Ïîä áåçæàëîñòíûì íåáîì, 21-24 ãëàâà

   ßõòà è òåíäåð "Ìàÿê" áûëè íå åäèíñòâåííûìè ëîäêàìè, íàïðàâëÿâøèìèñÿ ê âûñòóïó. "Êðèêóí", âåäîìûé áóêñèðîì, — åãî ïàðóñà áûëè áû áåñïîëåçíû â íåïîäâèæíîì âîçäóõå, — óæå ìèíîâàë ìàÿê Êåéïîðòà è íàïðàâëÿëñÿ ê ïðèñòàíè â ìèëå îòñþäà. Êàïèòàí Áîá Áðàíäò äåðæàë ðóìïåëü, à êàïèòàí Äæî è Êàëåá âûñóíóëèñü èç îêîí
ðóëåâîé ðóáêè áóêñèðà. Îíè õîòåëè áûòü òàì, ÷òîáû ïîñìîòðåòü, íå âûêèíåò ëè
Êàðëòîí “êàêèõ-íèáóäü îáåçüÿíüèõ ôîêóñîâ”, öèòèðóÿ êàïèòàíà Áðàíäòà.

Íè ó êîãî èç íèõ íå áûëî ïðè÷èí ïèòàòü äðóæåñêèå ÷óâñòâà ïî îòíîøåíèþ ê
íàäçèðàòåëü. Êàëåáó ÷àñòî áûëî òðóäíî îòîðâàòüðóêè îò ãîðëà Êàðëòîíà ñ òåõ ïîð, êàê îí ñòîëêíóëñÿ ñ íèì ïîä èâàìè. ×òî êàñàåòñÿ êàïèòàíà Áðàíäòà, òî îí âñå åùå ïîìíèë òîò äåíü, êîãäà áûë óñòàíîâëåí óðîâåíü, êîãäà Êàðëòîí ôàêòè÷åñêè ñîëãàë åìó.

"Êðèêóí" ïðèáûë ïåðâûì; îí ïðèøâàðòîâàëñÿ ê óæå äîñòðîåííîìó ïðè÷àëó,
è áóêñèð ñíîâà ïîãðóçèëñÿ â âîäîâîðîò. Çàòåì òåíäåð "ìàÿê" ïîäîøåë
ê áîðòó è çàöåïèë ëåñêó çà ïàëóáíûå êíåõòû "Êðèêóíà".
ßõòà ïðèøëà ïîñëåäíåé, ðàñïîëîæèâøèñü â ñòîðîíå îò îñòàëüíûõ. Ýòî ñäåëàëî íåîáõîäèìûì äëÿ ïàññàæèðîâ, íàõîäÿùèåñÿ íà áîðòó ÿõòû, äîëæíû ïåðåñå÷ü ïàëóáó òåíäåðà, à ïàññàæèðû, íàõîäÿùèåñÿ êàê íà ÿõòå, òàê è íà òåíäåðå, äîëæíû ïåðåñå÷ü ïàëóáó
"Êðèêóíà", ïðåæäå ÷åì ñòóïèòü íà çàâåðøåííóþ êàìåííóþ êëàäêó ñàìîãî ìàÿêà.

Íè÷òî íå ìîãëî áû ïîäîéòè ìèññèñ Ëåðîé ëó÷øå, ÷åì ýòî âûíóæäåííîå
ñìåøåíèå ãîñòåé è ïîñåòèòåëüíèö. Îáìåí ëþáåçíîñòÿìè
ñðàçó æå óñòàíîâèë ñåðäå÷íîñòü, êîòîðàÿ ïðåäâåùàëà õîðîøèé èñõîä äíÿ
è äîáàâëÿëà åùå îäèí ñîëíå÷íûé ëó÷ ê åãî ñ÷àñòüþ, è ïîýòîìó
îíà íå îñëàáëÿëà ñâîèõ óñèëèé óìèëîñòèâèòü áîãîâ.

Ñòîèò îòìåòèòü, ÷òî Êàðëòîí íå ïðèíèìàë íèêàêîãî ó÷àñòèÿ â ðàäîñòíîé
ïðîãðàììå ýòîãî äíÿ. Îí ñïðûãíóë íà áåðåã, êàê òîëüêî òåíäåð ïðèñòàë
ê áîðòó “Êðèêóíà” (îí âñòðåòèë ãðóïïó èíæåíåðîâ â
æåëåçíîäîðîæíîì äåïî è îòïðàâèëñÿ ñ íèìè â Ëèòòë—Ãàëë-Ëàéò - èõ
ïåðâóþ îñòàíîâêó) è ñðàçó æå ýíåðãè÷íî ïðèñòóïèë ê ñâîåé ðàáîòå "íàäçèðàòåëÿ". íàñòîðîæåííîñòü, íèêîãäà íå çàìå÷åííàÿ â íåì ðàíüøå, è, öèòèðóþ
Íèêëñ, ïîâàð, êîòîðûé íàáëþäàë çà âñåì ïðåäñòàâëåíèåì èç îêíà
ëà÷óãè, “âàæíè÷àë áîëüøå, ÷åì òóïàÿ êîçà â þáêå ñ îáðó÷åì”.

 òîò ìîìåíò, êîãäà íîãà ìàéîðà òâåðäî âñòàëà íà âûñòóï, â íåì ïðîèçîøëà çàìåòíàÿ ïåðåìåíà. Ïðÿìàÿ ñïèíà, âûñîêî ïîäíÿòàÿ ãîëîâà, îòëè÷àâøèå åãî êîíòð-àäìèðàëüñêèå
ìàíåðû ñìåíèëèñü çàäóì÷èâûì ñïîêîéñòâèåì. Åãî íà÷àëè ïîãëîùàòü èíæåíåðíûå ïðîáëåìû. Ïîêèäàÿ Õàðäè è
Ñìàçàííûé, ÷òîáû ïîìî÷ü ïîæèëûì äàìàì ïðîáèðàòüñÿ ïî
ïîêðûòûì èçâåñòêîâûì ðàñòâîðîì ïëàòôîðìàì è ïîäíèìàòüñÿ è ñïóñêàòüñÿ ïî ãðóáûì ëåñòíèöàì ê âåðõíåìó
êðàþ êàìåííîé êëàäêè, îí íà÷àë îñìàòðèâàòü ðàáîòó âçãëÿäîì
îïûòíîãî ìåõàíèêà. Îí âíèìàòåëüíî îñìîòðåë öåìåíòíûå øâû â
êàìåííàÿ êëàäêà; ñêîñèë ãëàç âäîëü êðàåâ îáòåñàííûõ êàìíåé, ÷òîáû óáåäèòüñÿ, ÷òî
îíè íàñòîÿùèå; ïîäíÿë åãî ââåðõ, îñìàòðèâàÿ ñèñòåìó áóðîâûõ âûøåê,

