Complete Works of William Hope Hodgson

by Hodgson, William Hope

  “This ‘ere,” the old man was saying, holding up a worn saucepan, “wer’ one as my missus ‘as cooked a pow’r o’ spuds in.”

  He stopped, and turned half from us a moment, with a queer little awkward gesture, as if looking round for something that he knew subconsciously he was not in search of. I believe, in reality, the movement was prompted by an unrealised desire to avert his face momentarily, which had begun to work, as memory stirred in him. He faced round again.

  “Eh,” he continued, “she wer’ great on chips in batter, she wer’. Me ‘n ‘er used ter ‘ave ’em every Sunday night as ever was. Like as they was good to sleep on, so she said. An’ I guess they was all cooked in this ‘ere ole pan.”

  He finished his curious eulogy, rather lamely, and pulled out his old red handkerchief. After he had blown his nose, and furtively wiped his eyes, he used the handkerchief to polish the interior and exterior of the pan; after which he held it up once more to the view of the silent and sympathetic crowd.

  “What’ll ye give for it?” he asked, looking round anxiously at the many faces.

  “Sixpence,” said a low voice, and the old man, after a quick glance round the crowd, said: “It’s yours, Mrs. Mike Callan,” and handed it across to a woman in the front of the crowd. The money was paid into his hand in coppers, as I could tell by the chink.

  I looked towards the purchaser, feeling that I should like to buy back the saucepan, and return it to the old man. This way, I saw Father Johnson moving here and there through the little crowd, with a calico bag in his hand. From this, in a surreptitious manner, he drew something constantly — which I conceived, by the faint chinking, to be money — and distributed it to a man here and a woman there among the onlookers, accompanying each act with a few whispered words.

  I understood much and guessed the rest. It was obvious that the people had little money to spare; for both their clothes and their little huts, all told of an utter poverty. This poverty, Father Johnson was remedying for the occasion, and his whispered words were probably hints concerning the articles for which to bid, and the amount to be bid for each. This, of course, is only a guess; but I believe that I am correct, in the main.

  Once, I bid for a little old crock, offering double or treble its original value; but the old man took not the slightest notice, and continued to offer the article to bids that counted pence to the shillings of my offer. I was astonished, and began to see newly, if I may put it in that way. The man next to me, bid fivepence; then turned and put up his finger, shaking his head in a friendly fashion, but warningly. Evidently, I was to be allowed no part in this function of neighbourly help, which was obviously ordered by rules of which I lacked a fundamental knowledge. A woman, near to me, made things somewhat clearer. She bent my-wards, and whispered:

  “‘E’d not take it back from you, Sir, nor the price you offered, neither. ‘E’s got a inderpendent ‘eart, ‘e ‘as, Sir. Poor old man.”

  So the things were going to be given back, after all. I wondered how they would arrange the returning. It was evident that he had no conceiving of the intentions of his neighbours; for the emotion of distress was too plainly writ in his face, with each familiar article that he auctioned. I learned afterwards that he was detained in chapel by Father Johnson for a few “worrds,” during which the household gear was replaced in his cottage.

  When everything else had been sold, there remained only a poor bundle of something, done up in a faded shawl. It was as if the old man had put off, to the very end, the selling of this. Now, he got down clumsily on to his knees, and began to undo the knots, fumbling stupidly, and bending his head low over the bundle. He got the knots undone at last, and presently, after a little turning over of the few things, in a way that I perceived to be more a dumb caressing, than because he sought any particular article, he rose to his feet, holding an old worn skirt.

  “This ‘ere,” he said, slowly, “wer’ my missus’s best, an’ she wer’ very spechul ‘bout it, these ‘ere thirty year. I mind w’en she first wor’ it.” (His face lined a moment with emotion, grotesquely.) “She wer’ that slim ‘s she hed ter put a tuck in ther waistban’; not that it ‘armed it; she tuk pertickler care, an — —”

  I lost the old man’s low-voiced explanation at this point; for I was aware suddenly that Father Johnson was almost at my side. I glanced an instant at him; but he was staring at the old man, with the oddest expression on his face. I noticed, subconsciously, that he was clenching and unclenching his hands rapidly. Then the old man’s quaver caught my ear again: —

  “It’s fine an’ good cloth, an’ them stain-marks couldn’t be ‘elped. As she said, it wer’ ther Lord’s will, an’ she mustn’t complain. This ‘ere one on the ’em wer’ done fifteen year back — —” Again my attention was distracted. I caught the sharp flip of a finger and thumb, and a man looked round and sidled out of the crowd, up to Father Johnson, in obedience to his signal.

