Where the Blue Begins

by Christopher Morley

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The steamship Pomerania, which had sailed at noon, was a few hours outof port on a calm gray sea. The passengers, after the bustle of lunchand arranging their staterooms; had settled into their deck chairs andwere telling each other how much they loved the ocean. Captain Scottiehad taken his afternoon constitutional on his private strip of starboarddeck just aft the bridge, and was sitting in his comfortable cabinexpecting a cup of tea. He was a fine old sea-dog: squat, grizzled,severe, with wiry eyebrows, a short coarse beard, and watchful quickeyes. A characteristic Scot, beneath his reticent conscientious dignitythere was abundant humour and affection. He would have been recognizedanywhere as a sailor: those short solid legs were perfectly adapted forbalancing on a rolling deck. He stood by habit as though he were leaninginto a stiff gale. His mouth always held a pipe, which he smoked inshort, brisk whiffs, as though expecting to be interrupted at any momentby an iceberg.

  The steward brought in the tea-tray, and Captain Scottie settled intohis large armchair to enjoy it. His eye glanced automatically at thebarometer.

  "A little wind to-night," he said, his nose wrinkling unconsciously asthe cover was lifted from the dish of hot anchovy toast.

  "Yes, sir," said the steward, but lingered, apparently anxious to speakfurther.

  "Well, Shepherd?"

  "Beg pardon, sir, but the Chief Steward wanted me to say they've foundsomeone stowed away in the linen locker, sir. Queer kind of fellow,sir, talks a bit like a padre. 'E must've come aboard by the engine-roomgangway, sir, and climbed into that locker near the barber shop."

  The problem of stowaways is familiar enough to shipmasters. "Send him upto me," said the Captain.

  A few minutes later Gissing appeared, escorted by a burly quartermaster.Even the experienced Captain admitted to himself that this was somethingnew in the category of stowaways. Never before had he seen one in abraided cutaway coat and wedding trousers. It was true that thegarments were in grievous condition, but they were worn with an air.The stowaway's face showed some embarrassment, but not at all the usualhangdog mien of such wastrels. Involuntarily his tongue moistened whenhe saw the tray of tea (for he had not eaten since his supper on thesteam roller the night before), but he kept his eyes politely avertedfrom the food. They rose to a white-painted girder that ran athwart thecabin ceiling. CERTIFIED TO ACCOMMODATE THE MASTER he read there, inletters deeply incised into the thick paint. "A good Christian ship,"he said to himself. "It sounds like the Y. M. C. A." He was pleasedto think that his suspicion was already confirmed: ships were morereligious than anything on land.

  The Captain dismissed the quartermaster, and addressed himself sternlyto the culprit.

  "Well, what have you to say for yourself?"

  "Please, Captain," said Gissing politely, "do not allow your tea to getcold. I can talk while you eat." Behind his grim demeanour the Captainwas very near to smiling at this naivete. No Briton is wholly implacableat tea-time, and he felt a genuine curiosity about this unusualoffender.

  "What was your idea in coming aboard?" he said. "Do you know that I canput you in irons until we get across, and then have you sent home forpunishment? I suppose it's the old story: you want to go sight-seeing onthe other side?"

  "No, Captain," said Gissing. "I have come to sea to study theology."

  In spite of himself the Captain was touched by this amazing statement.He was a Scot, as we have said. He poured a cup of tea to conceal hisastonishment.

  "Theology!" he exclaimed. "The theology of hard work is what you willfind most of aboard ship. Carry on and do your duty; keep a sharplookout, all gear shipshape, salute the bridge when going on watch,that is the whole duty of a good officer. That's plenty theology for aseaman." But the skipper's eye turned brightly toward his bookshelves,where he had several volumes of sermons, mostly of a Calvinist sort.

  "I am not afraid of work," said Gissing. "But I'm looking for horizons.In my work ashore I never could find any."

  "Your horizon is likely to be peeling potatoes in the galley," remarkedthe Captain. "I understand they are short-handed there. Or sweeping outbunks in the steerage. Ethics of the dust! What would you say to that?"

  "Sir," replied Gissing, "I shall be grateful for any task, howevermenial, that permits me to meditate. I understand your point of view. Bycoming aboard your ship I have broken the law, I have committed acrime; but not a sin. Crime and sin, every theologian admits, are notcoextensive."

  The Captain sailed head-on into argument.

  "What?" he cried. "Are you aware of the doctrine of Moral Inability in aFallen State? Sit down, sit down, and have a cup of tea. We must discussthis."

