by Max Brand
“Hovey,” answered the engineer calmly, “the only place I’d run this ship would be down to hell — your home port. That’s final!”
The bos’n was white with rage.
“I’d like to tear your heart out an’ feed it to the fish,” he said, stepping close to Campbell, and then, remembering himself, he moved back and grinned: “But the men will find something better to do with you.”
He crossed the deck and held up a bucket of water toward Harrigan and McTee. He raised a dipperful and allowed it to splash back in the bucket.
“Well?” asked Hovey.
They merely stared at him as if they had not heard him speak.
“All right,” said Hovey, quite unmoved, “there’s plenty of time for you to make up your minds. But if you wait too long — well, we’ll come and get him. And the girl, too!”
He laughed and turned away.
“I thought,” muttered McTee, “that we could end it by simply dying — but
I forgot the girl.”
“The girl,” answered Harrigan, “and — and them! She’s got to die before we’re too far gone. You’ll do that to save her from — them?”
McTee moistened his parched lips before he could speak.
“One of us has to do it, but it can’t be me, Harrigan.”
“Nor me, Angus. We’ll wait till tonight. Maybe a ship’ll pass and see us lyin’ like a derelict and put a boat aboard, eh?”
“But if no ship comes, then we’ll draw straws, eh?”
“Yes.”
Two sharp, sudden cries now called their attention back to the waist of the ship to the blood-stained hatch cover where Van Roos lay.
Sam Hall had approached the big mate with a knife in his hand. He kneeled beside the prostrate body and fumbled at the face an instant. No one had been able to make out the significance of his act. Then the knife gleamed, and twice he plucked with one hand and cut with the knife. The two sharp cries answered him. Then he rose; two little trickles of blood ran down the face of the mate.
“Well?” asked Jacob Flint. “When does the game begin?”
“The game is just started,” said Hall, “an’ the sun will do the rest.
I’ve cut off his eyelids!”
They stared a moment in amazement, and then an understanding broke on them. Every tribe of savages in the world has been accredited with this ingenious torture which blinded their victim and usually drove him mad. The sun was now climbing the sky rapidly, and already fell on the face of the mate. The tropic sun which scorches and burns the toughest of skins was now directed full on the pupils of his eyes.
The sailors sought comfortable positions and waited for a long exhibition of pain, but they were mistaken. The torture acted far more quickly than even the whip. There was no outcry. Not once during his struggles did Van Roos make a sound from his throat, save for a quick, heavy panting. Perhaps by contrast with the yells of Borgson, which were still in the ears of the men, this silence was more horrible than the most throat-filling shrieks. They could see Van Roos twisting his head ceaselessly and vainly to escape that blinding light. His ruddy face became swollen like the features of a drowned man. And that was all that happened — only that, and the panting, the quick, choppy panting like a running man. Finally one of the sailors rose with a mallet in his hand.
“Where you goin’?” asked Hall ominously.
“Going to finish him.”
Hall caught the fellow’s arm.
“Listen!” he whispered, and such was the silence that the hoarse whisper was audible all over the deck. “Don’t you hear?”
And with one hand he kept beat for the quick breaths of the tortured man. At that moment there was a long sigh, and the breathing stopped. Hall strode angrily forward to his victim, but when he reached the hatch, Van Roos was dead. A blood vessel must have burst in his brain, and death was as instantaneous as though a bullet had struck him. So they cut him free, and his body followed that of Borgson over the rail. Then the eyes of the mutineers turned aft toward the wireless house, and then back upon Campbell. Six victims remained. One of the firemen slipped close to Hovey on naked feet. He did not speak, but his long, thin arm pointed toward the engineer.
“Not yet,” said Hovey, “not yet! Tomorrow if he doesn’t give in, we’ll turn you loose on him.”
The fireman grinned and went back on noiseless feet to his companions to spread the good tidings. Hovey approached the wireless house.
