The Red Derelict

by Bertram Mitford

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

  ON THE GREAT DEEP.

  A flaming sun and a flaming sky; an oily sea, rippled up ever and anonby the skimming rush of a flight of flying-fish; a shark fin or two hereand there gliding above the surface. In the far distance a lowforeshore with broad palms just distinguishable; and out here, alone onthe wide waters, a man in a canoe--fishing.

  To be strictly accurate, however, he is not fishing now, though he cameout with that intent. He has a line over the side, but seems to beheading out to sea, as though purposing to cross the ocean itself. Theline is of native make, likewise the hooks; the canoe ditto, and thepaddles. The man is clothed almost entirely with lightly-woven nativeattire, but otherwise there is nothing of the negro, or even negroid,about the sunburnt face and the thick, dark beard. He is a white mantechnically, though long exposure to tropical heat in all its changeshas rendered him as swarthy as an Arab. The expression of his face isone of profound melancholy, as that of a man condemned to lifelong andhopeless exile. And such, in fact, he is, not through the justice ormalevolence of his fellow-man, but through sheer force of circumstances.That distant palm-plumed foreshore is his home, and at the same timehis prison. He cannot get away from it.

  Now he sends the canoe over the water with each long sweep of hispowerful arm--hard and brown and sinewy--regardless of heat or toil, asthough the boundless freedom of the liquid plain inspired him with a newlife; to those who had made the canoe and its gear the said liquid plainwas merely a place where you could catch fish--but they were notimaginative people. Glancing back shoreward an eager then a startledlook comes into the man's face. Between the shore and him, in the far,far distance, are several black specks. You or I could not have seenthem; but he can, and, with the sight, he puts the canoe straight out tosea with renewed resolve, intending to remain there until dark; for heknows those tiny distant specks to be other canoes--and that spellsfoes.

  The last time we saw this man was on the occasion of his meeting withanother man--a savage--in the lonely silence of the forest after thebattle and rout. Then had followed weeks, during which he and thesavage had led the lives of hunted beasts, and their narrow escapes fromother and hostile bands were many and wonderful. Added to such theperils of the wilderness--of weeks threading the sluggish channels ofsome great, mysterious river, the gloom and awesome silence of it onlybroken by the weird blowing of gigantic hippopotami or the splash ofugly crocodiles, the thick foliage reaching over the black, smoothwaterway rendering their path as though threading some never-endingcavern--and all in a very cranky canoe, which the native had managed tosteal at the risk of both their lives from an unwary village. At lastthey had gained the coast. For days before they had done so the riverseemed to branch off into innumerable deltas, forming islands. Hereanimal life was plentiful, but of human inhabitants, however barbarous,was no sign. It seemed an utterly wild, unexplored, untrodden region,clean outside any of the known world.

  It was a strange companionship that between these two, if only thatneither understood a word of the other's speech--and by no possibilitydid either seem able to impart it. Sometimes while they were restingWagram would endeavour to instruct his companion by making drawings onthe ground with a bit of stick, but hardly any of them were understood.A tree or an animal or a man was recognised, but all attempt toestablish any sequence of ideas by dint of such pictorial instructionproved hopeless. But he himself soon became proficient in the signlanguage, and the two would talk quite rapidly therein; only thesubject-matter must fall within the sphere of the latter's experience,or he was hopelessly fogged. He was absolutely lacking in imagination.

  Often Wagram had found himself wondering as to the other's motive insticking to him thus closely. It could hardly be all gratitude; andevery attempt to convey that his own restoration to civilisation wouldresult in considerable reward to the other seemed to fail, for onreaching the coast the native had squatted down, as though quite contentto spend the rest of his life there. Or, from his barbarous and heathenpoint of view, the man might have come to regard him as a greatmagician, and one whose magic was immeasurably greater than that of theonly other white man he had ever seen. As to this, he would oftenbeguile the time by singing, a great deal of such being echoes of thechoir-loft at Hilversea, and the dusky barbarian would listen,entranced, open-mouthed. It was possible that a belief in hissupernatural powers had something to do with this fidelity.

  Even as the companionship so had the experience been a strange one. Thefrequency and variety of peril had inspired in the man thus reft fromthe peaceful ease of a stately English home, if not a contempt for it,at any rate an indifference to danger. In the matter of food he hadlong since learned that a native could live in luxury for a month wherehe would have starved in three days. The whole experience had hardenedhim into magnificent physical form; but as weeks grew into months, andmonths multiplied, a great depression grew and deepened upon him. Hewould already have been given up for dead, when the loss of the _Baleka_became known, especially on the report of her survivors. Poor Gerardwould be in a terrible state of grief, and Haldane and Yvonne--it wouldbe a blow to them, and to others perhaps. And at the thought ofHilversea his depression would take the form of a great bitterness,which it would tax all his robust faith to overcome.

  Something of this depression is upon him now as he sends his littlecraft skimming over the oily sea, a mere speck at this great distanceout. Once before, he and his companion had been visited from outside,but had been able to hide in the thickest recesses of their island homein time--a glance at the ferocious-looking savages who constituted theintruders having convinced them that they might as well fall again intothe hands of those from whom they had originally fled as into the powerof such as these.

