lee-rail down to the crashing blue, and kept a little home-made rainbow arching unbroken over her windlass. Then the jaws of the booms whined against the masts, and the sheets creaked, and the sails filled with roaring; and when she slid into a hollow she trampled like a woman tripped in her own silk dress, and came out, her jib wet half-way up, yearning and peering for the tall twin-lights of Thatcher’s Island.

They left the cold gray of the Bank sea, saw the lumber-ships making for Quebec by the Straits of St. Lawrence, with the Jersey salt-brigs from Spain and Sicily; found a friendly northeaster off Artimon Bank that drove them within view of the East light of Sable Island, — a sight Disko did not linger over, — and stayed with them past Western and Le Have, to the northern fringe of George’s. From there they picked up the deeper water, and let her go merrily.

“Hattie’s pulling on the string,” Dan confided to Harvey. “Hattie an’ Ma. Next Sunday you’ll be hirin’ a boy to throw water on the windows to make ye go to sleep. ‘Guess you’ll keep with us till your folks come. Do you know the best of gettin’ ashore again?”

“Hot bath?” said Harvey. His eyebrows were all white with dried spray.

“That’s good, but a night-shirt’s better. I’ve been dreamin’ o’ night-shirts ever since we bent our mainsail. Ye can wiggle your toes then. Ma’ll hev a new one fer me, all washed soft. It’s home, Harve. It’s home! Ye can sense it in the air. We’re runnin’ into the aidge of a hot wave naow, an’ I can smell the bayberries. Wonder if we’ll get in fer supper. Port a trifle.”

The hesitating sails flapped and lurched in the close air as the deep smoothed out, blue and oily, round them. When they whistled for a wind only the rain came in spiky rods, bubbling and drumming, and behind the rain the thunder and the lightning of mid-August. They lay on the deck with bare feet and arms, telling one another what they would order at their first meal ashore; for now the land was in plain sight. A Gloucester swordfish-boat drifted alongside, a man in the little pulpit on the bowsprit flourished his harpoon, his bare head plastered down with the wet. “And all’s well!” he sang cheerily, as though he were watch on a big liner. “Wouverman’s waiting fer you, Disko. What’s the news o’ the Fleet?”

Disko shouted it and passed on, while the wild summer storm pounded overhead and the lightning flickered along the capes from four different quarters at once. It gave the low circle of hills round Gloucester Harbor, Ten Pound Island, the fish-sheds, with the broken line of house-roofs, and each spar and buoy on the water, in blinding photographs that came and went a dozen times to the minute as the
We’re Here
crawled in on half-flood, and the whistling-buoy moaned and mourned behind her. Then the storm died out in long, separated, vicious dags of blue-white flame, followed by a single roar like the roar of a mortar-battery, and the shaken air tingled under the stars as it got back to silence.

“The flag, the flag!” said Disko, suddenly, pointing upward.

“What is ut?” said Long Jack.

“Otto! Ha’af mast. They can see us frum shore now.”

“I’d clean forgot. He’s no folk to Gloucester, has he?”

“Girl he was goin’ to be married to this fall.”

“Mary pity her!” said Long Jack, and lowered the little flag half-mast for the sake of Otto, swept overboard in a gale off Le Have three months before.

Disko wiped the wet from his eyes and led the
We’re Here
to Wouverman’s wharf, giving his orders in whispers, while she swung round moored tugs and night-watchmen hailed her from the ends of inky-black piers. Over and above the darkness and the mystery of the procession, Harvey could feel the land close round him once more, with all its thousands of people asleep, and the smell of earth after rain, and the familiar noise of a switching-engine coughing to herself in a freight-yard; and all those things made his heart beat and his throat dry up as he stood by the foresheet. They heard the anchor-watch snoring on a lighthouse-tug, nosed into a pocket of darkness where a lantern glimmered on either side; somebody waked with a grunt, threw them a rope, and they made fast to a silent wharf flanked with great iron-roofed sheds fall of warm emptiness, and lay there without a sound.

Then Harvey sat down by the wheel, and sobbed and sobbed as though his heart would break, and a tall woman who had been sitting on a weigh-scale dropped down into the schooner and kissed Dan once on the cheek; for she was his mother, and she had seen the
We’re Here
by the lightning flashes. She took no notice of Harvey till he had recovered himself a little and Disko had told her his story. Then they went to Disko’s house together as the dawn was breaking; and until the telegraph office was open and he could wire his folk, Harvey Cheyne was perhaps the loneliest boy in all America. But the curious thing was that Disko and Dan seemed to think none the worse of him for crying.

