“Look here,” I said to the hotel messenger; and I pulled down the cardboard on which was my painted version of the Mona. I rolled it up and handed it across to him. “Take this ashore,” I told him. “Go to a picture dealer’s, and tell them to frame it in a cheap frame, and send it up to A. Black, Esq., Room 86, Madison Square Hotel, with the compliments of Captain Charity. Tell them to wrap it up well; as if it were something valuable. Here’s a dollar for you, my son. Tell them he’ll pay! When you see Mr. Black, tell him that ‘it’—mind you say ‘it’—is coming! . . . It is! . . . When I say so! And not before!”
When he had gone, I sat down and roared at poor Black’s digestion, when he found what ‘it’ amounted to. I guess I’ll not be bothered with him now, until I’m ready to see him.
April 16th. Night.
I went ashore to see Mr. Black this evening. The Customs nabbed me en route, as usual, and I had a search that would have unmasked a blushing postage stamp. But they needn’t fear. I’m not carting Mona Lisas ashore in the thick of this hue and cry!
When I saw Mr. Black, it was for the first time since he left the ship, and he rushed at me.
“Where is it?” he asked. He looked positively ill.
“Dear man,” I said, “I don’t hawk the Mona around with me. Perhaps that’s what you want,” and I pointed to the caricature of the Mona, in its cheap frame, which stood on the top of a book-case.
“Quit it!” he snapped, almost ugly; but I only laughed at him.
Then I took out my hanky, and a bottle of solution. I lifted the picture down and put it on the table; I wet my hanky with the solution, and wiped the picture over gently but firmly.
The eyebrows came away; also one or two other parts where I had laid my fake paint on pretty thick.
“There’s the Mona, Mr. Black,” I said; “and I guess you owe me twenty-five thousand dollars.”
He looked; then he yelled; yes, he fairly yelled; first his delight, then his questions. I endured the first, and answered the second.
“You saw me paint a picture, didn’t you?” I asked.
“Sure!” he said.
“Well, I did that, as I told you, for a keepsake,” I said. “Afterwards, I took the Mona, soaked her off the board-backing you had glued her to, and remounted her on cardboard. Then I painted her a pair of eyebrows with fake paint, and touched up one or two other parts of the picture; and you and Miss Lanny spent most of the voyage criticising the immortal da Vinci. You see, I hung my own copy on the bulkshead first; but afterwards replaced it with the Gioconda.
“Miss Lanny called her even worse things than I did. She told me, if I remember right, that the painting was like a ginger-pop bottle compared with Venetian glass!
“I think I said he was not a big artist; and as for you, you looked as if you backed up what Miss Lanny said. Altogether, poor old da Vinci had a lot of hard things said against him. And all the time, his masterpiece, plus a pair of eyebrows, and some surface polish, was looking down at us from the bulkshead. I offered her to the Customs officer for fifty dollars; but I couldn’t get him to bid.
“Yes, Mr. Black, I’ve enjoyed myself this trip, That’s what I call doing the thing in style.
“Thanks, yes, twenty-five thousand dollars is the figure. I guess we’ve got to celebrate this!”
The Storm
Look where you’re going, man, or you’ll have us by the lee! Where the hell are you running her off to?” The burly mate grasps the spokes of the big wheel, and puts forth all his strength to assist the weary helmsman in heaving it down.
They are off Cape Horn. Midnight has passed and the murderous blackness of the night is slit at times with livid gleams that rise astern, and hover, then sink with a sullen harsh roar beneath the uplifted stern, only to be followed by others.
The straining helmsman snatches an occasional nervous glance over his shoulder at these dread monstrous spectres. It is not the foam-topped phosphorescent caps he fears; it is the hollow blackness that comes beneath. At times as the ship plunges, the binnacle light flares up, striking a reflected gleam from that moving mass, and showing the curved, furious living walls of water poised above his head.
The storm grows fiercer, and hungry winds howl a dreadful chorus aloft. Occasionally comes the deep hollow booming of the main lower topsail.
The man at the wheel strains desperately. The wind is icy cold and the night full of spray and sleet, yet he perspires damply in his grim fight.
