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Patanjali Kashyap
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Language: English
By
FREDERICK WILLIAM WALLACE
Author of “Blue Water,” “The Shack-locker,” etc.
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LIMITED TORONTO
TO
V. S. W.
J ANET made Alec McKenzie a good wife. She supplied the ambition
and aggressiveness which her husband lacked. No one could say
he lowered himself by marrying Janet McKinnon, for she was quick to
realize her husband’s assets in the way of family connections and
genuine ability, and she carried herself as if she were the accepted
niece, by marriage, of the Laird of Dunsany. Other mates’ wives called
on her, more out of curiosity than kindness, but she would have none
of them and treated them coldly. Her demeanor impressed the visitors,
as it had already impressed the landlady, and the latter bruited the
story that her lodger was the daughter of a “Hielan’ Chief—somewhat
rejuced in circumstances.” Mrs. McKenzie did not deny the story; she
rather accepted it and even hinted at it in casual conversation with
gossipy callers.
Alec was a first-class chief officer, but that wasn’t good enough for
Janet. She longed for the day when she could be referred to as “Mrs.
McKenzie—wife of Captain McKenzie of the S.S. So-and-so,” and she
worked skilfully to that end. After much manœuvering, she struck up
an acquaintanceship with Mrs. Duncan, wife of the marine
superintendent of the Sutton Line, and never missed an opportunity to
impress upon that simple lady the fact that Alec was a nephew of Sir
Alastair McKenzie, and brother to David McKenzie the ship-owner on
Bothwell street.
Though McKenzie longed for promotion, yet he was cursed with a
sailor’s bashfulness in seeking office, and of his own volition he would
make no move which would cause his skipper to eye him askance as a
man to be watched. He had known over-ambitious mates who had
been “worked out” of the Line by superiors who felt that their
positions were imperilled by such aspiring underlings, and he abhorred
the thought of being classed as an “owner licker.” But Janet had no
such scruples. She was out to speed the day, and before she had been
a year married, she had called on her late employer, Baillie Ross, and
sought his interest in Alec’s favor. Ross was climbing in municipal
politics and had recently been elected a director of the Sutton Line,
and he appreciated Janet’s efforts to “rise in the warl’.” At the first
opportunity, he casually mentioned to the Managing Director of
Suttons’ that they had “a maist promisin’ young officer in Mr. McKinzie,
chief mate o’ the Ansonia. He’s a nephew o’ Sir Alastair McKinzie an’ a
brither tae David McKinzie—the risin’ ship-broker. He wad mak’ a fine
upstaundin’ Captun fur wan o’ yer boats some day, and I wad like tae
see him get on!”
The Managing Director was wise in his day and generation and made
a note of McKenzie’s name, but he was too much of a Scotch business
man to promote officers unless they had ability. Captain Duncan was
called in one day and engaged in casual conversation by the manager.
“What do you know of McKenzie, chief officer of the Ansonia?” Duncan
had been primed by his wife. “A fine smert officer, sir,” answered the
marine superintendent. “Keeps a nate shup and always attends to his
wark.”
“Drink?”
“No, sir! I’ve never heard tell o’ him bein’ a man that used liquor.”
“How does he stand in seniority?”
“There’s twa or three mates ahead o’ him in length o’ service, but
nane ahead in smertness. He’s well connectit, sir. Nephew tae Sir
Alastair McKenzie and he’s merrid on a Hielan’ Chief’s dochter—a fine
bonny leddy, sir!”
The Managing Director turned over a fyle of papers.
“McCallum, master of the Trantonia, has knocked the bows off his ship
in going out of Philadelphia and it has cost us a lot of money. When
the Ansonia comes in this time, you can find a new chief officer for
her. We’ll sack McCallum and give McKenzie command of the
Trantonia.”
Duncan told his wife the news that evening over the tea table and that
worthy lady bustled over with the tidings to Janet. “Mrs. McKenzie,”
she gasped, blowing and puffing as she flopped down in Janet’s
parlor-bedroom. “Jeck cam’ hame th’ nicht an’ tells me yer husband’s
tae be made captun o’ th’ Trantonia! Ye’ll can ca’ yersel’ Mistress
Captun McKenzie efter this!”
