‘Haul in on that rope!’ I shouted. ‘Tail on to it! Are you going to stand there like a lot of owls and see them drown!’
The men only wanted a leader to show them what to do, and, without showing any thought of insubordination, they tacked on to the rope that was fastened to the stem of the boat, and hauled her back across the weed - cuttle-fish and all.
The strain on the rope had thrown her on an even keel again, so that she took the water safely, though that foul thing was straddled all across her.
‘’Vast hauling!’ I shouted. ‘Get the doc’s cleavers, someofyou
- anything that’ll cut!’
‘This is the sort, sir! ’ cried the bo’sun; from somewhere he had got hold of a formidable double bladed whale lance.
The boat, still under the impetus given by our pull, struck the side of the yacht immediately beneath where I was waiting with the gun. Astern of it towed the body of the monster, its two eyes
- monstrous orbs of the Profound - staring out vilely from behind its arms.
I leant my elbows on the rail, and aimed full at the right eye. As I pulled on the trigger one of the great arms detached itself from the boat, and swirled up towards me. There was a thunderous bang as the heavy charge drove its way through that vast eye, and at the same instant something swept over my head.
There came a cry from behind: ‘Look out, sir!’ A flame of steel before my eyes, and a truncated something fell upon my shoulder, and thence to the deck.
Down below, the water was being churned to a froth, and three more arms sprang into the air, and then down among us.
One grasped the bo’sun, lifting him like a child. Two cleavers gleamed, and he fell to the deck from a height of some twelve feet, along with the severed portion of the limb.
I had my weapons reloaded again by now, and ran forward along the deck somewhat, to be clear of the flying arms that flailed on the rails and deck.
I fired again into the hulk of the brute, and then again. At the second shot, the murderous din of the creature ceased, and, with an ineffectual flicker of its remaining tentacles, it sank out of sight beneath the water.
A minute later we had the hatch in the roof of the superstructure open, and the men out, my chum coming last. They had been mightily shaken, but otherwise were none the worse.
As Barlow came over the gangway, 1 stepped up to him and gripped his shoulder. I was strangely muddled in my feelings. 1 felt that I had no sure position aboard my own yacht. Yet all I said was:
Thank God, you’re safe, old man!’ And I meant it from my heart.
He looked at me in a doubtful, puzzled sort of manner, and passed his hand across his forehead.
‘Yes,’ he replied; but his voice was strangely toneless, save that some puzzledness seemed to have crept into it. For a couple of moments he stared at me in an unseeing way, and once more I was struck by the immobile, tensed-up expression of his features.
Immediately afterwards he turned away - having shown neither friendliness nor enmity - and commenced to clamber back over the side into the boat.
‘Come up, Ned!' I cried. ‘It’s no good. You’ll never manage it that way. Look!’ and I stretched out my arm, pointing. Instead of looking, he passed his hand once more across his forehead, with that gesture of puzzled doubt. Then, to my relief, he caught at the rope ladder, and commenced to make his way slowly up the side.
Reaching the deck, he stood for nearly a minute without saying a word, his back turned to the derelict. Then, still wordless, he walked slowly across to the opposite side, and leant his elbows upon the rail, as though looking back along the way the yacht had come.
For my part, I said nothing, dividing my attention between him and the men, with occasional glances at the quaking weed and the - apparently - hopelessly surrounded Graiken.
The men were quiet, occasionally turning towards Barlow, as though for some further order. Of me they appeared to take little notice. In this wise, perhaps a quarter of an hour went by; then abruptly Barlow stood upright, waving his arms and shouting:
‘It comes! It comes!’ He turned towards us, and his face seemed transfigured, his eyes gleaming almost maniacally.
I ran across the deck to his side, and looked away to port, and now I saw what it was that had excited him. The weed-barrier through which we had come on our inward journey was divided, a slowly broadening river of oil water showing clean across it.
Even as I watched it grew broader, the immense masses of weed being moved by some unseen impulsion.
I was still staring, amazed, when a sudden cry went up from some of the men to starboard. Turning quickly, I saw that the yawning movement was being continued to the mass of weed that lay between us and the Graiken.
