THE SKIES BETRAY.
_A Message Comes from the Diamond Ship._
I shall carry you next to a scene in the Southern Atlantic, to a day in
the month following my escape from the Azores. The morning is a
brilliant morning of torrid heat and splendid sunshine. The sea about us
is a sea gleaming as a sheeted mirror of the purest silver; a vast,
still, silent sea, with a cloudless horizon and a breath as of Southern
springtime. The yacht _White Wings_ is changed but little since last you
saw her at Villa do Porto.
A close observer would mark the mast which carries her apparatus for
Marconigrams; she steams very slowly, with a gentle purr of her engines
that seems to soothe to sleep. There is a trim sailor on the look-out in
her bows, and the second officer paces the bridge with the air of one
who has long since ceased to enjoy an active occupation. Down amidships
shouts of laughter claim my attention and turn my steps to the spot. The
laughter is the laughter of honest seamen. The victim is my friend,
McShanus.
He picked himself from the deck, brushed his clothes methodically, and
told me that the game had been Ju-Jitsu.
“’Tis the little yellow devil again, and me on my back like a turtle.
Says he, ‘The honourable Irishman no puttee Okyada on the floor.’ Says
I, ‘Ye wisp of hay, I could knock ye down with my thumb.’ ‘The
honourable Irishman try,’ says he. So I just put my hands upon his
shoulders and gave him a bit of a push. Sons of Ireland! he dropped to
the floor directly I touched him, and where is the relic of Timothy
McShanus? Sure, he caught me on the soles of his feet as I fell over
him, and shot me twenty yards—me that has the blood of kings in me
veins. He grassed me like a rabbit, sir, and there are those who
laughed. _Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est._ Let them hear Martial and
be hanged to them!”
I comforted Timothy with what words I could, and told him that they were
bringing breakfast up to the deck.
“I want a few words with Larry and yourself,” said I, “and hungry men
are poor listeners. You have amused the crew, Timothy, and that is
something in these days. Be thankful to have played such a noble part
and come and eat immediately. There is a capital fish curry—and the
loaves are hot from the oven.”
“Faith,” he replied, “if you make me as warm inside as I am out, ’twill
be my clothes I am selling to the natives.”
And then he asked almost pitifully.
“’Tis not to say that ye are going back to Europe, Ean, me bhoy?”
“The very thing in my mind, Timothy. I’ll tell you when we have had our
‘parritch.’ We were not born to spend useful careers in the Doldrums.
Let us remember it after breakfast.”
They had stretched a friendly awning over the aft deck, and hereunder we
took our coffee and such food as a man cared to eat in such a
temperature. When breakfast was done and we had lighted the morning
cigarette, delicious beyond words under such circumstances, I began to
speak very frankly to Timothy and the Captain of our present situation
and the impossibility of continuing it further.
“The obstinate man is about to surrender to his friends,” I said. “We
have now been running to and fro between Porto Grande and this Styx of
an ocean for nearly a month. We have sailed half-way to the Brazils and
back, and discovered no more traces of the Diamond Ship than of the
barque which Jason steered. When I consented to quit Villa do Porto, I
believed that the Jew, Valentine Imroth, would be taken afloat in the
vessel we saw when first we returned from South Africa. I still believe
it—but what is the good of belief when the ocean guards his secret and
no eyes of ours can pry it out? He has escaped us, vanished in a cloud,
and left us to gird at ourselves for the precious weeks we have lost. It
may be that my deductions were wrong from the first, that he has fled to
Paris or to America, and that the Diamond Ship is safely in some harbour
where no civilised Government will find her. In that case our patrol is
doubly futile. We are giving him time to perfect his plans, while we
keep from the authorities that personal account of our investigations to
which they are entitled. These conclusions compel me most reluctantly to
assent to your wishes and to return. We have failed upon the high seas.
Let us now discover what the shore has to tell us.”