Janet felt like embracing her visitor, but restrained her delight and
murmured. “So kind of you to come over and tell me, Mrs. Duncan. I
appreciate your thoughtfulness. I must write to-night and inform his
uncle, Sir Alastair, of the promotion”—the latter was a white fib for
Mrs. Duncan’s benefit—“he’ll be pleased, I’m sure.”
When Alec arrived home, he was delighted with his good fortune even
though the Trantonia was one of the smallest and oldest steamers in
the Line and had long been relegated to the cargo trade. But she was
a ship, and size made no difference in the status of ship-masters. The
pay—seventeen pounds per month—would enable them to take up
house. Everything was glorious and Alec marvelled at his good luck in
being promoted ahead of mates senior to him in service, and he was
not above voicing regrets for the unfortunate officers who suffered
through his advancement.
“Poor old Johnson,” he said. “Been due for a command these ten
years. This will break his heart. Moore is ahead of me and should have
got the next vacancy, for he’s a smart, able man. And old McCallum,
whose shoes I jump into. I’m awfully sorry for him, for he’s got a large
family and nothing laid by. He’ll have to go mate again in his old age
or take a job as watchman around the docks. It’s cruel hard, but this is
the mill of the British Merchant Service these days. We jump ahead
over the bodies of the poor devils who slip on the ladder, and God help
those who slip!”
Janet did not share his sympathies and felt rather annoyed. “Why
should you fret about them? They wouldn’t worry about you. Now,
let’s go and look for a house, dear. There’s a lovely three-room-and-
kitchen to let in Ibrox, which is a nice neighbourhood and many
Captains live there.” She did not enlighten him as to how he got his
promotion.
With Janet spurring him on, McKenzie rose from command to
command. For three years he ran the gamut of the Company’s old
crocks until, when Donald Percival was born, he was master of a big
five-thousand tonner in the River Plate trade and drawing a salary of
twenty pounds per month.
McKenzie was happy then, and would have been quite content to
remain as master of a Sutton freighter doing the run from Glasgow to
the Plate. It was an easy fine-weather trade and he was drawing
twenty a month, and occasionally making a pound or two in
commissions. There was only his wife and Donald to support, and he
had a comfortable home in Ibrox—three rooms and kitchen on the
second flat, with hot and cold water, and a vestibule door off the stair
landing—a real snug spot. At sea, he was not over-worked, having a
purser to write out manifests and bills of lading, and he had plenty of
time to read and smoke and take it easy. But with the coming of
Donald Percival, Janet’s ambition expanded. “Percival must have a
nurse,” she wrote to her husband, “and there are several expenses to
be met in connection with our darling boy. You must get out of the
cargo trade and into the passenger ships, dear. Mrs. Davidson tells me
her husband is getting thirty pounds a month as captain of the
Zealandia in the Canadian emigrant service. You must think of your
connections. I shudder when I imagine you coming up from Buenos
Ayres with your ship full of smelly cattle and sheep ... the passenger
ships are more genteel ... the doctor’s bill is quite heavy, dear, and I
have retained the services of a good nurse, as I do not feel equal to
housework yet and Percival requires much care and attention....”
His wife’s letter contained a memorandum of the expenses attendant
upon the ushering of Donald Percival into this mundane sphere, and it
caused McKenzie to break out into a cold sweat. “Raising kids is a
devilish expensive business,” he confided to the mate, who had
“raised” six. “This youngster of mine stands me something like sixty
pounds!” “Saxty poonds?” gasped Mr. McLeish. “Losh, mon, but yer
mistress mun be awfu’ delicate! Mistress McLeish brings them tae port
ivery year an’ five quid covers the hale business.... Saxty poonds for
yin bairn? I c’d raise a dizzen for that amoont o’ siller. Ye’ll need tae be
lucky, Captun, an’ fall across some disabled shups yince in a while if
ye’re plannin’ tae have a family. Saxty poonds? Ma conscience!”
