Once more Midwinter looked at his watch. ‘We have gone far enough,’ he said. ‘Stand by the sheet!’
‘Stop!’ cried Allan, from the bows of the boat. ‘Good God! here’s a wrecked ship right ahead of us!’
Midwinter let the boat fall off a little, and looked where the other pointed.
There, stranded midway between the rocky boundaries on either side of the Sound – there, never again to rise on the living waters from her grave on the sunken rock; lost and lonely in the quiet night; high, and dark, and ghostly in the yellow moonshine, lay the Wrecked Ship.
‘I know the vessel,’ said Allan, in great excitement. ‘I heard my workmen talking of her yesterday. She drifted in here, on a pitch dark night, when they couldn’t see the lights. A poor old worn-out merchantman, Midwinter, that the shipbrokers have bought to break up. Let’s run in, and have a look at her.’
Midwinter hesitated. All the old sympathies of his sea-life strongly inclined him to follow Allan’s suggestion – but the wind was falling light; and he distrusted the broken water and the swirling currents of the channel ahead. ‘This is an ugly place to take a boat into, when you know nothing about it,’ he said.
‘Nonsense!’ returned Allan. ‘It’s as light as day, and we float in two feet of water.’
Before Midwinter could answer, the current caught the boat, and swept them onward through the channel, straight towards the Wreck.
‘Lower the sail,’ said Midwinter quietly, ‘and ship the oars. We are running down on her fast enough now; whether we like it or not.’
Both well accustomed to the use of the oar, they brought the course of the boat under sufficient control to keep her on the smoothest side of the channel – the side which was nearest to the Islet of the Calf. As they came swiftly up with the wreck, Midwinter resigned his oar to Allan; and, watching his opportunity, caught a hold with the boat-hook on the forechains of the vessel. The next moment they had the boat safely in hand, under the lee of the Wreck.
The ship’s ladder used by the workmen hung over the forechains. Mounting it, with the boat’s rope in his teeth, Midwinter secured one end, and lowered the other to Allan in the boat. ‘Make that fast,’ he said, ‘and wait till I see if it’s safe on board.’ With those words, he disappeared behind the bulwark.
‘Wait?’ repeated Allan, in the blankest astonishment at his friend’s excessive caution. ‘What on earth does he mean? I’ll be hanged if I wait – where one of us goes, the other goes too!’
He hitched the loose end of the rope round the forward thwart of the boat; and, swinging himself up the ladder, stood the next moment on the deck. ‘Anything very dreadful on board?’ he inquired sarcastically, as he and his friend met.
Midwinter smiled. ‘Nothing whatever,’ he replied. ‘But I couldn’t be sure that we were to have the whole ship to ourselves, till I got over the bulwark, and looked about me.’
Allan took a turn on the deck, and surveyed the wreck critically from stem to stern.
‘Not much of a vessel,’ he said; ‘the Frenchmen generally build better ships than this.’
Midwinter crossed the deck, and eyed Allan in a momentary silence.
‘Frenchmen?’ he repeated, after an interval. ‘Is this vessel French?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘The men I have got at work on the yacht told me. They know all about her.’
Midwinter came a little nearer. His swarthy face began to look, to Allan’s eyes, unaccountably pale in the moonlight.
‘Did they mention what trade she was engaged in?’
‘Yes. — The timber-trade.’
As Allan gave that answer, Midwinter’s lean brown hand clutched him fast by the shoulder; and Midwinter’s teeth chattered in his head, like the teeth of a man struck by a sudden chill.
‘Did they tell you her name?’ he asked, in a voice that dropped suddenly to a whisper.
‘They did, I think. But it has slipped my memory. – Gently, old fellow; those long claws of yours are rather tight on my shoulder.’
‘Was the name—?’ he stopped; removed his hand; and dashed away the great drops that were gathering on his forehead — ‘Was the name La Grace de Dieu?’
‘How the deuce did you come to know it? That’s the name, sure enough. La Grace de Dieu.’
At one bound, Midwinter leapt on the bulwark of the wreck.
‘The boat!!!’ he cried, with a scream of horror that rang far and wide through the stillness of the night, and brought Allan instantly to his side.
