After breakfast that day Captain Johnson ordered the boat to be lowered, and put a large crew into her, all armed as before. Then we put off to the weed island; but before we left the ship the Captain had dismounted the smaller ship’s bell that was upon the poop, and this we had with us in the boat, also his speaking trumpet.
All that morning we spent circumnavigating the great weed island again, and at each hundred fathoms I beat upon the bell, and the Captain sent his voice inland, speaking through the trumpet and asking whether there were any derelict ship with lost humans hid in the heart of the weed. Yet whether his voice carried through the weed or was smothered we could not know, but only of this could we be certain, that there came never an answer out of all that desolation of the weed, neither to the bell nor to our callings.
In this way we went full round about that island, and naught came of it, save once when we were very near inshore I saw a truly monstrous crab, double as big as any I had ever seen, far in among the great weed stems; and the crab was dark hued as though to match the darker colour of that inward weed; and by this I judged that it lived far inward amid the gloom of the centre parts of that strange island. And truly, as I thought, what could we do even though we found a ship far inward of the weed; for how could any man face a monstrous thing like that, and surely there would be multitudes of such brutes in the middle part of the island, taking no count of the devil fish which also inhabited the weed of that desolate and lonesome island.
In the end we came back to our own ship, having passed again that doleful hulk within the edge of the weed island; and I remember how I thought of the long centuries that had gone since that old craft was lost.
When we came back to the ship Captain Johnson went up the mainmast, and I with him; and from the crosstrees we made a further examination through the glasses of the inward parts of the great island; but the weed went everywhere in a riot of ugly yellow and in this place and that the colour changed to a dull greenish hue where the weed was hidden from the light. And presently we ceased to spy upon the island; for the over-arching and entanglement of those monstrous fronds would have hidden with ease a great fleet of ships if the same had been lacking their masts.
Now whether there was a ship hidden in all that desolation of weed, who shall say? And if there had been a ship hidden and caught far inward of that weed and all overgrown with it, how was it likely that any living being was aboard of her? For you must bear in mind the human needs of any that would be so held; and further you must remember the monstrous brutes that roamed in that great bulk of the weed…. And again if there had been a ship inward of that weed and a living human still within her, why should he make that strange crying in the dawn, over the sea and yet give no answer to our callings? On all this I have pondered a thousand times and oft, but have no ready answer to myself, save that there might have been some poor mad soul yet holding off desperately from death through the lonesome years, in a lost ship hidden within that weed. This is the only explanation that I have found to come anywhere near the need of my reasoning. And truly it would be strange if such a one could be anything but a lonesome madman, greeting each dawn with wild and meaningless words and singings that might seem to be of meaning to a poor demented brain.
But whether this was so or whether there was some matter in the adventure beyond our indifferent knowledge, I cannot altogether decide. I can only tell you that in the dawn of the third day of that calm, we heard again that far and strange calling, coming to us through the hush and the greyness, out of the Eastward sea where the weed island lay. Very thin and lonesome was the cry:
“Son of Man!
“Son of Man!
“Son of Man!” coming to us in a long drawn out attenuation of sound, as if out of an immense distance. The dawn was ruddy, showing plain signs of wind; yet before the wind came down upon us the upward edge of the sun rose above the black-gloomed horizon, very sombre seeming and bearded with the wind-haze. The sea had gone leaden, and the sun threw a roadway of crimson light upon us, very grand yet somewhat dreary, and in that moment we heard the far, faint voice again for the last time:
“Son of Man!
“Son of Man!
“Son of Man!”
And afterwards that vague, attenuated piping that had grown so weak sounding we scarcely knew whether we heard it or not; for the coming of the wind made a little almost unperceived noise over the sea. And presently the wind darkened the Northward sea, and our sails filled as the yards were swung by the sailors. And we sailed beyond the long desolation of the great weed island, and continued our voyage, leaving the mystery of the voice to the hush of the sea and the companionship of its constant mystery.
The Exploits Of Captain Gault
Contraband of War
S.S. John L. Sullivan,
May 15.
One of the main-hatch slings bust again this morning, and lost a lot of heavy crated goods over the side.
This is the second time a sling has parted in the last couple of days.
“Mr. Anwyn,” I said to the First Mate, “scrap every one of those confounded cargo slings at once. You ought never to have lifted another ton with them, after that one parted yesterday. I’ll not have another thing hoisted out of the holds until you’ve new slings. Use some of that new coil of four-inch Manilla; and get some of the men on the job, smart. We’re just wasting money keeping the lighters idle. You ought not to have needed me to tell you a thing like this!”
I let the Mate see what I felt in the matter, and I said what I had to say flat out before Mr. Jelloyne, the tally clerk; for there was no excuse for the thing happening twice, and I had a right to feel warm.
This unloading into lighters is a slow, weary job at best, and it will take us another week or ten days to clear the cargo out of her.
May 16.
Mr. Jelloyne, the tally clerk, is certainly a bit of a character. He was talking this morning about the government restrictions on landing war material, and the difficulty of doing it secretly.
The old chap seems quite what one might call a bit of a sport.
