No Traveller Returns (Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  “What happened?” She was looking at him wide-eyed. “Who was that?”

  “One of our choicest of waterfront bullies. He must have known about you, because I saw him down there in the dark and he passed up a good chance at me. Maybe he planned on killing two birds with one stone. I beg your pardon—I mean gas-pipe.”

  “You don’t seem very excited.”

  Denny laughed. “How could I be excited about a man merely trying to kill me when you’re here? I’m only excited by you.” He had always been able to turn a rush of adrenaline into banter. He tossed Fitzpatrick’s makeshift weapon out of the car.

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as she took the road to Los Angeles. “So now what?”

  “Let’s just make it food at some quiet spot.” He didn’t want to go and meet up with her crowd, not any longer. “…The quieter, the better.”

  “I have food at the bungalow.”

  “Well then, it’ll be just like home.”

  “Am I to take that as a proposal?”

  “Me? An AB at seventy-two fifty a month proposing to a lady now netting two grand?”

  She shook her head. “You must remember I knew you when you were making several times what I was, and I know you could again, if you’d just stop reading travel magazines and looking at maps.”

  He laughed, amused by the conversation but concerned at the direction it was taking. She was right—they had known each other before, in New York when he was boxing and she was a starving actress. But he had gone off adventuring again, left that career as he had left the possibility of several others. Now he was older, likely too old for a comeback, and there were still places he hadn’t seen, things he hadn’t done. He might be getting too old for some of that too: too old for begging for money on the streets of Cairo, or for dysentery or malaria…too old for a bullet in the brain; let’s not forget there had been that possibility.

  The fog wrapped tightly around them, letting go only as they skirted the lights of Hollywood and began to wind their way into the hills.

  Faustine turned the car in to her driveway, ratcheting the emergency brake. He took the key, went up the stairs, and opened the door. He snapped on the light and stepped back for her to go in ahead of him. “All right,” he said. “Let’s see whether all that dough has spoiled you for making coffee.”

  While she was lighting the gas and getting the percolator out, he leaned back in a chair and began riffling the pages of a movie magazine. “Seems like old times, doesn’t it?” he said. “Remember when you and the Burple sisters or whatever their name was had that two-by-four flat in the Bronx?”

  “And you went to Jersey City and fought that heavyweight? You hadn’t trained a day.”

  He laughed. “I paid for that!”

  “We used nearly all the money we had getting you back to the Bronx in a taxi.”

  “Was that how I got back? I’d often wondered.” He grinned. “But I won. The record books say so!”

  “You got up so many times the referee must have counted to five thousand without ever getting to ten. They may have let you win out of sheer boredom.”

  “I can see you have a great admiration for my fighting ability.”

  She came over and sat down on his lap, rumpling his hair with her free hand.

  “Listen,” he said, after a few minutes, “I think I’ll wash it out after this trip.”

  “You mean quit chasing around?” She sat up, looking at him. “Oh, Denny, I wish you would!”

  “Leaving this time isn’t going to be so hot, not after meeting up with you again.” He meant that part, he was certain of it.

  Her body was warm, unresisting. Their lips met, and he held her close. Faustine tilted her head back a little. “Honey, that coffee’s going to perk itself completely away.”

  “Skip it. Listen, if you’ll move your body I’ll fix that gas, and then—”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, there isn’t a reason in the world why I should be back on that ship before eight o’clock. That leaves us a lot of time.”

  He turned the fire out, and started back. Faustine had slipped off her shoes and was sitting on the edge of the bed. He snapped out the light, then came in and sat down. They kissed, and he drew her gently down beside him. “Denny, what did that man mean? That watchman on the dock where your ship is? The other day I started to light a cigarette, and I thought he was throwing a fit. He made me put it out.”

  “Yes, I’ll bet he did. You see, they were loading the tanker with naphtha, and it’s explosive. That is, the vapor will explode. Worse than gasoline.”

  “Is that what your ship carries? Denny, don’t go. Oh, please! Stay here with me.”

  “Next time, honey. I’ve got to make this trip. After that—well, I’ll figure something out.”

  Her body was warm and soft and moved closer, tense with longing. Outside a car passed, crawling up the hill, headlights leaving leaf-shadowed streaks of light on the ceiling, then just a faint trail of sound that washed up against the shores of the night.

  * * *

  —

  Denny McGuire straightened and walked across the deck to the portside. He was a fool to have left. There were so many girls, but not so many like her. And they had known each other a long time now, in different circumstances and in different towns. So many things could happen on such a ship as this. Even in that situation with Jacobs. Even the best of fighters can make a mistake.

  It seemed so long now that all he had known was going, moving, finding the next thing. Part of the time at sea, then fighting, then Arabia and North Africa, and always returning to the sea again. There was something about it that got in the blood. Maybe it was the salt air, or the smell of tar and paint, or the careless comradeship of the men. Anyway, he liked it. There was too little about life these days that a man could sink his teeth into.

  Well, it was time to stop. Denny straightened and stared off toward the Matson liner he didn’t know was there, miles away steaming its own course through the darkness.

