I glanced toward the hospital, where my few worldly
possessions, including my dress clothes, my amputating
set, and such of my books as I had not been able to
sell, were awaiting disposition. “Very
near, miss,” I said.
“Better bring them at once; we are sailing in
the morning.” She turned away as if to
avoid my thanks, but stopped and came back.
“We are taking you as a sort of extra man,”
she explained. “You will work with the
crew, but it is possible that we will need you—
do you know anything about butler’s work?”
I hesitated. If I said yes, and then failed—
“I could try.”
“I thought, from your appearance, perhaps you
had done something of the sort.” Oh, shades
of my medical forebears, who had bequeathed me, along
with the library, what I had hoped was a professional
manner! “The butler is a poor sailor.
If he fails us, you will take his place.”
She gave a curt little nod of dismissal, and I went
down the gangplank and along the wharf. I had
secured what I went for; my summer was provided for,
and I was still seven dollars to the good. I
was exultant, but with my exultation was mixed a curious
anger at McWhirter, that he had advised me not to
shave that morning.
My preparation took little time. Such of my
wardrobe as was worth saving, McWhirter took charge
of. I sold the remainder of my books, and in
a sailor’s outfitting-shop I purchased boots
and slickers— the sailors’ oil skins.
With my last money I bought a good revolver, second-hand,
and cartridges. I was glad later that I had bought
the revolver, and that I had taken with me the surgical
instruments, antiquated as they were, which, in their
mahogany case, had accompanied my grandfather through
the Civil War, and had done, as he was wont to chuckle,
as much damage as a three-pounder. McWhirter
came to the wharf with me, and looked the Ella over
with eyes of proprietorship.
“Pretty snappy-looking boat,” he said.
“If the nigger gets sick, give him some of
my seasick remedy. And take care of yourself,
boy.” He shook hands, his open face flushed
with emotion. “Darned shame to see you
going like this. Don’t eat too much, and
don’t fall in love with any of the women.
Good-bye.”
He started away, and I turned toward the ship; but
a moment later I heard him calling me. He came
back, rather breathless.
“Up in my neighborhood,” he panted, “they
say Turner is a devil. Whatever happens, it’s
not your mix-in. Better—better tuck
your gun under your mattress and forget you’ve
got it. You’ve got some disposition yourself.”
The Ella sailed the following day at ten o’clock.
She carried nineteen people, of whom five were the
Turners and their guests. The cabin was full
of flowers and steamer-baskets.
Thirty-one days later she came into port again, a
lifeboat covered with canvas trailing at her stern.