“Would you do it, Mr. Jelloyne, if you got a chance?” I asked him; for I was more than simply curious to find out how he looked at a thing of that kind.
He took a glance round, and then came closer to me.
“It all depends, Cap’n,” he said. “There’s a lot of cash in it; but getting caught is a serious business.”
“But if you were practically sure of not being caught?” I suggested.
“Ah!” he said, and winked at me. “Who wouldn’t undertake it, under those conditions!”
That was enough for one time, and I said nothing more to him until this afternoon, when we got talking about it again. He was contending that, apart from the disagreeables attendant upon capture, the thing was enormously difficult. He instanced some of the difficulties.
First, an “examination” of the ship’s manifest, showing what she was carrying.
Second, the booking down (or “tallying”) of every case and article hoisted out of the hold of every ship in the bay, by the clerk sent aboard every ship.
Third, the examination of every lighter-load sent ashore. If any cases went astray between the ship and the shore, a comparison of the tally clerk’s tally-book with the Customs officials’ checking of the load would show instantly that a case or article was missing.
Fourth, any suspicious-looking case might be opened by the authorities, to verify that its contents were as per ship’s manifest.
Fifth, if any vessel tried to unload cargo secretly after dark, she was bound to be discovered, because her hatches were sealed every night by the government official on the last tug, and were broken by him each morning when he came round on the first tug.
Sixth, there was a night patrol boat, which kept an eye on things in general, and especially on any vessel that acted in any way out of the ordinary, or which did any noticeable amount of boat-traffic with the shore, or even with other vessels lying out in th
e bay.
“Makes it quite a pleasantly interesting mental problem to see how it might be managed,” I said. “I don’t think it would be very difficult. . . . One might make the tally clerk a present of a hundred quid on a big job, not to ‘tally’ down a case of contraband every now and again.”
Old Mr. Jelloyne shook his head at that.
“No good, Captain!” he said. “No man is going to risk losing his billet for that kind of thing. Why, he’d be at the mercy of anyone who felt like talking.”
“Not my notion of a clever job,” I told him. “If I were the kind of man who would do things of that sort, Mr. Jelloyne, I’d try to make it interesting to carry out. For instance, one could avoid the sealing of the hatches, by cutting through into the hold from the lazarette under the main cabin. The stuff could be brought up through the cabin without ever touching the sealed hatches. That is one of the big difficulties overcome.”
“What about these same cases being missing when we come to compare the tally-book with the ship’s manifest?” he asked me.
“That’s certainly a difficulty,” I admitted; “but it would simply have to be ignored. By the time the cases were proved missing, they’d be away and away-oh, ashore.
“Then, again, I’d avoid the port risks, and minimize the chance of the patrol-boat dropping on me, by moving the ship over nearer to the north shore. There are plenty of lonely bits of quiet beach there, where I could make a quick dash with a boat-load, now and again at night, if I watched when the patrol-boat was over on the other side of the bay.”
Mr. Jelloyne grinned at me in his wicked old way.
“It might do,” he admitted. “It’s plain and simple. Perhaps it’s just as well you’re not in the business, Captain!”
“My goodness!” I wanted to shout, “I’ve two thousand pounds’ worth of rifles to smuggle ashore, if you only knew it!”
But I took jolly good care not to, as you may think.
“As you remarked just now, Mr. Jelloyne,” I said, passing him my case, “it’s a mighty risky business. And a sea-Captain’s like the law: he should be above suspicion.”
“Quite right, Captain. Quite right, Captain,” he said heartily; and I let it drop at that.
May 17.
We’ve been riding to one anchor since we’ve been here; but last night there was a strong breeze from the Southeast that made us drag for nearly a mile. I let her drag; for there’s plenty of room, and it suited my purpose. Then I let go the second bower, and that brought her up.
“You’ve dragged, Cap’n, during the night,” said old Mr. Jelloyne, when he came out this morning. “That was a stiff little blow you had out here. I never thought the sea would have been quiet enough for the lighters this morning, and I’d promised myself a day off. But there’s no rest for the wicked.”
“Yes,” I told him. “It was quite a smart little breeze. I’m going to shift over to the north side. It’s nearer in, but the holding’s better.”
When the tug came out with the second string of lighters, I arranged with the Captain to go ahead of us, while we hove up, and then to give us a tow across to the north side, where, as I told Mr. Jelloyne, the holding is admitted to be better. . . . All the same, I had my own notion that we had dragged, simply because we must have fouled our anchor; but I did not elabourate the idea. I have waited a couple of weeks for just such a breeze, and I have been fully aware that our anchor must have been fouled for some days.
By such means as these, I have been able to bring my ship over nearer to the north shore, without exciting any unnecessary comment.
Night.
What old Mr. Jelloyne, the tally clerk, told me about the patrol-boat is quite correct. She was lying near us for some time tonight, out in the darkness, about four or five hundred yards away; I spotted her through my night-glasses. Evidently, her officer in charge wants to make sure there’s nothing behind my moving the ship over here. Of course, I’ve simply watched the boat, and said nothing, except had a quiet sniggle to myself.
