XLI

The mate had Anthony on deck directly, and the young man eagerly

searched the mists to make out what manner of a place it was that

bulked up so out of the sea. In a few moments mademoiselle also

appeared; and as she stood with them in the schooner's bow her face was

white, but she said nothing.

The sails were motionless; the rotting sea piled against their prow;

the air was hot and dull; the mist, veiling the whole region, was like

steam.

"The pull of this current promises a deal of discomfort to us if we

can't make way against it," said Anthony to the mate.

"I could wish we were well quit of it," said Corkery. "A little farther

into the midst of this sea, and it might take more than a wind to help

us away again."

"What depth of water does your chart give?" said Anthony, to Tom Horn.

The clerk turned his head but still kept his tight clutch on the rail.

"I so feared what was beneath these waters," he said, "that I never

sounded them. But there is a great depth; there must be, because of the

dreadful life that swarms there."

"Too much water for an anchor," said the mate. But he called for the

lead, nevertheless, and watched fathom after fathom of line run over

the side. "As deep a hole as there is in all the sea," he grumbled.

"If every cable in the ship were fastened end to end," said Tom Horn,

"they'd do no good. There would be nothing for your anchor to grapple

with. It would be like hanging over the rim of the moon, fishing for

the world."

Slowly the sun seeped through the mist; then it rent holes in it; the

vapor curled forlornly before the light, and lifted away from the

surface of the sea. The vague loom ahead now became solid; it took both

body and color; it was a huddle of broken ships, crowding together

like cattle in a green field. The rotting sea held them; their planks

were warped; their seams gaped thirstily. And, as the schooner's

company watched, the drift rode the _Roebuck_ on; the mass of weed and

sea-rubbish turned, and shifted drearily, and seemed to deepen.

As there was no sign of a breeze, Anthony ordered out a boat; three

men were put into it, and he took an oar himself; a line was made fast

to the schooner, and they lay to the work of pulling her head around.

But the mass of weed was too stiff; the stout, ashen oars bent in the

thole-pins; but the vessel did not swerve; the boat could make no way;

the drift went on, and they went with it. And while the boat was being

hoisted in Tom Horn spoke to mademoiselle.

"The circle has tightened; no power can slacken it--no wind--no wash

of the sea. It is the grip of the great law, the world's roll, and the

force of the planet that guides the tides. It gives nothing up."

"You were once lost in this place," said the girl, her face still pale,

but with steady voice. "And you made away from it."

"I was here until my heart died in me," said Tom Horn. "I was here so

long that it seemed the very heavens were splashed with slime; and my

hope rotted as everything must rot that stays here. Each morning," he

said, in his odd way, "the sun lifted out of the east like a threat

and hung burning over a ghastly sea. All day I saw dead things or

dead men; I saw shapes rear themselves out of the scum that withered

my sight. By night winged horrors drifted across the moon; in the dark

there were millions of pale candles, lighted round the coffin of a

world that had passed."

The schooner's company was gathered in the waist as Anthony went below;

he noted them whispering and nodding, sullen looks upon their faces;

and his own was grim as he sat down to his breakfast. Mademoiselle

was already at the table. And they ate for some time in silence. The

hideous, turgid sea lay flat through the schooner's stern window, and

the girl's eyes were fixed upon it. Anthony studied her; the sparkle

which had filled her eyes from the time they had put to sea was gone;

her face was intent; fear worked beneath her look.

"Tom Horn does not seem to have a mind for his breakfast," said Anthony.

"No," she replied.

She kept her eyes fixed upon the motionless sea; there was another

silence.

"And," said the young man, "you do not appear to be greatly inclined to

it yourself."

"No," she said again.

"For some days," said Anthony, "I have noted you engaged in talk with

Tom. And a little space ago I saw you again, after we'd sighted the

wrecks ahead. And I would suggest," continued the young man, "that you

not give too much attention to his sayings at this time."

"It is your own word," said the girl, "that of all those with whom you

have spoken this man has been nearest the truth."

Anthony poured some wine into a high glass; its amber body picked up

a ray of light, bathed joyously in it, and then shot it out, stained

and gleaming. And while the young man studied its cheerful message he

replied to the girl:

"What you say is fact; I'd be the last to question it. Queer as his

way has been, odd and circuitous as his warnings and suggestions, he

has often grasped the truth and drawn the darkness from about it. But

witness: All these matters dealt with the goings-on at Rufus Stevens'

Sons; they had to do with things of record, with the accounts of the

house, with the book of arithmetic. He was, no doubt, soundly trained

in those things and so stands straight in them. But this," and Anthony

nodded out the window, "is a region where he once was cast away, where

his spirit sank in the stillness, and his blunting mind gave the

darkness shapes no man had known. Many say Tom Horn is mad. I don't

know. But if it is so then his distemper took form in this sea; so,

when he talks of it, I balance his words with doubt. And if you did the

like it would be a careful thing."

