POCKET ISLAND.
When the sun rose red and sullen the next morning, and our three friends
had breakfasted and were hoisting sail on the sloop, Frank said:
"If the wind holds up as it did yesterday, we can run to Pocket Island
and back easily. There is no chance to land"--addressing Manson--"or
even to go within half a mile of it in the sloop; but I can lay her to
while Obed rows ashore in the dory. One hour there will give you all the
ghost hunting you want, I guess. The only thing I don't like is the way
the sun looked this morning. Old Sol appeared mad!"
When they were under way and the sloop was heeling over before the fresh
morning breeze, Manson said: "I do not want you to take any chances on
my account, Frank. We can go there some other day."
"Oh, I'll take no risks," replied his friend. "It's not the wind that
worries me, for we can reef close, and the sloop takes big seas like a
duck. It's these beastly coast fogs that come in without warning and
absolutely bury you. If the wind shifts, then your compass is the only
salvation."
Manson was silent, for he was only a passenger, and as his friend's
guest, he felt it unwise to offer any suggestion.
"We are all right," continued Frank, scanning the horizon, "so long as
the wind holds this way, for we can beat up to the island by noon, and
have a fair run back."
Manson was in no mood for talking, for the strange strain of reflections
that had come to him the night before still oppressed him and he
silently watched the little island ahead growing nearer. When they were
within a mile of it, the wind began to drop away and by the time they
could see the many rocks that surrounded it, rising like black fangs out
of the white froth of the wave wash, it died out entirely.
Frank looked anxious. "You had better," he said, addressing Manson, "eat
a bite while Obed and I furl the jib and lower the tops'l. He can then
row you ashore in the dory. I do not like the way the wind acts."
When Manson started for the island in the small boat he was almost
ready to give his visit up, for the little look of anxiety on his
friend's face, coupled with the ugly-looking reefs between which Obed
was rowing him, and the forbidding shores of the island itself, made a
strange feeling of fear creep over him. Beneath it, however, was that
queer influence that, like a beckoning spirit, seemed to lure him
forward in spite of himself.
"I'll land you on the lee side," said Obed, as he pulled into a narrow
opening between two cliffs, "and wait here for you while you go across
to the harbor on the other side. It will save time, and I can keep an
eye on the sloop."
That Obed felt it necessary to watch the sloop was not reassuring to
Manson, but, bidding him good-bye cheerfully, he leaped ashore. When he
had made his way up over the confusion of rocks that confronted him, and
out of sight of the dory, he stopped and listened. It was a silent and
desolate spot, but, true to his expectations, as he passed there he
caught the sound of a low, moaning bellow that rose and fell, almost
dying away, and seemed to come from the farther side of the island. He
looked and listened, and then, with a parting glance at the sloop half a
mile away, started over the island. He soon found he had been rightly
informed, for its surface was the worst tangle of rocks and scrub spruce
thick between them he ever saw or heard of. He crawled in a little way
and then retraced his steps and followed the shore, but even that was
almost impassable. He worked his way slowly along, until all at once,
when he had climbed a ledge, he found himself looking down into what
seemed like a sunken lake surrounded by a wall, with a narrow opening on
the seaward side, and so still that not a ripple disturbed its surface.
Cautiously he crawled down to the edge and glanced about! The spot
seemed to fascinate him, and as he gazed at the irregular cliff wall
shutting him in, he felt he had descended into a den infested by evil
spirits!
Then he started around the shore of this harbor, avoiding the
weed-covered rocks, for the tide was low, and as he was slowly moving
along, he came suddenly upon a keg caught between two rocks, and just
above high-water mark. Its staves were warped and gaping, and when he
stooped to lift it they fell apart and disclosed another keg inside.
This he found was heavy, and as he stood it on end he discovered it was
filled with some liquid. For a moment he was dazed by the discovery,
and then he turned it around till he came to a piece of metal midway
between the rusted hoops, and this he pried off with his knife and found
it covered a small bung. Trembling with excitement at this mysterious
find, he hunted for a pointed stone, and with it drove the bung in, when
to his intense surprise he was saluted by the well-known odor of rum!
For an instant his heart almost stopped beating, as there flashed
through his mind all the vague tales of this island having been a
smuggler's hiding-place long before, and then he looked quickly about
him. Naught was visible save the frowning rock walls and the still cove.