Presently the hoarse bellow of the mate’s voice is heard through the gloom:
“Another man to the wheel! Another man to the wheel!”
It is time. Unaided the solitary, struggling figure guiding the huge plunging craft through the watery thunders is unable to cope longer with his task, and now another form takes its place on the lee side of the groaning wheel, and gives its strength to assist the master hand through the stress.
An hour passes, and the mate stands silently swaying nearer the binnacle. Once his voice comes tumultuously through the pall:
“Damn you! Keep her straight!”
There is no reply, none is needed. The mate knows the man is doing his utmost; and knowing that, he struggles forward and is swallowed up in the blackness.
With a tremendous clap the main top sail leaves the ropes and drives forward upon the foremast, a dark and flickering shadow seen mistily against the deep, sombre dome of the night.
The ship steers madly in swooping semi-circles, and with each one she looks death between the eyes. The hurricane seems to flatten the men against the wheel, and grows stronger.
The night becomes palpably darker, and nothing now can be seen except those foamy giant shapes leaping up like moving cliffs, then sweeping forward overwhelmingly.
Time passes, and the storm increases.
A human voice comes out of the night. It is the mate standing unseen close at hand, hidden in the briny reek.
“Steady!” It rises to a hoarse scream. “For God’s sake! Steady!”
The ship sweeps up against the ocean. Things vast and watery hang above her for one brief moment. . . .
The morning is dawning leaden and weary—like the face of a worn woman.
The light strikes through the bellying scum overhead, and shows broken hills and valleys carven momentarily in liquid shapes. The eye sweeps round the eternal desolation.
The Crew of the Lancing
Come out on deck and have a look, Darky,” shouted Jepson, rushing into the berth. “The Old Man says there’s been a submarine earthquake and the sea’s all babbling and muddy.”
Out I ran to find the everlasting blue of the sea mottled with splotches of a muddy hue, and the water disturbed by huge bubbles floating about and bursting with a hissing pop.
The skipper and the three Mates were all on the poop with their glasses, staring out at this strange phenomenon. Far away to windward something like a mass of seaweed hove up into the evening air, and fell back into the sea with a sullen splash. Then the tropical sun fell and in the afterglow things grew shadowy. The wind which had been fresh during the day was gradually dropping and the night was becoming oppressively hot.
The First Mate called to me from the poop to dip a bucket of water and bring it to him. I did, and he put the thermometer into it.
“Just as I thought,” he muttered, taking it out and showing it to the Skipper. “Ninety-nine degrees! Why, the sea’s hot enough to make tea with!”
“Hope it won’t get any hotter,” growled the Captain. “We shall be boiled alive if it does.”
I took the bucket and, after emptying it, put it back in the rack, then I went to the side while the Skipper and the Mate paced the poop together. The air grew hotter and hotter, and an hour or so passed in silence, broken only by the pop of some bursting gas bubble.
The moon rose and showed watery through a warm fog of vapour which had risen from the heated sea, enveloping the ship in a moist shroud that penetrated to the skin.
Slowly the interminable night rolled aw
ay and the sun rose dimly through the steam. From time to time we tested the temperature, but found only a slight increase in heat. No work was done. A general feeling of something impending was over the whole ship. The ship’s bell was kept going constantly, while the lookout-man peered uselessly into the wreathing mists, and the Captain and Mates kept an anxious watch.
There was evidently some difference of opinion amongst them for I heard the Second Mate say, “That’s all rot. I’ve seen things in fogs before today and they’ve always turned out to be nothing.”
The Third Mate made some reply which I couldn’t catch, and the matter dropped.
When I came on deck at eight bells after a short sleep, the steam still held us, and if anything it seemed thicker. Hansard, who had been taking the temperature at intervals while I was below, told me that it had gone up three degrees, and that the Old Man was getting into a rare old state.
About three bells I went forrard to have a look over the bows.
As I leaned on the rail Stevenson, whose lookout it was, came and stood by me.
“Rum go, this,” he grumbled.
