The Sea-Story Megapack

by Jack Williamson

  He was nearly dead and fully blind when he felt air on his face, and had only time to take a breath when a following sea immersed him again. But with another breath, he began to climb.

  Captain Bolt, aft on the poop, saw men on theChampion waving arms and pointing a megaphone his way. He could not hear, nor could he hope to from the bow, yet he ran forward. As he reached the forecastle steps, an unkempt figure came in over the bow—a big, rawboned man in dripping rags, with blood streaming from arms and legs, with a red, round, and sorrowful face bordered by long, matted, gray hair-with the gleam of incipient insanity in the eyes. He sprang off the forecastle and faced the captain.

  “Cappen Bolt,” he stammered, as he tore at a small leather bag with fingers and teeth. “Cappen—cappen—here it is. I’ve fetched it t’ ye. I never spent it.” From the bag came a stained and oxidized coin, which he forced into the amazed captain’s hand. Then, sinking to his knees, he lifted his eyes to heaven, muttered a few inarticulate words, and fell over in a swoon.

  “Here!” called the captain, sharply, to two of his men who had drawn near. “Take him below and strip him. Put him to bed, and I’ll get some brandy. Lord knows who he is, or where he came from, but he’s in a bad way.”

  Scotty was carried down the forecastle stairs and cared for; but he did not waken to drink the captain’s brandy; the swoon took on the form of childlike sleep, and the sleep continued until the barges had made port and moored to the dock. Here, amid the confusion of making fast, opening hatches, and rigging cargo gear, Captain Bolt had about forgotten the mysterious stranger in his forecastle, and was only reminded of him when the captain of the Champion came aboard to inquire.

  “He climbed up my bobstays, no doubt; he must have fallen overboard from that big Englishman that anchored in the Horseshoe. Went crazy in the water, I suppose. He went out on your towline like a monkey. I wouldn’t ha’ believed a man could stand it. He was three minutes under water.”

  “I can’t make it out,” said Captain Bolt. “He put this in my hand”—he held out the blackened dollar—“and then went daffy. He’s down below now. No, here he comes.”

  Scotty had climbed to the deck. He stood near the hatch, looking about with a doubtful, bewildered air at the docks and shipping. Then his face cleared a little, and like a cat in a strange street he moved slowly and hesitatingly along the rail towards the fore rigging. Then with one bound he swung himself to the top of the rail, and a mighty upward jump landed him on the string-piece of the dock. Here he paused long enough to sink to his knees and elevate his clasped hands; then he rose, walked hurriedly, and, breaking into a run, disappeared from sight behind the crowd of horses and trucks on the dock.

  “By the Lord,” exclaimed Captain Bolt, “I know him! It’s Scotty. I lost him overboard off the Delaware capes five years ago. How’d he get picked up, I wonder? Where’s he been? And this—” he produced the dollar. “I wonder if—why, very likely—a Scotchman has a conscience. Say, cappen, this seems funny. I put up a job on Scotty. I pretended to lose a dollar to see if he’d keep it, and he did. And I’ll bet this is the one.” He opened his knife and cut into the dingy coin. “Yes, it was a counterfeit.”

  THE “REXMEL,” by Ralph Milne Farley

  The sight of Bill Fiske, walking into “The Seaman’s Rest,” so startled me that I sprang to my feet, upsetting my coffee.

  He ambled over toward me, grinning sheepishly.

  “Why the look of horror?” he asked, sitting down across the table from me.

  “Is it really you?” I gasped, taking a clean seat, beyond the drip of my overturned coffee.

  “Certainly,” he replied. “Who did you think it was?”

  “But you shipped on the Mary B, a week ago,” I objected, unconvinced.

  “Yes, and no,” said he. “I’ll tell you. Just as the Mary B was about to sail, I see all the rats leaving her. Swarming up the hawsers onto the dock. Now I’m not superstitious; but I know, as everyone else knows, that when the rats all leave a ship just before she starts on a voyage, it’s a sure sign she’s going to be lost on that trip. So I goes to the captain, and tells him I’m quitting.

  “’What for?’ says he with a grin. ‘Seen the rats leaving?’

