VII
162° w. 37' s.
Suva behind them at last, they faced a final run of fourteen hundred miles, a feverish week of hope and uncertainty. Kitty Whiting faced the issue with glowing expectancy and confidence. It was plain that no thought of failure ever entered her head and Jim prayed, against his own convictions, that her faith might not be betrayed. It should not if he could prevent it, he vowed. By now he was self-confessedly in love with her, and however hopeless his cause he knew that there would never be for him any other girl.
That Newton Foster was heels over head in love was also patent. Kitty would stand in the bows hour after hour, looking with yearning glances, with lips half-parted, at the far horizon. And Foster was almost invariably with her. But the girl’s heart was in her eyes, searching for the lift of land where she might find her father. Thought of his safety was paramount; it possessed her utterly and not until he was found would she, or could she, think of matters concerning only her own happiness. If he was not found—It would be long before anyone might comfort her, as a man tries to console a woman, and bring about forgetfulness.
Jim saw that Newton made little headway in Kitty’s affections though he was quick to say things that fitted her mood, to make suggestions at which she smiled, apt at imagining fortunate happenings for which she was grateful. Yet, as his own love grew for this girl, so plucky, so wise and yet so sweet, so brave and still so feminine, so full of grace and beauty, jealousy sometimes plucked at Jim to the quick. There were perforce many leisure moments when he had nothing to do but think and dream of the future—a future from which he could not imagine Kitty Whiting eliminated, and which often clouded as he considered the vanity of aspiring to familiarity with her.
“They make a fine-looking pair,” Jim said to Lynda Warner one night as they came up from below and saw Kitty and Newton at the taffrail, their figures merging into one in the star-dusk, both gazing down at the wake, Newton’s head turned toward hers, his talk provoking a laugh. It seemed to Jim that they were already mating. His prick of jealousy was deepened by his belief that Newton was weak, lacking in purpose and decision, inclined to be lazy, self-indulgent, a laggard in everything but lovemaking and conducting that with a genius that might well involve the girl before she realized it, so cleverly did young Foster submerge his own passion with sympathy.
“Heaven forbid!” said Lynda. “They are both good-looking, if that is what you mean. Being of opposite sex perhaps the one sets off the other when they are together. But Newton is not the only man in the world who would look well by the side of Kitty and she by him. They are not matched any more than opposites can be. When Kitty mates it will be because she falls in love, and when she does that it will be with a man-size lover. I suppose there are possibilities in Newton, but he has much to do to even up his shortcomings. Besides, he is her cousin. He might be willing to ignore the relationship, but I know that Kitty would never marry anyone in whom her own blood ran. The trouble with you, Jim Lyman,” she added, in her rich voice that was her one great outward charm, “is that you make two big mistakes.”
“What are those?”
Lynda laughed. “I like you enough to tell you. It is doubtful if you would ever find them out for yourself. One is that you don’t know how to appraise yourself, not knowing how a woman makes her valuations of a man; the other that you fail altogether to realize that Kitty Whiting is not either angel or fairy, but a very human being. A woman may use her head, Jim, but she has not yet progressed to the place where reason displaces sentiment. Certain types of women need certain types of men. Kitty is ninety percent feminine. She will fall in love with a ninety percent male. A man with a man’s force and strength. She would rather have a man who would bully her a little than one who would worship her. I’ve given you enough to think about. When the right time comes, apply your digested knowledge. Good luck to you and good night.” She left him gasping.
The wind began to get capricious the second day out and they had to resort to gasoline, much against Jim’s will. He had wanted to save all he could for emergencies, but there was no help for it and Sanders once more took charge of the motive power. They were now where the prevailing wind was southeast, and even if it blew steadily, they, sailing into it on a southeasterly course, could not expect to do better than eight knots, besides falling off in leeway. With the engine, despite the reek of oil, the vibration and the extra heat, all petty annoyances that loom large when the thermometer is over a hundred, they had the satisfaction that every revolution, every turn of the screw sent them ahead, straight to their destination. It seemed to sing a chant of progress:
One foot—two feet—three feet—four!
Five feet—six feet—one fathom more!
