The Black Cargo

CHAPTER 1-2

Captain Murdock had drawn closer to me and had thrust his arm through mine, and not only his words, but his nearness acquainted me with the unsettling truth that he had already begun on his ritual, and that in the cabin chest there was less liquor left than a few hours previous. I seized his arm and tried to pull him aft, but his legs were strong and his weight was close to the ground.

“Get below,” I whispered. “You’re drunk!”

“Young man,” said Captain Murdock, louder still, “I’ve seen life. I’ve seen hell breaking loose time an’ again, and when anybody tells you to stop drinking, just tell them this: There’s only three things that make up living.”

Before I could check him, his voice had assumed a nasal, clerical intonation.

“Love, hate and licker, all three, and the greatest of these is licker!”

In the very midst of his sentence, however, his words began to die away, and his heavy red face had assumed an expression as near to consternation as I had ever seen. He began pulling at his, muffler and clearing his throat, and he had a very good reason. When it was too late, he perceived that old Eliphalet Greer was standing beside us, tapping his ivory-headed cane softly on the deck, and moving his long bony fingers restlessly over the handle.

He was a man to remember, and one to think about on an early morning watch. He had been standing in the bow of his cutter the last time I had seen him like some Calvinist portrait as we got under way. The water had been rough, so that the cutter tossed restively, but he had stood easily erect, for he was used to the sea. He had removed his tall beaver hat, and his hair, which he wore quite long, had been disarranged by the wind. Now that I saw him again I had the curious fancy that we had not been gone at all, for he was just the same. Not even his dress had altered. Though his hat was stamped hard on his head, the wind had been at his hair again, and the lines about his mouth had the same grim curves. He was still dressed as though he expected the church bell at any moment to ring its summons, and cause him to leave his occupation and hasten to his pew. He had on the same black clothes and the same freshly starched linen about his wrists. The great choker which he wore twisted high on his neck, had a familiar clerical look about it, like a surplice misappropriated.

Yet in spite of his simplicity there was an air of wealth about him. The cloak of black broadcloth which he wrapped around him in a way which was reminiscent of some foreign land, was so finely woven that it had a texture almost like silk. Though his attire was simple and venerable, befitting a man the fire of whose life was dying down, neither his years nor his dress gave him a wholly sober aspect. Though his face was lined like weathered wood, not a wrinkle or a crow’s foot of it indicated repose or humor. His eyes had an unnatural intensity, all the brightness of youth set in an ancient mask. I think it was their restiveness, their very contrast, which gave one a feeling that his heavily welded body had an unabated power.

For a little while he stood without speaking, still tapping his cane softly on the deck, but there was nothing reassuring in his silence. In spite of myself, my heart was beating faster and my breath was coming more quickly than before.

“Charles,” he said, and his words were quiet and almost toneless, “stand away from Mr. Murdock.”

And again he tapped his cane on the planking.

“Mr. Murdock,” he continued, “when I employed you as master of this vessel, you told me that you believed in God and that you were a God-fearing man.”

I had seen Captain Murdock on a number of trying occasions, and I knew he was a solid man, but I never felt the admiration for him which I experienced then. There was a restraint in the old man’s words which made me wish to draw away, but Captain Murdock only tilted his chin higher.

“Yes,” said Captain Murdock, “and what if I did?”

Suddenly Eliphalet’s voice altered in a manner that silenced the voices of the men forward.

“Then,” he said, “get down on your knees!”

I saw Captain Murdock give a start. I saw a rush of blood turn his cheeks half purple.

“Damn you——” he began hoarsely.

There was a crash from Eliphalet’s cane. For a second I thought he had brought it on the Captain’s back, but instead he had hit the rail beside him.

“I’ve been damned by better men than you, Mr. Murdock,” he said evenly, “so I am probably damned already. Did you hear what I said? Get down on your knees and ask forgiveness for blaspheming the Holy Scriptures. Get down on your knees before I knock you there.”

I could not—though I tried—I could not look away. Captain Murdock was a small man, but he had not moved.

“Damn you!” he cried. “Get down on your knees yourself!”

I heard a slight stir forward. Eliphalet Greer had dropped his cane. Swiftly and dexterously he had slid his hand inside his broadcloth cloak, but Captain Murdock only grinned.

“Slack yer line,” he said. “We ain’t standing to off Guinea.”

I thought that Eliphalet was going to strike him, but he did not. Only, looking at him then, it was hard to remember that he was an old man. His lips writhed in an effort at self-control, which went strangely with a religious, methodical life, but when he spoke, his voice, though husky, was gentler than before.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

Captain Murdock bit his lip.

“Well?” Eliphalet demanded.

“You know what I mean,” said Captain Murdock indistinctly.

Eliphalet Greer had grown quite calm, even tolerant, as Captain Murdock ended. Some hidden balance, something other than speech had exerted a tranquil influence.

