The Ella had been a coasting-vessel, carrying dressed lumber to
South America, and on her return trip bringing a miscellaneous
cargo--hides and wool, sugar from Pernambuco, whatever offered.
The firm of Turner and Sons owned the line of which the Ella was
one of the smallest vessels.
The gradual elimination of sailing ships and the substitution of
steamers in the coasting trade, left the Ella, with others, out of
commission. She was still seaworthy, rather fast, as such vessels
go, and steady. Marshall Turner, the oldest son of old Elias Turner,
the founder of the business, bought it in at a nominal sum, with the
intention of using it as a private yacht. And, since it was a
superstition of the house never to change the name of one of its
vessels, the schooner Ella, odorous of fresh lumber or raw rubber,
as the case might be, dingy gray in color, with slovenly decks on
which lines of seamen's clothing were generally hanging to dry,
remained, in her metamorphosis, still the Ella.
Marshall Turner was a wealthy man, but he equipped his new
pleasure-boat very modestly. As few changes as were possible were
made. He increased the size of the forward house, adding quarters
for the captain and the two mates, and thus kept the after house for
himself and his friends. He fumigated the hold and the forecastle--
a precaution that kept all the crew coughing for two days, and drove
them out of the odor of formaldehyde to the deck to sleep. He
installed an electric lighting and refrigerating plant, put a bath
in the forecastle, to the bewilderment of the men, who were inclined
to think it a reflection on their habits, and almost entirely rebuilt,
inside, the old officers' quarters in the after house.
The wheel, replaced by a new one, white and gilt, remained in its
old position behind the after house, the steersman standing on a
raised iron grating above the wash of the deck. Thus from the
chart-room, which had become a sort of lounge and card-room, through
a small barred window it was possible to see the man at the wheel,
who, in his turn, commanded a view of part of the chartroom, but not
of the floor.
The craft was schooner-rigged, carried three lifeboats and a
collapsible raft, and was navigated by a captain, first and second
mates, and a crew of six able-bodied sailors and one gaunt youth
whose sole knowledge of navigation had been gained on an Atlantic
City catboat. Her destination was vague--Panama perhaps, possibly
a South American port, depending on the weather and the whim of the
owner.
I do not recall that I performed the nautical rite of signing
articles. Armed with the note McWhirter had secured for me, and with
what I fondly hoped was the rolling gait of the seafaring man, I
approached the captain--a bearded and florid individual. I had
dressed the part--old trousers, a cap, and a sweater from which I
had removed my college letter, McWhirter, who had supervised my
preparations, and who had accompanied me to the wharf, had suggested
that I omit my morning shave. The result was, as I look back, a lean
and cadaverous six-foot youth, with the hospital pallor still on him,
his chin covered with a day's beard, his hair cropped short, and a
cannibalistic gleam in his eyes. I remember that my wrists, thin
and bony, annoyed me, and that the girl I had seen through the
opera-glasses came on board, and stood off, detached and indifferent,
but with her eyes on me, while the captain read my letter.