The embrocation gave him a certain amount of relief. He remembered that the woman had muttered something. It was not Eboe, that jargon of lingua franca which served as a medium for the few remarks necessary between slavers and their human cattle. It was some outlandish coastal or tribal dialect. He had not caught it, sensed its meaning; though there had resided in those few syllables some germ of deadly meaning. He remembered, vaguely, the cadence of the syllables, even though their meaning had been unknown to him. Wearing, aching, depressed, he turned in, and this time, almost immediately, he fell asleep.
And in his sleep, those syllables were repeated to him, into his left ear, endlessly, over and over again, and in his sleep he knew their meaning; and when he awoke, a swaying beam of pouring moonlight coming through his porthole, at four bells after midnight, the cold sweat had made his pillow clammy wet and stood dankly in the hollows of his eyes and soaked his tangled beard.
Burning from head to foot, he rose and lit the candle in his binnacle-light, and cursed himself again for a fool for not acquiring a mirror through the day. Young Sumner, the third mate, shaved. One or two of the fo’castle hands, too. There would be mirrors on board. He must obtain one tomorrow. What was it the woman had said—those syllables? He shuddered. He could not remember. Why should he remember? Gibberish—nigger-talk! It was nothing. Merely the act of a bestial Black. They were all alike. He should have taken the living hide off the wench. To bite him! Well, painful as it was, it should be well healed before he got back to Boston, and Lydia.
Laboriously, for he was very stiff and sore all along the left side, he climbed back into his bed, after blowing out the binnacle-light. That candlewick! It was very foul. He should have wet his thumb and finger and pinched it out. It was still smoking.
Then the syllables again, endlessly—over and over, and, now that he slept, and, somehow, knew that he slept and could not carry their meaning into the next waking state, he knew what they meant. Asleep, drowned in sleep, he tossed from side to side of his berth-bed, and the cold sweat ran in oily trickles down into his thick beard.
He awakened in the early light of morning in a state of horrified half-realization. He could not get up, it seemed. The ache now ran all through his body, which felt as though it had been beaten until flayed. One of the brandy bottles from the Martinique barkentine, opened the night of departure from St Thomas, was within reach. He got it, painfully, drew the cork with his teeth, holding the bottle in his right hand, and took a long, gasping drink of the neat spirit. He could feel it through him like liquid, golden fire. Ah! that was better. He raised the bottle again, set it back where it had been, half empty. He made a great effort to roll out of the berth, failed, sank back well-nigh helpless, his head humming and singing like a hive of angry bees.
He lay there, semi-stupefied now, vague and dreadful things working within his head, his mind, his body; things brewing, seething, there inside him, as though something had entered into him and was growing there where the focus of pain throbbed, in the great muscles of his neck on the left side.
There, an hour later, a timid steward found him, after repeated and unanswered knocks on the state-room door. The steward had at last ventured to open the door a mere peeping-slit, and then, softly closing it behind him, and white-faced, hastened to find Pound, the first mate.
Pound, after consultation with the second mate, Sumner, accompanied the steward to the state-room door, opening off the captain’s cabin. Even there, hard bucko that he was, he hesitated. No one aboard the Saul Taverner approached Captain Luke Martin with a sense of ease or anything like self-assurance. Pound repeated the steward’s door-opening, peeped within, and thereafter entered the cabin, shutting the door.
Martin lay on his right side, the bed-clothes pushed down to near his waist. He slept in his singlet, and the left side of his neck was uppermost. Pound looked long at the wound, his face like chalk, his hands and lips trembling. Then he softly departed, shutting the door behind him a second time, and went thoughtfully up on deck again. He sought out young Sumner and the two spoke together for several minutes. Then Sumner went below to his cabin, and, emerging on the deck, looked furtively all around him. Observing the coast clear, he drew from beneath his drill jacket something twice the size of his hand, and again glancing about to make sure he was not observed, dropped the article overboard. It flashed in the bright morning sun as it turned about in the air before the waters received it forever. It was his small cabin shaving-mirror.
