# The Luck of the Irish/Chapter 18
### CHAPTER XVIII

WILLIAM found it hard to resist the desire to leap the rail, swim out to Camden, and throttle him. He might have done so but for one thing. Aden was English. Recently he had heard something about the immutability of the English law. If you killed a man in cold blood they really made you pay the penalty, these Britishers. It did not matter a continental whoop how many dollars and lawyers you could mobilize; if they found you guilty you paid the penalty. You couldn't lug in brain-storms, alienists, and handwriting experts, appeal from court to court until for very weariness some jury would let you go. No; these Britishers hanged you or sent you to penal servitude for life, and no back talk.
So William did not jump overboard. They would have locked him up in Aden, tried him, and hanged him. Under such conditions the death of Camden would benefit no one but Colburton, who might be pleased to hear of the death of his jackal. Besides, William saw another side of the square: he hadn't a shred of real evidence against Camden, he had only suppositions. He knew, but the law would not be able to recognize what he knew as evidence.
​There was not a shadow of doubt in his mind; everything now dovetailed so nicely. For what reason had Camden stolen his wallet, his letter of credit, set rogues upon him in Rome and Florence and Cairo? To put him out of the way so as to leave Ruth without protection. No one on board the Ajax would have bothered to watch over her.
Orestes! Just a little word like that to rend the veil completely. From under the ports of the yacht Elsa he had heard that name, and Camden himself had spoken it. Hadn't Camden's voice been familiar yet unplaceable? And yet, day after day, they had been together, and the man's voice had awakened no recollection. William's pride in his ability to reduce complexities into simplicities, after the fashion of his favorite detectives, had received a rude buffet.
"You scum! If I wasn't the biggest boob that ever wore a collar, you wouldn't be in that boat, standing up. Laughing behind my back all these weeks, and nearly getting me in Cairo. Orestes, huh? You wait; I've got a trick yet. You're going away without knowing I know, and there's where I'm going to get you when the time comes. And when I get through with you and your master, neither of you'll ever bother another woman. Scum!"
He had often heard and read of men like Colburton, but he had not credited their actual existence. William knew the man as a hunter of women, but that he would let his fancy lead him around the world was a revelation as to what ​lengths such men would go in pursuit of their mad pleasures.
William sloughed off a considerable quantity of veneer that morning. He wanted to beat something, crush and pound. A deck-hand accidentally bumped against him, and William turned upon him with a snarl so baldly savage that the poor devil jumped back, spilling his bucket.
"Beg pardon, sir; beg pardon!"
"Look where you're going!"
William, realizing that he must find something upon which to vent his rage, opened the door to the gymnasium, threw aside his bath-robe, and began hammering the bag. For half an hour the thunder of it could be heard all over the deck.
It was childish; no one would grant that more readily than William himself. Not half a dozen times in his life had such murderous rage laid hold of him. So it was far better to rid himself of it in this childish manner than to carry it around simmering in his heart. By the time he had got out of his tub he was normal enough to feel ashamed of himself.
He would say nothing to Ruth. Why worry her? She believed—or at least she pretended to believe—that that chapter in her life had been turned down. And it was his self-appointed task to see that it remained turned down. But in failing to disclose his discovery to Ruth he made a terrible mistake, one which was o cause him ten days of the most indescribable misery he was ever to know.
​Later, when Ruth came up, she saw nothing amiss. She put her usual questions perfunctorily. Had he slept well? Did the pain bother him during the night? For all that the cut had healed quickly and healthily, William was subjected occasionally to splitting headaches, a sign indicative that he had come out of that affair in Cairo by a very narrow margin.
"So Mr. Camden has really left us?" she said, lying back lazily, grateful for the shade of the deck canopy. "He was rather amusing at times."
"Ye-ah." A growl.
"He was well informed about this part of the world."
"Ye-ah." A little louder.
"He left a dozen books for me. Maeterlinck—think of it! Very nice of him, wasn't it?"
"Ye-ah!" A real bark.
"What's the matter?"
"Matter?"
"Ye-ah," she mimicked. "Can't you say 'uh-huh' for a change?"
William did not want to laugh. At the mention of Camden all the early fury returned. He knew his Irish temperament; if he laughed his anger would go by the board; and his mood now was one which found a melancholy pleasure in fanning the coals of hate to keep them alive against the day when he and Camden met again. But there was this that worried him: his gray-eyed school-teacher could see like a cat in the dark; and if once she sensed anything wrong, her questions might ​become embarrassing. So he compromised by forcing a grin.
