Chapter 6

(_The door in rear is opened and_ MRS. KEENEY _stands in the doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman primly dressed in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at her._)

KEENEY (_with rough tenderness_). Well, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_as if awakening from a dream_). David, I--(_She is silent. The_ MATE _starts for the doorway._)

KEENEY (_turning to him--sharply_). Wait!

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause, during which she seems to be endeavoring to collect her thoughts_). I thought maybe--I'd go up on deck, David, to get a breath of fresh air.

(_She stand's humbly awaiting his permission. He and the_ MATE _exchange a significant glance._)

KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below to-day. There's nothing to look at on deck--but ice.

MRS. KEENEY (_monotonously_). I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's nothing to see down here but these walls.

(_She makes a gesture of loathing._)

KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home.

KEENEY (_a touch of resentment in his voice_). I got it jest for you.

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). I know. (_She turns away from them and walks slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and looks through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy._) Ah, water! Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after all these months of ice! (_She turns round to them, her face transfigured with joy._) Ah, now I must go upon deck and look at it, David.

KEENEY (_frowning_). Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when the sun shines.

MRS. KEENEY (_desperately_). But the sun never shines in this terrible place.

KEENEY (_a tone of command in his voice_). Best not to-day, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (_crumbling before this command--abjectly_). Very well, David.

(_She stands there staring straight before her as if in a daze. The two men look at her uneasily._)

KEENEY (_sharply_). Annie!

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). Yes, David.

KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about--ship's business.

MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David.

(_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three quarters shut behind her._)

KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any trouble.

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. And trouble they's goin' to be. I feel it in my bones.

(_Takes a revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it._)

Got yourn?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breed of dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. (_Grimly_) I ain't never been forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by sea's long as I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I reckon.

MATE (_hesitatingly_). Then you ain't goin'--to turn back?

KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' s'uth for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in the hold?

MATE (_hastily_). No, sir--but the grub's gittin' low.

KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful with it; and they's plenty o' water.

MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the two years they signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble for you in the courts when we git home.

KEENEY. To hell with 'em! Let them make what law trouble they kin. I don't give a damn 'bout the money. I've got to git the ile! (_Glancing sharply at the_ MATE) You ain't turnin' no damned sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?

MATE (_flushing_). Not by a hell of a sight, sir.

KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' the four hundred barrel wouldn't keep 'em in chewin' terbacco.

MATE (_slowly_). They wants to git back to their folks an' things, I s'pose.

KEENEY (_looking at him searchingly_). 'N' you want to turn back, too. (THE MATE _looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze._) Don't lie, Mr. Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. (_With grim sarcasm_) I hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me.

MATE (_indignantly_). That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.

KEENEY (_with satisfaction_). I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No man kin say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one.

MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, I mean. (_Desperately_) But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain't jest satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' bad luck an' the ice an' all.

KEENEY (_his face clouding--rebukingly but not severely_). That's my business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' that. (_A pause._) The ice'll break up soon to no'th'rd. I could see it startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun, Annie'll perk up. (_Another pause--then he bursts forth_) It ain't the damned money what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't never come back home in all my days without a full ship. Ain't that truth?

MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'--

KEENEY (_scornfully_). And d' you s'pose any of 'em would believe that--any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't you hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'--Tibbots 'n' Harris 'n' Simms and the rest--and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney what boasts he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport comin' back with a measly four hundred barrel of ile?" (_The thought of this drives him into a frenzy, and he smashes his fist down on the marble top of the sideboard._) Hell! I got to git the ile, I tell you. How could I figger on this ice? It's never been so bad before in the thirty year I been a-comin' here. And now it's breakin'up. In a couple o'days it'll be all gone. And they's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of all hell, and by God, I ain't a-goin' home till I do git it!

(_There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then_ KEENEY _goes over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he were going to enter--then closes the door softly._ JOE, _the harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face, enters from right and stands waiting for the captain to notice him._)

KEENEY (_turning and seeing him_). Don't be standin' there like a gawk, Harpooner. Speak up!

JOE (_confusedly_). We want--the men, sir--they want send a depitation aft to have a word with you.

KEENEY (_furiously_). Tell 'em to go to--(_checks himself and continues grimly_) Tell'em to come. I'll see'em.

JOE. Aye, aye, sir.

(_He goes out._)

KEENEY (_with a grim smile_). Here it comes, the trouble you spoke of, Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to crush such things at the start than let them make headway.

MATE (_worriedly_). Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might need their help.

KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, Mr. Slocum.

(_There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the crew crowd into the cabin, led by_ JOE. _All are dressed alike--sweaters, sea-boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the_ CAPTAIN, _twirling their fur caps in their hands._)

KEENEY (_after a pause_). Well? Who's to speak fur ye?

JOE (_stepping forward with an air of bravado_). I be.

