"up with ye, yez foretop bullies! up an' give her a cheer! hip!—--hear her! a bloody englishman playin' av 'th' star spangled banner!' that's for us, ye bullies! hip, hip!—--damn ye, cheer! now! hip!—again!—she's struck! no! she's by the reef!—by god she's clear! she's in the open sea! clear! hip!"
this monologue, shouted as if through the teeth of a gale, suddenly broke upon the gold woman's troubled consciousness where she stood writing at william elston's desk. it was the derelict raving. the dramatic spirit of his speech thrilled her. it conveyed to her mind a picture of a ship fighting to sea against all odds and she could see the stranger in the next room somewhere in the foreground of a ragged shore urging others—men under him—to cheer her on.
a silence followed the outburst and emily tiptoed into the alleyway. she listened for paul, but no sound came from him aft. she had been below about an half-hour. he must be asleep.
the gold woman entered the derelict's door softly and discovered him sitting upright in his berth, peering from under his two hands as if at something a long distance away. there was an heroic suggestion in the posture of him and in the set of his scraggly white-bearded jaw.
"she's clear—clear," came from him in a tired whisper as emily crossed the threshold. he dropped his hands. "hello, nurse," he said, discovering the girl. she turned up the light.
"you're feeling much better, aren't you?" she asked very tenderly.
she held a glass of water to his lips and he drained it.
"thankee, nurse, thankee. another long drink, please. that's—ah! that's good. my coppers is hot. thankee. i'll be comin' out o' drydock soon. all i needs is t' get my head gear overhauled an' these ribs spliced. nurse, sailormen orter have good hackmatack knees for ribs." a faint smile of humor rippled across his face. "it's a mighty long way from a fore-uppertawps'l yard t' th' foc'sle head—a mighty long way."
the listener gathered that the old man believed he was suffering from the effects of a fall. he lay back obediently at her suggestion. his eyes appeared quite rational. although his hands were still scorching to the touch there had been an abatement of the fever. yet his pulse was extremely weak. when emily felt it she was surprised at the strength of his voice.
"nurse," he said, after a short pause, "when that 'ere sky pilot comes roun' in th' mornin' i wants you t' stand by." a twinkle danced in his sea-bleached blue eyes. "he says th' sea gives up its dead. i'll be after askin' th' gentleman how he knows. ye'll hear him shputter at that. it'll be a fair joke. a fair——"
he stopped seriously. his gaze sought the doorway. in a whisper fraught with a note of bitter fatalism he said:
"th' sea gives nothin' back, nurse. when it takes annythin' it kapes it. th' sky pilots are but pretindin'."
emily sensed that the sailor's mind was groping around the appearance of paul earlier in the evening. she feared that it would do him harm to let his mind rest on this and that it would be better if she could induce him to sleep.
"don't you think if i turned down the light you might be able to sleep again?"
the suggestion startled him.
"no, no, nurse. plaze lave th' light. i'll be afther stayin' awake for th' ould man—that's me own skipper."
"but he has been here. he——"
"mother av god!" he cried. he seized her hand and held it in great stress. "thin yez saw him, too! yez saw lavelle." his eyes, filled with awe, leaped from emily's face to the open doorway and back again. "'tis me warnin', colleen, t' be snuggin down—t' make everythin' tight!"
the thing she had wished not to do she had done unwittingly. she had turned his poor brain back to its memory of paul's father.
"did yez hear him shpake t' me? did he shpake t' annybody else?"
"it was not the captain lavelle you think. it was his son."
"his son? not 'prince' lavelle?"
the derelict shook his head in doubt, and as he did so he looked round the stateroom. his eyes picked up each article in it in a bewildered, half-familiar way.
"yes, his son. you must have no fears. can't you think where you are? do try. you're aboard the bark daphne—the daphne."
