“But there’s no wind to do such a thing; you’re talking nonsense!”
It seemed to me that there was as much of bewilderment as anything else in his voice; yet I could tell that he was suspicious — though, of what, I doubted whether he himself could have told.
He glanced at Williams, and seemed about to say something. Then, seeming to change his mind, he turned, and sung out to one of the men who had followed him aloft, to go down and pass out a coil of new, three-inch manilla, and a tailblock.
“Smartly now!” he concluded.
“i, i, Sir,” said the man, and went down swiftly.
The Second Mate turned to me.
“When you’ve got Tom below, I shall want a better explanation of all this, than the one you’ve given me. It won’t wash.”
“Very well, Sir,” I answered. “But you won’t get any other.”
“What do you mean?” he shouted at me. “I’ll let you know I’ll have no impertinence from you or any one else.”
“I don’t mean any impertinence, Sir — I mean that it’s the only explanation there is to give.”
“I tell you it won’t wash!” he repeated. “There’s something too damned funny about it all. I shall have to report the matter to the Captain. I can’t tell him that yarn—” He broke off abruptly.
“It’s not the only damned funny thing that’s happened aboard this old hooker,” I answered. “You ought to know that, Sir.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, quickly.
“Well, Sir,” I said, “to be straight, what about that chap you sent us hunting after up the main the other night? That was a funny enough affair, wasn’t it? This one isn’t half so funny.”
“That will do, Jessop!” he said, angrily. “I won’t have any back talk.” Yet there was something about his tone that told me I had got one in on my own. He seemed all at once less able to appear confident that I was telling him a fairy tale.
After that, for perhaps half a minute, he said nothing. I guessed he was doing some hard thinking. When he spoke again it was on the matter of getting the Ordinary down on deck.
“One of you’ll have to go down the lee side and steady him down,” he concluded.
He turned and looked downwards.
“Are you bringing that gantline?” he sang out.
“Yes, Sir,” I heard one of the men answer.
A moment later, I saw the man’s head appear over the top. He had the tail-block slung round his neck, and the end of the gantline over his shoulder.
Very soon we had the gantline rigged, and Tom down on deck. Then we took him into the fo’cas’le and put him in his bunk. The Second Mate had sent for some brandy, and now he started to dose him well with it. At the same time a couple of the men chafed his hands and feet. In a little, he began to show signs of coming round. Presently, after a sudden fit of coughing, he opened his eyes, with a surprised, bewildered stare. Then he caught at the edge of his bunk-board, and sat up, giddily. One of the men steadied him, while the Second Mate stood back, and eyed him, critically. The boy rocked as he sat, and put up his hand to his head.
“Here,” said the Second Mate, “take another drink.”
Tom caught his breath and choked a little; then he spoke.
“By gum!” he said, “my head does ache.”
He put up his hand, again, and felt at the lump on his forehead. Then he bent forward and stared round at the men grouped about his bunk.
“What’s up?” he inquired, in a confused sort of way, and seeming as if he could not see us clearly.
“What’s up?” he asked again.
“That’s just what I want to know!” said the Second Mate, speaking for the first time with some sternness.
“I ain’t been snoozin’ while there’s been a job on?” Tom inquired, anxiously.
He looked round at the men appealingly.
“It’s knocked ‘im dotty, strikes me,” said one of the men, audibly.
“No,” I said, answering Tom’s question, “you’ve had—”
“Shut that, Jessop!” said the Second Mate, quickly, interrupting me. “I want to hear what the boy’s got to say for himself.”
He turned again to Tom.
“You were up at the fore royal,” he prompted.
“I carn’t say I was, Sir,” said Tom, doubtfully. I could see that he had not gripped the Second Mate’s meaning.
“But you were!” said the Second, with some impatience. “It was blowing adrift, and I sent you up to shove a gasket round it.”
“Blowin’ adrift, Sir?” said Tom, dully.
“Yes! blowing adrift. Don’t I speak plainly?”
The dullness went from Tom’s face, suddenly.
“So it was, Sir,” he said, his memory returning. “The bloomin’ sail got chock full of wind. It caught me bang in the face.”
