Southward, and still southward.
We crossed the equator under light steam, for there was no wind and it was too warm to lie becalmed, even in that mystical, lotus-breathing sea.
Our world was turned around, now. We were going back to the year’s beginning, and springtime lay at the end of our bow-sprit. The Big Dipper and the North Star were ours no longer; the Southern Cross had become our beacon and our hope. The sun and moon were still with us, but even these had fallen behind and it was to the northward now that we turned for noonday.
Gradually the glorious sunsets of the lower tropics faded into a semblance of those we had known in our own land. It was no longer quite comfortable on deck without wraps. An April quality had come into the air, and we grew presently to realize that we were entering rapidly into what was, to us, the curious anomaly of an October spring.
87To me it was all pure enjoyment. It seemed that I could never look at the sea enough, and often I got Edith Gale to help me. And Ferratoni too, sometimes, for with the cooler weather and more temperate skies he had become quite himself again.
The first frost in the air seemed a glacial feeling to us, and set us to talking with renewed interest of the Far South and the lands and peoples we had undertaken to discover. I felt sure we were extravagant in some of our expectations. The tales we had read led us to hope for marvels in the way of mechanical progress, and we treated ourselves to flying machines and heaven only knows what other luxuries. In the end, I discouraged flying machines. I said that if these were a fact with the Antarcticans, they would have come to us long since. I said also that we must not build our anticipations too big, but base everything on calm reason and sound logic. It was more than possible, I admitted, that the Antarcticans had made some advancements in mechanism that were unknown to us, but on the whole I thought we would hold our own at the next world’s exhibition.
It had been Chauncey Gale’s intention to touch at one of the large South American ports for a little holiday, and to procure a few articles needed in the construction department below stairs. This idea, however, was now discouraged by the officers, who 88believed that a number if not all of the crew would desert the ship at the first opportunity.
“Why not let them go?” I had asked, when we were talking the matter over, “and ship a new crew?”
Into the Captain’s off eye there came the twist of indifferent scorn usually accorded to my suggestions.
“Yes,” he growled, “and get a gang from some crimp who would load ’em onto us dead drunk, to cut our throats as soon as they got sober. I know South American crews—I’ve helped kill some of ’em—I don’t want any more.”
I was silent. I didn’t know what a crimp was, and I wouldn’t have asked for considerable. I have since learned that he is an unreliable person; a bad man, who sells worse whisky over a disreputable bar, from which he unloads on sea-captains anything human, and drunk enough to stand the operation. His place is a sort of clearing house, and the crimp has a syndicate or trust, as it were, with the captain at his mercy.
We altered our plans, therefore, and turned our course more directly southward, toward the Falkland Islands. We were off the River de la Plata at the time, sailing leisurely along under a blue sky, with the fair weather that had followed us most of the way from New York. The sailors had expected 89we would put into Rio Janeiro or one of the ports farther down, but now that we had passed below Montevideo and were standing out to sea, they knew we were not to touch land again.
I was leaning over the rail after the interview in the cabin, puzzling about crimps, and looking at the shark—or one just like him—who still followed us, when I heard Mr. Emory, who was on watch, order the men up into the shrouds to shorten sail. I did not see why this should be done, for the sky was blue, dotted here and there with small woolly clouds that showed only a tendency to skurry about a little, like frisking lambs. Perhaps the men didn’t understand, either, for the bosen, Frenchy, blew his whistle presently and they left their work about half finished, and came down. Then they gathered in a group at the bow and I saw Mr. Emory go forward and talk earnestly to Frenchy, who seemed excited and gesticulated at the men, the cabin, himself and the world in general. Mr. Emory left him after a few moments and disappeared into the cabin, where I knew the Captain and Edith Gale were matched in a rubber of whist against the Admiral and Ferratoni, who had been coerced into learning the game.
I left my place at the ship’s side. I did not believe in the old shark superstition, and I had little respect for a creature that would follow a ship 90thirty-five hundred miles for table-scraps when he could get a fish dinner any time for the trouble of catching it. I did want to know about the men, though—why they had been taking in sail, and why they had quit and gathered in a group over the forecastle. Mr. Emory was talking to Captain Biffer when I came in.
“They refuse to obey orders,” he was saying, “unless we turn around and put into Montevideo. They claim they need more clothing for the cold weather south. The sky looks rather queer, and I set them to reefing down so’s to be ready for one of those Pampeiros that Mr. Larkins says come up in a minute down here. When they got about half through, Frenchy stopped them. They’re out forward, now.”
“Did you tell them we had plenty of warm clothing aboard?” asked Gale.
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