They heard me with evident pleasure. Loyal as the men had been all
along, these weary weeks of fruitless pursuit could not but tell their
tale upon them. When we sailed away from Villa do Porto and raced to the
Southern Atlantic, it was in the minds of all of us that we should track
down the Jew successfully in as many days as we had now devoted weeks to
a futile quest. All the arguments were upon my side. If the unknown
vessel harboured Imroth’s rogues, and not them alone, but the fruits of
their robberies, then it was plain that she must abide at least for a
time in the situation where we had first discovered her. How could her
communication with the shore be established otherwise? Relief ships from
Europe would be visiting her constantly. She must be provisioned,
coaled, and kept aware of what was going on ashore. It seemed impossible
to me that she could shift her present cruising ground or make any wide
detour until open pursuit compelled her to do so. These reasons had kept
me doggedly to my quest of her. But they had failed to satisfy my
comrades, and there were other impulses bidding me return.
“It is hard to give it up, doctor,” said Captain Larry when I had done;
“but really, I think you are right. If the Government had sent out a
ship to help us, the course would have been plain enough. As it is, we
can do nothing even if we track them down, and we might lose valuable
lives in the endeavour. Get back to Portsmouth and leave it to the
Government. That’s my word, and that, I think, is what Mr. McShanus
thinks. We have done all we can, and a precious sight more than most
would have done.”
“Ay, and ’tis sense the man speaks,” added McShanus. “The last man in
the world would I be to cry off while the fox is running; but, Ean, me
bhoy, he’s gone to ground as sure as blazes, and what for would ye flog
a good horse to death? Here’s a fortune spent in coal, and a sea hot
enough to fry haddocks, and divil of a sign as much as of a row-boat.
The Captain’s not behind me in knowing of other people who have a claim
upon your consideration. Go to Europe and learn of their welfare. There
is one who may need ye sorely. And poor talk will it be that you’ll hear
then if they tell you of ‘what might have been.’ Go back to Europe, say
I, and learn what has become of Joan Fordibras. ’Tis better work than
roasting like a heathen nigger on this blazer of an ocean.”
Well, we were agreed finely, as you will see. But the determination,
none the less, had its counterpoise of depression which is not difficult
to apologise for. It is in the British blood to persist even when
failure seems assured and hope has long been abandoned. We had set out
to find the Diamond Ship, and we had failed. That she was still afloat
upon the Southern Atlantic remained my unalterable conviction. It was
even possible that Joan Fordibras was aboard her, and not in Europe at
all. A Council of Prudence said, “Return”; a Vanity of Conviction said,
“Go on.” I had listened to the voice of the first-named and surrendered
to it. My comrades professed their joy in tones becoming a graveyard.
The men heard of our determination with hands thrust deep into their
pockets and mouths which emitted surly clouds of smoke. Rarely has a
homeward-bound ship carried heavier hearts or a crew as silent. We were
going to see the white cliffs of England again; but we were leaving the
Diamond Ship for others to take. Everyone, professing to be glad,
remained conscious of a personal defeat, of a rebuff which should not
have been, and would not have been, but for a caprice of Fortune,
unlooked for and unmerited.
Upon my own part, there were conflicting hopes and desires which I could
have confessed to none. It certainly had been a blow upon my vanity that
the Admiralty had sent no ship to my assistance, and that Scotland Yard
had been so long bestirring itself. What could their delay mean but
incredulity? They doubted my story, or if they did not doubt it, then
they were wasting the precious weeks in vain inquiries at the consulates
or formal exchange with the Governments. In due season they would act,
when the Diamond Ship had made her last voyage, perhaps, and the master
criminal stood beyond their reach. Val Imroth, indeed, appeared to me to
be the beginning and the end of this great conspiracy. The others were
the puppets with which this king of rogues played a game daring beyond
all imagination of meaner minds. Let him be caught, and the house of his
crimes would be shattered to ruins. He was the Alpha and the Omega, the
brain and the soul of it. I concerned myself with no other—even little
Joan must stand in peril until he were taken. My sense of duty forbade
another course; I dare not turn aside.
Many a night and oft when the glorious Southern sky looked down upon us,
and the sea was still, and nothing but the purring voice of the
steamer’s engines could be heard, had I, alone upon the aft deck, asked
myself of Joan’s fate and of the future which awaited her. Had the
rogues discovered her that night I fled from the Valley House, or had
she been spirited away before Okyada came to me? Was it a man’s part to
have left the island immediately, or should I have lingered on in the
hope of seeing her? I know not to this day.
