He waved the light over the dead second mate.
“I reckon as ’e’s been a bad un!” he remarked, as though to himself.
Then, as if coming suddenly to his everyday self, he gave a slight shiver which he turned off into a shrug.
“‘Ere, Mr. Jacob, let’s get outer this ’ere,” he said.
And he led the way, followed closely by the first mate, off the bridge. On the poop he turned to the mate.
“You take charge, mister. I’m goin’ down for a snooze. I reckon you can shift ’im—” jerking his thumb toward the bridge—‘ as soon as it’s daylight.”
IV.
During the following day the captain indulged in a heavy, solitary drinking-bout; and on finding out from the steward that the skipper was hopelessly drunk the first mate took upon himself to put the second over the side. He did not fancy another night with that thing aboard.
That the first mate had taken the extraordinary event of the night to heart, was common talk in the fo’cas’le; for he relaxed entirely his bullying attitude to the men and in addition on three separate occasions sent word for’ard to learn how Jones was progressing. It may be that the skipper’s theorizing of the preceding night had something to do with this sudden display of sympathy.
With the captain being drunk, the first mate had to take all the night-watches. This he managed by having one of the older men up on the poop a portion of the time to keep a lookout, while he himself got a little rest upon the seat of the saloon skylight. Yet it was evident to the man whom he had called to keep him company, that the mate obtained little sleep; for every now and again he would sit up and listen anxiously.
Once he went so far as to call the man to him and ask if he could not hear something stirring on the bridge. The man listened, and thought perhaps that he did; but he could not be sure. At that the mate stood up excitedly and ordered him to go for’ard and find out how Jones was. Much surprized, the man did as he was bid, returning to say that he seemed queer and that the men in the fo’cas’le thought he was slipping his cable and would the first mate go for’ard and have a look at him.
But this the mate would by no means do. Instead he sent the man along to the fo’cas’le every bell and between whiles he himself stood by the rail across the break of the poop. Twice he called to the man to come and listen, and the second time the man agreed that there certainly was a noise on the little bridge. After that the mate continued to stand where he was, glancing ’round about him frightenedly, a very picture of shattered nerves.
At half-past two in the morning the man came back from one of his visits for’ard to say that Jones had just gone. Even as he delivered himself of the news there came a distinct grating sound from the direction of the bridge. They both turned and stared; but though the moonlight was full upon everything there was nothing visible. The man and the mate faced one another—the man startled, the mate sweating with terror.
“My—!” said the man. “Did yer ’ear that, sir?” The mate replied nothing; his lips quivered beyond his control.
Presently the dawn came.
In the morning the skipper appeared on deck. He seemed quite sober. He found the first mate haggard and nervous, standing beside the poop rail.
“I guess you’d best get below an’ ’ave er sleep, Mr. Jacob,” he remarked, stepping over to him. “You look as if you was spun out.”
The first mate nodded in a tired manner but beyond that made no reply. The skipper looked him up and down.
“Anythin’ ’appened while I was—was below?” he asked, as though the mate’s manner suggested the thought.
“Jones has gone,” replied the mate harshly.
The captain nodded as though the mate’s reply answered some further question.
“I s’pose you dumped ’im?” he said, nodding toward the bridge, where the second mate had lain. The mate nodded.
“Seen—or ’card anythin’?” beckoning again toward the bridge.
The first mate straightened himself up from the rail and looked at the skipper.
“Directly after Jones went, there was something messing about yonder.” He jerked his thumb toward the bridge. “Stains heard it as well.”
The captain made no immediate reply. He appeared to be digesting this piece of information.
“I sh’d keep clear of ther bridge, Mr. Jacob, if I was you,” he remarked at length.
A slight flush rose in the mate’s face.
“I heard from one of the boys that young Tommy seems pretty shaky this morning,” he replied with apparent irrelevance.
“Not ther b’y!” growled the captain.
Then, glancing at the mate—
“You think—”
His gaze followed the mate’s to the bridge and he did not finish.