  “Sthop ut, Mike! Sthop ut this instant!” I heard the priest whisper, his brogue coming out strong, because he was stirred. “Offer tin bob for the lot, an’ sthop ut; ’tis breakin’ the hearts av us.”

  He handed the man some money, and Mike bid for the shawl-full. But, even then, it was horrible to see old Cardallon’s fight, before he could relinquish the garments to the buyer.

  The sale was over. The latter part of it had been attended by an ever increasing audience, from those who at first had been content to sit and talk and rest quietly on the benches; and who — coming from the outlying districts — were not intimate neighbours of old Tom. As they broke up to return to their seats, I saw one or two women crying openly.

  James Pelple and I stayed for the service of the Rosary, in all reverence, though of another persuasion. Afterwards, as we stood in the doorway, waiting for Father Johnson, I looked across at him.

  “Well?” I queried, “a den of thieves?”

  But Pelple, “the Stickler,” shook his head.

  “A wonderful man,” he said, “a wonderful man. I should like to know him better.”

  I laughed outright.

  “So you’ve come under the banner too,” I said. “I wondered whether you would.” And just then, Father Johnson joined us in his cassock, and we began our return journey to his house.

  On the way, we passed the door of Cardallon’s cottage, the upper half of which was open. The priest looked in, with a cheery word, and we joined him. The old man was standing in the centre of his hard-beaten mud floor, staring round in a stunned, incredulous fashion at all his restored household goods. He looked half-vacantly at Father Johnson, the tears running slowly down his wrinkled face. In his right hand, he held the little bundle, knotted round with the faded shawl.

  The priest stretched a hand over the half-door, and blessed old Tom Cardallon in the loveliest, homeliest way, that stirred me, I admit frankly, to the very depths.

  Then he turned away, and we resumed our walk, leaving the old man to his tears, which I am convinced were signs, in part at least, of a gentle happiness.

  “He would not take the money from us,” said the priest, later. “But do ye think the heart av him would let him sind back the gear!”

  I looked across at Pelple, and smiled to his nod; for I knew that his last vague questioning was answered.

  FROM THE TIDELESS SEA

  The Captain of the schooner leant over the rail, and stared for a moment, intently.

  “Pass us them glasses, Jock,” he said, reaching a hand behind him.

  Jock left the wheel for an instant, and ran into the little companionway. He emerged immediately with a pair of marine-glasses, which he pushed into the waiting hand.

  For a little, the Captain inspected the object through the binoculars. Then he lowered them, and polished the object glasses.

  “Seems like er water-logged barr’l as sumone’s been doin’ fancy paintin’ on,” he remarked after a further stare. “Shove ther ‘elm down er bit, Jock, an’ we’ll ‘ave er closer look at it.”
/>
  Jock obeyed, and soon the schooner bore almost straight for the object which held the Captain’s attention. Presently, it was within some fifty feet, and the Captain sung out to the boy in the caboose to pass along the boathook.

  Very slowly, the schooner drew nearer, for the wind was no more than breathing gently. At last the cask was within reach, and the Captain grappled at it with the boathook. It bobbed in the calm water, under his ministrations; and, for a moment, the thing seemed likely to elude him. Then he had the hook fast in a bit of rotten-looking rope which was attached to it. He did not attempt to lift it by the rope; but sung out to the boy to get a bowline round it. This was done, and the two of them hove it up on to the deck.

  The Captain could see now, that the thing was a small water-breaker, the upper part of which was ornamented with the remains of a painted name.

  “H — M — E — B — —” spelt out the Captain with difficulty, and scratched his head. “‘ave er look at this ‘ere, Jock. See wot you makes of it.”

