With a certain feeling of the hopelessness of it all, Captain Pemberton gave orders to get lanterns and search the decks; but, as he anticipated, nothing unusual was found. Yet the bringing out of the lanterns suggested a wise precaution; for he told them to keep out a couple, and carry them about with them when they went to and fro along the decks.
IV
Two nights later, Captain Tom Pemberton was suddenly aroused from a sound slumber by his wife.
“Shish!” she whispered, putting her fingers on his lips. “Listen.”
He rose on his elbow, but otherwise kept quiet. The berth was full of shadows for the lamp was turned rather low. A minute of tense silence passed; then abruptly from the direction of the door, he heard a slow, gritty rubbing noise. At that he sat upright and sliding his hand beneath his pillow, brought out his revolver; then remained silent—waiting.
Suddenly he heard the latch of the door snick softly out of its catch, and an instant later a breath of air swept through the berth, stirring the draperies. By that he knew that the door had been opened, and he leaned forward, raised his weapon. A moment of intense silence followed; then, all at once, something dark slid between him and the little glimmer of flame in the lamp. Instantly he aimed and fired, once—twice. There came a hideous howling which seemed to be retreating toward the door, and he fired in the direction of the noise. He heard it pass into the saloon. Then came a quick slither of steps upon the companion stairway, and the noise died away into silence.
Immediately afterward, the Skipper heard the Mate bellowing for the watch to lay aft; then his heavy tread came tumbling down into the saloon, and the Captain, who had left his bunk to turn up his lamp, met him in the doorway. A minute was sufficient to put the Mate in possession of such facts as the Skipper himself had gleaned, and after that, they lit the saloon lamp and examined the floor and companion stairs. In several places they found traces of blood which showed that one, at least, of Captain Tom’s shots had got home. They were also found to lead a little way along the lee side of the poop; but ceased altogether nearly opposite the end of the skylight.
As may be imagined, this affair had given the Captain a big shaking up, and he felt so little like attempting further sleep that he proceeded to dress; an action which his wife imitated, and the two of them passed the rest of the night on the poop; for, as Mrs. Pemberton said: You felt safer up in the fresh air. You could at least feel that you were near help. A sentiment which, probably, Captain Tom felt more distinctly than he could have put into words. Yet he had another thought of which he was much more acutely aware, and which he did manage to formulate in some shape to the Mates during the course of the following day. As he put it:
“It’s my wife that I’m afraid for! That thing (whatever it is) seems to be making a dead set for her!” His face was anxious and somewhat haggard under the tan. The two Mates nodded.
“I should keep a man in the saloon at night, Sir,” suggested the Second Mate, after a moment’s thought. “And let her keep with you as much as possible.”
Captain Tom Pemberton nodded with a slight air of relief. The reasonableness of the precaution appealed to him. He would have a man in the saloon after dark, and he would see that the lamp was kept going; then, at least, his wife would be safe, for the only entrance to his cabin was through the saloon. As for the shattered port, it had been replaced the day after he had broken it, and now every dog watch he saw to it himself that it was securely screwed up, and not only that, but the iron storm-cover as well; so that he had no fears in that direction.
That night at eight o’clock, as the roll was being called, the Second Mate turned and beckoned respectfully to the Captain, who immediately left his wife and stepped up to him.
“About that man, Sir,” said the Second. “I’m up here till twelve o’clock. Who would you care to have out of my watch?”
“Just as you like, Mister Kasson. Who can you best spare?”
“Well, Sir, if it comes to that, there’s old Tarpin. He’s not been much use on a rope since that tumble he got the other night. He says he hurt his arm as well, and he’s not able to use it.”
“Very well, Mr. Kasson. Tell him to step up.”
This the Second Mate did, and in a few moments old Tarpin stood before them. His face was bandaged up, and his right arm was slipped out of the sleeve of his coat.
“You seem to have been in the wars, Tarpin,” said the Skipper, eyeing him up and down.
“Yes, Sir,” replied the man with a touch of grimness.