"When he spoke of the chance of finding the ship _Rufus Stevens_, did

he not speak of this sea?" asked the girl. "And yet you showed no doubt

then; you thought it a thing to follow out with speed and hopefulness."

"And I still think so," said Anthony. "For the chance of the ship being

somewhere within the great ocean current, and of finally drifting into

this slack sea, is a thing which comes of his arithmetic and not of his

madness."

She regarded him quietly for a moment.

"When you wear that look," she said, "I cannot help but see things as

you see them."

Her hand rested upon the table quite near to him, and his own went out

and rested upon it.

"Keep your courage," he said. "You must not lose it because of the

fears of a man whose wits are amiss. Hold to your first thoughts of

good fortune, for a look like you wore brings luck to a ship."

She was smiling now; and there was that brightness in her eyes that

tears make.

"I will be brave," she said. "Indeed, I will be more than that," her

chin going out much as Anthony's own did on occasions. "I will be

helpful."

He looked at her with his heart quickening.

"There is no one who could be more so than you, if you willed it so.

Let your soul warm to what's ahead, for only strength of soul can

conquer this stark place and bring our journey to a fortunate end."

The sun burned its way across the sky, and the day began to wane; the

mists rose once more from the great fields of decaying matter and sent

their fanciful plumes into the air.

"We do not seem any nearer to the hulks than we were this morning,"

said Corkery.

"We approach them slowly," said Tom Horn. "But we are nearer,

nevertheless. I was weeks in coming abreast of them. The current is

slow here, but it is strong and does not give up. We must not struggle

against it. Be warned by me. Flow with it peacefully. Let us give our

minds to finding the ship we are in search of; let the current take us

deep into the core of the circle; it will take us out again, as it took

me after I had learned its secret."

Corkery pointed to the mass of broken ships ahead.

"It has not taken those out," he said.

"They are dead," said Tom Horn. "And they are over-borne by other dead;

they have no minds to call on God; they have no sails to hold aloft to

the winds; and so they remain here, and will remain until they sink, as

many have sunk before them, into the thick depths and to horrors that

no one has seen."

The sun grew red as it went behind the climbing mist; it grew huge

and fiery and shot long, threatening darts across the silent sea; the

hideous birds came croaking out of the air and settled heavily upon

the broken spars and green, fungus-grown bits of wreckage. Thicker and

thicker grew the mist, and things magnified marvelously; it shook and

waved like banners; it arose and floated like clouds.

"It is a wall," said Tom Horn. "It is a vast thing come between

heaven and men who are lost. What does it seek to hide?" he asked of

Anthony, as the sun's rim dipped below the sea and the shadows suddenly

thickened. "What is there in the air above that the malevolence of this

dying sea tries to keep from its victims? I once thought," and his

voice was now a whisper, "that it might be hope, a something which told

of release. I'd hold that in my mind through whole long nights; and

comfort came from it for then I'd not seem so completely forsaken and

alone."

After this it grew dark; the ship's lights glowed feebly; heavy

flights of birds stirred the air; from distant places came queer,

deep movements of the water, then long silences. Anthony wrapped

mademoiselle in a great cloak to protect her from the damp, and side

by side they walked the deck. The binnacle-light threw a glow over

the man at the wheel; outside the lamp's radius the mist banked

steep and white. Then a wind crept up; in the lantern-light the mist

became agitated; it rolled and mounted and sunk; and then it began

to drift away. A dim glow showed itself out over the drift. Suddenly

mademoiselle said, in a voice of fear:

"Look! The wrecked ships! Some one is aboard them!"

Through the seams and ports of the distant hulks, pale lights were

glimmering, illuminating the sea with a ghastly radiance.

"They are 'witch' lights such as one sees in a marsh; a place like the

Sargasso would have many of them," said Anthony.

For some time they stood together, watching the silent hulks, and the

corpse lights on their decks and rails; then the moon came up, clear,

cold, and almost at its full; its rays, glancing upon the shreds of

mist, sparkled wanly. The wind grew more active; it rustled in the

sails, as though calling attention to its presence, and Anthony, with

the help of the watch, trimmed the canvas to get what good there was in

it.

"By morning," said one of the men, "we'll be in that press of wreckage

ahead there."

"What wind there is," said Anthony, "will not give us head against this

grass and litter; if we move at all it must be forward."

