No Traveller Returns (Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Mr. Commissioner?” Winstead asked. “I’d like permission to ask a few questions. There are a few matters I’d like to clear up.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Now, my man, if you’d be so kind. How many were in the boat when you got away from the scene of the wreck?”

  “Eight.”

  “Yet when you were picked up by the SS Maloaha there were but three?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you account for that?”

  “Lila—she was the stewardess—she died. Like I said, she’d been hurt inside. She was a mighty good woman, and I hated to see her go. Clarkson—he went kind of screwy. Maybe he didn’t have all his buttons to start with. Anyway, he got kind of wild and kept starin’ at a big shark who was following us. One night he grabbed up a boat hook and tried to get that shark. It was silly. That shark was just swimmin’ along in hopes. No use to bother him. Well, he took a stab at that shark and fell over the side. The shark got what it wanted.

  “Handel, he just sat an’ stared. Never made no word for anybody, just stared. He must’ve sat that way for eight or nine days. We all sort of lost track of time, but he wouldn’t take water, wouldn’t eat a biscuit. He just sat there, hands hangin’ down between his knees.

  “I’d rigged a sort of mast from a couple of oars and part of the boat cover. Anyway, the little sail I rigged gave us some rest, and it helped. Late one day we were movin’ along at a pretty fair rate when I saw a squall coming. She swept down on us so quick that I gave the tiller to Schwartz and stumbled forward to get that sail down before we swamped. With the wind a-screaming and big seas rollin’ up, I’d almost reached the sail when this Handel went completely off his course. He jumped up and grabbed me, laughin’ and singin’, trying to dance with me or somethin’.

  “Strugglin’ to get free, I fell full length in the boat, scrambled up, and pulled that sail down, and when I looked around, Handel was gone.”

  “Gone?” Winstead said.

  “You mean—over the side?” the commissioner asked.

  “That’s right. Nearest thing I could figure out was that when I fell, he fell, too. Only when I fell into the bottom, he toppled over the side.

  “Rain and blown spray was whippin’ the sea, and we couldn’t see him. No chance to turn her about. We’d have gone under had we tried.

  “For the next ten hours we went through hell, just one squall after another, an’ all of us had to bail like crazy just to keep us afloat.”

  “So,” Winstead said, “you killed a passenger?”

  “I don’t know what happened, mister. Whatever it was, it was pure accident. I’d nothin’ against the man. He was daffy, but until that moment he’d been harmless. I figure he didn’t mean no harm then, only I had to get free of him to save the boat.”

  “At least, that is your story?”

  There was a noise at the door. Shorty half-turned to see two women coming into the room, followed by a man. Then another man entered. One of the ladies was Hazel Ryan; he recognized her despite the lack of makeup and the sunburned face. The second man to enter was Thornton Price. The four sat down on one side of the room. The younger of the men was big, a broad-shouldered fellow. He caught Shorty’s eye and waved a hand cheerfully.

  “All right,” Winstead said briefly. “We will let that rest for the moment. That accounts for three. Now, what became of the other two?”

  “Schwartz, he come to me in the night a few days later. We were lyin’ in a dead calm, and most of our water was gone. Sky was clear, not a cloud in sight, and we’d a blazin’ hot day ahead. He told me he was goin’ over the side, and he wanted me to know because he didn’t want me to think he was a quitter.

  “Hell, that little kike had more guts than the whole outfit. I told him nothing doing. Told him I needed him, which was no lie. It was a comfort just to have him there because what he didn’t know he could figger out when I told him. But he wouldn’t accept that I needed him.

  “It even came to the point where I suggested we toss a coin to see who went over. He wouldn’t listen to that, and we both knew I was talkin’ nonsense. I was the only seaman. The only one who could handle a boat. It was my job to bring that boat back with as many people as possible. Sure, I wanted to live as much as any man, but I had a job to do. I ain’t done nothin’ I wouldn’t do again.”

  “I see. And what became of Mr. Dorgan?”

