Seven Dead

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  Nicer than the reality I woke up to.

  ***

  Made my first run. Then Jane caught me. Damn her!

  ***

  This is the first time I’ve written for three weeks. I’m using up this book too fast. Odd, how values change. This book would be worth a penny in Cape Town, but here it’s worth a thousand pounds. I’ve broken my pencil in two, so that if I lose one half I’ll still have the other.

  One reason I haven’t written lately was to save space, another because nothing important has happened, saving the work on the boat and a century by Brown. Also, I’ve been too tired. To-day I feel a little fresher, however. That strange fish we had last night must agree with me. (It didn’t agree with Arthur Lawson, who made terrible noises in the next cave all night.) And then it’s my day off.

  We’ve settled down by now into our routine, and accept it with few grumbles. We begin with a bathe, when the sea permits. Jane is responsible for breakfast and preparing all meals. After breakfast we work for four hours—the first shift. Brown supervises the boat-building, and allots the work according to the day’s necessity and our particular skill, or lack of it. Any slacker goes without lunch. Afternoon, three hours. That’s seven hours a day, and seven workers on the job. The eighth hunts for food—fish, penguin, eggs, a nameless plant we have found that doesn’t kill us, and once a nameless berry that nearly did. We gave it several names after that. In the evening, cricket. Miles has carved some wickets on a slab of rock, and has made an excellent bat. He used valuable time doing it, but we let him. Atlantic Smiters v. Sea Dogs. I am a Sea Dog, with a top score of 7. Average 1.05. Miles inconsiderately keeps the averages. His is 82. He’s the happiest of the bunch.

  We work half-days on the days we think are Sundays, and once a fortnight each of us has a complete day to slack. This is mine.

  Of course there has been no sign of a ship all this while. We are right round a corner of the world. We’ve managed to create some tools, and we salved all the nails off the original cases and barrels that came ashore with us. Brown has taught us a most ingenious riveting process, the nails, of course, not being enough. Smart chap, Brown. I’ve almost forgiven him. Wood’s our difficulty. We go long expeditions for it. I spent one complete day getting a bit of wood equal to a small six-foot plank to the beach. Yes, this is work, and anxious work. But we’re making progress, and this morning Brown told me cheerfully that we’ll have the boat finished in another four months!

  Socially we have merged better than, at first, I thought possible. Always with the exception of Stedman. Something very wrong about that fellow. He had to miss several lunches before he could be counted on to do his share, and even now he needs watching. Once he got ugly. The rest of us have fraternised, as fellow-sufferers should. We have forgotten a bad past in the very faint hope of a better future. One of our main jobs is to keep that hope from fading. Some of us seem to have lost a bit of heart lately. Lawson looks ill. I wonder what our condition will be like in another four months! Jane has kept up well. I am making no inquiries into Jane’s private life. Miles lives for his evening cricket match. If ever I get back to civilisation, I never want to see a cricket ball again! Nevertheless, Miles’s cricket ball, which has lost its original bloom, is proving a definite asset here.

  Only why can’t I make more than seven?

  ***

  Another month gone by. I can only afford to write occasionally now. The blank pages are becoming scarce.

  We are trying not to be too anxious, but we need more wood, and our health chart isn’t good. Lawson seems to be giving out. One of the seamen was laid up for a week, and yesterday the other had a nasty tumble and hurt his leg.

  Feeling a bit down to-day myself, but maybe that’s just the result of three ducks running.

  ***

  Nine!

  ***

  I really don’t know whether we’re going to manage it, though we had a bit of luck a few days ago. Brown came across a tree we’d overlooked on the other side of the island. I thought he’d gone mad when he came bounding into our camp with the news. It’s taken us most of the week to get the damn thing down and to cart it here in bits. We could have done it in half the time a month ago, when we had more strength. Diet’s been a bit short lately. The penguins seem to have gone for a holiday. I think I’m getting a bit shaky myself, because last night, before going to sleep, I even forgot that I don’t like Stedman, and talked to him as though he were a good companion.

