Strange Yesterday by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online Page B

broken lips narrowed, his eyes bits of sullen blue. Mr. Mitchell shook his head.
    â€œNo,” he said, “I shouldn’t. It really doesn’t pay. One is here, and here one must remain. Now go aft! You’ll find Mr. Cortlandt in the lee of the poop.”
    Unmovingly, John Preswick stood, tensing his fists, his arms. He felt that his strength was back; he sensed it flowing with the throb of blood to his temples.
    â€œGo aft!” Mr. Mitchell snapped.
    Shrugging his shoulders, John Preswick smiled. But he made no move to go; he said: “I have been told that I am one of the crew. You’ll discover differently. America is not England. You cannot impress a free man and a citizen.”
    Then Mr. Mitchell struck out, his arm the lash of a whip; and though John Preswick dodged, the blow glanced off his cheekbone, sending him reeling back against the rail. As he sprang forward, mad with the desire to have the other’s throat in his fingers, Mr. Mitchell drew the wooden pin from his belt and laid it across John Preswick’s head. He went down all in a heap, crouched silent for a moment, and then attempted to draw himself erect. Unsteadily he came to his feet, facing Mr. Mitchell, who said in the same even tone of voice: “Go aft.”
    It came to John Preswick that he was pitted against odds too great for him, that he was being beaten systematically, and as unemotionally as a caged animal, and that if he persisted, they would pound the very heart out of him. His anger faded, giving way to a sensation of indignation, of hurt. He wondered, in a puzzled way, just what he had done to merit all of this. To Mr. Mitchell, he said: “Yes.”
    â€œSir.”
    â€œSir.”
    Then he plodded aft, to where the taller and leaner figure of Mr. Cortlandt stood in the shadow of the poop. As he walked, he noted two squat carronades, roped to the deck, and, glancing behind him to the bow of the vessel, he saw a long, slim gun, mounted upon a swivel. He was almost upon Mr. Cortlandt now, and he found that the man was following his eyes. There was something curiously mild about Mr. Cortlandt, perhaps his pale, almost colorless eyes and his curling side whiskers.
    â€œGood morning,” Mr. Cortlandt said to him, good-naturedly.
    Taken aback, he nodded.
    â€œI see that you were looking over our little vessel. Are you by any chance familiar with—ships?”
    â€œNo—sir.”
    Wagging his head, Mr. Cortlandt smiled. “You will do,” he decided. “Only a fool or an animal fights when he is beaten. But I like a fighter.”
    John Preswick stared at him, turquoise into watery blue. He said nothing.
    â€œLet us have the matter straight,” Mr. Cortlandt suggested. “You were impressed while in a state of unconsciousness. Of that we know nothing. You were brought on board by Mr. Kwalkee, whom we have always known as an honorable man. He said that you would appreciate a trip upon the sea, and he gave me some small sum of money to assure himself that you would not again return to Charleston. But I am not a murderer. And now, several days out to sea, we discover, to our surprise, that you had no intentions of pursuing the sea as a career. Have you any money!”
    Involuntarily, John Preswick’s fingers slid to his waist. Then he smiled, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and shrugged. “I had three thousand dollars—for which Mr. Kwalkee will some day pay with his life. You know damn’ well that I have nothing now!”
    â€œSoftly—softly. Three thousand dollars. Well, that is a sum, though I should not have thought it of Kwalkee. And now you have nothing.”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œSir.”
    â€œSir.”
    Sympathetically, Mr. Cortlandt shook his head. “That only leaves two alternatives: work, or go over the side, and I shouldn’t advise the latter; land is some hundreds of miles away.”
    â€œI’ll work.”