Then, as he stood there hesitating, the whining noise rose all at once into a piping, screaming squeal, that filled all the space in which they were inclosed, with an awful, inhuman and threatening clamour. The Mate turned and shouted at the top of his voice to the rest, to retreat to the barque, and he, himself, after a further quick nervous glance round, hurried towards the place where the end of the barque’s jibboom protruded in across the decks.
He waited, with strained impatience, glancing ever behind him, until all were off the derelict, and then sprang swiftly on to the spar that was their bridge to the other vessel. Even as he did so, the squealing died away into a tiny shrilling, twittering sound, that made him glance back; for the suddenness of the quiet was as effective as though it had been a loud noise. What he saw, seemed to him in that first instant so incredible and monstrous, that he was almost too shaken to cry out. Then he raised his voice in a shout of warning to the men, and a frenzy of haste shook him in every fibre, as he scrambled back to the barque, shouting ever to the men to get into the boat. For in that backward glance, he had seen the whole decks of the derelict a-move with living things — giant rats, thousands and tens of thousands of them; and so in a flash had come to an understanding of the disappearance of the crew of the barque.
He had reached the fo’cas’le head now, and was running for the steps, and behind him, making all the long slanting length of the jibboom black, were the rats, racing after him. He made one leap to the maindeck, and ran. Behind, sounded a queer, multitudinous pattering noise, swiftly surging upon him. He reached the poop steps, and as he sprang up them, felt a savage bite in his left calf. He was on the poop deck now, and running with a stagger. A score of great rats leapt around him, and half a dozen hung grimly to his back, whilst the one that had gripped his calf, flogged madly from side to side as he raced on. He reached the rail, gripped it, and vaulted clean over and down into the weed.
The rest were already in the boat, and strong hands and arms hove him aboard, whilst the others of the crew sweated in getting their little craft round from the ship. The rats still clung to the Mate; but a few blows with a cutlass eased him of his murderous burden. Above them, making the rails and half-round of the poop black and alive, raced thousands of rats.
The boat was now about an oar’s length from the barque, and, suddenly, Duthie screamed out that they were coming. In the same instant, nearly a hundred of the largest rats launched themselves at the boat. Most fell short, into the weed; but over a score reached the boat, and sprang savagely at the men, and there was a minute’s hard slashing and smiting, before the brutes were destroyed.
Once more the men resumed their task of urging their way through the weed, and so in a minute or two, had come to within some fathoms of the edge, working desperately. Then a fresh terror broke upon them. Those rats which had missed their leap, were now all about the boat, and leaping in from the weed, running up the oars, and scrambling in over the sides, and, as each one got inboard, straight for one of the crew it went; so that they were all bitten and be-bled in a score of places.
There ensued a short but desperate fight, and then, when the last of the beasts had been hacked to death, the men lay once more to the task of heaving the boat clear of the weed.
A minute passed, and they had come almost to the edge, when Duthie cried out, to look; and at that, all turned to stare at the barque, and perceived the thing that had caused the ‘prentice to cry out; for the rats were leaping down into the weed in black multitudes, making the great weed-fronds quiver, as they hurled themselves in the direction of the boat. In an incredibly short space of time, all the weed between the boat and the barque, was alive with the little monsters, coming at breakneck speed.
The Mate let out a shout, and, snatching an oar from one of the men, leapt into the stern of the boat, and commenced to thrash the weed with it, whilst the rest laboured infernally to pluck the boat forth into the open sea. Yet, despite their mad efforts, and the death-dealing blows of the Mate’s great fourteen-foot oar, the black, living mass were all about the boat, and scrambling aboard in scores, before she was free of the weed. As the boat shot into the clear water, the Mate gave out a great curse, and, dropping his oar, began to pluck the brutes from his body with his bare hands, casting them into the sea. Yet, fast almost as he freed himself, others sprang upon him, so that in another minute he was like to have been pulled down, for the boat was alive and swarming with the pests, but that some of the men got to work with their cutlasses, and literally slashed the brutes to pieces, sometimes killing several with a single blow. And thus, in a while, the boat was freed once more; though it was a sorely wounded and frightened lot of men that manned her.
The Mate himself took an oar, as did all those who were able. And so they rowed slowly and painfully away from that hateful derelict, whose crew of monsters even then made the weed all of a-heave with hideous life.