Slowly, the weed was divided, surely as though an invisible wedge were being driven through it. The gulf of weed-clear water reached the derelict, and passed beyond. And now there was no longer anything to stop our rescue of the crew of the derelict.
‘I’ve upset him now,’ was my thought. ‘I am a fool!’
‘Go to sea!’ he said. ‘My God! I’d give - ’ He broke off short, and stood suppressed opposite to me, his face all of a quiver with suppressed emotion. He was silent a few seconds, getting himself in hand; then he proceeded more quietly: ‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere,’ I replied, watching him keenly, for I was greatly puzzled by his manner. ‘I’m not quite clear yet. Somewhere south of here - the West Indies, I have thought. It’s all so new, you know - just fancy being able to go just where we like. I can hardly realise it yet.’
I stopped; for he had turned from me and was staring out of the window.
‘You’ll come, Ned?’ I cried, fearful that he was going to refuse me.
He took a pace away, and came back.
‘I’ll come,’ he said, and there was a look of strange excitement in his eyes that set me off on a tack of vague wonder; but I said nothing, just told him how he had pleased me.
VII
It was Barlow’s voice that gave the order for the mooring ropes to be cast off, and then, as the light wind was right against us, a boat was out ahead, and the yacht was towed towards the ship, whilst a dozen of the men stood ready with their rifles on the fo’c’s’le head.
As we drew nearer, I began to distinguish the features of the crew7, the men strangely grizzled and old looking. And among them, white-faced with emotion, was my chum’s lost sweetheart. I never expect to know a more extraordinary moment.
I looked at Barlow; he was staring at the white-faced girl with an extraordinary fixidity of expression that was scarcely the look of a sane man.
The next minute we were alongside, crushing to a pulp between our steel sides one of those remaining monsters of the deep that had continued to cling steadfastly to the Graiken.
Yet of that I was scarcely aware, for I had turned again to look at Ned Barlow. He was swaying slowly to his feet, and just as the two vessels closed he reached up both hands to his head, and fell like a log.
Brandy was brought, and later Barlow carried to his cabin; yet we had won clear of that hideous weed-world before he recovered consciousness.
During his illness I learned from his sweetheart how, on a terrible night a long year previously, the Graiken had been caught in a tremendous storm and dismasted, and how, helpless and driven by the gale, they at last found themselves surrounded by the great banks of floating weed, and finally held fast in the remorseless grip of the dread Sargasso.
She told me of their attempts to free the ship from the weed, and of the attacks of the cuttlefish. And later of various other matters; for all of which I have no room in this story.
In return I told her of our voyage, and her lover’s strange behaviour. How he had wanted to undertake the navigation of the yacht, and had talked of a great world of weed. How I had -believing him unhinged - refused to listen to him.
How he had taken matters into his own hands, without which she would most certainly have ended her days surrounded
by the quaking weed and those great beasts of the deep waters.
She listened with an ever growing seriousness, so that I had, time and again, to assure her that I bore my old chum no ill, but rather held myself to be in the wrong. At which she shook her head, but seemed mightily relieved.
It was during Barlow’s recovery that I made the astonishing discovery that he remembered no detail of his imprisoning of me.
I am convinced now that for days and weeks he must have lived in a sort of dream in a hyper state, in which I can only imagine that he had possibly been sensitive to more subtle understandings than normal bodily and mental health allows.
One other thing there is in closing. I found that the captain and the two mates had been confined to their cabins by Barlow. The captain was suffering from a pistol-shot in the arm, due to his having attempted to resist Barlow’s assumption of authority.
When I released him he vowed vengeance. Yet Ned Barlow being my chum, I found means to slake both the captain’s and the two mates’ thirst for vengeance, and the slaking thereof is -well, another story.
DAVY JONES’S GIFT
John Masefield
'Gone to Davy Jones’ Locker' is, of course, a very familiar term among seamen to describe anyone who is drowned at sea. Davy Jones is supposed to have been a sailor originally, but for generations now he has been thought of as a sea-spirit or devil. Stories about Davy Jones are naturally many and varied, but few writers have treated the legend with greater imagination than former-seaman-turned-author John Masefield (1878-1967).
