“If it hadn’t been for the old lady, I would have gone to the devil. I remembered her in time. Nothing like having an old lady to look after to steady a chap and make him face things. But as bad luck would have it, Captain Anthony has no mother living, not a blessed soul belonging to him as far as I know. Oh, aye, I fancy he said once something to me of a sister. But she’s married. She don’t need him. Yes. In the old days he used to talk to me as if we had been brothers,” exaggerated the mate sentimentally. “‘Franklin,’—he would say—‘this ship is my nearest relation and she isn’t likely to turn against me. And I suppose you are the man I’ve known the longest in the world.’ That’s how he used to speak to me. Can I turn my back on him? He has turned his back on his ship; that’s what it has come to. He has no one now but his old Franklin. But what’s a fellow to do to put things back as they were and should be. Should be—I say!”
His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr. Powell’s irresistible thought, “he resembles a boiled lobster in distress,” was followed by annoyance. “Good Lord,” he said, “you don’t mean to hint that Captain Anthony has fallen into bad company. What is it you want to save him from?”
“I do mean it,” affirmed the mate, and the very absurdity of the statement made it impressive—because it seemed so absolutely audacious. “Well, you have a cheek,” said young Powell, feeling mentally helpless. “I have a notion the captain would half kill you if he were to know how you carry on.”
“And welcome,” uttered the fervently devoted Franklin. “I am willing, if he would only clear the ship afterwards of that . . . You are but a youngster and you may go and tell him what you like. Let him knock the stuffing out of his old Franklin first and think it over afterwards. Anything to pull him together. But of course you wouldn’t. You are all right. Only you don’t know that things are sometimes different from what they look. There are friendships that are no friendships, and marriages that are no marriages. Phoo! Likely to be right—wasn’t it? Never a hint to me. I go off on leave and when I come back, there it is—all over, settled! Not a word beforehand. No warning. If only: ‘What do you think of it, Franklin?’—or anything of the sort. And that’s a man who hardly ever did anything without asking my advice. Why! He couldn’t take over a new coat from the tailor without . . . first thing, directly the fellow came on board with some new clothes, whether in London or in China, it would be: ‘Pass the word along there for Mr. Franklin. Mr. Franklin wanted in the cabin.’ In I would go. ‘Just look at my back, Franklin. Fits all right, doesn’t it?’ And I would say: ‘First rate, sir,’ or whatever was the truth of it. That or anything else. Always the truth of it. Always. And well he knew it; and that’s why he dared not speak right out. Talking about workmen, alterations, cabins . . . Phoo! . . . instead of a straightforward—‘Wish me joy, Mr. Franklin!’ Yes, that was the way to let me know. God only knows what they are—perhaps she isn’t his daughter any more than she is . . . She doesn’t resemble that old fellow. Not a bit. Not a bit. It’s very awful. You may well open your mouth, young man. But for goodness’ sake, you who are mixed up with that lot, keep your eyes and ears open too in case—in case of . . . I don’t know what. Anything. One wonders what can happen here at sea! Nothing. Yet when a man is called a jailer behind his back.”
Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment and Powell shut his mouth, which indeed had been open. He slipped out of the mess-room noiselessly. “The mate’s crazy,” he thought. It was his firm conviction. Nevertheless, that evening, he felt his inner tranquillity disturbed at last by the force and obstinacy of this craze. He couldn’t dismiss it with the contempt it deserved. Had the word “jailer” really been pronounced? A strange word for the mate to even imagine he had heard. A senseless, unlikely word. But this word being the only clear and definite statement in these grotesque and dismal ravings was comparatively restful to his mind. Powell’s mind rested on it still when he came up at eight o’clock to take charge of the deck. It was a moonless night, thick with stars above, very dark on the water. A steady air from the west kept the sails asleep. Franklin mustered both watches in low tones as if for a funeral, then approaching Powell:
“The course is east-south-east,” said the chief mate distinctly.
“East-south-east, sir.”
“Everything’s set, Mr. Powell.”
“All right, sir.”
The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed silvery in the shadowy face. “A quiet night before us. I don’t know that there are any special orders. A settled, quiet night. I dare say you won’t see the captain. Once upon a time this was the watch he used to come up and start a chat with either of us then on deck. But now he sits in that infernal stern-cabin and mopes. Jailer—eh?”