The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

  “Merciful Heaven!” gulped he. “There’s a cataract over there—a terrible chasm—a plunge—to what? And we’re drifting toward it at express-train speed!”

  CHAPTER XI

  THE PLUNGE!

  Dazed though Stern was at his first realization of the impending horror, yet through his fear for Beatrice, still asleep among her furs, struggled a vast wonder at the meaning, the possibility of such a phenomenon.

  How could a current like that rush up along the Sound? How could there be a cataract, sucking down the waters of the sea itself—whither could it fall? Even at that crisis the man’s scientific curiosity was aroused; he felt, subconsciously, the interest of the trained observer there in the midst of deadly peril.

  But the moment demanded action.

  Quickly Stern dropped to the deck, and, noiseless as a cat in his doe-skin sandals, ran aft.

  But even before he had executed the instinctive tactic of shifting the helm, paying off, and trying to beat up into the faint breeze that now drifted over the swirling current, he realized its futility and abandoned it.

  “No use,” thought he. “About as effective as trying to dip up the ocean with a spoon. Any use to try the sweeps? Maybe she and I together could swing away out of the current—make the shore—nothing else to do—I’ll try it, anyhow.”

  Beside the girl he knelt.

  “Beta! Beta!” he whispered in her ear. He shook her gently by the arm. “Come, wake up, girlie—there’s work to do here!”

  She, submerged in healthy sleep, sighed deeply and murmured some unintelligible thing; but Stern persisted. And in a minute or so there she was, sitting up in the bottom of the yawl among the furs.

  In the dim moonlight her face seemed a vague sweet flower shadowed by the dark, wind-blown masses of her hair. Stern felt the warmth, scented the perfume of her firm, full-blooded flesh. She put a hand to her hair; her tiger-skin robe, falling back to the shoulder, revealed her white and beautiful arm.

  All at once she drew that arm about the man and brought him close to her breast.

  “Oh, Allan!” she breathed. “My boy! Where are we? What is it? Oh, I was sleeping so soundly! Have we reached harbor yet? What’s that noise—that roaring sound? Surf?”

  For a moment he could not answer. She, sensing some trouble, peered closely at him.

  “What is it, Allan?” cried she, her woman’s intuition telling her of trouble. “Tell me—is anything wrong?”

  “Listen, dearest!”

  “Yes, what?”

  “We’re in some kind of—of—”

  “What? Danger?”

  “Well, it may be. I don’t know yet. But there’s something wrong. You see—”

  “Oh, Allan!” she exclaimed, and started up. “Why didn’t you waken me before? What is it? What can I do to help?”

  “I think there’s rough water ahead, dear,” the engineer answered, trying to steady his voice, which shook a trifle in spite of him. “At any rate, it sounds like a waterfall of some kind or other; and see, there’s a line, a drift of vapor rising over there. We’re being carried toward it on a strong current.”

  Anxiously she peered, now full awake. Then she turned to Allan.

  “Can’t we sail away?”

  “Not enough wind. We might possibly row out of the current, and—and perhaps—”

  “Give me one of the sweeps quick, quick!”

  He put the sweeps out. No sooner had he braced himself against a rib of the yawl and thrown his muscles against the heavy bar than she, too, was pulling hard.

  “Not too strong at first, dear,” he cautioned. “Don’t use up all your strength in the first few minutes. We may have a long fight for it!”

  “I’m in it with you—till the end—whichever way it ends,” she answered; and in the moonlight he saw the untrammeled swing and play of her magnificent body.

  The yawl came round slowly till it was crosswise to the current, headed toward the mainland shore. Now it began to make a little headway. But the breeze slightly impeded it.

  Stern whipped out his knife and slashed the sheets of platted rush. The sail crumpled, crackled and slid down; and now under a bare pole the boat cradled slowly ahead transversely across the foam-streaked current that ran swiftly soughing toward the dim vapor-swirls away to the northeast.

