IT must be understood that our party on the Belle HelÈne was divided into two, or rather, indeed, three camps, each somewhat sharply defined and each somewhat ignorant of the other’s doings in detail. The combination of either two against the other, in organized mutiny, might very well prove successful, wherefore it was my task to keep all apart by virtue of the authority which I had myself usurped. The midship’s cabin suite, of three rooms, was occupied by myself and my two bold young mates—when the latter were not elsewhere engaged. We made what might be called the ruling classes. Forward of our cabin, and accessible only from the deck, was the engine-room where Williams worked, and off this were two bunks, well ventilated and very comfortable, occupied by Williams and Peterson. Forward of this, and also accessible only from the deck, lay the dining saloon, with its fixed table, its cupboards, dish racks and wine-room. In her bows and below the saloon was the cook’s gallery, a dumb-waiter running between; and the sleeping quarters of John, the cook, and Willy, the deck-hand, were in the forecastle below. This left the two captives all the after part of the ship pretty much to themselves, and as the after-suite of cabins was roomy and fitted with every modern nautical luxury, they lacked neither freedom nor comfort, so far as these may obtain on shipboard. Obviously, I said little to the ship’s crew, except to Peterson, and my two mates had orders to keep to their own part of the ship, under my eye.

Thus, like ancient Gaul, divided into three parts, we sailed on our wholly indefinite voyage; and all I could do was to live from day to day, or hour to hour. I was content, for Helena was there. Indeed, I question if, these last three years, her image had not been always present in my consciousness; such are the fevers of our unreasoning blood, such the power of that madness known as love.

But, thus divided as was our company, I had none such excellent opportunity for often seeing Helena, as might at first be supposed. She and her aunt refused to join us at any meal in the dining saloon; although, now and then, they came for breakfast to what Auntie Lucinda with scorn called the “second table”. It was not feasible for me, often, to do more than call of a morning to inquire if all was well with them; and conversation through a lead-glass transom is not what one would call intimate. Helena could bar her door if she liked in more ways than one; and against the fences that she raised against me one way or another, what with headaches, whims or Aunt Lucinda, I had now no chance to meet her alone save as she herself might dictate. So that, after all, though now I stood as commander of the Belle HelÈne in place of yon varlet, Cal Davidson, although I ate his ship’s stores, wore, indeed, his waistcoats and his neckties when that was humanly possible, I was his successor only and not his equal. He could—nay, had done so—meet Helena as he liked, at meals, on deck, on a thousand errands, whereas I was helpless to do so. He could talk with her all over the ship, take her alone on deck of a moonlit night, listen to her sing, gaze—oh, curse him!—on the little curls on Helena’s neck—but no! I could not endure that thought. The round white neck, the white shoulders, the soft curves beneath the peignoir’s careless irreverences—why, it was an intolerable thought that any man should raise eye or heart or thought to Helena, save myself. So, this morning, after that rare and unconventional meeting on the after deck, one easily may see how much I wished all Gaul were divided into but two parts, and that the occupants of the reserved after cabin would come to lunch in the saloon with their captors, Black Bart, Jean Lafitte and Henri L’Olonnois.

Now, ’tis an odd thing, but one of my superstitions, that when we wish much and fervently and cleanly for any certain thing, one day that thing is ours. Some day, some time, some hour or instant, our dear desire, our coveted thing, our wish, comes and flutters and alights at our side; if really we have deserved it and have wished long and deeply and honestly and purposefully. You ask proof? Well, then, hardly had we three, Black Bart, Jean Lafitte and Henri L’Olonnois, seated ourselves at table for luncheon that day before I became sensible of a faint shadow at the saloon stair. I saw a trim boot and a substantial ankle which I knew belonged to Aunt Lucinda; and then I looked up and saw on the deck Helena also, stooped, her clean-cut head, with its blown dark hair, visible against the blue sky.

“May I come in?” she asked gaily enough. And I reached up next to her to hand her down, and smooth down her skirt for her at the rather awkward narrow stair. “You are always invited,” said I, and perhaps I flushed in my pleasure. “John,” I called down the tube, “two more—the ladies.” And I heard his calm “All lite.”

My young gentlemen had risen, politely, but Helena gently pushed them down into their places. “Be seated here, ladies,” said I. “These places are, as you see, always spread for you. Your covers wait. And all the ship’s silver shall see duty now. L’Olonnois, my hearty, you and I shall serve, eh? I am, indeed, delighted—greatly delighted—I shall not inquire, I shall only hope.”

“Well,” boomed the deep voice of Auntie Lucinda, “we came because we did not like the look of things.”

