Seven Dead

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  They waited while the match flame moved slowly along the little length of wood. The walls blinked, as though unused to light.

  “Well—just this,” murmured Hazeldean, as the light began to die.

  “Just what?” came Kendall’s voice a second later through the darkness.

  “Just a cave.”

  “You missed something in that last flicker.”

  “Did I? What?”

  Kendall struck another match. The cave glowed into life again. He advanced the flame to a ledge in the wall. On the ledge was a small pencil stump.

  “By Jove!” exclaimed Hazeldean.

  “Recognise the breed?” asked Kendall.

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  “Never mind. Go on.”

  “Red. Wasn’t the pencil stump you found in the grey-haired man’s hand red?”

  “It was.”

  “But, after all, there are millions of red pencils.”

  “Quite correct. And—again, after all—we know that grey-haired man was here. Still, it’s interesting that the end of this stump isn’t smooth, so may be a portion of a longer pencil that was broken in half. I wonder whether the other half found its way to Haven House?”

  “And I wonder what this half wrote,” added Hazeldean.

  “We’re going to find what it wrote,” said Kendall.

  Now he moved the match flame along the wall. Its rough, uneven surface became alive with little moving black shadows as the light passed along. The shadows looked like black slits that grew fat and thin, and vanished. But one black slit did not vanish or change its size. Kendall inserted two fingers in it, and drew out a thin note-book. The match went out. Hazeldean felt something leaning against him.

  “I think I’m suffocating!” gasped Dora. “Please—I must get out.”

  They turned and left the cave. In the free air, she sat upon a rock, recovering from a fit of trembling.

  “I’m sorry—but that grey-haired man,” she murmured, “he seemed to be there.”

  Kendall looked up from the book he had opened.

  “He was there,” he said. “And now he’s going to talk to us.”

  Chapter XXVI

  The Voice of a Diary

  Well, we are off at last. All the fuss and the bustle are over, the passengers have been sorted from the non-passengers who came to see them off—nobody came to see me off!—and the funnel has made its horrible noise. The photographer nearly missed getting ashore. Serve him right if he had, for he and his damned camera were a curse. I did my best to dodge him. But he just scuttled down the gangway before it was withdrawn, and now the water is widening between me and South Africa, and I am wondering whether I shall ever see it again. Probably not. That’s a queer thought. I wonder whether people ought to leave the land they were born in? It was a woman who caused poor Henry to stay away, and now it is another woman—though of course a small one this time—who is carrying me away from my own roots. Perhaps I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t tempted me with that little photograph. Dora must be a jolly little kid. Yes, if we can get used to each other, we may make a team! But, of course, I have another reason—

  Hallo, that was a roll! I hope the Good Friday is going to prove good! The first word of the name is all right, but the second might worry superstitious people—especially as to-day is Friday. Fortunately, I am not superstitious. At least, I don’t think I am.

  Well, what about a drink?

  ***

  Met a queer fellow while having that drink. I thought he was dotty at first, and am not sure that he isn’t! Came to my table with his glass, sat down and asked whether I thought Bradman was a greater cricketer than W. G. Grace. Told him I didn’t know and didn’t care. This both astounded him and depressed him. He took a cricket ball from his pocket and began shooting it from his hand to the crook of his elbow, as though for consolation over my apathy.

  “What are you interested in?” he asked suddenly.

  He’d shot the ball into the air. I waited till he caught it behind his back, and then said, “I’ve got my pet subject”—and I have!—“but at the moment I think I’m interested in this seamen’s strike.”

  “Oh, is there one?” he asked.

  “Just a small one!” I answered. “I hope it won’t spread to the Good Friday.” Evidently he didn’t read the news, and imagined the world was just one big cricket field! I tried him on another item. “I see they haven’t caught Cauldwell yet, the brickfield murderer,” I said. “I don’t suppose you got a copy of that latest edition the newsboy was rushing about with just as we left?”