  No word was spoken now. Both Beatrice and Stern lay to the sweeps; both braced themselves and put the full force of back and arms into each long, powerful stroke. Yet Stern could see that, at the rate of progress they were making over that black and oily swirl, they could not gain ten feet while the current was carrying them a thousand.

  In his heart he knew the futility of the fight, yet still he fought. Still Beatrice fought for life, too, there by his side. Human instinct, the will to live, drove them on, on, where both understood there was no hope.

  For now already the current had quickened still more. The breeze had sprung up from the opposite direction; Stern knew the boiling rush of waters had already reached a speed greater than that of the wind itself. No longer the stars trembled, reflected, in the waters. All ugly, frothing, broken, the swift current foamed and leaped, in long, horrible gulfs and crests of sickening velocity.

  And whirlpools now began to form. The yawl was twisted like a straw, wrenched, hurled, flung about with sickening violence.

  “Row! Row!” Stern cried none the less. And his muscles bunched and hardened with the labor; his veins stood out, and sweat dropped from his brow, ran into his eyes, and all but blinded him.

  The girl, too, was laboring with all her might. Stern heard her breath, gasping and quick, above the roar and swash of the mad waters. And all at once revulsion seized him—rage, and a kind of mad exultation, a defiance of it all.

  He dropped the sweep and sprang to her.

  “Beta!” he shouted, louder than the droning tumult. “No use! No use at all! Here—come to me!”

  He drew the sweep inboard and flung it in the bottom of the yawl.

  Already the vapors of the cataract ahead were drifting over them and driving in their faces. A vibrant booming shuddered through the dark air, where now even the moon’s faint light was all extinguished by the whirling mists.

  Heaven and sea shook with the terrible concussion of falling waters. Though Stern had shouted, yet the girl could not have heard him now.

  In the gloom he peered at her; he took her in his arms. Her face was pale, but very calm. She showed no more fear than the man; each seemed inspired with some strange exultant thought of death, there with the other.

  He drew her to his breast and covered her face; he knelt with her among the heaped-up furs, and then, as the yawl plunged more violently still, they sank down in the poor shelter of the cabin and waited.

  His arms were about her; her face was buried on his breast. He smoothed her hair; his lips pressed her forehead.

  “Good-by!” he whispered, though she could not hear.

  They seemed now to hover on the very brink.

  A long, racing sluicelike incline of black waters, streaked with swirls of white, appeared before them. The boat plunged and whirled, dipped, righted, and sped on.

  Behind, a huge, rushing, wall-like mass of lathering, leaping surges. In front, a vast nothingness, a black, unfathomable void, up through which gushed in clouds the mighty jets of vapor.

  Came a lurch, a swift plunge.

  The boat hung suspended a moment.

  Stern saw what seemed a long, clear, greenish slant of water. Deafened and dazed by the infernal pandemonium of noise, he bowed his head on hers, and his arms tightened.

  Suddenly everything dropped away. The universe crashed and bellowed.

  Stern felt a heavy dash of brine—cold, strangling, irresistible.

  All grew black.

  “Death!” thought he, and knew no more.

  CHAPTER XII

  TRAPPED ON THE LEDGE

  Consciousness won back to Allan Stern—how long afterward he could not tell—under the guis
e of a vast roaring tumult, a deafening thunder that rose, fell, leaped aloft again in huge, titanic cadences of sound.

  And coupled with this glimmering sense-impression, he felt the drive of water over him; he saw, vaguely as in the memory of a dream, a dim gray light that weakly filtered through the gloom.

  Weak, sick, dazed, the man realized that he still lived; and to his mind the thought “Beatrice!” flashed back again.

  With a tremendous effort, gasping and shaken, weak, unnerved and wounded, he managed to raise himself upon one elbow and to peer about him with wild eyes.

  A strange scene that. Even in the half light, with all his senses distorted by confusion and by pain, he made shift to comprehend a little of what he saw.

  He understood that, by some fluke of fate, life still remained in him; that, in some way he never could discover, he had been cast upon a ledge of rock there in the cataract—a ledge over which spray and foam hurled, seething, yet a ledge which, parting the gigantic flood, offered a chance of temporary safety.

