Uncharted Seas

by Dennis Wheatley

  The following hour was the tensest and most anxious of the whole terrible night. They constantly expected to hear again that loathsome scuffling sound down by the water’s edge, but at last, after what seemed an interminable time, a faint greyness lit the eastern horizon, and ten minutes later it was light enough for them to see the shore.

  Once daylight had fully come De Brissac found the automatic Corncob had thrown away, and they determined not to lose a moment but to leave the island where they had experienced such inexpressible terror with the utmost dispatch.

  Yonita’s legs and feet were so badly bruised that they feared she might not be able to manipulate her stilts, but she declared that she would rather risk falling into the weed than stay a moment longer. To give her additional support they lashed Corncob’s gas balloon to hers and, adjusting their own, they began to hop gently down towards the beach.

  The last crab that De Brissac had killed was still there, and a swarm of smaller ones, from tiny things the size of a thumbnail to ugly-looking brutes a foot across, were gorging themselves on its carcass. De Brissac drove them off with a couple of shots, aimed at the two largest, which scared the rest and sent them scuttling some twenty yards away where they remained, waving their claws and staring at the humans. Holding his nose with one hand because of the sickening stink, he ripped up the great crab’s gullet and retrieved his cigarette-case.

  In the meantime Basil had come upon a grim souvenir of the night’s terror. It was ten inches of black-skinned human leg and a complete foot, sliced off as cleanly, halfway up the shin, as though it had been severed by the single stroke of a woodman’s axe. One of the crabs must have nipped it from poor Corncob’s body as he was flying in panic across the rocks.

  Twenty yards farther on they came upon all that remained of his body; a hideous bloody mess with little flesh remaining about the bones. The head had disappeared, having evidently been carried off by one of the monsters.

  In that island of barren rock there was no place to give his remains burial, so they had to leave them where they were and set about the by no means easy task of launching themselves on to the weed.

  De Brissac insisted that the other two should wait until he had made the first attempt. The difficulty lay in getting himself high enough into the air to operate his stilts as he could not jump because his legs were attached to them.

  Retreating up the slope some fifty yards from the water’s edge he lay down on a flat rock with the stilts dangling behind him. Holding his ski-sticks short he jumped awkwardly from his knees. His stilts dragged as he took off, but using his ski-sticks gripped short to force himself up into the air he managed to gain just enough height to come upright by the time he reached the weed. While he bobbed about there the others followed his example in turn and when they were all launched the two men took Yonita’s arms so as to support her between them on account of the pain she was suffering in her feet.

  For a little De Brissac chanted ‘One, two—three!’ as they hopped along in unison, but soon that was no longer necessary; by six o’clock they had landed safely on Yonita’s island.

  The shore had the same barren, deserted look as the island on which they had passed the night. Yonita said that her people rarely came down to the beaches. She had heard tell that each time a new batch of castaways reached the island they always attempted to vary their diet by catching fish, but soon abandoned the attempt. No boat could be poled more than fifty feet out into the weed without danger from the devil-fish, swarms of small but fierce sea-leaches infested the shallows, making bathing impossible, and occasionally giant crabs had been seen slithering from rock to rock at sundown.

  They freed themselves of their stilts, and, partially supported by their balloons, clambered up a long, shelving cliff which rose to about sixty feet above sea-level. From its top Yonita was able to point out the nearest farmhouse almost concealed by a low coppice of trees some mile and a half away. Tethering the balloons securely in a sheltered pocket on the cliff top they set out for the farm.

  Yonita protested that she could manage all right, but she was limping over the rough ground so painfully that De Brissac insisted on carrying her. In spite of her adorable little figure he found her no light weight, and after a time he had to pass her over to Basil. Carrying her in turns they covered the mile and a half, and, passing along the edge of a field of maize, came to an orchard of apple, pear and cherry trees amidst which the farm was set.

  Its owner was just setting off to his fields for the day’s work. Immediately he caught sight of them he dropped his farm implements and came towards them at a run; the look of amazement on his lean face giving place to one of excited pleasure as he recognised Yonita.

  De Brissac set her down and she introduced her rescuers to the farmer, Silas Randel, who was the son of one of the American whaler crew that had reached the island in ’79. He was a tall, gaunt man of fifty.

  ‘Well, well well!’ he exclaimed again and again as he slapped the two strangers affectionately on their backs. ‘If this isn’t the best news ever. Come right along to the home now. We’ve scarce finished breakfast, but my little Elsa will cook you another and welcome. Well, well, well, just to think of you tricking them sons of Satan and getting back to your own folk like this.’

  His little Elsa proved to be a buxom woman of forty-odd, the granddaughter of one of the Norwegian sailors and three of the earlier colonists. She fussed over Yonita like a distracted hen, endeavouring to bathe her guest’s feet with some soothing lotion and cook a fresh meal at the same time. To help and hinder her she had her only son, a wildly excited, red-haired boy of twelve.

