"The mate tells you you"ll get a lot of money if you go home and say you"ve sunk the ship. You won"t. He will, as Judas did for betraying his Lord, but you"ll just be got rid of, if you don"t keep your mouths shut. You"re wrong, as you"ve been all your lives, as I"ve been till now. But I"ve a stronger man on my side than all of you herring-gutted sons of a gun would make rolled together. I"ve the Lord on my side. You think nothing of that, do you? The Lord"s up in heaven and won"t notice what you do, and you ain"t feared of the likes of Him anyway. . . . Aren"t you? Why d"you think it is you have b.l.o.o.d.y sacrifices there in the fo"c"sle--oh, yes, I know about it all--why d"you suppose you cringe to that n.i.g.g.e.r there"--pointing to the mate--"with his black history of murdered children and flesh eaten in secret when the sacred drum beats at the full of the moon? Why d"you suppose you"re scared sick of a dirty bug and a bit of wool in an old bottle, or of my Bible that I"ve set up on a shelf? It"s because you know there"s something behind--behind your ju-jus and behind my ju-ju. . . . You not fear the Lord! Why, you fear Him with every devilish performance you concoct. You"re afraid all the time--of the something behind. And my ju-ju is greater than your ju-ju, so you"re more afraid of mine, and of me. Could your ju-ju bring you through the great storm alive? All of you--and that d.a.m.ned baby-eater there--you was all yelling at your ju-jus and they couldn"t wag one of their accursed fingers to help you. Who saved you and brought you out alive? White men and the white men"s G.o.d. You know there"s something behind, and what"s behind me is bigger"n what"s behind you. . . ."
He suddenly pulled his hand out of the capacious pocket of his coat, and the men cowered swiftly, but instead of a gun he held his Bible out over the rail, threatening them not with its insignificant fabric but with its unknown import. A couple of Jamaican negroes fell on their knees and writhed upon the deck, making uncouth noises, their eyes turning palely upwards, their limbs convulsed.
"Praise de Lord!" they yelled. "Praise de Lord wid us, brudders! End of de world and judgment comin". Save us, ma.s.sa, save us. . . ." And a dago from the southern continent fell to crossing himself and gabbling his prayers.
"You fools!" cried Lemaire, thrusting through the heaving knot of men, "don"t you listen to his talk. Talk won"t fill our stomachs or cure our skins. How"s he going to feed you? Ask him dat."
"Yes--what are we to eat? Give us food and we"ll keep on!" shouted the bo"sun. "Can your G.o.d make food?"
"My G.o.d provided manna for the children of Israel in the wilderness and He"ll provide for us now if we trust in Him. He will send us meat for our bellies and drink for our throats."
"How . . . ? Where is it, dis food?" taunted Lemaire; and Elderkin, his hand pointing, answered, "There . . ."
The men swung round to gaze, and saw a fugitive gleam of sunlight on her shining tower of cotton canvas, a great four-masted American barque beating to windward only a few miles away. Elderkin and his ju-ju were saved, and Lemaire"s vision of dollars was routed by the men"s vision of food. The distress signals were run up, and by that night the _Spirito Santo_ carried enough provisions of a rude kind to last her, with care and luck--meaning a rigid discipline of practically wreck-rations and fair winds--to see her safely home again. Elderkin thought that at last the testings of his faith were over, that the weary ship would blow towards port on a divinely appointed wind, and that his sacrifice and conversion were accepted on high. For the image he had had in his mind on that day of revelation in the chart-house had been of one t.i.tanic struggle, not of this succession of conflicts which sometimes rose to crisis point but more often meant fighting against the terrible depression of day after day"s inaction, driven half-crazy by the unceasing moaning of the rigging. Sustained bad weather gets on a sailor"s nerves not because of any danger but simply by dint of the repet.i.tion of noises; there is only one thing more unbearable to mind and temper, and that is to be becalmed. Thought of any such happening was far from those on board the _Spirito Santo_, for the south-westerly wind urged her on past the Plate, and then a baffling head wind blew her out of the treacherous skies, and for over a week she beat back and forth, making hardly any headway. The rations were still further reduced, and then just as the men were beginning to make trouble again, the _Spirito Santo_ caught up with the south-west trades. Once again she made the seas roar past her, for now, regardless of her depth in the water, Elderkin made all the sail he could. Day after day slipped past with the slipping foam, and the gaunt creatures aboard felt a stirring of relief. And then, in the Doldrums, they ran into a dead calm. . . .
