The Atlantic Book of Modern Plays by Gordon Bottomley et al. (free ebooks romance novels .txt) 📖

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. Slocum.

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.
Slocum? 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.

KEENEY (a touch of resentment in his voice). I got it jest for you.

MRS. KEENEY (dully). I know. (She turns away from them and walks slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy.) Ah, water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after all these months of ice! (She turns round to them, her face transfigured with joy.) Ah, now I must go upon deck and look at it, David.

KEENEY (frowning). Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when the sun shines.

MRS. KEENEY (desperately). But the sun never shines in this terrible place.

KEENEY (a tone of command in his voice). Best not to-day, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (crumbling before this command—abjectly). Very well,
David.

(She stands there staring straight before her as if in a daze. The two men look at her uneasily.)

KEENEY (sharply). Annie!

MRS. KEENEY (dully). Yes, David.

KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about—ship's business.

MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David.

(She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three quarters shut behind her.)

KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any trouble.

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. And trouble they's goin' to be. I feel it in my bones.

(Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it.)

Got yourn?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em—not if I know their breed of dog—jest to frighten 'em up a bit. (Grimly) I ain't never been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by sea's long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I reckon.

MATE (hesitatingly). Then you ain't goin'—to turn back?

KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in the hold?

MATE (hastily). No, sir—but the grub's gittin' low.

KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful with it; and they's plenty o' water.

MATE. They say it's not fit to eat—what's left; and the two years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble for you in the courts when we git home.

KEENEY. To hell with 'em! Let them make what law trouble they kin. I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the ile! (Glancing sharply at the MATE) You ain't turnin' no damned sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?

MATE (flushing). Not by a hell of a sight, sir.

KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep 'em in chewin' terbacco.

MATE (slowly). They wants to git back to their folks an' things,
I s'pose.

KEENEY (looking at him searchingly). 'N' you want to turn back, too. (THE MATE looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze.) Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. (With grim sarcasm) I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me.

MATE (indignantly). That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.

KEENEY (with satisfaction). I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one.

MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir—'bout turnin' home, I mean. (Desperately) But Mrs. Keeney, sir—seems like she ain't jest satisfied up here, ailin' like—what with the cold an' bad luck an' the ice an' all.

KEENEY (his face clouding—rebukingly but not severely). That's my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' that. (A pause.) The ice'll break up soon to no'th'rd. I could see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun, Annie'll perk up. (Another pause—then he bursts forth) It ain't the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days without a full ship. Ain't that truth?

MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'—

KEENEY (scornfully). And d' you s'pose any of 'em would believe that—any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'—Tibbots 'n' Harris 'n' Simms and the rest—and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport comin' back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile?" (The thought of this drives him into a frenzy, and he smashes his fist down on the marble top of the sideboard.) Hell! I got to git the ile, I tell you. How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad before in the thirty year I been a-comin' here. And now it's breakin'up. In a couple o'days it'll be all gone. And they's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of all hell, and by God, I ain't a-goin' home till I do git it!

(There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then KEENEY goes over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he were going to enter—then closes the door softly. JOE, the harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, enters from right and stands waiting for the captain to notice him.)

KEENEY (turning and seeing him). Don't be standin' there like a gawk, Harpooner. Speak up!

JOE (confusedly). We want—the men, sir—they want send a depitation aft to have a word with you.

KEENEY (furiously). Tell 'em to go to—(checks himself and continues grimly) Tell'em to come. I'll see'em.

JOE. Aye, aye, sir.

(He goes out.)

KEENEY (with a grim smile). Here it comes, the trouble you spoke of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to crush such things at the start than let them make headway.

MATE (worriedly). Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might need their help.

KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone,
Mr. Slocum.

(There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the crew crowd into the cabin, led by JOE. All are dressed alike—sweaters, sea-boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the CAPTAIN, twirling their fur caps in their hands.)

KEENEY (after a pause). Well? Who's to speak fur ye?

JOE (stepping forward with an air of bravado). I be.

KEENEY (eyeing him up and down coldly). So you be. Then speak your say and be quick about it.

JOE (trying not to wilt before the CAPTAIN'S glance and avoiding his eyes). The time we signed up for is done to-day.

KEENEY (icily). You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.

JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far's we kin see.

KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile.

JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice afore ye.

KEENEY. The ice is breaking up.

JOB (after a slight pause during which the others mumble angrily to one another). The grub we're gittin' now is rotten.

KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have eaten worse.

(There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd.)

JOE (encouraged by this support). We ain'ta-goin' to work no more 'less you puts back fur home.

KEENEY (fiercely). You ain't, ain't you?

JOE. No; and the law courts 'll say we was right.

KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm the law on this ship. (Edging up toward the harpooner.) And every mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons.

(There are more angry exclamations from the crew. MRS. KEENEY appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes. None of the men notices her.)

JOE (with bravado). Then we're a-goin' to mutiny and take the old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?

(As he turns his head to look at the others, KEENEY'S fist shoots out to the side of his jaw. JOE goes down in a heap and lies there. MRS. KEENEY gives a shriek and hides her face in her hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers of KEENEY and the MATE.)

KEENEY (his eyes and voice snapping). Hold still! (The men stand huddled together in a sullen silence. KEENEY'S voice is full of mockery.) You've found out it ain't safe to mutiny on this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and (he gives JOE'S body a contemptuous kick) drag him with you. And remember, the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick! (The men leave in cowed silence, carrying JOE with them. KEENEY turns to the MATE with a short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket.) Best get up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't