CHAPTER XXI

THE RECORD OF NICKLES, THE COOK


The yacht and the lighthouse tender were not the only boats bound for
the Ledge. The Screamer, under charge of a tug,—her sails would have
been useless in the still air,—was already clear of Keyport Light,
and heading for the landing-wharf a mile away. Captain Bob Brandt held
the tiller, and Captain Joe and Caleb leaned out of the windows of the
pilot-house of the towing tug. They wanted to be there to see if
Carleton “played any monkey tricks,” to quote Captain Brandt.

None of them had had cause to entertain a friendly spirit toward the
superintendent. It had often been difficult for Caleb to keep his
hands from Carleton’s throat since his experience with him under the
willows. As for Captain Brandt, he still remembered the day the level
was set, when Carleton had virtually given him the lie.

The Screamer arrived first; she made fast to the now completed dock,
and the tug dropped back in the eddy. Then the lighthouse tender came
alongside and hooked a line around the Screamer’s deck-cleats. The
yacht came last, lying outside the others. This made it necessary for
the passengers aboard the yacht to cross the deck of the tender, and
for those of both the yacht and the tender to cross the deck of the
Screamer, before stepping upon the completed masonry of the lighthouse
itself.

Nothing could have suited Mrs. Leroy better than this enforced
intermingling of guests and visitors. The interchanges of courtesy
established at once a cordiality which augured well for the day’s
outcome and added another touch of sunshine to its happiness, and so
she relaxed none of her efforts to propitiate the gods.

It is worthy of note that Carleton played no part in the joyous
programme of the day. He sprang ashore as soon as the tender made fast
to the Screamer’s side (he had met the party of engineers at the
railroad depot, and had gone with them to Little Gull Light,—their
first stopping-place), and began at once his work of “superintending”
with a vigor and alertness never seen in him before, and, to quote
Nickles, the cook, who was watching the whole performance from the
shanty window, “with more airs than a Noank goat with a hoop-skirt.”

The moment the major’s foot was firmly planted upon the Ledge a marked
change was visible in him. The straight back, head up, rear-admiral
manner, which had distinguished him, gave way to one of a thoughtful
repose. Engineering problems began to absorb him. Leaving Hardy and
Smearly to help the older ladies pick their way over the
mortar-incrusted platforms and up and down the rude ladders to the top
rim of masonry, he commenced inspecting the work with the eye of a
skilled mechanic. He examined carefully the mortar joints of the
masonry; squinted his eye along the edges of the cut stones to see if
they were true; turned it aloft, taking in the system of derricks,
striking one with the palm of his hand and listening for the
vibration, to assure himself of its stability. And he asked questions
in a way that left no doubt in the minds of the men that he was past
grand master in the art of building lighthouses.

All but one man.

This doubter was Lonny Bowles, whom the Pocomokian had cared for in
the old warehouse hospital the night of the explosion. Bowles had
quietly dogged the major’s steps over the work, in the hope of being
recognized. At last the good-natured lineaments of the red-shirted
quarryman fastened themselves upon the major’s remembrance.

“My dear suh!” he broke out, as he jumped down from a huge
coping-stone and grasped Lonny’s hand. “Of co’se I remember you. I
sincerely hope you’re all right again,” stepping back and looking him
over with an expression of real pride and admiration.

“Oh yes, I’m purty hearty, thank ye,” said Bowles, laughing as he
hitched his sleeves up his arms, bared to the elbow. “How’s things
gone ’long o’ yerself?”

The major expressed his perfect satisfaction with life in its every
detail, and was about to compliment Bowles on the wonderful progress
of the work so largely due to his efforts, when the man at the
hoisting-engine interrupted with, “Don’t stand there now lalligaggin’,
Lonny. Where ye been this half hour? Hurry up with that monkey-wrench.
Do you want this drum to come off?” Lonny instantly turned his
attention to the work. When he had given the last turn to the
endangered nut, the man said, “Who’s the duck with the bobtail coat,
Lonny?”

“Oh, he’s one o’ the boss’s city gang. Fust time I see him he come
inter th’ warehouse when we was stove up. I thought he was a sawbones
till I see him a-fetchin’ water fur th’ boys. Then I thought he was a
preach till he began to swear. But he ain’t neither one; he’s an
out-an’-out ol’ sport, he is, every time, an’ a good un. He’s struck
it rich up here, I guess, from th’ way he’s boomin’ things with them
Leroy folks,”—which conviction seemed to be shared by the men around
him, now that they were assured of the major’s identity. Many of them
remembered the nankeen and bombazine suit which the Pocomokian wore on
that fatal day, and the generally disheveled appearance that he
presented the following morning. The present change in his attire was
therefore the more incomprehensible.

During all this time, Sanford, with the assistance of Captain Joe and
Caleb, was adjusting his transit, in order that he might measure for
the committee the exact difference between the level shown on the
plans and the level found in the concrete base. In this adjustment,
the major, who had now joined the group, took the deepest interest,
discoursing most learnedly, to the officers about him, upon the
marvels of modern science, punctuating his remarks every few minutes
with pointed allusions to his dear friend Henry, “that Archimedes of
the New World,” who in this the greatest of all his undertakings had
eclipsed all former achievements. The general listened with an amused
smile, in which the whole committee joined before long.

Either General Barton’s practiced eye forestalled any need of the
instrument, or Carleton had already fully posted him as to which side
of the circle was some inches too high, for he asked, with some
severity:—

“Isn’t the top of that concrete base out of level, Mr. Sanford?”

“Yes, sir; some inches too high near the southeast derrick,” replied
Sanford promptly.

“How did that occur?”

“I should prefer you to ask the superintendent,” said Sanford quietly.

