Yondering: Stories

by Louis L'Amour

  From there, it was down through the Dangerous Ground, a thousand-odd miles of navigator’s nightmare, a wicked tangle of reefs and sandy cays, of islands with tiny tufts of palms, millions of seabirds and fish of all kinds…and the bottom torn out of you if you slacked off for even a minute. But we took that way because it was fastest and because there was small chance we’d be seen.

  Fools? We were that, but sometimes now when the fire is bright on the hearth and there’s rain against the windows and the roof, sometimes I think back and find myself tasting the wind again and getting the good old roll of the sea under me. In my mind’s eye, I can see the water breaking on the coral, and see Limey sitting forward, conning us through, and hear Smoke Bassett, the mulatto from Haiti, singing a song of his island in that deep, grand, melancholy bass of his.

  Yes, it was long ago, but what else have we but memories? For all life is divided into two parts: anticipation and memory, and if we remember richly, we must have lived richly. Only sometimes I think of them, and wonder what would have happened if the story had been different, if another hand than mine had written the ending?

  Fools…we were all of that, but a tough, ruddy lot of fools, and it was strange the way we worked as a team; the way we handled the boat and shared our grub and water and no whimper from any man.

  There was Limey, who was medium height and heavy but massively boned, and Long Jack, who was six-three and cadaverous, and the powerful, lazy-talking Smoke, the strongest man of the lot. And me, whom they jokingly called “The Scholar” because I’d stowed a half-dozen books in my sea bag, and because I read from them, sometimes at night when we lay on deck and watched the canvas stretch its dark belly to the wind. Smoke would whet his razor-sharp knife and sing “Shenandoah,” “Rio Grande,” or “High Barbaree.” And we would watch him cautiously and wonder what he had planned for that knife. And wonder what we had planned for each other.

  * * *

  —

  THEN ONE MORNING we got the smell of the Borneo coast in our nostrils, and felt the close, hot, sticky heat of it coming up from below the horizon. We saw the mangrove coast out beyond the white snarl of foam along the reefs, then we put our helm over and turned east again, crawling along the coast of Darvel Bay.

  The heat of the jungle reached out to us across the water and there was the primeval something that comes from the jungle, the ancient evil that crawls up from the fetid rottenness of it, and gets into the mind and into the blood.

  We saw a few native craft, but we kept them wide abeam, wanting to talk with no one, for our plans were big within us. We got out our stolen diving rig and went to work, checking it over. Johnson was a diver and I’d been down, so it was to be turn and turn about for us…for it might take a bit of time to locate the wreck, and then to get into the cabin once we’d found it.

  We came up along the mangrove coast with the setting sun, and slid through a narrow passage into the quiet of a lagoon, where we dropped our hook and swung to, looking at the long wall of jungle that fronted the shore for miles.

  Have you seen a mangrove coast? Have you come fresh from the sea to a sundown anchorage in a wild and lonely place with the line of the shore lost among twisting, tangling tentacle roots, strangling the earth, reaching out to the very water and concealing under its solid ceiling of green those dark and dismal passages into which a boat might make its way?

  Huge columnar roots, other roots springing from them, and from these, still more roots, and roots descending from branches and under them, black water, silent, unmoving. This we could see, and beyond it, shutting off the mangrove coast from the interior, a long, low cliff of upraised coral.

  Night then…a moon hung low beyond a corner of the coral cliff…lazy water lapping about the hull…the mutter of breakers on the reef…the cry of a night bird, and then the low, rich tones of Smoke Bassett, singing.

  So we had arrived, four men of the devil’s own choosing, men from the world’s waterfronts, and below us, somewhere in the dark water, was a submerged freighter with fifty thousand dollars in her strongbox.

  Four men…Limey Johnson—short, powerful, tough. Tattooed on his hands the words, one to a hand, Hold—Fast. A scar across the bridge of his nose, the tip of an ear missing…greasy, unwashed dungarees…and stories of the Blue Funnel boats. What, I wondered, had become of the captain of the sunken ship, and the others who must have known about that money? Limey Johnson had offered no explanation, and we were not inquisitive men.

