DEATH ON THE GIRDLER
Popular belief ascribes to infants and the lower animals certain
occult powers of divining character denied to the reasoning faculties
of the human adult; and is apt to accept their judgment as finally
overriding the pronouncements of mere experience.
Whether this belief rests upon any foundation other than the
universal love of paradox it is unnecessary to inquire. It is very
generally entertained, especially by ladies of a certain social
status; and by Mrs. Thomas Solly it was loyally maintained as an
article of faith.
“Yes,” she moralized, “it’s surprisin’ how they know, the little
children and the dumb animals. But they do. There’s no deceivin’
_them_. They can tell the gold from the dross in a moment, they can,
and they reads the human heart like a book. Wonderful, I call it. I
suppose it’s instinct.”
Having delivered herself of this priceless gem of philosophic
thought, she thrust her arms elbow-deep into the foaming wash-tub and
glanced admiringly at her lodger as he sat in the doorway, supporting
on one knee an obese infant of eighteen months and on the other a
fine tabby cat.
James Brown was an elderly seafaring man, small and slight in build
and in manner suave, insinuating and perhaps a trifle sly. But he had
all the sailor’s love of children and animals, and the sailor’s knack
of making himself acceptable to them, for, as he sat with an empty
pipe wobbling in the grasp of his toothless gums, the baby beamed
with humid smiles, and the cat, rolled into a fluffy ball and purring
like a stocking-loom, worked its fingers ecstatically as if it were
trying on a new pair of gloves.
“It must be mortal lonely out at the lighthouse,” Mrs. Solly resumed.
“Only three men and never a neighbour to speak to; and, Lord! what a
muddle they must be in with no woman to look after them and keep ’em
tidy. But you won’t be overworked, Mr. Brown, in these long days; day
light till past nine o’clock. I don’t know what you’ll do to pass the
time.”
“Oh, I shall find plenty to do, I expect,” said Brown, “what with
cleanin’ the lamps and glasses and paintin’ up the ironwork. And that
reminds me,” he added, looking round at the clock, “that time’s
getting on. High water at half-past ten, and here it’s gone eight
o’clock.”
Mrs. Solly, acting on the hint, began rapidly to fish out the washed
garments and wring them out into the form of short ropes. Then,
having dried her hands on her apron, she relieved Brown of the
protesting baby.
“Your room will be ready for you, Mr. Brown,” said she, “when your
turn comes for a spell ashore; and main glad me and Tom will be to
see you back.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Solly, ma’am,” answered Brown, tenderly placing the
cat on the floor; “you won’t be more glad than what I will.” He shook
hands warmly with his land lady, kissed the baby, chucked the cat
under the chin, and, picking up his little chest by its becket, swung
it onto his shoulder and strode out of the cottage.
His way lay across the marshes, and, like the ships in the offing, he
shaped his course by the twin towers of Reculver that stood up
grotesquely on the rim of the land; and as he trod the springy turf,
Tom Solly’s fleecy charges looked up at him with vacant stares and
valedictory bleatings. Once, at a dyke-gate, he paused to look back
at the fair Kentish landscape: at the grey tower of St.
Nicholas-at-Wade peeping above the trees and the faraway mill at
Sarre, whirling slowly in the summer breeze; and, above all, at the
solitary cottage where, for a brief spell in his stormy life, he had
known the homely joys of domesticity and peace. Well, that was over
for the present, and the lighthouse loomed ahead. With a half-sigh he
passed through the gate and walked on towards Reculver.
Outside the whitewashed cottages with their official black chimneys a
petty-officer of the coast-guard was adjusting the halyards of the
flagstaff. He looked round as Brown approached, and hailed him
cheerily.
“Here you are, then,” said he, “all figged out in your new togs, too.
But we’re in a bit of a difficulty, d’ye see. We’ve got to pull up to
Whitstable this morning, so I can’t send a man out with you and I
can’t spare a boat.”
“Have I got to swim out, then?” asked Brown.