It was noticeable after the mate had gone below that the captain for the first time made inquiries as to the state of Tommy’s health. At first he sent the steward; the second time he went himself. It was a memorable fact.
V.
That night the captain and the mate kept the first watch together. At the beginning, before it was quite dark, they paced the poop and kept up an irregular conversation; but now that it was night they had drifted to the for’ard poop-rail and there leaned, scarcely speaking once in a couple of minutes.
To a close observer their attitudes might have suggested that they were listening intently. Once it seemed there came a faint sound through the darkness, from the direction of the bridge, whereat the first mate babbled out something in a strained, husky voice.
“You keep ther stopper on, Mr. Jacob,” said the skipper, “else you’ll be goin’ barmy.”
After that there was nothing further until the moon rose, which it did board away on the starboard bow. At first it gave little or no light, the horizon being somewhat cloudy. Presently its upper edge came into sight above the “Standard” binnacle, framing the bulging brass dome with a halo of misty light that gave it for the minute almost a curiously unreal spectral appearance. The light grew plainer, casting grotesque but indistinct shadows.
Suddenly the silence was broken by a strange husky inhuman gurgle from the bridge. The skipper started; but the mate never moved; only his face shone white in the glowing light. The captain could see that the little bridge was clear of all life. Abruptly as he stared there came from it a low, incredible, abominable laughter. The effect upon the mate was extraordinary. He stood up with a jerk, shaking from head to foot.
“He’s come for me!” he said, his voice rising into an insane quavering shout.
From for’ard and aft there came the sound of running feet. His wild cry had brought out the crew.
From the bridge there came a further sound, vague, and, to the captain, meaningless. But it had meaning to the mate.
“Coming!” he screamed in a voice as shrill as a woman’s.
He sprang away from the skipper’s side, and ran stumbling along the narrow gangway to the bridge.
“Come back, you fool!” roared the captain. “Comeback!”
The mate took no notice, and the skipper made a rush for him. He had reached the bridge and flung his arms about the “Standard” binnacle. He appeared to be wrestling with it. The captain seized him by the arm and tried to tear him away; but it was useless. Suddenly as the skipper struggled something bright flashed over his shoulder, past his ear, and the mate went slowly limp and slid down upon the deck.
The captain wrenched around and stared. Exactly what he saw no one knew. The grouped men beneath heard him shout hoarsely. Then he came flying over the bridge-rail down among them. They broke and ran a few yards. Something else came down over the rail. Something white and slender that ran upon the captain noiselessly. The captain dodged, rushing sidewise with his head down. He butted into the steel side of the deck-house and crumpled up.
“Catch it, mates,” shouted one of the men, and ran among the shadows.
The rest, inspired by his courage, closed about in a semicircle. The decks w
ere still very dim and indistinct.
“Where is it?” came in a man’s voice.
“There—there—no—”
“It’s on ther spar,” cut in some one. “It’s—”
“Overboard!” came in a chorus, and there was a general rush for the side.
“There weren’t no splash,” said one of the men presently, and no one contradicted him.
Yet whether this was so or not Martin, the oldest ’prentice, insisted that the white thing had reminded him of Toby the ordinary seaman, who had been hazed to the verge of insanity by the brutality of the captain and officers on the previous voyage.
“It’s the way his knees went,” he explained. “We used to call him ‘Knees’ before he went queer.”
There is little doubt but that it was Toby who, in his half-insane condition, had stowed away and worked out a terrible vengeance upon his tormentors. Though, of course, it can not be proved.
When after a sleepless excited night the crew of the Lady Shannon made a search of the bridge they found traces of flour upon the bridge-deck, while the mouth and throat of the ventilator in the center of the bridge was dusted with the same whiteness.
Inspired by these signs to doubt their superstitions they unshipped the after hatch and made a way to where the lower end of the ventilator opened above the water-tanks. Here they found further traces of flour and in addition discovered that the manhole-lid of the port tank was unshipped.