  “Ah, that’s rather funny,” he replied. “You see, I did. The only one, I think.” He laughed. “Two people threw coins, but muffed the papers the boy threw back. They went in the water. Then I had a shot. I play cricket, you know. Biff, there goes the coin! Good catch. And here comes the paper!” He tossed his ball in the air and caught it. “Another good catch!” He patted his side pocket. “But I didn’t know anybody had been murdered. In a cricket field, did you say?”

  “No, a brickfield.”

  “Oh!” He wasn’t interested. “I wanted to see what Port Elizabeth had made. 240 for six. Marks, 101 not out. You know, that chap’s got a leg glide that I’ll bet is as good as Ranji’s. It’s like—what?—a bird!”

  Queer fellow. Rather pathetic. Then another queer fellow came along. At least, I thought it was a fellow, but it turned out to be a woman.

  Well, now for my bunk.

  ***

  Reason I haven’t written lately is because one day is much like another at sea, I find. Same routine. Same food. Same people. Same games. Same view.

  But to-day there’s a change in the air—yes, in more senses than one.

  First, the weather. It’s been good, so far, but the glass is falling, and the Third Officer told me he didn’t care for the look of it. Am not sure whether this was the sort of thing he should have said. To be truthful, I don’t much care for the look of the Third Officer! I suppose he does some work, but he always seems to be poking around among the passengers, and with one of them in particular—Stedman, whose cabin’s next to mine. Suppose he’s all right, but don’t care for him.

  As a matter of fact, this morning I joined one of their conversations, which had to do with the second change in the air. That seamen’s strike hasn’t been left behind, after all. There’s dissatisfaction down below, and trouble with the firemen. I was pitching into them, when Stedman rounded on me and told me they were underpaid, and were in the right. To my surprise, Brown—the Third Officer—seemed to agree. We might have had a row if Miles hadn’t come along with his eternal cricket ball and scattered us by pretending to hurl it at us.

  I shan’t be sorry to get to England!

  Yes, the more I think of that unknown spot I am going to, the more I like it. Haven House. A pleasant name. And this little niece of mine—whenever I take her photo out of my pocket, she gives me a friendly smile. Believe she’s got a sense of humour. Hope so. Shall I walk in through the front door, or give her a surprise by creeping in through the wood at the back? Thoughtful of Henry to draw me that plan. “Essex isn’t South Africa,” he said, “but I’ll be sorry to leave my little creek and wood and smooth lawns. You’ll like it here, John.” I think I shall, Henry. Poor old boy—I guess you’ve been better at home-making than I have. It will be pleasant to carry on for you. Silly of us to quarrel. I wonder what that little girl’s voice is like?

  ***

  Things are getting serious—including the captain’s face. All sorts of rumours and counter-rumours going around. I even heard the word “Mutiny.” Nonsense! Can’t believe it! Anyhow, William Miles goes on playing with his ball!

  Weather getting worse.

  ***

  What is Brown doing in Stedman’s cabin? Wish the walls were either thicker or thinner! If the
y were thinner, I might hear what they are saying, instead of this maddening, incoherent droning, and if they were thicker I couldn’t hear anything at all!… Ha! That’s stopped ’em! I knocked. Don’t Third Officers ever go to bed?

  It’s been an uneasy day. I feel sure a lot’s happening we’re not being told about. Oh, well, go to sleep while the going’s good!

  ***

  Three men flogged this morning.

  ***

  It’s happened! But, even though my door is locked on me, I can’t believe it! The thing’s incredible!

  Good Friday? I reckon this happens to be a bad one!

  There was a coup d’état in the night. The whole thing must have been most devilishly well organised. There have been some casualties, I understand, and the ship is under the control of the mutineers. I got most of my information from a steward who is scared out of his life. The mutineers are armed. Brought the arms aboard. Brown and Stedman are in it, of course, and plenty of others.

