"And this is a hell of a nice island, I don't think," the stranger pursued, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He had a strong Cockney accent. Patterson was enchanted by the very prosaicness of his appearance; he brought with him sanity; walking as he did on faery, moon-drenched shores, he was blessed, being the essence of the commonplace.
"Name of Judd. Dicky Judd. I suppose you're all in. Been swimming, ain't you?"
"Yes. And this fellow Heywood won't take me to his hut. Says it's full. Can you do anything about it?"
"You bet," said Judd. "Follow me, and I'll give you a bite of supper and a doss for the night. This way—the path up the cliff. We'll leave Heywood to the moon. Come on."
Ten minutes later, Patterson was eating fried fish and yams in a log-hut, with an open fireplace and two hammocks swung near the rude doorway. He had noticed, as they climbed the slope together, a grander, more commodious hut built a few hundred yards away amongst some shady palms. This, he surmised, must be the home of the elusive Captain. No sound came from it, but a light burned in the narrow window. As he ate his food he speedily forgot the existence of these fellow-castaways. He asked instead, gulping down water and wishing it were brandy:
"How did you come here, Judd? With the others?"
Judd eyed him swiftly. For one second Patterson imagined that he detected in the merry greenish eyes of his companion the fixed, almost petrified expression that had so much perplexed him in the gaze of Heywood. If he was right, this expression vanished in a flash, yet Judd seemed to withdraw himself, to become curiously remote, as he answered coolly:
"Not I. I came here after them—some time after."
"Do you mean that, like me, you were the only survivor from your ship?"
"That's about it," Judd answered, with his mouth full. "Tell me about it."
"Oh . . . there's nothing much to tell. She was a great liner—I had a berth aboard her—and she struck an iceberg in mid-Atlantic. There was not room for me in the boats, so I jumped. . . . But she was a lovely ship, and big as a city. Titanic, they called her."
"You're pulling my leg. And for Heaven's sake chuck it—I've had about enough for one day."
"S'trewth, I'm not!" Judd told him energetically. "But no matter. You don't have to believe it."
And he whistled, picking his teeth.
Patterson asked with a shiver:
"Look here, joking apart, do you mean to tell me that you honestly believe you were cast ashore here from the wreck of the Titanic?"
SMITH: NO SHIPS PASS
"On my oath," said Judd. He added, jumping up: "Bugs is bad here to-night. Wait while I swat a few."
"Just answer this," Patterson interrupted. "Why in Heaven's name, when you think you were wrecked in mid-Atlantic, should you have landed here on a tropical island off the African coast? Bit of a miracle that, wasn't it?"
Judd was silent for a moment, flicking at the mosquitoes with a palm-leaf fan. He said at length, sucking his teeth:
"Not being a seafaring man, I take it, you don't happen to have heard a fairy-story told among sailor-boys all the world over—story of a mirage island that floats about the seas near wrecks bent on collecting castaways?"
Patterson thought desperately:
"This man's as mad as Heywood, and that's saying a lot. . . . And I've got to live with them. . . ." Aloud he said: "No, I've never heard that one. But there's one other thing I want to ask you. . . . Who's this Captain that Heywood was talking about? Has he been here for many years?"
"I'll give you this goatskin for a blanket," said Judd, "and you can doss near the doorway, where it's cooler. So you know about the Captain?"
"I've only heard his name. I asked you, has he been here for very long?"
"Many years," answered Judd, with a peculiar inflection. "Tell me more about him." Judd laughed.
"You don't half want to know much, do you? You'll clap eyes tomorrow on Captain Thunder, late of the bark Black Joke, well known (he's always boasting) from Barbados to Trinidad and back again. But you may whistle for the Captain to-night!"
Patterson was sleepy.
"Sounds like a buccaneer," he muttered into the goatskin, and was soon unconscious, oblivious even of Heywood's noisy entry into the hut.
By early morning the island's beauty seemed more exotic even than the radiant plumage of the parakeets darting to and fro in the dim green light of airy tree-tops. Patterson was refreshed after a good night's sleep, and consequently less depressed. He bathed with Judd, leaving Heywood snoring in his hammock. The beach was a shining snowdrift, the sea a vast tapestry of hyacinth veined and streaked with foam, glowing, glittering in the brilliant sunlight.