  The meal was plain but abundant, cereals, ham and eggs, home-made bread and a cherry conserve; washed down by large mugs of steaming mint tea. Basil noted the absence of milk, butter and sugar from the table, and when he had explained what such things were, Yonita told him that they had no cows although she knew what a cow was from having seen a picture of one in a book that had been salvaged from a wreck. They also lacked both sugar-cane and beet, but had bees, and honey for sweetening things and making jam. Neither tea nor coffee could be grown in their island, even if they had had the plants, owing to the temperate climate and cold winters; the usual drinks were mint or verbena tea, and cider and perry made from the apples and pears in the orchards.

  With breakfast over, much fortified and revived, they proposed to set out again at once; reluctant as their kind hosts were to let them go. Silas had already sent his small son off to the village in the centre of the island to let Sir Deveril Barthorne know of Yonita’s escape, and now he got out a hand-cart for her to travel in.

  The road was no more than a narrow track as hand-carts were the only vehicles on the island, there being no horses or oxen to draw wagons. The Randels accompanied their guests, and half a mile from the farm they were met by young Sir Deveril and the whole population of the village, which had turned out to welcome them. The men were clad in old-fashioned, long-waisted coats and baggy breeches somewhat resembling plus-fours, the women in short pleated skirts like Yonita’s.

  Sir Deveril Barthorne was a fine, tall young man of twenty-six. He embraced Yonita again and again almost crying with delight at her safe return, while the others, men, women and children, crowded round Basil and De Brissac, wringing their hands, kissing them and hailing them with overwhelming gratitude as Yonita’s rescuers.

  The excitement took a good quarter of an hour to subside, but when it had died down a little they went on their way once more; the strangers now having some chance to observe the more highly cultivated portion of the island.

  At this end it was mainly downland which lent itself to agriculture; broad fields of Indian corn and wheat were interspersed with well-planned orchards of apple, plum and cherry. Having no cattle the islanders devoted no land to grazing and there were no hedges, as all property was held in common. As they topped a rise dense woods showed in the distance, on higher ground across a park-like area in the shallow valley that lay
below them.

  Sir Deveril explained that the valley was roughly the centre of the island, and that his ancestors had deliberately left about ten acres surrounding their home uncultivated. There was no village in the ordinary sense of a narrow, crowded street, the houses being scattered through the park, each with its own garden.

  Basil thought the arable land through which they had passed might well have been a portion of Kent or Sussex, and the park had something of the look of an English estate, largely owing to the magnificent cedars that graced it, but the houses had a queer, foreign air.

  They were all built of thick logs, and with one exception were only one storey high, but there was nothing shack-like or impermanent about them. The majority were irregular in shape but of considerable size, obviously having been built on to from time to time and containing a dozen or more rooms. No farmyards or unsightly lean-tos marred their pleasant appearance as they lay there sleeping in the sun between the great cedars, and Sir Deveril explained that both the chicken and pig farms of the island commune were situated farther up the opposite slope of the valley towards the woods.

  The whole party headed for the solitary two-storeyed building; it was windowless and presented the appearance of a huge barn. At first De Brissac supposed it was the church, but Yonita informed him that the church had been burnt down nearly a century before and they had never built another.

  ‘Do you not follow any religion then?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘We have no religion as you understand it. For nearly two hundred years we lacked the benison of a priest in our land. Protestant and Catholic settlers each followed their religion according to their consciences and brought up their children in their faith, but neither sect had the temerity to build a church since none could officiate in it without being guilty of blasphemy and all held nonconformity in abhorrence. The Sir Deverils married and buried people as captains do on ships, but they could not give communion, and the people met on Sundays only to sing hymns and pray together. On the coming of Father Jerome they built a church owing to their particular regard for him, but no good came of it. The Protestants all became monstrous bigoted and refused to pray with the Catholics; and the Catholics began to detest the Protestants and call them heathens. For a few years there was bitter strife between the two factions until one night the church was burnt down and Father Jerome lost his life trying to save the sacred ornaments. After that the two sects made up their differences and decided not to hold any religious meetings at all so that there should be no further cause for trouble and dissension.’

  ‘Yet you wear a crucifix,’ remarked De Brissac.

  ‘Ah, that is different,’ she smiled. ‘We all reverence God and pray in private when we have occasion to do so. Our mothers instruct us in the teachings of Jesus Christ and we follow them so far as we are able in our daily lives. For us, the Cross has a special significance. ’Tis scarce to be expected you will have observed it yet, but our island is shaped like a crucifix. We landed but now on the short, northern shore which forms its foot. Perchance you may say it is a folly in us but we believe that the Good God made it so; placing it in the very heart of this desolate sea which holds so much evil as a protection and a refuge for poor, shipwrecked people.’

  As they entered the large building the newcomers saw that it consisted of a single, lofty room. From its rafters hung two rows of flags; the faded ensigns of the ships that had foundered in the bay to eastward. Sir Deveril pointed out his own ancestor’s flag, the Leopards of England quartered with the Fleur-de-lis of France which he had flown as a Royalist Admiral in the Civil War against Cromwell, and, stranger still to behold, the Skull and Crossbones on a black ground that had waved over many a bloody fight from the masthead of the Red Barracuda, who had reached the island in 1744.

