Part 4

“Everybody in favor of starting a week from to-day, for the South Pole, stand up!” he said.

There was a universal scramble. Captain Biffer was first on his feet. Gale seized a glass of wine and holding it high above his head, continued:

“To the Great Billowcrest Expedition! Missionary work for Johnnie; electricity for Ferratoni; balloons for Chase; tablets for Bill; the ship for the Captain; homes and firesides for me, and _the South Pole for us all_!”

VII. I LEARN THE WAY OF THE SEA, AND ENTER MORE FULLY INTO MY HERITAGE.

The sun lifting higher above Long Island touched the spray under the bow and turned it into a little rainbow that traveled on ahead. I leaned far out to watch this pleasant omen of fortune, endeavoring meanwhile to realize something of the situation, now that we were finally under way and the years of youth and waiting, of empty dreams and disappointments, lay all behind.

It had been a week to be remembered. A whirl of racing from ship to shop, and from shop to factory—of urging and beseeching on my part, of excuses and protestations on the part of tradesmen and manufacturers. I had been almost despairing at last in the matter of material for the balloon bag, when one morning—it was the fourth day—I heard of a very large completed balloon, made to order for an aeronaut whose old one had missed connection with it by one day. When they had come to deliver it, the undertaker was just driving off, and the aeronaut had made his farewell ascension.

I found it to be of really enormous proportions—one of the largest ever manufactured, I was told—so large, in fact, that the maker was as glad to part with it as I was to secure it.

My associates also had been somewhat occupied. Mr. Sturritt’s delivery teams had been lined up on the Billowcrest dock from morning till night, unloading provisions in various forms, enough it would seem for an army. Ferratoni had laid in his cells, coils, transmitters, detectors and heaven only knows what besides, while Miss Gale had undertaken to supply, in addition to her own requirements, the warm clothing and bedding likely to be needed for an Antarctic winter.

As for Chauncey Gale, he had sat all day at a little table on the afterdeck and signed checks; checks, many of them, that would have wrecked my former commercial venture at any time during the ten years of its existence; and he whistled as he did it, and called out words of comfort to Captain Biffer, who, with a fierce eye on each end of the vessel, strode up and down where boxes, barrels, rolls, rope, chains, etc., were piled or still coming over the side—rending the Second Commandment into orders and admonitions that would have turned a clergyman gray in a night.

Now it was all over. The weird maelstrom of whirling days and nights that had added unreality to what was already dreamlike and impossible, had subsided. We were going down the harbor under full sail. Leaving the others still at breakfast, I had come out here alone to find myself.

I could not grasp it at all. The little farm boy who in the night had wakened and cried for the sea, going back to it, at last. The youth who had carried into manhood the fancy of a fair unknown land, and of one day sailing away to the South to find it, entering suddenly into an Aladdin-like realization of his dreams. It seemed to me that every vessel in the harbor ought to be decorated and firing salutes—that every soul of the vast city ought to be waving us adieu.

To be sure, we hadn’t told anybody. Gale was rather down on the papers, and we had left so suddenly that they had little chance to find out what we were doing. One of them—that of the millionaire editor—got an inkling of it in some way, and in its Sunday Magazine of two days before had filled a page with strange vagaries purporting to be our plans, and disturbing pictures of the lands and people we expected to discover. But as no one ever believes anything printed in a Sunday newspaper, even when backed up by sworn statements, these things appeared to have passed unnoticed. There had been one exception, however; my scientist of the snark and flipper, who had appeared on Monday morning to enter his promised protest.

He came at a busy time. About a hundred teams were backing into each other on the dock, whence arose a medley of unjoyous execration, and a line of men were waiting at Gale’s little table for checks. It was this auspicious moment that my scientist selected for his mission. Captain Biffer, to whom he first appealed, acknowledged him with an observation which no magazine would print, and waved him toward Gale.

“There’s the man _you_ want,” he snorted, “that man over there giving his money away.”