  And Long Jack, sprawled on the deck looking up at the stars? Of what was he thinking? Tomorrow? Fifty thousand dollars, and how much he would get of it? Or was he thinking of the spending of it? He was a thin, haggard man with a slow smile that never reached beyond his lips. Competent, untiring…There was a rumor about Macao that he had killed a man aboard a Darwin pearl fisher….He was a man who grew red, but not tan, with a thin, scrawny neck like a buzzard, as taciturn as Johnson was talkative. Staring skyward from his pale gray eyes…at what? Into what personal future? Into what shadowed past?

  Smoke Bassett, powerful tan muscles, skin stretched taut to contain their slumbering, restless strength. A man with magnificent eyes, quick of hand and foot…a dangerous man.

  And the last of them, myself. Tall and lean and quiet, with wide shoulders, and not as interested in the money. Oh, yes, I wanted my share, and would fight to have it, but there was more than the money: there was getting the money; there was the long roll of the ketch coming down the China Sea; there was the mangrove coast, the night and the stars; there were the boat sounds, the water sounds…a bird’s wing against the wind…the distant sounds of the forest…these things that no man can buy; these things that get into the blood; these things that build the memories of tomorrow, the hours to look back upon.

  I wanted these more than money. For there is a time for adventure when the body is young and the mind alert and all the world seems there for one’s hands to use, to hold, to take. And this was my new world, this ancient world of the Indies, these lands where long ago the Arab seamen came, and where the Polynesians may have passed, and where old civilizations slumber in the jungles, awaiting the explorations of men. Where rivers plunge down massive, unrecorded falls, where the lazy sea creeps under the mangroves, working its liquid fingers into the abysmal darkness where no man goes or wants to go.

  What is any man but the total of what he has seen? The sum of what he has done? The strange foods, the women whose bodies have merged with his, the smells, the tastes, the longings, the dreams, the haunted nights? The Trenches in Shanghai, Blood Alley, Grant Road in Bombay, and Malay Street in Singapore…the worst of it, and the best…the temples and towers built by lost, dead hands, the nights at sea, the splendor of a storm, the dancing of dust devils on the desert. These are a man…and the solid thrill of a blow landed, the faint smell of opium, rubber, sandalwood, and spice, the stink of copra…the taste of blood from a split lip.

  Oh, yes, I had come for things other than money, but that evening, for the first time, no man gave another good night.

  Tomorrow there would be, with luck, fifty thousand dollars in this boat…and how many ways to split it?

  No need to worry until the box was aboard, or on the line, being hoisted. After that, it was every man for himself. Or was I mistaken? Would we remain friends still? Would we sail our boat into Amurang or Jesselton and leave it there and scatter to the winds with our money in our pockets?

  That was the best way, but with such men, in such a place, with that amount of money…one lives because one remains cautious…and fools die young.

  * * *

  —

  AT THE FIRST streaks of dawn, I was out of my blankets and had them rolled. While Smoke prepared breakfast, we got the diving outfit up to the side. We were eating when the question came.

  “I’ll go,” I said, and grinned at them. “I’ll go down and see how it looks.”
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br />   They looked at me, and I glanced up from my plate and said, “How about it, Smoke? Tend my lines?”

  He turned to me, a queer light flicking through his dark, handsome eyes, and then he nodded.

  A line had been drawn….

  A line of faith and a line of doubt…Of the three, I had chosen Smoke Bassett, had put in him my trust, for when a man is on the bottom, his life lies in the hands of the man who tends his lines. A mistaken signal, or a signal ignored, and the diver can die.

  I had given my life to Smoke Bassett, and who could know what that would mean?

  * * *

  —

  JOHNSON WAS TAKING soundings, for in these waters, chart figures were not to be trusted. Many of the shores have been but imperfectly surveyed, if at all, and there is constant change to be expected from volcanic action, the growth of coral, or the waves themselves.