  “Going sick?” he asked.

  That unusual solicitude began it.

  “Can’t afford to,” I answered.

  “Do you know you talked in your sleep last night?” he said.

  I hadn’t known, and I hoped I had not talked too much. I had not breathed a word to anybody about my secret. Still, in the circumstances, it was difficult to see how it was going to matter, either way.

  “What did I talk about?” I asked.

  “Gas,” he said.

  I think I was less disturbed at the fact that Stedman had heard about the gas than that I had talked about it. I usually have plenty of control, and this sleep-talking was not a good sign of my condition.

  “I remember—I was dreaming,” I lied.

  Or maybe it wasn’t a lie, only I did not recall the dream.

  “In your dream,” said Stedman, “you were pretty sick, because you’d only half-completed some formula or other.”

  I looked at him hard. He couldn’t have invented that. And, as though to prove he wasn’t inventing, he went on:

  “And all at once you raised your voice and said, ‘I must get there, I’ve got to get there—the money’s just sitting there and waiting!’”

  So I’d said that, too, had I?

  “Well, it’ll probably wait there till doomsday, as far as I’m concerned,” I answered.

  “Bad luck,” he said. “I suppose you needed it to finish this formula?”

  “Yes. I’m half-way to it, and the money would have allowed me to experiment till I’d gone the whole way.”

  “And then?”

  “A fortune—for myself and my niece.”

  “Oh, you’ve got a niece?”

  “She’s the main reason for my going to England. Her father’s dead, and I’m supposed to be looking after her.”

  “I envy you,” he said. “I haven’t any relatives, and can hardly remember those I had. Makes a man a bit lonely—and not too good company, eh? You get a bit hard, you know, when you’ve no one particular to care for—and no one to care for you. Lose interest in things. What’s she like, this niece!”

  I told him I’d never seen her. I showed him the photo. “I say, a stunner!” he exclaimed. “Yes, pretty bad luck to be on the edge of such good fortune, and then to have it snatched from you!” I answered. I began to develop self-pity. A thing I don’t believe in. Another sign of the bad condition I’m in. I must watch myself. But Stedman was certainly showing a better side to himself, and I found it surprisingly pleasant to talk to him.

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right,” he said when I’d told him the whole position. “And if we don’t finish the boat, then you can send your half-completed formula off in a bottle, so that some clever-shanks may pick it up and complete the other half!”

  “He’d have to be a mighty clevershanks to complete it,” I laughed. “Anyway, that formula doesn’t leave the island unless I leave with it!”

  “Oh, you’ve got it, then?” he said. “Well, hang on to it. You never know.”

  Then we said good-night and went to sleep.

  I asked him this morning whether I’d talked any more.

  “No, only snored,” he replied. And then he added: “Look here, I’m odd man out here, I know that, but I’m not as bad as some of the folks think. If you can put in a word for me, I shouldn’t mind.”

  “It’s actions that spe
ak, not words, Stedman,” I told him. “If you want to get popular, you can do it.”

  Yes, but whoa! I must stop! I’m writing too much—this book’s nearly finished. Only short entries in future, and only when I’ve anything special to say. Meanwhile, I must find some spot to hide this book, or Stedman will learn what I once thought of him!

  ***

  Stedman improving. All agree. Jane made 13 to-day.

  ***

  Ghastly thing happened this evening. We’re still all nervy from it. We nearly lost our ball in the sea.

  ***

  Brown says the work should be finished in a fortnight—if no one else goes sick. At one time we had Lawson, Bob, Miles and Jane all down together. I just hung out till Jane recovered, and then had a spell myself. Sort of fever gets hold of you. Weakens you.

  But we’ll do it.

  ***

  Hit two boundaries running and then got a black eye.

  ***

  The fortnight’s up. About another week needed. Brown would have been right but for Jim’s finger—the fool got a splinter in it, and it’s gorn bad—and the time it took the others to recover. Lawson’s still on his back, and, if you ask me, Brown himself ought to be. Stedman working like a horse. Jane doing pretty well, too. You can have as much private life as you like, Jane. I take off my hat to you! Funny, how your ideas of people change!