It was through a streak of God-given luck that the sixty pounds was
paid, and Donald could thank the Fates for sending an Italian emigrant
ship with a broken tail-end shaft across the path of his worried Daddy.
McKenzie picked her up in a gale of wind south of Madeira, and he had
his boats out and a hauling line aboard her ahead of a hungry Cardiff
tramp who had been standing-by for eight hours waiting for the
weather to moderate. “Sixty pounds has to be earned,” muttered
McKenzie in his beard, “and there’s no Welsh coal-scuttle going to
prevent me from getting it.” After a strenuous time, and parting
hawser after hawser, McKenzie plucked the Italian into Madeira, and
the salvage money that came to him afterwards ensured his son’s
future as a free-born citizen.
The incident was used by Janet as a stepping-stone to her ambitions.
After the salvage money had been awarded, she chased her husband
“up to the office” and made him interview the Managing Director and
ask for a command in the passenger trade. The official listened
courteously to McKenzie’s plea (dictated by Janet) and as Suttons had
benefitted considerably by the Captain’s picking up the helpless
Italian, the promotion was forthcoming. With a sigh of regret,
McKenzie carted his belongings from the comfortable River Plate
freighter to the master’s quarters on the Ansonia—the old ship he had
served in as chief officer.
The Ansonia was not the smart flyer of his younger days, but she still
carried passengers. Second cabin and continental steerage thronged
her decks outward from the Clyde to Boston, and four-footed
passengers occupied the same decks homeward. Those were the days
of the cheap emigrant fares—when the dissatisfied hordes of Central
Europe were transported to the Land of Liberty for three pounds
fifteen—and the Ansonia would ferry them across in eleven days.
McKenzie drove her through sunshine and fog, calm or blow, and took
chances. There was no money in slow passages at the cut-rates
prevailing, and Alec often wished he were jogging to the south’ard in
his nine-knot freighter with but little to worry him. In the Ansonia, the
first grey streaks came in his blonde hair, and the lines deepened
around his mouth and eyes.
Janet was happy for a time, but Suttons had better and faster ships
than the one her husband was commanding. Their skippers were
getting more money and were able to maintain “self-contained villas”
and keep a servant. The return cargo of cattle which was the
Ansonia’s paying eastward freight offended Janet’s sensibilities. She
did not care to have Mrs. Sandys—wife of the master of the Sutton
“crack” ship—asking her at a select “Conversazione” or “high
tea”—“How many head of cattle did your husband lose last voyage?”
or “I don’t suppose you visit your husband’s ship, Mrs. McKenzie.
Those cattle boats are simply impossible!”
Janet, in her younger days, was not above laboring in odoriferous
cattle byres, but, with her exalted station in life, the mere thought of
the Ansonia’s cluttered decks and the honest farm-yard aroma which
pervaded her and could be smelt a mile to loo’ard on a breezy day,
gave her a sinking feeling and dampened her social ambitions.
She felt that she had exhausted all her “string pulling” resources, so
she applied herself to imbuing her husband with more aggressiveness.
Though passionately fond of his wife, yet there were times when
McKenzie felt that he was being hounded ahead. Every cent he earned
was spent in what his wife called “style,” and what Alec called “dog.”
Janet dressed expensively and did much entertaining, and young
Donald Percival was petted, spoiled, and cared for in a manner far
beyond the rightful limits of a master mariner’s pay.
“Make yourself popular with the passengers, dear,” counselled his
wifely mentor, “and drive your ship. Suttons like fast passages—”
“Aye,” interrupted Alec somewhat bitterly, “but they don’t like
accidents. You know what happened to poor Thompson of the
Syrania? Driving his ship in a fog to make fast time he cut a schooner
in half and stove his bows in. Suttons lost a pile of money over that,
and Thompson got the sack and is black-listed. His ticket was taken
from him and he barely escaped being tried by an American court for
manslaughter. I saw the poor chap in Boston this time, and what d’ye
think he was doing? Timekeeping for a stevedore firm and getting ten
dollars a week! A man who had commanded an Atlantic greyhound!”
