In the few days that remained before the Nathan Ross was to sail, there was no time for remodeling her cabin to accommodate Priscilla; so that was left for the first weeks of the cruise. There were matters enough, without it, to occupy those last days. Little Priss was caught up like a leaf in the wind; she was whirled this way and that in a pleasant and heart-stirring confusion. And through it all, her laughter rang in the air like the sound of bells. To Joel, Sunday night, she said: “Oh, Joe ... it’s been an awful rush. But it’s been such fun.... And I never was so happy in my life.”

And Joel smiled, and said quietly: “Yes—with happier times to come.”

She looked up at him wistfully. “You’ll be good to me, won’t you, Joel?” He patted her shoulder.

They were married in the big old white church, and every pew was filled. Afterwards they all went down to the piers, where Asa Worthen had spread long tables and loaded them so that they groaned. Alongside lay the Nathan Ross, her decks littered with the last confusion of preparation. Joel showed Priscilla the lumber for the cabin alterations, ranked along the rail beneath the boathouse; and she gripped his arm tight with both hands. Afterwards, he took Priscilla up the hill to the great House of Shore. Rachel had prepared their wedding supper there....

At a quarter before ten o’clock the next morning, the Nathan Ross went out with the tide. When she had cleared the dock and was fairly in the stream, Joel gave her in charge of Jim Finch; and he and Priscilla stood in the after house, astern, and looked back at the throng upon the pier until the individual figures merged into a black mass, pepper-and-salted with color where the women stood. They could see the handkerchiefs flickering, until a turn of the channel swept them out of sight of the town, and they drifted on through the widening mouth of the bay, toward the open sea. At dusk that night, there was still land in sight behind them and on either side; but when Priscilla came on deck in the morning, there was nothing but blue water and laughing waves. And so she was homesick, all that day, and laughed not at all till the evening, when the moon bathed the ship in silver fire, and the white-caps danced all about them.

The Nathan Ross was in no sense a lovely ship. There was about her none of the poetry of the seas. She was designed strictly for utility, and for hard and dirty toil. Blunt she was of bow and stern, and her widest point was just abeam the foremast, so that she had great shoulders that buffeted the sea. These shoulders bent inward toward the prow and met in what was practically a right angle; and her stern was cut almost straight across, with only enough overhang to give the rudder room. Furthermore, her masts had no rake. They stood up stiff and straight as sore thumbs; and the bowsprit, instead of being something near horizontal, rose toward the skies at an angle close to forty-five degrees. This bowsprit made the Nathan Ross look as though she had just stubbed her toe. She carried four boats at the davits; and two spare craft, bottom up, on the boathouse just forward of the mizzenmast. Three of the four at the davits were on the starboard side, and since they were each thirty feet long, while the ship herself was scarce a hundred and twenty, they gave her a sadly cluttered and overloaded appearance. For the rest, she was painted black, with a white checkerboarding around the rail; and her sails were smeared and smutty with smoke from burning blubber scraps.

Nevertheless, she was a comfortable ship, and a dry one. She rode waves that would have swept a vessel cut on prouder lines; and she was moderately steady. She was not fast, nor cared to be. An easy five or six knots contented her; for the whole ocean was her hunting ground, and though there were certain more favored areas, you might meet whales anywhere. Give her time, and she would poke that blunt nose of hers right ’round the world, and come back with a net profit anywhere up to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in her sweating casks.

Priscilla Holt knew all these things, and she respected the Nathan Ross on their account. But during the first weeks of the cruise, she was too much interested in the work on the cabin to consider other matters. Old Aaron Burnham, the carpenter, did the work. He was a wiry little man, gray and grizzled; and he loved the tools of his craft with a jealous love that forbade the laying on of impious hands. Through the long, calm days, when the ship snored like a sleep-walker through the empty seas, Priscilla would sit on box or bench or floor, and watch Aaron at his task, and ask him questions, and listen to the old man’s long stories of things that had come and gone.

Sometimes she tried to help him; but he would not let her handle an edged tool. “Ye’ll no have the eye for it,” he would say. “Leave it be.” Now and then he let her try to drive a nail; but as often as not she missed the nail head and marred the soft wood, until Aaron lost patience with her. “Mark you,” he cried, “men will see the scar there, and they’ll be thinking I did this task with my foot, Ma’am.”

And Priscilla would laugh at him, and curl up with her feet tucked under her skirts and her chin in her hands, and watch him by the long hour on hour.

