Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [151]
II
Off the drear and rock-bound coasts of Alaska, that frigid land where men gamble their lives and souls with the dice of death, and sin for love and gold, the good ship Mary Ann braved all the monstrous terrors of the deep. Rolling, tipping, tossing, swaying, swerving, straining through the black and mysterious night, it tacked against a pelting rain, a howling wind, and huge waves that washed over it like evil spirits from out of the bowels of the unconquerable seas.
Captain Arnold, of the good ship Mary Ann, was a bulky man with cruelty stamped on a vicious, unshaven face, and a heart more ruthless than the stormy seas. He commanded his seamen with the iron hand of a tyrant. With each order, he gave them a curse, a kick, a blow. One of his sailors was Morgan, a smaller man, with the milk of human kindness in his soul. He gave Morgan an order, and slapped his face, sneering like a fiend out of hell. Morgan received the slap unflinchingly, but defiance struck the kindliness from his eyes.
Captain Arnold turned, and staggered across the rolling deck, with waves washing foamily past him, into his cabin. While the door was opened to admit him, wind and water gushed in, a flickering candle almost died, and a whiskey glass tumbled off the table, to crash. In a bunk, Captain Arnold’s timid Indian wife cowered like a small and frightened rabbit, her baby girl in her arms.
“Christ, he’s a mean-looking brute,” Studs Lonigan whispered to Slug Mason, as Captain Arnold’s scowl revealed his fangs.
“You said it.”
There was conversation, glowering hatred on the Captain’s face, naked fear on the countenance of his wife. With wild animal ferocity in his eyes, Captain Arnold pointed demonstratively at the cabin door. The little Indian wife strained her baby girl more tightly to her bosom, huddled herself into a corner of the bunk, and shook her head. Her mouth opened in a scream as he approached her. He clutched her arm, and brutally yanked her out of the berth. He tore the baby from her, and dropped it in the berth, flinging her aside with such force that she catapulted against the cabin wall. Wrenching her arm, he pulled her out of the cabin, dragged her through the high, icy waves, and shoved her amongst the crew of outcast sailors who worked like demons amidst falling spars. A wave knocked her down, and she rolled to the edge of the ship. He struggled towards her, pulled her to her feet by the hair, and forced her back amongst the men. A falling spar cracked her head, and she fell. He commanded his sailors, while she lay unattended in a puddle, prey of the washing waves. Morgan staggered back to the cabin with her in his arms. He gently placed her in a berth, gave her whiskey, and carefully covered her with warm blankets. Through the long and stormy night, he tended her.
And came the dawn, calm and peaceful over the waters by the rock-bound coast of adventurous Alaska. The Indian wife lay at death’s door. With her last forced words she begged that Morgan save the baby daughter from its heartless father. Captain Arnold entered the cabin, tore off his sou-wester, and guzzled whiskey. With a face as unfeeling as the sea, he watched his wife die.
“He’s a bastard all right!” Studs muttered.
Morgan shook his head sadly as he gazed upon the tragic face of the dead woman. Gently, he covered it with a blanket. He turned and looked into the animalistic eyes of Captain Arnold, and saw a fiend in human form. An overpowering rage stirred him. He punched Arnold’s jaw. Taken by surprise, the captain’s head snapped back. He stumbled backwards to the wall. Arnold rushed at the brave, impetuous Morgan and stunned him with a blow. He grasped Morgan in his arms and hurled him