At four bells in the forenoon, Pound again descended to the captain’s cabin. This time Martin’s voice, a weak voice, answered his discreet knock and at its invitation he entered the state-room. Martin now lay on his back, his left side away from the door.
“How are you feeling, sir?” asked Pound.
“Better,” murmured Martin; “this damned thing!” He indicated the left side of his neck with a motion of his right thumb. “I got some sleep this morning. Just woke up, just now. It’s better—the worst of it over, I reckon.”
A pause fell between the men. There seemed nothing more to say. Finally, after several twitches and fidgeting, Pound mentioned several details about the ship, the surest way to enlist Martin’s interest at any time. Martin replied, and Pound took his departure.
Martin had spoken the truth when he alleged he was better. He had awakened with a sense that the worst was over. The wound ached abominably still, but the unpleasantness was distinctly lessened. He got up, rather languidly, slowly pulled on his deck clothes, called for coffee through the state-room door.
Yet, when he emerged on his deck ten minutes later, his face was drawn and haggard, and there was a look in his eyes that kept the men silent. He looked over the ship professionally, the regular six bells morning inspection, but he was preoccupied and his usual intense interest in anything concerned with his ship was this day merely perfunctory. For, nearly constantly now that the savage pain was somewhat allayed and tending to grow less as the deck exercise cleared his mind and body of their poisons, those last syllables, the muttered syllables in his left ear when the Black woman’s head had lain for an instant on his shoulder, those syllables which were not in Eboe, kept repeating themselves to him. It was as though they were constantly reiterated in his physical ear rather than merely mentally; vague syllables, with one word, “l’kundu” standing out and pounding itself deeper and deeper into his consciousness.
“Hearin’ things!” he muttered to himself as he descended to his cabin on the conclusion of the routine morning inspection a half-hour before noon. He did not go up on deck again for the noon observations. He remained, sitting very quietly there in his cabin, listening to what was being whispered over and over again in his left ear, the ear above the wound in his neck muscle.
It was highly unusual for this full-blooded bucko skipper to be quiet as his cabin steward roundly noted. The explanation was, however, very far from the steward’s mind. He imagined that the wound had had a devastating effect upon the captain’s nerves, and so far his intuition was a right one. But beyond that the steward’s crude psychology did not penetrate. He would have been skeptical, amused, scornful, had anyone suggested to him the true reason for this unaccustomed silence and quietude on the part of his employer. Captain Luke Martin, for the first time in his heady and truculent career, was frightened.
He ate little for his midday dinner, and immediately afterward retired to his state-room. He came out again, almost at once, however, and mounted the cabin ladder to the after deck. The Saul Taverner, carrying a heavy load of canvas, was spanking along at a good twelve knots. Martin looked aloft, like a sound sailor-man, when he emerged on deck, but his preoccupied gaze came down and seemed to young Sumner, who touched his hat to him, to look inward. Martin was addressing him.
“I want the lend of your lookin’ glass,” said he in quiet tones.
Young Sumner started, felt the blood leave his face. This was what Pound had warned him about; why he had thrown his glass over the side.
>
“Sorry, sir. It ain’t along with me this ‘vyage, sir. I had it till we lay in St Thomas. But now it’s gone. I couldn’t shave this mornin’, sir.” The young mate made an evidential gesture, rubbing a sun-burned hand across his day’s growth of beard on a weak but not unhandsome face.
He expected a bull-like roar of annoyance from the captain. Instead Martin merely nodded absently, and walked forward. Sumner watched him interestedly until he reached the hatch leading to the crew’s quarters below decks forward. Then:
“Cripes! He’ll get one from Dave Sloan!” And young Sumner ran to find Pound and tell him that the captain would probably have a looking-glass within a minute. He was very curious to know the whys and wherefores of his senior mate’s unusual request about his own looking-glass. He had obeyed, but he wanted to know; for here, indeed, was something very strange. Pound had merely told him the captain mustn’t see that wound in his neck, which was high enough up so that without a glass he could not manage to look at it.