“To be sure, things are not looking bully,” I assented vaguely.

“I mean the weather. It’s getting black, and it’s colder. And after what you told me about the storms, and that lighthouse being blown down——”

“My dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I, helping her to her chair while L’Olonnois served his Auntie Helena in like fashion, “you really must not take one too seriously. That lighthouse fell over of its own weight—the contractor’s work was done shamefully.”

“But you said it blew,” ventured Helena. “It blows, a little, now and then, to be sure, but never very much, only enough to enable the oyster boats and shrimpers to get in. How could we have oysters without a sailing breeze?”

“It’s more than a breeze,” said Aunt Lucinda. “My neuralgia tells me——”

“It is fortunate that you honored us, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I, “for I have here in the cooler a bottle of ninety-three. I had an inspiration. I knew you would come, for nothing in the world could have pleased me so much.”

I was looking at Helena, whose eyes were cast down. I observed now that she was in somewhat elegant morning costume, her bridge coat of Vienna lace, caught with a wide bar of plain gold, covering some soft and shimmering under-bodice which fitted closely enough to be formal. And I saw she had on many rings, and that her throat sparkled under a circlet of gems.

She must have caught my glance of surprise, for she said nervously, “You think we are overplaying our return call? Well, the truth is, we’re afraid.”

“So then?”—and I bowed.

“So then I fished out all my jewelry.”

“We are honored.” “Well, I didn’t know what might happen. If one should be shipwrecked——” I caught her frightened gaze out an open port, perfectly aware myself of the swift weather change.

“There is nothing like dressing the part of the shipwrecked,” said I. “For myself, these same flannels will do.”

“Pshaw!” said young L’Olonnois, “suppose she does pitch a little—it ain’t any worse’n on the Mauretania when we went across. I ain’t scared, are you, John?”

“No,” replied Jean Lafitte shyly. He was almost overawed with the ladies. But I liked the look of his eye now.

“She’s not as big as the Mauretania,” said Helena, fixing L’Olonnois’ collar for him.

“I’m sure she’s going to roll horribly,” added Aunt Lucinda. “And if I should be seasick, with my neuralgia, I’m sure I don’t know what I should do.”

“I know!” remarked L’Olonnois; and Helena promptly dropped her hand over his mouth.

“Let us not think of storm and shipwreck,” said I, “at least until they come. I want to ask your attention to John’s imitation of Luigi’s oysters À la mariniÈre. The oysters are of our own catching this morning. For, you must know, the water hereabout is very shallow, and is full of oysters.” “You said full of sharks,” corrected Aunt Lucinda.

“Did I? I meant oysters.” And I helped her to some from the dumb-waiter and uncorked the very last bottle of the ninety-three left in the case. “And as for this storm of which you speak, ladies,” I added as I poured, “I would there might come every day as ill a wind if it would blow me as great a good as yourselves for luncheon.”

“Yes,” said L’Olonnois brightly, “you might blow in once in a while an’ see us fellers. I told Black Bart that captives——” but here I kicked Jimmy under the table. Poor chap, what with his Auntie Helena’s hand at one extremity and my boot at the other, he was strained in his conversation, and in disgust, joined Jean Lafitte in complete silence and oysters.

“Really,” and Helena raised her eyes, “isn’t it growing colder?”

“Jean, close the port behind Miss Emory,” said I. It was plain enough to my mind that a blue norther was breaking, with its swift drop in temperature and its possibly high wind.

“The table’s actin’ funny,” commented Jean Lafitte presently. He had never been at sea before.

“Yes,” said Aunt Lucinda, with very much—too much—dignity. “If you all will please excuse me, I think I shall go back to the cabin. Helena!”

“Go with Mrs. Daniver at once, Jimmy,” said I to L’Olonnois.

“Aye, aye, Sir!” saluted he joyously; and added aside as he passed me, “Hope the old girl’s going to be good an’ sick!”

I could see Peterson standing near the saloon’s door, and bethought me to send Jean Lafitte up to aid him in making all shipshape. We were beginning to roll; and I missed the smooth thrust of both our propellors, although now the engines were purring smoothly enough. Thus by mere chance, I found myself alone with Helena. I put out a hand to steady her as she rose.

“Is it really going to be bad?” she inquired anxiously. “Auntie gets so sick.”

“It will be rough, for three hours yet,” I admitted. “She’s not so big as the Mauretania, but as well built for her tonnage. You couldn’t pound her apart, no matter what came—she’s oak and cedar, through and through, and every point——”

“You’ve studied her well, since you—since you came aboard?”