Wouverman was not ready for Disko’s prices till Disko, sure that the
We’re Here
was at least a week ahead of any other Gloucester boat, had given him a few days to swallow them; so all hands played about the streets, and Long Jack stopped the Rocky Neck trolley, on principle, as he said, till the conductor let him ride free. But Dan went about with his freckled nose in the air, bung-full of mystery and most haughty to his family.

“Dan, I’ll hev to lay inter you ef you act this way,” said Troop, pensively. “Sence we’ve come ashore this time you’ve bin a heap too fresh.”

“I’d lay into him naow ef he was mine,” said Uncle Salters, sourly. He and Penn boarded with the Troops.

“Oho!” said Dan, shuffling with the accordion round the backyard, ready to leap the fence if the enemy advanced. “Dad, you’re welcome to your own judgment, but remember I’ve warned ye. Your own flesh an’ blood ha’ warned ye! ‘Tain’t any o’ my fault ef you’re mistook, but I’ll be on deck to watch ye. An’ ez fer yeou, Uncle Salters, Pharaoh’s chief butler ain’t in it ‘longside o’ you! You watch aout an’ wait. You’ll be plowed under like your own blamed clover; but me — Dan Troop — I’ll flourish like a green bay-tree because I warn’t stuck on my own opinion.”

Disko was smoking in all his shore dignity and a pair of beautiful carpet-slippers. “You’re gettin’ ez crazy as poor Harve. You two go araound gigglin’ an’ squinchin’ an’ kickin’ each other under the table till there’s no peace in the haouse,” said he.

“There’s goin’ to be a heap less — fer some folks,” Dan replied. “You wait an’ see.”

He and Harvey went out on the trolley to East Gloucester, where they tramped through the bayberry bushes to the lighthouse, and lay down on the big red boulders and laughed themselves hungry. Harvey had shown Dan a telegram, and the two swore to keep silence till the shell burst.

“Harve’s folk?” said Dan, with an unruffled face after supper. “Well, I guess they don’t amount to much of anything, or we’d ha’ heard from ‘em by naow. His pop keeps a kind o’ store out West. Maybe he’ll give you ‘s much as five dollars, Dad.”

“What did I tell ye?” said Salters. “Don’t sputter over your vittles, Dan.”

CHAPTER IX

Whatever his private sorrows may be, a multimillionaire, like any other workingman, should keep abreast of his business. Harvey Cheyne, senior, had gone East late in June to meet a woman broken down, half mad, who dreamed day and night of her son drowning in the gray seas. He had surrounded her with doctors, trained nurses, massage-women, and even faith-cure companions, but they were useless. Mrs. Cheyne lay still and moaned, or talked of her boy by the hour together to any one who would listen. Hope she had none, and who could offer it? All she needed was assurance that drowning did not hurt; and her husband watched to guard lest she should make the experiment. Of his own sorrow he spoke little — hardly realized the depth of it till he caught himself asking the calendar on his writing-desk, “What’s the use of going on?”

There had always lain a pleasant notion at the back of his head that, some day, when he had rounded off everything and the boy had left college, he would take his son to his heart and lead him into his possessions. Then that boy, he argued, as busy fathers do, would instantly become his companion, partner, and ally, and there would follow splendid years of great works carried out together — the old head backing the young fire. Now his boy was dead — lost at sea, as it might have been a Swede sailor from one of Cheyne’s big teaships; the wife dying, or worse; he himself was trodden down by platoons of women and doctors and maids and attendants; worried almost beyond endurance by the shift and change of her poor restless whims; hopeless, with no heart to meet his many enemies.

He had taken the wife to his raw new palace in San Diego, where she and her people occupied a wing of great price, and Cheyne, in a veranda-room, between a secretary and a typewriter, who was also a telegraphist, toiled along wearily from day to day. There was a war of rates among four Western railroads in which he was supposed to be interested; a devastating strike had developed in his lumber camps in Oregon, and the legislature of the State of California, which has no love for its makers, was preparing open war against him.

Ordinarily he would have accepted battle ere it was offered, and have waged a pleasant and unscrupulous campaign. But now he sat limply, his soft black hat pushed forward on to his nose, his big body shrunk inside his loose clothes, staring at his boots or the Chinese junks in the bay, and assenting absently to the secretary’s questions as he opened the Saturday mail.

