light, for I feared that the Doctor would recognise me. I'd have given my
eye teeth, though, to have gathered the name of the schooner, or that of
her master. As it was, I hung around until the two had emerged from the
corner saloon. They paused outside, still talking earnestly. I ventured a
hasty interview with the bar-keeper.
"Did you notice the two men who were sitting at the middle table?" I
asked him.
"Sure!" said he, shoving me my glass of beer.
"Know them?" I inquired.
"Never laid eyes on 'em before. Old chap looked like a sort of corn
doctor or corner spell-binder. Other was probably one of these longshore
abalone men."
"Thanks," I muttered, and dodged out again, leaving the beer untouched.
I cursed myself for a blunderer. When I got to the street the two men had
disappeared. I should have shadowed the captain to his vessel.
The affair interested me greatly. Apparently Dr. Schermerhorn was about
to go on a long voyage. I prided myself on being fairly up to date in
regard to the plans of those who interested the public; and the public at
that time was vastly interested in Dr. Schermerhorn. I, in common with
the rest of the world, had imagined him anchored safely in Philadelphia,
immersed in chemical research. Here he bobbed up at the other end of the
continent, making shady bargains with obscure shipping captains, and
paying a big premium for absolute secrecy. It looked good.
Accordingly I was out early the next morning. I had not much to go by;
schooners are as plenty as tadpoles in San Francisco harbour. However, I
was sure I could easily recognise that falsetto voice; and I knew where
the supplies were to be purchased. Adams & Marsh are a large firm, and
cautious. I knew better than to make direct inquiries, or to appear in
the salesroom. But by hanging around the door of the shipping room I soon
had track of the large orders to be sent that day. In this manner I had
no great difficulty in following a truck to Pier 10, nor to identify a
consignment to Captain Ezra Selover as probably that of which I was in
search.
The mate was in charge of the stowage, so I could not be quite sure.
Here, however, was a schooner--of about a hundred and fifty tons burden.
I looked her over.
You're all acquainted with the _Laughing Lass_ and the perfection of
her lines. You have not known her under Captain Ezra Selover. She was the
cleanest ship I ever saw. Don't know how he accomplished it, with a crew
of four and the cook; but he did. The deck looked as though it had been
holystoned every morning by a crew of jackies; the stays were whipped and
tarred, the mast new-slushed, and every foot of running gear coiled down
shipshape and Bristol fashion. There was a good deal of brass about her;
it shone like gold, and I don't believe she owned an inch of paint that
wasn't either fresh or new-scrubbed.
I gazed for some time at this marvel. It's unusual enough anywhere, but
aboard a California hooker it is little short of miraculous. The crew had
all turned up, apparently, and a swarm of stevedores were hustling every
sort of provisions, supplies, stock, spars, lines and canvas down into
the hold. It was a rush job, and that mate was having his hands full. I
didn't wonder at his language nor at his looks, both of which were
somewhat mussed up. Then almost at my elbow I heard that shrill falsetto
squeal, and turned just in time to see the captain ascend the after
gangplank.
He was probably the most dishevelled and untidy man I ever laid my eyes
on. His hair and beard were not only long, but tangled and unkempt, and
grew so far toward each other as barely to expose a strip of dirty brown
skin. His shoulders were bowed and enormous. His arms hung like a
gorilla's, palms turned slightly outwards. On his head was jammed a linen
boating hat that had once been white; gaping away from his hairy chest
was a faded dingy checked cotton shirt that had once been brown and
white; his blue trousers were spotted and splashed with dusty stains; he
was chewing tobacco. A figure more in contrast to the exquisitely neat
vessel it would be hard to imagine.
The captain mounted the gangplank with a steadiness that disproved my
first suspicion of his having been on a drunk. He glanced aloft, cast a
speculative eye on the stevedores trooping across the waist of the ship,
and ascended to the quarter-deck where the mate stood leaning over the
rail and uttering directed curses from between sweat-beaded lips. There
the big man roamed aimlessly on what seemed to be a tour of casual
inspection. Once he stopped to breathe on the brass binnacle and to rub
it bright with the dirtiest red bandana handkerchief I ever want to see.