Mrs. Leroy, who was standing a short distance away on a dry plank that
Sanford had put under her feet, her ears alert, stopped talking to
Smearly and turned her head. She did not want to miss a word.

“What have you to say, Mr. Carleton? Did you give any orders to raise
that level?” The general looked over his glasses at the
superintendent.

Carleton had evidently prepared himself for this ordeal, and had
carefully studied his line of answers. As long as he kept the written
requirements under the contract he was safe.

“If I understand my instructions, sir, I am not here to give orders.
The plans show what is to be done.” He spoke in a low, almost gentle
voice, and with a certain deference of manner which no one had ever
seen in him before, and which Sanford felt was even more to be dreaded
than his customary bluster.

Captain Joe stepped closer to Sanford’s side, and Caleb and Captain
Bob Brandt, who stood on the outside of the circle of officers grouped
around the tripod, leaned forward, listening intently. They, too, had
noticed the change in Carleton’s manner. The other men dropped their
shovels and tools, and edged up, not obtrusively, but so as to
overhear everything.

“Is this the reason you have withheld the certificate, of which the
contractor complains?” asked the general, with a tone in his voice as
of a judge interrogating a witness.

Carleton bowed his head meekly in assent. “I can’t sign for work that
’s done wrong, sir.”

Captain Joe made a movement as if to speak, when Sanford, checking him
with a look, began, “The superintendent is right so far as he goes,
general, but there is another clause in the contract which he seems to
forget. I’ll quote it,” drawing an important-looking document from his
pocket and spreading it out on the top of a cement barrel: “‘Any
dispute arising between the United States engineer, or his
superintendent, and the contractor, shall be decided by the former,
and his decision shall be final.’ If the level of this concrete base
does not conform to the plans, there is no one to blame but the
superintendent himself.”

Sanford’s flashing eye and rising voice had attracted the attention of
the ladies as well as that of their escorts. They ceased talking and
played with the points of their parasols, tracing little diagrams in
the cement dust, preserving a strict neutrality, like most people
overhearing a quarrel in which they have no interest, but who are
alert to lose no move in the contest. Sanford would have liked less
publicity in the settlement of the matter, and so expressed himself in
a quick glance toward the guests. This anxiety was instantly seen by
the major, who, with a tact that Sanford had not given him credit for,
led the ladies away out of hearing on pretense of showing them some of
the heavy masonry.

The engineer-in-chief looked curiously at Carleton, and the awakened
light of a new impression gleamed in his eye. Sanford’s confident
manner and Carleton’s momentary agitation over Sanford’s statement,
upsetting for an instant his lamblike reserve, evidently indicated
something hidden behind this dispute which until then had not come to
the front.

“I’ll take any blame that ’s coming to me,” said Carleton, his
meekness merging into a dogged, half-imposed-on tone, “but I can’t be
responsible for other folks’ mistakes. I set that level myself two
months ago, and left the bench-marks for ’em to work up to. When I
come out next time they’d altered them. I told ’em it wouldn’t do, and
they’d have to take up what concrete they’d set and lower the level
again. They said they was behind and wanted to catch up, that it made
no difference anyhow, and they wouldn’t do it.”

General Barton turned to Sanford and was about to speak, when a voice
rang out clear and sharp, “That’s a lie!”

Everybody looked about for the speaker. If a bomb had exploded above
their heads, the astonishment could not have been greater.

Before any one could speak Captain Bob Brandt forced his way into the
middle of the group. His face was flushed with anger, his lower lip
was quivering. “I say it again. That’s a lie, and you know it,” he
said calmly, pointing his finger at Carleton, whose cheek paled at
this sudden onslaught. “This ain’t my job, gentlemen,” and he faced
General Barton and the committee, “an’ it don’t make no difference to
me whether it gits done ’r not. I’m hired here ’long with my sloop
a-layin’ there at the wharf, an’ I git my pay. But I’ve been here all
summer, an’ I stood by when this ’ere galoot you call a superintendent
sot this level; and when he says Cap’n Joe didn’t do the work as he
ordered it he lies like a thief, an’ I don’t care who hears it. Ask
Cap’n Joe Bell and Caleb West, a-standin’ right there ’longside o’ ye:
they’ll gin it to ye straight; they’re that kind.”

Barton was an old man and accustomed to the respectful deference of a
government office, but he was also a keen observer of human nature.
The expression on the skipper’s face and on the faces of the others
about him was too fearless to admit of a moment’s doubt of their
sincerity.

Carleton shrugged his shoulders as if it were to be expected that
Sanford’s men would stand by him. Then he said, with a half sneer at
Captain Brandt, “Five dollars goes a long ways with you fellers.” The
cat had unconsciously uncovered its claws.

Brandt sprang forward with a wicked look in his eye, when the general
raised his hand.

“Come, men, stop this right away.” There was a tone in the chief
engineer’s voice which impelled obedience. “We are here to find out
who is responsible for this error. I am surprised, Mr. Sanford,”
turning almost fiercely upon him, “that a man of your experience did
not insist on a written order for this change of plan. While six
inches over an area of this size does not materially injure the work,
you are too old a contractor to alter a level to one which you admit
now was wrong, and which at the time you knew was wrong, without some
written order. It violates the contract.”

Here Nickles, the cook, who had been craning his neck out of the
shanty window so as not to lose a word of the talk, withdrew it so
suddenly that one of the men standing by the door hurried into the
shanty, thinking something unusual was the matter.

“I have never been able to get a written order from this
superintendent for any detail of the work since he has been here,”
said Sanford in a positive tone, “and he has never raised his hand to
help us. What the cause of his enmity is I do not know. We have all of
us tried to treat him courteously and follow his orders whenever it
was possible to do so. He insisted on this change after both my master
diver, Caleb West here, Captain Joe Bell, and others of my best men
had protested against it, and we had either to stop work and appeal to
the Board, and so lose the summer’s work and be liable to the
government for non-completion on time, or obey him. I took the latter
course, and you can see the result. It was my only way out of the
difficulty.”

At this instant there came a crash which sounded like breaking china,
evidently in the shanty, and a cloud of white dust, the contents of a
partly empty flour-barrel, sifted out through the open window. The
general turned his head in inquiry, and, seeing nothing unusual,
continued:—

“You should have stopped work, sir, and appealed. The government does
not want its work done in a careless, unworkmanlike way, and will not
pay for it.” His voice had a tone in it that sent a pang of anxiety to
Mrs. Leroy’s heart.