"I've heard tales of this sea," said the other man, putting his weight

on the line willingly enough. "It's no place for a human with a heart

in his body."

"We'll come safe out of it," said Anthony. "We have sound planks under

us, upstanding masts, and a dress of sails. There's wind here, as in

other places, and where there's wind and water there a ship can go

without a deal a hazard."

The moon's white light bleached the thick top of the sea to a silver;

the brittle stars flickered raggedly in their settings of violet; from

the topmasts of the _Roebuck_ and from her bowsprit leaped little

glowing spots of light.

"Mark that!" said one of the hands. "Did you see it?"

"It's a visitation," said the other. "A hand of fire touches our spars;

it may be bidding us to go back!"

Anthony laughed.

"If it is a fiery hand," said he, "it is the hand of St. Elmo. And no

honest person has anything to fear from him, for, from the sound of

him, he was a fine old hero and well intentioned. As for the fire that

carries his name it is nothing at all; for it has shown itself on more

than one ship I've sailed in, and no harm came to any of them."

It was some time later that mademoiselle went below; Anthony walked

the deck through his watch, with the moon sailing high and free in the

sky; the strange sea held his eye; bleached white by the light, it lay

flat, motionless; the corpse candles glowed in the hulks; the strange,

deep movements of water came now and then from a long way off. About

the third hour of his watch, Anthony heard a step at his side. It was

Tom Horn.

"I thought you were abed this long time," said the young man.

"No," said the clerk, "I cannot sleep. I must watch."

"Watch?" said Anthony. As he looked at the man, the pale, luminous

something which he'd always noticed in him seemed magnified. The white,

still moonlight seemed kin to him; he was as strange, as quiet, and as

cold.

"There are memories," said Tom Horn, "memories of nights like this;

they were nights in which my soul was troubled. In the quiet I heard

stirrings that had no place in the world; in the light I saw things God

had not sanctioned. It is ill for a man to be alone; and I was alone

for a long, long time. At first odd things pass before him--things he

has not known; then they become strange; then monstrous. For there

is death within life; there is evil within good. Surrounded by other

souls, a man is safe; but when he is abandoned, as I was abandoned,

when there is no spirit to touch his own in kindness, he is naked to

evil things, and God's world is far away."

"God's world is here," said Anthony. "Where sea and sky meet, there He

is; no matter how remote the place, or how desolate, God stands there,

armed against evil."

The wan moon lighted the clerk's face, and Anthony saw him smile.

"That saying is good; it is the touch of a friendly spirit," he said.

"Let two souls be together, and they make each other strong. But let

one be alone, as I was alone, let there be no warmth, no kindliness,

and hope dies. Horrors creep in; the nether world comes close, and the

corporal eye, grown keen by the soul's suffering, is witness to things

it should not see."

Just then there came one of the deep movements which Anthony had noted

more than once; the ocean's scum seemed to heave under the moon. Tom

Horn's hand touched Anthony's arm and held there; his voice fell to a

whisper.

"It is very deep," he said. "Oh, quite deep! I never sounded it. The

life below is monstrous. Ask God that the sight of His work be kept

from your eyes."

Then the man went quietly back to his post in the bow; and Anthony

continued to pace and watch until Corkery came on deck to relieve him.

The wind held all through the night, languid, hot, and of not a deal of

weight; but it bellied the sails and added its urge to the drift of the

current, and the schooner slowly approached the group of broken ships.

It was past daylight when Anthony appeared once more; despite the

mist that enveloped the vessel, he became aware of a vast loom to his

larboard; it was huge, dark, rearing; he hastily stepped across the

deck, and there found mademoiselle.

"It is a ship," she said; "we must have come alongside it in the night.

Mr. Corkery thinks it's one of the wrecks we were watching yesterday."

Corkery, hearing Anthony's voice, approached.

"I have made fast to her," he said. "It's a large vessel of a kind I do

not know, and she seems to lie quite still."

"We have reached one of the outer vessels of the group we saw

yesterday," said mademoiselle. "I do not think we have gone among them,

for we have collided with none."

"True enough, mademoiselle," said Corkery; "with sun-up I think we'll

see your word made good."

But it was still early; the mist clung to the ship, to the surface of

the sea, poisonous, thick; through it the lanterns burned a feeble

yellow. The vast timbers of the vessel at whose side they lay were

rotted and dripped with slime; they could feel open seams, gaping like

mouths; when they spoke their voices came back from its hollows as

though from a cavern. They felt chilled, and their spirits ran low.

Tom Horn, much to the surprise of mademoiselle and Anthony, appeared at

breakfast: it was the first time he had sat down with them since the

_Roebuck_ entered the Sargasso; he had kept the deck night and day, and

what little food he'd eaten had been taken to him by the cook. He had

one of his charts with him and unrolled it upon the table.