His actions amused me. The discrepancy between his personal habits and
his particularity in the matter of his surroundings was exceedingly
interesting. I have often noticed that such discrepancies seem to
indicate exceptional characters. As I watched him, his whole frame
stiffened. The long gorilla arms contracted, the hairy head sunk forward
in the tenseness of a serpent ready to strike. He uttered a shrill
falsetto shriek that brought to a standstill every stevedore on the job;
and sprang forward to seize his mate by, the shoulder.
Evidently the grasp hurt. I can believe it might, from those huge hands.
The man wrenched himself about with an oath of inquiry and pain. I could
hear one side of what followed. The captain's high-pitched tones carried
clearly; but the grumble and growl of the mate were indistinguishable at
that distance.
"How far is it to the side of the ship, you hound of hell?" shrieked the
captain.
Mumble--surprised--for an answer.
"Well, I'll tell you, you _swab_! It's just two fathom from where
you stand. Just two fathom! How long would it take you to walk there? How
long? Just about six seconds! There and back! You--" I won't bother with
all the epithets, although by now I know Captain Selover's vocabulary
fairly well. "And you couldn't take six seconds off to spit over the
side! Couldn't walk two fathom! Had to spit on my quarter-deck, did you!"
Rumble from the mate.
"No, by God, you won't call up any of the crew. You'll get a swab and do
it yourself. You'll get a _hand_ swab and get down on your knees,
damn you! I'll teach you to be lazy!"
The mate said something again.
"It don't matter if we ain't under way. That has nothing to do with it.
The quarter-deck is clean, if the waist ain't, and nobody but a damn
misbegotten son-of-a-sea-lawyer would spit on deck anyhow!" From this
Captain Selover went on into a good old-fashioned deep-sea "cussing out,"
to the great joy of the stevedores.
The mate stood it pretty well, but there comes a time when further talk
is useless even in regard to a most heinous offense. And, of course, as
you know, the mate could hardly consider himself very seriously at fault.
Why, the ship was not yet at sea, and in all the clutter of charging. He
began to answer back. In a moment it was a quarrel. Abruptly it was a
fight. The mate marked Selover beneath the left eye. The captain with
beautiful simplicity crushed his antagonist in his gorilla-like squeeze,
carried him to the side of the vessel, and dropped him limp and beaten to
the pier. And the mate was a good stout specimen of a sea-farer, too.
Then the captain rushed below, emerging after an instant with a chest
which he flung after his subordinate. It was followed a moment later by a
stream of small stuff,--mingled with language--projected through an open
port-hole. This in turn ceased. The captain reappeared with a pail and
brush, scrubbed feverishly at the offending spot, mopped it dry with that
same old red bandana handkerchief, glared about him,--and abruptly became
as serene and placid as a noon calm. He took up the direction of the
stevedores. It was all most astounding.
Nobody paid any attention to the mate. He looked toward the ship once or
twice, thought better of it, and began to pick up his effects, muttering
savagely. In a moment or so he threw his chest aboard an outgoing truck
and departed.
It was now nearly noon and I was just in the way of going for something
to eat, when I caught sight of another dray laden with boxes and crated
affairs which I recognised as scientific apparatus. It was followed in
quick succession by three others. Ignorant as I was of the requirements
of a scientist, my common sense told me this could be no exploring
outfit. I revised my first intention of going to the club, and bought a
sandwich or two at the corner coffee house. I don't know why, but even
then the affair seemed big with mystery, with the portent of tragedy.
Perhaps the smell of tar was in my nostrils and the sea called. It has
always possessed for me an extraordinary allurement----
A little after two o'clock a cab drove to the after gangplank and
stopped. From it alighted a young man of whom I shall later have occasion
to tell you more, followed by Dr. Schermerhorn. The young man carried
only a light leather "serviette," such as students use abroad; while the
doctor fairly staggered under the weight of a square, brass-bound chest
without handles. The singularity of this unequal division of labour
struck me at once.
It struck also one of the dock men, who ran forward, eager for a tip.
"Kin I carry th' box for you, boss?" he asked, at the same time reaching
for it.
The doctor's thin figure seemed fairly to shrink at the idea.
"No, no!" he cried. "It iss not for you to carry!"
He hastened up the gangplank, clutching the chest close. At the top
Captain Selover met him.