  The first thing they did, I’m told, was to smash up the wireless. Then they got out of hand and smashed everything else. The course is altered, and God knows where we are making for. South America, the steward thinks; but as he is in such a dither that he can hardly think at all, his opinion doesn’t count for much! Most of the passengers are virtually prisoners—saving those, I take it, who have helped the Bad Cause. Why I didn’t hear any of the fuss myself is due, probably, to my heavy sleeping, and the noise of the weather. The weather is getting worse and worse.

  The steward says I was lucky to have slept through it. Some who didn’t, wish now that they had!

  ***

  The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley—or however the damn thing goes. The weather’s winning, and the fools who thought they’d won are regretting some of their work! They did more damage than they realised, and we are now a crippled boat, with no means whatever of communicating our troubles to the outside world.

  I ought to be scared out of my life. I can’t make out why I am not. Maybe it’s because the whole thing seems so grotesque and unreal—I’m still a prisoner, for the mutineers are afraid to let the passengers free—or maybe the condition of the steward makes me too contemptuous to risk dropping to his level. Nobody wants to die, and I’m sure I don’t, but I have always felt that death is a vastly over-rated tragedy. Yes, I can think that even in the shadow of it. I said so to the steward.

  “We’re being driven south,” he chattered.

  “What’s wrong with the direction?” I asked.

  “It’s out of every route,” he answered.

  “That’ll save you a hanging,” I said. “And here’s a bit of advice from a prisoner to his jailer. Pull yourself together! We’ve all got to die once. And is the date so important? If we die now, it’ll save us the inconvenience of dying another time.”

  The fellow seemed impressed with the idea. I had to feel a bit sorry for him.

  “Yes—but what comes after?” he asked.

  “I’m not a preacher, but I guess there’s something,” I said, “so put your house in order while there’s time.” Then I asked a question. Things were crashing above, and the ship seemed to be drunk. “What’s the real position, steward? Are we in actual danger?”

  He didn’t answer. He just rolled his eyes.

  “I see,” I said. “And we’re still to be locked in!”

  He put his mouth close to my ear. “There’s a man outside with a gun,” he whispered. “If I don’t lock you in, we’ll both be shot!”

  We heard a shot a moment later. He fled, locking the door violently. The boat is in the hands of madmen…

  Whew! That was a lurch… Hallo—here’s water coming in… My God!…

  ***

  I did not think I should be writing again in this book. I don’t know how many days have passed since I last wrote—we’ve all lost count of time—nor can I describe all that has happened. Sometimes events have been packed too closely to sort out any of them; at other times—just blanks. I don’t even know who unlocked my cabin door when the ship became doomed. Brown says he did; but that may just be an attempt to whitewash himself. In the fantastic delirium that followed I found myself joining in the mad suave-qui-peut stampede, hugging a few possessions I never knew I had till afterwards, and somehow or other tumbling into a small boat with seven others. We got clear just before the Good Friday went down, and escaped the suction. Others weren’t so fortunate.

  The ship went down as the sun came up. The weather was so bad that we soon forgot everything but the job of keeping afloat. The fact that we did so goes to Brown’s credit, anyway, and to the two sailors we had with us; but keeping afloat was all we could manage, and for an eternity the wind and the tide took us where they liked. Sometimes the eternity was black, sometimes grey. The sun that came out when the Good Friday sank soon went in again—it ought to have kept in for the sorry sight it shone on—and we haven’t seen it since. But must we grumble? I suppose not. We’ve been sucked on to an island, and though our boat was smashed in the process, none of us were.

  We’ve been here two days. The first day was spent mainly in panting and gasping. The second, more practically. We’ve collected most of the provisions which have been blessedly washed ashore, and we’ve reckoned up the food prospects on the island itself. We’ll be testing some new diet before long—penguin pie, for one. Lawson swears he’s seen a sea-elephant. That will be jolly—if we catch him! And there should be birds’ eggs, fish, and something edible among the local vegetation. But, best of all, there’s a stream. It tumbles down from the heights in the middle of the island and runs by the spot where we’ve pitched our camp.