"daphne? daphne?" he repeated. "no, th' daphne wasn't there. there was th' trenton, th' nipsic, th' vandalia, a dutchmin called th' sadler, th' cally-ope—not daphne." it was plain that the past was ruling his memory. "'twas only yestiddy th' home mails come in an' brought th' 'prince' a loikeness av his littul bhoy—littul paul. says th' 'prince' t' me, 'dan, an' 'tis home with th' littul feller i'd loike t' be.' he says that t' me, an' him th' 'first luff' an' me a common sailorman an' capt'n av th' foretop be grace av three enlistments an' sthayin' sthraight three months on ind. now he's lyin' out there in thim god-forsaken wathers an' all because av a bloody lot av dutchmin an' naygurs."—"come along t' th' mass with me an' pray for god's kindness t' th' 'prince's' sowl. yez'll niver sail agin, my bullies, under an officher man loike 'the prince.'"
the last was not spoken to emily, but to men who were not in the room.
the sweet tender praise of the father of the man she loved with all the soul of her wrung tears from the listener. she could see "the prince" showing this sailor the picture of paul. she could hear him speaking.
"and he called you dan—'the prince'?" emily managed to say and with the hope that possibly it might suggest the derelict's identity.
"dan? t' be sure he called me dan. 'rid-headed bunch av sin' he called me whin i wint on th' bind. i had a thatch in thim days as rid as th' british merchant flag." a gnarled hand wandered to his bald crown and as it touched it the sailor started up. reason seemed to have made a breach in his poor brain. he looked round the room quickly. a light of recognition dawned in his gaze. "dan—dan," he kept repeating. "daniel—daniel mc—mc—mc—daniel mcgovern!"
emily hearkened in breathlessness. she felt herself in the presence of a mystery. paul had read her the names of the daphne's crew from the log. "daniel mcgovern" was not one of them.
tears coursed down the old man's cheeks. his hands trembled. his voice quavered in a childish treble. he kept on repeating the name over and over again as if he had found it after many years and was making sure that it would not escape him again.
suddenly he caught emily's hand and became still. he was listening.
"mother av god where am i?" he asked in a few seconds. in the next breath he exclaimed: "'tis a ship i'm on! i c'n fale th' sea!"
"you're in the bark daphne—the daphne. don't you understand? can't you remember anything?"
it was evident that a great struggle was going on within him.
"that's her door; that's her door," he whispered. he pointed at the stateroom door. "takewood an' mahogany an' maple. so were th' cabins thrimmed."
emily's heart leapt at this. he was from the daphne. she gave him a drink of water. she started to call paul. but when she thought of what had happened before she drew back.
"yez are not a spirut—th' spirut av mcgavock's woife, eh?" the derelict asked doubtfully.
"no, no; but what has happened here? what became of mcgavock's wife?"
"murder an' hell. that's what happened here. where's morgan—an' th' jap? th' sicond mote an' th' cook?"
"only you and captain lavelle and——"
a cunning expression came into the derelict's face at paul's name. his mind was breaking again.
"what d'yez know of lavelle?" without pausing for an answer, he went on: "'the prince' is drown-ded these twinty odd year. an' his poor bhoy—he's gone this past twilve-month. a man—a prince av min loike his father, he was. i was along av th' bhoy in th' yakutat."
emily's senses went reeling.
"the yakutat?" she gasped.
"aye, th' yakutat—th' big alaskan brute. she did for th' bhoy, but 'th' prince' would have loiked t' have been with us that night." a boastfulness of pride came into his voice. his eyes closed for a second as if he saw a vision. "'twas loike mush whin she piled up. misther lavelle kept a-tellin' graham he was sthandin' in too close, but 'twas no use. i heard him meself toll him twict. i was at th' wheel th' lasht toime. i can see th' two av thim just outside th' wheel-house now. 'you're wrong,' says 'th' prince's' son. 'i'm masther here,' says graham. dhrunk he was wid th' lust av pride an' power loike whin fools command. an' maybe he was dhrunk, too, wid somethin' else. 'take yure orders or go t' yure room.' an' 'th' prince's' son says he: 'i'll take me orders.' i was at th' wheel agin in th' mid-watch. god help me 'twas meself that stheered her up on th' rocks, obeying orders. she climbed thim loike a woild horse. th' scut av a third officher had th' bridge. 'full spade asthern' he give her as' i knew thin she was broke in two. 'full spade ahead,' an' she'd a-hung on th' rocks till mornin' whin th' shore folk could have saw us."
the old man paused.
"yes, yes, go on," whispered emily.