  When we anchored outside the reef, I got into the diving dress. Limey lent me a hand, saying to me, “Nine or ten fathoms along the reef, but she drops sharp off to fifty fathoms not far out.”

  Careful…we’d have to be careful, for the enemies of a diver are rarely the shark or the octopus, but rather the deadline and constant danger of a squeeze or a blowup. The air within the suit is adjusted to the depth of the water and its pressure, but a sudden fall into deeper water can crush a man, jamming his entire body into his copper helmet. Such sudden pressure is called a squeeze.

  A blowup is usually caused by a jammed valve, blowing a man’s suit to almost balloon size and propelling him suddenly to the surface, where he lies helpless until rescued. While death only occasionally results from a blowup, a diver may be crippled for life by the dreaded “bends,” caused by the sudden change in pressure, and the resulting formation of nitrogen bubbles in the bloodstream.

  When the helmet was screwed on, Limey clapped me on the top and I swung a leg over to the rope ladder. Smoke Bassett worked the pump with one arm while he played out the hose and rope. Up—down. Chug-chug. A two-stroke motion like a railroad handcar. It didn’t take much energy but each stroke was a pulse of oxygen…like a breath, or the beating of your heart. The big mulatto grinned at me as he worked the handle.

  Clumsy, in the heavy shoes and weighted belt, I climbed down and felt the cool press of water rise around me. Up my body…past my faceplate.

  It was a slow, easy descent…down…down…and on the bottom at sixty feet.

  In the dark water, down where the slow weeds wave in the unstirring sea…no sound but the chug-chug-chug of the pump, the pump that brings the living air…down in a green, gray, strange world…cowrie shells…a big conch…the amazing wall of the reef, jagged, broken, all edges and spires…a stonefish, all points and poison.

  Leaning forward against the weight of the water, I moved like some ungainly monster of the deep, slowly along the bottom. Slowly…through the weeds, upon an open sand field beneath the sea…slowly, I walked on.

  A dark shadow above me and I turned slowly…a shark…unbelievably huge…and seemingly uninterested…but could you tell? Could one ever know?

  Smell…I’d heard old divers say that sharks acted upon smell…and the canvas and rubber and copper gave off no smell, but a cut, a drop of blood in the water, and the sharks would attack.

  Chug-chug-chug…I walked on, turning slowly from time to time to look around me. And the shark moved above me, huge, black, ominous…dark holes in the reef where might lurk…anything. And then I saw…something.

  A blackness, a vast deep, opening off to my right, away from the reef. I looked toward it, and drew back. Fifty fathoms at some places, but then deeper, much deeper. Fifty fathoms…three hundred feet.

  A signal…time for me to go up. Turning, I walked slowly back and looked for the shark, but he had gone. I had failed to hold his interest…and I could only hope that nothing in my personality would induce him to return.

  When the helmet was off, I told them. “Probably the other way. But when you go down, Limey, keep an eye open for that shark. I don’t trust the beggar.”

  * * *

  —

  ON THE THIRD day, we found the hulk of the freighter. At the time, I was below, half asleep in my bunk. Bassett was in the galley cooking, and only Long Jack was on deck, handling the lines for Limey. Dozing, I heard him bump against the vessel’s side and I listened, but there was nothing more, only a sort of scraping, a sound I could not place, as if something were being dragged along the hull.

  When I heard the weighted boots on the deck, I rolled over and sat up, kicking my feet into my slippers. Johnson was seated on the rail and his helmet was off and Long Jack was talking to him. When they heard my feet on the deck, they turned. “Found it!” Limey was grinning his broken-toothed smile. “She’s hanging right on the lip of the deep. She’s settin’ up fairly straight. You shouldn’t have much trouble gettin’ the box.”

  * * *

  —

  THERE WAS A full moon that night, wide and white, a moon that came up over the jungle, and standing by the rail, I looked out over the lagoon and watched the phosphorescent combers roll up and crash against the outer reef. When I had been standing there a long time, Smoke Bassett walked over.

  “Where’s Limey?”

  “Fishin’,” he said, “with a light.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said, “we’ll pick it up.”