  “Were you ever fifteen days in an open boat with damned little water? He died, too!”

  Thornton Price’s voice cut into the room. “You mean you killed him!”

  Winstead turned quickly. “Ah, Mr. Price.” He paused, looking at the commissioner. “You say Worden killed this other man?”

  “Yes, I certainly did!” Price spoke heatedly. “I had been asleep, and just as I awakened, I heard Worden speaking. He said, ‘You row the boat, and when you stop rowing, you die!’ ”

  “Did you say that, Worden?”

  “Yes. I did. I—”

  “That will be enough!” Winstead snapped. “You have admitted you murdered two men. I think that is all until I can talk to some higher authority!” He glared at the shipping commissioner.

  “What were the circumstances, Worden?” the commissioner asked.

  “It was Dorgan, sir. After the storm I had no idea where the ship went down, so we had to head east—the closer we got to the coast the more likely it was that we’d be found. Well, he kept arguing. He was a police officer, and he tried to throw his weight around. He said I was crazy, that I was goin’ the wrong way. He said I drank water at night when they were all asleep. Twice when I passed water forward for somebody else, he drank it—or he shared it with Mr. Price.

  “Most of the others, they tried to take a hand in rowin’ the boat. He was a strong man, but he refused. It was life or death for us, sir. It wasn’t no talking matter. I was rowin’ my heart out, but not for him.

  “One night I woke up with him pourin’ the last of our water down his damn throat. The Ryan woman, she was tuggin’ at his arm to try to stop him, but it was too late.

  “I went at him. We had it out, right there. He was some bigger than me and strong, but there was no guts to him. I smashed him up some and put him between the oars. I told him to row, that he’d live as long as he rowed.”

  “And what happened to Dorgan?”

  Tex Worden’s face was bleak. “He quit rowin’ a day before we got picked up.”

  Winstead turned to the commissioner. “Sir, this man has just admitted to killing a passenger; perhaps he killed two or three. As to his motives—I think they will appear somewhat different under cross-examination.

  “We have evidence as to this man’s character. He is known along the waterfronts as a tough. He frequents houses of ill fame. He gets into drunken brawls. He has been arrested several times for fighting. His statements here today have cast blame upon the company. I intend to introduce evidence that this man is not only a scoundrel, but an admitted murderer! He is hardly an unimpeachable authority!”

  Tex sat up slowly.

  “Yes, I’ve been arrested for fightin’. Sometimes I’ve come ashore and had a few too many; after a trip on one of those scows of yours, a man has to get drunk. But I’m a seaman. I do my job. There’s never a man I’ve worked with will deny that. It’s easy to sit around on your fat behinds and say what you’d have done or what should have been done. You weren’t there.

  “Handel now. He wasn’t responsible. Somethin’ happened to him that he never expected. He could have lived his life through, a nice, respected man, but all of a sudden it wasn’t the same anymore. Maybe it affected his mind, or maybe he was always crazy.

  “Hazel Ryan? She has moxie. When I told her it was her turn to row, she never hesitated, and I had to make her quit. She wasn’t all that strong, but she was game. A boatload like her an’ I could have s
lept halfway back.

  “Dorgan was a bad apple. Everyone was on edge because of him. He’d been used to authority and was a born bully. He was used to takin’ what he wanted an’ lettin’ others cry about it. I told him what he had to do, and he did it after we had our little set-to.”

  “Who did you think you were, Worden? God? With the power of life and death?”

  “Listen”—Worden leaned forward—“if I’m the only seaman in the boat, when we have damn little water, an’ we’re miles off the steamer lanes, when we’re sittin’ in the middle of a livin’ hell, you can just bet I’m Mister God as far as that boat’s concerned.

  “Your company wasn’t there to help. You weren’t there to help, nor was the commissioner. Sure, Schwartz prayed, an’ Mr. Price prayed, prayed with tears streaming down his face. Me, I rowed the boat.”

  He lifted his hands, still swollen and bandaged. “Fifteen days on and off, tryin’ to get back where we might be picked up. We made it.