  ***

  Penguins invaded us to-day. They wanted our camp; and, will you believe it, they nearly got it! We’ve the strength of a two-weeks’ baby between the lot of us.

  It was the cricket ball that gave us victory. Miles began throwing down penguins like wickets. The enemy retired with five casualties.

  God, how I loathe penguin!

  ***

  Finished! Finished! FINISHED! Now we’ve only got to find and get in the stores, wait for the right weather, and we’re off! I think some of us imagine we’ll meet a ship just beyond the horizon. Well, who knows?

  ***

  Everything done! Just waiting for the tide. Brown gave out this morning. Suddenly collapsed, for the first time. He’s the only one who never went sick. Expect it was reaction. He says he’ll be all right, and will be able to crawl to the boat.

  ***

  We leave in an hour. Stedman suggested a final game of cricket. We’re so delirious that we all jumped at it. I think we’re dotty. This little book has helped to keep me sane. If I am sane? We’re going to play our last match of Atlantic Smiters v. Sea Dogs. The boat, all ready to start, will be just round Long Off Point. Miles swears he’ll send a ball into it. It’ll count 20. And afterwards, with the tide just right, we’ll collect our final things, say good-bye to the camp, and… Ha! They’re yelling for me!

  ***

  Well—we played…

  Miles hit his boundary into the boat. Stedman at long off, ran over the rocks to field the ball. He threw it back, but he didn’t come back himself. He went off in the boat… And before he went—as I have just discovered—he rifled my pockets and stole my papers and my formula.

  We shall never build another boat. There is no material left on the island. We are stunned.

  Later. I have made another discovery—in a page of the newspaper that was tossed to Miles just as the Good Friday sailed, and that he has hogged in his pocket ever since so he could read the cricket news. He has read this news half a million times—never anything else. But the page that interested me contained a photograph of Stedman. Under it was: “George Cauldwell, wanted for the brickfield murder.”

  ***

  It is about two months since I last wrote. Yesterday we completed our monument, and to-day we all put our hands on it and took our oath. If ever we are rescued—in one year, two years, five years, ten years—we shall find you, Cauldwell, and save the hangman a job!…

  Only one line left in book. Shall keep it, until…

  ***

  At last! My God! My God! An empty boat…!!

  Chapter XXVII

  Conclusion

  They found a sheltered cove on the side of the island farthest from the camp, tucked Spray II in the least visible part of it, and waited.

  They waited seven days. Then old Bob Blythe descended from the height on which he was taking his watch, tumbled into the cayuca, nearly upsetting it in his hurry, and rowed across the little strip of water from the shore to the yacht.

  “She’s comin’!” he announced hoarsely as he climbed on board. “I seen ’er!”

  “Are you certain?” exclaimed Hazeldean.

  “Certain? I’d ’ave know’d that boat without the telescope,” replied Bob. “Didn’t I ought?”

  “And, besides, who else are we expecting?” added Kendall.

  After that, no one spoke for several seconds. For a week they had been living with ghosts. Seven were ghosts indeed. But now the eighth had come alive, and was drawing nearer and nearer in solid, three-dimensional form. Even before his arrival, he projected an atmosphere which seemed as nauseating to Dora as that of the grave.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Kendall suddenly. “Coming, Hazeldean?”

  “Of course—if you’re sure you’ve worked out the best plan,” he answered.

  “I’m quite sure of it. If it doesn’t work, Bob knows what to do—only it’s going to work. I always back my hunches. You’re not forgetting, are you, that I am the only person here that our Mr. Stedman-Cauldwell hasn’t seen? Don’t worry, Miss Fenner. We’ll be with you again shortly.”

  Then the cayuca returned to the shore once more, this time bearing Kendall and Hazeldean back to the island.