The coast-guard grinned. “Not in them new clothes, mate,” he
answered. “No, but there’s old Willett’s boat; he isn’t using her
to-day; he’s going over to Minster to see his daughter, and he’ll let
us have the loan of the boat. But there’s no one to go with you, and
I’m responsible to Willett.”
“Well, what about it?” asked Brown, with the deep-sea sailor’s
(usually misplaced) confidence in his power to handle a sailing-boat.
“D’ye think I can’t manage a tub of a boat? Me what’s used the sea
since I was a kid of ten?”
“Yes,” said the coast-guard; “but who’s to bring her back?”
“Why, the man that I’m going to relieve,” answered Brown. “He don’t
want to swim no more than what I do.”
The coast-guard reflected with his telescope pointed at a passing
barge. “Well, I suppose it’ll be all right,” he concluded; “but it’s
a pity they couldn’t send the tender round. However, if you undertake
to send the boat back, we’ll get her afloat. It’s time you were off.”
He strolled away to the back of the cottages, whence he presently
returned with two of his mates, and the four men proceeded along the
shore to where Willett’s boat lay just above high-water mark.
The _Emily_ was a beamy craft of the type locally known as a
“half-share skiff,” solidly built of oak, with varnished planking and
fitted with main and mizzen lugs. She was a good handful for four
men, and, as she slid over the soft chalk rocks with a hollow rumble,
the coast-guards debated the advisability of lifting out the bags of
shingle with which she was ballasted. However, she was at length
dragged down, ballast and all, to the water’s edge, and then, while
Brown stepped the mainmast, the petty-officer gave him his
directions. “What you’ve got to do,” said he, “is to make use of the
flood-tide. Keep her nose nor’-east, and with this trickle of
nor’-westerly breeze you ought to make the lighthouse in one board.
Anyhow don’t let her get east of the lighthouse, or, when the ebb
sets in, you’ll be in a fix.”
To these admonitions Brown listened with jaunty indifference as he
hoisted the sails and watched the incoming tide creep over the level
shore. Then the boat lifted on the gentle swell. Putting out an oar,
he gave a vigorous shove off that sent the boat, with a final scrape,
clear of the beach, and then, having dropped the rudder onto its
pintles, he seated himself and calmly belayed the main-sheet.
“There he goes,” growled the coast-guard; “makin’ fast his sheet.
They _will_ do it” (he invariably did it himself), “and that’s how
accidents happen. I hope old Willett ’ll see his boat back all right.”
He stood for some time watching the dwindling boat as it sidled
across the smooth water; then he turned and followed his mates
towards the station.
Out on the south-western edge of the Girdler Sand, just inside the
two-fathom line, the spindle-shanked lighthouse stood a-straddle on
its long screw-piles like some uncouth red-bodied wading bird. It was
now nearly half flood tide. The highest shoals were long since
covered, and the lighthouse rose above the smooth sea as solitary as
a slaver becalmed in the “middle passage.”
On the gallery outside the lantern were two men, the entire staff of
the building, of whom one sat huddled in a chair with his left leg
propped up with pillows on another, while his companion rested a
telescope on the rail and peered at the faint grey line of the
distant land and the two tiny points that marked the twin spires of
Reculver.
“I don’t see any signs of the boat, Harry,” said he.
The other man groaned. “I shall lose the tide,” he complained, “and
then there’s another day gone.”
“They can pull you down to Birchington and put you in the train,”
said the first man.
“I don’t want no trains,” growled the invalid. “The boat ’ll be bad
enough. I suppose there’s nothing coming our way, Tom?”
Tom turned his face eastward and shaded his eyes. “There’s a brig
coming across the tide from the north,” he said. “Looks like a
collier.” He pointed his telescope at the approaching vessel, and
added: “She’s got two new cloths in her upper fore top-sail, one on
each leech.”
The other man sat up eagerly. “What’s her trysail like, Tom?” he
asked.
“Can’t see it,” replied Tom. “Yes, I can, now: it’s tanned. Why,
that’ll be the old _Utopia_, Harry; she’s the only brig I know that’s
got a tanned trysail.”