"In an hour the mist will lift, and we shall be able to see," said he.

"And this," his finger pointing to a spot among the figures and signs

upon the sheet, "is _what_ we shall see."

The girl and the young man leaned forward and studied the chart; but

the figures told them nothing.

"The vessel alongside can be none other than the _San Josef_," said Tom

Horn, "and next her should be the Dutch ship of the line; then comes

the Salem merchantman whose goods served me so well while I was captive

here, and then the ancient galley whose deck was so rotted that I never

ventured to stand on it. Then there follow others, ship on ship," the

pointing finger moving slowly across the chart; "I know them all, and

could number them as one numbers the shops and houses in a street."

"Except the new ones," said Anthony.

"Hah!" said Tom Horn. "The new ones to be sure. Here and there you find

a new ship--and wedged in where you would never expect her. It's as

though the fear of the place came upon them; they dread being outside,

alone, and force their way among the others for companionship and

protection. The Salem ship was a new one while I was here; and yet she

had gotten herself between the Dutchman and the galley--two very old

vessels, indeed."

"But where," asked mademoiselle, "is the _Rufus Stevens_? In what part

of this sea are we to look for her?"

"We do not know what winds hastened or hindered her," said the clerk.

"Hulks pitch slowly along through the sea and may be many months going

a short way, or their movements may be quickened by steady winds. I

have considered all that is possible, and I have put the possibilities

into figures; the _Rufus Stevens_ is surely here, but she has been here

no great while," and the man's eyes kindled with their strange glow.

"No, she has but lately arrived; we shall find her somewhere on the

edge of this concourse, and at no great distance from where we are now

lying. My calculations are close, and I have held in mind, not only the

winds, but the power of the great circle; she must have drifted much as

we have sailed, and this day should show us many things."

They ate their breakfasts and studied the chart, while Tom Horn

expounded it; and while they were so engaged the sun worked its

uncertain way through the mist; with banners fluttering and deep banks

whirling, the fog broke before the lances of light; and strange things

appeared upon the face of the sea. The broken ships were seen huddled

in the still waters, some on level keel, others stern down and bowsprit

pointed at the sky, others with stern high and down by the head. Green

slime streaked their rotting planks; pale, horrible-looking fungus grew

thickly upon rails and housing; flocks of vulture-like birds rested

upon them; the sea all about was massed with decaying weed and timbers.

"It is as I thought; it is the _San Josef_," said Tom Horn, when they

reached the deck. He pointed to the vast wooden wall which arose,

sheer, alongside them; up and up it went, and Anthony counted three

great decks; the stern towered like a castle, and had been pierced by

a dozen windows; the huge sides grinned with ports where brass cannon

had once threatened the stout English sea-thieves. Traces of fire were

about her timbers; the fungus growth seemed all that held her together.

"Taken, looted, and burned," said Anthony. "A treasure-galleon, like as

not, and the prey of a Cumberland, a Drake, or a Morgan, years ago."

Next the _San Josef_ was a great Dutch ship; she was almost as tall

in the stern as the Spaniard; her timbers had been splintered by the

shot of some ancient battle, but the strength of her great dowels and

cunningly wrought frame had kept her corpse whole. Beside the Dutchman

floated the Salem merchantman, a sturdy ship and a swift one before

fate overtook her, but small compared to the lumbering fighting craft

of an older day. The galley spoken of by Tom Horn lay almost submerged;

the green slippery planks of her bow stuck tragically out of the scum.

"If I could convince myself that it were possible," said Anthony,

his eyes upon this craft, "I'd say she was of the Mediterranean, for

there's been no galleys in the Atlantic these many years."

"She once wore a great beak on her stem," said Corkery. "See where it's

been sawn away."

"Don John of Austria fought the battle of Lepanto with just such

craft," said Anthony, "and before the fight he ordered the ram to

be cut from every ship in his fleet, so that they might run close

alongside the enemy. But that was two hundred years ago."

"I would not take one day of it from this vessel's age," said Corkery,

shaking his head. "Like as not she's one of the stove-in hulks that

drifted out of that old fight. But how did she make her way through all

the seas and get lodgment here at last?"

"God knows," said Anthony. "And that's an answer that must be made to

many a question asked of this strange place."

"Look!" cried Tom Horn.

"Look, oh, look!" cried mademoiselle.

Their voices arose almost together; Anthony and the mate turned, and

there, freely riding the scum in an open space, the stumps of her masts

showing above the bulwarks, they saw the fine, sound hull of the _Rufus

Stevens_!