May 22.
Tonight is to be the night. I’ve given the patrol-boat time to get used to my ship being here.
They had the patrol-boat near the ship most of the night of the 17th, and again on the 18th; but I guessed they’d tire of that! I just looked upon it as a mild diversion, watching them through my night-glasses. They must have been fools not to realise that a good pair of glasses must show them up plain on the water!
However, the last three nights they appear to have got settled in their minds that there’s no especial need to keep their eyes glued on my ship all night long. And so tonight, the firm ashore being now ready to remove the goods, I’m going to attempt to complete my little investment in rifles. If all goes well, I stand to clear a thousand pounds to my own cheek, and the money is as acceptable as money always is to a man of my somewhat developed tastes. I’ve rather stretched my finances lately, buying a Guido, which I could not let pass me.
I went ashore this morning, and got into final touch with the consignees. I took elabourate precautions to insure a secrecy as perfect as ever my heart could desire, and I know that there can have been no dangerous information leaking into the wrong quarters.
The arrangements are, that if I decide, last thing, to send the stuff ashore, I am to have the House-Flag checked, when lowering it at sunset, and re-hoisted, as if the signal haul-yards had fouled and needed clearing. Then the flag can be lowered in the usual way.
This is to be taken to mean that I will bring the boat ashore, with certain cases, any time after eleven o’clock, the exact time being impossible to fix, owing to the chance of the patrol-boat being on my side of the bay at the time.
Just before I leave the ship I am to flash a bull’s-eye over the rail—the signal to be two long flashes and two short.
As an additional precaution for the success of my little adventure, I have had the boat I shall use painted a dead-coloured grey, which should make it almost invisible at night; and new leathers on all the oars, to make them quieter in the rowlocks. The rendezvous is a little bit of lonely beach right opposite the ship.
May 23.
From sunset until eleven o’clock I kept an eye for the patrol-boat. She came over to our side of the bay about 10:45 but did not stay more than a few minutes; and as soon as she had gone well away towards the south side I gave word to haul up the boat, which was lying astern, and to hoist into her, four big cases, that have been snugly out of sight down in the lazarette.
It was a very dark, quiet night, and just before giving the flashes with the bull’s-eye, I thought I heard somewhere, far away over the water, and vague, the low, dull beat of a petrol-launch.
I told the men to come up out of the boat, and have a smoke for half an hour. Then I went up on to the bridge with my night-glasses, and had a good look to the Southeast; but, so far as I could see, there was no sign of anything moving out in the bay. Then I examined the water between my ship and the shore; but this was quite clear of any craft.
I put in a full half hour, listening and watching the bay; but there was not a single thing to make me uneasy, and at last I sent word for the men to lay aft again into the boat.
I gave the required lamp-flashes; then I went down into the boat, and we pulled out from the ship’s side. I headed her for the dip in the cliffs that marked the beach.
“Gently, men, gently! No hurry!” I told them.
All the time, as we moved quietly shorewards, I kept my eyes about me and my ears open; but there was not a thing of any kind to bother me, that I could see or hear; yet all the time I had a vague excitement of expectancy on me, that kept me a little tense, as may be supposed.
“Easy there. In bow!” I gave the word, as we drew in under the shadow of the cliffs. “Get up in the bows with the boathook, Svensen, and stand by to fend her off.”
Though I spoke quietly, the words echoed back in a soft, curious echo from the low cliffs.
“That sounded funny, Sir,” said the Third Mate,
who was sitting by me.
“Only the echo,” I told him; and as I spoke, the boat grounded on the soft sand of the beach, and the men were tumbling out on the instant, pell-mell, to haul her up.
“Out with the stuff, men,” I said, as I jumped ashore.
As the last of the four big cases was landed on the sand, the Third Mate touched my arm.
“Hark, Sir,” he said, quickly. “What was that? . . . Look, Sir, what’s that up the beach?”
I bent forward, and stared. As I did so, there was a sharp command out of the darkness up the beach.
“Hands up, or we fire!” shouted the voice.
“Copped, by the Lord!” said the Third Mate, and whirled round instinctively to the boat.
“Stop that, Mister!” I said. “Do you want to get us all filled with lead? The authorities in this part shoot first and inquire afterwards! Put your hands up, men, all of you. And leave the talking to me.”
As I spoke, I heard the pom, pom, pom, of petrol engines, and knew it was the sound of the patrol-boat coming full-tilt across the bay to cut off our retreat.
Then there came from up the beach the flash of several police-lanterns; and as the beams of light circled and rested on us, I could see what a confoundedly absurd spectacle we all looked, every man with his hands reached up so earnestly to the black heavens!
“Well,” I said, staring, and trying to see the men behind the lanterns, “what the devil’s this mean? Are you a hold-up, or what?”
Of course, I knew it was bound to be the authorities, right enough; but I wanted badly to blow off at them, or somebody. It was plain there had been a leakage somewhere.
“Well,” I said again, “what is it? What the deuce is it? I can’t stand here all night!”
Boats of the Glen Carrig and Other Nautical Adventures Page 29