The Mate gave orders that the watch on deck were to stand-by handy, under the break of the poop, and this was done; all the men being there except Jesson who was on the lookout, and Svensen who was at the wheel.
Until two bells the men stayed there under the break, talking and growling together in orthodox shellback fashion, an occasional flare of a match making an instantaneous picture of them all grouped about in their shining wet oilskins and sou’westers; and outside beyond the shelter of the break, the night, full of the ugly roar of the wind and the dull, heavy note of the sea… a dark chaos of spray and the damp boom of the wind. And ever and again there would come a loud crash as a heavy sea broke aboard, and the water would burst into a kind of livid phosphorescent light, roaring fore and after along the decks as it swirled in under the dark break among the waiting men in great glimmering floods of foam and water.
At two bells, which no one heard because of the infernal roaring of the wind and the harsh, constant fierce noises of the seas, Jeb discovered suddenly that several of the men had slipped away quietly forrard through the darkness of the storm. Sick with fright, he realised why they had gone and, fumbling his way out from under the break of the poop, he made a staggering run for the teak support of the skids. Here he held on as a heavy sea broke aboard, burying him entirely beneath a mountain of fierce brine. Gasping for breath, mouth and nostrils full of water, he caught the temporary life-line that had been rigged, and scurried forrard through the dazing roar and the unseen spray that stung and half-blinded him from moment to moment.
Reaching the after end of the deck-house where was the galley and the sleeping place of “Chips,” the Bo’sun, “Sails” and the “Doc,” he fumbled for the iron ladder and went up, for he knew that the lookout was being kept from the top of the deck-house owing to the fact that the fo’cas’le head was under water most of the time.
Once having warned Jesson, he felt quite confident that the big sailorman would be able to take care of himself. And Jeb meant to stay near in the lee of the galley skylight so as to be on hand if anything were attempted.
Creeping right on to the forrard end of the house he failed to find Jesson. He stared around him into the intolerable gloom of the storm that held them in on every side.
He shouted Jesson’s name, but his voice disappeared in the wind, and he became conscious of a dreadful terror, so that the whole of that shouting blackness of the night seemed one vast elemental voice of the thing that had been done. And then, suddenly, he knew that it was being done then, in those moments, even while he crept and searched of the dark house top.
Shouting inaudibly as he hove himself to his feet, he made a staggering run across the sopping house-deck. His foot caught something, and he went crashing down on his face. In a frenzy he turned and felt the inert, sagging thing over which he had stumbled. Groping swiftly and blunderingly for the face, he found it was more or less clean shaved, and knew it was not Jesson, but evidently one of the men who had attacked him.
The boy raced forrard again, across the top of the house. He knew just where to go. One blind leap to the deck, from the port forrard corner of the house, and he went crashing into a huddle of fighting men whose shouts and curses he could only now hear for the first time in the tremendous sound of the elements. They were close to the port rail, and something was being heaved up in the gloom… something that struck and struck, and knocked a man backwards, half dead, as Jeb came down among them.
He caught a man by the leg and was promptly kicked back against the teak side of the house. He lurched to the rail, all natural fear lost in fierce determination. He cast off the turns of the idle top-sail ha’lyards and wrenched madly at the heavy iron belaying-pin. Then he sprang at the black, struggling mass of men and struck. A man screamed, like a half-mad woman, so loud that his voice made a thin, agonised skirl away up through the storm. The blow had broken his shoulder. Before Jeb could strike again, a kicking boot took him in the chest and drove him to the deck, and even as he fell a strange inner consciousness told him with sickening assurance that knives were being used. Sick, yet dogged, he scrambled to his feet: and as he did so the black, gloom-merged struggling mass became suddenly quiet, for the thing that they had fought to do was achieved. An unheard splash over-side among the everlasting seas, and Jesson the sailorman, the white rat among the grey, had taken his place “out there among the mysteries.”