Janet listened impatiently. “Oh, that was just his ill-fortune. I heard
that he was in his bunk when the accident happened—”
Her husband made a gesture of mild irritation. “Good heavens, Janet!
A man must sleep sometime,” he said. “Thompson had been on the
bridge for sixty hours and was utterly played out. But that made no
difference. It was his fault. He was driving her full speed in a fog and
that’s where they got him—even though Suttons were driving him with
their unwritten instructions—‘Be careful with your ship, Captain, but
we expect you to make good passages!’ Drive your ship, but look-out
if anything happens to her! That’s the English of that!”
By persistent urging, Janet’s exhortations had effect. McKenzie
hounded the old Ansonia back and forth along the western ocean
lanes and grew more grey hairs and deeper lines on his face with the
worry and anxiety of long vigils on her bridge staring into the clammy
mists through which his ship was storming. With a chief engineer who
loved her wonderful old compound engines and who was willing to
drive them, McKenzie commenced clipping down the Ansonia’s runs
until one day she raced into Boston harbor an hour ahead of her best
record twelve years before, and two days ahead of a rival company’s
crack ship, which had left Glasgow at the same time.
The Boston newspapers, heralding the feat and containing a cut of
Captain McKenzie and the ship, were forwarded to head office by the
Boston agents. The Managing Director was delighted over the defeat
of the rival company’s crack ship, for the American papers played it up
strong, with two-column, heavy type head-lines and exaggerated
description. After perusal, the canny Scotch manager gave some
thought to McKenzie—the Yankee reporter dilated on the sub-head,
‘Scotch baronet’s nephew commands Sutton record breaker,’ (Alec had
never opened his mouth about the relationship)—and he began to
consider him seriously as master for the Sutton New York-Glasgow
express steamship Cardonia.
A wealthy American, returning to the States after a lease of Dunsany
Castle, unconsciously gave Alec the promotion which the manager had
considered and postponed. The American was rich and fussy, and
when booking his passage, had demanded to do so through the
manager. “I want a suite amidships, sir, ’n I want tew travel in a ship
that kin travel along, as I ain’t none too good a sailor. I want to sail
with a skipper that’ll make her travel some. ’N bye-the-bye, I saw by a
Boston paper that one of yewr skippers is related to Sir Alastair
McKenzie. I leased the old boy’s castle for a while ’n a fine old bird he
is. I’d like mighty fine tew cross the pond with this here McKenzie if
he’s on a fast packet, but ain’t he on one of those twelve-day hookers
to Boston?”
The manager had made up his mind. A man with McKenzie’s
connections would bring lucrative business and be popular in the New
York trade. The other masters in line for promotion would have to
wait. “Captain McKenzie was in the Ansonia—one of our intermediate
ships—but we have now placed him in command of our New York
Express steamship Cardonia and we can fix you up splendidly in her.”
The American booked passage, and McKenzie commanded the
Cardonia.
With the promotion came a substantial increase in salary and Janet
felt that her ambitions were realized—for a time at least. New worlds
to conquer would suggest themselves bye-and-bye. The flat in the
Terrace was given up, and a somewhat pretentious eight-roomed red
sandstone villa in a suburban locality was rented, expensively
decorated and furnished, and Mrs. McKenzie, with Donald Percival and
a capable Highland “general,” moved in and laid plans for attaining the
rank of first magnitude in the firmament of the local social stars.
CHAPTER THREE
D ONALD Percival McKenzie was eight years old when the red
sandstone villa became his habitation. He was glad to leave the
Terrace where they formerly lived as his life in that locality, as far as
relations with lads of his own age were concerned, had been none too
happy. The migration to Kensington Villa, as the red sandstone eight-
roomer was called, was accompanied by a determined ultimatum from
young McKenzie that his mother drop the name “Percival” altogether
and call him “Donald” in future. As the ultimatum was presented with
considerable howling and crying and threats of atrocious behavior, the
mother felt that she would have to make the concession.