Chauncey Gale was at that moment engaged in constructing a check that ran well into four figures. He paused, however, with his hand on the way to the ink-bottle and listened for a moment with proper respect. Then he said, quite serenely:

“I wonder if you couldn’t conveniently go to hell for about three years. Perhaps by then I’ll have time to listen to you. You notice we’re pretty busy, this morning.”

I smiled now, recalling how the human seal had flopped backwards over a box of cod-fish and narrowly missed pitching overboard in his anxiety to get ashore. There had been no further interference, and no offered encouragement. We were leaving it all behind, now; the narrow, busy, indifferent world. There were no salutes, and if there were any flags, or waving, I did not see them. Nobody had been down to see us off, and impudent tugs steamed by and splashed water at us, just as if we were going out for a day’s sail, and would be back in time for the roof gardens.

Somewhat later I was joined by Edith Gale. It is customary to say “as fresh as the morning,” when referring to a fair woman at such a time, but, rare as the morning was, I could not have paid it a finer tribute than to have compared it to Edith Gale.

She came forward and leaned over at the other side of the bow-sprit.

“How pretty the little rainbow is this morning,” she said, looking down.

“Yes, I have been accepting it as an omen of success.”

Edith Gale laughed.

“I hope it doesn’t mean that we are pursuing a rainbow. We never quite capture it, you see.”

“I have been called a rainbow chaser all my life,” I answered, a little sadly.

“I suppose there is always some rainbow just ahead of us all,” she mused. “Even if we find the South Pole, and all the things we expect there, then something else will come to wish for and look forward to.”

“I am sure of it,” I answered fervently, “I——”

Her father’s warning recurred to me opportunely. We were not yet out of the harbor, and I did not wish to be set ashore at Sandy Hook.

“There is the ocean,” she said presently, “the Atlantic Ocean. How I love it!”

We had already caught the slight swell from the sea. The added exhilaration of it filled me with exultant joy. I stood up and drew in a deep breath of the salt ambrosia.

“Oh,” I said, “it is wine—nectar! It is my birthright—I have always known that I should come back to it, some day!”

Instinctively we turned for a last look at the harbor we were leaving. Farther down the deck Ferratoni was pointing out some landmark to Chauncey Gale, while from the bridge Captain Biffer was taking a silent and solemn farewell of the sky-scrapers of Manhattan. Mr. Sturritt presently came out of the cabin, beaming, and looked out to sea. The land had no further attraction for him. Our provision and the materials for his tablets were safely on board.

We faced seaward again. We were through the Narrows now, and the swell was much stronger, a long steady swing. I heard the Captain give a word of command to the helmsman and noticed that we were turning to the southward. A shoreless expanse of ocean lay ahead.

“I should think all this would appear like a dream to you,” said Edith Gale. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll wake up?”

“I have been trying to find something to convince me that I _am_ awake,” I said.

“How splendid it was that Papa took up with your plans. You know he has all sorts of things brought to him. A man came to him not long ago with some scheme for buying stocks that he said would pay a hundred per cent. a week on the investment. Papa gave him a dollar, and told him that if his theory was correct he didn’t need any partner, for the dollar would make him rich in six months.”

The pitch of the vessel became stronger. Then, too, it was not always regular. Sometimes it swung off a bit to one side, and just when I felt that it ought to lift us buoyantly and sustainingly it would disappoint me by sinking away beneath us—falling down-hill, as it were—or it would change its mind at the last minute and conclude to fall down some other hill, or perhaps give up the notion altogether. I grew discontented and wished it wouldn’t do these things. There was a bit of tarred lashing on the bow-sprit near us. In the harbor the smell of it had been fine and inspiring, but it did not attract me any more. It had become rather obnoxious, in fact, and I moved a little to one side to avoid it. Neither did I feel inclined to laugh at Edith Gale’s story. Somehow it did not seem altogether in good taste. Perhaps she was disappointed, for she referred to my own plans.

“And to think that Papa should believe in you from the start. He said he had never seen any one so much in earnest about anything as you were in your determination to find the South Pole.”