"Hello, doctor," he squeaked. "Here in good time. We're busy, you see.
Let me carry your chest for you."
"No, no!" Dr. Schermerhorn fairly glared.
"It's almighty heavy," insisted the captain. "Let me give you a hand."
"You must not _touch!_" emphatically ordered the scientist. "Where
iss the cabin?"
He disappeared down the companionway clasping his precious load. The
young man remained on deck to superintend the stowing of the scientific
goods and the personal baggage.
All this time I had been thinking busily. I remembered distinctly one
other instance when Dr. Schermerhorn had disappeared. He came back
inscrutably, but within a week his results on aerial photography were
public property. I told myself that in the present instance his lavish
use of money, the elaborate nature of his preparations, the evident
secrecy of the expedition as evidenced by the fact that he had negotiated
for the vessel only the day before setting sail, the importance of
personal supervision as proved by the fact that he--notoriously
impractical in practical matters, and notoriously disliking anything to
do with business--had conducted the affair himself instead of delegating
it,--why; gentlemen, don't you see that all this was more than enough to
wake me up, body and soul? Suddenly I came to a definite resolution.
Captain Selover had descended to the pier. I approached him.
"You need a mate," said I.
He looked me over.
"Perhaps," he admitted. "Where's your man?"
"Right here," said I.
His eyes widened a little. Otherwise he showed no sign of surprise. I
cursed my clothes.
Fortunately I had my master's certificate with me--I'd passed
fresh-water on the Great Lakes--I always carry that sort of document on
the chance that it may come handy. It chanced to have a couple of naval
endorsements, results of the late war.
"Look here," I said before I gave it to him. "You don't believe in me. My
clothes are too good. That's all right. They're all I have that are good.
I'm broke. I came down here wondering whether I'd better throw myself in
the drink."
"You look like a dude," he squeaked. "Where did you ever ship?"
I handed him my certificate. The endorsements from Admiral Keays and
Captain Arnold impressed him. He stared at me again, and a gleam of
cunning crept into his eyes.
"Nothing crooked about this?" he breathed softly.
I had the key to this side of his character. You remember I had overheard
the night before his statement of his moral scruples. I said nothing, but
looked knowing.
"What was it?" he murmured. "Plain desertion, or something worse?"
I remained inscrutable.
"Well," he conceded, "I do need a mate; and a naval man--even if he is
wantin' to get out of sight----"
"He won't spit on your decks, anyway," I broke in boldly.
Captain Selover's hairy face bristled about the mouth. This I
subsequently discovered was symptom of a grin.
"You saw that, eh?" he trebled.
"Aren't you afraid he'll bring down the police and delay your sailing?" I
asked.
He grinned again, with a cunning twinkle in his eye.
"You needn't worry. There ain't goin' to be any police. He had his
advance money, and he won't risk it by tryin' to come back."
We came to an agreement. I professed surprise at the wages. The captain
guardedly explained that the expedition was secret.
"What's our port?" I asked, to test him.
"Our papers are made out for Honolulu," he replied.
We adjourned to sign articles.
"By the way," said I, "I wish you wouldn't make them out in my own name.
'Eagen' will do."
"All right," he laughed, "I _sabe_. Eagen it is."
"I'll be aboard at six," said I. "I've got to make some arrangements."
"Wish you could help with the lading," said he. "Still, I can get along.
Want any advance money?"
"No," I replied; then I remembered that I was supposed to be broke.
"Yes," I amended.
He gave me ten dollars.
"I guess you'll show up," he said. "Wouldn't do this to everybody. But a
naval man--even if he is dodgin' Uncle Sam----"
"I'll be here," I assured him.
At that time I wore a pointed beard. This I shaved. Also I was accustomed
to use eye-glasses. The trouble was merely a slight astigmatism which
bothered me only in reading or close inspection. I could get along
perfectly well without the glasses, so I discarded them. I had my hair
cut rather close. When I had put on sea boots, blue trousers and shirt, a
pea jacket and a cap I felt quite safe from the recognition of a man like
Dr. Schermerhorn. In fact, as you shall see, I hardly spoke to him during
all the voyage out.
