In the mean time hour after hour the breeze strengthened on to gale, the gale heightened to hurricane. The sea lost all aeration. The galleon labored in it as if struggling through slush. There was no color to the water, only an expanse of yeasty white, furiously whipped, the spindrift flying in level sheets. The sky, like teased gray wool, seemed close to the tops, scudding along.
They were on the line of twenty-one south latitude, thirty miles south of Cape Pepe on the Isle of Pines. The wind was due west, and they held before it. Two hundred miles of open water lay ahead of them before they should reach the Gardens of the Queen. There they must man the braces for a shift of yards, making a southerly course to clear Cape Cruz, lowest point of Cuba. And they would need leeway for the galleon, with wind abeam, battering the towering stern, sagged off like a molted duck’s feather in a pond.
All this, with his will fighting a losing battle against the all-encompassing weariness, Bart realized but could not help. He stood swaying at the helm, half-dead on his feet, the sleep-demons tugging to close his eyelids, his fine crimson raiment soaked through with flying spray, the galleon driving at ten knots toward the jagged reefs of Los Jardines de la Reina, Gardens of the Queen in all their beauty when the weather was fine, but veritable jaws of the devil when it was foul.
There was nothing he could do if he left the wheel. He might cut certain ropes and let the canvas tear loose to lighten ship; but the wind was doing that for him with reports like mighty guns as the sails disappeared in the smother or flapped to ribbons. The deck buckled as the masts bent and tugged at their restraining shrouds. Each shroud was fixed with a movable toggle-pin. Bart might have struck these out; but to risk having a mast go by the board and, still held by the lee rigging, drag and pound against the sides, was worse than to trust to the storm destroying the excess sails.
More than once he strove to bring his men back to some realization of their position, to some capability. Many of them were violently sick, retching until they brought blood. Two, in their tipsy helplessness, had struck their heads against some projection, and one of these had fractured his skull. One had been knifed in a quarrel, by whom none knew, not even the murderer. The corpse rolled about the waist of the ship, swashing in the lee scuppers, hurled against a living comrade who had no more senses than feebly to thrust off the body.
Night came, not with sunset, but early in the afternoon, the dusk piling up with the fury of the storm. Rain lashed at them; lightning seared the dark pall and showed the ghastly waves, lunging and leaping, roaring as they whipped on the galleon to its doom.
Toward five o’clock the blackness slowly diminished to gray. It narrowly revealed a raging sea that swirled under a lowering sky. Between waves and clouds the wind shrieked as if blown through a great chimney, flinging the galleon, stripped of sail, with cordage slackened or thrashing at loose ends, straight toward where masses of spouting, thundering foam announced the reefs of the Queen’s Gardens.
Wind and rain and spray had somewhat revived the crew. They groped for lines and dragged themselves to the rail, some crawling up the poop-ladder to where Bart stood, gray with salt, his eyes like those of a dead man, his skin wrinkled, rime on his beard, clutching the tiller with hands that had hooked about it.
They yelled their fears at him and he stood stolid, a contemptuous giant among pigmies. It was every man for himself. Simon was on the poop, his cross-eyes seeming to shrink from the sight of the leaping death all about them.
The sea shouldered and heaved beneath them. It appeared to be putting itself to one supreme effort as a man moves to toss down the heavy burden he has carried to the dump.
For a moment the ship seemed to be tossed free of the water, slung through the air. Then it crashed down, creaking, breaking, dissolving in the ravening pack of breakers.
Below the surface, swept irresistibly along, yet striking out by blind instinct, rolled by whirling currents, Bart fought for dear life. He had filled his great lungs before he leaped far out from the poop-rail. He had used every atom of that air, and a raging fire was burning inside his chest that seemed constricted with red-hot hoops of iron.
His flailing strokes brought his head above water in the hollow between two waves, a hollow filled with a scud of bubbles, aerated fragments of the crests. He gulped both air and water, shaking his head like a bull, scenting hope of salvation in his sniff of the gale.