“Yes—oh, yes,” I admitted weakly, “I was in earnest, of course—but——”

The ship gave a peculiar roll and the salt spray came flying up from below. Some of it got into my mouth. It took away any remaining interest I may have had in Miss Gale’s conversation. I did not care for the South Pole, either, and the rainbow of promise had become a mockery. I remembered a particularly steady bit of rock in one of my father’s meadows. As a child this rock had been the ship on which I had voyaged through billowing seas of grass. I would have been willing now to give all my interest in both poles, the ship, and even in Miss Gale herself, to cruise once more for five minutes on that rock.

Edith Gale wiped the water from her own face, laughing merrily.

“I love the sea spray,” she said gaily, “can you taste the gold in it?”

I shook my head miserably.

“A man came to Papa, once, with a scheme to extract the gold from it,” she ran on. “Papa told him that there was so much water that he guessed he’d wait till the patent on the process became public, or ran out. Do you suppose there really is gold in it?”

I could not answer immediately.

“Do you suppose there _is_?” she repeated, and I thought there was a note of injury in her voice.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I groaned wretchedly, “but I know what _will_ be there, pretty soon, if this ship doesn’t stand still!”

She turned a startled face toward me. She said afterwards that all the colors of the ocean were reflected in mine. She had been ready to laugh at first, but her expression became one of compassion.

“Oh,” she said, “I never thought, I am such a good sailor—and the bow is the very worst place for that. You must go back amid-ships. You are seasick—I am sure of it!”

“So am I,” I gasped, “and I am also sure, now, that I am not dreaming!”

I stumbled feebly back to a steamer-chair and looked out on the horizon that one instant sank far below the rail, and the next, lifted as far above it. Between lay the tossing sea—my heritage. That which my ancestors had lived and died for. I did not blame them for dying—I was willing to do that, myself. Chauncey Gale came along just then.

“I’ve got a great scheme for the balloon boat,” he began, “a combination wind and water propeller. Ferratoni can supply the power, and——”

He caught my expression just then and the words died in his throat.

“Hello,” he laughed, “you’ve got ’em, haven’t you? Storm last week left it a little rough. Do you always get sick this way at sea?”

“I—yes—I don’t know. It—it’s my first experience.”

Gale regarded me with an amazement that was akin to respect.

“Oh, Lord!” he gasped. “Never been to sea before and planned a trip to the South Pole! What’s a bluff without a show-down!”

“Do you think I’ll be like this all the way?” I asked.

“Oh, pshaw! No! I’ll have Bill give you some of his tablets. You’ll be all right enough by lunch time.”

The suggestion of a food tablet at this particular time was the last thing needed. I went hastily below.

Gale’s prediction was not quite realized. I was absent from luncheon, but before evening the spirit of my ancestors rose within me—perhaps because there was nothing else left for that purpose—and I ascended to the dinner table.

“Well, you’ve concluded that this voyage is no dream, have you?” greeted Gale.

“A good many more will come to that conclusion before it’s over,” growled Captain Biffer, who was present.

Across the table, the place of Ferratoni was vacant. Edith Gale, radiant, beamed upon me. I could afford to laugh, now, and did so.

And thus it was I came fully into my heritage.

VIII. THE HALCYON WAY TO THE SOUTH.

A cold plunge next morning in water combed up from the very bottom of the sea was my final baptismal ceremony. Fully restored I hastened on deck. Chauncey and Edith Gale were already there, walking briskly up and down, and I joined in the joyous march. A faint violet bank showed on the western horizon. Looking through a glass I could see that it was solid and unchanging in outline. It was land, they explained; we were off Cape Charles, and would pass Hatteras during the afternoon. I remembered an account in my old Fifth Reader of “The Last Cruise of the Monitor.” It had been always my favorite selection in the reading class. It gave me a curious feeling now to know that we were soon to pass over the waters where the sturdy little fighter had gone down. However, I had no longer a sense of unreality in my surroundings. I had been too thoroughly waked up the day before.

