WE ARE SURELY CAGED ON KEN'S ISLAND
We ran up the hill, I say, as men who raced for their lives. The little
girls, snatching up their bags and baskets, exchanged a quick word with
Clair-de-Lune and then hurried off towards the bungalow. Our own path
lay over difficult rocks and steep slopes and chasms fearful to see. Of
these our leader made nothing, and we went on, up and up, until at last
the road carried us right round the highest peak, on whose very walls
we walked like chamois on a mountain crag. It was here, on a narrow
ledge high above the sea, that the Frenchman stopped for the first
time.
"Shipmates," said he, when he had got his breath, "journey done, all
finish, you safe here, you rest. I go down to see Governor; but come
back again, come back again, messieurs, with bread and meat."
Well, I don't think one of us had the voice to answer him. The place
itself--the ledge above the sea and the little low, cramped cave behind
it--occupied all our thoughts. Here, in truth, a man might lie safely
enough--yet in what a situation. The very door of the house opened upon
an abyss a thousand feet above the rocks below. We had the sea before
our eyes, the sea beneath us, the sea for our distant horizon. Day and
night the breakers thundered on the sword-fish reef; the wind moaned in
the mighty eaves of those tremendous crags. We were like men placed
suddenly on a steeple's side and left there to live or fall, as fortune
went.
I tell you this, plain and straightforwardly, because five days passed
on that awful ledge, and, except for one day, there is nothing but a
seaman's talk of question and answer and idle hope to set down on these
pages. If every hour of the day found one of us with eyes which yearned
for our lost ship, with hearts grown heavy in waiting and
disappointment--that was his affair, and of no concern to others. Be
sure we didn't confess, one to the other, the thought in our heads or
the future we must live through. We had come to Ken's Island to help
little Ruth Bellenden, and this fearful plight was the result of
it--ship gone, the island full of devils that would have cut our
throats for nothing and thought themselves well paid--no knowledge,
not the smallest, of any way of escape--food short and likely to be
shorter. Friends we had, true friends. Night and morning Clair-de-Lune
and the little girls found their way up to us with bread and meat and
the news that was passing. It was on the fifth day that they came no
more, and I, at least, knew that they would never come again.
"Lads," I said, "one of two things has happened. Either they've been
watched and followed, or the time of which they made mention has come.
I trust the old Frenchman as I would trust my own brother. He knows how
it will fare with five men left on a lonely rock without food or drink.
If he doesn't come up here today, it's because he daren't come or
because he's ordered elsewhere."
They turned it over in their minds, and Dolly Venn spoke next.
"Last night in my watch I heard a bell ringing, sir. At first I thought
it was fancy--the sea beating on the rocks or the wind moaning in the
hills; but I got the ladder and went down the hill, and then I heard it
distinctly, and saw lights burning brightly on the reef far out to the
north. There were boats passing, I'm sure, and what was so wonderful
that I didn't like to speak about it, the whole of the sea about the
reef shone yellow as though a great lantern were burning far down below
its heart. I could make out the figures of men walking on the rocks,
and when the moon shone the figures disappeared as though they went
straight down into the solid rock. You may not believe it, captain,
but I'm quite sure of what I say, and if Clair-de-Lune does not come
to-night, I ask you to go down the hillside with me and to see for
yourself."
Now, the lad spoke in a kind of wonder-dream, and knowing how far from
his true nature such a thing was, it did not surprise me that the
others listened to him with that ready ear which seamen are quick to
lend to any fairy tale. Superstitious they were, or sailors they never
would have been; and here was the very stuff to set them all ears, like
children about a bogey. Nor will I deny that Dolly Venn's tale was
marvellous enough to make a fable. Had it been told to me under any
other circumstances, my reply would have been: "Dolly, my lad, since
when have you taken to sleep-walking?" But I said nothing of the kind,
for I had that in my pocket which told me it was true; and what I knew
I deemed it right that the others should know also.
"When a man sees something which strikes him as extraordinary," said I,
"he must first ask himself if it is Nature or otherwise. There are lots
of things in this world beyond our experience, but true for all that.
Ken's Island may be rated as one of them. The old Frenchman speaks of a
sleep-time and a sun-time. Lads, I do believe he tells the truth. If
you ask me why--well, the why is here, in these papers Ruth Bellenden
gave me five days ago."