“We’ve got one show left to offer, but we’re savin’ it till tomorrow,” he said. “So brace up, hearties, and keep cheer. You’ll see Campbell go a way worse than either of these tomorrow.”
“Wait,” called Harrigan, suddenly roused. “D’you mean to say that you’d try your hellwork on a kind man like Campbell?”
“A kind man like Campbell?” echoed Hovey, and then laughed. “A kind man?”
And he retreated with no other answer, and left the fugitives aft to the merciless, sweltering heat of the sun. By the time the sun went down, they were so fevered by the need of water that they had not the strength to bless the cool falling of the dark; they still carried the fire of the sunlight in their blood.
CHAPTER 36
“THIS MAN CAMPBELL,” said Harrigan, “he’s a true man, McTee, and he stood up to White Henshaw for my sake — for the sake of me and his Bobbie Burns. They plan to take him to hell tomorrow, Angus, and I’ve an idea that there’s one chance in the thousand that I could steal in on the dogs tonight and bring him back with me.”
“Can they do anything worse to him than they’re doing to us?”
“Maybe not, but my heart would lie easier, McTee. I’ll wait for the fever o’ the sun to go out of me head an’ for the crew to get drunk an’ a little drunker.”
So they waited while the noise of the nightly carousal waxed high and higher, and then died away by slow degrees. At length Harrigan stood up, gripped the hand of McTee in silent farewell, heard a whispered “Good luck!” and slipped noiselessly down the ladder and started across the deck in the shadow of the rail. From any portion of the main cabin eyes might be watching him; there was only the one chance in ten that the lookout whom Hovey had certainly stationed would not perceive him as he crept along under the shadow. Accordingly he went blindly forward.
If the lookout saw him, at least there was no outcry, no general alarm. He stood flat against the wall of the main cabin at length and rehearsed a plan, listening the while to the lapping of the waves against the side of the ship. Then he stole step by step up the ladder to the upper deck. His head was already above the ladder when he heard the light padding of a bare foot and saw a figure around the corner of the cabin.
Harrigan ducked out of sight and clung to the iron rounds ready to leap up and strike if the sailor should descend the ladder, though in that case the alarm would be given and his errand spoiled; but the sailor was apparently the lookout set there by Hovey. He stayed at the head of the ladder a moment, humming to himself, and then turned and walked on his beat to the other side of the ship. Harrigan slipped onto the deck and ran noiselessly to the side of the cabin. Here he flattened himself against the wall until the sentinel had again made the turn of his beat, and as the latter moved dimly out of sight through the darkness, the Irishman stole down the deck toward the forward cabins.
The first two windows showed dark and empty; if there were anyone inside, he must be asleep in the drunken torpor into which most of the crew seemed to have fallen. The door of the third room, formerly occupied by the second mate, stood ajar, and here by the dull light of an oil lantern, he saw Campbell tied hand and foot to a chair. He was placed close to a little table whereon sat a bottle of whisky, a siphon of seltzer, a tall glass, meat, bread, water — everything, in fact, with which the senses of the starving man could be tormented. And near him, sitting with elbows spread out on the edge of the table, was one of the firemen, grinning continually as if he had just heard some monstrous joke. The expression of Campbell was just as fix
ed, for his small eyes shifted eagerly, swiftly, from the food to the water, and back again.
The fireman — the same tall, gaunt fellow who had demanded that Hovey turn over Campbell to him and his companions that day — now leaned forward and raised a dipper of water from a bucket which sat on the floor, and allowed it to trickle back, splashing with what seemed to Harrigan the sweetest music in the world. Hovey must have taught him that trick, and its effect upon Campbell was worse than the beating of the whips. The fireman let his head roll loosely back as he laughed, and while his head was still back and his eyes squinting shut in the ecstasy of his delight, Harrigan leaped from the shadow of the door and struck at the throat — at the great Adam’s apple which shook with the laughter. The blow must have nearly broken the man’s neck. His head jerked forward with a whistling gasp of breath, and as he reached for the knife on the table, Harrigan struck again, this time just behind the ear. The man slid from his chair to the floor and lay in a queer heap — as if all the bones in his body were broken.