“I want you down in the saloon till twelve o’clock,” the Captain went on. “If you—er—hear anything, call me, do you hear?”
The man gave out a gruff “aye, aye, Sir,” and went slowly aft.
“I don’t expect he’s best pleased, Sir,” said the Second with a slight smile.
“How do you mean, Mister Kasson?”
“Well, Sir, ever since he and Coalson were chased, and he got the tumble, he’s taken to waiting around the decks at night. He seems a plucky old devil, and it’s my belief he’s waiting to get square with whatever it was that made him run.”
“Then he’s just the man I want in the saloon,” said the Skipper. “It may just happen that he gets his chance of coming close to quarters with this infernal hell-thing that’s knocking about. And by Jove, if he does, he and I’ll be friends for evermore.”
At nightfall Captain Tom Pemberton and his wife went below. They found old Tarpin sitting on one of the benches. At their entrance he rose to his feet and touched his cap awkwardly to them. The Captain stopped a moment and spoke to him:
“Mind, Tarpin, the least sound of anything about, and call me! And see you keep the lamp bright.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” said the man quietly; and the Skipper left him and followed his wife into their cabin.
V
The Captain had been asleep more than an hour when abruptly something roused him. He reached for his revolver and then sat upright; yet though he listened intently, no sound came to him save the gentle breathing of his wife. The lamp was low, but not so low that he could not make out the various details of the cabin. His glance roved swiftly round and showed him nothing unusual, until it came to the door; then, in a flash, he noted that no light from the saloon lamp came under the bottom. He jumped swiftly from his bunk with a sudden gust of anger. If Tarpin had gone to sleep and allowed the lamp to go out, well—! His hand was upon the key. He had taken the precaution to turn it before going to sleep. How providential this action had been he was soon to learn. In the very act of unlocking the door, he paused; for all at once a low grumbling purr came to him from beyond the door. Ah! That was the sound that had come to him in his sleep and wakened him. For a moment he stood, a multitude of frightened fancies coming to him. Then, realising that now was such a chance as he might not again have, he turned the key with a swift movement and flung the door wide open.
The first thing he noticed was that the saloon lamp had burned down and was flickering, sending uncomfortable splashes of light and darkness across the place. The next, that something lay at his feet across the threshold—something that started up with a snarl and turned upon him. He pushed the muzzle of his revolver against it and pulled the trigger twice. The Thing gave out a queer roar and flung itself from him halfway across the saloon floor; then rose to a semi-upright position and darted howling through the doorway leading to the companion stairs. Behind him he heard his wife crying out in alarm; but he did not stay to answer her; instead, he followed the Thing voicing its pains so hideously. At the bottom of the stairs he glanced up and saw something outlined against the stars. It was only a glimpse, and he saw that it had two legs, like a man; yet he thought of a shark. It disappeared, and he leaped up the stairs. He stared to the leeward and saw something by the rail. As he fired, the Thing leaped and a cry and a splash came almost simultaneously. The Second Mate joined him breathlessly, as he raced to the side.
“What was it, Sir?” gasped the officer.
He stared down into the glassy darkness. Something like a great fish showed below the surface. It was dimly outlined by the phosphorescence. It was swimming in an erratic circle leaving an indistinct trail of glowing bubbles behind it. Something caught the Second Mate’s eyes as he stared, and he leaned farther out so as to get a better view. He saw the Thing again. The fish had two tails—or they might have been legs. The Thing was swimming downward. How rapidly, he could judge by the speed at which its apparent size diminished. He turned and caught the Captain by the wrist.
“Do you see its—its tails, Sir?” he muttered excitedly. Captain Tom Pemberton gave an unintelligible grunt, but kept his eyes fixed on the deep. The Second glanced back. Far below him he made out a little moving spot of phosphorescence. It grew fainter and vanished in the immensity beneath them.
Someone touched the Captain on the arm. It was his wife.
“Oh, Tom, have you—have you—?” she began; but he said “Hush!” and turned to the Second Mate.