“Look here, Tom,” exclaimed the other, “If that’s the _Utopia_, she’s
going to my home and I’m going aboard of her. Captain Mockett ’ll
give me a passage, I know.”
“You oughtn’t to go until you’re relieved, you know, Barnett,” said
Tom doubtfully; “it’s against regulations to leave your station.”
“Regulations be blowed!” exclaimed Barnett. “My leg’s more to me than
the regulations. I don’t want to be a cripple all my life. Besides,
I’m no good here, and this new chap, Brown, will be coming out
presently. You run up the signal, Tom, like a good comrade, and hail
the brig.”
“Well, it’s your look-out,” said Tom, “and I don’t mind saying that
if I was in your place I should cut off home and see a doctor, if I
got the chance.” He sauntered off to the flag-locker, and, selecting
the two code-flags, deliberately toggled them onto the halyards.
Then, as the brig swept up within range, he hoisted the little balls
of bunting to the flagstaff-head and jerked the halyards, when the
two flags blew out making the signal “Need assistance.”
Promptly a coal-soiled answering pennant soared to the brig’s
main-truck; less promptly the collier went about, and, turning her
nose down stream, slowly drifted stern-forwards towards the
lighthouse. Then a boat slid out through her gangway, and a couple of
men plied the oars vigorously.
“Lighthouse ahoy!” roared one of them, as the boat came within hail.
“What’s amiss?”
“Harry Barnett has broke his leg,” shouted the lighthouse keeper,
“and he wants to know if Captain Mockett will give him a passage to
Whitstable.”
The boat turned back to the brig, and after a brief and bellowed
consultation, once more pulled towards the lighthouse.
“Skipper says yus,” roared the sailor, when he was within ear-shot,
“and he says look alive, ’cause he don’t want to miss his tide.”
The injured man heaved a sigh of relief. “That’s good news,” said he,
“though, how the blazes I’m going to get down the ladder is more than
I can tell. What do you say, Jeffreys?”
“I say you’d better let me lower you with the tackle,” replied
Jeffreys. “You can sit in the bight of a rope and I’ll give you a
line to steady yourself with.”
“Ah, that’ll do, Tom,” said Barnett; “but, for the Lord’s sake, pay
out the fall-rope gently.”
The arrangements were made so quickly that by the time the boat was
fast alongside everything was in readiness, and a minute later the
injured man, dangling like a gigantic spider from the end of the
tackle, slowly descended, cursing volubly to the accompaniment of the
creaking of the blocks. His chest and kit-bag followed, and, as soon
as these were unhooked from the tackle, the boat pulled off to the
brig, which was now slowly creeping stern-foremost past the
lighthouse. The sick man was hoisted up the side, his chest handed up
after him, and then the brig was put on her course due South across
the Kentish Flats.
Jeffreys stood on the gallery watching the receding vessel and
listening to the voices of her crew as they grew small and weak in
the increasing distance. Now that his gruff companion was gone, a
strange loneliness had fallen on the lighthouse. The last of the
homeward-bound ships had long since passed up the Princes Channel and
left the calm sea desolate and blank. The distant buoys, showing as
tiny black dots on the glassy surface, and the spindly shapes of the
beacons which stood up from invisible shoals, but emphasized the
solitude of the empty sea, and the tolling of the bell buoy on the
Shivering Sand, stealing faintly down the wind, sounded weird and
mournful. The day’s work was already done. The lenses were polished,
the lamps had been trimmed, and the little motor that worked the fog
horn had been cleaned and oiled. There were several odd jobs, it is
true, waiting to be done, as there always are in a lighthouse; but,
just now, Jeffreys was not in a working humour. A new comrade was
coming into his life to-day, a stranger with whom he was to be shut
up alone, night and day, for a month on end, and whose temper and
tastes and habits might mean for him pleasant companionship or
jangling and discord without end. Who was this man Brown? What had he
been? and what was he like? These were the questions that passed,
naturally enough, through the lighthouse keeper’s mind and distracted
him from his usual thoughts and occupations.