We were presently joined by Ferratoni—spiritually pale, but triumphant. I was not sorry, for I could not help caring for the man, and it seemed to me that after all his devotion to Edith Gale might be rather a tribute to an ideal than a genuine passion of the heart. We ascended to the bridge where we found the First Officer on watch. His name was Larkins—Terence Larkins—a sturdy Newfoundlander of forty, whose life ashore had been limited to childhood only—a period now lost in the cloudland of myth and fable. He had no prejudices concerning our destination. He was ready at any moment to go anywhere that the sea touched, and to maintain a pleasant discourse at any stage of the journey. He was big and blond, with a touch of ancestry in his speech and a proper disregard of facts—a merry Munchausen of the sea. He saluted as we approached, and pointed shoreward.

“Farrmers’ day ashore,” he said, with a serious air. “All the farrmers come to the beach to-day for their annual shwim.”

“Is this the day?” I asked, looking where he pointed. “I’ve heard of it, but I had forgotten the date.”

“Sure it is, man; an’ can’t ye see thim over there, dhriving down to the beach with their teams? An’ thim fellies puttin’ up the limonade shtands, an’ merry-go-rounds fer the farrmer lads an’ their shweetheartses?”

I reached for the glass and took a long look. The solid purple wall was as solid and purple as it had been before.

“No, really, Mr. Larkins,” I admitted, “I do not.”

“Let _me_ look, Larkins,” said Gale.

He leveled the glass and began to testify.

“Why, of course! And there’s a new addition laid out just below, and a little sign stuck up with—let me see—M-A-R-S-H-S-I-D-E on it. Well, that’s a funny name for an addition, ‘Marshside!’”

Edith Gale seized the glass. After a hasty glance she declared:

“Of course Mr. Chase couldn’t see anything! And you and Mr. Larkins didn’t, either.”

Ferratoni who had been gazing through another glass also shook his head. Chauncey Gale and Mr. Larkins joined in a hearty laugh at our expense.

“Oh, now,” consoled the latter, “it’s because yer eyes are not thrained to lookin’ over the sea. By the time ye get back from the South Pole they’ll be opened to a great many things.”

There came the summons to breakfast and we went below—certainly with no reluctance on my part, this time.

And now passed beautiful days; glorious shipboard days to which the slight uncertainty of a rival’s relative position gave only added zest. Ferratoni, it is true, may have had somewhat different views in this matter. He was obliged to spend the greater part of his time with Gale in the modeling of the new electrical propelling apparatus, which the latter was perfecting for the balloon. In the matter of constructive detail my assistance was not highly regarded by Gale who had really a mechanical turn of mind, as the Billowcrest itself proved; for whatever may have been the vessel’s faults from the seaman’s standpoint it was certainly all that a landsman could desire. Below stairs there was a splendidly appointed workshop, and the engineers on the Billowcrest were also skilled workers in wood and metals. The boat-car for the Cloudcrest, as we had decided to name the balloon, was a matter of daily discussion among us all, but at the point of technical intricacy I was promptly relieved for the good of all concerned.

It was but natural, therefore, that I should be a good deal in Edith Gale’s company. Also that I should feel a gentle solicitude for Ferratoni—a sweet soul whom all presently grew to love; it seemed too bad that he should not come in for his full share of paradise. My own fancies had been called poetic, but I realized daily that Ferratoni lived in a world which to me could be never more than borderland. And this I hoped consoled him somewhat for what he was missing by tinkering away his days with Gale on a dynamo for my balloon car, while I was revelling in the seventh delight of the daughter’s company, above stairs.

We cared for pretty much the same things. We liked to walk up and down the decks, discussing the books we had read, the pictures we had seen, and the purpose and possibilities of art.

“Beauty, the secret of the universe, The thought that gives the soul eternal peace.”

was the quotation most frequently on her lips.