Promptly at six, then, I returned with a sea chest, bound I knew not
whither, to be gone I knew not for how long, and pledged to act as second
officer on a little hundred-and-fifty-ton schooner.
II
THE GRAVEN IMAGE
I had every reason to be satisfied with my disguise,--if such it could
be called. Captain Selover at first failed to recognise me. Then he burst
into his shrill cackle.
"Didn't know you," he trebled. "But you look shipshape. Come, I'll show
you your quarters."
Immediately I discovered what I had suspected before; that on so small a
schooner the mate took rank with the men rather than the afterguard.
Cabin accommodations were of course very limited. My own lurked in the
waist of the ship--a tiny little airless hole.
"Here's where Johnson stayed," proffered Selover. "You can bunk here, or
you can go in the foc'sle with the men. They's more room there. We'll get
under way with the turn of the tide."
He left me. I examined the cabin. It was just a trifle larger than its
single berth, and the berth was just a trifle larger than myself. My
chest would have to be left outside. I strongly suspected that my lungs
would have to be left outside also; for the life of me I could not see
where the air was to come from. With a mental reservation in favour of
investigating the forecastle, I went on deck.
The _Laughing Lass_ was one of the prettiest little schooners I ever
saw. Were it not for the lines of her bilges and the internal arrangement
of her hold, it might be imagined she had been built originally as a
pleasure yacht. Even the rake of her masts, a little forward of the
plumb, bore out this impression, which a comparatively new suit of
canvas, well stopped down, brass stanchions forward, and two little guns
under tarpaulins, almost confirmed. One thing struck me as peculiar. Her
complement of boats was ample enough. She had two surf boats, a dingy,
and a dory slung to the davits. In addition another dory,--the one you
picked me up in--was lashed to the top of the deck house.
"They'd mighty near have a boat apiece," I thought, and went forward.
Just outside the forecastle hatch I paused. Someone below was singing in
a voice singularly rich in quality. The words and the quaintness of the
minor air struck me immensely and have clung to my memory like a burr
ever since.
"'Are you a man-o'-war or a privateer,' said he.
_Blow high, blow low, what care we!_
'Oh, I am a jolly pirate, and I'm sailing for my fee.'
_Down on the coast of the high Barbare-e-e."_
I stepped to the companion. The voice at once ceased. I descended.
A glimmer of late afternoon struggled through the deadlights. I found
myself in a really commodious space,--extending far back of where the
forward bulk-heads are usually placed,--accommodating rows and row of
bunks--eighteen of them, in fact. The unlighted lamp cast its shadow on
wood stained black by much use, but polished like ebony from the
continued friction of men's garments. I wish I could convey to you the
uncanny effect, this--of dropping from the decks of a miniature craft to
the internal arrangements of a square-rigged ship. It was as though,
entering a cottage door, you were to discover yourself on the floor of
Madison Square Garden. A fresh sweet breeze of evening sucked down the
hatch. I immediately decided on the forecastle. Already it was being
borne in on me that I was little more than a glorified bo's'n's mate. The
situation suited me, however. It enabled me to watch the course of events
more safely, less exposed to the danger of recognition.
I stood for a moment at the foot of the companion accustoming my eyes to
the gloom. After a moment, with a shock of surprise, I made out a shining
pair of bead-points gazing at me unblinkingly from the shadow under the
bitts. Slowly the man defined himself, as a shape takes form in a fog. He
was leaning forward in an attitude of attention, his elbows resting on
his knees, his forearms depending between them, his head thrust out. I
could detect no faintest movement of eyelash, no faintest sound of
breathing. The stillness was portentous. The creature was exactly like a
wax figure, one of the sort you meet in corridors of cheap museums and
for a moment mistake for living beings. Almost I thought to make out the
customary grey dust lying on the wax of his features.
I am going to tell you more of this man, because, as you shall see, he
was destined to have much to do with my life, the fate of Dr. Karl
Augustus Schermerhorn, and the doom of the _Laughing Lass_.