  “We made it,” he repeated, “but there was a lot who didn’t.”

  The commissioner rose, and Winstead gathered his papers, his features set and hard. He cast a measuring glance at Worden.

  “You’ll have a chance to explain all that, my man, at a formal inquiry. And I’ll have Thornton Price there as a witness.”

  “You’ll have to call me, too, Mr. Winstead!” Hazel Ryan’s voice was throaty, deep.

  Winstead turned.

  “Why, of course, Miss Ryan. I had planned on that. You will make a most valuable witness!”

  Hazel Ryan walked over to the table. In a neat gray suit, she was a picture.

  “But my testimony would not be the same as that of Mr. Price. I will tell the story of a man who sat at the tiller and kept that boat afloat during a storm, who fought the waves until his hands were frightfully blistered, and who took off his coat, yes, and his shirt, to help make a pillow for the stewardess. I’ll tell the story of a man who fought and killed to keep water for the rest of us, and how he rowed the boat when we were too weak to stand, how he missed serving himself water at least three times so he could give it to me, and to that—to our Mr. Price. Call your inquest, Mr. Winstead, I’m sure everyone would love to hear what I have to say.”

  Shorty got up and walked over to the window, watching the smoke rising from over Terminal Island. He heard Winstead go by behind him, and a few moments later, the others. Then Tex came up, his eyes hard. They turned to go.

  “Oh, by the way, Worden!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  The commissioner walked up and put his hand on Worden’s shoulder.

  “Officially, I have to tell you to remain in port. But man to man, I’ll say you’re in a bad spot. Winstead is going to do whatever he can to discredit your statements about the condition of his ship. That includes criminal charges. The insurer will fight the company’s claims, and anyone who gets between them will be eaten alive.

  “Miss Ryan would be a big help, but still…Well, I don’t envy you. Personally—and I never said this—I’d get on the first ship I could find.”

  * * *

  —

  They rode a self-service elevator down to the echoing marble and bronze lobby. When they reached the street, Tex hesitated on the curb. Up the block a brand-new convertible was idling, and both the car and the women in it were attracting attention.

  “That Ryan lady is all right,” Tex commented. “You can never tell about passengers, but she’s okay!”

  “That guy with her?” Shorty pointed. “That’s McGuire, the boxer I was telling you about.”

  Tex nodded his approval. “Well, he goes around with swell dames. Either one of them could put their shoes under my bed—especially the redhead.”

  “Uh-huh. She looks familiar. I guess I’ve seen her on the screen. I heard McGuire did some work in pictures. Fight scenes, stuff like that.”

  Down on Harbor Boulevard a taxi sped past, the tires whining on the pavement. Shorty looked up at Tex again.

  “I gotta connection. There’s a tanker that’s just out of dry dock. Want to give it a try?”

  “Well,” Tex shrugged, “I don’t make my livin’ in no courtroom.”

  THE PRIVATE LOG OF JOHN HARLAN, SECOND MATE

  March 22nd: Fire and Life Boat Drill today, and it is good to see how the men come alive. Everyone has their task and station and, of course, tanker crews take these drills very seriously. The response must be automatic, and in the chaos of an emergency the crew must react in a rapid but orderly manner. Instilling a pattern of cooperation has additional benefits. Every crew has troublemakers, and there are few worse than Mahoney, one of our oilers. The hope is that constant training and the camaraderie of working together can smooth over unresolved differences. I like to think that our crew, even a newcomer like young David Jones, would be among the best in a crisis. A crisis we pray will never come.

  I shall not go back. I made that decision on my return from the last trip. My plans during my short stay were made with that in mind. Helen knew what I was thinking, even though we did not discuss it. However she wishes to live is her business, but I want Steve and Betty to have every possible chance, and they can’t have it with her. She knew what I had decided, yet when I suggested taking the children to Tom and Hazel in Oakland she said nothing. They will be happy there, for Tom and Hazel have no children of their own, and have the money to care for them better than either of us could. The other child is not mine, and Helen will know best what should be done with him.