  Soon hardly the fringe of palms upon the coast he has left is visibleabove the mirage-like horizon; the shore itself no longer is. Yet tohim this matters nothing. He is at home on this blue, mysterious sea.Even the triangular shark fins gliding here and there make no appeal tohis imagination. They are just so many incidents, and that is all, forhe is thoroughly accustomed to that sort of thing by this time.

  And now the sun is drooping, and the cloudless sky takes on that molten,sickly murk so frequently attendant on the sunset in tropical seas.Night will be here directly, with a sudden rush; but that concerns himin no wise, for he has a supply of water, well covered with wet matting,within his canoe, also food of a kind--and he has learnt to do with verylittle food of late. There is no need to exert himself with furtherpaddling.

  With a dewy rush the night falls, and alone beneath the misty stars,alone on the great deep, its silence only broken by the splash andhollow "sough" of some sea-monster, his thoughts wing themselves back tothe home which, in all likelihood, he will never see again, and with theidea comes another as though in a flash. This living death prolongedfor years--why not end it now? Not in yielding up life--oh no--but onlyin risking it. Gravely risking it, true; but still, is not some risk,even grave risk justifiable under the circumstances? Why not keep onhis way, paddle straight out to sea, on the off chance of falling inwith a passing ship? How far he would have to paddle he had no idea.He had been thrown upon the coast in an unconscious state, but it couldnot have been very distant if his captors had pulled him off the hulk intheir canoes--and the hulk had been in the path of shipping. But was itthe same part of the coast as that from which he had now put forth, orwas it, perhaps, some hundreds of miles farther off, and, in the trendof the coast-line, standing out much farther into the ocean? Anyhow, hemade up his mind to chance it. His canoe was a mere cockleshell, outhere in the ocean waste; but, then, the seas were placid, and, beyond aripple, only too smooth.

  What of his companion, apparently deserted? Even though a savage, wouldnot that companion feel his loss? No. The utter lack of imagination ofthe savage would not allow room for sentimental qualms; while, as forthe loss of the canoe, that could be remedied in half a day. So, hisresolution fixed, he star
ted forth--truly in the very sublimity ofdesperation--for, should he fail, death was the alternative, grim deathfrom hunger and thirst amid the awful solitude of the boundless sea.

  Hour followed upon hour, and still in the darkness this man urges hiscraft forward in search of his one chance of life, well knowing thatagainst that one chance there are a hundred--nay, a thousand. Still, hetakes it.

  He feels neither hunger nor thirst. The heavy moisture of the nightdews are effective against the latter; while, as for the first, the hardtraining he has been through has got him into the way of doing with verylittle. As hour after hour goes by he begins to strain his eyes overthe pathless deep for a distant light, his ears for the throb of anapproaching propeller. Then drowsiness overtakes him and he fallsasleep, and the canoe drifts at the mercy of the currents--driftsfarther and farther away from land.

  Now he dreams, and his dreaming is strange. He is at Hilversea oncemore, at dear old Hilversea, amid the waving of summer woods and rustleof ripening corn, and all the glad sights and sounds of the fairest ofEnglish landscapes, and all is as it has been. Yes; all as it has been.This fearful experience is as a thing of the past--a nightmare out ofwhich he has awakened; and yet--and yet--there is still a want--astrange, uneasy, restless want of something, or somebody, which is notaltogether sad, or, if sad, is leavened by a confused sweetness. Thedream fades into more confusion, then blank. Then the dreamer awakes,and--Great Heaven!

  Half of the great lurid orb of day has lifted itself above the horizon,gleaming along the smooth folds of the waste of waters, and on these heis no longer alone. About a quarter of a mile distant lies a ship.

  A ship? A wreck. Two jagged stumps of masts rise from the submergedhull, over whose main bulwarks the water is lazily washing, leaving thepoop and the forecastle but a few feet above the surface. He has seenit before--not once, but twice. Great Heaven! it is the Red Derelict--the Red Derelict again.

  He stares, then rubs his eyes, then stares again. Is he still dreaming?No; there the thing lies, this ghost of a vessel, just as it had lainwhen it had afforded him timely refuge from imminent peril. Amysterious inner prompting moves him once more to board the hulk--actingupon which not long does it take him to shoot his canoe alongside, and,making her fast with the stout woven grass rope which does duty for apainter, he climbs on to the dry, glistening deck of the poop.

  His glance takes in the long length of the ship. Swift, keen as that ofthe wild creatures of earth and air is that glance now, and it fallsupon an object lying under water on the submerged main deck--theskeleton of a pistol. In a moment it is in his hand. A further glanceshows it to be the same rusted weapon he had held in his hand before.The nameplate, bearing the letters E.W., is still lying near at hand.The letters seem to stand out at him.