Immediately Jeb was upon the suddenly stilled crowd of men, striking right and left with the heavy pin. Once, twice, three times! And with each blow the iron smashed the bone. Then, swiftly, he was gripped by fierce, strong hands, and a few minutes later the Pareek, sailing ship, was storming along in her own thunder, a mile away from the place where the developed man and the crude boy had ended their first friendship, and begun a second and ever-enduring one among the “sea palaces and the winds of God.”
Jesson had killed two men outright with his fists in his fight for life. The rest of the crew—both watches had assisted—dumped these men and afterward reported them as having been washed overboard by the same sea that took the man and the boy! To the same cause they were able to attribute with safety the injuries they themselves had received during the fight.
And while the night went muttering things with the deep waters, in the fo’cas’le under the slush-lamps the men played cards unemotionally…. We’ll have a fair wind tomorrow,” they said. And they did! By some unknown and brutal law of Chance, they did!
But, in some strange psychic fashion peculiar to men who have lived for months lean and wholesome among the winds and the seas, both the Mate and the Master suspected something of the truth that they could neither voice nor prove. And because of their suspicions they “hazed” the crew to such an extent, that when ’Frisco was reached all hands cleared out—sans pay-day, sea-chests and discharges!
And in the brine-haunted fo’cas’les of other old sailing-ships, they told the story to believing and sympathetic ears; and foolish and ignorant heads nodded a sober and uncondemnatory assent.
The Habitants of Middle Islet
“That’s ’er,” exclaimed the old whaler to my friend Trenhern, as the yacht coasted slowly around Nightingale Island. The old fellow was pointing with the stump of a blackened clay pipe to a small islet on our starboard bow.
“That’s ’er, Sir,” he repeated. “Middle Islet, an’ we’ll open out ther cove in er bit. Mind you, Sir, I don’t say as ther ship is still there, an’ if she is, you’ll bear in mind as I told you all erlong as there weren’t one in ’er when we went aboard.” He replaced his pipe, and took a couple of slow draws, while Trenhern and I scrutinised the little island through our glasses.
We were in the South Atlantic. Far away to the north showed dimly the grim, weather-beaten peak of the Island of Tristan, the largest of the Da Cunha group; while on the horizon to the Westward we could make out indistinctly Inaccessible Island. Both of these, however, held little interest for us. It was on Middle Islet off the coast of Nightingale Island that our attention was fixed.
There was little wind, and the yacht forged but slowly through the deep-tinted water. My friend, I could see, was tortured by impatience to know whether the cove still held the wreck of the vessel that had carried his sweetheart. On my part, though greatly curious, my mind was not sufficiently occupied to exclude a half conscious wonder at the strange coincidence that had led to our present search. For six long months my friend had waited in vain for news of the Happy Return in which his sweetheart had sailed for Australia on a voyage in search of health. Yet nothing had been heard, and she was given up for lost; but Trenhern, desperate, had made a last effort. He had sent advertisements to all the largest papers of the world, and this measure had brought a certain degree of success in the shape of the old whaler alongside of him. This man, attracted by the reward offered, had volunteered information regarding a dismasted hulk, bearing the name of the Happy Return on her bows and stern, which he had come across during his last voyage, in a queer cove
on the South side of Middle Islet. Yet he had been able to give no hope of my friend finding his lost love, or indeed anything living in her; for he had gone aboard with a boat’s crew, only to find her utterly deserted, and—as he told us—had stayed no time at all. I am inclined now to think that he must unconsciously have been impressed by the unutterable desolation, and atmosphere of the unknown, by which she was pervaded, and of which we ourselves were so soon to be aware. Indeed, his very next remark went to prove that I was right in the above supposition.
“We none of us wanted to ’ave much truck with ’er. She ’adn’t a comfertable feelin’ ’bout ’er. An’ she were too dam clean an’ tidy for my likin’.”
“How do you mean, too clean and tidy?” I inquired, puzzled at his way to putting it.
“Well,” he replied, “so she were. She sort of gave you ther feelin’ as ’er crowd ’ad only just left ’er, an’ might be back any bloomin’ minnit. You’ll savvy wot I mean, Sir, when you gets aboard of ’er.” He wagged his head wisely, and recommenced drawing at his pipe.