"a sup av water. that's it. thankee, nurse. where was i? oh——misther lavelle comes a-tumblin' up an' graham an' th' foorth officher. 'all hands t' th' boats,' says graham. a mad, crazy coward he was. says i t' meself, 'i want none av ye,' an' i followed 'the prince's' son. 't' th' boats.' huh! an' not enough boats for th' half av thim aboord. i lep' from th' wheel an' shtuck t' misther lavelle. we had a din av woild animals t' foight. but we got our boat away—th' childer an' th' women an' th' ould folk. lavelle he was for goin' back aboord. 'twas suicide. i shoved off. we cleared th' side an' just thin a big naygur i had lopped av' th' ear an' overboord from th' deck reaches up an' catches our gunnle. 'th' prince's' son cracks at him with an oar. a fule shtood up i' th' boat, sayin', 'take him aboord.' an' we full thin as a tick. th' next minynte an' over we wint.
"loike an hour ago i see it. says a littul lady forninst me—we'd taken her husband aboord 'cause we'd seen him sick about th' deck—says she, 'if we must die, we'll die thegither, jawn.' an' all round was bedlam."
with a shudder he lay back. emily granville knew that it was of her mother and father that the derelict had just spoken. but even in the stress of feeling which possessed her there formed in her mind an high, practical purpose. she knew that if this man could but reach the ears of the world with this tale it meant the vindication of paul lavelle. it meant all that was dear to him—his good name, his honor restored. the sailor must not die. he must live. she would fight death for him and in justice she must conquer. if she could do this thing for her love she would have nothing else to ask of life.
but of a sudden dread seized her. perhaps it was only the tale of a disordered brain that she had heard. why had not this man come forward at the inquiry which had sent paul forth branded a coward? why had he not told this story then? if he had been on the yakutat that night, how was it that paul did not remember him? could it be that this man's weakened mind had found suggestion for the tale from the force of her own mental desire?
"but what became of you after that night—after the yakutat was lost?" she asked.
"i don't know, nurse. i don't know. it was just a year ago that i woke up."
the last anchorage of her hope went with that. it was but a maundering tale, after all. or else her senses were tricking her and she had imagined that he had said these things about paul and her mother and father and the yakutat!
"it all came back to me," the derelict went on wearily—"twelve years of my loife. i was in th' seamen's bethel in hong kong—just a year gone. an' out av a 'frisco paper i spelled that th' lavelle av th' yakutat—'th' prince's' bhoy—was gone—lost in a tramp off rangoon. like th' loightnin' sthrikes th' twilve lost year come back. says i, 'i'm daniel mcgovern.' whin i was afther tellin' th' sky pilot he wint an' tol' th' docthors all about it. th' newspapers printed it. whin th' yakutat's boat wint over somethin' struck me head. a whale ship picked me up. 'th' prince's' boy niver knew i'd served with his father. all th' thrubble in me head shtarted before i j'ined th' yakutat. i was afther fallin' from th' tawps'l yard av some ship. her name—i can't raymimber where 'twas or what ship 'twas. i tould elston about it—fine lad he was—an he laughed at me till i give him th' piece out av th' hong kong newspaper. he laughed——i'll be afther shlapin', shlapin', nurse. i'll be——"
daniel mcgovern's eyes closed. he seemed very weak. for a second emily feared that he was dying. then, her abiding faith in the justice of things renewed her.
"he mustn't die, god—not yet, not yet," she pleaded in a whisper.
she ran from the derelict's room into the mate's. earlier in the evening she had found on elston's desk a book—a half-filled diary—from which she had torn a page upon which to write. she carried this book and pen and inkwell back to mcgovern's room. she would reduce mcgovern's story to writing and make him swear to it. as she spread the book open upon a chair and knelt beside it to write a newspaper clipping fluttered out from its pages. a glance confirmed the truth of all the derelict had said about his strange lapse of memory:
lost his identity for thirteen years.
word in a newspaper restores the memory of a man who had forgotten who he was.
thus ran the headlines. to emily granville they were written in fire.
the cabin clock struck seven bells—11:30—but she did not hear it. oblivious to all else save her task and the flickering life in the berth at her side she began to write a statement of all mcgovern had said. she felt that it was in her to stay death until the derelict had signed it.