“Harrigan! Harrigan! Harrigan!” Campbell was whispering over and over, but still his eyes held like those of a starved wolf on the food. The moment his ropes were cut, he buried his teeth in the great chunk of roasted meat.
Harrigan jerked him away and held him by main force.
“Be a man!” he whispered. “We’ve got to take this food and this water back to the wireless house — if we can get there with it. Take hold of yourself, Campbell!”
The engineer nodded. Voices came close down the deck; instantly Harrigan jerked up the glass globe which protected the lantern’s flame and blew out the light. They crouched shoulder to shoulder.
“I thought he was in here,” said a voice at the door.
“He was,” answered Hovey’s voice, “but I guess they took him below — they said it was too cool for him up there. Ha, ha, ha!”
Their steps disappeared down the deck. After that Harrigan dared not show a light in the cabin window. He and Campbell located the meat and bread, which were given into the engineer’s keeping, while Harrigan took the bucket of water. They slipped out onto the deck and hurried aft, keeping close to the side of the cabin, for the starlight would show their figures to any watchful eyes. At the rear edge of the cabin Harrigan halted Campbell and whispered: “There’s a guard here. I got past him in the dark, but two of us loaded down like this can never go unseen down that ladder. We’ve got to get rid of him.”
And he pulled out the knife which he had kept with him ever since the outbreak of the mutiny. They waited without daring to draw breath until the sailor came padding by with his naked feet. Harrigan crept out behind him, and when the sailor turned at the rail, the Irishman leaped in and struck, not with the blade, but with the haft of the knife; he could not kill from behind.
If it had been a solid blow, the sailor would have crumpled silently as the fireman had done a few moments before, but the impact glanced and merely cut his scalp as it knocked him down. He fell with a shout which was instantly answered from the front of the ship.
“Down the ladder! Run for it!” cried Harrigan to Campbell, and as the engineer clambered down, he stood guard above.
The sailor leaped up from the deck and lunged with a knife gleaming in his hand, but Harrigan slashed him across the arm, and he fled howling into the dark. Before Hovey and his men could reach the spot, Harrigan had climbed down the ladder with his precious bucket and was fleeing aft to the wireless house.
As he reached it, lights were showing from the main cabin, and there were choruses of yells announcing the discovery that Campbell was missed. But Harrigan and the rest of the fugitives scarcely heard the sounds. The Irishman was busy measuring as carefully as he could in the dark dippers of water which the others drank.
There was no sleep that night, partly from fear lest the infuriated mutineers should at last attempt to rush the wireless house, partly because they ate sparingly but long of the meat which Harrigan carved for them, and the bread, and partly also because of a singular odor which they had not noticed when they were tortured by thirst and hunger, and which now they observed for the first time. It was peculiarly pungent and heavy with a sickening suggestion of sweetness about it. None of them could describe it, saving Harrigan, who had been much in the country and likened the odor to the smell of an old straw stack which lay molding and rotting.
It seemed to increase — that smell — during the night, probably because their strength was returning and all their senses grew more acute. It was a torrid night, without moon, so that the blanket of dark pressed the heat down upon them and seemed to stifle the very breath.
With the coming of the first light of the dawn they noticed a peculiar phenomenon. Perhaps it was because of the evaporation of water under the fire of the sun, but the Heron seemed to be surrounded with a white vapor which rose shimmering in the slant rays of the morning. But even when the sun had risen well up in the sky, the vapor was still visible, clinging like a wraith about the ship. They wondered idly upon it, and wondered still more at the heat, which was now intense. They were interrupted in their conjectures by the call of Kate summoning them to the wireless house where Henshaw lay apparently at the last gasp.
He had altered marvelously in the past two days. That resemblance which he had always had to a mummy was now oddly intensified, for the cheeks were fallen, the neck withered to scarcely half its former size, the eyes sunk in purple hollows. He murmured without ceasing, his voice now rising hardly above a low whisper. Kate sat beside him, passing her hands slowly over his temples, for he complained of a fire rising within his brain.