She had seen so much more of the world and its glories than I, and her understanding of nature was a marvel to me. She taught me to see colors that I had been blind to before. Sometimes she brought up her materials and sketched, while I looked on and loved her. When she would let me I photographed her. One day I ventured to show her some verses that I had written, and the fact that she really seemed to care for them gave me a higher opinion of us both.

And the sea racing past made a fine accompaniment to these pleasant things. She liked to watch the surge along the side and listen to its music. So did I, and often together we leaned over the rail to watch and hear it rush by.

We discussed metaphysics, and talked of life, and love, and death. Remembering Chauncey Gale’s advice, I was careful to avoid the personal note at such times. Ferratoni had touched now and then upon his theories in these matters, and these suggested speculations of our own. I was not displeased to find that Edith Gale did not quite accord with, or perhaps altogether grasp, his filmy philosophies. I preferred that she should be less ethereal—what she was, in fact—a splendid reality of flesh and blood and soul, with a love of all the joys of earth and sky. The clouds scudding across the blue, the white joy of the sunlit sails, the smash of the spray over the bow, a merry game of shuffle-board, and even hop-scotch—these things gave her life and sustenance—and then, at the end of the day, came the good dinner, and the untroubled sleep of a healthy child.

IX. ADMONITION AND COUNSEL.

Our progress southward was hurried. We had touched at Charleston for a full supply of coal, but we were sailing under canvas only. It was still bleak winter below Cape Horn, and we did not wish to enter those somber seas before November, the beginning of the Antarctic spring.

Sometimes Edith Gale and I drew steamer chairs to the extreme bow of the boat, and looking away to the horizon, imagined the land of our quest lying just beyond. At night, from this point, we watched the new constellations of the tropics rising from the sea, and those of the North falling back, behind us.

Chauncey Gale and Ferratoni frequently joined us, and at times I was constrained through courtesy to leave Ferratoni and Edith Gale together. Perhaps it was not quite wise—the stars and sea form a dangerous combination to a man like Ferratoni.

After one such evening I was taking a morning constitutional on the deck forward when I saw a female figure emerge from the cabin. Edith Gale had often joined me in these walks, but it was not she. Neither was it our stewardess—a brawny, non-committal Scotch woman, of whom Mr. Sturritt, though her superior in rank, stood in wholesome awe. It proved to be Miss Gale’s maid and former nurse, the stout colored woman, Zarelda, or Zar, as she was commonly called. Miss Gale had long since told me of some of the peculiar sayings and eccentricities of this privileged person, but thus far my interest in her had been rather casual. Now, however, she planted herself at one end of my promenade and sternly faced my approach. I bade her a respectful and even engaging “good morning” as I came on, but the severity of her features did not relax. She nodded ominously, and proceeded to open fire.

“Look heah,” she demanded, “I wan’ know wheah you gwine wid dis ship?”

“Why, down to the Antarctics,” I said winningly. “I thought everybody knew that.”

I felt a sense of relief in being able to answer so readily. It seemed I was not quite through, however.

“Yes, down to Aunt Ar’tics!” she snorted, “I should say down to Aunt Ar’tics! I like to know whose kinfolks dat Aunt Ar’tics is, anyway! I ain’ nevah heard o’ none o’ Mistah Gale’s people by dat name, an’ if she some o’ yo’ po’ relation, I don’ see what foh _we_-all mus’ go trailin’ off down to de mos’ Godforlonesomest spot on dis earth, to visit in de dead o’ wintah. An’ what my Miss Edith goin’ foh, anyway? What my Miss Edith got to do wid yo’ old Aunt Ar’tics, dat’s what I wan’ to know? Humph! moah antics dan Ar’tics—dat’s what I think!”

My emotions during this assault had been rather conflicting, but I managed to maintain a proper degree of calmness.

“Why,” I said gravely, “this ‘Antarctics’ bears a relationship to us all—to the whole world, in fact.”

I rather prided myself on the cleverness of this rejoinder, but it appeared after all to have been rather poorly thought out.