  Jock bent over from the wheel, expectorated, and then stared at the breaker. For nearly a minute he looked at it in silence.

  “I’m thinkin’ some of the letterin’s washed awa’,” he said at last, with considerable deliberation. “I have ma doots if he’ll be able to read it.

  “Hadn’t ye no better knock in the end?” he suggested, after a further period of pondering. “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll be lang comin’ at them contents otherwise.”

  “It’s been in ther water er thunderin’ long time,” remarked the Captain, turning the bottom side upwards. “Look at them barnacles!”

  Then, to the boy: —

  “Pass erlong ther ‘atchet outer ther locker.”

  Whilst the boy was away, the Captain stood the little barrel on end, and kicked away some of the barnacles from the underside. With them, came away a great shell of pitch. He bent, and inspected it.

  “Blest if ther thing ain’t been pitched!” he said. “This ‘ere’s been put afloat er purpose, an’ they’ve been, mighty anxious as ther stuff in it shouldn’t be ‘armed.

  He kicked away another mass of the barnacle-studded pitch. Then, with a sudden impulse, he picked up the whole thing and shook it violently. It gave out a light, dull, thudding sound, as though something soft and small were within. Then the boy came with the hatchet.

  “Stan’ clear!” said the Captain, and raised the implement. The next instant, he had driven in one end of the barrel. Eagerly, he stooped forward. He dived his hand down and brought out a little bundle stitched up in oilskin.

  “I don’ spect as it’s anythin’ of valley,” he remarked. “But I guess as there’s sumthin’ ‘ere as ‘ll be worth tellin’ ‘bout w’en we gets ‘ome.”

  He slit up the oilskin as he spoke. Underneath, there was another covering of the same material, and under that a third. Then a longish bundle done up in tarred canvas. This was removed, and a black, cylindrical shaped case disclosed to view. It proved to be a tin canister, pitched over. Inside of it, neatly wrapped within a last strip of oilskin, was a roll of papers, which, on opening, the Captain found to be covered with writing. The Captain shook out the various wrappings; but found nothing further. He handed the MS. across to Jock.

  “More ‘n your line ‘n mine, I guess,” he remarked. “Jest you read it up, an’ I’ll listen.”

  He turned to the boy.

  “Fetch thef dinner erlong ‘ere. Me an’ ther Mate ‘ll ‘ave it comfertable up ‘ere, an’ you can take ther wheel.... Now then, Jock!”

  And, presently, Jock began to read.

  THE LOSING OF THE HOMEBIRD

  “The ‘Omebird!” exclaimed the Captain. “Why, she were lost w’en I wer’ quite a young feller. Let me see — seventy-three. That were it. Tail end er seventy-three w’en she left ‘ome, an’ never ‘eard of since; not as I knows. Go a’ead with ther yarn, Jock.”

  “It is Christmas eve. Two years ago to-day, we became lost to the world. Two years! It seems like twenty since I had my last Christmas in England. Now, I suppose, we are already forgotten — and this ship is but one more among the missing! My God! to think upon our loneliness gives me a choking feeling, a tightness across the chest!

  “I am writing this in the saloon of the sailing ship, Homebird, and writing with but little hope of human eye ever seeing that which I write; for we are in the heart of the dread Sargasso Sea — the Tideless Sea of the North Atlantic. From the stump of our mizzen mast, one may see, spread out to the far horizon, an interminable waste of weed — a treacherous, silent vastitude of slime and hideousness!

  “On our port side, distant some seven or eight miles, there is a great, shapeless, discoloured mass. No one, seeing it for the first time, would suppose it to be the hull of a long lost vessel. It bears but little resemblance to a sea-going craft, because of a strange superstructure which has been built upon it. An examination of the vessel herself, through a telescope, tells one that she is unmistakably ancient. Probably a hundred, possibly two hundred, years. Think of it! Two hundred years in the midst of this desolation! It is an eternity.