If a man’s love make claim upon sentiment alone and not upon
common-sense, then must I be found blameworthy. But if he is to use his
brains as much in an affair of the heart as in that of the common things
of the day, then was I justified a thousand times. Again and again did
reason tell me that the Jew would hold her as a hostage for his own
safety; and that no harm would befall her until danger threatened him.
Let me come face to face with him, and then I might fear for her. Alas!
that reason cannot always be a comforter. There were blacker hours when
I depicted her the prey of the ruffians of the island, the victim of her
foster-father’s savage anger, alone and defenceless amongst them all,
looking for my coming, and crying in her despair because I did not come.
These were the blacker hours, I say. Let the long spell of waiting
answer for them. They vanished like the mist when the good news came.
* * * * *
We set the yacht upon a northward course, and lived through a morning of
angry silence. Disdaining any lunch but a biscuit and a proud cigar,
Timothy McShanus fell to reminiscences. I remember he discussed the law
of chances, reminding me of the American citizen, who, being asked if he
were a lucky man, replied that he once held four aces at a game of poker
in Mexico City, and only got one shot in the leg. In a lachrymose mood,
Timothy went on to say that he cared little whether he lived or died,
but that he would give much to know what they were doing at the
Goldsmith Club in London town. I did not answer him, for at that moment
Captain Larry came scurrying along the deck, and one look at his face
told me that he had news of moment.
“Well, Larry—and now?”
“There is a message, sir.”
“A message?”
“I don’t know what to say, sir. The telegraph instruments are going like
one o’clock. I thought you had better know immediately. There’s no one
else aboard can read them.”
My rough exclamation astonished them both. Our Marconi instruments had
always been a pleasant source of mystery to the crew, and even the
Captain regarded them with some little awe. Hitherto we had hardly made
use of them at all, exchanging, I think, but a couple of messages—one
with a P. & O. steamer and another with a Union boat. And now they spoke
for the third time, not from any ocean-going ship, I felt sure, nor from
any station ashore, but a voice from the unknown, pregnant of good or
ill, it might be, beyond any power of the imagination to say. Be it said
that I went below with an anxiety, an excitement of the news baffling
words. Was it possible that this implement of steel and brass, of wire
and filings, and the simplest electric batteries, would reveal the truth
so long concealed? Even that I dared to hope.
Now, the second officer watched the instrument and his curiosity was
natural enough. I caught him when I entered the fore cabin where we had
set it up, in the act of trying to send some signal in reply, and
arrested him with so rough a hand upon his own that he must have
believed me bereft suddenly of my senses.
“Good God!” I cried. “Not a word, man—not a word. This may be life or
death to us. Leave it alone—let them speak before we answer.”
“The instrument has been going for five minutes, sir. I know something
of the Morse code, but I can’t make head or tail of it. She’s not a P. &
O. ship, sir.”
“Neither a P. & O. nor any other letters in our alphabet, my lad. Go
down now to Mr. Benson, the engineer, and tell him to give an eye to the
batteries and the coherer. I will see to this.”
He left me, and I took my stand before the implement, and watched it as
a man watches a human face wherein he may read the story of his fate. A
message was being ticked out there, but so faintly, so absolutely
inaudible, that no skill of mine could write it down. Far away from us,
it might be, some hundreds of miles away, an unknown ship flashed its
news over the lonely ocean. What ship, then, and whose were the voices?
Fascinated beyond expression, I stood a long hour by the instrument and
could hear my own heart beating with the excitement of suspense. Would
the unknown never speak plainly? Should I risk a question in answer,
sent out from our own lofty mast where all had been prepared for such a
seeming miracle as this? And if so, what question? Had the Jew a
password upon the high seas of which I was not the possessor. I knew not
what to think. One man alone upon the yacht might speak at such an
hour—young Harry Avenhill, who, silently, willingly, and in gratitude
had worked with our engineers during these long weeks of the vain
pursuit.
Harry came up to me from the depths of the engine room, his face a
little pallid, but his eyes a clearer, healthier blue than when I had
taken him from England and given him that second chance which humanity
owes to every lad who sins. He told me frankly that there had been a
password in use both in England and France.
