The Back Wheel Read online

  He said: “I like to watch, while he’s asleep, anyone who may be of importance to me. Their minds are off guard. Wide open. I get things.”

  I looked at him in astonishment, not knowing whether it was a cue to laugh or nod solemn assent. He repeated:

  “Yes, I get things. Things the cleverest cross-examination couldn’t bring out. It’s a trick I learned from my greatgrandfather, Cap’n James Benson—ever hear of him?”

  I said I had; that he was one of the first to sail a Yankee Clipper; a great seaman; that his ship had also been named the Susan Ann and that I understood the boat I was on was its exact duplicate. Benson was plainly pleased.

  “Not the exact duplicate,” he said. “But some day I’ll make it so. This cabin, for example—”

  He looked around it with plain distaste, then said: “But this thing of sleeping men … many a time when old Cap’n Benson couldn’t get at the truth, or suspected one of his crew, he’d slip in to them in the night when they were asleep and sit there, gathering what came from the unguarded minds. Once he scotched a mutiny before it could raise its head. It’s told in his own log.”

  I thought that such evidence would hardly stand in the courts where Benson had practiced, and that he would be the first to object to its admission if he were on the other side. But I did not say so, and considering him, was glad I had not laughed.

  He changed the subject abruptly. “You’re over thirty, Kurtson says, and rate a master’s ticket in medicine. Why aren’t you sailing your own ship?”

  I explained briefly my reasons for serving at the hospital. He nodded.

  “But a man can be a mate too long, mister—even a first mate. Better to take your own ship out young, even if you wreck her. Why did you want to sail with me?”

  I answered, a little irritated:

  “Because Dr. Kurtson thought you needed a good doctor on board. And because he thought I needed a good vacation.”

  He laughed at that. “Straight answer, and I like it. So you came both for me and for a rest? Well, maybe you’ll get it and maybe you won’t. The sea is a woman, and therefore unpredictable. Things happen on the sea that couldn’t happen on shore.”

  And many a time in the following weeks I was to remember that.

  Again he abruptly changed the subject: “McTeague tells me you like the Susan Ann.”

  I tried to put into words something of what I had felt when I had first seen the clipper. I was sincere about k, and he knew I was. He listened impassively, watching me closely.

  “And when I saw you at the wheel,” I ended, “I thought —the old Susan Ann hasn’t come out of the past alone … she’s brought her old skipper with her.”

  “So you thought that, did you?” He got up from the chair. “So that’s what you thought. Well, at any rate, you’ve come closer to seeing the Susan Ann as I see her than anybody else. I owe Kurtson an unexpected debt.”

  Pensively he rubbed his chin, then beckoned me. “Come to my cabin.”

  I followed him out the door. The captain’s cabin, as in the old days, lay aft the wheel. He held open the door, and as I passed in I felt that I had stepped into the heart of the old clipper. The cabin stretched almost across the stem, two square ports astern, two round ones port and starboard; a window at each side of the door. Its walls were of teak, black and dully lustrous as though polished by the hands of years; across its ceiling rough-adzed beams. There was a big black table over which hung an old copper lamp; and it was no electric bulb within it which cast the solemn brown shadows about the cabin; I guessed the lamp fed with whale-oil as had been the similar, perhaps the same, lamp on the first Susan Ann. There were niches on the wall in which were other smaller lamps with hurricane shades. There was an old sea desk over which was a telltale. On each side of the cabin was a great chest. There were rich hangings from China and from India. But all these I took note of later, my eyes caught by a painting upon the wall opposite the door.

  At first I thought it was a portrait of Benson. And then as I moved closer I saw that this could not be, for it was clearly old and the dress that of a sea captain of a hundred years ago. Yet line for line, feature for feature, bald head, cold grey eyes, long thin nose with flaring nostrils from which deeply extended wrinkles ran down to the comers of the thin-lipped, wide mouth, it was as the man who stood beside me might be twenty years from now. And I knew now there was something far deeper than whim in Benson’s passion for his ship. In the third generation the chromosomes, that microscopic bundle of faggots in which heredity is neatly tied up, and which had made old Cap’n Benson what he was, had been duplicated; they had reproduced his physical pattern in his great-grandson. Had they also reproduced the mental pattern, that neural network in the brain called by some the personality and by others the soul? Probably; to some degree certainly; and to whatever that degree therefore the man beside me was the old captain. My first fleeting impression had been correct—the soul of the old Susan Ann, reincarnate in the new one, had brought her old master with her out of the past New flesh and bone, as she was new timber and sail—but in spirit or personality, the same. The interesting problem was—how much the same?