  “At first we wondered at that extraordinary superstructure. Later, we were to learn its use — and profit by the teaching of hands long withered. It is inordinately strange that we should have come upon this sight for the dead! Yet, thought suggests, that there may be many such, which have lain here through the centuries in this World of Desolation. I had not imagined that the earth contained so much loneliness, as is held within the circle, seen from the stump of our shattered mast. Then comes the thought that I might wander a hundred miles in any direction — and still be lost.

  “And that craft yonder, that one break in the monotony, that monument of a few men’s misery, serves only to make the solitude the more atrocious; for she is a very effigy of terror, telling of tragedies in the past, and to come!

  “And now to get back to the beginnings of it. I joined the Homebird, as a passenger, in the early part of November. My health was not quite the thing, and I hoped the voyage would help to set me up. We had a lot of dirty weather for the first couple of weeks out, the wind dead ahead. Then we got a Southerly slant, that carried us down through the forties; but a good deal more to the Westward than we desired. Here we ran right into a tremendous cyclonic storm. All hands were called to shorten sail, and so urgent seemed our need, that the very officers went aloft to help make up the sails, leaving only the Captain (who had taken the wheel) and myself upon the poop. On the maindeck; the cook was busy letting go such ropes as the Mates desired.

  “Abruptly, some distance ahead, through the vague sea-mist, but rather on the port bow, I saw loom up a great black wall of cloud.

  “‘Look, Captain!’ I exclaimed; but it had vanished before I had finished speaking. A minute later it came again, and this time the Captain saw it.

  “‘O, my God!’ he cried, and dropped his hands from the wheel. He leapt into the companionway, and seized a speaking trumpet. Then out on deck. He put it to his lips.

  “‘Come down from aloft! Come down! Come down!’ he shouted. And suddenly I lost his voice in a terrific mutter of sound from somewhere to port. It was the voice of the storm — shouting. My God! I had never heard anything like it! It ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and, in the succeeding quietness, I heard the whining of the kicking-tackles through the blocks. Then came a quick clang of brass upon the deck, and I turned quickly. The Captain had thrown down the trumpet, and sprung back to the wheel. I glanced aloft, and saw that many of the men were already in the rigging, and racing down like cats.

  “I heard the Captain draw his breath with a quick gasp.

  “‘Hold on for your lives!’ he shouted, in a hoarse, unnatural voice.

  “I looked at him. He was staring to windward with a fixed stare of painful intentness, and my gaze followed his. I saw, not four hundred yards distant, an enormous mass of foam and water coming down upon us. In the same instant, I caught the hiss of it, and immediately it was a shriek, so int
ense and awful, that I cringed impotently with sheer terror.

  “The smother of water and foam took the ship a little fore-side of the beam, and the wind was with it. Immediately, the vessel rolled over on to her side, the sea-froth flying over her in tremendous cataracts.

  “It seemed as though nothing could save us. Over, over we went, until I was swinging against the deck, almost as against the side of a house; for I had grasped the weather rail at the Captain’s warning. As I swung there, I saw a strange thing. Before me was the port quarter boat. Abruptly, the canvas cover was flipped clean off it, as though by a vast, invisible hand.

  “The next instant, a flurry of oars, boats’ masts and odd gear flittered up into the air, like so many feathers, and blew to leeward and was lost in the roaring chaos of foam. The boat, herself, lifted in her chocks, and suddenly was blown clean down on to the maindeck, where she lay all in a ruin of white-painted timbers.

  “A minute of the most intense suspense passed; then, suddenly, the ship righted, and I saw that the three masts had carried away. Yet, so hugely loud was the crying of the storm, that no sound of their breaking had reached me.

  “I looked towards the wheel; but no one was there. Then I made out something crumpled up against the lee rail. I struggled across to it, and found that it was the Captain. He was insensible, and queerly limp in his right arm and leg. I looked round. Several of the men were crawling aft along the poop. I beckoned to them, and pointed to the wheel, and then to the Captain. A couple of them came towards me, and one went to the wheel. Then I made out through the spray the form of the Second Mate. He had several more of the men with him, and they had a coil of rope, which they took forrard. I learnt afterwards that they were hastening to get out a sea-anchor, so as to keep the ship’s head towards the wind.