  Other islanders were constantly arriving from the more distant houses as the news of Yonita’s return spread. Her Uncle Cornelius, a tall, Spanish-looking man with a fine aquiline nose and sweeping black moustache, came hurrying into the hall and embraced his beautiful little niece with fervour. He assured Basil and De Brissac that never, if he lived to be a thousand, could he repay them for their services.

  In the meantime long trestle tables were being erected and the olive-skinned women of the island were bustling about them setting out a meal. All of them wore costumes of home-woven stuffs, but the variety of colours and cut showed some individual taste; the men’s coats and breeches were of the same materials. The visitors protested that they had eaten a hearty breakfast barely an hour before but they were forced to sit down and do their best to appear appreciative of the abundance of good things that were pressed upon them.

  The meal provided one surprise after another for the principal guests, in the many articles in everyday use the islanders appeared to lack and the many others one would have supposed them unable to make, yet which they had managed to create by applying much ingenuity to their limited resources. Articles of their own manufacture supplied the needs of the table. Wooden spoons and forks took the place of cutlery, but no knives were used as there were no solid dishes of meat which needed cutting up. The drinking vessels consisted of gaily coloured, home-made pottery.

  Yonita’s uncle apologised that there was no wine as the island was too far south for them to grow vines, but a sparkling vintage cider was served with the meal and Basil declared that he had never tasted better. With the dessert a very palatable plum brandy made its appearance and numerous cordial toasts were drunk in it.

  Having slept little over six hours in the last fifty Yonita was now absolutely dropping with fatigue, while Basil and De Brissac were also badly in need of rest. Sir Deveril, seeing their plight, rescued them out of the hall, through a pretty garden, to his own residence which lay only a few hundred yards away.

  The house was long, low and rambling with a wide veranda running all down the south side of it and a big lily pool beneath its principal windows; all but four of these being no more than salvaged cabin ports inserted in the tree-trunk walls.

  The inside of the house intrigued the visitors even more than the outside had done. All the rooms had a strange atmosphere of the sea about them as so many things salvaged from the ships had gone to their furnishing. Each room had a huge, open fireplace on account of the cold winters and the walls were hung with canvas cut from ships’ sails and awnings. Upon them for decorative purposes were a few cheap-looking coloured illustrations taken from old magazines, all neatly framed, a fine collection of ancient weapons and many lovely old maps.

  When Basil asked if he could have a bath, his host looked a trifle worried, and it soon transpired that in such matters the islanders had not made any advance since Georgian days, but Sir Deveril assured him that it could be arranged.

  He was shown to a spacious room and an ancient hip bath was carried in with numerous cans of hot water from the kitchen. De Brissac came in and shared the welcome tub. Ten minutes later both of them were tucked up on comfortable divans and no sooner had their heads touched their pillows than, with no further thought of their unusual surroundings, they fell asleep.

  15

  The Green Devil

  When De Brissac’s party had left the ship most of the others went below, but Unity remained on deck watching the four figures bounding away across the weed into the distance until all trace of them was lost in the rising mist.

  She tried to comfort herself with the thought that their journey to the shore would take only an hour, and that, as the balloons buoyed them up so easily, there was little chance of their falling into the weed; but now that the mist and twilight had come there was no means of witnessing their safe arrival. She knew she was in for a miserable night of worry over Basil’s safety and would not be able to think of anything else until he returned to the ship on the following morning.

  As she turned away from the rail she saw Harlem Joe grinning at her. The big stoker was leaning against a staunchion with his hands in his pockets. Since the mutiny he had given no troubl
e whatever, and, in fact, had even exerted himself to urge his buddies to do their utmost in every fresh effort which was required for the safety of the whole company; yet Luvia always kept a wary eye upon the big Negro fearing that he was only biding his time for a propitious opportunity to assert himself again.

  ‘Mistah Sutherland hops very pretty over dat weed,’ he remarked to Unity conversationally.

  The man’s tone was civil enough so she replied at once. ‘Yes. Balloon-jumping’s much simpler than it looks at first sight.’

  ‘Ah’ll say you’s right,’ Harlem nodded, ‘but dere ain’t much to it on dat island when a feller gets dere? Dat’s what’s bitin’ me.’

  ‘Oh, there are people and farms. Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid, but anyhow safety and no lack of food.’

  ‘Shua, but one island’s fer de white folks and one fer de coloured folks—so ai’se herin’. What does you figger Mistah Luvia’s goin’ to do wid Corncob an’ li’l Harlem?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ Unity said vaguely. ‘It all depends which island we drift to. If we’ve got to stay here all our lives I expect you’d rather settle with your own people, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Ah certainly would. Ah’se been talkin’ with dem wounded fellers up in de poop-house. Dey’s poor uneducated trash but one of dem can speak a li’l English and dat island life in his dorp certainly does sound de goods. De women does all de work an’ de men gets all de eats. Dat shua suits me.’

  Unity smiled. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself expecting the women to work for you. I thought you were supposed to be an educated man.’

  ‘Oh, ah’se educated all right, but ah likes dese old-fashioned notions ’bout havin’ plenty of wives an’ lettin’ dem work fer me, see. ‘Sides seein’ ah’se an educated feller dese fool island folk might make me king or somethin’. Ain’t dat so?’