  He prided himself on knowing when it was time to leave; it had kept him moving, kept him safe, even saved his life a time or two. In the sands of the Sahara he had been the one to decide it was safer to go than to stay. Three sailors come to see a war on a lark, and he had led them out along with five Spanish Legionnaires, two of them wounded. If Denny McGuire knew anything, it was when the party was over. On his final morning in Los Angeles, in that little house surrounded by eucalyptus and chaparral, he had wondered if he was feeling that way about Faustine, but now he realized he was wrong. It was something else: It was time to come home from the sea, to find a new life.

  * * *

  —

  The heat of the tropical night lay about the ship. All was very still. A vessel of dreams and memories, men whose bodies were present but whose minds defied time and distance: Pete Brouwer, a box bearing the delicate pieces of a once-fine pocket watch at his side, knuckles scraped raw in a fight for which he could not forgive himself, dozed at the galley table. He was one day closer to his home in Holland. And Fritz Schumann, with his geraniums, and his slow, old memories of a beautiful girl, and the sons he had left behind. He was dreaming of going back, of returning again to the shores of that warm island where they waited for him. In his bunk, Davy Jones stirred restlessly, trying to keep from remembering, remembering the looks from people back in Morningside, the debts his mother’s illness had caused, debts he could never begin to repay…remembering how he had never really wanted to leave home at all.

  Out of all of them, it is not surprising that it was Con O’Brien who sensed something wrong. He prowled the passages, the pump room, the engineer’s stores. His ship was in danger, and he was searching for the cause. He knew it instantly by the odor. A potato vine of aromatics, a tendril of hydrocarbons. At times the deck of the ship had its chemical sme
lls, but they were wiped clean by the sea breeze. His engine room had its scent of dusty oil and grease. But this was different, a smell that, after loading, after cleansing waves and weeks at sea, should only be found high up the masts at the head of the vent pipes.

  He could not find the source of the smell, but it didn’t matter. His skin crawled along his burn scars, and he could feel it again, the roar of mechanical death and the lick of flames. Second Engineer O’Brien started for the bridge. He must see the captain; there were procedures that must be started at once.

  * * *

  —

  In the dim light, Mahoney lurked in the locker room forward of the fireman’s fo’c’sle. It was hot and close but he didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to talk. Outside the sea-scummed porthole the wake of the ship began, boiling away into the night. Revenge was on his mind—he had his enemies, he had a list…oh yes, he had a list.

  Mahoney tapped a cigarette against the pack to tamp the tobacco. It was his first smoke since the beating that ruined his lips and broke his nose. He was aching for it, the tobacco. He’d rather have a whiskey, but this would do. He put the smoke between his lips. He struck a match…

  The narrow space was just inside the open-flame line, but from the portside wing tank, Port Wing Tank Number Seven, that potato vine of fumes leaked, snaking its way into a pocket atop the bunker of fuel beneath his feet. And from there…

  The explosion tore the fireman’s fo’c’sle apart and breached the deck above, a stunning detonation that ripped metal and took the breath from the lungs of Con O’Brien, who was just mounting the ladder to the bridge.

  Con turned to look in horror, blinking and nearly blind from the light briefly reflected off the bulkhead in front of him. There was a moment of silence, a diminishing of flame, and then a second huge explosion blossomed from the portside wing tanks. Con was thrown against the ladder by the concussion, but as he started to fall, his hand grasped the rail…the instinct to hang on that was ingrained in every seaman. He swung there for a moment, then his feet found the ladder and he turned.

  Dropping down the ladder, O’Brien raced toward the towering blaze. His fire station was in the engine room. His ship would not live without pumps to fight the fire or to empty the seawater should it come pouring in. There was no need to warn the captain any longer—his ship needed him.

  * * *

  —

  John Harlan found himself on his knees on the floor in front of his settee. At first he thought the ship had struck something, but then a second shock sent him crashing into the frame of his cabin door, and he knew. He knew what had happened. The one thing that tankermen feared beyond all else.

  He plunged into the passage. The alarm bell was ringing, and as he scrambled up the ladder to the captain’s deck, the bell stopped and the ship’s siren began to wail—fire!

  The radio operator’s cabin door was locked or jammed. Harlan pounded on it, then as the siren died and the bells began again he backed off and kicked it in. He wanted to shout the man’s name to verify that he had made it to the radio room before going automatically to the next item on the list that had been drilled into his brain. But through the porthole a tower of fire illuminated the cabin. The little man lay on the floor, fragments of the shattered port, both glass and the brass frame, embedded in his face and neck. Sparks must have gotten up to see what the trouble was, and now he was on the floor in a widening pool of blood.

  Above him, Harlan could hear the shout of commands and knew that Shannon and the Old Man had the bridge. He saw the wash of flame shift and knew they were maneuvering to let the wind carry the fire and heat off to port rather than across the deck. Good God, it hadn’t been half a minute since the alarm and already they were reacting. He felt a surge of pride to be serving with such officers. Harlan dove past the fallen man and into the radio room: The SOS was now his responsibility.