The task dragged on; it seemed to her endless. For Aaron had other work that must be done, and he could give only his spare time to this. Also, he was a slow worker, accustomed to take his own time; and when Priscilla grew impatient and scolded him, the old man merely sat back on his knees, and scratched his head, and tapped thoughtfully with his hammer on the floor beside him.

“We-ell, Ma’am,” he said, “I do things so, and I do things so; and it takes time, that does, Ma’am.”

Now and then, through those days, Priscilla’s enthusiasm would send her skittering up the companion to fetch Joel to see some new wonder—a window set in the stern, or a bench completed, or a door hung. And Joel, looking far oftener at Priscilla than at the object she wished him to consider, would chuckle, and touch her shoulder affectionately, and go back to his post.

In the sixth week, the last nail had been driven, and the last lick of paint was dry. In the result, Priscilla was as happy as a bride has a right to be.

Across the very stern of the ship, with windows looking out upon the wake, ran what might have been called a sitting room. It was perhaps twenty feet wide and eight feet deep; and its rear wall—formed by the overhanging stern—sloped outward toward the ceiling. Against this slope, beneath the three windows, a broad, cushioned bench was built, to serve as couch or seat. The bench was broken in one place to make room for Joel’s desk, and the cabinet wherein he kept his records and his instruments. Priss had put curtains on the windows; and she had a lily, in a pot, at one of them, and a clump of pansies at another. Joel’s cabin opened off this compartment, on the starboard side; hers was opposite. The main cabin, with its folding table built about the thick butt of the mizzenmast, had been extended forward to make room for the enlargement of this stern apartment; and the mates were quartered off this main cabin. The galley and the store rooms were on the main deck, in the after house, on either side of the awkward “walking wheel” by which the ship was steered; and the cabin companion was just forward of this wheel.

There were aboard the Nathan Ross about thirty men, all told; but the most of them were not of Priscilla’s world. The foremast hands never came aft of the try works, save on tasks assigned; and the secondary officers—boat-steerers and the like—slept in the steerage and kept forward of the boathouse. Thus the after deck was shared only by Priscilla and Joel, the mates, the cook, and old Aaron, who was a man of many privileges.

This world, Priscilla ruled. Joel adored her; Jim Finch gave her the clumsy homage of a puppy—and was at times just as oppressively amiable. Old Aaron talked to her by the hour, while he went about his work. And the other mates—Varde, the sullen; and Hooper, who was old and losing his grip; and Dick Morrell, who was young and finding his—paid her the respect that was her due. Young Morrell—he was not even as old as she was—helped her on her first climb to the mast head. He was only a boy.... The girl, when the first homesick pangs were past, was happy.

Until the day they killed their whale, a seventy-barrel cachalot cow who died as peaceably as a chicken, with only a convulsive flop or two when the lances found the life. Priscilla took a single glimpse of the shuddering, bloody, oily work of cutting in the carcass, and then she fled to her cabin and remained there steadfastly until the long task was done. The smoke from the bubbling try pots, and the persistent smell of boiling blubber sickened her; and the grime that descended over everything appalled her dainty soul. Not until the men had cleaned ship did she go on deck again; and even then she scolded Joel for the affair as though it were a matter for which he was wholly to blame.

“There just isn’t any sense in making so much dirt,” she told him. “I’ve had to wash out every one of my curtains; and I can’t ever get rid of that smell.”

Joel chuckled. “Aye, the smell sticks,” he agreed. “But you’ll be used to it soon, Priss. You’ll come to like it, I’m thinking. Any case, we’ll not be rid of it while the cruise is on.”

She was so angry that she wanted to cry. “Do you actually mean, Joel Shore, that I’ve got to live with that sickening, hot-oil smell for th-three years?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, Priss. No way out of it. It’s part of the work. Come another month, and you’ll not mind at all.”

She said positively: “I may not say anything, but I shall always hate that smell.”

His eyes twinkled slowly; and she stamped her foot. “If I’d known it was going to be like this, I wouldn’t have come, Joel. Now don’t you laugh at me. If there was any way to go back, I’d go. I hate it. I hate it all. You ought not to have brought me....”

They were on the broad bench across the stern, in their cabin; and he put his big arm about her shoulders and laughed at her till she could do no less than laugh back at him. But—she assured herself of this—she was angry, just the same. Nevertheless, she laughed....

Joel had put the Nathan Ross on the most direct southward course, touching neither Azores nor Cape Verdes. For it was in his mind, as he had told Asa Worthen, to make direct for the Gilbert Islands and seek some trace of his brother there. That had been his plan before he left port; but the plan had become determination after a word with Aaron Burnham, one day. Joel, resting in the cabin while old Aaron worked there, fell to thinking of his brother, and so asked:

“Aaron, what is your belief about my brother, Mark Shore? Is he dead?”