Suddenly there appeared up out of the water a huge, black face, like a monstrous caricature of a human face.
I grasped his arm and pointed. “Look!” I whispered, “Look!”
Stevenson turned quickly and stared down. “Lord!” he said, and bent over more to see the thing. “It’s the devil,” he cried, and as he spoke the thing, whatever it was, disappeared. Blankly we both looked down into the dark water. When I glanced up at him, his face wore a puzzled, startled look.
“Better go aft and tell the Old Man,” he said, and I nodded and went.
On the poop I found the Skipper and First Mate pacing moodily. To them I told what I had seen.
“Bosh!” sneered the Captain, “You’ve been looking at your own ugly reflection in the water!” Yet in spite of his sneers, he questioned me, and finally the Mate went forrard himself to have a look, but returned in a few minutes to say that he could see nothing.
Four bells went, and we were relieved for tea. After that I went on deck again, I found the men clustered together forrard. They were talking about the thing Stevenson and I had seen. Several questioned me, and I told them all I knew.
“I suppose, Darky,” said one of the older men, “it couldn’t by any chance have been a reflection? Johnson, here, says as he heard the Old Man tell yer as how you’d been alookin’ at yer own face in the water.”
I laughed. “Ask Stevenson,” I replied, and went away.
At eight bells I made my way aft. So far nothing further had appeared.
About an hour before midnight the Mate called out for me to bring him up a match to light his pipe. He struck a light and handed me back the box, and as he did so, there rose far out in the night, a muffled screaming, and then a clamour of hoarse braying like an ass’s, only deeper, and with a horribly suggestive human note ringing through it.
“Did you hear that, Darky?” asked the Mate sharply.
“Yes, sir,” I answered. I was listening intently for a repetition of the sounds, and scarcely noticed his question. Suddenly the noise came again and other voices took it up. It sounded away on our starboard bow. The Mate’s pipe dropped with a clatter to the deck.
“Run forrard!” he shouted. “Quick now, and see if you can see anything!”
I flew forrard, and there I found the lookout man and all the watch gathered in a clump.
“Have you seen anything?” I called out as I reached the fo’cas’le head.
A frightened voice answered me. “Listen!”
The sound rose again. It seemed closer and almost ahead, though the fog confused one and made it impossible to tell for certain.
Undoubtedly the noises were nearer, and I hurried aft to the Mate. I reported that there was nothing to be seen but that the sounds seemed considerably closer and to come from more ahead. On hearing this he told the helmsman to let the ship’s head go off a couple of points.
A minute later, a shrill screaming tore its way through the mists, followed by the braying sounds again.
“It’s close on the starboard bow,” muttered the Mate, as he beckoned the helmsman to let her head go off a little more.
A minute passed and then another, yet the silence was unbroken.
Then, overpoweringly, the sounds recommenced, and so close were they that it seemed they must be right aboard of us.
I noticed a strange booming note that mingled with the asinine brays, and once or twice there came a sound which can only be described as a sort of “gug, gug, gug.” Then would come a wheezy whistling, for all the world like an asthmatic person breathing.
The moon shone dimly through the steam which seemed to me somewhat thinner. Once the Mate gripped my shoulder tightly as the noises rose and fell. The sounds were coming from right opposite us. I was staring hard into the gloom when I saw something—something long and black, which was sliding past us into the night. Out of it rose indistinct towers which gradually resolved into masses of ropes and sails. Thus I saw it, spectrally and unreal.
“A ship! It’s a ship!” I cried, excitedly. I turned to Mister Grey. He too had seen something and was staring after the thing fading away into our wake.
Then our sails gave a sudden slat and the Mate glanced aloft.
“Wind’s dropping,” he growled, savagely. “We shall never get out of this infernal place at this rate.”
Gradually the wind fell until not a breath stirred, and the steamy mists closed in thicker than ever.
Hours passed. The watch was relieved and I went below.
At seven bells we were called again. As I went along the deck to the galley, I noticed that the steam-fog was much thinner, and the air felt cooler.
At eight bells I went on deck to relieve Hansard at coiling down the ropes. From him I learned that the steam had started to clear about four bells, and the temperature of the sea had fallen ten degrees.