Then a living bulk washed upon him. Frantic arms twined about his waist, fighting upward, legs twisting around his. He sank down, struggling to release that drowning grip, bludgeoning, trying to break loose the fingers that sank into his flesh like steel. One hand dug into his shoulder; another was at his throat; the legs were about waist and crotch.
Down they went, down, with streaks of light breaking before Bart’s starting eyeballs. Over and over they whirled and the light enveloped him in spiral flares. He was gone—done—shrouded in light—Mother of God!
Bart discovered himself digging fingers and toes, elbows and knees, deep into sliding shingle, trying to stem the backrush of a wave that plucked at him as if he were a stalk of uprooted seaweed. It grasped him, dragged him back, and a second billow tossed him again onward.
It was no effort of his own that won him to safety. He was flung there as if, the wanton sport over, Neptune had contemptuously thrown him aside.
The tide receded and left him lying on the sand that was formed of broken shells and coral grit, face down amid masses of uptorn weed. The hurricane went on its way, dragging its ragged mantle of clouds, revealing the blue field of the sky.
Out came the warming sun, mounted to zenith, slanted westward. With the ebb there came in fragments of the galleon, gilded sections of the carved poop, an empty wine-keg and five dead men, stranded at intervals down the placid beach on which the emerald water rippled. None of these looked less alive than Barthelemy.
Five others of his men had won ashore, sobered, battered and lamed. Two of these had gone exploring for food, for water and for signs of natives. They had stranded in a little cove apart from Bart’s landing-place and the three less vigorous lay on the sands in the sunshine like basking seals. The man killed in the quarrel and the one whose skull had been fractured were missing with the remainder of the company.
Bart roused an hour before sunset and groaned as he raised himself on his elbows. He felt as if he had been beaten to a pulp. Blood was thick on his hair where he had struck a rock; seashells had deeply scored his body and torn to rags the faded glories of the crimson suit. His ruff was gone, the doublet open at the throat, his shirt torn away. His neck still ached from the clutch of the drowning man, and the hurt brought back full recollection of that struggle, up to the point where he lost consciousness.
His fingers, gingerly feeling his gullet, missed something familiar. The golden chain that had borne the pearl amulet was gone—the charm vanished. Frowning, Bart stripped himself and searched his clothing—the baroque had disappeared.
In vain he traced the beach to the sea and back again. On his once gay coat was still pinned a diamond brooch; there were some valuable rings deep sunk in his sodden fingers; there were a few crowns in his pockets; but what he prized more than anything on earth was lost. His luck had deserted him. The man who had clutched with him in the undertow must have wrenched the links of the chain, the sea washed out the amulet.
Moodily Bart got into his clothes again. He cast a casual glance at the bodies on the fringe of the tide, then turned to the hail of one of his men from a low cliff. The buccaneer came toward him, followed by his comrade, giving him news of the three survivors.
“We have found an Indian encampment,” said the man. “They have goat’s flesh, fresh water and fruit. And they have a large canoe which they will trade for a gold piece or two.”
A gleam of interest came into Barthelemy’s eyes.
“We can get from this accursed place then,” he said. “We can make Jamaica. Put me once ashore at Spanish Town and I’ll never leave it.”
> The two stared at him.
“I’m through with the sea,” he said, “It gives with one hand and takes away with the other.”
“Yet if one has luck?”
Barthelemy turned upon the speaker with a visage so murderous that the other leaped back and half-drew his knife.
“Luck? Prate not to me of luck!”
Bart uttered a volley of blasphemy.
“Luck! A false-faced, treacherous jade! Woo her and she flouts you. Force her and she comes along beguiling—to leave you ditched. Luck was conceived and born in Hell, bred in the ways of purgatory.
“Simon was wiser than I, after all. Old Swivel-Eyes could see more ways than one. Forced luck is luck departed. I—”
Walking toward the little cove where their companions rested, they had come upon the first of the five corpses thrown up by the sea. The two buccaneers turned the man over on his back, then hastily crossed themselves. The eyes, fixed and wide open, stared inward. It was the face of Simon the gunner, Simon the Cross-Eyed!