  He said, as though he had read my thought, with a curious unquestioning certainty that without telling me I knew of whom the portrait was:

  “And often when I’m at the wheel I feel that he’s inside me … looking through my eyes, listening with my ears, his hands on the spokes as if mine were just gloves … yes, and here in this cabin …”

  He broke off, a glint of suspicion in the pale eyes. “Kurtson tell you anything about that?”

  I answered: “No.”

  But now I knew what Kurtson meant when he had warned me that there were peculiar reasons why when upon the clipper Benson’s passion for dominance might expand to the point, as he had put it, of explosion.

  He studied me a moment, and nodded as if satisfied.

  “Sit down.”

  He sat silent, studying me; then launched into a monologue upon his crew. As far as possible he had picked them from the families of the men who had sailed the first Susan Ann. They were New Englanders, most of them— State o’ Maine men, Gloucester men, New Bedford men. Fishermen who knew sail, how to handle sail on the Newfoundland Banks four seasons through. Fourteen of them, all able seamen, salt bitten, wind beaten and sea pickled.

  Captain Johnson came straight down from a Gloucester first mate of the old Susan Ann. Benson had found him up in New Brunswick, where the family had migrated. A master mariner, by God! Faithful to the old traditions steadily crowded out by these steam popinjays. Two mates, tough lads; two quartermasters, just as hard. He paid ’em well, paid them damned well, but they were worth it.

  The chief engineer was MacKenzie, a black Scotchman. He liked MacKenzie—but damn his lousy engines. They didn’t belong. He never used them unless he had to, tried to forget them. Still, he had to make some concession to his office—after all, he had to be where he’d said he’d be, around the time he’d said he’d be there. When his daughter married, and he didn’t think that would be long, he was going to break away from the office entirely. Then he’d tear out the engines, rip out all the damned bedizened cabins, sail away on the Susan Ann as she ought to be, following old Cap’n Benson’s track to the Far East.

  The crew knew what he meant to do and were all for it. Even his two cooks. Good cooks, none better; a Basque named Felipe and Slam Bang, a Philadelphia nigger, pretty nearly as good, who helped Felipe; called him Slam Bang because old Cap’n Benson had a black cook named so. Old Cap’n Benson liked his eating, was choosy about it. He could live on slum and hardtack if he had to, but he didn’t like it—

  And then six bells rang, and Benson got up abruptly and said: “I haven’t even talked to Kurtson as I have to you. I’ll probably be sorry I did—but it’s done me good. Good night.”

  He opened the door and I went back to my cabin.

  CHAPTER II

  Deborah Looks Them Over

  I
t had been three o’clock when I turned in, but I was wideawake before the sun had been up an hour. The Susan Ann had cradled me; now the whispering chuckle of ripples along her side was telling me that I had slept long enough. I looked out the port. There was a stiff following wind that whipped the crests of the waves into streaming milk-white pennons. Golden weed threaded the blue sea like a tapestry. Flying fish skittered out of water, flashed and flittered and dived like pygmy planes into foam-flecked troughs of molten sapphire. A wave raised itself, and hung for a breath so that the sun had time to make of its peak a huge emerald; poised in its gleaming heart was a barracuda, glaring about for the flying fish that had escaped it. The wave swept on, and the barracuda vanished. I took a hasty shower, dressed, and went on dock.

  McTeague was leaning at the rail. Beside him was Flora Swastlow, her scanty dress whipped tight around her by the wind; pressing against McTeague. They turned as I came up, and there was a swift flicker of relief in Mc-Teague’s eyes, and as swift a flash of irritation in Flora’s. She suffered nothing by daylight. She had that creamy olive skin found sometimes in its perfection with the brunette; and it was guiltless of makeup as were the scarlet lips. She was so glowingly beautiful that I wondered whether the fire that seemed to be within her might not after all be real. Whatever her feeling toward me for interrupting, she gave me courteous greeting.