Aaron was building, that day, the forward partition of the new cabin, fitting his boards meticulously, and driving home each nail with hammer strokes that seemed smooth and effortless, yet sank the nail to the head in an instant. He looked up over his shoulder at Joel, between nails.

“Dead, d’ye say?” he countered quizzically.

Joel nodded. “The Islanders? Did they do it, do you believe?”

Old Aaron chuckled asthmatically. He had lost a fore tooth, and the effect of his mirth was not reassuring. “There’s a brew i’ the Islands,” he said. “More like ’twas the island brew nor the island men.”

Joel, for a moment, sat very still and considered. He knew Mark Shore had never scrupled to take strong drink when he chose; but Mark had always been a strong man to match his drink, and conquer it. Said Joel, therefore, after a space of thought:

“Why do you think that, Aaron? Drink was never like to carry Mark away.”

Aaron squinted up at him. “Have ye sampled that island brew? ’Tis made of pineapples, or sago, or the like outlandish stuff, I’ve heard. And one sip is deviltry, and two is madness, and three is corruption. Some stomachs are used to it; they can handle it. But a raw man....”

There was significance in the pause, and the unfinished sentence. Joel considered the matter. There had always been, between him and Mark, something of that sleeping enmity that so often arises between brothers. Mark was a man swift of tongue, flashing, and full of laughter and hot blood; a colorful man, like a splash of pigment on white canvas. Joel was in all things his opposite, quiet, and slow of thought and speech, and steady of gait. Mark was accustomed to jeer at him, to taunt him; and Joel, in the slow fashion of slow men, had resented this. Nevertheless, he cast aside prejudice now in his estimate of the situation; and he asked old Aaron:

“Do you know there were Islanders about? Or this wild brew you speak of?”

Aaron drove home a nail, and with his punch set it flush with the soft wood. “There was some drunken crew, shouting and screeching a mile up the beach,” he said. “Some few of them came off to us with fruit. The sober ones. ’Twas them Mark Shore went to pandander with.”

“He went to them?” Joel echoed. Aaron nodded.

“Aye. That he did.”

There was a long moment of silence before Joel asked huskily: “But was it like that he should stay with them freely?” For it is a black and shameful thing that a captain should desert his ship. When he had asked the question, he waited in something like fear for the carpenter’s answer.

“It comes to me,” said Aaron slowly at last, “that you did not well know your brother. Ye’d only seen him ashore. And—I’m doubting that you knew all the circumstances of his departure from this ship.”

“I know that he went ashore,” said Joel. “Went ashore, and left his men, and departed; and I know that they searched for him three weeks without a sign.”

Aaron sat back on his heels, and rubbed the smooth head of his hammer thoughtfully against his dry old cheek. “I’m not one to speak harm,” he said. “And I’ve said naught, in the town. But—you have some right to know that Mark Shore was not a sober man when he left the ship. I’ truth, he had not been sober—cold sober—for a week. And he left with a bottle in his coat.” He nodded his gray old head, eyes not on Joel, but on the hammer in his hand. “Also, there was a pearling schooner in the lagoon, with drunk white men aboard.”

He glanced sidewise at Joel then, and saw the Captain’s cheek bones slowly whiten. Whereupon old Aaron bent swiftly to his task, half fearful of what he had said. But when Joel spoke, it was only to say quietly:

“Asa should have told me this.”

Aaron shook his head vehemently, but without looking up from his task. “Not so,” he said. “There was no need the town should chew Mark’s name. Better—” He glanced at Joel. “Better if he were thought dead. Asa’s a good man, you mind. And—he knew your father.”

Joel nodded at that. “Asa meant wisest, I’ve no doubt,” he agreed. “But—Mark would do nothing that he was shamed of.”

“Mark Shore,” said Aaron thoughtfully, “did many things without shame for which other men would have blushit.”

Joel said curtly: “Aaron, ye’ll say no more such things as that.”

“Ye’re right,” Aaron agreed. “I should no have said it. But—’tis so.”

Joel left him and went on deck, and his eyes were troubled.... Priss was there, with Dick Morrell showing her some trick of the wheel, and they were laughing together like children. Joel felt immensely older than Priss.... Yet the difference was scarce six years.... She saw him, and left Morrell and came running to Joel’s side. “Did you sleep?” she asked. “You needed rest, Joe.”

“I rested,” he told her, smiling faintly. “I’ll be fine....”

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