He paused a moment.
“I believe—” he began, and then stopped once more.
“Go on!” said the Second Mate. “Spit it out!”
“I don’t know, Sir,” Tom said. “I don’t understand—”
He hesitated again.
“That’s all I can remember,” he muttered, and put his hand up to the bruise on his forehead, as though trying to remember something.
In the momentary silence that succeeded, I caught the voice of Stubbins.
“There hain’t hardly no wind,” he was saying, in a puzzled tone.
There was a low murmur of assent from the surrounding men.
The Second Mate said nothing, and I glanced at him, curiously. Was he beginning to see, I wondered, how useless it was to try to find any sensible explanation of the affair? Had he begun at last to couple it with that peculiar business of the man up the main? I am inclined now to think that this was so; for, after staring a few moments at Tom, in a doubtful sort of way, he went out of the fo’cas’le, saying that he would inquire further into the matter in the morning. Yet, when the morning came, he did no such thing. As for his reporting the affair to the Skipper, I much doubt it. Even did he, it must have been in a very casual way; for we heard nothing more about it; though, of course, we talked it over pretty thoroughly among ourselves.
With regard to the Second Mate, even now I am rather puzzled by his attitude to us aloft. Sometimes I have thought that he must have suspected us of trying to play off some trick on him — perhaps, at the time, he still half suspected one of us of being in some way connected with the other business. Or, again, he may have been trying to fight against the conviction that was being forced upon him, that there was really something impossible and beastly about the old packet. Of course, these are only suppositions.
And then, close upon this, there were further developments.
V. The End of Williams
As I have said, there was a lot of talk, among the crowd of us forrard, about Tom’s strange accident. None of the men knew that Williams and I had seen it happen. Stubbins gave it as his opinion that Tom had been sleepy, and missed the foot-rope. Tom, of course, would not have this by any means. Yet, he had no one to appeal to; for, at that time, he was just as ignorant as the rest, that we had seen the sail flap up over the yard.
Stubbins insisted that it stood to reason it couldn’t be the wind. There wasn’t any, he said; and the rest of the men agreed with him.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know about all that. I’m a bit inclined to think Tom’s yarn is the truth.”
“How do you make that hout?” Stubbins asked, unbelievingly. “There haint nothin’ like enough wind.”
“What about the place on his forehead?” I inquired, in turn. “How are you going to explain that?”
“I ‘spect he knocked himself there when he slipped,” he answered.
“Likely ‘nuffli,” agreed old Jaskett, who was sitting smoking on a chest near by.
“Well, you’re both a damn long way out of it!” Tom chipped in, pretty warm. “I wasn’t asleep; an’ the sail did bloomin’ well hit me.”
“Do
n’t you be impertinent, young feller,” said Jaskett.
I joined in again.
“There’s another thing, Stubbins,” I said. “The gasket Tom was hanging by, was on the after side of the yard. That looks as if the sail might have flapped it over? If there were wind enough to do the one, it seems to me that it might have done the other.”
“Do you mean that it was hunder ther yard, or hover ther top?” he asked.
“Over the top, of course. What’s more, the foot of the sail was hanging over the after part of the yard, in a bight.”
Stubbins was plainly surprised at that, and before he was ready with his next objection, Plummer spoke.
“‘oo saw it?” he asked.
“I saw it!” I said, a bit sharply. “So did Williams; so — for that matter — did the Second Mate.”
Plummer relapsed into silence; and smoked; and Stubbins broke out afresh.
“I reckon Tom must have had a hold of the foot and the gasket, and pulled ’em hover the yard when he tumbled.”
“No!” interrupted Tom. “The gasket was under the sail. I couldn’t even see it. An’ I hadn’t time to get hold of the foot of the sail, before it up and caught me smack in the face.”
“‘ow did yer get ‘old er ther gasket, when yer fell, then?” asked Plummer.
“He didn’t get hold of it,” I answered for Tom. “It had taken a turn round his wrist, and that’s how we found him hanging.”