Eight hundred and eighty fathoms to a land mile! One thousand and fourteen and a half to a nautical mile! Six thousand and eighty-seven feet divided by six. One nautical mile to a minute, sixty of them to a degree. It was possible to calculate the exact time of arrival, of the moment when they might expect to see the beckoning finger of craggy rock showing through the torn mist.
Newton and Kitty worked out the sums, and checked them off on the chart as they progressed. It was a sort of game calculated to relieve the tension and was not confined to the cabin. Jim gave a talk to the crew. They had cleared from Suva as for “island ports,” but he knew that curiosity was rife as to their destination, that the men had speculated on the appearance of the Shark, and also on the fact that they had been given firearms practice. He wanted to know how far he could count on them. The Fijian natives were more or less carefree and adventurous. They also had a wholesome fear of the British Government and conceived themselves as lent to the Seamew, to be returned in good time and repair, plus satisfactory wage, providing they did their duty and behaved themselves. There were six of them, three of whom had served in the Fijian native police, all good swimmers, brave and faithful, fair shots, handy men, fine sailors; messing, sleeping, and keeping to themselves, unconcerned for the morrow, willing and strong.
Jim held consultation with Kitty and Lynda over his speech. Newton was admitted to the council out of courtesy. Even Baker knew nothing of their purposes. It was decided unwise to mention pearls.
“We’ve got to arm our landing party,” said Jim. “We can’t count on my experience as to there being no natives. If on visiting the ship we should uncover a million dollars in pearls, it might turn the heads of our crew.
“I don’t want to discriminate against any of them. I think Baker’s all right. I am sure of Sanders and Wood, and Douglas Moore would fight like a fiend for whichever side his temperament happened to attach itself to. He could argue himself right under any conditions and spill his blood as freely as the other chap’s to prove it. Walker’s game and square. I don’t know that any of them are not, but I am sure the best way would be to ally them with us by taking them into our confidence to a certain extent. I’ll call ’em aft at the end of the dog-watch.”
“We are going down to an island where I was once wrecked,” he told the listening men, all hands assembled down to Li Cheng and the monkey, the kanakas grinning in a rear circle of their own. “When I was there I discovered a fine ship stranded in the jungle where some big wave had flung it. That ship, men, was called the Golden Dolphin. Its model is below in the main cabin. It was built by the father of Miss Whiting, who has chartered this schooner to search for him, believing him to be alive.
“It is to the interest of certain people, for business reasons, to get in touch with Captain Whiting before we do, to prevent our finding him until they have secured what they want from him. We believe those men to have been following us from Honolulu, in fact from the States. We hope we have thrown them off the trail. If we have not we are not afraid of them. We look to you to stand by us.”
There had been a shuffling of feet and a rolling of eyes when Jim mentioned the pursuit. Nods passed between the men.
“There may be hostile natives,” Jim went on. “I am authorized t
o state that there will be extra pay—a substantial bonus—for all those who volunteer, but it is distinctly understood that you do volunteer, for shore duty. Nothing will be held against you if you prefer to stay aboard. But—the main factor of this trip of ours is the rescue of Miss Whiting’s father, to crown with success a venture that has brought her nearly ten thousand miles by sea and land. She takes the chances that I ask you to share, not for the matter of wages or bonus, but as men for the sake of a brave woman.”
It was the longest speech that Jim had ever made. He was conscious that he had injected into it much of his own feeling for Kitty Whiting’s venture. It self-inspired him with fresh belief in their ultimate success as he conjured it up in words of crisp, stirring appeal. He saw her flushed face and shining eyes as he finished. The men were cheering. Strangely enough, they were led by Li Cheng, who stepped out in front in his cook’s white drill apron and cap, his Oriental face a mask of approval and enthusiasm.
“Thlee chee’ fo’ Lilly Miss,” he cried. “Hoolay!”
Jim dismissed the men, feeling that he might count upon all of them. Baker spoke to him.
“That was a good talk you made, Skipper. Good idea to make it. You know how things leak out aboard ship, and how little things roll up. The men savvied there was more than just a chance meeting with that Shark schooner, and there’s been a heap of talk about this being a trip for buried treasure. A word of talk starts in the cabin, and by the time it drifts forward, it’s a whole book. Now they know what they’re after, and if there’s a spice of danger to it, why it’ll tie ’em up.”