The lower end of the carelessly-hitched rope was loose on the water; and, a-head, in the track of the moonlight, a small black object was floating out of view. The boat was adrift.
CHAPTER IV
THE SHADOW OF THE PAST
One stepping back under the dark shelter of the bulwark, and one standing out boldly in the yellow light of the moon, the two friends turned face to face on the deck of the timber-ship, and looked at each other in silence. The next moment Allan’s inveterate recklessness seized on the grotesque side of the situation by main force. He seated himself astride on the bulwark, and burst out boisterously into his loudest and heartiest laugh.
‘All my fault,’ he said; ‘but there’s no help for it now. Here we are, hard and fast in a trap of our own setting – and there goes the last of the doctor’s boat! Come out of the dark, Midwinter; I can’t half see you there, and I want to know what’s to be done next.’
Midwinter neither answered nor moved. Allan left the bulwark, and, mounting the forecastle, looked down attentively at the waters of the Sound.
‘One thing is pretty certain,’ he said. ‘With the current on that side, and the sunken rocks on this, we can’t find our way out of the scrape by swimming, at any rate. So much for the prospect at this end of the wreck. Let’s try how things look at the other. Rouse up, messmate!’ he called out cheerfully, as he passed Midwinter. ‘Come and see what the old tub of a timber-ship has got to show us, astern.’ He sauntered on, with his hands in his pockets, humming the chorus of a comic song.
His voice had produced no apparent effect on his friend; but, at the light touch of his hand, in passing, Midwinter started, and moved out slowly from the shadow of the bulwark. ‘Come along!’ cried Allan, suspending his singing for a moment, and glancing back. Still, without a word of answer, the other followed. Thrice he stopped before he reached the stern end of the wreck: the first time, to throw aside his hat, and push back his hair from his forehead and temples; the second time, reeling giddily, to hold for a moment by a ring-bolt close at hand; the last time (though Allan was plainly visible a few yards a-head), to look stealthily behind him, with the furtive scrutiny of a man who believes that other footsteps are following him in the dark. ‘Not yet!’ he whispered to himself, with eyes that searched the empty air. ‘I shall see him astern, with his hand on the lock of the cabin door.’
The stern end of the wreck was clear of the ship-breaker’s lumber, accumulated in the other parts of the vessel. Here, the one object that rose visible on the smooth surface of the deck, was the low wooden structure which held the cabin door, and roofed in the cabin stairs. The wheel-house had been removed, the binnacle had been removed; but the cabin entrance, and all that belonged to it, had been left untouched. The scuttle was on, and the door was closed.
On gaining the after-part of the vessel, Allan walked straight to the stern, and looked out to sea over the taffrail. No such thing as a boat was in view anywhere on the quiet moon-brightened waters. Knowing Midwinter’s sight to be better than his own, he called out, ‘Come up here, and see if there’s a fisherman within hail of us.’ Hearing no reply, he looked back. Midwinter had followed him as far as the cabin, and had stopped there. He called again, in a louder voice, and beckoned impatiently. Midwinter had heard the call, for he looked up – but still he never stirred from his place. There he stood, as if he had reached the utmost limits of the ship and could go no further.
Alla
n went back and joined him. It was not easy to discover what he was looking at, for he kept his face turned away from the moonlight; but it seemed as if his eyes were fixed, with a strange expression of inquiry, on the cabin door. ‘What is there to look at there?’ Allan asked. ‘Let’s see if it’s locked.’ As he took a step forward to open the door, Midwinter’s hand seized him suddenly by the coat-collar and forced him back. The moment after, the hand relaxed, without losing its grasp, and trembled violently, like the hand of a man completely unnerved.
‘Am I to consider myself in custody?’ asked Allan, half astonished and half amused. ‘Why, in the name of wonder, do you keep staring at the cabin door? Any suspicious noises below? It’s no use disturbing the rats – if that’s what you mean – we haven’t got a dog with us. Men? Living men they can’t be; for they would have heard us and come on deck. Dead men? Quite impossible! No ship’s crew could be drowned in a landlocked place like this, unless the vessel broke up under them – and here’s the vessel as steady as a church to speak for herself. Man alive, how your hand trembles! What is there to scare you in that rotten old cabin? What are you shaking and shivering about? Any company of the supernatural sort on board? Mercy preserve us! (as the old women say,) do you see a ghost?’