"I guess you can't teach old dogs new tricks. I never knew there was a word called 'yes' until it was too late to do any good. But I don't say 'uh-huh' as much as I used to. 'S that right? And, anyhow 'ye-ah' is Elijah stuff boiled down."
"Elijah stuff!"
He sighed relievedly. She was off the Camden line, and that was something gained. "Sure it's Elijah stuff. Wasn't he always hitting the trail with 'Yea, verily'?"
"I'm beginning to believe you wouldn't please me at all if you didn't use colloquialisms once in a while. Away out here there's something back-homey about them. The Indian Ocean, Arabia! That Red Sea was very hot."
"If they'd call it the Red-hot Sea I could understand what they meant. I've been leaving a trail of fat wherever I moved. Look at the clothes I'm wearing. I never thought to buy real summer stuff. They're beginning to have their first snow-storms in little New York. Say, what do you think? Thanksgiving in Delhi, and not a pumpkin within ten thousand miles."
"Honest?"
"Honest Injun. And Christmas in Hong-Kong, and everything out of tin cans. Yea, verily, I'm going to be homesick along about that time, believe me, sister."
"Christmas! I feel cooler already."
​Four deck-hands appeared at a run. They began working at the canvas canopy.
"What's the trouble?" demanded William, getting up.
"Orders to lash everything, sir. Blow coming up fast out of the sou'east, sir."
William and Ruth ran to the starboard rail and stared at the great evil pall of blue-black clouds pouring up over the eastern horizon. The face of the waters changed even as they gazed.
"A storm!" she cried.
"Well, Cook can't soak us extra for that," said William.
Ruth ran back to the chairs and gathered up the rugs, pillows, and books, piling them into William's outstretched arms. "Hurry!"
The companionway was jammed with excited tourists. William heard "typhoon" and "tornado" and "hurricane"; and one of the missioners began to recount a previous adventure of his in which the ship went down, and was only too happy to go into details. William surged toward him, hoping to get within range of the fool's shins. But the second officer spoke up loudly. Typhoon was all nonsense; only a stiffish blow was coming and would probably be over in an hour or two.
William was not satisfied, however. He knew where he could get the truth; and so he started for the chief engineer's cabin. But as he encountered that officer in the act of descending to the engine-room, his official drill exchanged for greasy dunga​rees, William comprehended that he and his fellow-voyagers were in for some excitement.
"A blow?"
"Aye, and a hell of a one, too, if I know anything about these dirty waters. This blow is a thousand miles from home, Mr. Grogan; and I don't like its looks. It's Chinese, and we're just off the coast of Araby. Y' never can tell what's in the egg when y' turn the point at Aden. Oh, there's no real danger. She'll pitch a lot and the stewards 'll be busy with their yellow basins. But it's me and the captain without relief as long as it lasts; twenty hours for me in yon hell-hole, mayhap. Can't ask you to come down, Mr. Grogan. Good luck to your lunch—if you've got the gall to eat it!"
William stole back to the smoke-room. It was deserted. Then he remembered that he could see little or nothing from this point; so he went forward to the ladies' saloon. That, too, was deserted. Rugs and pillows and books and baskets of fruit lay strewn about. He knelt on the lounge under a forward port and peered out. It was almost as black as night outside; but the sea was green and terrible. Suddenly he sensed a shiver; it seemed to come from the very bowels of the ship, as if she had become a living thing, sensing her trap. Shortly after this he heard a sound which reminded him of rubbing resined fingers over the top of a deep glass tumbler. This piercing hum rang in his ears intermittently hours after the storm was over.
​There was no pitching in the beginning; the wind bore down too powerfully for that. It lashed the water into ribbons of spume, however. He heard a crack like a pistol-shot. The canvas had been ripped off one of the life-boats. For a moment or two it clung to a davit, then whirled seaward like a gray bird of evil omen.
Strange thing, there was not the least fear in William's heart. On the contrary, he was filled with the wildest exultation he had ever known. He longed to go outside, to lay against that wind and laugh and shout and sing.
Over the starboard bow—for they were going into the gale almost head-on rose a thin sheet of water, so thin that William could see through it. It hung in mid-air for two or three seconds—a viper seeking for something to strike—then smashed upon the deck. He knew instantly where he had heard that sound before—when they sent sheet-tin down the cellar chute at the shop.
The shop! How unutterably far off that was! Wasn't that all a piece of a humdrum dream? Could he ever return and settle down ? Never had he felt so keenly and wonderfully alive as at this moment.