Then he stooped again and inserted a finger in the keg and smelled and
then tasted! Rum it was, and no mistake, and the best he had ever
sipped! But what a find! And what a place to find it in! He looked about
him again. Crusoe, when he came upon the footprints in the sand, was not
more surprised than Manson at this moment.
Unconscious of the lapse of time, or where he was, or how he came there,
he gazed upon that harmless keg as if it held some ghastly secret
instead of rum! Where did it come from? Who brought it there? Why had
it been concealed in an outer shell? What did it all mean, and was he
about to make some horrible discovery? Once more he looked about, and
then in an instant, he found himself staring at a dark opening beneath
an overhanging shelf of rock not two rods away! Breathless with
excitement now, and feeling himself yielding to some dread spell, he
almost sprang to the spot, and oblivious of weed-covered rocks and mud,
he went down on his hands and knees and peered in. It was a cave
opening, sure enough! Trembling still, and yet lured by a weird
fascination, he crawled in a short distance and then paused. The hole
looked larger inside, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he
could see it sloped upward. He felt for a match, and lighting it tried
to peer further in. The match burned out and left him unable to see as
far as before. Then reason began to assert itself, and he turned and
crawled out, realizing the folly of trying to explore a cave with
lighted matches as an aid.
When once more he stood upright outside a strange thing had happened.
Not only had the tide crept up almost to the cave entrance, but the sun
was no longer visible, and as he looked up to the top of the rock wall
that environed him, a white pall of fog was slowly settling down and
hiding all things. He looked at his watch. He had been on the island
over four hours! With sudden fear he started around the way he had come,
and when he reached the keg of rum an inspiration almost, made him lift
and carry it to a place of safety, well above high-tide mark. Then he
retraced his steps to where he had left Obed, but the dory had gone and
no one was there, and to add to the situation, the fog had so shut the
island in that he could not see two rods over the water. He hallooed
again and again, but received no answer.
He was alone on Pocket Island with not a morsel to eat, not a blanket to
cover him, night coming on, and a fog so thick that he could not see a
rod ahead! Even all this did not for one moment obliterate that
mysterious keg or cave discovery from his mind, but he felt that he must
take steps at once to protect himself from coming night, and darkness,
and possible rain, for he knew that when the fog lifted, his friends
would return. The first thing was to build himself a shelter, and then a
fire. Here his army experience came in well, and he searched until he
found two rocks with a level space between, and laying sticks across
and cutting spruce boughs to pile over them and others to serve as a
bed, he soon made ready a place to at least crawl into when night came.
Hunger began to assert itself, but food was out of the question. That
keg of rum came to his mind as he worked, however, and when the rude
shelter was complete he searched the rocky shores for some large shell,
or anything that would hold a small portion of the liquor. He found a
cocoanut that the sea had kindly cast up among the rocks, and cutting
one end off with his pocket-knife, and digging out the interior, he once
more returned where he had left the mysterious keg.
Twilight was near and the dark cave entrance and frowning walls about
the little harbor seemed more ominous than ever. He made haste to fill
his rude cup with rum and return to his shelter. Then he gathered fuel,
for fire at least would be a little company, and a strange dread of
spending the coming night alone there on that haunted island was
creeping over him. He did not believe in ghosts, but when he thought of
the peculiar sequence of events, mingled with a slowly growing belief
that some mysterious power was leading him--he knew not whither--a
feeling that he was soon to face some ghastly experience, came like an
icy hand grasping his in the dark. He could not shake that feeling off,
and as he gathered driftwood, bits of dead spruce--anything that would
burn, and piled the fuel near his shelter--his dread increased. What
strange spell was it that had kept him four hours beside that
wall-enclosed harbor unconscious of the lapse of time? Why had he not
seen the fog coming until too late? And that keg and cave!--what did all
these mysteries mean? Then, searching further along the shore for
driftwood, he came suddenly upon a tangle of wreckage piled high among
the rocks. It would serve as fuel, and he began to drag large pieces to
his shelter. Three trips he made, and was just lifting the end of a
broken spar, when right at his feet, and half-buried in the sand, he saw
a white object. The night was fast approaching and he was in a hurry,
but some impulse made him stoop, and there in the gathering gloom he
saw--a grinning human skull!