Masefield was schooled for the Merchant Navy on the training ship Conway, and then served his apprenticeship on a windjammer. There he acquired the intimate knowledge of life at sea under sail which gave such authenticity and atmosphere to his prose and poetry. When ill-health forced him to leave the sea, he turned to verse and scored an immediate hit with his first collection, Salt Water Ballads (1902). Later, he mingled fact and fantasy in outstanding collections such as A Tarpaulin Muster (1907) and A Mainsail Haul (1913).
John Masefield*s distinguished contributions to literature were honoured when he was made Poet Laureate in 1930, and then when he was awarded the O.M. in 1935. In the story which follows, 'Davy Jones's Gift' (1907) there is a little of the poetical and a lot of his feeling for the sea combined in a wholely original way.
‘Once upon a time,’ said the sailor, ‘the Devil and Davy Jones came to Cardiff, to a place called Tiger Bay. They put up at T ony Adams’s, not far from Pier Head, at the comer of Sunday Lane. And all the time they stayed there they used to be going to the rumshop, where they sat at a table, smoking their cigars, and dicing each other for different persons’ souls. Now you must know that the Devil gets landsmen, and Davy Jones gets sailor-folk; and they get tired of having always the same, so then they dice each other for some of another sort.
‘One time they were in a place in Mary Street, having some burnt brandy, and playing red and black for the people passing. And while they were looking out on the street and turning the cards, they saw all the people on the pavement breaking their necks to get into the gutter. And they saw all the shop-people running out and kowtowing, and all the carts pulling up, and all the police saluting. “Here comes a big nob,” said Davy Jones. “Yes,” said the Devil; “it’s the Bishop that’s stopping with the Mayor.” “Red or black?” said Davy Jones, picking up a card. “I don’t play for bishops,” said the Devil. “I respect the cloth,” he said. “Come on, man,” said Davy Jones. “I’d give an admiral to have a bishop. Come on, now; make your game. Red or black?” “Well, I say red,” said the Devil. “It’s the ace of clubs,” said Davy Jones; “I win; and it’s the first bishop ever I had in my life.” The Devil was mighty angry at that - at losing a bishop. “I’ll not play any more,” he said; “I’m off home. Some people gets too good cards for me. There was some queer shuffling
when that pack was cut, that’s my belief.”
‘“Ah, stay and be friends, man,” said Davy Jones. “Look at what’s coming down the street. I’ll give you that for nothing.”
‘Now, coming down the street there was a reefer - one of those apprentice fellows. And he was brass-bound fit to play music. He stood about six feet, and there were bright brass buttons down his jacket, and on his collar, and on his sleeves. His cap had a big gold badge, with a house-flag in seven different colours in the middle of it, and a gold chain cable of a chinstay twisted round it. He was wearing his cap on three hairs, and he walked on both the pavements and all the road. His trousers were cut like wind-sails round the ankles. He had a fathom of red silk tie rolling out over his chest. He’d a cigarette in a twisted clay holder a foot and a half long. He was chewing tobacco over his shoulders as he walked. He’d a bottle of rum-hot in one hand, a bag of jam tarts in the other, and his pockets were full of love-letters from every port between Rio and Callao, round by the East.
“‘You mean to say you’ll give me that?” said the Devil. “I will,” said Davy Jones, “and a beauty he is. I never see a finer.” ‘He is, indeed, a beauty,” said the Devil. “I take back what I said about the cards. I’m sorry I spoke crusty. What’s the matter with some more burnt brandy?” “Burnt brandy be it,” said Davy Jones. So then they rang the bell, and ordered a new jug and clean glasses.
