CHAPTER XVII
WHEN LIFE HAS GIVEN LOVE
WHEN McGuire had slammed the door shut, he waited, expectant, listening. Voices of men had come through, hot with threats. He held the emptied gun to his side, muzzle at the door, determinedly. Soon he glanced down, and turning it over idly, grinned a little, bitterly, hopeless. He tossed the gun to the deck. The men yelled. He would have shouted answers at them, but Eve was in the room, still on her knees by the bed. Her arms enfolded her face tightly. She was shutting out the world.
He looked about meditatively, or rather trance-like; perhaps with something of a dying man's vision, reviewing life and what it had brought. His eyes fell on her and remained. She would have to be disturbed so that he could tear out the mattress and springs to help make a barricade.
The men ceased beating at the door. He wondered what they were up to and listened. The fight was going on out there. He would have ventured cautiously to peep out, but Eve got wearily to her feet and, holding on to the bed for support, faced him.
Her face was expressionless, washed out with crying. Almost every breath was a sigh. She was worn and bruised. Her loosened hair was tangled and some wisps hung in streaks, wet with tears. All her strength appeared to have gone; just being alive was an effort. Her hand went out gropingly as she took a step—not going anywhere, merely moving from where she was.
In the cabin two more shots had been fired. Loud voices rose. There was click and clang of steel. His eyes, looking at her, became vacant as he put all of his attention into his ears, wondering what was going on. Perhaps the men were fighting among themselves.
“I am not afraid,” she said weakly, speaking out of silence, abruptly.
She had stood up to tell him that.
Attention came back into his eyes. It was as though he had not seen her before. She tried to smile, to reassure him, but the muscles of her face would not respond. He put out his hand to hold her. She slipped against him and was quiet, tired, exhausted, motionless. His arm was about her. With the other hand he lifted the bedraggled hair from her face.
“I am not afraid,” she repeated.
It was too much as though she had hope. There was no hope. She must be made to know—be told. It was too much to tell. All that he could do was be silent, hold her and wait.
A chill passed through him as he thought of what would have happened already had he been shot. She must know—and not wait.
When the door gave in—the waves would be kind to her, enfold her, bear her softly down. The sea was a kind cool-breasted mother that ever welcomed children to the eternal cradling of its swaying tides.
He started to take her to the window and there point to the dark far-spreading water. A gesture and she would understand. He seemed to have no words.
Silence was in the cabin. That meant something. He made a movement to let go of her while he turned to the door; but she held close, not knowing what she did, just clinging. There was nothing else in the world to hold to.
So together they bent their heads to the door. It was quiet except for one angry drunken voice. Carefully he put the door open to a crack's width; and at first could not tell what had happened. The men stood so oddly quiet, or moved slowly, preoccupied, glancing over shoulders as they turned away. Then he knew and quickly closed the door.
“God Himself can't help—” but the words stopped.
She was looking up with pathetic eagerness, expectant, trying to understand.
“Brundage is dead,” he finished.
That meant nothing to her except that she saw sorrow in his face; and sorrow being there, hurt her. She was not too worn, racked, bruised, not too scorched by anguish to be tenderly sorry for him.
His mouth quivered and the lips bit tightly. His own death would not have hurt so much; and there could be no vengeance. That burned deeply. Moisture filmed his eyes. He was helpless.
“There is nothing left,” he said with low finality.
She understood his voice more completely than the words; best of all she understood the quick, strong embracing grasp, like a farewell at the foot of the gallows.
For a moment she could not answer, she was so tightly held; but pressed against him yieldingly and then, whispering, gave her answer:
“I know—but I am not afraid—death.”
Her voice was stronger; a radiance had come to her upturned face.
He saw that she was being brave. It had not been hope at all, but courage. They were two castaways, alone and afar, with nothing before them but the end. She was ready, reconciled; nothing of terror was left in her face and a glow showed through the weariness.
Life had given her love, however brief, and she was of a race of women that asked nothing more of life. Her arms coiled about him, holding to him with the innocent unconsciousness of a child.
Words are not easily spoken when Death stands near, unfolding his long arms. Her eyes were bright as if with happiness. He stroked her hair. It was unjust that she should be tortured, then die. He felt bitter for her; his thoughts were vividly blasphemous, but kept in silence.
“Talk to me,” she said, whispering, wistful, lonely.
“There is nothing to say. Nothing said or done will make any difference now.”
“But—oh—I—it is all right—but—” she did not know that she was begging, beseeching him with eyes and tone.
He spoke to her again, tenderly. It was what she wanted to hear. It was what he felt, too. There was no harm in saying it then, no disillusionment possible for her, no need to try to make her under stand that he was unworthy of being loved in return, at least by her; that he was scarcely different from the men out there whom she feared. Except for the mutiny there would have been nothing essential to distinguish him from them.
In him that feeling was too great to need to rise to conscious thought. He would have been even more unworthy of her love if willing to accept it. But now everything was changed. There was no reason to hesitate; the more reason not to hesitate, for she must know, believe, trust him fully—then go to the window and look out on the black water. The stars were bright. The moon was coming up. It was a beautiful night.
“I love you,” he repeated.
Her arms tightened answeringly. For a moment she dropped her face; but lifted it, unashamed. Twice within the hour she had awakened out of terror and found him protecting her. Always he had been wonderful.
“Sooner or later they'll break in,” he said.
She shuddered. Fear came back in a flash. After a moment's silence, “Poor Jeanne,” she murmured.
He knew the circle of her thoughts.
His arm went toward the window; the gesture was unmistakable.
Her head trembled convulsively into a nod; the words were forced:
“I am not afraid.”