Only anyone who has been becalmed on a tropical sea knows the terror that it is. Of all feelings of helplessness it is probably the most acute. Without steam or motor a ship is as powerless as though she were anch.o.r.ed to the sea-bottom with iron cables. Men have gone mad of it, and men did go mad of it in the starving _Spirito Santo_. She lay, as famished for a breeze as they for bread, upon a surface of molten gla.s.s, her sails limp as a dead bird"s wing, the pitch soft in her seams, and the only sound in the circle of the horizon the faint creak-creak of her yards against the masts. Cabins and forecastle were unbearable, yet on deck the vertical sun had driven all but the thinnest lines of shadow out of being. The nights were almost as hot as the days and always the false cross gleamed from a cloudless sky, and the true Cross swam up lying on her back and trailing the pointers behind her, slowly righting herself as she rose and driving the pitiless brilliancy of the Milky Way before her. The drinking-water, what there was of it, stank; and the dried mouths of the men could hardly manage the mouldy hard-tack which captain and crew shared alike. And there was nothing to be done, nothing that could be done. The men were past revolt now, they could only shamble dizzily about. There was nothing to be done--except pray, and Elderkin prayed, though his lips moved almost soundlessly. He thought much these days, and he remembered--probably because of the dead stillness around--an old seafaring fable that in the calm heart of a cyclone life is to be found--that there birds and b.u.t.terflies of every size and colour crowd, till the air is hung with brightness. He saw the individual soul of man as the hollow calm in the midst of life, cut off by the circling storm from all other air, and told himself that it could be the refuge for beauties of praise . . . he strove to make this aching solitude of mind wherein he was, rich as the fabled heart of the cyclone. . . .
Then, just as the first faint breath made her ripple the water at her bows, he discovered that, worn out by her successive batterings, the _Spirito Santo_ was literally falling apart. He looked over her side and saw that she was spewing oak.u.m from her seams, while she settled lower and lower in the water.
The discovery acted like cool wind on Elderkin--it was unthinkable that they should perish now, not so very far from home, after all he had won through, and he prepared to meet this disaster also. He had prudently kept one last cask of rum unbroached, and this fluid life he now served out to the men. Then he drove them, as before with gun or Bible, but this time with rum; drove them to the task of frapping the leaking ship.
Four great chain cables were pa.s.sed under her and hove tight with Spanish windla.s.ses on deck--a series of giant tourniquets to keep in her life. And when that too was accomplished, it was as though the power above at last was satisfied, and the wind strengthened that was to bear the _Spirito Santo_ home.
Nearly six months after leaving port with provisions enough for one; with her rotten ratlines hanging in little tags, her jury smoke-stack idle between the patched sails that seemed as though one more puff of wind would tear them from the battered yards, her spewing sides kept together with cables, and her broken bulwarks level with the water--a nightmare vessel manned by ghosts--she crawled into the roadstead at Port of Spain.
For a few years after, a ragged white man haunted the drink-shops of the Islands and hung about the ports--a man without a ship. The owners of the _Spirito Santo_ were broken by the safe return of that faked cargo, but they had pa.s.sed the word round that her skipper was to be broken too. He who had been so self-controlled in the old unregenerate days now drank steadily, but it was only when he was very drunk he talked. And even then it was difficult to make out what he said--it was all such a jumble of some strange fight between two ships, and of how the ways of the Lord were so mysterious that it was often impossible for a man to tell upon which side righteousness might be found.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Here follows in the original a minute description of the post-mortem.
[B] p.r.o.nounced Roughneck.
[C] At that date Prisoner"s Counsel was not allowed to make a speech for the defence.