The bow of the Ajax went down, down, down, fathoms down. From the dining-saloon came the racket of crashing dishes. The potted palm on the piano fell with a crash. William laughed. Then the bow of the Ajax went up, up, up. He had to hang to the grip of the port to keep from sliding off his perch. The ship did not fall far ​this time. She struck a roller a thousand years old, and tons and tons of green water rushed over the deck. A forgotten magazine swam about frantically but hopelessly. It fluttered like a wounded gull against a boat-block, then slumped overboard. William chuckled. Inanimate things did not have much show. But a man, now! He was letting himself be carried along by the elemental and irresistible desire to escape this stuffy cabin and to see if he could stand up under that smashing wind and wave. To get out there and fight, to yell back at that infernal bell-like humming! Chinese, was it? Well, he'd like to show the old pigtail that William Grogan was no milksop.
The Ajax began to plunge heavily. William's fancy had made the ship a living thing, and she was fighting. Each time a great monster threatened to engulf her she slammed down her steel forefoot and split it, broke it, shattered it.
"Go it, old girl! Beat 'em down, smash 'em! Don't let 'em bluff you; soak it to 'em! Tha's a girl! Show 'em up! Tell 'em you're from little ol' New York, where they have to show you. Tha's a girl! Wow!"
He had forgotten Camden, he had forgotten Ruth; there was nothing left in the world at all but himself and the storm. He slipped off the lounge and flung his hat to the floor; the ancient Celt was sticking out all over him. He staggered to the port door. This was in the lee, but as he opened it the blast took away his breath. He did ​not hear the steward's yell of warning, and he wouldn't have minded if he had. It took all his strength—twofold in this mad hour—to shut the door. He hung on to the knob—he had to.
"God! but this tastes good!"
He shifted his grip from the knob to the hand-rail which ran around the deck-houses and began to pull himself forward, all the while ankle-deep in the back-wash. The whole world was green, the sky and the sea, green like emeralds, green like the horse-chestnuts in the spring, and the white-caps were the blossoms.
From all directions came the crackling and slapping of canvas. The mysterious hum had now deepened. It took William's memory back to the Italian cathedrals where priests or choir-boys were eternally intoning. There was also an under-tone, but this was due to the vibrating wires and cables; the great diapason was the wind itself.
Some chairs had broken loose from their lashing on the starboard side, and a tangle of sticks and cane bottoms swirled about at the junction of the cross and port rails, for the deck was now constantly flooded.
William continued to pull himself along. He turned the corner finally. The full wind caught him and slammed him violently against the deck-house. His solid meat and bone were like so much straw. The impact knocked the breath out of him, and he clung to the hand-rail, gasping. He ​battled in vain to turn his face to windward; each attempt left him blind and breathless. His strength was of paper. The swoop of the wind sucked the air out of his lungs—zip!—like that; and he had to bury his face in the crook of his arm to get anything like a full breath. He was beaten, beaten at the start, and he knew it. And yet he laughed. His body was weak, yes, but God Himself had not loosed the wind that could put fear into the heart of William Grogan.
He slipped around again to leeward, where he took in deep, sobbing breaths. His lungs stung as in zero weather after a hard run for a street-car. He was drenched, too. Forward there was a ceaseless volleying of deluges, and when they struck they hurt.
"You win!" he cried, strangling and laughing. "I can lick my weight in wildcats and near-champions, but I know the real article when I see it. Zowie!"
But he had felt the tempest in the roots of his hair, and that was what he had come out for. He was never going to be bothered with headaches again. If he could get to the rear of the smoke-room there might be a chance to see what was going on without risking his life. He made the distance without mishap. Midway aft the deck-houses there was but little wind. He shook himself and wiped the water out of his eyes. Once more he laughed. Only an hour or so back there had not been a ripple on the oily swells, and now all hell seemed broken loose.
​After a short rest he manœuvered around the starboard end, into the teeth of the storm again … and paused, doubting his eyes.
A dozen feet away was a woman in white. She lay against the deck-house, wind-driven, her arms wound around the hand-rail. Her tawny hair was blowing straight out behind her, though many strands of it seemed glued to the white panels. She had the appearance of one of those Italian bas-reliefs, for every line of her body was drawn clearly under the soaking, clinging linen. A witch, a mermaid, or a good old Irish banshee! Evidently she dared not let go.
Sea after sea broke forward. The infernal mingling of titanic noises—the snapping of canvas, the roaring ventilators, the doors forward and aft banging monotonously, the rumbling of the steam, the convulsive creaking shudder of the ship as the screws flung themselves free of the water, and the immensity of that great, humming m-m-m-m!—it was hell without brimstone.