  So who’s worrying?

  ***

  Interruption. It’s to-morrow. I had to turn out of my cave and do my bit—or several bits—wood collecting, food hunting, helping to get another barrel ashore, and tidying our three caves; also, organising a conference and trying to get tired minds interested. As matters are turning out, Brown and I are becoming the leaders of our party. I’ve an idea Brown is really ashamed of himself. Whether he is or not, it’s a lucky thing we’ve got him with us. Incidentally, his watch is still going—he never forgot to wind it—he brought some useful things along with him, including an instrument or two, and the return of the sun has allowed him to get our bearings. Latitude 59.16 South and longitude 4.6 East.

  And a lot of use that’s going to be—as he remarked himself.

  This is a small volcanic island, something of the type, I gather, of the Tristan da Cunha group. Precious little chance of being picked up—if any—but if we pull ourselves together and work out of our panic or lethargy, we ought to be able to live here till we can build a boat to get away in. That, of course, is our main task. It won’t be easy, but it’s got to be done.

  The trouble is, we are not what you would call a picked lot! Though I am not as young as I was, I am one of the best. Brown is the most useful, and the two seamen, Bob and Jim, will be worth their salt—or penguin—when they’ve got over their demoralisation. I believe they’re a bit ashamed of themselves, too!—as they damn’ well ought to be.

  The other four are pretty hopeless. One is the cricketer—who didn’t leave his ball behind, and who is practising high catches at this moment. I am sitting in the entrance to my cave, and I’m not sure that I’m safe, for every now and then he hurls the ball at some imaginary wicket, and you never know where he’s going to imagine it next! Another is Stedman, the man whose cabin was next to mine, and who was thick with Brown. He had a lot to do with that mutiny, I’ll take my oath on that, and he’s the one person who doesn’t seem ashamed of himself. Unfortunately, he is sharing my cave. Brown and the seamen occupy one of the bigger ones, and Miles, Lawson and Jane are in the other. Lawson and Jane complete the eight of us. Lawson is a silly, weak-willed fellow, who keeps his mouth open and does what anybody tells him. He did what
Brown and Stedman told him on the Good Friday. The throw-out of his family, I imagine. No brain at all. And Jane—odd, that our one woman should be Jane. She is the mannish-looking woman I mentioned in the first pages of this diary. She ought to be a beautiful girl, by the usual pattern of these things, whom the men fight for. Nothing of that sort. And yet—she has a curious attraction, and I’ve a feeling she will play her part—and that she’s played it before. I’m sorry for you, Jane, but I don’t much cotton to you… Still, we’re not all made alike.

  Whew! I just dodged it! I was the imaginary wicket that time, and the ball’s gone in the cave! Here comes Miles, full of apologies.

  Miles may be cracked, but he made a mad suggestion this morning that’s going to prove useful. “I say, chaps,” he said, over the meal we call breakfast, “what about a game of cricket to-day?”

  At first he was laughed at. Then I realised the value of the idea. Keep us fit. Something to do. Change in our routine. Take our minds off ourselves.

  “I’ll play,” I said.

  “What with?” asked Stedman.

  “I’ll make a bat,” said Miles.

  We played in the evening. We all made ducks but Miles, who made 150 not out. The sea was six, but in future it is to count as caught, as penalty for the risk of losing the ball. Only four of us started playing, but the other four joined in before the end.

  Sometimes, when I think of our ridiculous, hopeless position, I just don’t believe it.

  ***

  We’ve caught the sea-elephant!

  ***

  I had a dream last night. Maybe it was the sea-elephant. If so, its dreams are sweeter than its taste. I dreamt I was arriving at Haven House. Dora was standing by a small white gate, with a basket of red roses. She was dressed in white. She threw her arms round me, and I carried her into the house, and then she sat on my knee… That’s all. Sounds silly enough, but it was very nice.