Something glittering caught the eye of Barthelemy. He stooped and forced open the contracted fingers. Looped about them, twisted across his horny, seamy palm, was a length of the chain that had held the baroque. It was Simon who had snatched loose the charm in his death-struggle. Somewhere, on the shifting sands of the lagoon or in the belly of some fish, attracted by the gleaming thing with its gold-tipped horns, lost irretrievably was the amulet, and with it the luck of Barthelemy Portuguese.
How can luck profit a man when he believes it gone FOREVER?
THE PIRATE SHARK, by Elliott Whitney
CHAPTER I
“WHAT’S TRINGANU?”
“I don’t care what your orders are. Cap’n Hollinger sent for me, and I’m going aboard or I’ll know the reason why!”
“Well, ain’t you just heard the reason why, son? He ain’t here, and orders is orders. There ain’t no one comin’ aboard the Seamew, that’s all. Nothin’ was said about any Mart Judson, kid.”
“Then I guess your ears need tuning up. I’m comin’ aboard, see?”
“Ye’ll go overboard then. Well, if the kid ain’t goin’ to walk right up to me! Look out there, kid—get off that gangplank in a hurry!”
Trouble was in the air. At the rail of the trim yacht Seamew lounged Swanson, her burly first officer, pipe in mouth. He was evidently angry, for his heavy features were dark and lowering and his deep-set blue eyes glittered ominously. But the boy who faced him from the wharf was no less stirred up.
Mart Judson looked a good deal more than his seventeen years, for he had worked his own way in the world and his face had a serious air of responsibility. He wore a smudgy mechanic’s cap and greasy overalls, and from his keen gray eyes, determined mouth and chin, and straight black hair, an observer might have deduced that he could be a hard worker and a stubborn fighter if need were.
Yet it was small wonder that Swanson had laughed at him. A boy mechanic asking for Stephen Hollinger personally, insisting that the millionaire had sent for him! Mart started obstinately up the gangplank and the mate laid his pipe on the rail, gave a hitch to his trousers, and moved forward to repel boarders.
Before he reached the open gangway, however, there came an interrupting shout from the deck:
“Hello, old Mart Judson! How’re ye?”
A second later Mart found himself clasping hands with his friend, Bob Hollinger, better known as “Holly,” the son of the mining expert and millionaire who owned the yacht. It was a hearty greeting, in spite of the greasy, cheap clothes of the one, and the carelessly costly dress of the other. The fact that Mart Judson worked for his living mattered nothing to Bob or to his father; the boys were the same age and had gone through high school together, and the two were firm friends.
Stephen Hollinger was an eccentric yet sensible “old-timer,” whose habits were rough and ready and who made Bob work for his pocket-money most of the time. He had been working just at present, Mart noted; his fingers were ink-stained, his blue-eyed, freckled, careless face was smudged, and he seemed both dirty and happy.
Mart glanced about in frank admiration at the white decks and evident luxury aboard the yacht. It was his first visit to the Seamew, for she was seldom used by her owner. Swanson moved off, grumbling. Mart sent a good-humored laugh after the discomfited mate, and turned to his chum.
“What’s on your mind, Holly? I had a mighty hard time gettin’ away—we’re rushed up at the shop. Blurt it out, ’cause I ain’t got time for visitin’ today. Some seamen had a scrap down at the Peniel Mission, and I’ve got to get down there with some new bulbs and fixtures before dark. What’s goin’ on?”
“You are,” grinned Holly in delight. “Say, Mart—I’ve got the best news you ever heard! See those boxes over there on the wharf? They’re cabin stores for a cruise. And you’re goin’ along with us.”
Mart stared blankly at his friend. Bob was plainly in earnest, for all that his blue eyes were dancing.
“Cut out the funny business! I’ve got to get back. Did you send that message or did your dad?”
“Nothing doing on going back,” laughed Bob, seizing his arm. “Hold on—this isn’t any pipe dream, old scout. Mother’s gone east for a month. Dad’s got to quit work—got indigestion or gastritis or some o’ those stomach things. So we’re goin’ across the Pacific. You’re going along.”