Presently a speck on the landward horizon caught his eye. He snatched
up the telescope eagerly to inspect it. Yes, it was a boat; but not
the coast-guard’s cutter, for which he was looking. Evidently a
fisherman’s boat and with only one man in it. He laid down the
telescope with a sigh of disappointment, and, filling his pipe,
leaned on the rail with a dreamy eye bent on the faint grey line of
the land.
Three long years had he spent in this dreary solitude, so repugnant
to his active, restless nature: three blank, interminable years, with
nothing to look back on but the endless succession of summer calms,
stormy nights and the chilly fogs of winter, when the unseen steamers
hooted from the void and the fog-horn bellowed its hoarse warning.
Why had he come to this God-forsaken spot? and why did he stay, when
the wide world called to him? And then memory painted him a picture
on which his mind’s eye had often looked before and which once again
arose before him, shutting out the vision of the calm sea and the
distant land. It was a brightly-coloured picture. It showed a
cloudless sky brooding over the deep blue tropic sea: and in the
middle of the picture, see-sawing gently on the quiet swell, a
white-painted barque.
Her sails were clewed up untidily, her swinging yards jerked at the
slack braces and her untended wheel revolved to and fro to the
oscillations of the rudder.
She was not a derelict, for more than a dozen men were on her deck;
but the men were all drunk and mostly asleep, and there was never an
officer among them.
Then he saw the interior of one of her cabins. The chart rack, the
tell-tale compass and the chronometers marked it as the captain’s
cabin. In it were four men, and two of them lay dead on the deck. Of
the other two, one was a small, cunning-faced man, who was, at the
moment, kneeling be side one of the corpses to wipe a knife upon its
coat. The fourth man was himself.
Again, he saw the two murderers stealing off in a quarter boat, as
the barque with her drunken crew drifted towards the spouting surf of
a river-bar. He saw the ship melt away in the surf like an icicle in
the sunshine; and, later, two shipwrecked mariners, picked up in an
open boat and set ashore at an American port.
That was why he was here. Because he was a murderer. The other
scoundrel, Amos Todd, had turned Queen’s Evidence and denounced him,
and he had barely managed to escape. Since then he had hidden himself
from the great world, and here he must continue to hide, not from the
law--for his person was unknown now that his shipmates were dead--but
from the partner of his crime. It was the fear of Todd that had
changed him from Jeffrey Rorke to Tom Jeffreys and had sent him to
the Girdler, a prisoner for life. Todd might die--might even now be
dead--but he would never hear of it: would never hear the news of his
release.
He roused himself and once more pointed his telescope at the distant
boat. She was considerably nearer now and seemed to be heading out
towards the lighthouse. Perhaps the man in her was bringing a
message; at any rate, there was no sign of the coast-guard’s cutter.
He went in, and, betaking himself to the kitchen, busied himself with
a few simple preparations for dinner. But there was nothing to cook,
for there remained the cold meat from yesterday’s cooking, which he
would make sufficient, with some biscuit in place of potatoes. He
felt restless and unstrung; the solitude irked him, and the
everlasting wash of the water among the piles jarred on his nerves.
When he went out again into the gallery the ebb-tide had set in
strongly and the boat was little more than a mile distant; and now,
through the glass, he could see that the man in her wore the uniform
cap of the Trinity House. Then the man must be his future comrade,
Brown; but this was very extraordinary. What were they to do with the
boat? There was no one to take her back.
The breeze was dying away. As he watched the boat, he saw the man
lower the sail and take to his oars; and something of hurry in the
way the man pulled over the gathering tide, caused Jeffreys to look
round the horizon. And then, for the first time, he noticed a bank of
fog creeping up from the east and already so near that the beacon on
the East Girdler had faded out of sight. He hastened in to start the
little motor that compressed the air for the fog-horn and waited
awhile to see that the mechanism was running properly. Then, as the
deck vibrated to the roar of the horn, he went out once more into the
gallery.
The fog was now all round the lighthouse and the boat was hidden from
view. He listened intently. The enclosing wall of vapour seemed to
have shut out sound as well as vision. At intervals the horn bellowed
its note of warning, and then all was still save the murmur of the
water among the piles below, and, infinitely faint and far away, the
mournful tolling of the bell on the Shivering Sand.
