Chapter XLIV
Yes, it is certainly mutiny. Collecting water from the leaders of the
chart-house in a shower of rain this morning, Buckwheat exposed himself, and a long, lucky revolver-shot from for'ard caught him in the shoulder. The bullet was small-calibre and spent ere it reached him, so that he received no more than a flesh-wound, though he carried on as if he were dying until Mr. Pike hushed his noise by cuffing his ears.
I should not like to have Mr. Pike for my surgeon. He probed for the
bullet with his little finger, which was far too big for the aperture; and with his little finger, while with his other hand he threatened another ear-clout, he gouged out the leaden pellet. Then he sent the boy below, where Margaret took him in charge with antiseptics and dressings.
I see her so rarely that a half-hour alone with her these days is an
adventure. She is busy morning to night in keeping her house in order. As I write this, through my open door I can hear her laying the law down to the men in the after-room. She has issued underclothes all around from the slop-chest, and is ordering them to take a bath in the rain-water just caught. And to make sure of their thoroughness in the matter, she has told off Louis and the steward to supervise the operation. Also, she has forbidden them smoking their pipes in the after- room. And, to cap everything, they are to scrub walls, ceiling, everything, and then start to-morrow morning at painting. All of which serves to convince me almost that mutiny does not obtain and that I have imagined it.
But no. I hear Buckwheat blubbering and demanding how he can take a bath
in his wounded condition. I wait and listen for Margaret's judgment. Nor
am I disappointed. Tom Spink and Henry are told off to the task, and the
thorough scrubbing of Buckwheat is assured.
* * * * *
The mutineers are not starving. To-day they have been fishing for
albatrosses. A few minutes after they caught the first one its carcase
was flung overboard. Mr. Pike studied it through his sea-glasses, and I
heard him grit his teeth when he made certain that it was not the mere
feathers and skin but the entire carcass. They had taken only its wing-
bones to make into pipe-stems. The inference was obvious: starving men
would not throw meat away in such fashion.
But where do they get their food? It is a sea-mystery in itself, although I might not so deem it were it not for Mr. Pike.
"I think, and think, till my brain is all frazzled out," he tells me; "and yet I can't get a line on it. I know every inch of space on the Elsinore, and know there isn't an ounce of grub anywhere for'ard, and yet they eat! I've overhauled the lazarette. As near as I can make it out, nothing is missing. Then where do they get it? That's what I want to know. Where do they get it?"
I know that this morning he spent hours in the lazarette with the steward
and the cook, overhauling and checking off from the lists of the
Baltimore agents. And I know that they came up out of the lazarette, the
three of them, dripping with perspiration and baffled. The steward has
raised the hypothesis that, first of all, there were extra stores left
over from the previous voyage, or from previous voyages, and, next, that
the stealing of these stores must have taken place during the
night-watches when it was Mr. Pike's turn below.
At any rate, the mate takes the food mystery almost as much to heart as
he takes the persistent and propinquitous existence of Sidney Waltham.
I am coming to realize the meaning of watch-and-watch. To begin with, I
spend on deck twelve hours, and a fraction more, of each twenty-four. A
fair portion of the remaining twelve is spent in eating, in dressing, and
in undressing, and with Margaret. As a result, I feel the need for more
sleep than I am getting. I scarcely read at all, now. The moment my
head touches the pillow I am asleep. Oh, I sleep like a baby, eat like a
navvy, and in years have not enjoyed such physical well-being. I tried
to read George Moore last night, and was dreadfully bored. He may be a
realist, but I solemnly aver he does not know reality on that tight, little, sheltered-life archipelago of his. If he could wind-jam around the Horn just one voyage he would be twice the writer.