“Not me!” ejaculated Mart quickly, wondering if his chum were crazy. “I got to hold my job. I’ll get a chance at a real wireless job in the spring, maybe.”
“Well,” and Bob shrugged his shoulders, “if you’d sooner work in the shop for eight a week than be wireless man on the Seamew at forty a month and all found, you can. And if you like San Francisco better’n the other side o’ the world, suit yourself. I ain’t your boss, of course!”
The two stared at each other, and slowly the reality of the thing grew in Mart Judson’s brain. Yet it was impossible! He had his wireless license, but no one would employ him at his age. But Holly was plainly in dead earnest. Mart could only stare.
“Where you going?” he asked suddenly.
“Tringanu.”
“What’s Tringanu?”
Bob hesitated. “Well, I’m not quite sure myself,” he answered. Then his face brightened quickly. “Here’s dad coming now—we’ll ask him. It struck me kind o’ sudden too.”
Mart turned as a step sounded behind him, and his hand met that of Stephen Hollinger. The millionaire was dressed roughly in serge and yachting cap, for he was his own captain aboard the yacht. His strong, whimsical face lighted up in a smile at Mart’s expression.
“So you got down, eh! Glad to see you. Bob told you about it yet?”
“I just got here,” replied Mart. “If he wasn’t joking, Mr. Hollinger—”
“Where’s Tringanu, dad?” broke in Bob excitedly.
Captain Hollinger—for he assumed this title aboard the Seamew—looked at the two boys amusedly, then took each by an arm and propelled them toward the companionway.
“Come along to the cabin; I’ll give you half an hour. You see, Mart, we’ve been so rushed that even Bob hasn’t had time to get an explanation. I got doctor’s orders two days ago to drop business and do it quick. So we came up from Pasadena, the yacht will be in commission in another day or so, and off we go to Tringanu!”
Five minutes later Mart Judson found himself at a big mahogany table, his chum opposite him, while the captain got charts from another cabin. The luxury about him was astonishing; mahogany furnishings, walls, bookcases, a talking machine and a piano, electric lights and fans. Everything that could add to comfort or convenience was there, and he was soon to find that the rest of the yacht was fitted up in like manner.
“Now,” began Captain Hollinger, returning with his maps and charts, “maybe you know, Mart, that I’m something of a big game hunter, eh?”
“I should guess!” grinned Mart. Like everyone else in San Francisco he knew that Stephen Hollinger was an enthusiastic sp
ortsman; indeed, mining and hunting were said to be his chief pleasures in life.
“Well, I’m going hunting. And I’m going here—” he put his finger on the map as the two boys craned their necks over it. “Tringanu is one of the Malay states, on the mainland of Asia; it’s not exactly civilized, but I’m thinking of getting a mining concession there at a place I heard of.
“Here it is, on this chart of the China Sea. About halfway up the coast of Tringanu, see? It’s this bay and the lagoon, where the river drains that big basin, that ought to have gold. There are tigers in the hills, so I’m going over there on my vacation, maybe get a gold-mining concession from the government, shoot a tiger or so, and come home happier, healthier and wealthier. Isn’t that a good program, Mart?”
“You bet your life it is!” cried the boy, his eyes shining eagerly. “Golly! Say, was Bob talking turkey about my going?”
“I guess he was,” laughed the captain, looking at Bob. “I told him I could use a wireless man—had to have one, in fact—and he said you had your license.”
“Got it two weeks ago,” admitted Mart with some pride. It had cost him many hours of nightwork and study, had that license as wireless operator. Then his face fell suddenly. “I’m not old enough to take the job, though—”
“Shucks, that don’t matter!” broke in Holly. “This isn’t a reg’lar job.”
“No,” assented his father. “All you would have to do is to get market reports every few days and send some messages back. Look at these maps again, boys. Now, here’s the place, I figure that we’ll go to Honolulu, then hit straight for our goal. The river is named Kuala Besut, and we’ll probably stay there a couple of weeks or more, using divers. All the gold along there has to be dredged up, you see. While the diving is going on, we can run up-country shooting.”
“Who put you wise to the gold mine, dad?” inquired Bob curiously.
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 247