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_ "Look at this, Doctor!" Claude caught Dr. Trueman on his way from
breakfast and handed him a written notice, signed D. T. Micks,
Chief Steward. It stated that no more eggs or oranges could be
furnished to patients, as the supply was exhausted.
The doctor squinted at the paper. "I'm afraid that's your
patient's death warrant. You'll never be able to keep him going
on anything else. Why don't you go and talk it over with Chessup?
He's a resourceful fellow. I'll join you there in a few minutes."
Claude had often been to Dr. Chessup's cabin since the epidemic
broke out,-rather liked to wait there when he went for medicines
or advice. It was a comfortable, personal sort of place with
cheerful chintz hangings. The walls were lined with books, held
in place by sliding wooden slats, padlocked at the ends. There
were a great many scientific works in German and English; the
rest were French novels in paper covers. This morning he found
Chessup weighing out white powders at his desk. In the rack over
his bunk was the book with which he had read himself to sleep
last night; the title, "Un Crime d'Amour," lettered in black on
yellow, caught Claude's eye. The doctor put on his coat and
pointed his visitor to the jointed chair in which patients were
sometimes examined. Claude explained his predicament.
The ship's doctor was a strange fellow to come from Canada, the
land of big men and rough. He looked like a schoolboy, with small
hands and feet and a pink complexion. On his left cheekbone was a
large brown mole, covered with silky hair, and for some reason
that seemed to make his face effeminate. It was easy to see why
he had not been successful in private practice. He was like
somebody trying to protect a raw surface from heat and cold; so
cursed with diffidence, and so sensitive about his boyish
appearance that he chose to shut himself up in an oscillating
wooden coop on the sea. The long run to Australia had exactly
suited him. A rough life and the pounding of bad weather had
fewer terrors for him than an office in town, with constant
exposure to human personalities.
"Have you tried him on malted milk?" he asked, when Claude had
told him how Farming's nourishment was threatened.
"Dr. Trueman hasn't a bottle left. How long do you figure we'll
be at sea?"
"Four days; possibly five."
"Then Lieutenant Wheeler will lose his pal," said Dr. Trueman,
who had just come in.
Chessup stood for a moment frowning and pulling nervously at the
brass buttons on his coat. He slid the bolt on his door and
turning to his colleague said resolutely: "I can give you some
information, if you won't implicate me. You can do as you like,
but keep my name out of it. For several hours last night cases of
eggs and boxes of oranges were being carried into the Chief
Steward's cabin by a flunky of his from the galley. Whatever port
we make, he can get a shilling each for the fresh eggs, and
perhaps sixpence for the oranges. They are your property, of
course, furnished by your government; but this is his customary
perquisite. I've been on this boat six years, and it's always
been so. About a week before we make port, the choicest of the
remaining stores are taken to his cabin, and he disposes of them
after we dock. I can't say just how he manages it, but he does.
The skipper may know of this custom, and there may be some reason
why he permits it. It's not my business to see anything. The
Chief Steward is a powerful man on an English vessel. If he has
anything against me, sooner or later he can lose my berth for me.
There you have the facts."
"Have I your permission to go to the Chief Steward?" Dr. Trueman
asked.
"Certainly not. But you can go without my knowledge. He's an ugly
man to cross, and he can make it uncomfortable for you and your
patients."
"Well, we'll say no more about it. I appreciate your telling me,
and I will see that you don't get mixed up in this. Will you go
down with me to look at that new meningitis case?"
Claude waited impatiently in his stateroom for the doctor's
return. He didn't see why the Chief Steward shouldn't be exposed
and dealt with like any other grafter. He had hated the man ever
since he heard him berating the old bath steward one morning.
Hawkins had made no attempt to defend himself, but stood like a
dog that has been terribly beaten, trembling all over, saying
"Yes, sir. Yes, sir," while his chief gave him a cold cursing in
a low, snarling voice. Claude had never heard a man or even an
animal addressed with such contempt. The Steward had a cruel
face,--white as cheese, with limp, moist hair combed back from a
high forehead,--the peculiarly oily hair that seems to grow only
on the heads of stewards and waiters. His eyes were exactly the
shape of almonds, but the lids were so swollen that the dull
pupil was visible only through a narrow slit. A long, pale
moustache hung like a fringe over his loose lips.
When Dr. Trueman came back from the hospital, he declared he was
now ready to call on Mr. Micks. "He's a nasty looking customer,
but he can't do anything to me."
They went to the Chief Steward's cabin and knocked.
"What's wanted?" called a threatening voice.
The doctor made a grimace to his companion and walked in. The
Steward was sitting at a big desk, covered with account books. He
turned in his chair. "I beg your pardon," he said coldly, "I do
not see any one here. I will be--"
The doctor held up his hand quickly. "That's all right, Steward.