At length there came to his ear the muffled sound of oars working in
the tholes; then, at the very edge of the circle of grey water that
was visible, the boat appeared through the fog, pale and spectral,
with a shadowy figure pulling furiously. The horn emitted a hoarse
growl; the man looked round, perceived the lighthouse and altered his
course towards it.
Jeffreys descended the iron stairway, and, walking along the lower
gallery, stood at the head of the ladder earnestly watching the
approaching stranger. Already he was tired of being alone. The
yearning for human companionship had been growing ever since Barnett
left. But what sort of comrade was this stranger who was coming into
his life? And coming to occupy so dominant a place in it.
The boat swept down swiftly athwart the hurrying tide. Nearer it came
and yet nearer: and still Jeffreys could catch no glimpse of his new
comrade’s face. At length it came fairly alongside and bumped against
the fender-posts; the stranger whisked in an oar and grabbed a rung
of the ladder, and Jeffreys dropped a coil of rope into the boat. And
still the man’s face was hidden.
Jeffreys, leaned out over the ladder and watched him anxiously, as he
made fast the rope, unhooked the sail from the traveller and
unstepped the mast. When he had set all in order, the stranger picked
up a small chest, and, swinging it over his shoulder, stepped onto
the ladder. Slowly, by reason of his encumbrance, he mounted, rung by
rung, with never an upward glance, and Jeffreys gazed down at the top
of his head with growing curiosity. At last he reached the top of the
ladder and Jeffreys stooped to lend him a hand. Then, for the first
time, he looked up, and Jeffreys started back with a blanched face.
“God Almighty!” he gasped. “It’s Amos Todd!”
As the newcomer stepped on the gallery, the fog-horn emitted a roar
like that of some hungry monster. Jeffreys turned abruptly without a
word, and walked to the stairs, followed by Todd, and the two men
ascended with never a sound but the hollow clank of their footsteps
on the iron plates. Silently Jeffreys stalked into the living-room
and, as his companion followed, he turned and motioned to the latter
to set down his chest.
“You ain’t much of a talker, mate,” said Todd, looking round the room
in some surprise; “ain’t you going to say ‘good-morning’? We’re going
to be good comrades, I hope. I’m Jim Brown, the new hand, I am; what
might your name be?”
Jeffreys turned on him suddenly and led him to the window. “Look at
me carefully, Amos Todd,” he said sternly, “and then ask yourself
what my name is.”
At the sound of his voice Todd looked up with a start and turned pale
as death. “It can’t be,” he whispered, “it can’t be Jeff Rorke!”
The other man laughed harshly, and leaning forward, said in a low
voice: “Hast thou found me, O mine enemy!”
“Don’t say that!” exclaimed Todd. “Don’t call me your enemy, Jeff.
Lord knows but I’m glad to see you, though I’d never have known you
without your beard and with that grey hair. I’ve been to blame, Jeff,
and I know it; but it ain’t no use raking up old grudges. Let bygones
be bygones, Jeff, and let us be pals as we used to be.” He wiped his
face with his handkerchief and watched his companion apprehensively.
“Sit down,” said Rorke, pointing to a shabby rep-covered arm-chair;
“sit down and tell me what you’ve done with all that money. You’ve
blued it all, I suppose, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Robbed, Jeff,” answered Todd; “robbed of every penny. Ah! that was
an unfortunate affair, that job on board the old _Sea-flower_. But
it’s over and done with and we’d best forget it. They’re all dead but
us, Jeff, so we’re safe enough so long as we keep our mouths shut;
all at the bottom of the sea--and the best place for ’em too.”
“Yes,” Rorke replied fiercely, “that’s the best place for your
shipmates when they know too much; at the bottom of the sea or
swinging at the end of a rope.” He paced up and down the little room
with rapid strides, and each time that he approached Todd’s chair the
latter shrank back with an expression of alarm.
“Don’t sit there staring at me,” said Rorke. “Why don’t you smoke or
do something?”