KEENEY (_eyeing him up and down coldly_). So you be. Then speak your say and be quick about it.

JOE (_trying not to wilt before the CAPTAIN'S glance and avoiding his eyes_). The time we signed up for is done to-day.

KEENEY (_icily_). You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.

JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far's we kin see.

KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile.

JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice afore ye.

KEENEY. The ice is breaking up.

JOB (_after a slight pause during which the others mumble angrily to one another_). The grub we're gittin' now is rotten.

KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have eaten worse.

(_There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd._)

JOE (_encouraged by this support_). We ain'ta-goin' to work no more 'less you puts back fur home.

KEENEY (_fiercely_). You ain't, ain't you?

JOE. No; and the law courts 'll say we was right.

KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm the law on this ship. (_Edging up toward the harpooner._) And every mother's son of you what don't obey orders goes in irons.

(_There are more angry exclamations from the crew._ MRS. KEENEY _appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes. None of the men notices her._)

JOE (_with bravado_). Then we're a-goin' to mutiny and take the old hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?

(_As he turns his head to look at the others_, KEENEY'S _fist shoots out to the side of his jaw._ JOE _goes down in a heap and lies there._ MRS. KEENEY _gives a shriek and hides her face in her hands. The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers of_ KEENEY _and the_ MATE.)

KEENEY (_his eyes and voice snapping_). Hold still! (_The men stand huddled together in a sullen silence._ KEENEY'S _voice is full of mockery._) You've found out it ain't safe to mutiny on this ship, ain't you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and (_he gives_ JOE'S _body a contemptuous kick_) drag him with you. And remember, the first man of ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead as sure as there's a sea under us, and you can tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick! (_The men leave in cowed silence, carrying_ JOE _with them._ KEENEY _turns to the_ MATE _with a short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket._) Best get up on deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of their skulkin' tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now on. I know 'em.

MATE. Yes, sir.

(_He goes out, right._ KEENEY _hears his wife's hysterical weeping and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to her side._)

KEENEY (_putting an arm around her shoulder--with gruff tenderness_). There, there, Annie. Don't be afeard. It's all past and gone.

MRS. KEENEY (_shrinking away from, him_). Oh, I can't bear it! I can't bear it any longer!

KEENEY (_gently_). Can't bear what, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_hysterically_). All this horrible brutality, and these brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell of a room, and the ice all around, and the silence.

(_After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her handkerchief._)

KEENEY (_after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled frown_). Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on this voyage, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I didn't want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've been doing these last six years since we were married--waiting, and watching, and fearing--with nothing to keep my mind occupied--not able to go back teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your side in the danger and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the hero they make you out to be in Homeport. And instead--(_her voice grows tremulous_) all I find is ice--and cold--and brutality!

(_Her voice breaks._)

KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home where you've got all your woman's comforts." (_Shaking his head_) But you was so set on it.

MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in the story-books and I thought you were one of them.

KEENEY (_protestingly_). I done my best to make it as cozy and comfortable as could be. (MRS. KEENEY _looks around her in wild scorn._) I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was calms and things was dull like.

MRS. KEENEY (_wearily_). Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that. (_She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks out--then suddenly bursts forth._) I won't stand it--I can't stand it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. (_She runs over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his arm protectingly over her shoulders._) Take me away from here, David! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. I'm afraid. Take me home!

KEENEY (_holds her at arm's length and looks at her face anxiously_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you look this way before.

MRS. KEENEY (_laughing hysterically_). It's the ice and the cold and the silence--they'd make anyone look strange.

KEENEY (_soothingly_). In a month or two, with good luck, three at the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her everything she'll stand and p'int for home.

MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want to get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all, you've got to turn back.

KEENEY (_harshly_). I can't, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you?

KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason.

MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Because it's a stupid, stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to live up to our silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it.

KEENEY (_his jaw set stubbornly_). It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what anyone'd say--but--(_He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning._) You see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem right not to--somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, and--Don't you see my meanin', Annie? (_He glances at her. She is not looking at him but staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying._) Annie! (_She comes to herself with a start._) Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY (_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear_). David! Won't you please turn back?

KEENEY (_gently_). I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my meanin'. I got to git the ile.

MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't. You've got more than plenty.

KEENEY (_impatiently_). It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think I'm as mean as that?

MRS. KEENEY (_dully_). No--I don't know--I can't understand--(_Intensely_) Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago--as if I'd been dead and could never go back.

KEENEY (_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her eyes_). Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY (_not appearing to hear him_). I used to be lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the fine free life you must be leading. (_She gives a laugh which is half a sob._) I used to love the sea then. (_She pauses; then continues with slow intensity._) But now--I don't ever want to see the sea again.

KEENEY (_thinking to humor her_). 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye.

MRS. KEENEY (_after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness_). How long would it take us to reach home--if we started now?

KEENEY (_frowning_). 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck.

