by Ruskin Bond
Dropping behind the stone he seized the weapon. He did not even have to lift it. As it lay it bore directly on the man who was now approaching.
His hand was momentarily halted by Esau Brill’s strange behaviour. Instead of firing or leaping back into cover the man came straight on, his rifle in the crook of his arm, that damnable leer still on his unshaven lips. Was he mad? Could he not see that his enemy was up again, raging with life, and with a cocked rifle aimed at his heart? Brill seemed not to be looking at him, but to one side, at the spot where Reynolds had just been lying.
Without seeking further for the explanation of his foe’s actions, Cal Reynolds pulled the trigger. With the vicious spang of the report a blue shred leaped from Brill’s broad breast. He staggered back, his mouth flying open. And the look on his face froze Reynolds again. Esau Brill came of a breed which fights to its last gasp. Nothing was more certain than that he would go down pulling the trigger blindly until the last red vestige of life left him. Yet the ferocious triumph was wiped from his face with the crack of the shot, to be replaced by an awful expression of dazed surprise. He made no move to lift his rifle, which slipped from his grasp, nor did he clutch at his wound. Throwing out his hands in a strange, stunned, helpless way, he reeled backward on slowly buckling legs, his features frozen into a mask of stupid amazement that made his watcher shiver with its cosmic horror.
Through the opened lips gushed a tide of blood, dyeing the damp shirt. And like a tree that sways and rushes suddenly earthward, Esau Brill crashed down among the mesquite-grass and lay motionless.
Cal Reynolds rose, leaving the rifle where it lay. The rolling grass-grown hills swam misty and indistinct to his gaze. Even the sky and the blazing sun had a hazy unreal aspect. But a savage content was in his soul. The long feud was over at last, and whether he had taken his death-wound or not, he had sent Esau Brill to blaze the trail to hell ahead of him.
Then he started violently as his gaze wandered to the spot where he had rolled after being hit. He glared; were his eyes playing him tricks? Yonder in the grass Esau Brill lay dead—yet only a few feet away stretched another body.
Rigid with surprise, Reynolds glared at the rangy figure, slumped grotesquely beside the rocks. It lay partly on its side, as if flung there by some blind convulsion, the arms outstretched, the fingers crooked as if blindly clutching. The short-cropped sandy hair was splashed with blood, and from a ghastly hole in the temple the brains were oozing. From a corner of the mouth seeped a thin trickle of tobacco juice to stain the dusty neck-cloth.
And as he gazed, an awful familiarity made itself evident. He knew the feel of those shiny leather wrist-bands; he knew with fearful certainty whose hands had buckled that gun-belt; the tang of that tobacco juice was still on his palate.
In one brief destroying instant he knew he was looking down at his own lifeless body. And with the knowledge came true oblivion.
William Hope Hodgson was killed while serving bravely with the Army in France in 1918, but it has taken well over half a century for his importance as a writer to be recognised. I am, therefore pleased to be playing my own small part by returning to print one of his best Sargasso Sea stories, The Finding of the Graiken (1913) and would urge any reader who has not done so, to investigate the other works by this marvellous writer of sea mysteries.
THE FINDING OF THE GRAIKEN
BY WILLIAM HOPE HODGSON
When a year had passed, and still there was no news of the full-rigged ship Graiken, even the most sanguine of my old chum’s friends had ceased to hope perchance, somewhere, she might be above water.
Yet Ned Barlow, in his inmost thoughts, I knew, still hugged to himself the hope that she would win home. Poor, dear old fellow, how my heart did go out towards him in his sorrow!
For it was in the Graiken that his sweetheart had sailed on that dull January day some twelve months previously.
The voyage had been taken for the sake of her health; yet since then—save for a distant signal recorded at the Azores—there had been from all the mystery of ocean no voice; the ship and they within her had vanished utterly.
And still Barlow hoped. He said nothing actually, but at times his deeper thoughts would float up and show through the sea of his usual talk, and thus I would know in an indirect way of the thing that his heart was thinking.
Nor was time a healer.
It was later that my present good fortune came to me. My uncle died, and I—hitherto poor—was now a rich man. In a breath, it seemed, I had become possessor of houses, lands, and money; also—in my eyes almost more important—a fine fore-and-aft-rigged yacht of some two hundred tons register.
It seemed scarcely believable that the thing was mine, and I was all in a scutter to run away down to Falmouth and get to sea.
In old times, when my uncle had been more than usually gracious, he had invited me to accompany him for a trip round the coast or elsewhere, as the fit might take him; yet never, even in my most hopeful moments, had it occurred to me that ever she might be mine.
And now I was hurrying my preparations for a good long sea trip—for to me the sea is, and always has been, a comrade,
Still, with all the prospects before me, I was by no means completely satisfied, for I wanted Ned Barlow with me, and yet was afraid to ask him.
I had the feeling that, in view of his overwhelming loss, he must positively hate the sea; and yet I could not be happy at the thought of leaving him, and going alone.
