“ ‘He was fond of the sport, then?’ said I.
“ ‘Ay,’ he answered, ‘he is famous for making short v’y’ges, and a bolder whaleman never went over a ship’s side—though he wasn’t bred to the work, either. He never let the chance slip before of having the first dash at a shoal, setting great store on a trick of his own, of pitchpoling a lance, that was very certain. He has killed two whales to the mate’s one, for the v’y’ge—though his boat was oftener under the carpenter’s hands—as he had a slap-dash way of laying on to a whale, which suited no other harpooner in the ship, but the wild islander who steers him.’
“ ‘He believed in the South-Sea-slogan,’ said I, ‘a dead whale, or a stove boat.’
“ ‘Just so,’ he replied, apparently beguiled of deeper thoughts, for an instant, by a natural interest in his profession; ‘and his boat’s crew were all pretty much of the same creed. Two of the fellows we had in irons below belong to it; and more troublesome rascals are not to be found in the ship. However, the difference between the captain and the mate in their boats, was this: the one was too headstrong, the other too cautious. Once within dart of a shoal, the captain would have three or four fish spouting blood, before the mate could clear away his lance; though Jinney was always more sure to get on to a single whale—an old schoolmaster, for instance—if you only gave him time; and he rarely had his boat struck. However,’ continued he, recurring to the point which, I could see, troubled him most, ‘I never dreamed that Jinney, cunning as he was, would have died in the strange way he did.’
“ ‘Why, Mr. Parker,’ said I, glad to find him falling back to his starting-point, ‘I have heard nothing, so far, to justify your suspicions of the captain. The ghost is out of the question, and as Catherton got along very well with his mate for two successive voyages as you say, I cannot see his motive for wishing Jinney out of the ship in the damnable way you point at.’
“ ‘Ay,’ said he solemnly, ‘but there was a motive—and a black one. Nothing will ever convince me to the contrary, but that the poor lady had foul play between the three of them—I mean her husband, the mate, and the mulatto steward.’
“ ‘The devil!’ I broke out, staring him full in the face, with a confused remembrance of some strange thoughts of my own in my mind. ‘What on earth put that horrid notion in your head?’
“The lines deepened on the second mate’s shrewd face, and a doubtful look wrinkled his narrow brows, as his eyes watched mine, as if to fathom how far he might trust me in such a matter. It would not do, however, and I saw that he felt compelled to speak, at all risks, like a frank fellow, as he was, who had strong doubts of dark deeds done in the craft—he could not tell exactly how—and was taking the first good chance that turned up, of easing his mind. There was a look of honest trouble about his twinkling blue eyes, and beardless swarthy cheek, which, combined with his Yankee shrewdness—setting aside the stuff about the ghost—made me repeat the question in a sharper tone, as my mind again reverted to something I had heard before.
“ ‘The truth is, sir,’ said he, ‘I was convinced from the first, that Mrs. Catherton came on board against her will. Something seemed wrong between them from the start; for I remember, just after she was getting over her sea-sickness, I began to observe the traces of tears on her face, as she often came hurriedly up on the poop, when he was in the after cabin. It was even a matter of talk for’ard, before the blacksmith’s forge was off deck,[[7]] that he treated her ill; and as this belief gradually worked aft, from that end of the ship, before we had harpooned a single whale, you may swear that it was true. I heard him, myself, from the sail-room, one morning when he made sure I was asleep in the house on deck, twitting her with her want of faith toward him, and telling her how smoothly she had carried it on for years, while he was at sea—she praying and moaning all the time, and calling on God to witness her innocence; while the very sound of her voice—to say nothing of her tears and her prayers—was enough to move the heart of a Turk to believe her. She could not abide the sight of the mate; and the worst of it was, he seemed to know well enough in his heart what it was for—in short, sir, I had sailed with Jinney before, and had ought to know him. As sure as every man’s conscience is an inward comforter or a scourge of scorpions in this life, according as he listens to its voice or not, so sure that man hated himself as he went about the decks. It was noticed by all hands that he never spoke to her, nor she to him, although she used to sit, for hours at a time, on the poop, with a book on her knees, watching, as we drove along, something you could not see in the wake of the ship, or it might be a gull, hovering over the track of foam; or a Mother Carey’s chicken walking the sprays. All this time we were taking whales, and as the captain showed nothing of the tyrant in his usage of the crew, and the Tartar was a better found ship than I ever had the luck to have been in before, the people had nothing to grumble about, except the matters aft, which, to be sure, was no concern of theirs. Either Captain Catherton, or Jinney, or the mulatto, were always watching the poor lady on the sly, so that it must have been when the boats were off, and the steward at the braces with the shipkeepers, that she managed to stow away the letter that I found in my pea-jacket pocket nearly a week after she disappeared. It was addressed to some friend of hers on shore, and she must have watched until she discovered where the jacket hung, and risked the chances; for the letter was wrapped up in the blank leaf of a book, with a few words in pencil-mark on the margin, begging me to deliver it to the address, if ever I had an opportunity to do so. She was lost a week before I found the letter, and though it looks something like it,’ continued he, while his blue eyes glistened, ‘I’ll never believe that she drowned herself, as she never complained aloud; but just grew thinner and thinner, day by day, until it was plain to the dullest head in the ship, that she was pining to death. It’s my settled belief that she had other reasons for thinking her end was near, and that the spirit that haunts the ship is hers. But be that as it may,’ said he solemnly, ‘if Jim Parker ever lives to see the States again, he will travel to the ends of the earth to deliver the letter. Now, if there’s trouble ahead, Mister Miller, thank God, I’m ready to meet it with a clear conscience.’
“ ‘Mr. Parker,’ I said, still believing the story to be an exaggeration, in spite of the horrible twist he had given it; ‘your counsel is safe with me; but if you’ll take my advice, you’ll say nothing more of the captain’s wife, or the mate, until the voyage is up. If there has been foul play, depend upon it, it will come out.’