“Call all hands, Mister Kasson!” he ordered; then, taking his wife by the arm, he led her down with him into the saloon. Here they found the Steward in his shirt and trousers, trimming the lamp. His face was pale, and he started to question as soon as they entered; but the Captain quieted him with a gesture.
“Look in all the empty cabins!” the Skipper commanded, and while the Steward was doing this, the Skipper himself made a search of the saloon floor. In a few minutes the Steward came up to say that the cabins were as usual, whereupon the Captain led his wife on deck. Here the Second Mate met them.
“The hands are mustered, Sir,” he said.
“Very good, Mister Kasson. Call the roll!”
The roll was gone over, each man answering to his name in turn. The Second Mate reached the last three on the list:
“Jones!”
“Sir!”
“Smith!”
“Yessir!”
“Tarpin!”
But from the waiting crowd below, in the light of the Second Mate’s lantern, no answer came. He called the name again, and then Captain Tom Pemberton touched him on the arm. He turned and looked at the Captain, whose eyes were full of incredible realization.
“It’s no good, Mister Kasson!” the Captain said. “I had to make quite sure—”
He paused, and the Second Mate took a step toward him.
“But—where is he?” he asked, almost stupidly.
The Captain leaned forward, looking him in the eyes.
“You saw him go, Mister Kasson!” he said in a low voice.
The Second Mate stared back, but he did not see the Captain. Instead, he saw again in his mind’s eye two things that looked like legs—human legs!
There was no more trouble that voyage; no more strange happenings; nothing unusual; but Captain Tom Pemberton had no peace of mind until he reached port and his wife was safely ashore again.
The story of the Pampero, her bad reputation, and this latest extraordinary happening got into the papers. Among the many articles which the tale evoked was one which held certain interesting suggestions.
The writer quoted from an old manuscript entitled “Ghosts,” the well-known legend of the sea ghoul—which, as will be remembered, asserts that those who “die by ye sea, live of ye sea, and do come upward upon lonely shores, and do eate, biting likeye shark or ye deyvel-fishe, and are drywdful in hunger for ye fleyshe of man, and moreover do strive in mid sea to board ye ships of ye deep water, that they shal saytisfy theire dryedful hunger.”
The author of the article suggested seriously that the man Tarpin was some abnormal thing out of the profound deeps; that had destroyed those who had once been in the whaleboat, and afterward, with dreadful cunning, been taken aboard the Pampero as a cast-away, afterward indulging its monstrous appetite. What form of life the creature possessed, the writer frankly could not indicate, but set out the uncomfortable suggestion that the case of the Pampero was not the first; nor would it be the last. He reminded the public of the many ships that vanish. He pointed out how a ship, thus dreadfully bereft of her crew, might founder and sink when the first heavy storm struck her.
He concluded his article by asserting his opinion that he did not believe the Pampero to be “haunted.” It was, he held, simple chance that had associated a long tale of ill-luck with the vessel in question; and that the thing which had happened could have happened as easily to any other vessel which might have met and picked up the grim occupant of the derelict whaleboat.
Whatever may be the correctness of the writer’s suggestions, they are at least interesting in endeavoring to sum up this extraordinary and incomprehensible happening. But Captain Pemberton felt surer of his own sanity when he remembered (when he thought of the matter at all) that men often go mad from exposure in open boats, and that the marlinspike which Tarpin always carried was sharpened much to the shape of a shark’s tooth.
The Real Thing: ‘S.O.S’
Big liner on fire in 55.43 N. and 32.19 W.,” shouts the Captain, diving into his chart-room. “Here we are! Give me the parallels!”
The First Officer and the Captain figure busily for a minute.
“North, 15 West,” says the Master; and “North, 15 West,” assents the First Officer, flinging down his pencil. “A hundred and seventeen miles, dead in the wind!”
“Come, on!” says the Captain; and the two of them dash out of the chart-room into the roaring black night, and up onto the bridge.
“North, 15 West!” the Master shouts in the face of the burly Helmsman. “Over with her, smart!”
“North, 15 West, Sir,” shouts back the big Quartermaster, and whirls the spokes to starboard, with the steering-gear engine roaring.