“How did they ever come to talk about buried treasure?”
“It’s the most natural thing, I reckon, to tie up with a trip like this where it ain’t given out at the start just where you’re goin’, an’ then there’s the pistol an’ rifle practice. You don’t look like a tradin’ outfit. I’ve done some wonderin’ myself, but my motto is to get orders, an’ outside of that to be deef, dumb an’ blind. You can count on me, Skipper. I hope the young lady finds her father. Looks like a long shot to me, though. I understand you’ve been to the island an’ didn’t sight him?”
“I was only ashore for a little while.”
“It’s derned funny he didn’t show if he was there. I’ve bin wrecked myself, an’ I spent night an’ day on the highest point I c’ud find. Leastwise, I was there often enough to make sure nothin’ went by me.”
“He might have been ill; broken a leg?”
“He c’ud have made a smoke. Not that I’d aim to discourage Miss Whiting, Skipper.”
“Of course not.” But Baker’s common-sense had taken a lot of the elation out of Jim. He almost dreaded the moment when they would land.
In the early afternoon of the eighth day, after the noon reckoning had shown them close to landfall, they sighted the distant peak. Off the starboard bow was a cone of deep blue, a thimble-shaped stain against a clear sky; to port, a crooked crag rising from a wide-spreading base.
“Clearer than when I was here,” said Jim after the first tumult of discovery had died down. “No storm brewing. Fair weather ahead. A good omen, Miss Whiting.”
“Do you think so, Jim?” In the moment of excitement formality dropped.
Perhaps the girl spoke as she had secretly thought of him. A wild hope leaped in him, and he thrilled to the touch of her eager hand on his arm, confiding, more than merely friendly. He saw the quick frown gather on Newton’s handsome features, the glance of understanding and endorsement from Lynda.
By sunset they were close up, the men gathered at the rail, discussing the landing. The hump of highland to starboard had changed color, faded, diminished, dissolved as they headed for the island of the crag. About the latter evening mists had gathered, and the one talon-like peak, high above the forest of emerald where the shadows lay in deepest blue and violet, showed more than ever like a finder, blood red in the sunset. Along the line of the barrier reef the surf pounded and was tossed high, gold powdered, shot with rainbow glints, thundering ceaselessly in its perpetual cannonade. Jim himself mounted to the main spreaders to seek for the opening, masked by the spray. He gazed across the coral barrier to the quiet lagoon, recognizing at last the creek where the mate of the ill-fated Whitewing had gone for water, the spot where he and his own boat crew had landed, and the mass of jungle where the Golden Dolphin lay with a fortune hidden in her hold.
He searched low level, beach and bush and grassy uplands, from deep forest where the plumes of cocoa palms thrust through the mass of tangled foliage and broomed in the gentle wind, up to bare slopes, down to the beach again—looking for some thread of smoke, some flutter of signal, some sign of habitation, and found none. So far as humanity was concerned it might have been an island of the dead. Here and there birds rose and wheeled, settling for the night; the pungent scent of tropic flowers and fragrant herb and bush came to him at the masthead; he could see fish rising in the lagoon, a school flushed from the water by dolphins, a turtle floating, a giant ray hurling itself from the surface—but no sign of man, no eager figure hauling up a makeshift flag or bursting through to the beach to stretch out his arms toward the rescuing schooner. Solitude was all that met his eye.
He stayed aloft as they cruised along toward the opening under power, calling out directions from his perch to Baker at the wheel, as they threaded their way through the jags of the channel while the rapid dusk settled fast about them. The sun was down, the colors of the island had faded, the tip of the finger-like crag tipped with pink, for a fleeting instant. Then it was night, purple night, water and air and sky and the bulk of the island against the stars. The chain went rattling down to fifteen fathoms, the links stirring up a streak of phosphorescence as they shot down; the schooner swung gently to the last of the flood, a light shining in Cheng’s galley, another in the cabin. The native sailors were chanting in the bows, there was a chatter among the men. The clock in the cabin chimed eight bells and the mate gave instructions to “make it so” on the schooner’s bell. The coupled chimes rang out and Kitty Whiting came on deck to Jim.