Todd hastily produced a pipe from his pocket, and having filled it
from a moleskin pouch, stuck it in his mouth while he searched for a
match. Apparently he carried his matches loose in his pocket, for he
presently brought one forth--a red-headed match, which, when he
struck it on the wall, lighted with a pale-blue flame. He applied it
to his pipe, sucking in his cheeks while he kept his eyes fixed on
his companion. Rorke, meanwhile, halted in his walk to cut some
shavings from a cake of hard tobacco with a large clasp-knife; and,
as he stood, he gazed with frowning abstraction at Todd.
“This pipe’s stopped,” said the latter, sucking ineffectually at the
mouthpiece. “Have you got such a thing as a piece of wire, Jeff?”
“No, I haven’t,” replied Rorke; “not up here. I’ll get a bit from the
store presently. Here, take this pipe till you can clean your own:
I’ve got another in the rack there.” The sailor’s natural hospitality
overcoming for the moment his animosity, he thrust the pipe that he
had just filled towards Todd, who took it with a mumbled “Thank you”
and an anxious eye on the open knife. On the wall beside the chair
was a roughly-carved pipe-rack containing several pipes, one of which
Rorke lifted out; and, as he leaned over the chair to reach it,
Todd’s face went several shades paler.
“Well, Jeff,” he said, after a pause, while Rorke cut a fresh “fill”
of tobacco, “are we going to be pals same as what we used to be?”
Rorke’s animosity lighted up afresh. “Am I going to be pals with the
man that tried to swear away my life?” he said sternly; and after a
pause he added: “That wants thinking about, that does; and meantime I
must go and look at the engine.”
When Rorke had gone the new hand sat, with the two pipes in his
hands, reflecting deeply. Abstractedly he stuck the fresh pipe into
his mouth, and, dropping the stopped one into the rack, felt for a
match. Still with an air of abstraction he lit the pipe, and having
smoked for a minute or two, rose from the chair and began softly to
creep across the room, looking about him and listening intently. At
the door he paused to look out into the fog, and then, having again
listened attentively, he stepped on tip-toe out onto the gallery and
along towards the stairway. Of a sudden the voice of Rorke brought
him up with a start.
“Hallo, Todd! where are you off to?”
“I’m just going down to make the boat secure,” was the reply.
“Never you mind about the boat,” said Rorke. “I’ll see to her.”
“Right-o, Jeff,” said Todd, still edging towards the stairway. “But,
I say, mate, where’s the other man--the man that I’m to relieve?”
“There ain’t any other man,” replied Rorke; “he went off aboard a
collier.”
Todd’s face suddenly became grey and haggard. “Then there’s no one
here but us two!” he gasped; and then, with an effort to conceal his
fear, he asked: “But who’s going to take the boat back?”
“We’ll see about that presently,” replied Rorke; “you get along in
and unpack your chest.”
He came out on the gallery as he spoke, with a lowering frown on his
face. Todd cast a terrified glance at him, and then turned and ran
for his life towards the stairway.
“Come back!” roared Rorke, springing forward along the gallery; but
Todd’s feet were already clattering down the iron steps. By the time
Rorke reached the head of the stairs, the fugitive was near the
bottom; but here, in his haste, he stumbled, barely saving himself by
the handrail, and when he recovered his balance Rorke was upon him.
Todd darted to the head of the ladder, but, as he grasped the
stanchion, his pursuer seized him by the collar. In a moment he had
turned with his hand under his coat. There was a quick blow, a loud
curse from Rorke, an answering yell from Todd, and a knife fell
spinning through the air and dropped into the fore-peak of the boat
below.
“You murderous little devil!” said Rorke in an ominously quiet voice,
with his bleeding hand gripping his captive by the throat. “Handy
with your knife as ever, eh? So you were off to give information,
were you?”
