The
time-table at sea is as unchangeable as the passage of the sun. If they were
not scouring the decks as usual at this hour it meant that the whole
discipline of the ship was interrupted.
Mme. Storey appeared in the doorway of my cabin, and I saw by her grave
face that she was disturbed too. She said: “Get up, Bella, and let’s go on
deck.”
I lost no time in obeying her. When we came out on the promenade deck it
was perfectly empty. We even missed the figure of the old sailor Jim, who was
eternally to be found wiping down the white painted walls. It was a heavenly
morning with an emerald sea and a sky like palest turquoise except for a
diffused ruby glow in the east which heralded the coming sun.
We started to make a circuit of the deck. Up at the forward end, when we
looked over the rail into the well deck, we understood why the yacht seemed
so deserted. With the exception of the engine-room staff, the entire ship’s
company was gathered on the well deck, all standing so still and quiet they
seemed scarcely to be breathing.
The whole dramatic scene focused in the tall figure of Les Farman. Les,
stripped to the waist, was standing facing the fo’c’s’le bulkhead, thus
presented a broad muscular back to the crowd. His wrists were tied to a ring
above his head. On one side of him stood the captain with three of his
officers behind him; on the other side, Horace armed with an ugly dog-whip of
plaited leather. Sailors, cooks and stewards were ranged along the rail at
both sides, watching with faces like masks having burnt holes for eyes.
Mme. Storey watched for a moment to learn what the situation was, before
she interfered. The men below were all so intent upon what was happening that
our coming passed unnoticed.
The captain was speaking to Horace in a voice so low that his words did
not reach us. Under any circumstances—at a dance or at a
flogging—Captain Grober’s face was the same, that is to say, perfectly
expressionless. The three young officers modelled themselves upon him, but
they were not so good at it. They were unable to hide their uneasiness in the
face of that grim, watching crowd. Horace’s face was twisted with rage. He
kept drawing the whip-lash ominously through his fingers.
Angrily interrupting the captain, Horace demanded of Les Farman: “Did you
or did you not call me a murderer last night?”
We heard Les’s voice cool and steady: “I did!”
“What more do you want?” shouted Horace at the captain. “That’s mutiny! I
order him flogged.”
There was a silence. Nobody moved.
“When a man has to be flogged, whose job is it?” demanded Horace. “Is it
yours?”
“No,” said the captain.
“Then order somebody else to do it.”
Once more the captain remonstrated with Horace. Something about times
having changed at sea, and sailors being under protection of the law. We
couldn’t hear it well. It suddenly came to me that under his wooden demeanour
the man was sweating with fear.
“Then, by God! I’ll do it myself!” cried Horace. And raised the whip.
Mme. Storey’s voice sounded crisply: “Stop!”
Every face turned up to her as if they all moved together on one neck.
Hers was the one voice which could have made Horace pause. He looked at her
scowling, and his whip-arm dropped. Meanwhile she was running down the
ladder.
“Get away from here!” growled Horace. “This is no place for a woman. Get
away, I say!”
Ignoring this, she went up close to him. Horace’s eyes fairly blazed at
her, and the whip trembled in his hand. She faced him out. In the end her
steady gaze was the stronger. Horace looked away. I saw her lips shape the
words:
“Give me that whip.”
He didn’t exactly give it to her. But when she took hold of it, his grasp
relaxed. Mme. Storey caught it by the lash and sent it spinning overboard. A
curious murmur escaped from the watching crew. Their faces showed no change,
but you could feel the
time-table at sea is as unchangeable as the passage of the sun. If they were
not scouring the decks as usual at this hour it meant that the whole
discipline of the ship was interrupted.
Mme. Storey appeared in the doorway of my cabin, and I saw by her grave
face that she was disturbed too. She said: “Get up, Bella, and let’s go on
deck.”
I lost no time in obeying her. When we came out on the promenade deck it
was perfectly empty. We even missed the figure of the old sailor Jim, who was
eternally to be found wiping down the white painted walls. It was a heavenly
morning with an emerald sea and a sky like palest turquoise except for a
diffused ruby glow in the east which heralded the coming sun.
We started to make a circuit of the deck. Up at the forward end, when we
looked over the rail into the well deck, we understood why the yacht seemed
so deserted. With the exception of the engine-room staff, the entire ship’s
company was gathered on the well deck, all standing so still and quiet they
seemed scarcely to be breathing.
The whole dramatic scene focused in the tall figure of Les Farman. Les,
stripped to the waist, was standing facing the fo’c’s’le bulkhead, thus
presented a broad muscular back to the crowd. His wrists were tied to a ring
above his head. On one side of him stood the captain with three of his
officers behind him; on the other side, Horace armed with an ugly dog-whip of
plaited leather. Sailors, cooks and stewards were ranged along the rail at
both sides, watching with faces like masks having burnt holes for eyes.
Mme. Storey watched for a moment to learn what the situation was, before
she interfered. The men below were all so intent upon what was happening that
our coming passed unnoticed.
The captain was speaking to Horace in a voice so low that his words did
not reach us. Under any circumstances—at a dance or at a
flogging—Captain Grober’s face was the same, that is to say, perfectly
expressionless. The three young officers modelled themselves upon him, but
they were not so good at it. They were unable to hide their uneasiness in the
face of that grim, watching crowd. Horace’s face was twisted with rage. He
kept drawing the whip-lash ominously through his fingers.
Angrily interrupting the captain, Horace demanded of Les Farman: “Did you
or did you not call me a murderer last night?”
We heard Les’s voice cool and steady: “I did!”
“What more do you want?” shouted Horace at the captain. “That’s mutiny! I
order him flogged.”
There was a silence. Nobody moved.
“When a man has to be flogged, whose job is it?” demanded Horace. “Is it
yours?”
“No,” said the captain.
“Then order somebody else to do it.”
Once more the captain remonstrated with Horace. Something about times
having changed at sea, and sailors being under protection of the law. We
couldn’t hear it well. It suddenly came to me that under his wooden demeanour
the man was sweating with fear.
“Then, by God! I’ll do it myself!” cried Horace. And raised the whip.
Mme. Storey’s voice sounded crisply: “Stop!”
Every face turned up to her as if they all moved together on one neck.
Hers was the one voice which could have made Horace pause. He looked at her
scowling, and his whip-arm dropped. Meanwhile she was running down the
ladder.
“Get away from here!” growled Horace. “This is no place for a woman. Get
away, I say!”
Ignoring this, she went up close to him. Horace’s eyes fairly blazed at
her, and the whip trembled in his hand. She faced him out. In the end her
steady gaze was the stronger. Horace looked away. I saw her lips shape the
words:
“Give me that whip.”
He didn’t exactly give it to her. But when she took hold of it, his grasp
relaxed. Mme. Storey caught it by the lash and sent it spinning overboard. A
curious murmur escaped from the watching crew. Their faces showed no change,
but you could feel the
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