He had not been well lately, and a sea voyage would be the very thing for him, if only it were not going to freshen painful memories.
Eventually I decided to suggest it, and this I did a couple of days before the date I had fixed for sailing.
‘Ned,’ I said, ‘you need a change.’
‘Yes,’ he assented wearily.
‘Come with me, old chap,’ I went on, growing bolder. ‘I’m taking a trip in the yacht. It would be splendid to have—’
To my dismay, he jumped to his feet and came towards me excitedly.
‘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 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.
II
We had been at sea a couple of weeks, and were alone upon the Atlantic—at least, so much of it as presented itself to our view.
I was leaning over the taffrail, staring down into the boil of the wake; yet I noticed nothing, for I was wrapped in a tissue of somewhat uncomfortable thought. It was about Ned Barlow.
He had been queer, decidedly queer, since leaving port. His whole attitude mentally had been that of a man under the influence of an all-pervading excitement. I had said that he was in need of a change, and had trusted that the splendid tonic of the sea breeze would serve to put him soon to rights mentally and physically; yet here was the poor old chap acting in a manner calculated to cause me anxiety as to his balance.
Scarcely a word had been spoken since leaving the Channel. When I ventured to speak to him, often he would take not the least notice, other times he would answer only by a brief word; but talk—never.
In addition, his whole time was spent on deck among the men, a
nd with some of them he seemed to converse both long and earnestly; yet to me, his chum and true friend, not a word.
Another thing came to me as a surprise—Barlow betrayed the greatest interest in the position of the vessel, and the courses set, all in such a manner as left me no room to doubt but that his knowledge of navigation was considerable.
Once I ventured to express my astonishment at this knowledge, and ask a question or two as to the way in which he had gathered it, but had been treated with such an absurdly stony silence that since then I had not spoken to him.
With all this it may be easily conceived that my thoughts, as I stared down into the wake, were troublesome.
Suddenly I heard a voice at my elbow:
‘I should like to have a word with you, sir.’ I turned sharply. It was my skipper, and something in his face told me that all was not as it should be.
‘Well, Jenkins, fire away’
He looked round, as if afraid of being overheard; then came closer to me.
‘Someone’s been messing with the compasses, sir,’ he said in a low voice.
‘What?’ I asked sharply.
‘They’ve been meddled with, sir. The magnets have been shifted, and by someone who’s a good idea of what he’s doing.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ I inquired. ‘Why should anyone mess about with them? What good would it do them? You must be mistaken.’
‘No, sir, I’m not. They’ve been touched within the last forty-eight hours, and by someone that understands what he’s doing.’
I stared at him. The man was so certain. I felt bewildered.
‘But why should they?’
‘That’s more than I can say, sir; but it’s a serious matter, and I want to know what I’m to do. It looks to me as though there were something funny going on. I’d give a month’s pay to know just who it was, for certain.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if they have been touched, it can only be by one of the officers. You say the chap who has done it must understand what he is doing.’
He shook his head. ‘No sir—’ he began, and then stopped abruptly. His gaze met mine. I think the same thought must have come to us simultaneously. I gave a little gasp of amazement.
He wagged his head at me. ‘I’ve had my suspicions for a bit, sir,’ he went on; ‘but seeing that he’s—he’s —’ He was fairly struck for the moment.
I took my weight off the rail and stood upright.
‘To whom are you referring?’ I asked curtly.
‘Why, sir, to him—Mr Ned—’
He would have gone on, but I cut him short.
‘That will do, Jenkins!’ I cried. ‘Mr Ned Barlow is my friend. You are forgetting yourself a little. You will accuse me of tampering with the compasses next!’
I turned away, leaving little Captain Jenkins speechless. I had spoken with an almost vehement over-loyalty, to quiet my own suspicions.
All the same, I was horribly bewildered, not knowing what to think or do or say, so that, eventually, I did just nothing.
III
It was early one morning, about a week later, that I opened my eyes abruptly. I was lying on my back in my bunk, and the daylight was beginning to creep wanly in through the ports.
I had a vague consciousness that all was not as it should be, and feeling thus, I made to grasp the edge of my bunk, and sit up, but failed, owing to the fact that my wrists were securely fastened by a pair of heavy steel handcuffs.
Utterly confounded, I let my head fall back upon the pillow; and then, in the midst of my bewilderment, there sounded the sharp report of a pistol-shot somewhere on the decks over my head. There came a second, and the sound of voices and footsteps, and then a long spell of silence.
Into my mind had rushed the single word—mutiny! My temples throbbed a little, but I struggled to keep calm and think, and then, all adrift, I fell to searching round for a reason. Who was it? and why?
Perhaps an hour passed, during which I asked myself ten thousand vain questions. All at once I heard a key inserted in the door. So I had been locked in! It turned, and the steward walked into the cabin. He did not look at me, but went to the arm-rack and began to remove the various weapons.
‘What the devil is the meaning of all this, Jones?’ I roared, getting up a bit on one elbow. ‘What’s happening?’