‘Now the Devil was so proud of what Davy had given him, he couldn’t keep away from him. He used to hang about the East Bute Docks, under the red-brick clock-tower, looking at the barque the young man worked aboard. Bill Harker his name was. He was in a West Coast barque, the Coronet y loading fuel for Hilo. So at last, when the Coronet was sailing, the Devil shipped himself aboard her, as one of the crowd in the fo’c’sle, and away they went down the Channel. At first he was very happy, for Bill Harker was in the same watch, and the two would yarn together. And though he was wise when he shipped, Bill Harker taught him a lot. There was a lot of things Bill Harker knew about. But when they were off the River Plate, they got caught in a pampero, and it blew very hard, and a big green sea began to run. The Coronet was a wet ship, and for three days you could stand upon her poop, and look forward and see nothing but a smother of foam from the break of the poop to the jib-boom. The crew had to roost on the poop. The fo’c’sle was flooded out. So while they were like this the flying jib worked loose. “The jib will be gone in half a tick,” said the mate. “Out there, one of you, and make it fast, before it blows away.” But the boom was dipping under every minute, and the waist was four feet deep, and green water came aboard all along her length. So none of the crowd would go forward. Then Bill Harker shambled out, and away he went forward, with the green seas smashing over him, and he lay out along the jib-boom and made the sail fast, and jolly nearly drowned he was. “That’s a brave lad, that Bill Harker,” said the Devil. “Ah, come off,” said the sailors. “Them reefers, they haven’t got souls to be saved.” It was that that set the Devil thinking.
‘By and by they came up with the Horn; and if it had blown off the Plate, it now blew off the roof. Talk about wind and weather. They got them both for sure aboard the Coronet. And it blew all the sails off her, and she rolled all her masts out, and the seas made a breach of her bulwarks, and the ice knocked a hole in her bows. So watch and watch they pumped the old Coronet, and the leak gained steadily, and there they were hove to under a weather cloth, five and a half degrees to the south of anything. And while they were like this, just about giving up hope, the old man sent the watch below, and told them they could start prayers. So the Devil crept on to the top of the half-deck, to look through the scuttle, to see what the reefers were doing, and what kind of prayers Bill Harker was putting up. And he saw them all sitting round the table, under the lamp, with Bill Harker at the head. And each of them had a hand of cards, and a length of knotted rope-yarn, and they were playing able-whackets. Each man in turn put down a card, and swore a new blasphemy, and if his swear didn’t come as he played the card, then all the others hit him with their teasers. But they never once had a chance to
hit Bill Harker. “I think they were right about his soul,” said the Devil. And he sighed, like he was sad.
‘Shortly after that the Coronet went down, and all hands drowned in her, saving only Bill and the Devil. They came up out of the smothering green seas, and saw the stars blinking in the sky, and heard the wind howling like a pack of dogs. They managed to get aboard the Coronet's hen-house, which had come adrift, and floated. The fowls were all drowned inside, so they lived on drowned hens. As for drink, they had to do without, for there was none. When they got thirsty they splashed their faces with salt water; but they were so cold they didn’t feel thirsty very bad. They drifted three days and three nights, till their skins were all cracked and salt-caked. And all the Devil thought of was whether Bill Harker had a soul. And Bill kept telling the Devil what a thundering big feed they would have as soon as they fetched to port, and how good a rum-hot would be, with a lump of sugar and a bit of lemon peel.
‘And at last the old hen-house came bump on to Tierra Del Fuego, and there were some natives cooking rabbits. So the Devil and Bill made a raid of the whole jing bang, and ate till they were tired. Then they had a drink out of a brook, and a warm by the fire, and a pleasant sleep. “Now,” said the Devil, “I will see if he’s got a soul. I’ll see if he give thanks.” So after an hour or two Bill took a turn up and down and came to the Devil. “It’s mighty dull on this forgotten continent,” he said. “Have you got a ha’penny?” “No,” said the Devil. “What in joy d’ye want with a ha’penny?” “I might have played you pitch and toss,” said Bill. “It was better fun on the hen-coop than here.” “I give you up,” said the Devil; “you’ve no more soul than the inner part of an empty barrel.” And with that the Devil vanished in a flame of sulphur.
'Bill stretched himself, and put another shrub on the fire. He picked up a few round shells, and began a game of knucklebones.’
Mysterious Sea Stories Page 20