  “I admitted as much. Then he laughed and laughed.

  “‘I fooled the rats,’ says he, ‘and the rats fooled you. Turn about is fair play,’ says he, still laughing.

  “’What do you mean?’ says I.

  “Then he takes a circular from his pocket, and shows it to me. It’s all about how some German scientist made an investigation to find out just why rats always leave sinking ships. And finally, after years of study, this German fellow discovered that doomed ships always have a peculiar smell about them, sort of musty, too faint for a human to notice, but particularly annoying to varmints. So the reason rats will leave a sinking ship, is not because they are prophets or anything, but merely because they can’t stand her smell. A sinking ship is a stinking ship, it says.

  “Well, anyhow, this German chemist was able to make up exactly the same smell out of coal-tar, or something—those Germans are great hands at making colors and smells—and so he went into the business of selling it, at five dollars a package, to rid houses and ships of rats. It’s called ‘Rexmel’, R-E-X-M-E-L—get that—‘Rexmel,’ ‘wreck-smell,’ ’cause it smells like a wreck. The Captain of the Mary B had bought a package of Rexmel, and sprinkled it in the hold; and that was why the rats were all leaving. I dunno. Maybe I am superstitious, but still I wouldn’t ship on a craft that the rats had all left. So the Mary B sailed away, with the captain and crew all laughing at me. I feel kind o’ foolish now, come to think of it.”

  He paused, and looked at me sheepishly across the table.

  “Bill,” said I levelly, “have you seen the afternoon’s papers?”

  “No,” he replied. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing much,” said I casually. “Merely that the Mary B is reported lost with all hands aboard.”

  For a moment Bill Fiske stared at me stunned. Then he whistled softly. Then a look of diabolical glee flooded his face.

  “All of which goes to prove,” he announced, “that you can’t fool a rat!”

  It was now my turn to laugh.

  “Bill,” I said, “perhaps rats can be fooled, after all. I was only stringing you about the shipwreck. What the newspaper really says is that the Mary B is safe in port in England.”

  All of which proves nothing!

  A FIGHT WITH A CANNON, by Victor Hugo

  La vieuville was suddenly cut short by a cry of despair, and a the same time a noise was heard wholly unlike any other sound. The cry and sounds came from within the vessel.

  The captain and lieutenant rushed toward the gun-deck but could not get down. All the gunners were pouring up in dismay.

  Something terrible had just happened.

  One of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four pounder, had broken loose.

  This is the most dangerous accident that can possibly take place on shipboard. Nothing more terrible can happen to a sloop of was in open sea and under full sail.

  A cannon that breaks its moorings suddenly becomes some strange, supernatural beast. It is a machine transformed into a monster. That short mass on wheels moves like a billiard-ball, rolls with the rolling of the ship, plunges with the pitching goes, comes, stops, seems to meditate, starts on its course again, shoots like an arrow from one end of the vessel to the other, whirls around, slips away, dodges, rears, bangs, crashes, kills, exterminates. It is a battering ram capriciously assaulting a wall. Add to this the fact that the ram is of metal, the wall of wood.

  It is matter set free; one might say, this eternal slave was avenging itself; it seems as if the total depravity concealed in what we call inanimate things has escaped, and burst forth all of a sudden; it appears to lose patience, and to take a strange mysterious revenge; nothing more relentless than this wrath of the inanimate. This enraged lump leaps like a pan
ther, it has the clumsiness of an elephant, the nimbleness of a mouse, the obstinacy of an ox, the uncertainty of the billows, the zigzag of the lightning, the deafness of the grave. It weighs ten thousand pounds, and it rebounds like a child’s ball. It spins and then abruptly darts off at right angles.