I looked at him a moment doubtfully; then I turned and glanced at Trenhern, but it was evident that he had not noticed these last remarks of the old seaman. He was far too busily engaged in staring through his telescope at the little island, to notice what was going on about him. Suddenly he gave a low cry, and turned to the old whaler.
“Quick, Williams!” he said, “is that the place?” He pointed with the telescope. Williams shaded his eyes, and stared.
“That’s it, Sir,” he replied after a moment’s pause.
“But—but where’s the ship?” inquired my friend in a trembling voice. “I see no sign of her.” He caught Williams by the arm, and shook it in sudden fright.
“It’s all right, Sir,” exclaimed Williams. “We ain’t far enuff to the Sutherd yet ter open out ther cove. It’s narrer at ther mouth, an’ she were right away up inside. You’ll see in er minnit.”
At that, Trenhern dropped his hand from the old fellow’s arm, his face clearing somewhat; yet greatly anxious. For a minute he held on to the rail as though for support; then he turned to me.
“Henshaw,” he said, “I feel all of a shake—I—I—”
“There, there, old chap,” I replied, and slipped my arm through his. Then, thinking to occupy his attention somewhat, I suggested to him that he should order one of the boats to be got ready for lowering. This he did, and then for a little while further we scanned that narrow opening among the rocks. Gradually, as we drew more abreast of it, I realised that it ran a considerable depth into the islet, and then at last something came into sight away up among the shadows within the cove. It was like the stern of a vessel projecting from behind the high walls of the rocky recess, and as I grasped the fact, I gave a little shout, pointing out to Trenhern with some considerable excitement.
The boat had been lowered, and Trenhern and I with the boat’s crew, and the old whaler steering, were heading direct for that opening in the coast of Middle Islet.
Presently we were amongst the broad belt of kelp with which the islet was surrounded, and a few minutes later we slid into the clear, dark waters of the cove, with the rocks rising up in stark, inaccessible walls on each side of us until they seemed almost to meet in the heights far overhead.
A few seconds swept us through the passage and into a small circular sea enclosed by gaunt cliffs that shot up on all sides to a height of some hundred odd feet. It was as though we looked up from the bottom of a gigantic pit. Yet at the moment we noted little of this, for we were passing under the stern of a vessel, and looking upwards, I read in white letters Happy Return.
I turned to Trenhern. His face was white, and his fingers fumbled with the buttons of his jacket, while his breath came irregularly. The next instant, Williams had laid us alongside, and Trenhern and I were scrambling aboard. Williams followed, carrying up the painter; he made it fast to a cleet, and then turned to lead the way.
Upon the deck, as we walked, our feet beat with an empty sound that spelt out desolation; while our voices, when we spoke, seemed to echo back from the surrounding cliffs with a strange hollow ring that caused us at once to speak in whispers. And so I began to understand what Williams had meant when he said “She ’adn’t a comfertable feelin’ ’bout ’er.”
“See,” he said, stopping after a few paces, “ ’ow bloomin’ clean an’ tidy she is. It aren’t nat’ral.” He waved his hand towards the surrounding deck furniture. “Everythin’ as if she was just goin’ inter port, an ’er a bloomin’ wreck.”
He resumed his walk aft, still keeping the lead. It was as he had said. Though the vessel’s masts and boats had gone, she was extraordinarily tidy and clean, the ropes—such as were left—being coiled up neatly upon the pins, and in no part of her decks could I discern any signs of disorder. Trenhern had grasped all this simultaneously with myself, and now he caught my shoulder with a quick nervous grasp.
“See her, Henshaw,” he said in an excited whisper, “this shows some of them were alive when she drove in here—” He paused as though seeking for breath. “They may be—they may be—” He stopped once more, and pointed mutely to the deck. He had gone past words.
“Down below?” I said, trying to speak brightly.