With this bar to congenial juvenile fraternization removed, Donald felt
free to begin life on a new plane. The youthful residents of the suburb
he now lived in were “superior.” They did not run around barefooted in
summer, nor wear “tackety” or hobnailed boots in winter. Not that
Donald scorned either of these pedal comforts. Bare feet were fine
and cool and “tackety” boots gave a fellow a grand feeling of heftiness
in clumping around the house, in kicking tin cans, and in scuffling up
sparks through friction with granolithic sidewalks. Though superior in
mode of living and dress compared with the less favored lads of
Donald’s former habitation, yet his new chums were very much akin to
the latter in their scorn and hatred for anything savoring of “English,”
and Donald hadn’t been in the neighborhood two days before he had
to prove his citizenship in fistic combat with a youthful Doubting
Thomas.
The other lad was bigger and older than Donald and had the name of
being a fighter. He gave young McKenzie a severe drubbing and the
latter had to go home with his clothes torn and his nose bleeding. The
mother was furious and intended to see the other boy’s parents about
it, but Donald wouldn’t allow her to do so. Instead, he remained home
for an hour or two, changed into a garb less likely to spoil or hinder
the free swing of his arms, and then slipped out to have another try at
defending his name. Once again, Donald, in pugilistic parlance, “went
to the mat for the count,” but in rising he announced his intention of
coming back at his fistic partner later—“after I take boxing lessons an’
get my muscle up.” Donald’s determination, and possibly the threat,
had considerable effect upon Jamie Sampson, who immediately made
conciliatory advances. “I don’t want tae hit ye any more,” he said.
“Ye’re a wee fella’—”
“Am I Scotch?” queried Donald aggressively.
“Shair, ye’re Scoatch!” Jamie admitted heartily—adding, “And I’ll punch
any fella’s noase that says ye’re no. Let me brush ye doon, Donal’!”
Through the exertion of the “fecht” Donald caught a cold and was laid
up for two weeks, but he felt that it was worth it as he had gained the
friendship of Jamie Sampson—“the best fighter on the Road, mamma,
and you should see how he can dunt a ba’ with his heid!” Donald’s
description of Jamie’s prowess in using his skull for propelling a foot-
ball caused Mrs. McKenzie some pain at the language used, and to her
husband she said, “Donald must go to school soon, but we must send
him to a place where he will learn to talk nicely. I think we’ll send him
to Miss Watson’s private school. She’s English and very particular.”
Captain McKenzie looked thoughtfully at his son and sighed. “He’s not
very strong,” he murmured, “but he’s got spirit if he hasn’t got
stamina. Fancy him going for that big lad again after getting a licking!
Aye, aye, Janet, he’s a hot-house plant, but maybe he’ll grow out of it
if we’re careful.”
Petted and coddled by both parents; seldom rebuked or disciplined,
young Donald was inclined to be “babyish” and somewhat arbitrary.
He was a rather delicate child—a not unusual exception to the law of
eugenics where both parents were ruggedly healthy—and his frequent
sicknesses kept him much at home and in the society of his mother.
He was clever beyond his years and had mastered “A, B, C’s” and “pot-
hooks and hangers” prior to his fifth birthday, while at seven, he could
read and write in a manner superior to most thick-skulled Scotch
youngsters of ten. He showed surprising evidences of artistic talent at
an early age, and the blank cover pages and flyleaves of most of the
books in the McKenzie library were adorned with pencil drawings of
railway locomotives and ships—mostly ships. Captain McKenzie seldom
arrived home from a voyage but what he had to pass critical comment
upon his son’s artistic conceptions of the Cardonia ploughing the seas
in every manner of weather imaginable. There would be the Cardonia
driving through a veritable cordillera of cresting combers—billows
which caused the Captain to shudder involuntarily and declare that
they were so wonderfully realistic that “he could feel the sprays
running down his neck when he looked at them!” The Cardonia would
again be presented in odious comparison with a rival company’s ship,
and the latter was always dwarfed in size and far astern. In Donald’s
eyes, the Cardonia was superior to anything afloat—even the crack
Liverpool greyhounds of the day were mere tug-boats compared to
her.