  And what is to be done? How put an end to it? A tempest ceases, a cyclone passes over, a wind dies down, a broken mast can be replaced, a leak can be stopped, a fire extinguished, but what will become of this enormous brute of bronze. How can it be captured? You can reason with a bulldog, astonish a bull, fascinate a boa, frighten a tiger, tame a lion; but you have no resource against this monster, a loose cannon. You can not kill it, it is dead; and at the same time it lives. It lives with a sinister life which comes to it from the infinite. The deck beneath it gives it full swing. It is moved by the ship, which is moved by the sea, which is moved by the wind. This destroyer is a toy. The ship, the waves, the winds, all play with it, hence its frightful animation. What is to be done with this apparatus? How fetter this stupendous engine of destruction? How anticipate its comings and goings, its returns, its stops, its shocks? Any one of its blows on the side of the ship may stave it in. How foretell its frightful meanderings? It is dealing with a projectile, which alters its mind, which seems to have ideas, and changes its direction every instant. How check the course of what must be avoided? The horrible cannon struggles, advances, backs, strikes right, strikes left, retreats, passes by, disconcerts expectation, grinds up obstacles, crushes men like flies. All the terror of the situation is in the fluctuations of the flooring. How fight an inclined plane subject to caprices? The ship has, so to speak, in its belly, an imprisoned thunderstorm, striving to escape; something like a thunderbolt rumbling above an earthquake.

  In an instant the whole crew was on foot. It was the fault of the gun captain, who had neglected to fasten the screw-nut of the mooring-chain, and had insecurely clogged the four wheels of the gun carriage; this gave play to the sole and the framework, separated the two platforms, and the breeching. The tackle had given way, so that the cannon was no longer firm on its carriage. The stationary breeching, which prevents recoil, was not in use at this time. A heavy sea struck the port, the carronade, insecurely fastened, had recoiled and broken its chain, and began its terrible course over the deck.

  To form an idea of this strange sliding, let one imagine a drop of water running over a glass.

  At the moment when the fastenings gave way, the gunners were in the battery, some in groups, others scattered about, busied with the customary work among sailors getting ready for a signal for action. The carronade, hurled forward by the pitching of the vessel, made a gap in this crowd of men and crushed four at the first blow; then sliding back and shot out again as the ship rolled, it cut in two a fifth unfortunate, and knocked a piece of the battery against the larboard side with such force as to unship it. This caused the cry of distress just heard. All the men rushed to the companionway. The gun-deck was vacated in a twinkling.

  The enormous gun was left alone. It was given up to itself. It was its own master and master of the ship. It could do what it pleased. This whole crew, accustomed to laugh in time of battle, now trembled. To describe the terror is impossible.

  Captain Boisberthelot and Lieutenant la Vieuville, although both dauntless men, stopped at the head of the companionway and, dumb, pale, and hesitating, looked down on the deck below. Some one elbowed past and went down.

  It was their passenger, the peasant, the man of whom they had just been speaking a moment before.

  Reaching the foot of the companionway, he stopped.

  The cannon was rushing back and forth on the deck. One might have supposed it to be the living chariot of the Apocalypse. The marine lantern swinging overhead added a dizzy shifting of light and shade to the picture. The form of the cannon disappeared in the violence of its course, and it looked now black in the light, now mysteriously white in the darkness.

  It went on in its destructive work. It had already shattered four other guns and made two gaps in the side of the ship, fortunately above the water-line, but where the water would come in, in case of heavy weather. It rushed frantically against the framework; the strong timbers withstood the shock; the curved shape of the wood gave them great power of resistance; but they creaked beneath the blows of this huge club, beating on all sides at once, with a strange sort of ubiquity. The percussions of a grain of shot shaken in a bottle are not swifter or more senseless. The four wheels passed back and forth over the dead men, cutting them, carving them, slashing them, till the five corpses were a score of stumps rolling across the deck; the heads of the dead men seemed to cry out; streams of blood curled over the deck with the rolling of the vessel; the planks, damaged in several places, began to gape open. The whole ship was filled with the horrid noise and confusion.

  The captain promptly recovered his presence of mind and ordered everything that could check and impede the cannon’s mad course to be thrown through the hatchway down on the gun-deck—mattresses, hammocks, spare sails, rolls of cordage, bags belonging to the crew, and bales of counterfeit assignats, of which the corvette carried a large quantity—a characteristic piece of English villainy regarded as legitimate warfare.

  But what could these rags do? As nobody dared to go below to dispose of them properly, they were reduced to lint in a few minutes.