  Above him, sweeping in a vast smooth torrent of clear green, he saw the steady downpour of the falls. Out at either side, as he lay there still unable to rise, he caught glimpses through the spume-drive, glimpses of swift white water, that broke and creamed as it whirled past; that jetted high; that, hissing, swept away, away, to unknown depths below that narrow, slippery ledge.

  Realization of all this had hardly forced itself upon his dazed perceptions when a stronger recrudescence of his thought about the girl surged back upon him.

  “Beatrice! Beatrice!” he gasped, and struggled up.

  On hands and knees, groping, half-blinded, deafened, he began to crawl; and as he crawled, he shouted the girl’s name, but the thundering of the vast tourbillions and eddies that swirled about the rock, white and ravening, drowned his voice. Vague yet terrible, in the light of the dim moon that filtered through the mists, the racing flood howled past. And in Stern’s heart, as he now came to more and better understanding, a vast despair took shape, a sickening fear surged up.

  Again he shouted, chokingly, creeping along the slippery ledge. Through the driving mists he peered with agonized eyes. Where was the yawl now? Where the girl? Down there in that insane welter of the mad torrent—swept away long since to annihilation? The thought maddened him.

  Clutching a projection of the rock, he hauled himself up to his feet, and for a moment stood there, swaying, a strange, tattered, dripping figure in the dim moonlight, wounded, breathless and disheveled, with bloodshot eyes that sought to pierce the hissing spray.

  All at once he gulped some unintelligible thing and staggered forward.

  There, wedged in a crevice, he had caught sight of something—what it was he could not tell, but toward it now he stumbled.

  He reached the thing. Sobbing with realization of his incalculable loss and of the wreckage of all their hopes and plans and all that life had meant, he fell upon his knees beside the object.

  He groped about it as though blind; he felt that formless mass of débris, a few shattered planks and part of the woven sail, now jammed into the fissure in the ledge. And at touch of all that remained to him, he crouched there, ghastly pale and racked with unspeakable anguish.

  But hope and the indomitable spirit of the human heart still urged him on. The further end of the ledge, overdashed with wild jets of spray and stinging drives of brine, still remained unexplored. And toward this now he crept, bit by bit, fighting his way along, now clinging as some more savage surge leaped over, now battling forward on hands and knees along the perilous strip of stone.

  One false move, he knew, one slip and all was over. He, too, like the yawl itself, and perhaps like Beatrice, would whirl and fling away down, down, into the nameless nothingness of that abyss.

  Better thus, he dimly realized, better, after all, than to cling to the ledge in case he could not find her. For it must be only a matter of time, and no very long time at that, when exhaustion and starvation would weaken him and when he must inevitably be swept away.

  And in his mind he knew the future, which voiced itself in a half-spoken groan:

  “If she’s not there, or if she’s there, but dead—good-by!”

  Even as he sensed the truth he found her. Sheltered behind a jutting spur of granite, Beatrice was lying, where the shock of the impact had thrown her when the yawl had struck the ledge.

  Drenched and draggled in her water-soaked tiger-skin, her long hair tangled and disheveled over the rock, she lay as though asleep.

  “Dead!” gasped Allan, and caught her in his arms, all limp and cold. Back from her brow he flung the brine-soaked hair; he kissed her forehead and her lips, and with trembling hands began to chafe her face, her throat, her arms.

  To her breast he laid his ear, listening for some flicker of life, some promise of vitality again.

  And as he sensed a slight yet rhythmic pulsing there—as he detected a faint breath, so vast a gratitude and love engulfed him that for a moment all grew dazed and shaken and unreal.

  He had to brace himself, to struggle for self-mastery.

  “Beta! Beta!” he cried. “Oh, my God! You live—you live!”

  Dripping water, unconscious, lithe, she lay within his clasp, now strong again. Forgotten his weakness and his pain, his bruises, his wounds, his fears All had vanished from his consciousness with the one supreme realization—“She lives!”