“Do you mean to say as ‘e ‘adn’t got ‘old of ther garsket?,” Quoin inquired, pausing in the lighting of his pipe.
“Of course, I do,” I said. “A chap doesn’t go hanging on to a rope when he’s jolly well been knocked senseless.”
“Ye’re richt,” assented Jock. “Ye’re quite richt there, Jessop.”
Quoin concluded the lighting of his pipe.
“I dunno,” he said.
I went on, without noticing him.
“Anyway, when Williams and I found him, he was hanging by the gasket, and it had a couple of turns round his wrist. And besides that, as I said before, the foot of the sail was hanging over the after side of the yard, and Tom’s weight on the gasket was holding it there.”
“It’s damned queer,” said Stubbins, in a puzzled voice. “There don’t seem to be no way of gettin’ a proper hexplanation to it.”
I glanced at Williams, to suggest that I should tell all that we had seen; but he shook his head, and, after a moment’s thought, it seemed to me that there was nothing to be gained by so doing. We had no very clear idea of the thing that had happened, and our half facts and guesses would only have tended to make the matter appear more grotesque and unlikely. The only thing to be done was to wait and watch. If we could only get hold of something tangible, then we might hope to tell all that we knew, without being made into laughing-stocks.
I came out from my think, abruptly.
Stubbins was speaking again. He was arguing the matter with one of the other men.
“You see, with there bein’ no wind, scarcely, ther thing’s himpossible, an’ yet—”
The other man interrupted with some remark I did not catch.
“No,” I heard Stubbins say. “I’m hout of my reckonin’. I don’t savvy it one bit. It’s too much like a damned fairy tale.”
“Look at his wrist!” I said.
Tom held out his right hand and arm for inspection. It was considerably swollen where the rope had been round it.
“Yes,” admitted Stubbins. “That’s right enough; but it don’t tell you nothin’.”
I made no reply. As Stubbins said, it told you “nothin’.” And there I let it drop. Yet, I have told you this, as showing how the matter was regarded in the fo’cas’le. Still, it did not occupy our minds very long; for, as I have said, there were further developments.
The three following nights passed quietly; and then, on the fourth, all those curious signs and hints culminated suddenly in something extraordinarily grim. Yet, everything had been so subtle and intangible, and, indeed, so was the affair itself, that only those who had actually come in touch with the invading fear, seemed really capable of comprehending the terror of the thing. The men, for the most part, began to say the ship was unlucky, and, of course, as usual! there was some talk of there being a Jonah in the ship. Still, I cannot say that none of the men realised there was anything horrible and frightening in it all; for I am sure that some did, a little; and I think Stubbins was certainly one of them; though I feel certain that he did not, at that time, you know, grasp a quarter of the real significance that underlay the several queer matters that had disturbed our nights. He seemed to fail, somehow, to grasp the element of personal danger that, to me, was already plain. He lacked sufficient imagination, I suppose, to piece the things together — to trace the natural sequence of the events, and their development. Yet I must not forget, of course, that he had no knowledge of those two first incidents. If he had, perhaps he might have stood where I did. As it was, he had not seemed to reach out at all, you know, not even in the matter of Tom and the fore royal. Now, however, after the thing I am about to tell you, he seemed to see a little way into the darkness, and realise possibilities.
I remember the fourth night, well. It was a clear, star-lit, moonless sort of night: at least, I think there was no moon; or, at any rate, the moon could have been little more than a thin crescent, for it was near the dark time.
The wind had breezed up a bit; but still remained steady. We were slipping along at about six or seven knots an hour. It was our middle watch on deck, and the ship was full of the blow and hum of the wind aloft. Williams and I were the only ones about the maindeck. He was leaning over the weather pin-rail, smoking; while I was pacing up and down, between him and the fore hatch. Stubbins was on the look-out.
Two bells had gone some minutes, and I was wishing to goodness that it was eight, and time to turn-in. Suddenly, overhead, there sounded a sharp crack, like the report of a rifle shot. It was followed instantly by the rattle and crash of sailcloth thrashing in the wind.