They swam for twenty minutes and then lay basking on the sands.
"Hungry?" Judd inquired.
So delicious was the morning that Patterson had quite forgotten the eccentricity manifested by his comrades the previous evening. Rolling over on his stomach, he was about to reply in an enthusiastic affirmative, when he surprised once more in his companion's gaze that bleak, fey look that had already disconcerted him. He could not understand it, yet it was as though a somber shadow fled across the beach, obscuring this gay and vivid world of amber sunshine, creaming surf, tossing sea and glowing, brilliant blossom. Beauty was blotted out when Judd, the commonplace, looked like that; he felt suddenly lonely, humble and scared.
"Judd," he said suddenly, and Judd wrenched away his eyes from the horizon.
"Judd, listen and please tell me the truth. Just what are our chances of getting away from here?" Judd eyed him thoughtfully.
"If you want the truth, we haven't any. Sorry, and all that, but there it is."
"Rubbish!" said Patterson. "A ship will surely pass one day. Just because you've had bad luck . . ." "No ships pass," Judd told him.
"Rubbish again! Look how close mine came yesterday. The trouble
with you, Judd, is that you've been here too long, and got into a rut.
I don't believe you care much whether you're rescued or not. Now,
I do. And I'll tell you my plans------- "
"Listen a minute," said Judd. He propped himself up on his elbow, avoided his companion's eyes, and resumed: "You might as well hear it now. No sense in keeping it from you, although you'll think I'm nutty. Listen, then, Patterson. We're here for keeps. Get that? Look at the Captain and his friend; look at Heywood. If I told you how long they'd been here you wouldn't swallow it, and I'd not blame you. But you've got to know some time—we're here for ever. Now I feel better."
Patterson shuddered in the blazing sunlight.
"Do you really think we've got to stick this until we die?"
Judd flung a pebble at a pearly cloud of seagulls.
"Worse than that, Patterson. Worse by a long chalk. I told you last night this island was mirage, magic. Stands to reason it is, floating round the world picking survivors from shipwrecks in all the Seven Seas. Well, there's something worse than that—much worse—and I'm going to tell you what it is. There's no death on this island. Death forgets us. We're here for all eternity."
Patterson laughed nervously.
"You should be in Bedlam, Judd. I suppose a few years' desert-island does that to one. But look here, now I've come to join you, we'll get away somehow, I promise you that."
Judd slipped on his trousers.
"You don't believe me, and small blame to you. I was like that once. But it's true. I swear to God it is. There's no death here. For the animals and birds, yes, or we should starve. But not for us. We're here for all eternity, and you may as well make the best of it."
Patterson, trying to dress himself, found that his hands were trembling. Yet he tried to be reasonable.
"Look here, Judd, what put this crazy idea into your head?"
"Do you know," Judd replied, "how long Heywood's been here? Of course you don't; I'll tell you. He was marooned in eighteen twenty-five. It's nineteen thirty-two now, isn't it? Add that up for yourself. As for the Captain, he's had a longer spell. He was a pirate
, one of those Spanish Main fellows I read about when I was a kid. His crew mutinied in July, seventeen ninety-five. Another sum for you, if you're quick at figures."
"Very interesting," Patterson commented idiotically.
"Don't you imagine," Judd continued, "that we haven't all of us tried to escape in the past. We've built rafts and boats—they've always been chucked back here on the beach by mysterious tidal waves or tempests. Then we've tried to kill ourselves and one another—we've been wounded and lain sick for weeks with mosquitoes battening on our wounds, and our wounds have festered, but we've pulled through. Now we don't do that any more. Too much pain for nothing. You always pull through in the end. We've tried to drown, and swallowed quarts of water, but always we've been flung back on the sands here. Death's not for us—we've jolly well found that out. And so we make the best of it. It's all right after a time. You live for eating and sleeping, and you blooming well don't think. Sometimes you go mad, but in the long run you get sane again. And you kowtow to the Captain, who's got twice the guts of anyone. And, oh, yes, your clothes last just as you last. Funny, isn't it?"
"What about breakfast?" suggested Patterson.