Carleton smiled grimly. He was all right, he said to himself. Nobody
believed the Yankee skipper.

Before Sanford could gather his wits in reply the shanty door was
flung wide open, and Nickles backed out, carrying in his arms a pine
door, higher and wider than himself. He had lifted it from its hinges
in the pantry, upsetting everything about it.

“I guess mebbe I ain’t been a-watchin’ this all summer fur nothin’,
gents,” he said, planting the door squarely before the general. “You
kin read it fur yerself,—it’s ’s plain ’s print. If ye want what ye
call an ‘order,’ here it is large as life.”

It was the once clean pine door of the shanty, on which Sanford and
the men had placed their signatures in blue pencil the day the level
was fixed, and Carleton, defying Sanford, had said it should “go that
way” or he would stop the work!

General Barton adjusted his eyeglasses and began reading the
inscription. A verbatim record of Carleton’s instructions was before
him. The other members of the Board crowded around, reading it in
silence.

General Barton replaced his gold-rimmed eyeglasses carefully in their
case, and for a moment looked seaward in an abstracted sort of way.
The curiously inscribed door had evidently made a deep impression upon
him.

“I had forgotten about that record, general,” said Sanford, “but I am
very glad it has been preserved. It was made at the time, so we could
exactly carry out the superintendent’s instructions. As to its truth,
I should prefer you to ask the men who signed it. They are all here
around you.”

The general looked again at Captain Joe and Caleb. There was no
questioning their integrity. Theirs were faces that disarmed suspicion
at once.

“Are these your signatures?” he asked, pointing to the scrawls in blue
lead pencil subscribed under Sanford’s.

“They are, sir,” said Captain Joe and Caleb almost simultaneously;
Caleb answering with a certain tone of solemnity, as if he were still
in government service and under oath, lifting his hat as he spoke. Men
long in government employ have this sort of unconscious awe in the
presence of their superiors.

“Make a copy of it,” said the general curtly to the secretary of the
Board. Then he turned on his heel, crossed the Screamer’s deck, and
entered the cabin of the tender, where he was followed by the other
members of the committee.

Ten minutes later the steward of the tender called Carleton. The men
looked after him as he picked his way over the platforms and across
the deck of the sloop. His face was flushed, and a nervous twitching
of the muscles of his mouth showed his agitation over the summons. The
apparition of the pantry door, they thought, had taken the starch out
of him.

Mrs. Leroy crossed to Sanford’s side and whispered anxiously, “What do
you think, Henry?”

“I don’t know yet, Kate. Barton is a gruff, exact man, and a martinet,
but he hasn’t a dishonest hair on his head. Wait.”

The departure of the engineers aboard the tender, followed almost
immediately by that of the superintendent, left the opposition, so to
speak, unrepresented. Those of the ladies who were on sufficiently
intimate terms with Sanford to mention the fact at all, and who,
despite the major’s efforts to lead them out of range, had heard every
word of the discussion, expressed the hope that the affair would come
out all right. One, a Mrs. Corson, said in a half-querulous tone that
she thought they ought to be ashamed of themselves to find any fault,
after all the hard work he had done. Jack and Smearly consulted apart.
They were somewhat disturbed, but still believed that Sanford would
win his case.

To the major, however, the incident had a far deeper and much more
significant meaning.

“It’s a part of their infernal system, Henry,” he said in a
sympathetic voice, now really concerned for his friend’s welfare,—“a
trick of the damnable oligarchy, suh, that is crushing out the life of
the people. It is the first time since the wah that I have come as
close as this to any of the representatives of this government, and it
will be the last, suh.”

Before Sanford could soothe the warlike spirit of his champion, the
steward of the tender again appeared, and, touching his cap, said the
committee wished to see Mr. Sanford.

The young engineer excused himself to those about him and followed the
steward, Mrs. Leroy looking after him with a glance of anxiety as he
crossed the deck of the Screamer,—an anxiety which Sanford tried to
relieve by an encouraging wave of his hand.

As Sanford entered the saloon Carleton was just leaving it, hat in
hand. He did not raise his eyes. His face was blue-white. Little
flecks of saliva were sticking in the corners of his mouth, as if his
breath were dry.

General Barton sat at the head of the saloon table. The other members
of the Board were seated below him.

“Mr. Sanford,” said the general, “we have investigated the differences
between yourself and the superintendent with the following result:
First, the committee has accepted the work as it stands, believing in
the truthfulness of yourself and your men, confirmed by a record which
it could not doubt. Second, the withheld certificate will be signed
and checks forwarded to you as soon as the necessary papers can be
prepared. Third, Superintendent Carleton has been relieved from duty
at Shark Ledge Light.”




CHAPTER XXII

AFTER THE BATTLE


Carleton’s downfall was known all over the Ledge and on board every
boat that lay at its wharf long before either he or Sanford regained
the open air. The means of communication was that same old silent
current that requires neither pole nor battery to put it into working
order. Within thirty seconds of the time the ominous words fell from
the general’s lips, the single word “Dennis,” the universal sobriquet
for a discharged man our working world over, was in every man’s mouth.
Whatever medium was used, the meaning was none the less clear and
unmistakable. The steward may have winked to the captain in the
pilothouse, or the cook shrugged his shoulders, opening his mouth with
the gasping motion of a strangling chicken, and so conveyed the news
to the forecastle; or one of the crew, with ears wide open, might have
found it necessary to uncoil a rope outside the cabin window at the
precise moment the general gave his decision, and have instantly
passed the news along to his nearest mate. Of one thing there was no
doubt: Carleton had given his last order on Shark Ledge.

An animated discussion followed among the men.

“Ought to give him six months,” blurted out Captain Bob Brandt, whose
limited experience of government inspecting boards led him to believe
that its officers were clothed with certain judicial powers. “Hadn’t
’a’ been for old Hamfats” (Nickles’s nickname) “an’ his pantry door,
he’d ’a’ swore Cap’n Joe’s character away.”