“We used to have to write the letter ‘A’ five times running from the
bottom, left-hand, to the top right-hand of a slip of paper, sir. That
was when we wanted to get into any of our houses in London or Paris or
Brussels. If we met a friend in the streets, it was the Romany tongue we
spoke—_Kushto bokh_ or _mero pal_, or something of that sort—and when
we had said it, one or other asked how old Five A’s was doing. Once I
remember the password was ‘Fordibras.’ That was at Blois when we robbed
the house of the Count of Sens, who had just bought some of the
Empress’s emeralds. I never remember it being used anywhere else but
there.”
I smiled, for the Jew’s perspicuity was as evident here as it had been
in England and upon the island. The weaker man, Hubert Fordibras, he who
by subtle cleverness and canting self-deception tried to believe himself
innocent of these crimes, he would be the first prize of the police when
detection came. This was obvious—as obvious as the lad’s inability to
help me.
“It will not be ‘Fordibras’ upon the high seas, nor will a whole
alphabet of ‘A’s’ help us, Harry,” said I, as kindly as I could. “But
that’s not your fault, my lad. Had you gone aboard with them, it would
have been a different story. There is some password, I am sure, and it
is used only for the ships. As it is, I must go wanting it—a hundred
thousand pities, if pity is ever any use to anybody.”
“Then you never met one of their sailors, Doctor Fabos?”
“No, I never—Good God! what am I saying? Never met one of their
sailors? Harry, what made you ask me that question?”
“You think of everything, sir. I made sure you would have been aboard
one of their ships.”
“I have not been aboard one of their ships, but—well, we shall see. Who
knows, Harry, but that you were to be the destiny of this? Go up to
Captain Larry and tell him that I have news for him and for Mr. Benson.
It may not be Europe after all.”
He went away as quietly as he had come and left me to the instruments.
That which was in my mind I would share with none. Say that it was an
idea which might win or lose all by a word and you will come near to its
discovery. My purpose was to send by wireless telegraphy such a message
to the Diamond Ship as would lead us to the discovery both of her
present situation and her ultimate destination. To do this, I needed a
password to the confidence of her commander. That password I believed
that I possessed. It had been given to me years gone when a dead sailor
had been washed ashore upon Palling beach, and one of the most famous
diamonds in Europe had been found upon his body. Judge of my excitement
when I sat down to put this idea to the proof. There before me was the
instrument still ticking a message I could not decipher. I sat down
before our own keyboard and deliberately rapped out the words, “Captain
Three Fingers.” Again and again I sent the words speeding across the
lonely seas. “Captain Three Fingers”—that, and nothing more. As a
spirit winging a human thought it went, to the unknown, over the silent
waters, a tremor of the air, a voice of doom, an awful, mysterious power
of words pregnant of discovery or wholly impotent in the mocking ether.
An hour passed, and found me still alone. There had been no response to
my message, no further agitation of the receiver whose message baffled
me. Faithful to my wish, neither Larry nor McShanus had interrupted me.
I could hear as a distant sound the murmur of gentle seas beating upon
our bows. The purr of our engines was as that of a living, sentient
entity, awake to the intervals of action. My fingers had grown weary of
repeating those idle words. I sat back in my chair in a bitterness of
spirit foreign to me, and reflected upon the fatuity of impulse and the
mockery of all human deduction. If there were a password to the deck of
the Diamond Ship, I lacked it. My hasty conclusions had met with their
just fate. The men aboard the distant vessel had taken alarm and
signalled to me no more. What would it profit them to continue this vain
employment? Answer, that obstinacy prompted me. Doggedly, persistently,
reason would repeat that I was right. The words were the only words. I
could imagine no others. In mockery almost I changed my key, and to
prove myself right, a hundred times I tapped out the word “Fordibras”
upon the ready instrument. Once, twice, thrice—thus it went speeding
into the aerial wastes, losing itself under the blue heavens, a delusion
upon a delusion, the mocking jest of a man who had no resource but jest.
And how are wonder and the sport of chance to be expressed when I say
that the word was answered, immediately, clearly, beyond all
question—in a message from the Diamond Ship and from those who
commanded her.