  About two hours later, George Cauldwell, alias Stedman, alias Fenner, wanted in connection with the murder of ten people—one in South Africa, seven in England and two in France—stepped on to a shore of strange memories, and he stood quite still for awhile as the memories grew around him with painful vividness, seeming to bind his limbs with strands of the past. But though he was motionless, other figures flitted about. One was running towards a slab of rock, swinging an arm fantastically. Another, in front of the slab of rock, danced out and swept at space. Another came swooping towards the motionless spectator, who tried to move aside, but could not. The attempt was unnecessary. The swooping figure swooped right through him.

  He tried again to move, and again failed. The spectral game continued, and held him. Once more a figure ran towards the slab of rock, stopping and whirling an arm twenty-two paces away; once more the figure at the slab danced out and slashed at the air; once more another figure came darting towards him, chasing something that moved faster… The thing that moved faster went plumb through Cauldwell’s forehead.

  Now he leapt in the air. The ghosts laughed, moaned, and vanished. He found himself in the midst of a terrible loneliness.

  For years he had been lonely, since loneliness is the price of egotism and crime, the sour fruits of which provide no compensation. He had been lonely when he had fled from the police in Cape Town: one man against the world. He had been lonely on the Good Friday, while helping to deviate a course that would have led to the gallows. He had been lonely on the island, refusing at first to fraternise, and later fraternising with an evil purpose. He had been lonely after that purpose had been achieved. Dora Fenner had given him no love, for he had none to offer. His accomplices filled him with anxiety and suspicion, which accentuated his permanent background of fear; and when the nightmare of his fear actually came, he turned, as such men do, to the sole final refuge of physical comfort. This ephemeral refuge was supplied by Madame Paula. Now that was gone. The sea had even taken that in one of its own particular nightmares. It had nearly taken him, too; but not quite. His time was not yet. And here he was, through the doubtful grace of Brown’s teaching—Brown—it was Brown who had been bowling last—yes, there he was again!—back at latitude 59·16S, longitude 4·6E—for what purpose?
<
br />   “Yes—why am I here?” thought Cauldwell.

  He tried to clear his mind, to remember. He had forgotten. He would have to wait till Miles hit the ball. No, it wasn’t Miles this time, it was Jane. A queer person, Jane. But she had her uses. Not everybody had known Jane as Cauldwell had known her! And that young fool Lawson… Hey! She’d skied it! A catch!

  He ran forward, his eyes towards the sky. The invisible ball descended into his cupped hands with a soft shuddering tickle. He stared at his empty hands. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.

  “Why—am I—here?” he wondered.

  He must know his reason! He’d had a reason! He would remember it in a moment. It was only that last storm that had disturbed his mind, making him forget things. That tumble down the hatchway, you know. Naturally, a bump like that…

  “Ah! The diary!”

  That was it! The diary! Of course. And when the complete world had turned against him, this island had also loomed as the only possible retreat. New memories might be created here, with Madame Paula by his side. He had painted the island to her in glowing colours as they had slipped away from the French coast. Glowing colours. Where were those glowing colours now? This grim, grey place… That he’d been trying to find again for weeks…

  Come, come! Hurry!

  Why hurry? What was there to hurry for? Where had he to get back to?

  Weak in body through exposure and short rations, and weak in mind through lack of any mental nourishment, he moved across the haunted beach mechanically. He received a strange sensation as he did so. The ghosts had stopped playing, and were watching him, and as he crossed the pitch they turned in his direction and moved along with him.

  “This is just imagination,” he said aloud.

  His voice was hoarse and unconvincing. He hardly recognised it. He wished he had not spoken.

  Surrounded by the ghosts of those who had long waited for him, and with whose live bodies he had many times made this journey, he continued his mechanical progress across the beach. The ghosts became more and more insistent as he encountered evidences of their past existence. A broken wooden hoop, a bit of a barrel, a bit of split planking… rusty tins… a home-made hammer. He stooped over the home-made hammer, but did not pick it up. Soon, as he stumbled up the loose track, he stooped again. Footprints! He had not noticed these before. He turned and saw others, joining his own along the path he had come. The footprints of his invisible companions? He shuddered violently.