“Murdock,” he said in a quieter tone, “I am strong enough to forgive you. I have forgiven angry words before, and I am a humble man.”

As he spoke, the Felicity swayed at her mooring, and a ray of the afternoon sun struck clear on Eliphalet’s face. It dazzled him, and caused him to wrinkle his forehead in a grimace almost like pain.

“All of us here below,” he continued more gently still, “have sinned in the eyes of the Lord. All of us should ask Divine forgiveness.”

It was more than the sunlight which altered the set of his face as he spoke. Before our eyes a curious phenomenon was taking place, incomprehensible to the two of us who had sailed under his orders. Before he could check himself, or was probably wholly aware what he did, Eliphalet Greer had given way to an emotion, and had knelt bareheaded on the deck. Yes, he had knelt with his gray head bowed, and the land breeze playing about it. I wonder what it was that seized him then. I wonder what it was that he was praying for. It was not dramatically intended, nor could it have been fear that made his lips move slowly. Perhaps the uselessness of worldly wealth, the worthlessness of material possessions was forcibly brought upon him. If so, the world still pulled tenaciously at his coat-tails, for suddenly, still kneeling, he snapped back his head, and his right hand, which had been resting beneath his beaver hat, darted back beneath his cloak. At the sight of Captain Murdock, standing stupid and dazed, Eliphalet Greer ripped forth an oath so unexpected and impious that even the Captain jumped.

“Get down on your knees!” roared Eliphalet.

And Captain Murdock plumped down beside him with a haste so indecorous that he spilled forward on his hands. There they knelt—old Eliphalet, swayed by some ungovernable instinct, a gaunt, ascetic Puritan, who was not a Puritan at all; and Captain Murdock, round and squat, breathing through his nose with a melodious sound which savored of a pitch pipe in a country church. There they knelt in a furious parody of devotion, each casting furtive sidelong glances at the other.

It was common in those days for men to give way to prayer, but never was there a more impious intercession. It might be a humorous anecdote over a tumbler of rum, but though I can see the humor of it now, it is never of a genial or palatable sort. Through it all I can always see Eliphalet’s face with its disarrayed gray hair, the face of an old man to whom the years had brought no peace. There is the same violence and passion, a curious malignancy about his very attitude, and something not to be described, which merits not laughter but pity.

He got to his feet at length, and picked up his hat and cane, and Captain Murdock scrambled up also. Now that Captain Murdock was standing again, any elation he may have labored under previously appeared to have worn away, leaving him quite white and ill at ease.

“Murdock,” said Greer—and of a sudden he seemed as I had always known him, humorless and precise—“we’ll go below now and see your papers, and you, Charles——”

Instinctively I drew a little backward, for he had laid a hand on my shoulder. His hand was heavy and I could feel the firm pressure of his long fingers.

“We can go over our business at my house in an hour.”

He moved away with a step which was singularly quiet for one of his height, winding past the obstructions on the deck as though he had been always used to sail. Indeed, in spite of his sedentary life—for years he had never sailed—he had a surpassing knowledge of the sea. He could gauge the capabilities of a sailing vessel as accurately as a stable owner might estimate a running horse. He could read the weather by a fractional change of the wind, and do both with half an eye while concerned with other matters. As he entered the cabin I saw him pause to glance at the upper rigging. Then he was gone, with Captain Murdock following close behind him.

A crowd had collected on the shore by now as crowds will always gather in any port when a new ship sails in. Already they were shouting questions across the water, and our crew, or those of them who could understand our language, were shouting back and crowding to the bulwarks. I felt sorry now that I was to see the last of them, though I have seldom seen men who could lay a smaller claim to one’s affection. Eliphalet Greer’s crews were always an outlandish spectacle, pieced together from anything which might cut down sailing costs, patched like the seats of their sea-breeches from blacks, whites, yellows and browns. I wonder where they have gone, those forsaken men who would flutter for a week or so along our waterfront. I still can seem to hear their voices, guttural, hissing, liquid sounds which our Sailors’ Mission with its free tracts could never understand, and their laughter while they spun for themselves a chrysalis of drunken slumber, to wake again on a new deck, bound for another land.

The bells were ringing the half hour, and the sun’s rays had become soft and genial. A loose halyard was slapping at the mast. The blocks kept creaking. The tide was running faster, and the Felicity swayed uneasily.

As I stood by the rail, waiting to go ashore, I felt cold, even in my sea clothes. I still seemed to feel the weight of Eliphalet Greer’s hand where it had rested on my shoulder. I almost wished I was not at home again that afternoon, and I had my reasons, for I knew only too well why Eliphalet Greer wished to see me, and the business we had together was far from a pleasant business.

It was eighteen months since we had spoken of it, but now that I was back with the land breeze about me again, it seemed like yesterday.