"I knew you'd think me loopy," said Judd. "All right, come on back to the hut."
They scrambled to their feet, and there was an awkward constraint between them. Then Patterson pulled Judd's ami.
"What's that? Look, over there! Is that another confounded mirage?"
Judd screwed up his eyes. Beside the rocks, where seaweed flourished like green moss, a woman stood, skirts kilted in her hand. She was barefoot, and sprang from one rock to another, with the grace and agility of a deer. She was gathering mussels. As she worked she sang, and the drowsy, bell-like sweetness of her voice was wafted faintly to their ears all mingled with the cry of seagulls.
"Oh, that," said Judd. "Well, you'd better remember to act respectful when she's about. That's Doña Inés, the Captain's girl. She was his prisoner; he had her with him on his boat when the crew of the Black Joke mutinied, and they were cast up here together. At least, they both say so. First she hated him, then loved him for forty years or so, and since then, for about a hundred years, she's been fed up, but he's still keen on her. So keep away, that's my advice. Once Heywood went snooping after her, and the Captain cut his throat. He'd have died elsewhere, of course, and he suffered the tortures of hell, he told me. He'll show you the scar if you're interested."
"Wait," said Patterson, "you've given me a turn with your crazy talk, and she's coming towards us. There's no harm, I suppose, in speaking to her?"
"None, as long as you're respectful."
They waited there on the beach while the woman approached them. She was young, about twenty, and extremely handsome. She wore a stiff, flowing skirt of burning crimson, and a little jacket of orange. Her dark, rippling hair hung like a black plume down her back, and her oval, vivid face was delicately modeled, with high cheekbones, a mouth like red blossom, and immense velvety-brown eyes.
She was Spanish, of course, and well bred; her wrists were fragile, exquisite, her bare feet slender and arched. Her body was lithe, graceful and voluptuous; she moved swiftly, as though she danced, and as she drew near to the two men, a sudden soft breeze blew a lock of floating ebon hair across the fire and sweetness of her mouth.
Patterson was dazed; he had encountered much superstition during the course of the morning, his stomach was empty, and he was but ill-prepared for such beauty. Doña Inés said gayly, speaking fluent, attractive English:
"Good morning to you, señor. I heard last night of your arrival, but was not allowed to greet you, as I so much desired. Please forgive my execrable manners. We shall see so much of one another that it would be as well to start our acquaintance on friendly terms."
Patterson pulled himself together and kissed her hand, a long, delicate hand all dusky-tanned with the sun. A huge diamond glared from the third finger.
"Morning, Inés," said Judd casually. "Where's the Captain?"
"Micah?" She became suddenly indifferent. "Waiting for his breakfast, I suppose. I must go to him. Shall we walk up the hill together?"
And so they went, and the Doña Inés moved lightly between them, all bright and flaming in her gaudy clothes, and told Patterson that he must accustom himself to this idea of eternity. After the first hundred years these things mattered little enough.
"As well be here, laughing and walking in the sunshine, as in our graves. Don't you think so, señor? And I, who am talking to you, have so much experience of these things. Why, haven't I lived here with Micah Thunder for near on a hundred and forty years? And it might be yesterday that he sacked Santa Ana, he and his fleet, and took me prisoner when I was on my knees at Mass, and swore that I should be his woman. And so I was, both here and on his ship. But I have almost forgot the ship, and Santa Ana, too. Now there is only the island, and yet I am not a stricken woman, am I, nor yet a day older than when cast up on these shores?"
And so she prattled, her dark eyes flashing like jewels, until she and the two men came to the clearing where were the two huts, and there, in front of the smaller one, sat Heywood, surly as ever, eating.
"Good-by, señor," said Doña Inés. "We will meet later, when I have fed my Captain."
Patterson sat down on the ground and said nothing.
"Here's orange-juice," said Judd, "and custard-apples, and some corn-bread I baked myself. No butter—we don't rise to that—but, all the same, we'll dine on oysters."
Patterson ate in silence. He supposed himself to be hungry. And he thought that he was in a nightmare, and would wake soon with the steward shaking him, and find himself once more in a gay, chintz-hung cabin of the Seagull, with bacon and eggs waiting in the dining-saloon. But he did not wake.