—“Yes, yes, to be sure I have. And she’s worth her name. Don’t you think it was mighty fine of—of Mr. Davidson to name her after you—the Belle HelÈne?”

“He never did. If he had, why?”

“Don’t ask such questions, with the glass falling as it is,” I said, pulling up the racks to restrain the dancing tumblers.

“Oh, don’t joke!” she said. “Harry!”

“Yes, Helena,” said I.

“I’m afraid!”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But we seem so little and the sea so big. And it’s getting black, and the fog is coming. Look—you can’t see the shore-line any more now.”

It was as she said. The swift bank of vapor had blotted out the low-lying shores entirely. We sailed now in a narrowing circle of mist. I saw thin points of moisture on the port lights. And now I began to close the ports.

“There is danger!” she reiterated.

“All horses can run away, all auto cars can blow up, all boats can sink. But we have as good charts and compasses as the Mauretania, and in three hours——”

“But much can happen in three hours.”

“Much has happened in less time. It did not take me so long as that to love you, Helena, and that I have not forgotten in more than five years. Five years, Helena. And as to shipwreck, what does one more matter? It is you who have made shipwreck of a man’s life. Take shame for that.”

“Take shame yourself, to talk in this way to me, when I am helpless, when I can’t get away, when I’m troubled and frightened half to death? Ah, fine of you to persecute a girl!” She sobbed, choking a little, but her head high. “Let me out, I’m going to Auntie Lucinda. I hate you more and more. If I were to drown, I’d not take aid from you.”

“Do you mean that, Helena?” I asked, more than the chill of the norther in my blood.

“Yes, I mean it. You are a coward!”

I stood for quite a time between her and the companion stair, my hand still offering aid as she swayed in the boat’s roll now. I was thinking, and I was very sad.

“Helena,” said I, “perhaps you have won. That’s a hard word to take from man or woman. If it is in any way true, you have won and I have lost, and deserved to lose. But now, since little else remains, let me arrange matters as simply as I can. I’ll admit there’s an element of risk in our situation—one screw is out of commission, and one engine might be better. If we missed the channel west of the shoals, we might go aground—I hope not. Whether we do or not, I want to tell you—over yonder, forty or fifty miles, is the channel running inland, which was my objective point all along. I know this coast in the dark, like a book. Now, I promise you, I’ll take you in there to friends of mine, people of your own class, and no one shall suspect one jot of all this, other than that we were driven out of our course. And once there, you are free. You never will see my face again. I will do this, as a ship’s man, for you, and if need comes, will give my life to keep you safe. It’s about all a coward can do for you. Now go, and if any time of need comes for me to call you, you will be called. And you will be cared for by the ship’s men. And because I am head of the ship’s men, you will do as I say. But I hope no need for this will come. Yonder is our course, where she heads now, and soon you will be free from me. You have wrecked me. Now I am derelict, from this time on. Good-by.”

I heard footfalls above. “Mrs. Daniver’s compliments to Captain Black Bart,” saluted L’Olonnois, “an’ would he send my Auntie Helena back, because she’s offle sick.” “Take good care of your Auntie Helena, Jimmy,” said I, “and help her aft along the rail.”

I followed up the companionway, and saw her going slowly, head down, her coat of lace blown wide; her hand at her throat, and sobbing in what Jimmy and I both knew was fear of the storm.

“Have they got everything they need there, Jimmy?” I asked, as he returned.

“Sure. And the old girl’s going to have a peach of a one this time—she can’t hardly rock in a rockin’ chair ’thout gettin’ seasick. I think it’s great, don’t you? Look at her buck into ’em!”

Jimmy and his friend shared this immunity from mal de mer. I could see Jean now helping haul down our burgee, and the deck boy, Willy, in his hurried work about the boat. Williams, I could not see. But Peterson was now calm and much in his element, for a better skipper than he never sailed a craft on the Great Lakes.

“I think she’s going to blow great guns,” said he, “and like enough the other engine’ll pop any minute.”

“Yes?” I answered, stepping to the wheel. “In which case we go to Davy Jones about when, Peterson?” “We don’t go!” he rejoined. “She’s the grandest little ship afloat, and not a thing’s the matter with her.”

“Can we make the channel and run inside the long key below the CÔte Blanche Bayou?”

“Sure we can. You’d better get the covers off the boats, and see the bottom plugs in and some water and supplies shipped aboard—but there’s not the slightest danger in the world for this boat, let me tell you that, sir. I’ve seen her perform before now, and there’s not a storm can blow on this coast she won’t ride through.”