He nodded, his eyes searching my face as though he would seek in it fuel for the sudden hope that had sprung up within him. Then came Williams’ voice; he was standing in the companion-way.
“Come along, Sir. I aren’t goin below ’ere by myself.”
“Yes, come along, Trenhern,” I cried. “We can’t tell.”
We reached the companion-way together, and he motioned me to go before him. He was all a-quiver. At the foot of the stairs, Williams paused a moment; then turned to the left and entered the saloon. As we came in through the doorway, I was again struck by the exceeding tidiness of the place. No signs of hurry or confusion; but everything in its place as though the Steward had but the moment before tidied out the apartment and dusted the table and fittings. Yet to our knowledge she had lain here a dismasted hulk for at least five months.
“They must be here! They must be here!” I heard my friend mutter under his breath, and I—though bearing in mind that Williams had found her thus all those months gone—could scarcely but join in his belief.
Williams had gone across to the starboard side of the saloon, and I saw that he was fumbling at one of the doors. It opened under his hand, and he turned and beckoned to Trenhern.
“See ’ere, Sir,” he said. “This might be your young leddy’s cabin; there’s feemayles’ things ’ung up, an’ their sort of fixins on ther table—”
He did not finish; for Trenhern had made one spring across the saloon, and caught him by the neck and arm.
“How dare you—desecrate—” he almost shrieked, and forthwith hauled him out from the little room. “How—how—” he gasped, and stooped to pick up a silver-backed brush which Williams had dropped at his unexpected onslaught.
“No offence, Mister,” replied the old whaler in a surprised voice, in which there was also some righteous anger. “No offence. I wern’t goin’ ter steal ther bloomin’ thing.” He gave the sleeve of his jacket a brush with the palm of his hand, and glanced across at me, as though he would have me witness to the truth of his statement. Yet I scarcely noticed what it was that he said; for I heard my friend cry out from the interior of his sweetheart’s cabin, and in his voice there was blent a marvellous depth of hope and fear and bewilderment. An instant later he burst out into the saloon; in his hand he held something white. It was a calendar. He twisted it right way up to show the date at which it was set. “See,” he cried, “read the date!”
As my eyes gathered the import of the few visible figures, I drew my breath swiftly and bent forward, staring. The calendar had been set for the date of that very day.
“Good God!” I muttered; and then:—“It’s a mistake! It’s just a chance!” And still I stared.
“It’s not,” answered Trenhern vehe
mently. “It’s been set this very day—” He broke off short for a moment. Then after a queer little pause he cried out “O, my God! grant I find her!”
He turned sharply to Williams.
“What was the date at which this was set?—Quick!” he almost shouted.
Williams stared at him blankly.
“Damnation!” shouted my friend, almost in a frenzy. “When you came aboard here before?”
“I never even seen ther blessed thing before, Sir,” he answered. “We didn’t stay no time aboard of ’er.”
“My goodness, man!” cried Trenhern, “what a pity! O what a pity!” Then he turned and ran towards the saloon door.
In the doorway he looked back over his shoulder.
“Come on! Come on!” he called. “They’re somewhere about. They’re hiding— Search!”
And so we did; but though we went through the whole ship from stern to bow, there was nowhere any sign of life. Yet everywhere that extraordinary clean orderliness prevailed, instead of the wild disorder of an abandoned wreck; and always, as we went from place to place and cabin to cabin, there was upon me the feeling that they had but just been inhabited.
Presently, we had made an end to our search, and having found nothing of that for which we looked, were facing one another bewilderedly, though saying but little. It was Williams who first said anything intelligible.
“It’s as I said, Sir; there weren’t anythin’ livin’ aboard of ’er.”
To this Trenhern replied nothing, and in a minute Williams spoke again.
“It aren’t far off dark, Sir, an’ we’ll ’ave ter be gettin’ out of this place while there’s a bit of daylight.”
Instead of replying to this, Trenhern asked if any of the boats were there when he was aboard before, and on his answering in the negative, fell once more into his silent abstraction.
The Ghost Pirates and Other Revenants of the Sea Page 60