  I have said I was not going back. I wonder if anyone ever goes back? What was it Hamlet said, “That undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns…”

  He was speaking of death. But is not every goodbye, every leave-taking, a little death? Can a man ever return quite the same as he left? We say goodbye, we leave familiar, well-loved people and places, and the days, weeks, and months pass, perhaps years.

  When we take the road back, and finally stand where we stood before, all is strange.

  Our very bodies have changed. The dust of many roads, the brine of ancient seas, the air we have breathed, the food we have eaten, the wounds we have received, all these things change us. We have come back, groping in the past for something that is no longer there, a gap that nothing can fill.

  Old places are better left behind; old loves better kept as memories, and as the ship steams onward into the days and nights, all that I have known and all that I have loved, I am leaving behind me. Little Steve will become a man without me, Betty will grow tall, will have sweethearts, will marry, raise children perhaps, and die, and I shall not go back.

  After this last time at home, Helen and I have come to a parting of the ways, and the fault was neither hers nor mine. She was alone too much, but the only way I knew was the way of the sea. If she changed, who am I to criticize?

  Out East where I am going, where this ship is taking me, there are plenty of men who never go back. They work, and live, and die among those romantic islands where the seas go blue, the foliage holds so deep a green, and where the very names sing a melody. Saigon, Semarang, Cebu—Vanua Levu, Baliwan, Sumatra—Hankow, Hong Kong, Shanghai—Well, I have visited some; now I shall know them all.

  I can hear some of the fo’c’stle crowd singing back aft. Shorty Conrad, oddly enough, plays a guitar, and sings western cow-trail ballads with a voice that is surprisingly good and would be better if he would avoid that nasal tone that all those fellows persist in using. Jones (and his first name is David, too!) sings very well. He is an ordinary seaman making his first trip, a nice lad of about seventeen. He is singing a song that was popular a few years ago, “I’m Waiting for Ships That Never Come In.” Well, aren’t we all?

  DAVID JONES

  Ordinary Seaman

  David Jones walked slowly into the morning. Already there were miles behind him, and it was still early. He gaz
ed up to the bright green leaves of the cottonwoods, rustling endlessly, and his eyes filled. He stopped for a moment, looking back. Then he went on, the dust curling up from his steps in little whorls. He wiped his eyes, fearful of meeting someone who would wonder at his tears. He felt very young and very much alone.

  The dust climbed his clothes and settled in his nostrils. The heavy air lay thickly about him and slow sweat streaked his face. Ahead, he could see the highway, a ribbon of hope that led away into new lands and all his tomorrows. When he reached it, the hot smell of the asphalt made him feel slightly ill. He walked on and then somehow the morning was gone, and it was afternoon. There were short rides and alternating periods of hiking, but his feet were tired, and in places his clothes stuck to his body with perspiration.

  Ahead of him the road forked, the main highway swinging to the left along the railroad, while another road dropped under the track and disappeared in the grove of elm and cottonwood. A small stream flowed lazily between grassy banks and low brush. It looked cool and pleasant under the trees. He left the grade and walked down to the stream. Off to the left the crows were holding a caucus in a green meadow, and several cows dozed, tails switching away flies. The air was cool, and occasionally a stray breeze drifted down among the trees.

  He seated himself on the bank and pulled off his shoes and socks, letting his tired feet sink into the cool water. Leaning back, he stirred his feet, liking the swirl of water around his toes. Somewhere downstream a fish leaped, and he idly flipped a stone toward the spot, then watched the ripples slowly widen, lapping against the opposite shore.

  Suddenly he heard voices, and sat up quickly, heart pounding. Already he was acquiring the awareness of the casual wayfarer, who, being a stranger, is always uncertain of his reception. He drew back warily.

  Three men were coming across the grass from the road. One was a young fellow close to his own age, the others were older. One of them, a big man in his late thirties, had broad, powerful shoulders and a flat nose.