The only thing that saved the girl from suffocation was the projection of the middle saloon. This broke the density and volume of the waves. Nevertheless, sheet after sheet slapped against her body resoundingly. She had probably come out for a forgotten book or rug, he thought. The little fool!
"Creep back, and don't let go that hand-rail! Do just as I tell you!" he yelled; but the gale drove the words back into his throat. The bellow of a Cyclops would not have reached the girl's ​ears understandingly. There was nothing for it but to go after her. He put his free arm around her. Then she turned. It was Ruth, and she was laughing! "Good God!"
The fear for her safety turned him into something of a brute. That she should dare risk her life like this in play! A strong man had some chance, but a woman none. The rescue—for no doubt it was a rescue—had none of those niceties which made certain mid-Victorian chapters memorable. William was simply the caveman, and Ruth was his woman, and the deluge was reaching out for her. That he did not take her by the hair was because his grip on her body was sufficient. He knew that his strength, multiplied many times by terror and rage, was equal to any typhoon that ever came out of the China Sea.
The wind, as if realizing that both were about to escape, redoubled its fury, whirling the two of them around the corner as easily as gutter-winds whirl straws. Breathless, half blinded, he lay back against the deck-house. For a minute or two he was not conscious that he he d her in both his arms, so closely, indeed, that one mold might have served for them both. Presently, despite the fact that she was drenched, he sensed the pleasurable animal warmth of her body and the rapid rise and fall of her bosom. Strange fires sprang up in his heart; and one thought obliterated all others: come what might in after years, this moment would always be his.
His awakening from this dangerous dream was ​rude. The cave-woman was beating him with her fists, wild passion in every stroke.
"Let me go! I—can't—breathe! You are hurting me!"
He released her, though he retained hold of a forearm so powerfully that the marks of his fingers were visible for days.
The transition into the caveman period had been instantaneous, but it was not possible to recover except by slow degrees. So when he spoke to her he spoke consistently.
"Are you a fool? Didn't you know it was death? What in God's name were you about?"
"I had to come! It kept calling and calling! I couldn't help it! … How dare you call me a fool?" she blazed out.
"Well, if I ever saw one!"
"Let go my arm!"
"Not until I get you safe inside. You come with me."
She fought him all the way around to the smoke-room door. He opened it and pushed her roughly over the high threshold and followed.
"You have hurt me!"
"Sure I have. Hell! By rights you ought to be crumpled up without a whole bone in your body. One slip, one misstep. … Don't you know anything?"
"You have called me a fool."
"Uh-huh. You go below and change your clothes."
"You are insolent!"
​"Anything you please. Do you want me to carry you?"
All the fury she could crowd into her glance flew to his eyes. But she never spoke the words which stormed at her tongue. Something was forming in his eyes that reminded her of the morning in Venice. In another moment he would pick her up and carry her down-stairs. Angry as she was, she had not the courage to meet such an event.
She flung her hair out of her eyes, wrung it, made a loose knot of it, turned and staggered—for her body, minus the exaltation, weighed unutterable tons—into the main saloon. The door banged after her. She would never forgive him.
In these tremendous unforgetable moments both had broken through the shell of civilization. They were two human beings possessed of little more than instincts. A man revels in the recurrence of primordial instincts. No woman does, because she is afraid of instincts. Nature has warned her that these are traps.
Naturally Ruth was first to recover her poise, to resume her shell. She was honest enough later to make allowances for his roughness, urged by his terror for her safety. But she could not shut out the feel of his arms. As the shell closed over her in its entirety she was conscious of a great depression.
It was hours before William crawled back into his shell. He hated it; he knew it for just what it was—boundary lines, stone walls, moats. He had had a taste of such wonderful freedom that he ​never wanted to return to the shell. He knew that once he had it all buckled on again, he would review his conduct through the old microscopic lenses, which he did.
He had acted like an abysmal brute. He had hurt her; and things would never be the same as they had been. But her danger had driven him wild. And always the haunting memory of her body, warm and palpitating, against his. He thought of it as he dressed and tried to stamp out the thought. It was with him in the practically deserted dining-saloon, in the smoke-room later; it followed him back to his cabin, into his dreams, and it was with him in the morning when the storm was a thing of the past.
Calm returned; and the two picked up life where they had dropped it prior to the storm. By tacit agreement they never referred to the episode. Then they came to Ceylon, beautiful isle of spices; and the perverse little twist in their lives became forgotten.
One afternoon, after the return from Kandy, William went alone to the landing-pier in the harbor of Colombo. He saw the yacht Elsa in the offing.