Occasionally other ship-masters would accompany Captain McKenzie
home to dinner when his ship was in port, and these were red-letter
days for Donald. After dinner, the seafarers would retire to the
drawing-room and, with pipes or cigars alight and seated before the
grate fire, the talk would inevitably drift to ships and shipping. With
ears open and drinking in the conversation, Donald would be seated
on a cushion in front of the blaze, revelling in the gossip, and
unconsciously absorbing the spirit which, for ages, has set the feet of
Britain’s youth a-roving o’er the long sea paths.
Mrs. McKenzie would catch the look of rapt attention on her son’s face
and with the long foresight of a mother’s mind she would realize that
such talk was not good for a boy to hear if he were to be kept to
home and home pursuits. Besides, she had a fear of the sea—a fear
which was growing on her with time, and only her husband’s monthly
home-comings lifted an unknown dread from her heart which returned
with his “good-byes.” Though ambitious, proud, extravagant and
somewhat callous where the welfare of others was concerned, yet she
adored her husband and her son, and if put to the choice, would
gladly relinquish her social aspirations for their sakes.
When the wild winter gales raged on the Atlantic and ships were
posted as missing or came in with decks swept, Mrs. McKenzie had her
share of dreadful fears, as have all seamen’s wives at these times, but
her husband had been so consistently fortunate that she almost
believed him to be invulnerable to ocean’s caprices. True, there were
occasions when the news of the loss of a neighbor’s husband at sea
would cause her to frame resolutions to save for such a contingency,
but ambition would dominate these good intentions and she would
console or deceive herself with the thought that “Alec is young yet.
He’s never had an accident, and we’ll save when Donald is through
college.”
To her perverted mentality, accidents could happen to others, but they
couldn’t happen to Alec. She preferred to think of the sea-captains
who had safely dodged the wrath of the sea and who had retired to
snug stone villas in sea-side towns where they took their ease growing
geraniums and roses and acknowledging the whistle or flag salutes of
brother masters in active service as they passed by. On her lonely
couch, she dreamed of the future days when Alec would retire from
the sea for all time; when she would have him always with her, and
when young Donald Percival—man grown—would be a coming
Glasgow architect, designing structures destined to be the admiration
of all eyes.
In conning over her lifetime so far, Janet felt a great pride in her
accomplishments. From the “but and ben” of a poor Highland farm she
had travelled far, and to her credit it must be said that she had worked
and studied hard to keep pace with her social progress. Her humble
origin and the menial service of her pre-marital days had been skilfully
covered, and her quick and active mind readily absorbed the “correct”
conversation, deportment and pursuits which should necessarily
accompany the social status of a “Captain’s wife whose husband was
in the New York passenger service, and whose salary was four
hundred pounds a year!”
Since her marriage she had dropped home ties. She felt that she owed
her parents but little. They had brought her into the world, fed and
clothed her for a few years and were glad when she had gone into
“service” in Glasgow. She was off their hands then, and ten brothers
and sisters more than filled her place at home. Neither her father nor
mother could write, and the only time she saw her family again was
when they arrived in Glasgow en route to Canada. They were now out
on a homestead in “Moose Jaw, Chicago, Sacramento or some such
outlandish place,” and she had heard nothing from them since they
emigrated.
Baillie Ross had attained the coveted Lord Provostship, but with the
honors of the office, he had become unapproachable to Janet. David
McKenzie was flying his own house-flag on several sailing-ships, but
he had discouraged advances by cutting Captain and Mrs. McKenzie
“dead” on the few occasions during which they came face to face. “To
the devil with him!” laughed Alec on the first non-recognition. “I can
get along without him. His name is a curse in the mouths of sailormen
and his ships are notorious as ‘work-houses’ and ‘starvation packets.’
Better not to claim acquaintance with such a brother. He was never
anything to me anyhow!”
Alec had written to his uncle upon one occasion—just a friendly letter
telling of his progress at sea (he was in the Cardonia then), but Sir
Alastair had answered curtly, stating that “David had informed him of
his (Alec’s) doings and he didn’t care to hear any more about them!”
Alec read the letter thoughtfully, and mentally pictured the story David
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