  Back along the ledge he bore her, not slipping now, not crouching, but erect and bold and powerful, nerved to that effort and that daring by the urge of the great love that flamed through all his veins.

  Back he bore her to the comparative safety of the other end, where only an occasional breaker creamed across the rock and where, behind a narrow shelf that projected diagonally upward and outward, he laid his precious burden down.

  And now again he called her name; he rubbed and chafed her.

  Only joy filled his soul. Nothing else mattered now. The total loss of their yawl and all its precious contents, the wreck of their expedition almost at its very start, the fact that Beatrice and he were now alone upon a narrow ledge of granite in the midst of a stupendous cataract that drained the ocean down to unknown, unthinkable depths, the knowledge that she and he now were without arms, ammunition, food, shelter, fire, anything at all, defenseless in a wilderness such as no humans ever yet had faced—all this meant nothing to Allan Stern.

  For he had her; and as at last her lids twitched, then opened, and her dazed eyes looked at him; as she tried to struggle up while he restrained her; as she chokingly called his name and stretched a tremulous hand to him, there in the thunderous half light of the falls, he knew he could not ask for greater joy, though all of civilization and of power might be his, without her.

  In his own soul he knew he would choose this abandonment and all this desperate peril with Beatrice, rather than safety, comfort, luxury, and the whole world as it once had been apart from her.

  Yet, as sometimes happens in the supreme crises of life, his first spoken word was commonplace enough.

  “There, there, lie still!” he commanded, drawing her close to his breast. “You’re all right, now—just keep quiet, Beatrice!”

  “What—what’s happened—” she gasped. “Where—”

  “Just a little accident, that’s all,” he soothed the frightened girl. Dazed by the roaring cadence of the torrent, she shuddered and hid her face against him; and his arms protected her as he crouched there beside her in the scant shelter of the rocky shelf.

  “We got carried over a waterfall, or something of that sort,” he added. “We’re on a ledge in the river, or whatever it is, and—”

  “You’re hurt, Allan?”

  “No, no—are you?”

  “It’s nothing, boy!” She looked up again, and even in the dim light he saw her try to smile. “Nothing matters so long as we have each other!”

  Silence between them for a moment, while he drew her close and kissed her. He questioned her again, but f
ound that save for bruises and a cruel blow on the temple, she had taken no hurt in the plunge that had stunned her. Both, they must have been flung from the yawl when it had gone to pieces. How long they had lain upon the rock they knew not. All they could know was that the light woodwork of the boat had been dashed away with their supplies and that now they again faced the world empty-handed—provided even that escape were possible from the midst of that mad torrent.

  An hour or so they huddled in the shelter of the rocky shelf till strength and some degree of calm returned and till the growing light far off to eastward through the haze and mist told them that day was dawning again.

  Then Allan set to work exploring once more carefully their little islet in the swirling flood.

  “You stay here, Beta,” said he. “So long as you keep back of this projection you’re safe. I’m going to see just what the prospect is.”

  “Oh, be careful, Allan!” she entreated. “Be so very, very careful, won’t you?”

  He promised and left her. Then, cautiously, step by step, he made his way along the ledge in the other direction from that where he had found the senseless girl.

  To the very end of the ledge he penetrated, but found no hope. Nothing was to be seen through the mists save the mad foam-rush of the waters that leaped and bounded like white-maned horses in a race of death. Bold as the man was, he dared not look for long. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him with sickening lure, its invitation to the plunge. So, realizing that nothing was to be gained by staying there, he drew back and once more sought Beatrice.

  “Any way out?” she asked him, anxiously, her voice sounding clear and pure through the tumult of the rushing waters.

  He shook his head, despairingly. And silence fell again, and each sat thinking long, long thoughts, and dawn came creeping grayly through the spume-drive of the giant falls.

  More than an hour must have passed before Stern noted a strange phenomenon—an hour in which they had said few words—an hour in which both had abandoned hopes of life—and in which, she in her own way, he in his, they had reconciled themselves to the inevitable.