It must have been some half hour later that the dissolving mists gave us a glimpse of the surrounding sea. It was still mottled with darker patches but the bubbling and popping had ceased. Such of the ocean as I could see had a peculiar desolate aspect. At times a wisp of steam would float up from the nearer sea and roll undulatingly across its silent surface until it was lost in the vagueness that still held the horizon hidden. Here and there columns of steam rose up in pillars of mist which gave me the impression that the sea was hot in patches.
I crossed to the starboard side and looked over. It was the same there. The sea preserved a forlorn, deserted look that impressed me with a feeling of chilliness, though the air was quite warm and muggy.
“Get me my glasses, Darky” I heard the Mate speak up on the poop.
I ran to his berth and then up on the poop with them. He walked aft to the taffrail and took a look astern. Here the mists seemed to be gathered more thickly, though the water was much heated thereabouts.
I stayed up on the poop a minute looking in the same direction as the Mate. Presently something shadowy grew on my vision. Steadily I watched it until I distinctly saw the ghostly outline of a ship within the mists.
“See!” I cried, but even as I spoke a lifting wreath of mist had disclosed to view a great four-masted barque lying becalmed with all sail set a few hundred yards astern of us. Then the mist fell again and the strange ship lay hidden.
The Mate was all excitement, taking quick jerky strides up and down the poop, only to stop every few minutes to have another peer through his glasses. Gradually, as the mists dispersed, the vessel became more plainly seen, and it was then we got an inkling of the cause of those dreadful noises in the night.
For some time we watched her silently, the conviction growing on me that, in spite of the steam, I could distinguish some sort of movement aboard her. In a little while the doubt became a certainty; and also I could see, hazily, a continuous splashing and churning of the water round about her hull.
Suddenly the Mate dropped the glass
es from his eyes. “Fetch me the speaking trumpet,” he called quickly, without looking round.
In a moment I was back with the instrument. He gave me his glasses to hold while he raised the trumpet to his mouth and sent a loud “Ship Ahoy” across the water to the stranger. We waited intently for an answer.
A moment later came a deep hollow mutter out of the mist that rose quickly into the asinine bellowing of the previous night. Higher and louder drove the horrid sounds, and then they sank and died away amongst the further mistiness.
At this unexpected answer to his hail the Mate stood amazed. Now he turned sharply and told me to call the Old Man at once.
The watch had come aft, attracted by the noise, and were now climbing into the rigging to get a view over the stern. After calling the Captain, I returned to the poop where I found the Second and Third Mates standing by the First, all engaged in trying to pierce the clouds of steam. A minute later the Skipper appeared, carrying his telescope. The Mate gave him a short account of the state of affairs and handed him the trumpet. Putting his telescope down, the Captain raised the trumpet to his mouth and hailed the shadowy craft.
We all listened breathlessly. Again came that distant mutter, and again it rose into that ass-like bellow through which rang that terrible, half human note, rising and falling in the dreadful cadence.
The Skipper lowered the trumpet, and stood for a moment with an expression of astonished horror on his face.
“Lord!” he exclaimed. “What an ungodly row!”
Suddenly the Third Mate, who had been spying through his binoculars, broke the silence.
“Look!” he exclaimed. “There’s a wind coming up astern.” At his words the Captain looked up quickly, and we all watched the ruffling water.
“That packet yonder is bringing up the wind with her,” said the Skipper. “She’ll be alongside in a few minutes if this cat’s-paw lasts.”
Some minutes passed and the bank of fog had come to within a hundred yards of our taffrail. The strange ship could be seen distinctly just within the fringe of driving wisps. Then the wind died away. A minute passed, then another, and the water became faintly ruffled astern of us. At the same time the stranger vessel neared us steadily. Quickly the seconds passed, and she was within fifty yards; then the wind reached us and blew clammily through our rigging. Our sails filled and we started to forge ahead. The strange barque came on rapidly; she had the wind before us, and consequently, had better way through the water.
The Dream of X and Other Fantastic Visions Page 53