  McTeague said: “Cap’n Johnson’s been asking about you. I’ll take you to him. See you at breakfast, Flora.”

  We walked aft. He asked: “Have a long session with Big Jim?”

  “Not so long. He seemed to think I’d do.”

  There was a chunky sailor at the wheel and beside him Captain Johnson, a man long and lanky as Benson himself, a weather-beaten humorous face, clear little screwed up grey eyes and a shock of sandy hair. He held out a gnarled hand as McTeague introduced me.

  “There are a few formalities,” he said. “We’ll go down to my cabin and get them over. After breakfast I suppose you’ll want to make the customary post-port-leave inspection of the crew.”

  He gave brief instructions to the helmsman. As we went down the ladder I saw the flutter of Flora Swastlow’s skirt not far away. So, evidently, did McTeague, for he asked whether we would, mind him going with us. He loitered in the cabin after I had answered the regulation questions and signed the necessary papers; delaying us on one pretext or another until a mellow bell rang.

  “Breakfast,” said McTeague. “Come along. The Master likes us to be punctual.”

  But he showed no great hurry when we had left Captain Johnson’s cabin, and they were all at table when we entered the dining salon. Benson sat at the head, with Pen at his right hand and Lady Fitz-Manton at his left, Boriloff beside her. The Rev. Dr. Swastlow sat beside Pen and next to him was Flora. Chadwick lolled in the chair beside her. He jumped up as we entered, stood back looking at McTeague and waved invitation to the vacant seat. There was mockery in the gesture.

  McTeague flushed, and said: “Sit still, Chad. I’ve the Doc in tow.”

  Flora cast him a reproachful glance. Pen waved to me, warmly friendly. I saw Benson’s sharp eyes take in the empty chair, dart to Chadwick’s face, then to McTeague’s, dwell for an instant on Flora and then upon Pen.

  Chadwick said, contritely: “Oh, I’m sorry—I only thought—”

  He sat down without saying what it was that he had thought. But McTeague’s face grew redder, and Benson’s eyes once more traveled swiftly over the four.

  Lady Fitz’s bird-like face was rapt. She said, dreamily: “This is a morning when God loves His world. Don’t you feel it, Mr. McTeague?”

  McTeague said: “No.”

  Lady Fitz started, then waggled a reproving linger: “Then you are not in harmony. You are on a wrong vibration, Mr. McTeague. You must repeat—‘God loves His world. God loves everything that is in His world. I am a part of God’s world. Therefore God loves me.’ Over and over, until you feel that you are again in tune.”

  I looked at her in some astonishment, but apparently she was quite in earnest. Pen giggled, and said: “Come on, Mike. We’ll all join in and help you.” The Rev. Dr. Swastlow seemed slightly pained; Benson’s eyes were twinkling. McTeague’s face turned redder. He said, with emphasis: “Tripe!”

  Pen giggled again, and said: “Oh Mike—how rude!”

  Lady Fitz said: “How crude, you mean! My word, but you are feeling badly, Mr. McTeague.”

  And the breakfast went on. It went on leisurely, and as it did so I felt more and more puzzled, more and more an outsider, more and more an observer to totally unfamiliar fauna. In my hospital experience I had, of course, come in contact with many curious phases of what one might call aberrant mentality, but never with a group that, outwardly of so normal a semblance, betrayed such peculiarities of speech and behavior.

  They appeared to have no reticences. They spoke whatever came into their minds with the most appalling frankness; that is, with the exception of the Rev. Dr. Swastlow who did, however, accept everything with benign tolerance. They brought up and discussed minutely subjects that I thought fitting only for intensely private or scientific consideration. Not one, not even Benson, seemed to have any consideration for the feelings of anyone present. Although now and then one or another would grow angry, it made no difference; they continued to insult, or to discuss or analyze each other as though they were simply laboratory specimens. 1 was to grow used to this during following days, but on this first morning there were moments when I was thoroughly disconcerted.