“What’s it like, Mr. Pound?” he ventured to inquire.
“It’s wot you’d name kinder livid-like,” returned Pound, slowly. “It’s a kind of purplish. Looks like—nigger lips!”
Back in his state-room, Martin, after closing the door leading to the cabin, started to take off his shirt. He was half-way through this operation when he was summoned on deck. He hastily readjusted the shirt, almost shame-facedly, as though discovered in some shameful act, and mounted the ladder. Pound engaged him for twenty minutes, ship matters. He gave his decisions in the same half-hearted voice which was so new to those about him, and descended again.
The bit of mirror-glass which he had borrowed from Sloan in the fo’castle was gone from his washstand. He looked, painfully, all over the cabin for it, but it was not there. Ordinarily such a thing happening would have elicited a very tempest of raging curses. Now he sat down, almost helplessly, and stared about the state-room with unseeing eyes. But not with unheeding ears! The voice was speaking English now, no longer gibberish syllables grouped about the one clear word, “l’kundu”. The voice in his left ear was compelling, tense, repetitive. “Over the side,” it was repeating to him, and again, and yet again, “Over the side!”
He sat there a long time. Then, at last, perhaps, an hour later, his face, which there was no one by to see, now pinched, drawn and grey in the bold challenging afternoon light in the white-painted state-room, he rose, slowly, and with almost furtive motions began to pull off his shirt.
He got it off, laid it on his berth, drew off the light singlet which he wore under it, and slowly, tentatively, with his right hand, reached for the wound in his neck. As his hand approached it, he felt cold and weak. At last his hand, fingers groping, touched the sore and tender area of the wound, felt about, found the wound itself…
It was Pound who found him, two hours later, huddled in a heap on the cramped floor of the state-room, naked to the waist, unconscious.
It was Pound, hard old Pound, who laboriously propped the captain’s great bulk—for he was a heavy-set man, standing six feet in height—into his chair, pulled the singlet and then the discarded shirt over his head and then poured brandy between his bluish lips. It required half an hour of the mate’s rough restoratives, brandy, chafing of the hands, slapping the limp, huge wrists, before Captain Luke Martin’s eyelids fluttered and the big man gradually came awake.
But Pound found the monosyllabic answers to his few, brief questions cryptic, inappropriate. It was as though Martin were answering someone else, some other voice.
“I will,” he said, wearily, and again, “Yes, I will!”
It was then, looking him up and down in considerable puzzlement, that the mate saw the blood on the fingers of his right hand, picked up the great, heavy hand now lying limply on the arm of the state-room chair.
The three middle fingers had been bleeding for some time. The blood from them was now dry and clotted. Pound, picking up the hand, examining it in the light of the lowering afternoon sun, saw that these fingers had been savagely cut, or, it looked like, sawed. It was as though the saw-teeth that had ground and torn them had grated along their bones. It was a ghastly wound.
Pound, trembling from head to foot, fumbling about the medicine case, mixed a bowl of permanganate solution, soaked the unresisting hand, bound it up. He spoke to Martin several times, but Martin’s eyes were looking at something far away, his ears deaf to his mate’s words. Now and again he nodded his head acquiescently, and once more, before old Pound left him, sitting there limply, he muttered, “Yes, yes!—I will, I will!”
Pound visited him again just before four bells in the early evening, supper time. He was still seated, looking, somehow, shrunken, apathetic.
“Supper, Captain?” inquired Pound tentatively. Martin did not raise his eyes. His lips moved, however, and Pound bent to catch what was being said.
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Martin. “I will, I will—yes, I will!”
“It’s laid in the cabin, sir,” ventured Pound, but he got no reply, and he slipped out, closing the door behind him.
“The captain’s sick, Maguire,” said Pound to the little steward. “You might as well take down the table and all that, and then go forward as soon as you’re finished.”