Cheyne was wondering how much it would cost to drop everything and pull out. He carried huge insurances, could buy himself royal annuities, and between one of his places in Colorado and a little society (that would do the wife good), say in Washington and the South Carolina islands, a man might forget plans that had come to nothing. On the other hand —

The click of the typewriter stopped; the girl was looking at the secretary, who had turned white.

He passed Cheyne a telegram repeated from San Francisco:

Picked up by fishing schooner
We’re Here
having fallen off boat great times on Banks fishing all well waiting Gloucester Mass care Disko Troop for money or orders wire what shall do and how is Mama Harvey N. Cheyne.

The father let it fall, laid his head down on the roller-top of the shut desk, and breathed heavily. The secretary ran for Mrs. Cheyne’s doctor who found Cheyne pacing to and fro.

“What — what d’ you think of it? Is it possible? Is there any meaning to it? I can’t quite make it out,” he cried.

“I can,” said the doctor. “I lose seven thousand a year — that’s all.” He thought of the struggling New York practice he had dropped at Cheyne’s imperious bidding, and returned the telegram with a sigh.

“You mean you’d tell her? ‘May be a fraud?”

“What’s the motive?” said the doctor, coolly. “Detection’s too certain. It’s the boy sure enough.”

Enter a French maid, impudently, as an indispensable one who is kept on only by large wages.

“Mrs. Cheyne she say you must come at once. She think you are seek.”

The master of thirty millions bowed his head meekly and followed Suzanne; and a thin, high voice on the upper landing of the great white-wood square staircase cried: “What is it? What has happened?”

No doors could keep out the shriek that rang through the echoing house a moment later, when her husband blurted out the news.

“And that’s all right,” said the doctor, serenely, to the typewriter. “About the only medical statement in novels with any truth to it is that joy don’t kill, Miss Kinzey.”

“I know it; but we’ve a heap to do first.” Miss Kinzey was from Milwaukee, somewhat direct of speech; and as her fancy leaned towards the secretary, she divined there was work in hand. He was looking earnestly at the vast roller-map of America on the wall.

“Milsom, we’re going right across. Private car — straight through — Boston. Fix the connections,” shouted Cheyne down the staircase.

“I thought so.”

The secretary turned to the typewriter, and their eyes met (out of that was born a story — nothing to do with this story). She looked inquiringly, doubtful of his resources. He signed to her to move to the Morse as a general brings brigades into action. Then he swept his hand musician-wise through his hair, regarded the ceiling, and set to work, while Miss Kinzey’s white fingers called up the Continent of America.

“
K. H. Wade, Los Angeles —
The ‘Constance’ is at Los Angeles, isn’t she, Miss Kinzey?”

“Yep.” Miss Kinzey nodded between clicks as the secretary looked at his watch.

“Ready?
Send ‘Constance,’ private car, here, and arrange for special to leave here Sunday in time to connect with New York Limited at Sixteenth Street, Chicago, Tuesday next
.”

Click-click-click! “Couldn’t you better that?”

“Not on those grades. That gives ‘em sixty hours from here to Chicago. They won’t gain anything by taking a special east of that. Ready?
Also arrange with Lake Shore and Michigan Southern to take ‘Constance’ on New York Central and Hudson River Buffalo to Albany, and B. and A. the same Albany to Boston. Indispensable I should reach Boston Wednesday evening. Be sure nothing prevents. Have also wired Canniff, Toucey, and Barnes.
— Sign, Cheyne.”

Miss Kinzey nodded, and the secretary went on.

“Now then. Canniff, Toucey, and Barnes, of course. Ready?
Canniff, Chicago. Please take my private car ‘Constance’ from Santa Fe at Sixteenth Street next Tuesday p. m. on N. Y. Limited through to Buffalo and deliver N. Y. C. for Albany.
— Ever bin to N’ York, Miss Kinzey? We’ll go some day. — Ready?
Take car Buffalo to Albany on Limited Tuesday p. m.
That’s for Toucey.”

“Haven’t bin to Noo York, but I know that!” with a toss of the head.

“Beg pardon. Now, Boston and Albany, Barnes, same instructions from Albany through to Boston. Leave three-five P. M. (you needn’t wire that); arrive nine-five P. M. Wednesday. That covers everything Wade will do, but it pays to shake up the managers.”