Lynda Warner appeared to weigh Newton lightly, though she made no comments. Jim believed that Lynda understood his own feelings toward the girl and sympathized with him. Naturally, he never discussed it. The gap between them was still open and unbridged, he considered. Only in the matter of his reading was he on equal terms. Her life had held a thousand things he had never come in touch with.
But every now and then Lynda Warner spoke of American democracy. Sometimes she quoted Burns.
“Every man in this country of ours may not be literally equal,” she said, “but at least he has an equal start in the race of life. It is up to him to win the race. Some are bound to drop behind, but the real man can gain the prizes. Superficial qualities do not count. They can always be acquired. And the man is lucky who has a chance to show his real manhood in the big things.”
All this was pleasant talk to Jim, though he bent his mind to the task in hand, without contemplation of possible rewards. A man’s first job was his duty, he believed firmly. And he privately subscribed to Lynda Warner’s theories.
“There are only two classes in America,” she said. “Some call them the rich and the poor; better perhaps the successful and the unsuccessful. It’s grit that tells.”
When it came to pedigree—which Lynda declared did not count—Jim knew his forebears to be as good as those of those of the Whitings and the Fosters. He had seen the selvage edge of life, and Kitty and Newton the softer nap, that was all. And Kitty’s life had not been without its reverses; had now its present sorrow that she hid under the bright cloak of courage. How she had taken up with business and made a success of it; what a life partner she would make! Too sterling, he could not help but feel, for the airy, ease-loving happy-go-lucky Newton.
It was Jim’s idea to try and get the vessel they needed from one of the yacht clubs of San Francisco Bay, rather than attempt to purchase a commercial vessel. Those of the latter type likely to be available would be old hulks moored and half rotting over in Oakland Creek. The war had taken all bottoms that were any good. The Alaska Packing Company’s northern fleet consisted of sailing ships; there were scow-bottomed schooners that plied up the Sacramento River and other waterways connected with the bay, but outside these, old hulks and pleasure craft, everything was steam. But he felt sure that on the Pacific, as on the Atlantic Coast, there would be people willing to dispose of their yachts, or charter them. Fortunes had been turned topsy-turvy during the war. Those who had made money were not the kind who understood yachting or looked upon it as a pastime. Those who had lost, on the other hand, were that type of the comparatively leisured class. Moreover, a yacht of the right size and engine power, if they could find out, would be built for comfort aft, and he had the two women to consider.
Newton Foster had brought along letters from his father to business friends. These letters would undoubtedly act as an open sesame to the clubs of the city, and through them to the San Francisco and Corinthian yacht clubs, whose quarters were, as Jim knew, across the bay at Sausalito and Belvedere. But Jim relied upon the advertisements he might read or insert.
Arrived in the city, they went to the Palace Hotel where rooms were already reserved for them. It was late afternoon, too late for Newton to present his letters. He proposed a theatre and they went, but no one enjoyed much of the play. They were on the threshold of adventure and eager to step across. Kitty Whiting’s unrest showed in her eyes, in flashes of absent-mindedness. She had not been sleeping since they left Foxfield, Lynda Warner told Jim. Next morning Newton busied himself with his introductions. He was also going, he said, to get hold of all the literature he could concerning the South Seas.
“Not fiction stuff,” he announced. “Travel. We’ll have to read on the trip to kill time. And I wouldn’t wonder if I came back with news of just the boat we want.”
There were several advertisements in the papers for the sale of launches and sloops, but none that offered anything suitable. Jim saw disappointment in Kitty Whiting’s face, and for a second saw them failing to get anything at all; his suggestions discredited at the outset; himself looking like a fool stripped of all pretense of knowledge.
“I’m going to put ads in the Chronicle, Examiner and Bulletin,” he said. She nodded and gave him a look that fired his imagination.