I took the packet from my pocket, and turned the pages of them again as
I had turned them--aye, fifty times--in the days which had passed.
Thumbed and dirty as they were (for a seaman's pocket isn't lined with
silk); thumbed and dirty, I say, and crumpled out of shape, they were
the first bit of Ruth Bellenden's writing that ever I called my own,
and precious to me beyond any book.
"Yes," I went on, "this is the story of Ken's Island, and Ruth
Bellenden wrote it. Ten months almost from this day she landed here.
What has passed between Edmond Czerny and her in that time God alone
knows! She isn't one to make complaint, be sure of it. She has suffered
much, as a good woman always must suffer when she is linked to a bad
man. If these papers do not say so plainly, they say it by implication.
And, concerning that, I'll ask you a question. What is Edmond Czerny
here for? The answer's in a word. He is here for the money he gets out
of the wreckage of ships!"
It was no great surprise to them, I venture, though surprise I meant it
to be. They had guessed something the night we came ashore, and seamen
aren't as stupid as some take them for. Nevertheless, they picked up
their ears at my words, and Peter Bligh, filling his pipe, slowly,
said, after a bit:
"Yes, it wouldn't be for parlour games, captain!"
The others were too curious to put in their word, and so I went on:
"He's here for wreckage and the money it brings him. I'll leave it to
you to say what's done to those that sailed the ships. There are words
in this paper which make a man's blood run cold. If they are to be
repeated, they shall be spoken where Edmond Czerny can hear them,
and those that judge him. What we are concerned about at this moment
is Ken's Island and its story. You've heard the old Frenchman,
Clair-de-Lune, speak of sleep-time and sun-time. As God is in heaven,
he spoke the truth!"
They none of them answered me. Down below us the sea shimmered in the
morning light. We sat on a ledge a thousand feet above it, and, save
for the lapping waves on the reef, not a sound of life, not even a bird
on the wing, came nigh us. You could have heard a pin drop when I went
on.
"Sleep-time and sun-time, is it fable or truth? Ruth Bellenden says its
truth. I'll read you her words----"
Peter Bligh said, "Ah," and struck a match. Seth Barker, the carpenter,
sat for all the world like a child, with his great mouth wide open and
his eyes full of wonder. Dolly Venn was curled up at my feet like a
dog. I opened the papers and began to read to them:
"On the 14th of August, three weeks after the ship brought us to Ken's
Island, I was awakened at four o'clock in the morning by an alarm-bell
ringing somewhere in the island. The old servant, she whom they called
'Mother Meg,' came into my room in great haste to tell me to get up.
When I was dressed my husband entered and laughingly said that we must
go on board the yacht at once. I was perplexed and a little cross about
it; but when we were rowed out to the ship, I found that all the white
people were leaving the island in boats and being rowed to those rocks
which lie upon the northward side. Edmond tells me that there are
dangerous seasons in this beautiful place, when the whole island is
unfit for human habitation and all must leave it, sometimes for a week,
sometimes for a month."
I put the paper down and turned another page of it.
"That, you see," said I, "is written on the 14th of August, before she
knew the true story or what the dangerous time might mean. Passing on,
I find another entry on September 21st, and that makes it clearer:
"There is here a wonderful place they call 'The House Under the Sea.'
It is built for those who cannot escape the sleep-time otherwise. I am
to go there when my husband sails for Europe. I have asked to accompany
him and am refused. There are less delicate ways of reminding a woman
that she has lost her liberty.
"November 13th.--I have again asked Edmond to permit me to accompany
him to London. He answers that he has his reasons. There is a way of
speaking to a woman she can never forget. My husband spoke in that way
this morning.
"December 12th.--I know Edmond's secret, and he knows that I know it!
Shall I tell it to the winds and the waves? Who else will listen? Let
me ask of myself courage. I can neither think nor act to-night.
"December 25th.--Christmas Day! I am alone. A year ago--but what shall
it profit to remember a year ago? I am in a prison-house beneath the
sea, and the waves beat against my windows with their moaning cry,
'Never, never again--never again!' At night, when the tide has fallen,
I open my window and send a message to the sea. Will any hear it? I
dare not hope.
