By

EDWARD DYSON

1906

I

THE night was bright and cool, and the old East Indiaman moved slowly on

the heaving bosom of the ocean, under a strong full moon, like a

wind-blown ghost to whose wanderings there had been no beginning and

could be no end--so small, so helpless she seemed between the two

infinities of sea and sky. There was no cloud to break the blue

profundity of heaven, no line of horizon, no diversity in the long lazy

roll of the green waters to dispel the illusion of an interminable ocean.

The great crestless waves rose and fell with pulsing monotony, round,

smooth and intolerably silent. It was as if the undulating sea had been

stricken motionless, and the ship was damned to the Sisyphean task of

surmounting one mysterious hill that eternally reappeared under her prow,

and beyond which she might never pass. Suddenly the ghost faltered on the

crest of a wave, fluttering her rags in the moonlight, possessed with a

vague indecision. Shouting and the noise of hurrying feet broke the

silence. There was a startling upheaval of men; they swarmed in the

rigging, and faces were piled above the larboard bulwarks. A boat dropped

from the ship's side, striking the sea with a muffled sound, and was

instantly caught into the quaint lifting and falling motion of the

Francis Cadman, as the oily-backed waves slid under. Four men in the boat

bent smartly to the oars, a fifth stood erect in the prow, peering under

his hand over the waste of waters; another at the tiller encouraged the

rowers with cordial and well-meant abuse. A hundred people shouted futile

directions from the ship. The gravity of the Indian Ocean was disturbed

by the babble of dialects. One voice rose above all the rest, sonorous,

masterful, cursing the ship into order with a deliberate flow of

invective that had the dignity and force of a judgment.

The boat drew off rapidly. The men, squarely and firmly seated, bent

their heavy shoulders with machine-like movements, and when they threw

back their faces the rays of the moon glittered and flashed in their

dilated eyes and on their bared teeth. The sailor at the tiller swayed in

unison, and grunted encouragement, breaking every now and then into

bitter speech, spoken as if in reverent accord with the night and their

mission, in a low, pleading tone, much as a patient mother might address

a wayward child.

'Lift her, lads--lift her, blast you! Oh, my blighted soul, Ellis! I'd

get more square-pullin' out of a starved cat with ten kittens--I would,

by thunder! Now, men, all together! Huh! Huh! hub!'

The boatswain strained as if tugging a stubborn oar. In the interval of

silence that followed all bent attentive ears, but no call came from the

sea. The sleek oars dipped into the waves without a sound, and swung

noiselessly in the worn rowlocks. The man at the prow remained rigid as a

statue, and Coleman resumed his whispered invocation.

'Bend to it, you devils! One! two! three! Morton, don't go to sleep, you

swine! Ryan! Tadvers, you herrin'-gutted, boss-eyed son of a barber's

ape, are you rowin' or spoonin' up hot soup? Pull, men! Huh! That's a

clinker! Huh! Shift her! Huh! May the fiend singe you for a drowsy pack

o' sea-cows! Pull!'

The men threw every ounce of power into each stroke, the voice of the

boatswain blending with their efforts like an intoned benediction, and

the treacly sea foamed under the prow into drifted snow which ran merrily

in their wake. For a tense moment the boat hung poised upon a high

roller, as if about to be projected into the air, and the man in the

prow, electrified, threw out an arm with a dramatic gesture. The

instincts of the ex-whaler triumphed in that moment of excitement.

'There she blows!'

Instantly Coleman fell into a condition of profound agitation; he poured

out a lava-flow of vituperation upon the heads of his men; he cursed them

for weaklings and waster and hissed phrases shameful to them and

discreditable to their parents. The crew increased their stroke. Already

the perspiration was streaming from their indurated hides; their wet

faces and breasts glistened in the night. Every now and again the

look-out, discovering a black spot where the moon's rays splashed a

smooth-backed wave with silver, uttered an inarticulate cry that struck

the men like a spur, and all the time his pointing hand was a finger-post

to the steersman.

Meanwhile the object of this chase, a fragile, white-faced girl, had

fought with the mammoth waves as with inveterate beasts seeking to stifle

her in icy embraces. A mere atom plunged in their depths as in cavernous

and boundless darkness, she had struggled with an ocean the whole of the

focus of which were leagued against her, possessed all the time with a

foolish and trivial remembrance of child hood, the vision of a little

gray kitten, with a weight about its neck, striving to beat its way up

through clear waters, sending out tiny bubbles of crystal that danced in

mockery of its dying.