“I know you’ll get one,” she said. “But the seconds seem like hours and the hours like weeks. Now that we have actually started—it seems to me as if dad was waiting over there eating his heart out for the sight of a sail, waiting, waiting, and growing old. He isn’t a young man, my daddy, and I want—I want—”
Her lips quivered; her eyes were moist with tears; she gave a pitifully twisted, brave little smile. Right then Jim would have charged through a regiment of devils for her sake, wished he could. Something of it showed in his look, for she said thank you before he answered her at all.
“I’ll get you one, if I have to turn pirate. It might he a good idea if we went across to Sausalito and then over to Belvedere. There is sure to be someone round the clubhouses. The stewards or the boat-tenders would be likely to know of anything that might be available.” Kitty’s face brightened immediately and she dragged the willing Lynda off to dress. Within the hour they were on the Sausalito ferry, ploughing across toward the strait of the Golden Gate, the loom of Mount Tamalpais ahead of them. The steward of the San Francisco Yacht Club forgot house rules when he saw the ladies and heard Jim’s question, recognizing him immediately for a man of the sea and one who knew blue water.
“A power schooner?” he said, a little doubtfully. “I don’t know. There’s one in the fleet, the Seamew, built in the East, Gloucester fisherman type. She can outsail anything round here if there’s any sort of weather, and she’s got an engine in her. Her owner was a bluewater man. Name of Rickard. Never more than mate, I understand. But he struck oil, or oil was struck for him and he came into a fortune. First thing he wanted a yacht and had this built. Sailed her round himself—plumb round the Horn, just to say it could be done these days. And they say—” the steward sank his voice to a confidential whisper—“they say he bucko’d his crew so they near mutinied. They quit, anyway, and he had to get others. He’s always short-handed. He’s a visiting member here—we exchange courtesies with a lot of clubs—or I wouldn’t be discussing him, you understand. I don’t know if he’d sell her outright, or even charter her, but I heard him say he was sick of her. Fact is, he don’t get along first rate with all the members. We do most of our racing inside the bay, and he laughs at us for bein’ mollycoddles. And he’s got a professional crew, you see, whereas we are all amateurs—strictly.
“There’s one or two rumors he’s going to be married to a widow. He’s willing enough, I fancy, and maybe his oil stock looks good to her—begging your pardon, ladies. The point I’m making is that he’s always with her and that she hates yachting. Blows her hair about a bit too much, perhaps,” said the steward with fine scorn.
“If you could arrange a charter for us,” said Jim, “we should be pleased to allow you the usual agent’s commission.” The steward touched his cap visor.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll show you the Seamew if you’ll come through to the float. I know the caretaker pretty well. I think I could venture to take you off.”
“I wouldn’t want to do that,” said Kitty. “It’s like walking into a stranger’s house.”
“I’m sure Mr. Rickard wouldn’t mind, miss. Easy enough to find out. He’s got a place over here for the summer. I’ll telephone him if you like. He’s proud of the boat, you see, and always showing people over it. There she lies. A beauty, all right.”
They saw the Seamew, black of hull, with a fine gold stripe winking along her run, spoon-bowed, overhung of stern, sweet of line, a typical Gloucester fisherman model designed for speed and endurance; the type that can come smashing home with every inch of canvas set, and hold deep packed with cod through a gale that makes many a deepwater skipper shorten sail and crawl to windward for open water. All the
canvas was stowed aboard the Seamew, but it did not take much for Jim to imagine her with topsails full, main and fore, jumbo and jib, fisherman’s staysail set between the masts, the sea foaming at her entry, creaming along her run, fanning out in ivory traceries on the green jade of the sea in her wake. Here was no toy, but a ship after his own heart, capable of sailing the seven seas, not needing a large crew to handle her, but comfortable in calm or seaway for all aboard. And she had an engine, almost a necessity in the South Seas, where currents are strong and wind capricious.
Brasswork well polished blinked here and there along her deck. Even at that distance they could tell she was shipshape, controlled by a man who might be a bit of a tyrant with his crew, but knew how to treat a proper vessel.
Jim’s face glowed with approval. The steward had gone to his telephone. Kitty watched Lyman’s face, unconsciously reflecting its approval. Lynda Warner seemed more doubtful.