“Ay ay, sir,” replied the wondering steward, and proceeded to unset the cabin table according to these orders. Pound saw him through with these duties, followed him out on deck, saw that he went forward as directed. Then he returned, softly.
He paused outside the state-room door, listened. There was someone talking there, someone besides the skipper, a thick voice, like one of the Negroes, but very faint; thick, guttural, but light; a voice like a young boy’s or—a woman’s. Pound, stupefied, listened, his ear now directly against the door. He could not catch, through that thickness, what was being said, but it was in form, by the repeated sounds, the captain’s voice alternating with the light, guttural voice, clearly a conversation, like question and answer, question and answer. The ship had no boy. Of women there were a couple of dozen, but all of them were battened below, under hatches, Black women, down in the stinking manhold. Besides, the captain—there could not be a woman in there with him. No woman, no one at all, could have got in. The state-room had been occupied only by the captain when he had left it fifteen minutes before. He had not been out of sight of the closed door all that time. Yet he listened the more intently, his mind now wholly intrigued by this strange riddle.
He caught the cadence of Martin’s words, now, the same cadence, he knew instinctively, as that of the broken sentence he had been repeating to him in his half-dazed state while he was binding up those gashed fingers. Those fingers! He shuddered. The Saul Taverner was a hell-ship. None was better aware of that than he, who had largely contributed, through many voyages in her, to that sinister reputation she bore, but—this! This was something like real hell.
“Yes, yes—I will, I will, I will—” that was the swing, the tonal cadence of what Martin was saying at more or less regular intervals in there; then the guttural, light voice—the two going on alternately, one after the other, no pauses in that outlandish conversation.
Abruptly the conversation ceased. It was as though a sound-proof door had been pulled down over it. Pound straightened himself up, waited a minute, then knocked on the door.
The door was abruptly thrown open from inside, and Captain Luke Martin, his eyes, glassy, unseeing, stepped out, Pound giving way before him. The Captain paused in the middle of his cabin, looking about him, his eyes still bearing that “unseeing” look. Then he made his way straight towards the companion ladder. He was going up on deck, it seemed. His clothes hung on him now, his shirt awry, his trousers crumpled and seamed where he had lain on the floor, sat, huddled up, in the small chair where Pound had placed him.
Pound followed him up the ladder.
Once on deck, he made his way straight to the port rail, and stood, looking, still as though “unseeingly”, out over the billowi
ng waves. It was dark now; the Sub-tropic dusk had lately fallen. The ship was quiet save for the noise of her sharp bows as they went to cut through the middle North Atlantic swell on her twelve-knot way to Virginia.
Suddenly old Pound sprang forward, grappled with Martin. The captain had started to climb the rail—suicide, that was it, then—those voices!
The thwarting of what seemed to be his purpose aroused Martin at last. Behind him lay a middle-aged man’s lifetime of command, of following his own will in all things. He was not accustomed to being thwarted, to any resistance, which, aboard his own ship, always went down, died still-born, before his bull-like bellow, his truculent fists.
He grappled in turn with his mate, and a long, desperate, and withal a silent struggle began there on the deck, lighted only by the light from the captain’s cabin below, the light of the great binnacle lamp of whale oil, through the skylights set above-decks for daytime illumination below.
In the course of that silent, deadly struggle, Pound seeking to drag the captain back from the vicinity of the rail, the captain laying about him with vicious blows, the man became rapidly disheveled. Martin had been coatless, and a great swath of his white shirt came away in the clutching grip of Pound, baring his neck and left shoulder.
Pound slackened, let go, shrank and reeled away, covering his eyes lest they be blasted from their sockets by the horror which he had seen.
For there, where the shirt had been torn away and exposed the side of Martin’s neck, stood a pair of blackish-purple, perfectly formed, blubbery lips; and as he gazed, appalled, horrified, the lips had opened in a wide yawn, exposing great, shining African teeth, from between which, before he could bury his face in his hands away from this horror, a long, pink tongue had protruded and licked the lips…
The Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK™, Vol. 1: Henry S. Whitehead Page 36