seemed straining forward like a greyhound on the leash, with the slap, slap of the water against the hull and the ceaseless creaking and groaning of the rigging which had become already a part of the background of one’s life. She keeled a little to one side—to port, to starboard, (I’ve told you I never mastered more than a word or two of nautical jargon, and indeed what chance had I?—that was the last hour of any peace of mind I ever had aboard the brig, which bore her very name, the Mary Sellers, the Mary Celeste)—and cut her way through the heaving waters with their white spray splashing the tips of the ever shifting, moving, gently rolling world of waves. The salt breeze blew across my face as I stood there, I felt it cool and fresh and invigorating as though I had fainted and a flask of smelling salts was being passed under my nostrils. It seemed to pull me together, to help collect my thoughts from sheer, blundering protest and helplessness; from the ludicrous idea that in all this I was as much to blame as they. I said to Mary: ‘May I not speak with you, alone?’
It was then that I learned for the first time that her name was not given to her for her colouring alone, but for her habit of endearment—which, however, may indeed have arisen from the nickname and not come before it—of using ‘my honey’ as one might say my dear or my darling. She used it with a touch of the Southern accent which perhaps she had picked up from the darkies along the waterfront. ‘My honey,’ she would say or ‘my honey sweet,’ and she said it now. ‘Why, my honey!—do you think you’ll wheedle me with those young griefs of yours out of my fell purpose? For you won’t, you know.’
‘You teach him Mary!’ said Gilling, urging her on to wickedness. ‘We’ll have him the talk of the watersides half across the world.’
‘What has he ever done to you?’ I said. Nothing. I think life had dealt to Andrew Gilling many vicious blows and he returned them blindly, not caring who suffered, as a chained dog will bark and snap at all who pass by. He shrugged and grinned. ‘I like to see the bear baited,’ he said.
‘And you, Volkert? I know that my husband has done wrong—’
I thought that Mary gave me a sharp glance, as though to bid me say no more and for the first time in my maze of unformulated uncertainties, it came to me that the men might not know of her hold over him, that this was a secret power she hugged to herself and would wield as it suited her alone. I said, ‘I know that my husband has done what you think a wrong to you all, in condemning your ways in preaching against you, against what he thinks of as sins. But he’s truly sincere in it…’ I caught her eye with a different look in it this time and my voice trailed off. Volkert said, growling: ‘Some is married men. If such talk is reaching my home
‘We don’t sail in northern waters.’
‘Who knows vere a ship may sail or vere news may travellingk?’
‘Will it really be news,’ said Mary, ‘that Volk and Boz Lorenzen have not abstained from a bite at the apple now and then, throughout three long years of starvation?’
‘And with such an orchard to feast in,’ said Gilling, putting out a hand towards Mary in a crude caress.
She turned aside his arm, glancing at me. ‘Behave yourself in decent company,’ she said; and suddenly: ‘Someone coming!’
Soft soles, padding along the deck. She stepped back into the shadow of the companion-way and would have disappeared altogether from sight, I suppose, but it was the first mate, Richardson. He paused when he saw me standing there with Gilling and Volkert, stopped dead when he saw Mary, and said with a stream of oaths that shocked my soul, ‘What are you doing above decks?’
‘Oh, come, Bert,’ she said, ‘I’m doing no harm. He’s asleep in his cabin, and I stifle in that pigsty below.’
‘You must stay in the deckhouse.’
‘It’s worse than the pigsty itself,
It was then that I learned for the first time that her name was not given to her for her colouring alone, but for her habit of endearment—which, however, may indeed have arisen from the nickname and not come before it—of using ‘my honey’ as one might say my dear or my darling. She used it with a touch of the Southern accent which perhaps she had picked up from the darkies along the waterfront. ‘My honey,’ she would say or ‘my honey sweet,’ and she said it now. ‘Why, my honey!—do you think you’ll wheedle me with those young griefs of yours out of my fell purpose? For you won’t, you know.’
‘You teach him Mary!’ said Gilling, urging her on to wickedness. ‘We’ll have him the talk of the watersides half across the world.’
‘What has he ever done to you?’ I said. Nothing. I think life had dealt to Andrew Gilling many vicious blows and he returned them blindly, not caring who suffered, as a chained dog will bark and snap at all who pass by. He shrugged and grinned. ‘I like to see the bear baited,’ he said.
‘And you, Volkert? I know that my husband has done wrong—’
I thought that Mary gave me a sharp glance, as though to bid me say no more and for the first time in my maze of unformulated uncertainties, it came to me that the men might not know of her hold over him, that this was a secret power she hugged to herself and would wield as it suited her alone. I said, ‘I know that my husband has done what you think a wrong to you all, in condemning your ways in preaching against you, against what he thinks of as sins. But he’s truly sincere in it…’ I caught her eye with a different look in it this time and my voice trailed off. Volkert said, growling: ‘Some is married men. If such talk is reaching my home
‘We don’t sail in northern waters.’
‘Who knows vere a ship may sail or vere news may travellingk?’
‘Will it really be news,’ said Mary, ‘that Volk and Boz Lorenzen have not abstained from a bite at the apple now and then, throughout three long years of starvation?’
‘And with such an orchard to feast in,’ said Gilling, putting out a hand towards Mary in a crude caress.
She turned aside his arm, glancing at me. ‘Behave yourself in decent company,’ she said; and suddenly: ‘Someone coming!’
Soft soles, padding along the deck. She stepped back into the shadow of the companion-way and would have disappeared altogether from sight, I suppose, but it was the first mate, Richardson. He paused when he saw me standing there with Gilling and Volkert, stopped dead when he saw Mary, and said with a stream of oaths that shocked my soul, ‘What are you doing above decks?’
‘Oh, come, Bert,’ she said, ‘I’m doing no harm. He’s asleep in his cabin, and I stifle in that pigsty below.’
‘You must stay in the deckhouse.’
‘It’s worse than the pigsty itself,
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