“A little small, isn’t she,” she asked, “for a long voyage?”
“She would be alongside a liner,” said Jim, “But she’s seaworthy and she’s just about ideal for our purpose—if we can get her.”
“Mr. Rickard’s coming right over,” said the steward, coming up. “I said there were two ladies in a party who were admiring his boat and he said he was coming over, anyway. I didn’t say anything about a charter over the phone. Best to wait and see what humor he’s in.” He got them chairs and they watched the shifting panorama of the bay, with San Francisco seated in the midst of her hills; the crossing ferries, lumber steamers and freighters passing through the Gate; scow-schooners high decked with hay from upriver, the helmsman perched high on a scaffold back of the load; the gulls; a destroyer maneuvering to prove up her compasses by the government marks set on the shores. The tide was coming in from the ocean, and all the yachts in the club flotilla dipped and curtsied. The wind came with the tide bringing salty savors. A flush slowly stained the girl’s cheeks deeper and deeper until Jim gazed in wonderment at this augmented beauty of one he already thought perfect.
“I love the sea,” she said. “It’s in my blood, I suppose. And I love the Seamew. I hope we get her.”
Rickard turned out to be much what they had anticipated, a burly, tanned man who looked awkward in clothes that were too much in the latest mode as to cut and pattern. But he was courteous enough and indubitably pleased to have his boat admired by a party, one of whom, Jim, was an expert, another, Kitty, more than ordinarily wise concerning schooners.
“You ought to own her,” he said to Kitty. “You’d sail her in a blow, you would, and not worry about your complexion or your permanent wave. All ladies aren’t alike, or all men. If there were more boats like mine here we could have a real race or two—outside, around the Farallones and back, down to San Diego and back, or up to the Sound. But these bay water sailors think an annual cruise down to Santa Cruz is really sailing.” Kitty took her cue, and glanced at Jim.
“I wish I did own her,” she said. “I couldn’t afford to buy her, but I’ve been wanting for ever so long to take a trip through the South Seas. And this is just the boat.”
Her praise was justified, the Seamew was more than merely well found. The seamanship of the ex-mate had prevented him from breaking out with his ship as he had done with the unknown quantity—clothes. The fittings were good, even luxurious, but they were convenient and chosen for wear and solid comfort rather than show. There would be a cabin apiece for Kitty and Lynda, one for Newton and one for Jim, as skipper, all opening on the main cabin, besides a small stateroom amidships that would do for the officers. There was even a small bath, a well appointed galley. The engine was powerful, in good condition. There were water tanks and gasoline tanks enough for a long voyage, ample room for stores. The only scant place was the forecastle quarters. Rickard’s ideas of a crew’s right of comfort were nil.
“She’s got everything but wireless.” Rickard boasted. “She’s a beauty. Eight knots and a half on her engines, and she’ll rate up to fifteen when the wind’s right. She’ll sail right into it and come about for the asking. She’s fine lined, but she isn’t over tender; you can handle her between spokes. She’s a man’s boat, but a child could steer her. I might let you have her, if you paid me enough and put up a sufficient bond. I’ll want her back, but I don’t need her anymore this season. It’s hard to get men and keep them in shape when you only have the boat in commission a quarter of the time they have to be paid for. I’d as lief sail round a duck pond as cruise inside the bay. To tell you the truth, Miss Whiting, I’m thinking of getting married—shortly. The future Mrs. Rickard is not over fond of the water, but I hope to win her round later on. I won’t sell the Seamew, but I might charter her—to the right parties.”
Rickard had smiled when he first mentioned price and he smiled again as he finished speaking. Without being offensive, it was plain that he found Kitty attractive, that he was the bluff type, hard enough with men, but wax before the glances of a pretty woman. In his way, and given it, a good enough sort of sea scout.
“What are your ideas on figures?” asked Jim.
“Fifteen hundred dollars for the season, whether you need her for two months or six. A bottomry bond for twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Cash?”