On the surface she was swung across seeming great distances, till a

strong arm out of the night and the vastness of things seized her, and

the tension of the struggle passed from her limbs, leaving a sense of

appeasement as sweet as sleep. She heard a man's voice directing her, and

obeyed without understanding. Now the sea supported her like a soft and

pleasant bed, she had no fear and little consciousness. A few stern words

buzzed in her head like bees--'Sink your arms! Don't try to breathe when

we're under! Keep your mouth shut!' They were very absurd: they could

have nothing to do with her; but she had heard them somewhere, and she

obeyed.

The man lay well back in the water, with little more than his chin and

lips above the surface, his left hand, twisted in the woman's hair,

rested in the nape of her neck, sustaining her with scarcely an effort.

An ocean swimmer from his early boyhood, great waters had no terrors for

him, and when he found the drowning girl he knew that all would be well,

provided the ship's boats were successful in their search.

The girl was very tractable: she lay perfectly still. He looked into her

pale face; her eyes were wide open, staring straight up at the feeble

stars. Every minute or so he cried aloud, or whistled a shrill call

between his teeth, but the action did not disturb the flow of his

thoughts. Despite the peculiarity of his position, he had drifted into a

strange mood of introspection. Why had he done this thing? What was the

girl to him that at the first sight of her danger he should have

forgotten his philosophy of self, his pride in his contempt for his kind,

and his fine aloofness? She was no more in his life than any other of the

four hundred strangers on board. The act of leaping into the sea had been

a mere impulse, the prompting of an unsuspected instinct. She might hate

his race, but he was still its slave. All his life he had been an

Ishmael, feared and disliked; humankind had given him only cause to hate

and despise it, and yet blood remained stronger than belief when a human

life was in peril. The young man laughed, and the boat's from the Francis

Cadman, drawing near, heard the mocking laughter and ceased rowing,

chilled with a superstitious terror.

'Good God!' cried the look-out, 'there's two of 'em.'

The sailors turned in their seats, staring in stupid awe at two heads

clearly visible in the moonlight that lay like silver gossamer on the

dark green sea--two heads where they had expected to find but one. The

boatswain, frozen in the forward movement of his swing, glared

open-mouthed, speechless; he felt his stiff hair stirring strangely under

his hat, a pronounced uneasiness moved in the boat. Only one woman had

fallen from the ship, and here, out in the deep trough of the lone sea,

they found two creatures, and one laughed eerily. Sailormen believed in

many awesome mysteries: ghosts and goblins peopled the ocean like a vast

graveyard. The boat held off, and no man spoke, but Ryan shivered under

his skin, and fumbled his memory for the name of a potent saint.

'Ahoy, there!' cried the young man impatiently; but winning no response,

he swam slowly to meet the boat as she drifted. He raised the girl, and

one of the men seized her mechanically, and drew her limp form from the

water. No hand was offered to the rescuer, but as the boat lifted he

seized her prow, and drew himself aboard. All eyes were upon him, staring

dubiously.

'Divil take me if it ain't the Hermit!' gasped Ryan, with an expiration

of intense relief.

Coleman's stony expression instantly relaxed, he recovered himself with a

jerk of the bead.

'Well,' he murmured bitterly, 'of all the stuck pigs! What the blue fury

're ye all sittin' garpin' at like a lot o' demented damn kelpies? Give

way there! How's the young lady, Smith?'

'She don' seem perticler bad,' answered Smith doubtfully. He was

struggling to wrap his charge in a length of stiff, crackling sailcloth,

puzzled by the white face of the girl.

Coleman looked sharply at the young man, who was seated on the gunwale,

but, discovering no encouragement in his set face and careless eyes,

repressed his curiosity, and devoted himself to the task of overhauling

the Francis Cadman. It was a long and trying job, but he accomplished it

without having exhausted his eloquence. Indeed, his terms of endearment

had been cautiously selected throughout, out of a heroic respect for the

lady passenger. The boatswain's idea of language becoming in the presence

of the gentler sex was rather liberal, perhaps; but in any case his nice

consideration was wasted upon the girl, who heard never a word. She lay

as if in the grip of fever, her distorted mind pursuing quaint visions

and trifling and irrelevant ideas. As they drew near, the rescue-party

sent out a breathless cheer, which was answered from the ship with a wild

yell of exultation, and then a broadside of questions burst from the deck

of the Francis Cadman, where every creature on board excitedly awaited

the boat's return. The sonorous and masterful voice enforced silence

again with a sentence.

'How is it, bo's'n?' called the same voice a moment later.

'Got 'em both, sir,' answered Coleman.

'Both!'

'Ay, ay, sir!'

A tumult of voices surged over the ship again; the heads piled themselves

afresh, craning one above the other. Two had gone overboard! Only one had

been reported, and one only was missed. Interest was doubled. For four

weeks the Francis Cadman had been pottering about the Indian Ocean

without discovering a single adventure to break the stupid monotony of

sky and sea, and restore the faith of the passengers in their favourite

maritime authors; but here, at last, was a sensation and a mystery.