  He rang for the steward and ordered an extra cup and a fresh supply oftoast. At that moment Gissing heard two quick strokes of a bell, rungsomewhere forward, a clear, musical, melancholy tone, echoed promptlyin other parts of the ship. "What is that, Captain?" he asked anxiously."An accident?"

  "Two bells in the first dog-watch," said the Captain. "I fear you are asmuch a lubber at sea as you are in theology."

  The next two hours passed like a flash. Gissing found the skipper, inspite of his occasional moods of austerity, a delicious companion. Theydiscussed Theosophy, Spiritualism, and Christian Science, all of whichthe Captain, with sturdy but rather troubled vehemence, linked withPrimitive Magic. Gissing, seeing that his only hope of establishinghimself in the sailor's regard was to disagree and keep the argumentgoing, plunged into psycho-analysis and the philosophy of theunconscious. Rather unwarily he ventured to introduce a nauticalillustration into the talk.

  "Your compass needle," he said, "points to the North Pole, and althoughit has never been to the Pole, and cannot even conceive of it, yet ittestifies irresistibly to the existence of such a place."

  "I trust you navigate your soul more skilfully than you would navigatethis vessel," retorted the Captain. "In the first place, the needledoes not point to the North Pole at all, but to the magnetic pole.Furthermore, it has to be adjusted by magnets to counteract deviation.Mr. Gissing, you may be a sincere student of theology, but you have notallowed for your own temperamental deviation. Why, even the gyro compasshas to be adjusted for latitude error. You landsmen think that a ship issimply a floating hotel. I should like to have the Bishop you spoke ofstudy a little navigation. That would put into him a healthy respect forthe marvels of science. On board ship, sir, the binnacle is kept lockedand the key is on the watch-chain of the master. It should be so in allintellectual matters. Confide them to those capable of understanding."

  Gissing saw that the Captain greatly relished his sense of superiority,so he made a remark of intentional simplicity.

  "The binnacle?" he said. "I thought that was the little shellfish thatclings to the bottom of the boat?"

  "Don't you dare call my ship a BOAT!" said the Captain. "At sea, a boatmeans only a lifeboat or some other small vagabond craft. Come out onthe bridge and I'll show you a thing or two."

  The evening had closed in hazy, and the Pomerania swung steadily in along plunging roll. At the weather wing of the bridge, gazing sharplyover the canvas dodger, was Mr. Pointer, the vigilant Chief Officer,peering off rigidly, as though mesmerized, but saying nothing. He gavethe Captain a courteous salute, but kept silence. At the large mahoganywheel, gently steadying it to the quarterly roll of the sea, stood Dane,a tall, solemn quartermaster. In spite of a little uneasiness, due tothe unfamiliar motion, Gissing was greatly elated by the wheelhouse,which seemed even more thrillingly romantic than any pulpit.Uncomprehendingly, but with admiration, he examined the binnacle, theengine-room telegraphs, the telephones, the rack of signal-flags, thebuttons for closing the bulkheads, and the rotating clear-view screenfor lookout in thick weather. Aloft he could see the masthead light,gently soaring in slow arcs.

  "I'll show you my particular pride," said the Captain, evidently pleasedby his visitor's delighted enthusiasm.

  Gissing wondered what ingenious device of science this might be.

  Captain Scottie st
epped to the weather gunwale of the bridge. He pointedto the smoke, which was rolling rapidly from the funnels.

  "You see," he said, "there's quite a strong breeze blowing. But lookhere."

  He lit a match and held it unshielded above the canvas screen which waslashed along the front of the bridge. To Gissing's surprise it burnedsteadily, without blowing out.

  "I've invented a convex wind-shield which splits the air just forwardof the bridge. I can stand here and light my pipe in the stiffest gale,without any trouble."

  On the decks below Gissing heard a bugle blowing gaily, a bright,persuasive sound.

  "Six bells," the Captain said. "I must dress for dinner. Before I startyou potato-peeling, I should like to clear up that little discussion ofours about Free Will. One or two things you said interested me."

  He paced the bridge for a minute, thinking hard.

  "I'll test your sincerity," he said. "To-night you can bunk in thechart-room. I'll have some dinner sent up to you. I wish you would writeme an essay of, say, two thousand words on the subject of Necessity."

  For a moment Gissing pondered whether it would not be better to be putin irons and rationed with bread and water. The wind was freshening, andthe Pomerania's sharp bow slid heavily into broad hills of sea, crashingthem into crumbling rollers of suds which fell outward and hissedalong her steep sides. The silent Mr. Pointer escorted him intothe chart-room, a bare, businesslike place with a large table, amap-cabinet, and a settee. Here, presently, a steward appeared withexcellent viands, and a pen, ink, and notepaper. After a cautious meal,Gissing felt more comfortable. There is something about a wet, windyevening at sea that turns the mind naturally toward metaphysics. Hepushed away the dishes and began to write.