I sat as one transfixed, my hands trembling with excitement, my ears
intent as though open to the story of a miracle. Plain as the talk of a
friend at my side came that memorable answer, “How is old Five A’s
doing?” Leaping to the lad Harry’s story, I answered them in the Romany
tongue—the first, perhaps, that any student of crime should begin to
learn. And now it became no longer a question of the word. Their anxiety
mastered them. They were telling me their secrets across the
waste—those secrets I would have paid half my fortune to learn.
“We lie at 90° 15′ by 35° 15′ 15″. Where are you?”
I flashed back a false reply, two degrees northward of our true
situation. Quick as the instrument would transmit the words, I added
this intelligence:
“Every port watched. Fabos in Paris; white ensign off St. Michael’s;
station safe; wait coming.”
Their reply was the impatient question:
“Are you Ross or Sycamore?”
I took it to mean that there were two ships for which they waited, and
that the captains thereof were named respectively Ross and Sycamore. At
a hazard, I chose the first name, and waited for them to go on. Never in
all this world did the flashing voice of electricity mean so much to
mortal man.
“We are short of coal and water,” the tidings went. “Hurry, for God’s
sake, or we are driven into Rio.”
To this, my hands hot with the fever of discovery, I rejoined:
“Rio known—keep the seas; we reach you to-morrow.”
And then for a long while there was silence. I imagined that unknown
crew debating my words as though they had been a message of their
salvation. A relief ship was coming out to them. They were saved from
the perils of the shore and that more terrible peril of thirst. When the
machine next ticked out its unconscious confession, it was to bid me
hasten, for God’s sake.
“I am Valentine Imroth. What has kept you ashore?”
“The police and Fabos.”
“Then Fordibras is a traitor!”
“You have his daughter with you?”
“Is that known in Europe?”
“It is suspected.”
“By the mouth of Fabos. He has received my message. Has Sycamore
sailed?”
“He is two days behind me.”
“What coal has he aboard?”
I sat back from the instrument and answered not a word. Be it said that,
directly I had already convinced myself that this mysterious unknown
Diamond Ship was in reality a vessel hauled to, as it were, permanently
in mid-Atlantic, the corollary of attended steamers needed no
demonstration. Regularly from Europe or America, I imagined, tenders of
considerable size set out to water, provision, and to coal the great
receiving hulk wherein the Jew hid his booty and harboured his outcasts.
There would be a great going to and fro of rascals, of course, relief
crews, and a very system of changing duties. But the great ship would
never make the shore unless driven thereto by ultimate necessity; and
the very fact of those equatorial latitudes being chosen for her
cruising ground, latitudes of profound calm and void of winds,
contributed to the probability of my surmise. So much was plain—but the
moment the arch-rogue asked me what coal the tender carried, then
instantly I realised my peril and quitted the instrument abruptly. Of
the tender I knew nothing. A false word might undo all that accident had
done for me so nobly. I had wisdom enough to draw back from it.
“They will set it down either to prudence or a bad receiver,” I said to
myself as I quitted the cabin, in a greater state of mental agitation
than I had known since I sailed from England. “It could not be better.
Let them flash what news they will, I have their story, and to-morrow
Europe shall have it too.”
Larry was on the quarter-deck when I went aft and Timothy McShanus stood
at his side. I was astonished to hear that it was already six o’clock
and to see the sun setting. Together, my best of friends remarked on the
pallor of my face, and asked me what, in heaven’s name, had kept me so
long in the cabin.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “the Diamond Ship is some hundred odd miles from us
as we lie, and Joan Fordibras and the Jew are aboard her. Captain Larry,
will you give the necessary orders? and, Timothy, for God’s sake, send
me up a whisky-and-soda and the longest cigar on the yacht. I am going
to think, man—I am going to think.”
So I turned upon my heel and left him. The men’s cheers resounded
through the ship as I entered my cabin. Ah! the brave fellows. Toward
what harbour had they turned the yacht’s head so resolutely? Might it
not be to a haven of death, to a grave in that placid ocean upon which
we now raced as though Eldorado lay beyond our dim horizon?
I knew not, indeed. For upon me also the fever of pursuit had again laid
its burning hand, and though death stood at our helm, no voice of life
might call me back.