Perhaps, after all, it was no mere accident, but a tragedy. Men and women

thronged the deck, thrilling with sympathy, and yet secretly hoping for a

complete drama, even though someone must suffer.

The girl was first passed up. When the young man followed she had been

carried below. He was barefooted, and clad only in singlet and trousers;

his coat and shirt had been discarded in the sea.

Ryan's expression sprang from every tongue.

'The Hermit!'

The young man stood with his shoulders to the gunwale, facing the crowd.

There was something resentful in his attitude. His face was that of a man

about twenty-two, beardless and boyish, but the firm, straight mouth,

with its compressed, slightly protuberant lips, and the thick line of

dark brows, throwing the eyes into shadows, imparted an appearance of

sullen reserve that belonged to an older face. His scrutiny condemned men

and repelled them. His figure, about three inches above middle height,

was that of a labourer whose strength was diffused through the limbs by

swift and subtle exercise. There was nothing rugged in his powerful

outline, and every attitude had an architectural suggestion of strength.

Captain Evan peered at the youth closely, and not without a hint of

suspicion. 'Your name's Done, isn't it?' he said.

The Hermit nodded shortly.

'How did all this happen, my man?'

'I was leaning on the gunnel by the main-chains when I heard a cry and a

splash, and saw the girl's body past. I dropped in after her.'

'You saved her life, then?'

'I helped her to keep afloat till the boat reached us.'

'Good boy!' Captain Evan put out his hand as if with the intention of

giving Done an approving pat on the shoulder, but the young man turned

away abruptly, thrusting himself through the men, who had clustered

around him muttering diffident compliments, and endeavouring to shake him

by the hand.

'Blast it all, don't maul a man about!' said the hero sulkily, and the

crowd made way for him.

Below Jim Done stripped hastily, wrung out his wet clothes upon the

littered floors and climbed into his bunk, threatening to tear down a

whole terrace of the crazy structures as he did so.

The Francis Cadman was not ordinarily a passenger boat: she was

commissioned to carry two hundred and fifty sailors to the ships left

helpless in Corio Bay and Hobson's Bay, deserted by their crews, who, in

spite of official strategies, had fled to the diggings immediately after

anchors were dropped in Victorian waters.

The accommodation for the men was the roughest imaginable. Bunks of

unplaned timber were strung up in tiers under the forecastle, and

wherever space could be found for them in the dark and musty depths of

the ship. A few second-class male passengers shared these delectable

quarters with the sailors, and the Francis Cadman had secured a

complement of first-class patrons willing to pay exorbitant prices for

the dubious comforts and plain fare of the 'cabin' passage.

The gold lust was burning in the blood of Europe. Fabulous stories of

Australian treasures were flying about the nations; greedy ears drank

them in, and the wildest yarns were never doubted. In their frantic

eagerness to share in the golden harvests being reaped at Buninyong,

Clunes, Bendigo, and Ballarat, the people wasted no thought on the

hardships of the journey; there was not a ship too crazy or a doghole too

dark to carry the desperate adventurers.

Jim Done's bunk was in a third story. The den it was built in was like a

steam-warm pest-house in the hot latitudes, and in the cold a clammy

tomb; but he had no thought of complaints. A new country and a new life

lay before him; he cared little for the troubles and privations by the

way. To-night his mind was given over to reflections arising out of the

incidents of the last few hours. They were not pleasant reflections. The

adventure loomed like a misfortune. He hated the idea of the notoriety it

would bring him; and, picturing himself the object of the sentimental

admiration of a score of simpering busybodies of both sexes, fumed

fiercely, and framed biting invectives. A voice close to his ear startled

him. Turning sharply, he saw the head of Phil Ryan on a level with his

own. Phil was standing on the lowermost bunk, offering the first tribute,

a pint pannikin of steaming hot grog.

''Tis the thing the docthor orthered,' said Ryan, with timorous humour,

fearing an ungenerous response.

It was Jim's first impulse to refuse the offer with out compliments, but

at that moment the greasy ship's lantern swinging above them on a rope's

end illumined the Irishman's face, and Done saw his mark upon it--a long

purple wheal under the left eye, a week old yesterday, but still

conspicuous. For a reason he could not have explained even to himself,

that changed the young man's mind. He drank the liquor, and returned the

pannikin with a 'Thank you!' not over-cordial.

'Yer a proper man, Done,' said Ryan, 'an' I'm proud I fought wid ye, an'

mighty glad ye bate me. Good-night!'

'Good-night,' answered Done coldly. He had been too long at variance with

men to take kindly to popularity now.