From the Tarawak came urgent signals for them to haste; by which the Mate knew that the storm, which the Captain had feared, must be coming down upon the ship, and so he spurred each one to greater endeavour, until, at last, they were under the shadow of their own vessel, with very thankful hearts, and bodies, bleeding, tired and faint.
Slowly and painfully, the boat’s crew scrambled up the side-ladder, and the boat was hoisted aboard; but they had no time then to tell their tale; for the storm was upon them.
It came half an hour later, sweeping down in a cloud of white fury from the Eastward, and blotting out all vestiges of the mysterious derelict and the little barque which had proved her victim. And after that, for a weary day and night, they battled with the storm. When it passed, nothing was to be seen, either of the two vessels or of the weed which had studded the sea before the storm; for they had been blown many a score of leagues to the Westward of the spot, and so had no further chance — nor, I ween, inclination — to investigate further the mystery of that strange old derelict of a past time, and her habitants of rats.
Yet, many a time, and in many fo’cas’les has this story been told; and many a conjecture has been passed as to how came that ancient craft abroad there in the ocean. Some have suggested — as indeed I have made bold to put forth as fact — that she must have drifted out of the lonesome Sargasso Sea. And, in truth, I cannot but think this the most reasonable supposition. Yet, of the rats that evidently dwelt in her, I have no reasonable explanation to offer. Whether they were true ship’s rats, or a species that is to be found in the weed-haunted plains and islets of the Sargasso Sea, I cannot say. It may be that they are the descendants of rats that lived in ships long centuries lost in the Weed Sea, and which have learned to live among the weed, forming new characteristics, and developing fresh powers and instincts. Yet, I cannot say; for I speak entirely without authority, and do but tell this story as it is told in the fo’cas’le of many an old-time sailing ship — that dark, brine-tainted place where the young men learn somewhat of the mysteries of the all mysterious sea.
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 who 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.”
“i, i, 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 thet,” 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!”
Nuzzie 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 comes 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 hed 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.”
“M’ria wer’ a good wife ter me, she wer’,” said Zeph, speaking slowly. “An’ now th’ old ‘ooker’s goin’, I’m feared as I’ll find it mighty lonesome ashore yon,” and he waved his hand, as though suggesting vaguely that the shore lay anywhere beyond the starboard rail.
“Ay,” remarked the second of the newcomers. “It’s er weary thing tu me as th’ old packet’s goin’. Six and sixty year hev I sailed in her. Six and sixty year!” He nodded his head, mournfully, and struck a match with shaky hands.
“It’s like ter be,” said the smaller man. “It’s like ter be.”
And, with that, he and his companion moved over to the spar that lay along under the starboard bulwarks, and there seated themselves, to smoke and meditate.
3
Skipper Abe, and Josh Matthews, the First Mate, were standing together beside the rail which ran across the break of the poop. Like the rest of the men of the Shamraken, their age had come upon them, and the frost of eternity had touched their beards and hair.
Skipper Abe was speaking: —
“It’s ha
rder ‘n I’d thought,” he said, and looked away from the Mate, staring hard along the worn, white-scoured decks.
“Dunno w’at I’ll du, Abe, w’en she’s gone,” returned the old Mate. “She’s been a ‘ome fer us these sixty years an’ more.” He knocked out the old tobacco from his pipe, as he spoke, and began to cut a bowl-full of fresh.
“It’s them durned freights!” exclaimed the Skipper. “We’re jest losin’ dollars every trip. It’s them steam packets as hes knocked us out.”
He sighed wearily, and bit tenderly at his plug.
“She’s been a mighty comfertable ship,” muttered Josh, in soliloquy. “An’ sence thet b’y o’ mine went, I sumhow thinks less o’ goin’ ashore ‘n I used ter. I ain’t no folk left on all thar ‘arth.”
He came to an end, and began with his old trembling fingers to fill his pipe.
Skipper Abe said nothing. He appeared to be occupied with his own thoughts. He was leaning over the rail across the break of the poop, and chewing steadily. Presently, he straightened himself up and walked over to leeward. He expectorated, after which he stood there for a few moments, taking a short look round — the result of half a century of habit. Abruptly, he sung out to the Mate....
“Wat d’yer make outer it?” he queried, after they had stood awhile, peering.
“Dunno, Abe, less’n it’s some sort o’ mist, riz up by ther ‘eat.”
Skipper Abe shook his head; but having nothing better to suggest, held his peace for awhile.
Complete Works of William Hope Hodgson Page 137