The great vessel swings round against the night, with enormous scends, smiting the faces of the great seas with her seventy-feet-high bows.
Crash! A roar of water aboard, as a hundred phosphorescent tons of sea-water hurls inboard out of the darkness, and rushes aft along the lower decks, boiling and surging over the hatchways, capstans, deck-fittings, and round the corners of the deck-houses.
The ship has hit the fifty-mile-an-hour gale full in the face, and the engine telegraph stands at full speed. The Master has word with that King of the Underworld, the Chief Engineer; and the Chief goes below himself to take charge, just as the Master has taken charge on deck.
There is fresh news from the Operator’s Room. The vessel somewhere out in the night and the grim storm is the S.S. Vanderfield, with sixty first-class passengers and seven hundred steerage and she is alight forrard. The fire has got a strong hold, and they have already lost three boats, smashed to pieces as they tried to launch them, and every man, woman, and child in the boats crushed to death or drowned.
“Damn these old-fashioned davits!” says the Master, as he reads the wireless operator’s notes. “They won’t lift a boat out clear of the ship’s side, if she’s rolling a bit. The boats in a ship are just ornaments, if you’ve not got proper machinery for launching them. We’ve got the new derricks, and we can lower a boat, so she strikes the water, forty feet clear of the side, instead of bashing to pieces, like a sixty-foot pendulum, against our side!”
He shouts a question over his shoulder, standing there by the binnacle:
“What’s she doing, Mister Andrews?”
“Twenty and three-quarter knots, Sir,” says the Second Officer, who has been in charge. “But the Chief’s raising her revolutions every minute… She’s nearly on to the twenty-one now.”
“And even if we lick that we’ll be over five hours reaching her,” mutters the Master to himself.
Meanwhile the wireless is beating a message of hope across a hundred miles of night and storm and wild waters.
“Coming! The R.M.S. Cornucopia is proceeding at full speed in your direction. Keep us informed how you are….”
Then follows a brief unofficial statement, a heart-to-heart word b
etween the young men operators of the two ships, across the hundred-mile gulf of black seas:
“Buck up, old man. We’ll do it yet! We’re simply piling into the storm, like a giddy cliff. She’s doing close on twenty-one, they’ve just told me, against this breeze; and the Chief’s down in the stokeholds himself with a fourteen-inch wrench and a double watch of Stokers! Keep all your peckers up. I’ll let you know if we speed-up any more!”
The Operator has been brief and literal, and has rather understated the facts. The Leviathan is now hurling all her fifty-thousand-ton length through the great seas at something approaching a twenty-two knot stride; and the speed is rising.
Down in the engine-room and stokeholds, the Chief, minus his overalls, is a coatless demi-god, with life in one hand and a fourteen-inch wrench in the other; not that this wrench is in any way necessary, for the half-naked men stream willing sweat in a silence broken only by the rasp of the big shovels and the clang of the furnace-doors, and the Chief’s voice.
The Chief is young again; young and a King tonight, and the rough days of his youth have surged back over him. He has picked up the wrench unconsciously, and he walks about, twirling it in his fist; and the Stokers work the better for the homely sight of it, and the sharp tang of his words, that miss no man of them all.
And the great ship feels the effect. Her giant tread has broken into an everlasting thunder, as her shoulders hurl the seas to port and starboard, in shattered hills of water, that surge to right and left in half-mile drifts of phosphorescent foam, under the roll of her Gargantuan flanks.
The first hour has passed, and there have been two fresh messages from that vessel, flaming far off, lost and alone, out in the wild roar of the waters. There has been an explosion forrard in the burning ship, and the fire has come aft as far as the main bunkers. There has been a panic attempt to lower two more of the boats, and each has been smashed to flinders of wood against the side of the burning ship, as she rolled. Every soul in them has been killed or drowned, and the Operator in the burning ship asks a personal question that has the first touch of real despair in it; and there ensues another little heart-to-heart talk between the two young men
The Ghost Pirates and Other Revenants of the Sea Page 47