“Well, I’m kind’er sorry for him, anyway,” said Captain Joe, not
noticing the skipper’s humorous allusion. “Poor critter, he ain’t real
responsible. What’s he goin’ to do fur a livin’, now that the gov’ment
ain’t a-goin’ to support him no more?”

“Ain’t nobody cares; he’ll know better ’n to lie nex’ time,” grunted
Lonny Bowles. “Is he comin’ ashore here agin, Caleb, er has he dug a
hole fur himself ’board the tender in the coal bunkers?”

Caleb smiled grimly, but made no reply. He never liked to think of
Carleton, much less to talk of him. Since the night when he had
waylaid Betty coming home from Keyport, his name had not passed the
diver’s lips. He had always avoided him on the work, keeping out of
his way, not so much from fear of Carleton as from fear of
himself,—fear that in some uncontrollable moment he might fall upon
him and throttle him.

If a certain sigh of relief went up from the working force on the
Ledge over Carleton’s downfall and Sanford’s triumph, a much more
joyous feeling permeated the yacht. Not only were Jack and Smearly
jubilant, but even Sam, with a grin the width of his face, had a
little double shuffle of his own in the close quarters of the galley,
while the major began forthwith to concoct a brew in which to drink
Sanford’s health, and of such mighty power that for once Sam disobeyed
his instructions, and emptied a pint of Medford spring water instead
of an equal amount of old Holland gin into the seductive mixture.
“’Fo’ God, Mr. Sanford, dey wouldn’t one o’ dem ladies knowed deir
head from a whirlum-gig if dey’d drank dat punch,” he said afterwards
to his master, in palliation of his sin.

Sanford took the situation with a calmness customary to him when
things were going well. His principle in life was to do his best every
time, and leave the rest to fate. When he worried it was before a
crisis. He had not belittled the consequences of a rejection of the
work. He knew how serious it might have been. Had the Board become
thoroughly convinced that he had openly and without just cause
violated both the written contract and the instructions of the
superintendent, they might have been forced to make an example of him,
and to require all the upper masonry to be torn down and rebuilt on a
true level, a result which would have entailed the loss of thousands
of dollars.

His own reply to General Barton and the Board was a grim, reserved, “I
thank you, gentlemen,” with an added hope that the new superintendent
might be instructed to give written orders when any departure from the
contract was insisted upon, to which the chief engineer agreed.

His greatest satisfaction, though, was really over his men. The
vindication of his course was as much their triumph as his. He knew
who had been its master spirits; the credit was not due to him, but to
Captain Joe, Caleb, and Captain Brandt, whose pluck, skill, and
devotion both to himself and the work had made its success possible.
He had only inspired them to do their best.

Later, when he called them together on the Ledge and gave them the
details of the interview,—he never kept anything of this kind from
his working force,—he cautioned one and all of them to exercise the
greatest patience and good temper toward the new superintendent,
whoever he might be, who was promised in a few days, so that nothing
might happen which would incur his ill will; reminding them that it
would not do for a second superintendent to be disgruntled, no matter
whose fault it was, to which Captain Joe sententiously replied:—

“All right; let ’em send who they like; sooner the better. But one
thing I kin tell ’em, an’ that is that none on ’em can’t stop us now
from gittin’ through, no matter how ornery they be.”

But of all the happy souls that breathed the air of this lovely autumn
day Mrs. Leroy was the happiest. She felt, somehow, that the decision
of the committee was a triumph for both Sanford and herself: for
Sanford because of his constant fight against the elements, for her
because of her advice and encouragement. As the words fell from
Sanford’s lips, telling her of the joyful news,—he had found her
aboard the yacht and had told her first of all,—her face flushed, and
her eyes lighted with genuine pleasure.

“What did I tell you!” she said, holding out her hand in a hearty,
generous way, as a man would have done. “I knew you would do it. Oh, I
am so proud of you, you great splendid fellow!”

Then a sudden inspiration seized her. She darted back again to the
Ledge in search of Captain Joe, her dainty skirts raised about her
tiny boots to keep them from the rough platforms.

“Do come and lunch with us, Captain Bell!” she exclaimed in her joyous
way. “I really want you, and the ladies would so love to talk to you.”
She had not forgotten his tenderness over Betty the morning he came
for her; more than that, he had stood by Sanford.

The captain stopped, somewhat surprised, and looked down into her eyes
with the kindly expression of a big mastiff diagnosing a kitten.

“Well, that’s real nice o’ ye, an’ I thank ye kindly,” he answered,
his eyes lighting up at her evident sincerity. “But ye see yer vittles
would do me no good. So if ye won’t take no offense I’ll kind’er grub
in with the other men. Cook’s jes’ give notice to all hands.”

As she looked into his eyes her thoughts reverted to that morning in
the hospital when the captain’s same sense of the fitness of things
had saved her from being established as nurse to the wounded men. She
was about to press her request again when her glance fell on Caleb
standing by himself a little way off. She turned and walked toward
him. But it was not to ask him to luncheon.

“I have heard Mr. Sanford speak so often of you that I wanted to know
you before I left the work,” she said, holding out her little gloved
hand. Caleb looked into her face and touched the dainty glove with two
of his fingers,—he was afraid to do more, it was so small,—and, with
his eyes on hers, listened while she spoke in a tender, sympathetic
tone, lowering her voice so that no one could hear but himself,—not
even Sanford: “I have heard all about your troubles, Mr. West, and I
am so sorry for you both; she stayed with me one night last summer.
She said, poor child, she was very miserable; it’s an awful thing to
be alone in the world.”

Sanford watched her as she flitted over the rough platforms like a
bird that sings as it flies. Unaccountable as it was to him even in
the happiness of his triumph, a strange feeling of disappointment came
over him. He began in an utterly unreasonable way to wonder whether
their intimacy would now be as close as before, and whether the daily
conferences would end, since he had no longer any anxieties to lay
before her.

Something in her delight, and especially in the frank way in which she
had held out her hand like a man friend in congratulation, had chilled
rather than cheered him. He felt hurt without knowing why. A sense of
indefinable personal loss came over him. In the rush of contending
emotions suddenly assailing him, he began to doubt whether she had
understood his motives that night on the veranda when he had kissed
her hand,—whether in fact he had ever understood her. Had she really
conquered her feelings as he had his? Or had there been nothing to
conquer? Then another feeling rose in his heart,—a vague jealousy of
the very work which had bound them so closely together, and which now
seemed to claim all her interest.