But the fool answered not a word—just went to and fro carrying out the weapons from my cabin into the next, so that at last I ceased from questioning him, and lay silent, promising myself future vengeance.
When he had removed the arms, the steward began to go through my table drawers, emptying them, so it appeared to me, of everything that could be used as a weapon or tool.
Having completed his task, he vanished, locking the door after him.
Some time passed, and at last, about seven bells, he reappeared, this time bringing a tray with my breakfast. Placing it upon the table, he came across to me and proceeded to unlock the cuffs from off my wrists. Then for the first time he spoke.
‘Mr Barlow desires me to say, sir, that you have the liberty of your cabin so long as you will agree not to cause any bother. Should you wish for anything, I am under his orders to supply you.’ He retreated hastily toward the door.
On my part, I was almost speechless with astonishment and rage.
‘One minute, Jones!’ I shouted, just as he was in the act of leaving the cabin. ‘Kindly explain what you mean. You said Mr Barlow. Is it to him that I owe all this?’ And I waved my hand towards the irons which the man still held.
‘It is by his orders,’ replied he, and turned once more to leave the cabin.
‘I don’t understand!’ I said, bewildered. ‘Mr Barlow is my friend, and this is my yacht! By what right do you dare to take your orders from him? Let me out!’
As I shouted the last command, I leapt from my bunk, and made a dash for the door, but the steward, so far from attempting to bar it, flung it open and stepped quickly through, thus allowing me to see that a couple of the sailors were stationed in the alleyway.
‘Get on deck at once!’ I said angrily. ‘What are you doing down here?’
‘Sorry sir,’ said one of the men. ‘We’d take it kindly if you’d make no trouble. But we ain’t lettin’ you out, sir. Don’t make no bloomin’ error.’
I hesitated, then went to the table and sat down. I would, at least, do my best to preserve my dignity.
After an inquiry as to whether he could do anything further, the steward left me to breakfast and my thoughts. As may be imagined, the latter were by no means pleasant.
Here was I prisoner in my own yacht, and by the hand of the very man I had loved and befriended through many years. Oh, it was too incredible and mad!
For a while, leaving the table, I paced the deck of my room; then, growing calmer, I sat down again and attempted to make some sort of a meal.
As I breakfasted, my chief thought was as to why my one-time chum was treating me thus; and after that I fell to puzzling how he had managed to get the yacht into his own hands.
Many things came back to me—his familiarity with the men, his treatment of me—which I had put down to a temporary want of balance—the fooling with the compasses; for I was certain now that he had been the doer of that piece of mischief But why? That was the great point.
As I turned the matter over in my brain, an incident that had occurred some six days back came to me. It had been on the very day after the captain’s report to me of the tampering with the compasses.
Barlow had, for the first time, relinquished his brooding and silence, and had started to talk to me, but in such a wild strain that he had made me feel vaguely uncomfortable about his sanity for he told me some yarn of an idea which he had got into his head. And then, in an overbearing way, he demanded that the navigation of the yacht should be put into his hands.
He had been very incoherent, and was plainly in a state of considerable mental excitement. He had rambled on about some derelict, and then had talked in an ex
traordinary fashion of a vast world of seaweed.
Once or twice in his bewilderingly disconnected speech he had mentioned the name of his sweetheart, and now it was the memory of her name that gave me the first inkling of what might possibly prove a solution of the whole affair.
I wished now that I had encouraged his incoherent ramble of speech, instead of heading him off; but I had done so because I could not bear to have him talk as he had.
Yet, with the little I remembered, I began to shape out a theory. It seemed to me that he might be nursing some idea that had formed—goodness knows how or when—that his sweetheart (still alive) was aboard some derelict in the midst of an enormous ‘world’, he had termed it, of seaweed.
He might have grown more explicit had I not attempted to reason with him, and so lost the rest.
Yet, remembering back, it seemed to me that he must undoubtedly have meant the enormous Sargasso Sea—that great seaweed-laden ocean, vast almost as Continental Europe, and the final resting-place of the Atlantic’s wreckage.
Surely, if he proposed any attempt to search through that, then there could be no doubt but that he was temporarily unbalanced. And yet I could do nothing. I was a prisoner and helpless.
IV
Eight days of variable but strongish winds passed, and still I was a prisoner in my cabin. From the ports that opened out astern and on each side—for my cabin runs right across the whole width of the stern—I was able to command a good view of the surrounding ocean, which now had commenced to be laden with great floating patches of Gulf weed—many of them hundreds and hundreds of yards in length.
And still we held on, apparently towards the nucleus of the Sargasso Sea. This I was able to assume by means of a chart which I found in one of the lockers, and the course I had been able to gather from the ‘tell-tale’ compass let into the cabin ceiling.
And so another and another day went by, and now we were among weed so thick that at times the vessel found difficulty in forcing her way through, while the surface of the sea had assumed a curious oily appearance, though the wind was still quite strong.