MRS. KEENEY (_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt smile_). That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it?

KEENEY (_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved him--gruffly_). Don't you remember?

MRS. KEENEY (_vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes_). My memory is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. (_A pause--then she smiles dreamily._) It's June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in the front yard--and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the house--they're budding.

(_She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to sob._)

KEENEY (_disturbed_). Go in and rest, Annie. You're all wore out cryin' over what can't be helped.

MRS. KEENEY (_suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him_). You love me, don't you, David?

KEENEY (_in amazed embarrassment at this outburst_) Love you? Why d'you ask me such a question, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him--fiercely_). But you do, don't you, David? Tell me!

KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there be aught but love between us after all these years?

MRS. KEENEY (_shaking him again--still more fiercely_). Then you do love me. Say it!

KEENEY (_simply_). I do, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. (_Gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to her sides._ KEENEY _regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and murmurs half to herself._) I sometimes think if we could only have had a child. (KEENEY _turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face her--intensely._) And I've always been a good wife to you, haven't I, David?

KEENEY (_his voice betraying his emotion_). No man ever had a better, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, David? Have I?

KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY (_wildly_). Then do this, this once, for my sake, for God's sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--the brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I can hear the silence threatening me--day after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. (_Sobbing._) I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me home!

(_She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder. His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens as he looks at her tear-stained face._)

KEENEY (_dragging out the words with an effort_). I'll do it, Annie--for your sake--if you say it's needful for ye.

MRS. KEENEY (_with wild joy--kissing him_). God bless you for that, David!

(_He turns away from her silently and walks toward the companionway. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and the_ SECOND MATE _enters the cabin._)

MATE (_excitedly_). The ice is breakin' up to no'th'rd, sir. There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout says.

(KEENEY _straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance._ MRS. KEENEY _looks at the_ MATE _with terrified eyes._)

KEENEY (_dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts_). A clear passage? To no'th'rd?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY (_his voice suddenly grim with determination_). Then get her ready and we'll drive her through.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

MRS. KEENEY (_appealingly_). David!

KEENEY (_not heeding her_). Will the men turn to willin' or must we drag 'em out?

MATE. They 'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs.

KEENEY. Then drive 'em--both watches. (_With grim determination_) They's whale t' other side o' this floe and we're going to git 'em.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

(_He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of scuffing feet from the deck outside and the_ MATE'S _voice shouting orders._)

KEENEY (_speaking aloud to himself--derisively_). And I was a-goin' home like a yaller dog!

MRS. KEENEY (_imploringly_). David!

KEENEY (_sternly_). Woman, you ain't a-doin' right when you meddle in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git the ile, I tell ye.

MRS. KEENEY (_supplicatingly_). David! Aren't you going home?

KEENEY (_ignoring this question--commandingly_). You ain't well. Go and lay down a mite. (_He starts for the door._) I got to git on deck.

(_He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause. She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laugh hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to play wildly an old hymn._ KEENEY _reënters from the doorway to the deck and stands looking at her angrily. He comes over and grabs her roughly by the shoulder._)

KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? (_She laughs wildly, and he starts back from her in alarm._) Annie! What is it? (_She doesn't answer him._ KEENEY'S _voice trembles._) Don't you know me, Annie?

(_He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her, and she commences softly to play the organ again._)

KEENEY (_swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he had difficulty in speaking_). You said--you was agoin' mad--God!

(_A long wail is heard from the deck above: "Ah bl-o-o-o-ow!" A moment later the_ MATE'S _face appears through the skylight. He cannot see_ MRS. KEENEY.)

MATE (_in great excitement_). Whales, sir--a whole school of 'em--off the starb'd quarter 'bout five mile away--big ones!

KEENEY (_galvanized into action_). Are you lowerin' the boats?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY (_with grim decision_). I'm a-comin' with ye.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir. (_Jubilantly_) You'll git the ile now right enough, sir.

(_His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders._)

KEENEY (_turning to his wife_). Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git the ile. (_She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He gives a hard laugh, which is almost a groan._) I know you're foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind--(_anxiously_) be you? I'll git the ile now right enough--jest a little while longer, Annie--then we'll turn hom'ard. I can't turn back now, you see that, don't ye? I've got to git the ile. (_In sudden terror_) Answer me! You ain't mad, be you?

(_She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The_ MATE'S _face appears again through the skylight._)

MATE. All ready, sir.

(KEENEY _turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway, where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish, fighting to control his feelings._)

MATE. Comin', sir?

KEENEY (_his face suddenly grown hard with determination_). Aye.

(_He turns abruptly and goes out._ MRS. KEENEY _does not appear to notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centred in the organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as the Curtain falls._)

CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR[1]

J.A. Ferguson

[Footnote 1: Included by special permission of the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, Glasgow.]

CHARACTERS