‘I see two!’ answered the other, driven headlong into speech and action by a maddening temptation to reveal the truth. ‘Two!’ he repeated, his breath bursting from him in deep, heavy gasps, as he tried vainly to force back the horrible words. ‘The ghost of a man like you, drowning in the cabin! And the ghost of a man like me, turning the lock of the door on him!’
Once more, young Armadale’s hearty laughter rang out loud and long through the stillness of the night.
‘Turning the lock of the door, is he?’ said Allan, as soon as his merriment left him breath enough to speak. ‘That’s a devilish unhandsome action, Master Midwinter, on the part of your ghost. The least I can do, after that, is to let mine out of the cabin, and give him the run of the ship.’
With no more than a momentary exertion of his superior strength, he freed himself easily from Midwinter’s hold. ‘Below there!’ he called out gaily, as he laid his strong hand on the crazy lock, and tore open the cabin door. ‘Ghost of Allan Armadale, come on deck!’ In his terrible ignorance of the truth, he put his head into the doorway, and looked down, laughing, at the place where his murdered father had died. ‘Pah!’ he exclaimed, stepping back suddenly, with a shudder of disgust. ‘The air is foul already – and the cabin is full of water.’
It was true. The sunken rocks on which the vessel lay wrecked had burst their way through her lower timbers astern, and the water had welled up through the rifted wood. Here, where the deed had been done, the fatal parallel between past and present was complete. What the cabin had been in the time of the fathers, that the cabin was now in the time of the sons.
Allan pushed the door to again with his foot, a little surprised at the sudden silence which appeared to have fallen on his friend, from the moment when he had laid his hand on the cabin lock. When he turned to look, the reason of the silence was instantly revealed. Midwinter had dropped on the deck. He lay senseless before the cabin door; his face turned up, white and still, to the moonlight, like the face of a dead man.
In a moment, Allan was at his side. He looked uselessly round the lonely limits of the wreck, as he lifted Midwinter’s head on his knee, for a chance of help, where all chance was ruthlessly cut off. ‘What am I to do?’ he said to himself, in the first impulse of alarm. ‘Not a drop of water near, but the foul water in the cabin.’ A sudden recollection crossed his memory; the florid colour rushed back over his face; and he drew from his pocket a wicker-covered flask. ‘God bless the doctor for giving me this before we sailed!’ he broke out fervently, as he poured down Midwinter’s throat some drops of the raw whiskey which the flask contained. The stimulant acted instantly on the sensitive system of the swooning man. He sighed faintly, and slowly opened his eyes. ‘Have I been dreaming?’ he asked, looking up vacantly in Allan’s face. His eyes wandered higher, and encountered the dismantled masts of the wreck rising weird and black against the night sky. He shuddered at the sight of them, and hid his face on Allan’s knee. ‘No dream!’ he murmured to himself, mournfully. ‘Oh me, no dream!’
‘You have been over-tired all day,’ said Allan; ‘and this infernal adventure of ours has upset you. Take some more whiskey – it’s sure to do you good. Can you sit by yourself, if I put you against the bulwark, so?’
‘Why by myself? Why do you leave me?’ asked Midwinter.
Allan pointed to the mizen shrouds of the wreck, which were still left standing. ‘You are not well enough to rough it here till the workmen come off in the morning,’ he said. ‘We must find our way on shore at once, if we can. I am going up to get a good view all round, and see if there’s a house within hail of us.’
Even in the moment that passed while those few words were spoken, Midwinter’s eyes wandered back distrustfully to the fatal cabin door. ‘Don’t go near it!’ he whispered. ‘Don’t try to open it, for God’s sake!’
‘No, no,’ returned Allan, humouring him. ‘When I come down from the rigging, I’ll come back here.’ He said the words a little constrainedly; noticing, for the first time while he now spoke, an underlying distress in Midwinter’s face, which grieved and perplexed him. ‘You’re not angry with me?’ he said, in his simple, sweet-tempered way. ‘All this is my fault, I know – and I was a brute and a fool to laugh at you, when I ought to have seen you were ill. I am so sorry, Midwinter. Don’t be angry with me!’