“Or negotiable securities acceptable to my lawyers.” Kitty looked at Jim, who nodded. Five hundred a month would be cheap for the Seamew; the amount of the bond could not replace her since the war. Arrangement was speedily made to draw contract and make payment. Rickard agreed to meet them the next morning at the hotel.
“I have three good men who might be glad to go along,” he said. “I don’t know about the steward. You’ll need four for crew, outside of a mate. Then there’s the engineer and a cook. Steward’ll wait on cabin, cook for’ard. That’s how I brought her round from the other side. I take it you’re sailing her?” he asked Lyman.
“Yes. You don’t know of a mate? Rather take one who was recommended.”
“I haven’t seen one I could recommend to be mate of a brick barge. I’m my own sailing master. I’ve tried out half a dozen lazy lubbers as mate and I fired the last a week ago. As I say, my trouble is that I pay ’em full time and use ’em less than half. You’ll find mates and men scattered all along the waterfront looking for jobs. Some of ’em turned farmers and fruit pickers. Some of ’em in the canneries. Some of ’em fishing for salmon in Puget Sound. But a lot left doin’ nothing. Can I take you across to San Francisco in my launch? That doesn’t go with the schooner but it’s at your service.”
But they had an idea that acceptance might conflict with his plans or those of the future Mrs. Rickard and they took the ferry. Now it seemed as if they were really started, with unexpected luck to begin with. The Seamew had no cook at present, nor steward, Rickard providing those from his house servants whenever he went cruising. The three sailors of his crew seemed adequate men, two of them Norwegians and the third a Scotch-Irishman. They were deepwater men and they knew the yacht. Jim spoke to them tentatively and they were willing to make the trip, wages to be the same as Rickard paid. He had not used his engine of late, and had no engineer.
“I’ll have to hunt a mate, a steward, a cook, an engineer, and a sailor,” said Jim. “I don’t imagine that’ll be much trouble, except about the cook. We don’t want to be poisoned. I’d suggest a Chinaman; Jap for second choice. They don’t mind the sea. Then there are the supplies, a few charts and—I shall need a sextant,” he added after a slight pause. “You see I haven’t any tools of my own,” he said with a flush. “I imagine Rickard may let us take his chronometers.”
“You’ll need a complete outfit,” said Kitty. “It was stupid of me not to think of that before. Of course you can draw ahead for as much as you need. And you must let me help with the supplies.”
“Of course.” Jim appreciated the fact with which she had spoken in a manner entirely businesslike of his own lack of clothes and money. He had paid out his last change for the ferry crossin
gs and he could hardly go to sea in command with his one suit of tailor-darned readymades.
“I’ll talk the bond over with Newton,” she said. “I have no securities, but of course I can put up half in cash, I wish we could buy the Seamew.”
“What would you do with her after the trip is over?” asked Lynda Warner.
“Keep on sailing. Round the world. I’d love to.” She spoke with genuine enthusiasm, in high spirits. Jim wished she might have her heart’s desire—and that he might be of the party as sailing master, if not in a more intimate capacity that he merely hinted at to himself.
At the hotel, the two women went straight to the elevators, Jim to the desk for a directory from which to obtain addresses of ship-chandlers. As he passed the telegraph booth he saw Newton Foster handing in a dispatch. He passed on, thoughtful, wondering why and where Newton was sending a cable. There was no mistaking the form of the message. A few minutes later Newton clapped him on the shoulder.
“Wondering where you all were. Girl’s back? Good. Let’s go to lunch. I’m ravenous. Say, I’ve got a pile of good books on the South Seas. And I met a fine fellow through one of dad’s letters. Invited me up for dinner tonight at the Bohemian Club. He belongs to the San Francisco Yacht Club too. He says we’ll be able to get what we want without any trouble. There’s a man named Rickard who owns a schooner and who has tried to horn into the club and run things. A bit of a roughneck—used to be a mate one time and now his swollen pockets have affected his head. He thinks he’s a gentleman.”
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 11