  “Anson Road would look mighty good now. Anson Road, in Singapore…an’ High Street. You know that, Scholar?”

  “It’ll look better with money in your pocket.”

  “Look good to me just anyway.” Smoke rolled a cigarette. “Money ain’t so important.”

  We watched the moon and listened to the breakers on the reef. “You be careful down there,” Smoke Bassett told me suddenly. “Mighty careful.” He struck a match and lit his cigarette, as he always did, one-handed.

  Lazily, I listened to the sea talking to the reef and then listened to the surf and to the jungle beyond the line of mangroves. A bird shrieked, an unhappy, uncanny sound.

  “Them two got they heads together,” Smoke Bassett said. “You be careful.”

  Long Jack…a queer, silent man around whom one never felt quite comfortable. A taciturn man with a wiry strength that could be dangerous. Only once had we had words and that had been back in Macao when we first met. He had been arrogant, as if he felt he could push me around. “Don’t start that with me,” I told him.

  His eyes were snaky, cold, there were strange little lights in them, and contempt. He just looked at me. I didn’t want trouble so I told him, “You could make an awful fool of yourself, Jack.”

  He got up. “Right now,” he said, and stood there looking at me, and I know he expected me to take water.

  So, I got up, for this was an old story, and I knew by the way he stood that he knew little about fistfighting, and then a fat man, sitting in a dirty singlet and a blue dungaree coat, said, “You are a fool. I seen the kid fight in Shanghai, in the ring. He’ll kill you.”

  Long Jack from Sydney hesitated and it was plain he no longer wanted to fight. He still stood there, but I’d seen the signs before and knew the moment was past. He’d had me pegged for a kid who either couldn’t or wouldn’t go through.

  That was all, but Long Jack had not forgotten, I was sure of that. There had been no further word, nor had we talked much on the trip down the China Sea except what was necessary. But it had been pleasant enough.

  The next morning when I got into the suit, Limey came up to put on the copper helmet. There was a look in his eyes I didn’t like. “When you get it out of the desk,” he said, “just tie her on the line and give us a signal.”

  But there was something about the way he said it that was wrong. As I started into the water, he leaned over suddenly and stroked his hand down my side. I thought he wanted something and turned my faceplate toward him, but he
just stood there so I started down into the water.

  When I was on the deck of the freighter, I started along toward the superstructure and then saw something floating by my face. I stepped back to look and saw it was a gutted fish. An instant, I stood there staring, and then a dark shadow swung above me and I turned, stumbled, and fell just as the same huge shark of a few days before whipped by, jaws agape.

  On my feet, I stumbled toward the companionway, and half fell through the opening just as the shark twisted around and came back for another try.

  And then I knew why Limey Johnson had been fishing, and what he had rubbed on my arm as I went into the water. He had rubbed the blood and guts of the fish on my suit and then had dumped it into the water after me to attract the shark.

  Sheltered by the companionway, I rubbed a hand at my sleeve as far around as I could reach, trying to rub off some of the blood.

  Forcing myself to composure, I waited, thinking out the situation.

  Within the cabin to the right, I had already noticed that the door of the desk compartment that held the cash box stood open to the water. That meant the money was already on our boat; it meant that the bumping I’d heard along the side had been the box as it was hoisted aboard. And that letting me go down again, rubbing the blood and corruption on my sleeve had been a deliberate attempt at murder.

  Chug-chug-chug…monotonously, reassuringly, the steady sound of the pump reached me. Smoke was still on the job, and I was still safe, yet how long could I remain so under the circumstances?

  If they had attempted to kill me they would certainly attempt to kill Smoke, and he could not properly defend himself, even strong as he was, while he had to keep at least one hand on the pump. Outside, the shark circled, just beyond the door frame.

  Working my way back into the passage, I fumbled in the cabin, looking for some sort of weapon. There was a fire ax on the bulkhead outside, but it was much too clumsy for use against so agile a foe, even if I could strike hard enough underwater. There was nothing….Suddenly I saw on the wall, crossed with an African spear of some sort, a whaler’s harpoon!