“No, I wasn’t Jeff,” replied Todd in a choking voice; “I wasn’t,
s’elp me, God. Let go, Jeff. I didn’t mean no harm. I was only----”
With a sudden wrench he freed one hand and struck out frantically at
his captor’s face. But Rorke warded off the blow, and, grasping the
other wrist, gave a violent push and let go. Todd staggered backward
a few paces along the staging, bringing up at the extreme edge; and
here, for a sensible time, he stood with wide-open mouth and starting
eye-balls, swaying and clutching wildly at the air. Then, with a
shrill scream, he toppled backwards and fell, striking a pile in his
descent and rebounding into the water.
In spite of the audible thump of his head on the pile, he was not
stunned, for when he rose to the surface, he struck out vigorously,
uttering short, stifled cries for help. Rorke watched him with set
teeth and quickened breath, but made no move. Smaller and still
smaller grew the head with its little circle of ripples, swept away
on the swift ebb-tide, and fainter the bubbling cries that came
across the smooth water. At length as the small black spot began to
fade in the fog, the drowning man, with a final effort, raised his
head clear of the surface and sent a last, despairing shriek towards
the lighthouse. The fog-horn sent back an answering bellow; the head
sank below the surface and was seen no more; and in the dreadful
stillness that settled down upon the sea there sounded faint and far
away the muffled tolling of a bell.
Rorke stood for some minutes immovable, wrapped in thought. Presently
the distant hoot of a steamer’s whistle aroused him. The ebb-tide
shipping was beginning to come down and the fog might lift at any
moment; and there was the boat still alongside. She must be disposed
of at once. No one had seen her arrive and no one must see her made
fast to the lighthouse. Once get rid of the boat and all traces of
Todd’s visit would be destroyed. He ran down the ladder and stepped
into the boat. It was simple. She was heavily ballasted, and would go
down if she filled.
He shifted some of the bags of shingle, and, lifting the bottom
boards, pulled out the plug. Instantly a large jet of water spouted
up into the bottom. Rorke looked at it critically, and, deciding that
it would fill her in a few minutes, replaced the bottom boards; and
having secured the mast and sail with a few turns of the sheet round
a thwart, to prevent them from floating away, he cast off the
mooring-rope and stepped on the ladder.
As the released boat began to move away on the tide, he ran up and
mounted to the upper gallery to watch her disappearance. Suddenly he
remembered Todd’s chest. It was still in the room below. With a
hurried glance around into the fog, he ran down to the room, and
snatching up the chest, carried it out on the lower gallery. After
another nervous glance around to assure himself that no craft was in
sight, he heaved the chest over the handrail, and, when it fell with
a loud splash into the sea, he waited to watch it float away after
its owner and the sunken boat. But it never rose; and presently he
returned to the upper gallery.
The fog was thinning perceptibly now, and the boat remained plainly
visible as she drifted away. But she sank more slowly than he had
expected, and presently as she drifted farther away, he fetched the
telescope and peered at her with growing anxiety. It would be
unfortunate if any one saw her; if she should be picked up here, with
her plug out, it would be disastrous.
He was beginning to be really alarmed. Through the glass he could see
that the boat was now rolling in a sluggish, water-logged fashion,
but she still showed some inches of free-board, and the fog was
thinning every moment.
Presently the blast of a steamer’s whistle sounded close at hand. He
looked round hurriedly and, seeing nothing, again pointed the
telescope eagerly at the dwindling boat. Suddenly he gave a gasp of
relief. The boat had rolled gun wale under; had staggered back for a
moment and then rolled again, slowly, finally, with the water pouring
in over the submerged gunwale.
In a few more seconds she had vanished. Rorke lowered the telescope
and took a deep breath. Now he was safe. The boat had sunk unseen.
But he was better than safe: he was free. His evil spirit, the
standing menace of his life, was gone, and the wide world, the world
of life, of action, of pleasure, called to him.
In a few minutes the fog lifted. The sun shone brightly on the
red-funnelled cattle-boat whose whistle had startled him just now,
the summer blue came back to sky and sea, and the land peeped once
more over the edge of the horizon.
He went in, whistling cheerfully, and stopped the motor; returned to
coil away the rope that he had thrown to Todd; and, when he had
hoisted a signal for assistance, he went in once more to eat his
solitary meal in peace and gladness.