  * * *

  —

  Dennis McGuire charged aft along the catwalk above the forward tanks. He crashed through the bridge superstructure and out into the blinding Hades that was the after deck. It seemed crazy to be rushing toward such devastation, but training had taken the place of any source of common sense. A huge hole had appeared in the deck, serrated edges and glowing red tongues of flame licking upward, higher than the derrick masts. That flame was driven forward by the wind as the ship came about and Denny saw the vent pipes begin to flare off. For the moment fireproof gauze protected the tanks but he knew that, as the heat grew, that couldn’t last.

  He slowed, and a crazy shadow, the running figure of Seaman Jones, appeared, slamming pell-mell into him and carrying them both to the grate of the aft catwalk. The ship’s siren and bell were going again. A new message: seven short and one long.

  “Abandon Ship.”

  McGuire jerked the younger man to his feet. “Come on!”

  They had lifeboat stations. They were trained for this, but Denny knew—knew as he had never known anything in his life—there was no time for that. His whole existence had been rehearsal for this moment. He had always known when the party was over, when the price of life or freedom was a speedy departure.

  They staggered off the catwalk and tumbled along the deck. McGuire dragged Davy to port and, half-blind from the heat and the smoke and the glare, they crashed into the bulwark.

  “Jump!” McGuire commanded.

  Jones looked at him, uncomprehending.

  “Jump and swim! Get as far from the ship as you can—when she goes down she’ll suck everything near her under!” He ripped off his singlet and kicked off his shoes. The boy was just starting to do the same when he clambered to the top of the rail and dove.

  * * *

  —

  Sam Harrell knew he was going to die. Shell plating was sprung and leaking all along the portside. The pipes for the steam smothering system were broken, pressure streaming away to somewhere. The shaft alley was full of water, and the ship had a heavy, out-of-balance feeling that was even apparent on the grating above the engine. As the Lichenfield maneuvered, metal screamed and tore; she was broken in some manner he could barely fathom. A race of burning fuel slithered along the floor plates, Schumann chasing it with a Foamite hose, a nearly useless gesture.

  He struggled upward but the hatchway at the top of the boiler room stairs was a wall of flame. O’Brien had crashed through a moment earlier, his hair charred and his eyes wild, but now “Abandon Ship” was sounding and there was no way out. Sam turned, tried to yell to Schumann to get out, to try the ladder in the engine room. He couldn’t. He couldn’t even get a breath. The rail was scalding, his hand was blistered, and it seemed as if all the air around him was being sucked upward.

  Then, through the flame that blocked the hatch, in a searing blast of steam, a blackened gargoyle loomed. Jacobs. Slug Jacobs, hunched over a brass nozzle spewing water. Beating fire back from the passageway, roaring incoherently, he lumbered forward. Behind him on the hose was Shorty Conrad, the water around their feet boiling.

  “Come on, Sam!” Shorty yelled through the hatch. Then he urged Slug onward, “Fight it, buddy, beat it back. Let’s get these guys outta there!” trying to give confidence to the only man who seemed big enough to attack this inferno. Harrell ducked his head and hurled himself through the door.

  Below him in the engine room, O’Brien closed valves and flipped switches with the speed and dexterity of a dancer. The ship was an extension of his body and that body knew what to do in the midst of flame and trauma—slow the ship. Fuel from the starboard tanks would keep the boilers going. Power to the pumps, power to the electrics for the radio and lights. Every minute the ship survived would save lives. He looked around; he was alone. Alone with his engines.

  * * *

  —

  John Harlan sat at the key, trembling. Around him were the gray metal cases of the wireless gear. He had to force his mind t
o think about the order of switches, the position of dials. Mr. Wesley stopped in the doorway, standing almost at attention. He leaned into the radio office and slapped a piece of paper on the desk. The looping hand of the Old Man was immediately identifiable.

  “Our course and approx—approximate position, Mr. Harlan!”

  “Very good. Man the boats.” Wesley saluted like a soldier and disappeared. Harlan took a breath and bent to his task. His Morse was slow and hesitant…and he knew this was it, the end. A captain might or might not be the last man off a sinking ship, but the radio officer stayed until the bitter end, the only hope to bring help. He had struggled so hard to write, to communicate, if only with his children. But now this was his job: one last message, one last call into the darkness…

  * * *

  —

  Off the starboard side, McGuire plummeted down through the sea. The velvety water closed over him, a cool gloom in which he stretched his powerful muscles, and came to the surface, swimming strongly.

  Behind him there was confusion: a hoarse shout, Wesley trying to lower his boat, a jammed pulley causing it to upend and dangle, sending a cascade of men and supplies into the water, a gout of liquid fire rushing and swirling around the plumbing on the deck. Then the night was ripped apart by a terrific, rending blast, a sound so powerful that it was no sound, a deafening, stunning shock wave that crushed and lifted and collapsed.

  The sea flamed with the glare of a million suns; a rending, mounting tower of light shooting into the heavens that roared with unholy power and unbelievable grandeur. McGuire dove and swam deep.

  When he came up, he glanced back. The sea burned; the ship a groaning monster; dying, twisting, diving. Then the tanker was gone. Only a shadow of something dark beneath the water, only a little turmoil, a bubbling up of debris, the spread of burning oil.