  Later in the evening the Captain reappeared. He looked pleased when hesaw a number of sheets already covered with script.

  "Rum lot of passengers this trip," he said. "I don't seem to see any wholook interesting. All Big Business and that sort of thing. I must sayit's nice to have someone who can talk about books, and so on, once in awhile."

  Gissing realized that sometimes a shipmaster's life must be a lonelyone. The weight of responsibility is always upon him; etiquette preventshis becoming familiar with his officers; small wonder if he pinesoccasionally for a little congenial talk to relieve his mind.

  "Big Business, did you say?" Gissing remarked. "Ah, I could write youquite an essay about that. I used to be General Manager of Beagle andCompany."

  "Come into my cabin and have a liqueur," said the skipper. "Let theessay go until to-morrow."

  The Captain turned on the electric stove in his cabin, for the nightwas cold. It was a snug sanctum: at the portholes were little chintzcurtains; over the bunk was a convenient reading lamp. On the wall abrass pendulum swung slowly, registering the roll of the ship. The ruddyshine of the stove lit up the orderly desk and the photographs of theCaptain's family.

  "Yours?" said Gissing, looking at a group of three puppies with drollScottish faces. "Aye," said the Captain.

  "I've three of my own," said Gissing, with a private pang ofhomesickness. The skipper's cosy quarters were the most truly domestiche had seen since the evening he first fled from responsibility.

  Captain Scottie was surprised. Certainly this eccentric stranger in thebadly damaged wedding garments had not given the impression of a familyhead. Just then the steward entered with a decanter of Benedictine andsmall glasses.

  "Brew days and bonny!" said the Captain, raising his crystal.

  "Secure amidst perils!" replied Gissing courteously. It was the phraseengraved upon the ship's notepaper, on which he had been writing, and ithad impressed itself on his mind.

  "You said you had been a General Manager."

  Gissing told, with some vivacity, of his experiences in the world oftrade. The Captain poured another small liqueur.

  "They're fine halesome liquor," he said.

  "Sincerely yours," said Gissing, nodding over the glass. He wasbeginning to feel quite at home in the navigating quarters of the ship,and hoped the potato-peeling might be postponed as long as possible.

  "How far had you got in your essay?" asked the Captain.

  "Not very far, I fear. I was beginning by laying down a fewpsychological fundamentals."

  "Excellent! Will you read it to me?"

  Gissing went to get his manuscript, and read it aloud. The Captainlistened attentively, puffing clouds of smoke.

  "I am sorry this is such a short voyage," he said when Gissing finished."You have approached the matter from an entirely naif and instinctivestandpoint, and it will take some time to show you your errors. BeforeI demolish your arguments I should like to turn them over in my mind. Iwill reduce my ideas to writing and then read them to you."

  "I should like nothing better," said Gissing. "And I can think over thesubject more carefully while I peel the potatoes."

  "Nonsense," said the Captain. "I do not often get a chance to discusstheology. I will tell you my idea. You spoke of your experience asGeneral Manager, when you had charge of a thousand employees. One ofthe things we need on this ship is a staff-captain, to take overthe management of the personnel. That would permit me to concentrateentirely on navigation. In a vessel of this size it is wrong that themaster should have to carry the entire responsibility."

  He rang for the steward.

  "My compliments to Mr. Pointer, and tell him to come here."

  Mr. Pointer appeared shortly in oilskins, saluted, and gazed fixedly athis superior, with one foot raised upon the brass door-sill.

  "Mr. Pointer," said Captain Scottie, "I have appointed Captain Gissingstaff-captain. Take orders from him as you would from me. He will havecomplete charge of the ship's discipline."

  "Aye, aye, sir," said Mr. Pointer, stood a moment intently to see ifthere were further orders, saluted again, and withdrew.

  "Now you had better turn in," said the skipper. "Of course you must wearuniform. I'll send the tailor up to you at once. He can remodel one ofmy suits overnight. The trousers will have to be lengthened."

  On the chart-room sofa, Gissing dozed and waked and dozed again. On thebridge near by he heard the steady tread of feet, the mysterious wordsof the officer on watch passing the course to his relief. Bells rangwith sharp double clang. Through the open port he could hear thealternate boom and hiss of the sea under the bows. With the stately liftand lean of the ship there mingled a faint driving vibration.