  Boriloff was moody, brooding, taking no part in the talk. Lady Fitz whispered to him now and again, but he only shook his head and muttered. Toward the close of the breakfast she took his hand and patted it, and said in her clearest, clipped English:

  “Alexis, tell us. What is troubling you? Your aura is clouded. Your vibrations are inharmonious. They are sinister, Alexis. They are overpowering me. Alone I cannot combat them. Tell us what is troubling you, dear friend. Empty your mind to us, and open it. All will concentrate and fill it with good thoughts, happy thoughts. Will we not, my friends?”

  She looked at us, hands outspread. I stared, startled, expecting some manifestation of amusement or at least surprise at this extraordinary appeal. But no one seemed to take it as odd. Pen trilled:

  “Splendid. Of course we will concentrate. Empty your mind, Mr. Boriloff.”

  McTeague said: “As long as he empties it himself, it’s all right with me. And I won’t carry anything out.”

  None paid any attention to this rather unsavory implication. Boriloff arose, dramatically. He said: “I have had hell of night. Tormented, tortured.” His hands went to his head, throwing it back, covering his eyes. McTeague clapped his hands, softly. He said: “Fine, Boriloff. Second act of Aida. Rhadames registers despair. Fine.”

  Boriloff waved, as though sweeping away some insect beneath contempt. He rested his hands on the table; he whispered: “I have had my warning. It is that which shadows my soul.”

  Lady Fitz paled; she whispered: “The—the serpents?”

  Boriloff nodded, slowly, solemnly: “The serpents! You do not know, my friends, so I tell. When danger threatens Boriloffs—it is so for seven hundred years—three serpents come in dream. They intertwine and become one. That one serpent speaks …” Boriloff's voice became a vibrant hissing, quite uncanny—“Last night they came to me. They twined and became one. He spoke . ..” He shuddered, and Lady Fitz stared at him as though she had been a frightened bird before that same serpent.

  Flora Swastlow whispered: “How terrible!”

  Pen said: “Gosh!”

  McTeague said, briskly: “Bet you ten dollars I can tell you what it said, Boriloff.”

  Boriloff glared at him: “What—you can tell?”

  “Sure.” McTeague was cheerfully confident. “Take the bet?”

  Pen said: “Oh, do, Mr. Boriloff. Call his bluff. But make him put up odds. Mike’s fey at times—you know, second sight and all that.”

 
Boriloff looked about helplessly, like an actor who sees his big scene being spoiled. He managed a wolfish grin and rumbled:

  “Tell.”

  “O.K.,” said McTeague. “It said—‘Alec, cut your vodkas down from three to one.’ Easy,” he addressed the rest of the table. “Primarily Freud. Snakes—liquor. Three snakes —three liquors. Snakes turn into one—subconcious warning to cut three drinks down to one. Why the vodka? Boriloff’s pet hooch.”

  He arose, bowed in grotesque imitation of the Russian, said: “Thanks for the applause.”

  Boriloff’s face was murderous. Lady Fitz said:

  “My word!”

  Short, but she packed into it all the disgust a queen would feel at finding a cockroach in her soup. She drew Boriloff down beside her. Benson asked mildly, quite as though Boriloff were not there:

  “What’s the idea in getting people’s hair up, Mike? Boriloff has his faults, but he’s harmless and I like his voice. And now here you’ve put Lady Fitz all off her vibration. What’s the sense of it?”

  McTeague answered earnestly: “An approving conscience, sir. Public service. The man who gets people mad is a benefactor. Better, oh better far to be a jumping bean in the frying pan scattering hot fat, than a complaisant hunk of butter meekly melting in squamous resignation.” Pen said, with unfeigned admiration: “Gosh, Mike, can you say that again?”

  McTeague did.

  Chadwick said, dryly: “The kind of service that gets you a knife in the back.”

  McTeague replied, as dryly: “You ought to know, Chad.” Chadwick laughed, but McTeague’s point had bitten, for now it was Chadwick who reddened.

  Shortly after, the breakfast broke up. I spent the rest of the morning looking over the crew and getting my office into shape. When I went on deck Benson was at the wheel, the Rev. Dr. Swastlow beside him, reading. The others were up on the foredeck, the women in shorts and halters, and the men in shorts, chattering and laughing, all animosities apparently forgotten; and now and then Boriloff's really fine baritone would be raised in a snatch of song.