She was telling it to herself, commanding her youth, that was instinctive in its dread of the end, to yield its terror. He held her tightly and kissed her hair as he might have kissed her cold fingers extended from the shroud.
“God knows—everything,” she whispered confidently.
He did not understand. It was no time for questions. He said “Yes” as quietly as she had spoken.
“My brother”
She knew without being told. She had known before she began to say it, and she did not finish.
“Like a hero—more than that—like a—he was unafraid too.” Then, “You will be proud of him.”
Eve was crying softly. Tears had to come, but she did not give way again to the weakening droop of grief. She stood bravely, still resolute.
From time to time he listened, wondering at the quietness. There were voices, low, droning, indistinct; now and then a stir of movement and an oath.
With dread expectancy he had thought they would soon be crashing at the door. There was enough food and water in the stateroom to last for days, three or four, but nothing with which to meet an attack; and three or four days would be no better at the end than the next hour.
The men would not dare let anybody live who might some day tell the truth. Maritime Britain gave mutineers but short time for prayers.
If they delayed and got drunk—McGuire had a mad idea that warmed him for a moment and chilled too. With all of them senselessly drunk, not a head would be spared. He remembered a shanty tale of an imprisoned carpenter and cook, spared because needed, who had escaped that way; and when he had heard it his imagination of how it would be to do such a thing had made his blood cold. But with the chance he would not hesitate, though she must know nothing of it.
He strained to listen. Voices went on and on. It was increasingly unlikely that all would be dead drunk at once. He had a slight sense of relief in the feeling that the chance would not be offered. After all, when death is just before one, inescapable, one may wait apathetically.
Eve was bravely wiping her eyes and she stood close against him. Child-like, she wanted the shelter of his arms; woman-like, unafraid if touching the man she loved. Eve did not want to die; but she had a strong heart and sheer faith and was unafraid. She slipped her arms about his neck and stared up at him, shaking her head slightly, with a sad smile.
“I am not sorry—about coming on the Heraldr. I have never forgotten that wonderful day—Honolulu. I loved you then. I know now that I loved you then. You were so dear to me. My aunt didn't want this ship or to come, but”
“Your aunt is still—she is”
“My aunt!” she caught the meaning before he had finished. “Oh—I thought—and Uncle David? Tell me—is—where—how—where—oh, tell me!”
McGuire nodded. It was hard to speak.
“Oh then—then—we—we will be all right—if—are you sure?”
He told her as gently as he could that Gorvhalsen was badly hurt. Beginning, he continued: he told of Corydon and how the boy had died, and catching fire from his own words in describing the brother's gallantry, became fully aware of its splendor; and she wept.
The unsettling shock had been in learning that her uncle and aunt were alive, on the ship, near. It increased at once, together her hope and her fears, the dread of what might happen to them and the belief that as long as the powerful Gorvhalsen lived he would not be helpless.
Hope touched Eve and would not leave her. Her only doubt was indicated in the repeated question if he could be sure.
McGuire was tormented by the wish to let her have all the hope in the world and the need to make her know that there was none. He tightened his arms about her, then slowly urged her toward the window. He could not say what he wanted to say. He dodged what he meant with:
“You must stay here—I'll barricade the door. It won't be easy to get in, but if—” he did not finish.
It was an effort for her to let him go, to stand from him, again be isolated in the world; but she stood alone, watching.
Quietly as he could he went about putting things before the door, more and more aware as he worked that nothing he could do would amount to much. He was working to be doing something, making a sort of sacrifice to Fortune and asking that luck might come of it. He did not like to think of three or four days with the end no farther away than now. They would be terrible days.
“Oh—oh, look—look!” Eve cried.
She could hardly speak. Her arm was thrust through the port. She was staring far, far away.
McGuire leaped and peered across her shoulder.
A little two-masted schooner was romping by with all sails set. Night distances on water are deceptive; he judged that she was something around a mile or more away, and she could be plainly seen, moving like a phantom over the dark water, silvered with moonlight.
Ships were not often in those waters; whalers came only rarely, with now and then a blackbirder. She had the cut of a blackbirder or trader and was sailing free on the starboard tack under the same good breeze that was slatting the Heraldr's canvas. There was no doubt that the schooner had seen the Heraldr, but she was passing on rapidly.
McGuire cupped his hands and shouted. He might as well have cried at the moon. His voice seemed thin and weak, a trivial sound on the great water overspread with wavelets. There was nothing at hand with which he could signal, though he put the lamp out of the port and tried to wave it. But no answer came. It meant nothing. Besides, the schooner, if she carried only a schooner crew, would not dare board anyway. She was too far away to know the need of boarding.
Together he and Eve in strained silence watched, and on and on went the little schooner. Gradually they had to give up believing that she might go about and beat up to them.
Nothing leaves hope at a lower ebb than the passing of a ship before the eyes of people in distress at sea, and McGuire knew that not once in a thousand nights was a ship likely to have been thereabouts; so the fall of an unexpected hope left them crushed.
“Please—won't they come back?” she asked.
He held her close to him and very gently said:
“No. She saw lights aboard. We're lying aback—she could see that too. But no one signaled. She has gone and I don't think there is anything in the world that can help—not a thing—your prayers —they might, but I doubt it—nothing.”
They sat together side by side in silence, waiting. She leaned against him quietly as though sleeping. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved with inaudible words.
An hour later a figure, swimming noiselessly, reached leaping out of the water under the bow and seized a back rope. He hung there for a time, breathing deeply, hard, and listening, then began to haul himself up. Reaching the jib-boom he crouched on it, motionless, peering, watchful, intent, catching every sound.