Midwinter slowly raised his head. His eyes rested with a mournful interest, long and tenderly on Allan’s anxious face.
‘Angry?’ he repeated, in his lowest, gentlest tones. ‘Angry with you? – Oh, my poor boy, were you to blame for being kind to me when I was ill in the old west-country inn? And was I to blame for feeling your kindness thankfully? Was it our fault that we never doubted each other, and never knew that we were travelling together blindfold on the way that was to lead us here? The cruel time is coming, Allan, when we shall rue the day we ever met. Shake hands, brother, on the edge of the precipice – shake hands while we are brothers still?’1
Allan turned away quickly, convinced that his mind had not yet recovered the shock of the fainting fit. ‘Don’t forget the whiskey!’ he said cheerfully, as he sprang into the rigging, and mounted to the mizen-top.
It was past two; the moon was waning; and the darkness that comes before dawn was beginning to gather round the wreck. Behind Allan, as he now stood looking out from the elevation of the mizen-top, spread the broad and lonely sea. Before him, were the low, black, lurking rocks, and the broken waters of the Channel, pouring white and angry into the vast calm of the westward ocean beyond. On the right hand, heaved back grandly from the waterside, were the rocks and precipices, with their little table-lands of grass between; the sloping downs, and upward-rolling heath solitudes of the Isle of Man. On the left hand, rose the craggy sides of the Islet of the Calf – here, rent wildly into deep black chasms; there, lying low under long sweeping acclivities of grass and heath. No sound rose, no light was visible, on either shore. The black lines of the topmost masts of the wreck looked shadowy and faint in the darkening mystery of the sky; the land-breeze had dropped; the small shoreward waves fell noiseless: far or near, no sound was audible but the cheerless bubbling of the broken water ahead, pouring through the awful hush of silence in which earth and ocean waited for the coming day.
Even Allan’s careless nature felt the solemn influence of the time. The sound of his own voice startled him, when he looked down and hailed his friend on deck.
‘I think I see one house,’ he said. ‘Hereaway, on the mainland to the right.’ He looked again, to make sure, at a dim little patch of white, with faint white lines behind it, nestling low in a grassy hollow, on the main island. ‘It looks like a stone house and enclosure,’ he resumed. ‘I’ll hail it, on the chance.’ He passed his ar
m round a rope to steady himself; made a speaking-trumpet of his hands – and suddenly dropped them again without uttering a sound. ‘It’s so awfully quiet,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I’m half afraid to call out.’ He looked down again on deck. ‘I shan’t startle you, Midwinter – shall I?’ he said, with an uneasy laugh. He looked once more at the faint white object in the grassy hollow. ‘It won’t do to have come up here for nothing,’ he thought – and made a speaking-trumpet of his hands again. This time he gave the hail with the whole power of his lungs. ‘On shore there!’ he shouted, turning his face to the main island. ‘Ahoy-hoy-hoy!’
The last echoes of his voice died away and were lost. No sound answered him but the cheerless bubbling of the broken water ahead.
He looked down again at his friend, and saw the dark figure of Midwinter rise erect, and pace the deck backwards and forwards – never disappearing out of sight of the cabin, when it retired towards the bows of the wreck; and never passing beyond the cabin, when it returned towards the stern. ‘He is impatient to get away,’ thought Allan; ‘I’ll try again.’ He hailed the land once more; and, taught by previous experience, pitched his voice in its highest key.
This time, another sound than the sound of the bubbling water answered him. The lowing of frightened cattle rose from the building in the grassy hollow, and travelled far and drearily through the stillness of the morning air. Allan waited and listened. If the building was a farmhouse, the disturbance among the beasts would rouse the men. If it was only a cattle-stable, nothing more would happen. The lowing of the frightened brutes rose and fell drearily; the minutes passed – and nothing happened.
‘Once more!’ said Allan, looking down at the restless figure pacing beneath him. For the third time he hailed the land. For the third time he waited and listened.
Armadale Page 20