  There was just sea enough to make the accident as bad as possible. A tempest would have been desirable, for it might have upset the cannon, and with its four wheels once in the air there would be some hope of getting it under control. Meanwhile, the havoc increased.

  There were splits and fractures in the masts, which are set into the framework of the keel and rise above the decks of ships like great, round pillars. The convulsive blows of the cannon had cracked the mizzenmast, and had cut into the mainmast.

  The battery was being ruined. Ten pieces out of thirty were disabled; the breaches in the side of the vessel were increasing, and the corvette was beginning to leak.

  The old passenger having gone down to the gun-deck, stood like a man of stone at the foot of the steps. He cast a stern glance over this scene of devastation. He did not move. It seemed impossible to take a step forward. Every movement of the loose carronade threatened the ship’s destruction. A few moments more and shipwreck would be inevitable.

  They must perish or put a speedy end to the disaster; some course must be decided on; but what? What an opponent was this carronade! Something must be done to stop this terrible madness—to capture this lightning—to overthrow this thunderbolt.

  Boisberthelot said to La Vieuville:

  “Do you believe in God, chevalier?”

  La Vieuville replied:

  “Yes—no. Sometimes.”

  “During a tempest?”

  “Yes, and in moments like this.”

  “God alone can save us from this,” said Boisberthelot.

  Everybody was silent, letting the carronade continue its horrible din.

  Outside, the waves beating against the ship responded with their blows to the shocks of the cannon. It was like two hammers alternating.

  Suddenly, in the midst of this inaccessible ring, where the escaped cannon was leaping, a man was seen to appear, with an iron bar in his hand. He was the author of the catastrophe, the captain of the gun, guilty of criminal carelessness, and the cause of the accident, the master of the carronade. Having done the mischief, he was anxious to repair it. He had seized the iron bar in one hand, a tiller-rope with a slipnoose in the other, and jumped, down the hatchway to the gun-deck.

  Then began an awful sight; a Titanic scene; the contest between gun and gunner; the battle of matter and intelligence; the duel between man and the inanimate.

  The man stationed himself in a corner, and, with bar and rope in his two hands, he leaned against one of the riders, braced himself on his legs, which seemed two steel posts; and livid, calm, tragic, as if rooted to the deck, he waited.

  He waited
for the cannon to pass by him.

  The gunner knew his gun, and it seemed to him as if the gun ought to know him. He had lived long with it. How many times he had thrust his hand into its mouth! It was his own familiar monster. He began to speak to it as if it were his dog.

  “Come!” he said. Perhaps he loved it.

  He seemed to wish it to come to him.

  But to come to him was to come upon him. And then he would be lost. How could he avoid being crushed? That was the question. All looked on in terror.

  Not a breast breathed freely, unless perhaps that of the old man, who was alone in the battery with the two contestants, a stern witness.

  He might be crushed himself by the cannon. He did not stir.

  Beneath them the sea blindly directed the contest.

  At the moment when the gunner, accepting this frightful hand-to-hand conflict, challenged the cannon, some chance rocking of the sea caused the carronade to remain for an instant motionless and as if stupefied. “Come, now!” said the man.

  It seemed to listen.

  Suddenly it leaped toward him. The man dodged the blow.

  The battle began. Battle unprecedented. Frailty struggling against the invulnerable. The gladiator of flesh attacking the beast of brass. On one side, brute force; on the other, a human soul.

  All this was taking place in semi-darkness. It was like the shadowy vision of a miracle.

  A soul—strange to say, one would have thought the cannon also had a soul; but a soul full of hatred and rage. This sightless thing seemed to have eyes. The monster appeared to lie in wait for the man. One would have at least believed that there was craft in this mass. It also chose its time. It was a strange, gigantic insect of metal, having or seeming to have the will of a demon. For a moment this colossal locust would beat against the low ceiling overhead, then it would come down on its four wheels like a tiger on its four paws, and begin to run at the man. He, supple, nimble, expert, writhed away like an adder from all these lightning movements. He avoided a collision, but the blows which he parried fell against the, vessel, and continued their work of destruction.