Searching ’round, they saw that a board was loose in the partition enclosing the tanks from the surrounding hold. This they removed and came upon more flour—the ship was loaded with this commodity—which led them finally to a sort of nest amid the cargo. Here were fragments of food, a tin hook-pot, a bag of stale bread and some ship’s biscuits; all of which tended to show that some one had been stowed away there. Close at hand was an open flour barrel.
Toby had crawled at night from his hiding-place to the ventilator and, concealed there, had stabbed the officers as they came within reach.
Tommy regained his health, as did both Captain Jeller and Jacob, the mate; but as a “hard-case” skipper and a “buck-o-mate,” they are no longer shining examples.
THE SHAMRAKEN HOMEWARD-BOUNDER
The old Shamraken, sailing-ship, had been many days upon the waters. She was old-older than her masters, and that was saying a good deal. She seemed in no hurry, as she lifted her bulging, old, wooden sides through the seas. What need for hurry! She would arrive some time, in some fashion, as had been her habit heretofore.
Two matters were especially noticeable among her crew—who were also her masters—; the first the agedness of each and everyone; the second the family sense which appeared to bind them, so that the ship seemed manned by a crew, all of whom were related one to the other; yet it was not so.
A strange company were they, each man bearded, aged and grizzled; yet there was nothing of the inhumanity of old age about them, save it might be in their freedom from grumbling, and the calm content which comes only to those in whom the more violent passions have died.
Had anything to be done, there was nothing of the growling, inseparable from the average run of sailor men. They went aloft to the “job”—whatever it might be—with the wise submission which is brought only by age and experience. Their work was gone through with a certain slow pertinacity—a sort of tired steadfastness, born of the knowledge that such work had to be done. Moreover, their hands possessed the ripe skill which comes only from exceeding practice, and which went far to make amends for the feebleness of age. Above all, their movements, slow as they might be, were remorseless in their lack of faltering. They had so often performed the same kind of work, that they had arrived, by the selection of utility, at the shortest and most simple methods of doing it.
They had, as I have said, been many days upon the water, though I am not sure that any man in her knew to a nicety the number of those days. Though Skipper Abe Tombes—addressed usually as Skipper Abe—may have had some notion; for he might be seen at times gravely adjusting a prodigious quadrant, which suggests that he kept some sort of record of time and place.
Of the crew of the Shamraken, some half dozen were seated, working placidly at such matters of seamanship as were necessary. Besides these, there were others about the decks. A couple who paced the lee side of the main deck, smoking, and exchanging an occasional word. One wha sat by the side of a worker, and made odd remarks between draws at his pipe. Another, out upon the jibboom, who fished, with a line, hook and white rag, for bonito. This last was Nuzzie, the ship’s boy. He was grey-bearded, and his years numbered five and fifty. A boy of fifteen he had been, when he joined the Shamraken, and “boy” he was still, though forty years had’ passed into eternity, since the day of his “signing on”; for the men of the Shamraken lived in the past, and thought of him only as the “boy” of that past.
It was Nuzzie’s watch below—his time for sleeping. This might have been said also of the other three men who talked and smoked; but for themselves they had scarce a thought of sleep. Healthy age sleeps little, and they were in health, though so ancient.
Presently, one of those who walked the lee side of the main deck, chancing to cast a glance forrard, observed Nuzzie still to be out upon the jibboom, jerking his line so as to delude some foolish bonito into the belief that the white rag was a flying-fish. The smoker nudged his companion.
“Time thet b’y ’ad ’is sleep.”
“Aye, aye, mate,” returned the other; withdrawing his pipe, and giving a steadfast look at the figure seated out upon the jibboom.
For the half of a minute they stood there, very effigies of Age’s implacable determination to rule rash Youth. Their pipes were held in their hands, and the smoke rose up in little eddies from the smouldering contents of the bowls.
“Thar’s no tamin’ of thet b’y!” said the first man, looking very stern and determined. Then he remembered his pipe, and took a draw.