CHAPTER XXIII

A BROKEN DRAW


Throughout the luncheon that followed aboard the yacht the major was
the life of the party. He had offered no apology either to Sanford or
to any member of the committee for his hasty conclusions regarding the
“damnable oligarchy.” He considered that he had wiped away all
bitterness, when, rising to his feet and rapping with the handle of
his knife for order, he said with great dignity and suavity of
manner:—

“On behalf of this queen among women,” turning to Mrs. Leroy, “our
lovely hostess, as well as these fair young buds”—a graceful wave of
his hand—(some of these buds had grandchildren) “who adorn her table,
I rise to thank you, suh,”—semi-military salute to General
Barton,—“for the opportunity you have given them of doing honor to a
gentleman and a soldier,”—a double-barreled compliment that brought a
smile to that gentleman’s face, and a suppressed ripple of laughter
from the other members of the committee.

In the same generous way he filled his own and everybody else’s bumper
for Sanford out of the bowl that Sam had rendered innocuous,
addressing his friend as that “young giant, who has lighted up the
pathway of the vasty deep.” To which bit of grandiloquence Sanford
replied that the major was premature, but that he hoped to accomplish
it the following year.

In addition to conducting all these functions, the Pocomokian
neglected no minor detail of the feast. He insisted upon making the
coffee after an especial formula of his own, and cooled in a new way
and with his own hands the several cordials banked up on Sam’s silver
tray. He opened parasols for the ladies and champagne for the men with
equal grace and dexterity; was host, waiter, valet, and host again;
and throughout the livelong day one unfailing source of enthusiasm,
courtesy, and helpfulness. With all this be it said to his credit, he
had never overstepped the limits of his position, as High
Rubber-in-Chief,—his main purpose having been to get all the fun
possible out of the situation, both for himself and for those about
him. These praiseworthy efforts were not appreciated by all of the
guests. The general and the committee had several times, in their own
minds, put him down for a charlatan and a mountebank, especially when
they deliberated upon the fit of his clothes, and his bombastic and
sometimes fulsome speeches.

All these several vagaries, however, of the distinguished Pocomokian
only endeared him the more to Sanford and his many friends. They saw a
little deeper under the veneer, and knew that if the major did smoke
his hostess’s cigars and drink her cognac, it was always as her guest
and in her presence. They knew, too, that, poor and often thirsty as
he was, he would as soon have thought of stuffing his carpet-bag with
the sheets that covered his temporary bed as of filling his private
flask with the contents of the decanter that Buckles brought nightly
to his room. It was just this delicate sense of honor that saved him
from pure vagabondage.

When coffee and cigars had been served, the general and his party
again crossed the gangplank to the tender, the mooring-lines were
thrown off, and the two boats, with many wavings of hands from yacht
and Ledge, kept on their respective courses. The tender was to keep on
to Keyport, where the committee were to board the train for New York,
and the yacht was to idle along until sundown, and so on into Medford
harbor. Captain Joe and Caleb were to follow later in the tug that had
towed out the Screamer, they being needed in Keyport to load some
supplies.

As the tender steamed away the men on the Ledge looked eagerly for
Carleton, that they might give him some little leave-taking of their
own,—it would have been a characteristic one,—but he was nowhere to
be seen.

“Buried up in the coal bunkers, jes’ ’s I said,” laughed Lonny Bowles.

                *    *    *    *    *

With the final wave to the fast disappearing tender of a red
handkerchief, the property of the major, returned by the general
standing in the stern of his own boat, Mrs. Leroy’s party settled
themselves on the forward deck of the yacht to enjoy the afternoon run
back to Medford.

The ladies sat under the awnings, where they were made comfortable
with cushions from the saloon below, while some of the men threw
themselves flat on the deck cushions, or sat Turkish fashion in those
several sprawling positions only possible under like conditions, and
most difficult for some men to learn to assume properly. Jack Hardy
knew to a nicety how to stow his legs away, and so did Sanford. Theirs
were always invisible. Smearly never tried the difficult art. He
thought it beneath his dignity; and then again there was too much of
him in the wrong place. The major wanted to try it, and no doubt would
have done so with decorum and grace but for his clothes. It was a
straight and narrow way that the major had been walking all day, and
he could run no risks.

Everything aboard the yacht had been going as merry as a marriage or
any other happy bell of good cheer,—the major at his best, Smearly
equally delightful, Helen and Jack happy as two song-birds, and Mrs.
Leroy with a joyous word for every one between her confidences to
Sanford, when just as the gayety was at its height a quick sharp ring
was heard in the engine-room below. Almost at the same instant one of
the crew touched Sanford on the shoulder and whispered something in
his ear.

Sanford sprang to his feet and looked eagerly toward the shore.

The yacht at the moment was entering the narrow channel of Medford
harbor, and the railroad trestle and draw could be plainly seen from
its deck. Sanford’s quick eye had instantly detected a break in the
sky-line. The end of the railroad track placed on the trestle, and
crossing within a few hundred feet of Mrs. Leroy’s cottage, was
evidently twisted out of shape, while across the channel, on its
opposite end rested an engine and two cars, the outer one derailed and
toppled over. On the water below were crowded every conceivable kind
of small boat hurrying to the scene, while the surrounding banks were
black with people watching intently a group of men on board a scow,
who were apparently trying to keep above water a large object which
looked like a floating house.

Something serious had evidently happened.

A panic of apprehension instantly seized the guests on the yacht.
Faces which but a few moments before had been rosy with smiles became
suddenly anxious and frightened. Some of the ladies spoke in whispers;
could it be possible, every one asked, that the train with General
Barton and the committee on board had met with an accident?

Sanford, followed by Mrs. Leroy, hurried into the pilot-house to
search the horizon from that elevation and see the better. One
moment’s survey removed all doubt from his mind. A train had gone
through the draw; whether passenger or freight he could not tell. One
thing was certain: some lives must be in danger, or the crowd would
not watch so intently the group who were working with such energy
aboard the rescuing scow. At Sanford’s request three quick, short
bells sounded in the engine-room below, and the yacht quivered along
her entire length as she doubled her speed. When she came within
hailing distance of the shore a lobster fisherman pulled out and
crossed the yacht’s bow.

