The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays Part 18

BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. (_A trace of awe in his tones--he glances upward._) He just walks up and down like he didn't notice n.o.body--and stares at the ice to the no'th'ard.

THE STEWARD (_the same tone of awe creeping into his voice_). He's always starin' at the ice. (_In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the skylight_) Ice, ice, ice! d.a.m.n him and d.a.m.n the ice! Holdin'

us in for nigh on a year--nothin' to see but ice--stuck in it like a fly in mola.s.ses!

BEN (_apprehensively_). Ssshh! He'll hear ye.

THE STEWARD (_raging_). Aye, d.a.m.n him, and d.a.m.n the Arctic seas, and d.a.m.n this stinkin' whalin' s.h.i.+p of his, and d.a.m.n me for a fool to ever s.h.i.+p on it! (_Subsiding, as if realizing the uselessness of this outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deep conviction_) He's a hard man--as hard a man as ever sailed the seas.

BEN (_solemnly_). Aye.

THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this day. Blessed Christ! Two years o' this dog's life, and no luck in the fis.h.i.+n', and the hands half starved with the food runnin'

low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of him turnin' back for home! (_Bitterly_) Home! I begin to doubt if ever I'll set foot on land again. (_Excitedly_) What is it he thinks he's goin' to do?

Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the last man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men goin' to do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'le?

BEN (_going over to him--in a half-whisper_). They said if he don't put back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny.

THE STEWARD (_with grim satisfaction_). Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only thing they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's treated them--'s if they weren't no better nor dogs.

BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'rd. They's clear water's far's you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back for home, the men says.

THE STEWARD (_bitterly_). He won't look nowheres but no'th'rd where they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water.

All he thinks on is gittin' the ile--'s if it was our fault he ain't had good luck with the whales. (_Shaking his head_) I think the man's mighty nigh losin' his senses.

BEN (_awed_). D' you really think he's crazy?

THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' G.o.d on him. Did ye hear ever of a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? (_Pointing to the door in rear_) Who but a man that's mad would take his woman--and as sweet a woman as ever was--on a stinkin' whalin'

s.h.i.+p to the Arctic seas to be locked in by the rotten ice for nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses forever--for it's sure she'll never be the same again.

BEN (_sadly_). She useter be awful nice to me before--(_his eyes grow wide and frightened_) she got--like she is.

THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'T would have been h.e.l.l on board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hard man--a driver if there ever was one. (_With a grim laugh_) I hope he's satisfied now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind.

And who could blame her? 'T is a G.o.d's wonder we're not a s.h.i.+p full of crazed people--with the d.a.m.ned ice all the time, and the quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your own voice.

BEN (_with a frightened glance toward the door on right_). She don't never speak to me no more--jest looks at me's if she didn't know me.

THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks to him--when she does talk--right enough.

BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and then she cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her.

THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back.

BEN (_tiptoes over to the door and listens_). She's cryin' now.

THE STEWARD (_furiously--shaking his fist_). G.o.d send his soul to h.e.l.l for the devil he is!

(_There is the noise of someone coming slowly down the companionway stairs._ THE STEWARD _hurries to his stacked-up dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top one, which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast, trembling with dread. BEN is violently rubbing off the organ with a piece of cloth which he has s.n.a.t.c.hed from his pocket_, CAPTAIN KEENEY _appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin, removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty, around five-ten in height, but looking much shorter on account of the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is ma.s.sive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak hardness, and a tightly clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick hair is long and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and blue pants stuffed into his sea-boots._

_He is followed into the cabin by the_ SECOND MATE, _a rangy six-footer with a lean, weatherbeaten face._ The MATE _is dressed about the same as the captain. He is a man of thirty or so._)

KEENEY. (_Comes toward the_ STEWARD--_with a stern look on his face. The_ STEWARD _is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes rattles in his trembling hands._ KEENEY _draws back his fist and the_ STEWARD _shrinks away. The fist is gradually lowered and_ KEENEY _speaks slowly._) 'T would be like hitting a worm. It Is nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this truck not cleared yet.

THE STEWARD (_stammering_). Y-y-yes, sir.

KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here gossipin' old woman's talk with that boy. (_To_ BEN _fiercely_) Get out o' this, you! Clean up the chartroom. (BEN _darts past the_ MATE _to the open doorway._) Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward!

THE STEWARD (_doing so with difficulty_). Yes, sir.

KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in the Bering Sea at the end of a rope.

THE STEWARD (_tremblingly_). Yes, sir.

(_He hurries out. The_ SECOND MATE _walks slowly over to the_ CAPTAIN.)

MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should catch what I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to come below.

KEENEY (_impatiently_). Speak your say, Mr. Sloc.u.m.

MATE (_unconsciously lowering his voice_). I'm afeard there'll be trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn ugly, every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two years they signed up for is up to-day.

KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me somethin' new, Mr.

Sloc.u.m? I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?

(_The door in rear is opened and_ MRS. KEENEY _stands in the doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman primly dressed in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at her._)

KEENEY (_with rough tenderness_). Well, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_as if awakening from a dream_). David, I--(_She is silent. The_ MATE _starts for the doorway._)

KEENEY (_turning to him--sharply_). Wait!

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause, during which she seems to be endeavoring to collect her thoughts_). I thought maybe--I'd go up on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air.

(_She stand's humbly awaiting his permission. He and the_ MATE _exchange a significant glance._)

KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below to-day.

There's nothing to look at on deck--but ice.

MRS. KEENEY (_monotonously_). I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's nothing to see down here but these walls.

(_She makes a gesture of loathing._)

KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home.