His complaints died away under her touches, and he said at last, calmly but very, very faintly: “Beatrice, there is one thing I have not yet told you.”
“Yes?” she asked gently, though she averted her eyes, for all the long hours he had filled with the stories of his crimes upon earth were poured into the ear of the spirit of his Beatrice, as he thought. One last and crowning atrocity was yet to be told.
“I have left out the greatest thing of all.”
He paused to smile at the memory.
“You remember Samson’s death, Beatrice? And how he pulled the house down on the shoulders of his enemies?”
“Yes.”
“That was a wonderful way to die — wonderful! But I, Beatrice, look at me, child! — I have surpassed Samson! Listen! You will wonder and you will admire when you hear it! When I got the word that you were dead, I knew two things: first, that the prophecy of my death at sea would come true, and secondly that my gold must perish with me. You will never guess how long I pondered over a way to destroy my gold before I died! You will think I could have simply thrown it into the sea? Yes, but the ship was filled with men ready to mutiny, and they were hungry for my wealth. They would never have allowed me to destroy that gold! So I thought of a way — ah, it was an inspiration! — by which I could destroy my body, my wealth, and the lives of all the mutineers at once. Like Samson, I would pull the house on the heads of my enemies. Ha, ha, ha!”
His laughter was rather a grimace than a sound.
He went on: “See how cunningly, how carefully I worked! First I blew up the three lifeboats so that there would be no escape for the crew. Then I tampered with the dynamo so that it burned out, and they could not send out a wireless call for help. That touch was the best of all. Well, well! Then I went down into the hold, deep down, and I started a fire in the cargo. And then—”
“Oh, my God!” stammered Sloan.
The others were white, but they gestured at Sloan to silence him. The whisper continued: “And then I knew that they were done for. The wheat would not break into a sudden flame, but it would smolder and glow and spread from hour to hour and from day to day. The crew would know nothing of it for a long time. But when they guessed at what was happening, they would open the hatches to fight the fire with water. Then what would happen? Ah, my dear, there was the crowning touch; for when they opened the hatches, the current o
f air would feed the fire and the ship would be instantly in flames. And so they would burn like dogs with water, water all around them, and no boats to put off in — no boats. Ha, ha, ha!”
He choked with his laughter and gasped for breath.
“If it were possible for a bodiless spirit to perish, I should think that I am dying twice, Beatrice. The air is thick — this air of hell!”
He broke off short in his whispering and raised himself suddenly to an elbow. With the coming of death his voice grew strong and rang clearly: “They are in the corners — they are coming closer! Beatrice! Brush them away with your fingers as cold as snow. Beatrice, oh, my dear!”
And he was dead as he fell back on the bunk.
Sloan was already on the deck outside the wireless house, shrieking with all the power of his lungs: “Fire! Fire! The wheat in the hold!”
CHAPTER 37
AND AS HARRIGAN and McTee, followed by Kate and Campbell, ran out to the open air, they saw the crowd of the mutineers surge across the waist toward Sloan with upturned faces, wondering, and ready for terror. Hovey broke through their midst.
“Hovey!” shouted McTee. “Look at the mist over the sides! Draw a breath; smell of it! It is fire! Henshaw has set fire in the hold!”
It was plain to every brain in the instant. To every man came the thought of the complaints of the firemen concerning the heat in the hold of the Heron; the noxious odor like musty straw; the warmth, the deadly warmth of the decks. A volcano smoldered beneath them, and the mist was the sign of the coming outbreak of flames. And the mutineers stood mute, gaping at one another, looking for some hope, some comfort, and finding the same question repeated in every eye. McTee climbed down the ladder to the waist, followed by the rest of the fugitives. Ten minutes before they would have been torn to pieces by the wolf pack. Now no man had a thought for anything save his own death.