“What’s happened?” shouted Sanford, waving his hat to attract
attention.

The fisherman stopped rowing, and the yacht slowed down.

“Train through the draw,” came the answer.

“Passenger or freight?”

“’T ain’t neither one. It’s a repair train from Stonin’ton, with a lot
o’ dagos an’ men. Caboose went clean under, an’ two cars piled on
top.”

Sanford breathed freer; the Board were safe, anyhow.

“Anybody killed?”

“Yes. Some says six; some says more. None in the caboose got out. The
dagos was on the dirt-car an’ jumped.”

The yacht sped on. As she neared the railroad draw Jack took Helen’s
hand and led her down into the cabin. He did not want her to see any
sight that would shock her. Mrs. Leroy stood by Sanford; the yacht was
her house, so to speak; some one might need its hospitality and
shelter, and she wanted to be the first to offer it. The same idea had
crossed Sanford’s mind.

“Major,” said Sanford, “please tell Sam to get some brandy ready and
bring some of the mattresses from the crew’s bunks up on deck; they
may be useful.”

A voice now hailed Sanford. It came from the end of the scow nearest
the sunken house, now seen to be one end of a caboose car. “Is there a
doctor aboard your yacht?”

“Yes, half a one. Who wants him?” called Smearly, leaning over the
rail in the direction of the sound.

“We’ve got a man here we can’t bring to. He’s alive, but that’s all.”

The yacht backed water and moved close to the scow. Sanford jumped
down, followed by Smearly carrying the brandy and the major with a
mattress, and ran along her deck to where the man lay. The yacht kept
on. It was to land the ladies a hundred yards away, and then return.

“Hand me that brandy, quick, major!” exclaimed Smearly, as he dropped
on one knee and bent over the sufferer, parting the lips with his
fingers and pouring a spoonful between the closed teeth. “Now pull
that mattress closer, and some of you fellows make a pillow of your
coats, and find something to throw over him when he comes to; it’s the
cold that’s killing him. He’ll pull through, I think.”

Smearly’s early training in the hospital service while making sketches
during the war had more than once stood him in good stead.

The major was the first man in his shirt-sleeves; Leroy’s commodore
coat was beginning to be of some real service. Two of the scow’s crew
added their own coats, and then ran for an army blanket in the cabin
of the scow. The sufferer was lifted up on the mattress and made more
comfortable, the coats placed under his head, the army blanket tucked
about him.

The injured man gave a convulsive gasp and partly opened his eyes. The
brandy was doing its work. Sanford leaned over him to see if he could
recognize him, but the ooze and slime clung so thickly to the mustache
and closely trimmed beard that he could not make out his features. He
seemed to be under thirty years of age, strong and well built. He was
dressed in a blue shirt and overalls, and looked like a mechanic.

“How many others?” asked Sanford, looking toward the wreck.

“He’s the only one alive,” answered the captain of the scow. “We
hauled him through the winder of the caboose just as she was a-turnin’
over; he’s broke something, some’ers, I guess, or he’d ’a’ come to
quicker. There’s two dead men under there,” pointing to the sunken
caboose, “so the brakeman says. If we had a diver we could git ’em up.
The railroad superintendent’s been here, an’ says he’ll send for one;
but you know what that means,—he’ll send for a diver after they git
this caboose up; by that time they’d be smashed into pulp.”

The yacht had now steamed back to the wreck with word from Mrs. Leroy
to send for whatever would be needed to make the injured man
comfortable. Sam delivered the message, standing in the bow of the
yacht. He had not liked the idea of leaving Sanford, when the yacht
moved off from the scow, and had so expressed himself to the
sailing-master. He was Sanford’s servant, not Mrs. Leroy’s, he had
said, and when people were getting blown up and his master had to stay
and attend to them, his place was beside him, not “waitin’ on de
ladies.”

With the approach of the yacht Sanford looked at his watch
thoughtfully, and raising his voice to the sailing-master, who was
standing in the pilot-house, his hand on the wheel, said: “Captain, I
want you to tow this scow to Mrs. Leroy’s dock, so a doctor can get at
this wounded man. He needs hot blankets at once. Then crowd on
everything you’ve got and run to Keyport. Find Captain Joe Bell, and
tell him to put my big air-pump aboard and bring Caleb West and his
diving-dress. There are two dead men down here who must be got at
before the wrecking train begins on the caboose. My colored boy, Sam,
will go with you and help you find the captain’s house,—he knows
where he lives. If you are quick you can make Keyport and back in an
hour.”




CHAPTER XXIV

THE SWINGING GATE


When the tug landed Caleb at Keyport this same afternoon, he hurried
through his duties and went straight to his cabin. Mrs. Leroy’s
sympathetic words were still in his ears. He could hear the very tones
of her voice and recall the pleading look in her eyes. He wished he
had told her the whole truth then and there, and how he felt toward
Betty; and he might have done so had not the other ladies been there,
expecting her aboard the yacht. He did not feel hurt or angry; he
never was with those who spoke well of his wife. Her words had only
deepened the conviction that had lately taken possession of his own
mind,—that he alone, of all who knew Betty, had shut his heart
against her. Even this woman,—a total stranger,—who had taken her
out of the streets and befriended her still pleaded for her. When
would his own heart ever be softened? What did he want her to do for
him? Crawl back on her hands and knees and lie outside his door until
he took her in? And if she never came,—what then?

How long would she be able to endure her present life? He had saved
her from Carleton. So far no one except Betty, Carleton, and himself
had known of the night attack; not even Captain Joe. It was best not
to talk about it; it might injure her. But who else would try to
waylay and insult her? Maybe his holding out so long against her would
force her into other temptations, and so ruin her. What if it was
already too late? Lacey had been seen round Keyport lately,—once at
night. He knew he wrote to her; Bert Simmons, the letter-carrier, had
shown him other letters with the Stonington postmark. Was Lacey
hanging round Keyport because she had sent for him? And if she went
back to him after all,—whose fault was it?