"January 1st.--My husband has returned from his cruise. He is to go to
Europe to see after my affairs. Will he tell them, I wonder, that Ruth
Bellenden is dead?
"January 8th.--The sleep-time has now lasted for nine weeks. They tell
me that vapours rise up from the land and lie above it like a cloud.
Some think they come from the great poppies which grow in the marshy
fields of the lowlands; others say from the dark pools in the gorges of
the hills. However it may be, those that remain on the island fall into
a trance while the vapour is there. A strange thing! Some never wake
from it; some lose their senses; the negroes alone seem able to live
through it. The vapours arise quite suddenly; we ring the alarm-bell to
send the people to the ships.
"January 15th.--We returned to the island to-day. How blind and selfish
some people are! I do believe that Aunt Rachel is content to live on
this dreadful place. She is infatuated with Edmond. 'I am anchored
securely in a home: she says. 'The house under the sea is a young man's
romantic fancy.' The rest is meaningless to her--a man's whim. 'I
cannot dissipate my fortune on Ken's Island.' Aunt Rachel was always a
miser.
"February 2d.--This morning Edmond came to me for that which he calls
'an understanding.' His affection distresses me. Oh, it might all be so
different if I would but say 'yes.' And what prevents me--the voices I
have heard on the reef; or is it because I know--I know?
"February 9th.--I am on the island again and the sun is shining. What I
have suffered none shall ever know. I prefer Edmond Czerny's anger to
his love. We understand each other now.
"February 21st.--My message to the sea remains unanswered. Will it be
forever?
"March 3d.--If Jasper Begg should come to me, how would they receive
him? How could he help me? I do not know--and yet my woman's heart says
'Come!'
"April 4th.--There has been a short recurrence of the sleep-time. A
ship struck upon the reef, and the crew rowed ashore to the island. I
saw them last night in the moonlight, from my windows. They fell one by
one at the border of the wood and slept. You could count their bodies
in the clear white light. I tried to shut the sight from my eyes, but
it followed me to my bed-room!
"May 3d.--I whispered my message to the sea again, but am alone--God
knows how much alone!"
I folded up the paper and looked at the others. Peter Bligh's pipe had
gone out and lay idle in his hand. Dolly Venn was still curled at my
feet. Seth Barker I do not believe had budged an inch the whole time I
was reading. The story gripped them like a vice--and who shall wonder
at that? For, mark you, it might yet be our story.
"Peter," said I, "you have heard what Mme. Czerny says, and you know
now as much as I do. I am waiting for your notion."
He picked up his pipe and began to fill it again.
"Captain," says he, "what notions can I have which wouldn't be in any
sane head? This island's a death-trap, and the sooner we're off it the
better for our healths. What's happened to the ship, the Lord only
knows! At a guess I would say that an accident's overtook her. Why
should a man leave his shipmates if it isn't by an accident? Mister
Jacob is not the one to go psalm-singing when he knows we're short of
victuals and cooped up here like rats in a trap! Not he, as I'm a
living man! Then an accident's overtook him; he doesn't come, because
he can't come, which, as my old father used to say, was the best of
reasons. Putting two and two together, I should speak for sailing away
without him, which is plain reason anyway."
"We walking on the sea, the likes of which the parson talks about?"
chimed in Seth Barker.
"If you haven't got a boat," says Dolly Venn, "I don't see how you are
to make one out of seaweed! Perhaps Mister Jacob will come back
tomorrow."
"And perhaps we sha'n't be hungry before that same time!" added Peter
Bligh; "aye, that's it, captain, where's the dinner to come from?"
I thought upon it a minute, and then I said to them:
"If Dolly Venn heard a bell ringing last night that's the danger-bell
of which Miss Ruth speaks. We cannot go down to the island, for doesn't
she say it's death to be caught there? We cannot stop up here or we
shall die of hunger. If there's a man among you that can point to a
middle course, I shall be glad to hear him. We have got to do
something, lads, that's sure!"
They stared at me wonderingly; none of them could answer it. We were
between the devil and the deep sea, and in our hearts I think we began
to say that if the ship did not come before many hours had passed, four
of her crew, at least, would cease to care whether she came or stopped.