Williams jumped away from the rail, and ran aft a few steps. I followed him, and, together, we stared upwards to see what had gone. Indistinctly, I made out that the weather sheet of the fore t’gallant had carried away, and the clew of the sail was whirling and banging about in the air, and, every few moments, hitting the steel yard a blow, like the thump of a great sledge hammer.
“It’s the shackle, or one of the links that’s gone, I think,” I shouted to Williams, above the noise of the sail. “That’s the spectacle that’s hitting the yard.”
“Yus!” he shouted back, and went to get hold of the clewline. I ran to give him a hand. At the same moment, I caught the Second Mate’s voice away aft, shouting. Then came the noise of running feet, and the rest of the watch, and the Second Mate, were with us almost at the same moment. In a few minutes we had the yard lowered and the sail clewed up. Then Williams and I went aloft to see where the sheet had gone. It was much as I had supposed; the spectacle was all right, but the pin had gone out of the shackle, and the shackle itself was jammed into the sheavehole in the yard arm.
Williams sent me down for another pin, while he unbent the clewline, and overhauled it down to the sheet. When I returned with the fresh pin, I screwed it into the shackle, clipped on the clewline, and sung out to the men to take a pull on the rope. This they did, and at the second heave the shackle came away. When it was high enough, I went up on to the t’gallant yard, and held the chain, while Williams shackled it into the spectacle. Then he bent on the clewline afresh, and sung out to the Second Mate that we were ready to hoist away.
“Yer’d better go down an’ give ’em a ‘aul,” he said. “I’ll sty an’ light up ther syle.”
“Right ho, Williams,” I said, getting into the rigging. “Don’t let the ship’s bogy run away with you.”
This remark I made in a moment of light-heartedness, such as will come to anyone aloft, at times. I was exhilarated for the time being, and quite free
from the sense of fear that had been with me so much of late. I suppose this was due to the freshness of the wind.
“There’s more’n one!” he said, in that curiously short way of his.
“What?” I asked.
He repeated his remark.
I was suddenly serious. The reality of all the impossible details of the past weeks came back to me, vivid, and beastly.
“What do you mean, Williams?” I asked him.
But he had shut up, and would say nothing.
“What do you know — how much do you know?” I went on, quickly. “Why did you never tell me that you—”
The Second Mate’s voice interrupted me, abruptly:
“Now then, up there! Are you going to keep us waiting all night? One of you come down and give us a pull with the ha’lyards. The other stay up and light up the gear.”
“i, i, Sir,” I shouted back.
Then I turned to Williams, hurriedly.
“Look here, Williams,” I said. “If you think there is really a danger in your being alone up here—” I hesitated for words to express what I meant. Then I went on. “Well, I’ll jolly well stay up with you.”
The Second Mate’s voice came again.
“Come on now, one of you! Make a move! What the hell are you doing?”
“Coming, Sir!” I sung out.
“Shall I stay?” I asked definitely.
“Garn!” he said. “Don’t yer fret yerself. I’ll tike er bloomin’ piy-diy out of ‘er. Blarst ‘em. I ain’t funky of ‘em.”
I went. That was the last word Williams spoke to anyone living.
I reached the decks, and tailed on to the haulyards.
We had nearly mast-headed the yard, and the Second Mate was looking up at the dark outline of the sail, ready to sing out “Belay”; when, all at once, there came a queer sort of muffled shout from Williams.
“Vast hauling, you men,” shouted the Second Mate.
We stood silent, and listened.
“What’s that, Williams?” he sung out. “Are you all clear?”
For nearly half a minute we stood, listening; but there came no reply. Some of the men said afterwards that they had noticed a curious rattling and vibrating noise aloft that sounded faintly above the hum and swirl of the wind. Like the sound of loose ropes being shaken and slatted together, you know. Whether this noise was really heard, or whether it was something that had no existence outside of their imaginations, I cannot say. I heard nothing of it; but then I was at the tail end of the rope, and furthest from the fore rigging; while those who heard it were on the fore part of the haulyards, and close up to the shrouds.
Complete Works of William Hope Hodgson Page 35