I'm sorry to intrude, but I've something I must say to you in
private. I'll not detain you long." If he had hesitated for a
moment, Claude believed the Steward would have thrown him out,
but he went on rapidly. "This is Lieutenant Wheeler, Mr. Micks.
His fellow officer lies very ill with pneumonia in stateroom 96.
Lieutenant Wheeler has kept him alive by special nursing. He is
not able to retain anything in his stomach but eggs and orange
juice. If he has these, we may be able to keep up his strength
till the fever breaks, and carry him to a hospital in France. If
we can't get them for him, he will be dead within twenty-four
hours. That's the situation."
The steward rose and turned out the drop-light on his desk. "Have
you received notice that there are no more eggs and oranges on
board? Then I am afraid there is nothing I can do for you. I did
not provision this ship."
"No. I understand that. I believe the United States Government
provided the fruit and eggs and meat. And I positively know that
the articles I need for my patient are not exhausted. Without
going into the matter further, I warn you that I'm not going to
let a United States officer die when the means of saving him are
procurable. I'll go to the skipper, I'll call a meeting of the
army officers on board. I'll go any length to save this man."
"That is your own affair, but you will not interfere with me in
the discharge of my duties. Will you leave my cabin?"
"In a moment, Steward. I know that last night a number of cases
of eggs and oranges were carried into this room. They are here
now, and they belong to the A.E.F. If you will agree to provision
my man, what I know won't go any further. But if you refuse, I'll
get this matter investigated. I won't stop till I do."
The Steward sat down, and took up a pen. His large, soft hand
looked cheesy, like his face. "What is the number of the cabin?"
he asked indifferently.
"Ninety-six."
"Exactly what do you require?"
"One dozen eggs and one dozen oranges every twenty-four hours, to
be delivered at any time convenient to you."
"I will see what I can do."
The Steward did not look up from his writing pad, and his
visitors left as abruptly as they had come.
At about four o'clock every morning, before even the bath
stewards were on duty, there was a scratching at Claude's door,
and a covered basket was left there by a messenger who was
unwashed, half-naked, with a sacking apron tied round his middle
and his hairy chest splashed with flour. He never spoke, had only
one eye and an inflamed socket. Claude learned that he was a
half-witted brother of the Chief Steward, a potato peeler and
dish-washer in the galley.
Four day after their interview with Mr. Micks, when they were at
last nearing the end of the voyage, Doctor Trueman detained
Claude after medical inspection to tell him that the Chief
Steward had come down with the epidemic. "He sent for me last
night and asked me to take his case,--won't have anything to do
with Chessup. I had to get Chessup's permission. He seemed very
glad to hand the case over to me."
"Is he very bad?"
"He hasn't a look-in, and he knows it. Complications; chronic
Bright's disease. It seems he has nine children. I'll try to get
him into a hospital when we make port, but he'll only live a few
days at most. I wonder who'll get the shillings for all the eggs
and oranges he hoarded away. Claude, my boy," the doctor spoke
with sudden energy, "if I ever set foot on land again, I'm going
to forget this voyage like a bad dream. When I'm in normal
health, I'm a Presbyterian, but just now I feel that even the
wicked get worse than they deserve."
A day came at last when Claude was wakened from sleep by a sense
of stillness. He sprang up with a dazed fear that some one had
died; but Fanning lay in his berth, breathing quietly.
Something caught his eye through the porthole,--a great grey
shoulder of land standing up in the pink light of dawn, powerful
and strangely still after the distressing instability of the sea.
Pale trees and long, low fortifications . . . close grey
buildings with red roofs . . . little sailboats bounding seaward
. . . up on the cliff a gloomy fortress.
He had always thought of his destination as a country shattered
and desolated,--"bleeding France"; but he had never seen anything
that looked so strong, so self-sufficient, so fixed from the
first foundation, as the coast that rose before him. It was like
a pillar of eternity. The ocean lay submissive at its feet, and
over it was the great meekness of early morning.
This grey wall, unshaken, mighty, was the end of the long
preparation, as it was the end of the sea. It was the reason for
everything that had happened in his life for the last fifteen
months. It was the reason why Tannhauser and the gentle
Virginian, and so many others who had set out with him, were
never to have any life at all, or even a soldier's death. They
were merely waste in a great enterprise, thrown overboard like
rotten ropes. For them this kind release,- trees and a still
shore and quiet water,- was never, never to be. How long would
their bodies toss, he wondered, in that inhuman kingdom of
darkness and unrest?
He was startled by a weak voice from behind.
"Claude, are we over?"
"Yes, Fanning. We're over." _
Read next: Book Five: "Bidding the Eagles of the West Fly On": Chapter 1
Read previous: Book Four: The Voyage of the Anchises: Chapter 8
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