At the thought of Lacey the beads of sweat stood on his forehead.
Various conflicting emotions took possession of him, bringing the hot
blood to his cheek and setting his fingernails deep into the palms of
his hands. It was only at rare intervals, when he had run into
Stonington aboard the Screamer, or on one of the tugs short of coal or
water, that he had seen the man who had ruined his home, and then only
at a distance. The young rigger was at work around the cars on the
dock. Caleb had never known whether Lacey had seen him. He thought
not. The men said the young fellow always moved away when any of the
Keyport boats came in. Then his mind reverted to Captain Joe and to
the night he pleaded for her, and to the way he said over and over
again, “She ain’t nothin’ but a child, Caleb, an’ all of us is liable
to go astray.” These words seemed to burn themselves into his brain.

As the twilight came on he went upstairs on tiptoe, treading as
lightly as if he knew she was asleep and he feared to waken her.
Standing by the bed, he looked about him in an aimless, helpless way,
his eyes resting finally on the counterpane, and the pillow he had
placed every night for her on her side of the bed. It was yellow and
soiled now. In the same half-dazed, dreamy way he stepped to the
closet, opened the door cautiously, and laid his hand upon her
dresses, which hung where she had left them, smoothing them softly
with his rough fingers. He could easily have persuaded himself (had
she been dead) that her spirit was near him, whispering to him,
leading him about, her hand in his.

As he stood handling the dresses, with their little sleeves and
skirts, all the paternal seemed suddenly to come out in him. She was
no longer his wife, no longer the keeper of his house, no longer the
custodian of his good name. She was his child, his daughter, his own
flesh and blood,—one who had gone astray, one who had pleaded for
forgiveness, and who was now alone in the world, with every door
closed against her but Captain Joe’s.

In the brightness of this new light of pity in him a great weight
seemed lifted from his heart. His own sorrow and loneliness seemed
trivial and selfish beside hers. He big and strong, fearless to go and
come, able to look every man in the face; and she a timid girl,
shrinking, frightened, insulted, hiding even from those who loved her.
What sort of man was he to shut his door in her face and send her
shuddering down the road?

With these new thoughts there came a sudden desire to help, to reach
out his arms toward her, to stand up and defend her,—defend her, out
in the open, before all the people.

Catching up his hat, he hurried from the house and walked briskly down
the road. It was Betty’s hour for coming home. Since her encounter
with Carleton there had been few evenings in the week he had not, with
one excuse or another, loitered along the road, hiding behind the
fish-house until she passed, watching her until she reached the
swinging gate. Soon the residents up and down the road began to time
his movements. “Here comes Caleb,” they would say; “Betty ain’t far
off. Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to touch her as long as Caleb’s round.”

This watchful care had had its effect. Not only had Captain Joe and
Aunty Bell taken her part, but Caleb was looking after her too. When
this became common talk the little remaining tattle ceased. Better not
talk about Betty, the gossips said among themselves; Caleb might hear
it.

When the diver reached the top of the hill overlooking Captain Joe’s
cottage, his eye fell upon Betty’s slight figure stepping briskly up
the hill, her shawl drawn tightly about her shoulders, her hat low
down on her face. She had passed the willows and was halfway to the
swinging gate. Caleb quickened his pace and walked straight toward
her.

She saw him coming, and stopped in sudden fright. For an instant she
wavered, undecided whether she would turn and run, or brave it out and
pass him. If she could only get inside the garden before he reached
her! As she neared the gate she heard his footsteps on the road, and
could see from under the rim of her hat the rough shoes and coarse
trousers cement-stained up as far as his knees. Only once since she
had gone off with Lacey had she been so close to him.

Gathering all her strength she sprang forward, her hand on the
swinging gate.

“I’ll hold it back, child,” came a low, sweet voice, and an arm was
stretched out before her. “It shan’t slam to and hurt ye.”

He was so close she could have touched him. She saw, even in her
agony, the gray, fluffy beard and the wrinkled, weather-stained throat
with the unbuttoned collar of the flannel shirt. She saw, too, the big
brown hand, as it rested on the gate.

She did not see his eyes. She dared not look so high.

As she entered the kitchen door she gave a hurried glance behind. He
was following her slowly, as if in deep thought; his hands behind his
back, his eyes on the ground.

Aunty Bell was bending over the stove when Betty dashed in.

“It’s Caleb! He’s coming in! Oh, aunty, don’t let him see
me—please—please!”

The little woman turned quickly, startled at the sudden interruption.

“He don’t want ye, child.” The girl’s appearance alarmed her. She is
not often this way, she thought.

“He does—he does. He spoke to me—Oh, where shall I go?” she moaned,
wringing her hands, her whole body trembling like one with an ague.

“Go nowhere,” answered Aunty Bell in decided tones. “Stay where ye be.
I’ll go see him. ’T ain’t nothin’, child, only somethin’ for the
cap’n.” She had long since given up all hope of Caleb’s softening.

As she spoke the diver’s slow and measured step could be heard
sounding along the plank walk.

Aunty Bell let down her apron and stepped to the door. Betty crept
behind the panels, watching him through the crack, stifling her breath
lest she should miss his first word. Oh, the music of his voice at the
gate! Not his words, but the way he spoke,—the gentleness, the pity,
the compassion of it all! As this thought surged through her mind she
grew calmer; a sudden impulse to rush out and throw herself at his
feet took possession of her. He surely could not repel her when his
voice carried such tenderness to her heart. A great sob rose in her
throat. The measured, slow step came closer.

At this instant she heard the outer gate swing to a second time with a
resounding bang, and Captain Joe’s voice calling, “Git yer dress,
Caleb, quick as God’ll let ye! Train through the Medford draw an’ two
men drownded. I’ve been lookin’ fur ye everywhere.”

“Who says so?” answered Caleb calmly without moving.

“Mr. Sanford ’s sent the yacht. His nigger’s outside now. Hurry, I
tell ye; we ain’t got a minute.”

Betty waited, her heart throbbing. Caleb paused for an instant and
looked earnestly and hesitatingly toward the house. Then he turned
quickly and followed Captain Joe.

Aunty Bell waited until she saw both men cross the road on their way
to the dock. Then she went in to find Betty.

She was still crouched behind the door, her limbs trembling beneath
her. On her face was the dazed look of one who had missed, without
knowing why, some great crisis.

“Don’t cry, child,” said the little woman, patting her cheek. “It’s
all right. I knowed he didn’t come for ye.”

“But, Aunty Bell, Aunty Bell,” she sobbed, as she threw her arms about
her neck, “I wanted him so.”