  Thoughts many and various come crowding into his mind as he stares atthe thing. All his experiences of blood and horror, since last he stoodupon this deserted deck arise. The savage demoniac of his own race andcolour, in whose power he had been, who was he? More than ever somestrange instinct convinces him that the man is the murderer of hisbrother. This hulk seems to have drifted about these seas within a verycircumscribed compass for years. What if it had been the scene of abloody fight, a mutiny perhaps, wherein Everard had been slain, and thewhite savage, with others, had escaped to the mainland? And with thethought comes another. What if the body of his brother is lying below--shut up, with the bodies of others, here in its floating tomb, beneathhis feet? Strange, indeed, if his quest should end here.

  Three times he has sighted this sad derelict, twice stood on board her.Has this been ordered with a purpose? Yet--why not? And with thethought he flings off his upper garment of woven grass. He is going toexplore the interior of the ship--so far as he is able.

  On the former occasion of his standing here he would have shrank fromsuch an attempt, not only on account of the possible horrors that hemight find, but because doubting his power to carry out so hazardous aventure. Now it is different. Good swimmer as he was before, now he isas thoroughly at home in the water as the barbarous inhabitants ofyonder coast--that is to say, as thoroughly at home as in his naturalelement. He gazes down into the gaping pit of the companion-way, then,drawing a long breath, dives down into the blackness within.

  At first he can see little enough as he gropes his way around, then bythe sickly green light through the glass ports, and also that comingdown the companion-way, he is able to make out the interior of thecuddy. A few small fish, imprisoned, dart hither and thither, but ofhuman bodies there is no sign. Then, unable to hold his breath anylonger, he shoots up once more into outer air.

  Shading his eyes, so that the glare may not impede his vision for hisnext descent, he sits for a few minutes taking in the air, then, feelingrested, dives down once more into the heart of the waterlogged ship.

  Now he can see better, can distinguish some sodden litter lying about,but still no human bodies. Then, just as he is about to give up allfurther exploration, his hand encounters something hard.

  It is lying in one of the bunks--a small box or case of some sort.Grasping it firmly he makes for the companion-way again and rises to thesurface, and on arriving there the fit of gasping, and a desire tovomit, shows that he has been under water long enough. His find is aflat, oblong, tin case of about eight inches by four, and it ishermetically sealed.

  He examines it with vivid curiosity--the outside, that is--for hequickly decides that this is no time for investigating its contents.But it is time for a little frugal refreshment; wherefore, hauling inhis canoe by the painter, he proceeds to hand up the requisites for asparing meal. While he does so a great shark rises from beneath thehulk--it might have been the identical one that had so nearly grippedhim before--but it inspires in him no particular horror now; in fact,scarcely any attention. A mere shark is a mere nothing to the dwellerson those coasts.

  Having taken off the edge of his appetite he leans back against theragged stump of the mainmast, and for the first time for long,experiences a craving for tobacco. Perhaps the yearning is broughtabout by feeling the deck of a ship under him, for he has long sincelearnt to do without it. Looking idly at the tin case the thought comesover him that it may contain some clue with regard to his brother or tohis brother's fate, and acting upon the idea he stows it away carefully,together with the skeleton of the pistol, within the skin pouch which isslung round his neck by way of a pocket. Then a drowsiness comes overhim, and he falls asleep.

  The sun flames hot above him, but this causes him no inconvenience now.He slumbers on, and a light breeze rises, rippling the oily surface ofthe sea--blowing off shore. It winnows in a grateful coolness abouthim, lulling into deeper slumber, and--the derelict drifts on.

  The red rim of the sun touches the sea, seeming to meet the molten wateras with a hiss, for the slight breeze has died down with evening, andthe last light floods redly over the ghastly hulk with its single humanoccupant--this man with the attire and colour of a savage and thestraight refined features of a European. The sudden, twilightlesstropical night falls, falls blackly, and the sleeper sleeps on.

  Crash! Whirr! Splash! The hulk starts, shivers from stem to stern,and a great wave comes roaring over her, sweeping the poop by severalfeet. Half stunned by the concussion the sleeper starts up, to beknocked half senseless by violent contact with the stump of themainmast; yet even then instinct moves him to grip hold of somethingfirm and hang on for all he knows, and well for him that it is so, or hewould have been whirled into the sea in a moment by the volume of watersweeping over him. An immense blaze of lights flashes before his dazedgaze, together with a very babel of voices and a wild roaring and a rushof white foam--then another wave rolls over him. Half stunned, halfchoked, he strives to lift up his voice, but it refuses its office. Atlast he succeeds in effecting a hoarse attempt at a shout.

  But the receding lights away there in the black gloom are recedingfarther and farther, the receding babel of voices too, an
d amid theseand the roar of steam how shall his hoarse-throated, feeble shout findits way across the intervening waste? It cannot. Instinctively hesprings for his canoe, with a wild idea of overtaking his one chance ofrescue by sheer strength of arm. But of it there is no sign--except thefrayed end of the painter rope by which it had been made fast. Swamped,crushed by the weight of water which had swirled over the hulk, it hasgone to the bottom, and with it his slender stock of provisions. Andthe tiers of lights are now far distant, and he is left here, as onebefore him was left--alone on this ghastly hulk--left to die, with hisone chance of rescue gliding away in demoniacal mockery upon the blackmidnight sea.