“B’ys is tur’ble queer critters,” remarked the second man, and remembered his pipe in turn. “Fishin’ w’en e orter be sleepin’,” snorted the first man.
“B’ys needs a tur’ble lot er sleep,” said the second man. “I ’member w’en I wor a b’y. I reckon it’s ther growin’.”
And all the time poor Nuzzie fished on.
“‘Guess I’ll jest step up an’ tell ’im ter come in outer thef,” exclaimed the first man, and commenced to walk towards the steps leading up on to the fo’cas’le head.
“B’y!” he shouted, as soon as his head was above the level of the fo’cas’le deck. “B’y!
Nuzzle looked round, at the second call. “Eh?” he sung out.
“Yew come in outer thet,” shouted the older man, in the somewhat shrill tone which age had brought to his voice. “Reckon we’ll be ’avin’ yer sleepin’ at the wheel ter night.”
“i,” joined in the second man, who had followed his companion up on to the fo’cas’le head. “Come in, b’y, an’ get ter yer bunk.”
“Right,” called Nuzzie, and commenced to coil up his line. It was evident that he had no thought of disobeying.… He came in off the spar, and went past them without a word, on the way to turn in.
They, on their part, went down slowly off the fo’cas’le head, and resumed their walk fore and aft along the lee side of the main deck.
2
“I reckon, Zeph,” said the man who sat upon the hatch and smoked, “I reckon as Skipper Abe’s ’bout right. We’ve made a trifle o’ dollars outer the old ’ooker, an’ we don’t get no younger.”
“Ay, thet’s so, right ’nuff,” returned the man who sat beside him, working at the stropping of a block.
“An’ it’s ’bout time’s we got inter the use o’ bein’ ashore,” went on the first man, who was named Job.
Zeph gripped the block between his knees, and fumbled in his hip pocket for a plug. He bit off a’ chew and replaced the plug.
“Seems cur’ous this is ther last trip, w’en yer c
omes ter think uv it,” he remarked, chewing steadily, his chin resting on his hand.
Job took two or three deep draws at his pipe before he spoke.
“Reckon it had ter come sumtime,” he said, at length. “I’ve a purty leetle place in me mind w’er’ I’m goin’ ter tie up. ’Ave yer thought erbout it, Zeph?”
The man who held the block between his knees, shook his head, and stared away moodily over the sea.
“Dunno, Job, as I know what I’ll do w’en ther old ’ooker’s sold,” he muttered. “Sence M’ria went, I don’t seem nohow ter care ’bout bein’ ’shore.”
“I never ’ad no wife,” said Job, pressing down the burning tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. “I reckon seafarin’ men don’t ought ter have no truck with wives.”
“Thet’s right ’nuff, Job, fer yew. Each man ter ’is taste. I wer’ tur’ble fond uv M’ria—” he broke off short, and continued to stare out over the sea.
“I’ve allus thought I’d like ter settle down on er farm o’ me own. I guess the dollars I’ve arned ’ll do the trick,” said Job.
Zeph made no reply, and, for a time, they sat there, neither speaking:
Presently, from the door of the fo’cas’le, on the starboard side, two figures emerged. They were also of the “watch below.” If anything, they seemed older than the rest of those about the decks; their beards, white, save for the stain of tobacco juice, came nearly to their waists. For the rest, they had been big vigorous men; but were now sorely bent by the burden of their years. They came aft, walking slowly. As they came opposite to the main hatch, Job looked up and spoke—
“Say, Nehemiah, thar’s Zeph here’s been thinkin’ ’bout M’ria, an’ I ain’t bin able ter peek ’im up nohow.”
The smaller of the two newcomers shook his head slowly.
“We hev oor trubbles,” he said. “We hev oor trubbles. I bed mine w’en I lost my datter’s gell. I wor powerful took wi’ thet gell, she wor that winsome; but it wor like ter be—it wor like ter be, an’ Zeph’s hed his trubble sence then.”
The William Hope Hodgson Megapack Page 14