"I'll help you rig up a tent after breakfast," said Judd. "I've got some sailcloth. It'll last you for a few days, and then you can build a hut for yourself."
Heywood, eating ravenously, said nothing, but eyed him in silence.
"I wish," he thought desperately, "they wouldn't stare like that."
And suddenly he knew of what their fixed eyes reminded him. They were like dead men in the way they gazed. Glassy and vacant, their eyes were as the eyes of corpses. Perhaps their fantastic stories were true, and he had in reality been cast for all eternity upon a mirage island.
"Oh, Lord," he thought, "I'm getting as crazy as the rest of them. And yet the woman, the Spanish woman, seemed sane enough, and she believes their tales."
After breakfast he worked at putting up his tent, sweating in the copper glare of the sun, while Heywood went fishing and Judd vanished into the woods with a bow and arrows. No sound came from the other hut. When he had finished erecting his tent, Patterson lay down in the shade inside it, and found himself craving for a cigarette with a passionate, abnormal longing. It was stuffy in the tent, and mosquitoes clustered round his hot face. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep, but sleep evaded him. And then, as he lay quietly in the oppressive darkness, his instincts, already sharpened by twenty-four hours' adventure, warned him that someone was watching him. He opened his eyes.
Outside, regarding him impassively, stood a small, slim man in dainty, dandified clothes of green-blue shot taffeta. These garments, consisting of a full-skirted, mincing coat and close-fitting breeches, were smeared with dirt, and seemed to Patterson highly unsuited to desert-island life. The little man wore cascades of grubby lace dripping
from his wrists, and rusty buckles on his pointed shoes. He bore himself like a dancing-master, and had no wig, which seemed odd to Patterson, who gaped at a gingery, close-shaven head revealing glimpses of bare skull like pinkish silk. The face of this man was long and narrow and candle-pale, with thin, dry lips and pointed ears. His flickering, expressionless eyes were green as flames; he blinked them constantly, showing whitish, sandy lashes. His hands were long, blanched, and delicate, more beautiful than a woman's, and he wore on one finger a huge diamond ring, the twin to that other stone bl
azing upon the finger of Doña Inés. Patterson, disconcerted by the cold, unwavering eyes, scrambled to his feet and held out his hand. It was ignored, but the Captain bowed gracefully.
"Captain Micah Thunder, late of the Black Joke, and at your service."
He spoke in a high, affected, mincing voice.
"I have already," Patterson told him, "heard talk of you, Captain Thunder, and am, therefore, delighted to have this opportunity of meeting you."
"You're a damned liar," replied Captain Thunder, with a giggle. "My fame, I understand, has not, through some absurd mischance, been handed down throughout the ages, or so Judd informs me. They talk, I hear, of Flint and Kidd—even of Blackbeard, most clumsy bungler of all—but not of Thunder. And that, you know, is mighty odd, for without any desire to boast, I can only assure you, my young friend, that in the three years preceding the mutiny of my crew I was dreaded in all ports as the Avenger of the Main, and, indeed, I recollect taking during that period more than thirty merchantmen."
He sighed, giggled once more, and shook out the lace ruffles of his cuffs.
"Indeed, sir?" said Patterson respectfully. To himself he thought, in a sudden panic: "I must humor this man; he's worse than any of them."
For the Captain, with his conical, shaven head, his long, pale face, his deprecating giggle, his cold, greenish eyes and high, affected voice, seemed as he minced there in the sunshine most terribly like an animated corpse coquetting, grotesquely enough, in all the parrot-sheen of silken taffetas and frothing lace. This creature, this little strutting jackanapes, so bleached and frozen and emasculated, looked, indeed, as though a hundred and more years of living on the island had drained away his very life-blood, leaving a dummy, a vindictive, posturing dummy, clad in fine raiment, staring perpetually out to sea with greenish, fishy eyes. And something, perhaps the very essence of evil itself, a breath of cold and effortless vice, emanated from him to stink in Patterson's nostrils like a rank and putrid smell. The odor of decay, perhaps; the very spirit of decay, for surely, in spite of sanity and common sense, this man should long ago have rotted, not in a coffin, but rather from a gibbet on Execution Dock.
Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) Page 42