“You have brought us here,” she said. “But, Jim, somehow I am afraid. It all looks so lonely. Surely he would have seen us by this time, I am still sure he is alive. I feel it here”—she pressed a hand over her heart. It looked like a tired bird, Jim thought, and he battled with an impulse to take it in his own for comfort and assurance. “But—I don’t know. That island broods with mystery. It frightens me—a little.” She took her hand away from her bosom and put it out in a little appealing gesture Jim could not resist. He grasped it and laid it on his arm, his palm over it.
“It’ll look far more cheerful by daylight,” he said. “As for your fear, that’s just natural reaction at having arrived. We’ll search every square yard of it, and there’s the other island we sighted.”
“Yes, I know. I had nerved myself not to meet him, but—somehow—I pictured him waiting on the beach.”
Jim ached all over with the restraint he put upon himself not to take her in his arms and comfort her. She seemed so small, so helpless, so appealing to his manhood. He was almost grateful when Newton came up with Lynda and Kitty drew away.
There were no sleepers an hour before daylight aboard the Seamew. The smell of coffee came from the galley where Cheng stood in his doorway gazing at the shore at intervals between cooking. His monkey perched on his shoulder. They were to start ashore immediately after breakfast. Cheng, Wiltz and Hamsun were to remain aboard, the rest of the outfit to go with the landing party in two boats, one covering the other, all armed. For all its silence Jim knew that the bush might hide scores of naked savages, might at any moment vomit a bloodthirsty, cannibalistic, howling horde of them. He was taking no chances. He had trade goods with which to secure peace or truce if there was any chance of it, bullets if there was not.
The night held its secrets. In the east the sky grayed, appeared to shake like a curtain, and with the shaking, the spangled stars suddenly lost luster. High
up a cloud caught fire, flamed like a burning rag. Another took form and color lower down. Radiance showed beyond the rim of the sea. The fingertip of peak glowed golden, orange, and rosy coral. Light and color swept down the crags, the forest, the grassy uplands and the bush, like the passage of a magic brush restoring life.
Parrots screamed to welcome the sun, doves cooed; a little wind blew off the land, ruffling the lagoon where fish flashed; gulls started out to sea, wheeling uncertain, to gaze at the thing that had appeared within the reef overnight, proclaiming their displeasure with raucous cries. Day had come with a leap, bringing warmth and cheer, the renewal of vitality and hope.
“Bleakfast all leady!” piped out Cheng from the galley.
Wiltz served them a rapid meal. They took their rifles, the women armed with holstered automatics. Both had donned knickers and shirts of light flannel. Jim discovered to his surprise that Lynda Warner had another treasure beside her voice; her figure was almost as youthful, almost as gracious in the revelation of the boyish costume, as Kitty’s. The men had had their meal; guns and cartridges were served out, instructions given. Baker was to take charge of the covering boat, Jim steered the first. With him went Kitty and Lynda; he assigned Newton to Baker’s outfit, much to the latter’s protest, overruled by the statement that two passengers were enough.
Kitty, Lynda, Jim, Moore, Sanders, Neilson, Walker and two kanakas.
Baker, Newton Foster, Vogt and the four remaining Fijians.
On board Cheng, Wiltz, Hamsun and Wood.
The boat-keels struck the water; the falls were released, oars put out. Cheng stuck his yellow face over the rail, the monkey squatting on his head like the familiar spirit of an Oriental wizard.
“Goo’-by an’ goo’ luck,” he called. Wiltz and Wood stood at the forestay, glum but waving farewell. Hamsun was invisible.
They rowed softly along the quiet lagoon where the ripples were like opals in the dawn. Cautiously the leading boat edged in toward the white beach of powdered coral and shells where sea pinks patterned the sand. The sunrise wind had died. There was not a sound but the splash and drip of the oars. Baker kept distance, two men rowing, the rest ready with their guns. But not a leaf of the thick wall of bush back of the beach waved. No canoe shot out from the mangroves guarding the freshwater creek.
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 15