Lennie stirred, and walked over to the stern hatch. Going upon his
knees, he shouted, and his voice stopped pandemonium at that end.
“Captain,” whined one of the miserables, “open up, for mercy! The
water’s a-runnin’ around, an’ ter’ble cold, an’ we’ll be drownded.”
“Where’s Dave?” shouted Lennie. “Tell him to back astern. Where’s Pete?”
“Some feller’s locked the door of the engine-room, and Pete’s tied up
inside, they say, captain. Dave’s raddled. The water’s a-comin’ in
dreadful.”
“Who gave ye the liquor?”
“Olaffson,” whined the voice.
“Revolting creature,” said Redpath.
“Most of us ain’t very drunk, captain.”
“Olaffson is, of course, Leblanc’s partner in this miserable
undertaking,” continued Redpath.
A sharp gust came suddenly, and silt again jarred the keel.
“Mind out!” yelled Sandy, and we looked ahead.
A luxuriant screen of vegetation spread above and around, blotting out
the light. As we entered the arch of gloom, a cold sensation thrilled
me, and this outwardly beautiful, but treacherous, shore asserted
its malignancy. A horrible odour enclosed us, and when we drifted
nearer the silent trees, and could distinguish hundreds of naked poles
springing out of a beach of putrid mud, the loathsome atmosphere became
so dense that it was horrible to draw breath.
In helplessness and silence we awaited the end. The _Carillon_ drove
fast into the mud, brought up among the trees, and there stayed, her
screw feebly beating up the half-liquid filth. A faint gleam of light,
just powerful enough to struggle through the dense roof of vegetation,
lit, after a ghastly manner, the straight unvarying tree-stems, none
greater in circumference than the _Carillon’s_ mast, the fearful
stagnant mud-flat, and the gigantic crab-spiders, like the nameless
things of a dreadful dream, scuttling on long bent legs noiselessly.
“It is the place where the devils dance,” said Akshelah, in horror.
The men between decks were being well punished for their intemperance.
Pitiful were the supplications that ascended.
“Stinkin’ mud! Oh! come-a-help!” yelled one voice which sounded
familiar.
“Lord-a-save! great awful bugs crawlin’ everlastingly.”
Then the little steamer danced over the black and white water, and
touched the outer edge of the utterly black shadow. They must have
seen us by the matches we kept striking to light our pipes, though the
tobacco tasted of decayed matter, and the flames burnt blue.
Redpath was well and completely beaten. Perfect and polished gentleman
to the end, he removed a clean white handkerchief from his mouth, and
said:
“Captain Lennie. My dear sir,” with added warmth, “I will throw myself
on your clemency, as a man grievously attacked by unjust suspicion. As
a passenger upon your ship, and as a man who has done all the little
possible for our common safety, I appeal to you to return good for
good, and side with me now.”
“Pshaw!” muttered MacCaskill, and Lennie nodded approval at the
factor’s exclamation.
A powerful voice rolled solemnly over the mud and water, and reached us
through the poisoned atmosphere:
“_Carillon!_”
Sandy, whose lungs were strongest, returned the hail.
“Have you a man name of Tankerville?”
The shout went back in the negative.
“Have you a man disguised as a priest?”
“Persecution follows me,” Redpath remarked indifferently. “Petrie, your
father was the better man, though I regret to say he was a murderer! I
fear, gentlemen, I must bid you all good-bye!”
“There’s a reward,” rolled the menacing voice out of the fetid air.
“That,” said Redpath, more solemnly than I had ever heard him
speak--“that is distinctly ironic. After looking for money all my life,
I become a base article of commerce in my old age.”
“He can’t escape anyhow,” muttered MacCaskill, with a grin of
satisfaction.
“Good-bye to you!” called Redpath, turning to make a gesture with his
white hand. At the side of the ship he paused, and gravely adjusted the
handkerchief round his mouth and nose.
A gasp of amazement and horror went up from the deck. The adventurer
had gone!
We rushed across, sickening, and saw him below. He sank out of sight
into the unutterable putrescence, dragged himself up, congealed with
living filth, struggled on, half swimming, half dragging his body
through the accumulated vegetable rot of centuries, pulling himself on
by the smooth trunks of the trees, until he had lost all resemblance
to any living thing, human or animal, and the great spider-like
things, with the red stalk eyes and long crooked legs, darted at him
noiselessly. Out of his heaving, reeking track ascended a miasma
sufficient to poison a population. The ghost-light played once more
faintly upon the unnatural object writhing itself away to liberty. Then
it was gone, hidden in the outer stench and darkness.
MacCaskill spat violently, and pressed a hand to his aching forehead.
Horror-struck, he muttered:
“That’s a man who’s wonderful fond of his life!”