He wore on his head a red bandana handkerchief. I never saw him with
other covering. From beneath It straggled oily and tangled locks of
glossy black. His face was long, narrow, hook-nosed and sinister; his
eyes, as I have described them, a steady and beady black. I could at
first glance ascribe great activity, but only moderate strength to his
slender, wiry figure. In this I was mistaken. His sheer physical power
was second only to that of Captain Selover. One of his forearms ended in
a steel hook. At the moment I could not understand this; could not see
how a man so maimed could be useful aboard a ship. Later I wished we had
more as handy. He knew a jam hitch which he caught over and under his
hook quicker than most men can grasp a line with the naked hand. It would
render one way, but held fast the other. He told me it was a cinch-hook
hitch employed by mule packers in the mountains, and that he had used it
on swamp-hooks in the lumber woods of Michigan. I shouldn't wonder. He
was a Wandering Jew.--His name was Anderson, but I never heard him called
that. It was always "Handy Solomon" with men and masters.
We stared at each other, I fascinated by something, some spell of the
ship, which I have never been able to explain to myself--nor even
describe. It was a mystery, a portent, a premonition such as overtakes a
man sometimes in the dark passageways of life. I cannot tell you of it,
nor make you believe--let it pass----
Then by a slow process of successive perceptions I became aware that I
was watched by other eyes, other wax figures, other human beings with
unwavering gaze. They seemed to the sense of mystic apprehension that for
the moment held possession of me, to be everywhere--in the bunks, on the
floor, back in the shadows, watching, watching, watching from the
advantage of another world.
[Illustration: Slowly the man defined himself as a shape takes form in a
fog.]
I don't know why I tell you this; why I lay so much stress on the first
weird impression I got of the forecastle. It means something to me
now--in view of all that happened subsequently. Almost can I look back
and see, in that moment of occultism, a warning, an enlightenment----But
the point is, it meant something to me then. I stood there fascinated,
unable to move, unable to speak.
Then the grotesque figure in the corner stirred.
"Well, mates," said the man, "believe or not believe, it's in the book,
and it stands to reason, too. We have gold mines here in Californy and
Nevada and all them States; and we hear of gold mines in Mexico and
Australia, too, but did you ever hear tell of gold mines in Europe? Tell
me that! And where did the gold come from then, before they discovered
America? Tell me that! Why they made it, just as the man that wrote
this-here says, and you can kiss the Book on that."
"How about that place, Ophir, I read about?" asked a voice from the
bunks.
The man shot a keen glance thither from beneath his brows.
"Know last year's output from the mines of Ophir, Thrackles?" he inquired
in silky tones.
"Why, no," stammered the man addressed as Thrackles.
"Well I do," pursued the man with the steel hook, "and it's just the
whole of nothing, and you can kiss the Book on that too! There ain't any
gold output, because there ain't any mines, and there never have been.
They made their gold."
He tossed aside a book he had been holding in his left hand. I recognised
the fat little paper duodecimo with amusement, and some wonder. The only
other copy I had ever laid my eyes on is in the Astor Library. It is
somewhat of a rarity, called _The Secret of Alchemy, or the Grand
Doctrine of Transmutation Fully Explained_, and was written by a Dr.
Edward Duvall,--a most extraordinary volume to have fallen into the hands
of seamen.
I stepped forward, greeting and being greeted. Besides the man I have
mentioned they were four. The cook was a bullet-headed squat negro with a
broken nose. I believe he had a name,--Robinson, or something of that
sort. He was to all of us, simply the Nigger. Unlike most of his race, he
was gloomy and taciturn.
Of the other two, a little white-faced, thin-chested youth named Pulz,
and a villainous-looking Mexican called Perdosa, I shall have more to say
later.
My arrival broke the talk on alchemy. It resumed its course in the
direction of our voyage. Each discovered that the others knew nothing;
and each blundered against the astounding fact of double wages.
"All I know is the pay's good; and that's enough," concluded Thrackles,
from a bunk.
"The pay's too good," growled Handy Solomon.
"This ain't no job to go look at the 'clipse of the moon, or the devil's
a preacher!"
"W'at you maik heem, den?" queried Perdosa.
"It's treasure, of course," said Handy Solomon shortly.
"He, he, he!" laughed the negro, without mirth.
"What's the matter with you, Doctor?" demanded Thrackles.
"Treasure!" repeated the Nigger. "You see dat box he done carry so
cairful? You see dat?"
A pause ensued. Somebody scratched a match and lit a pipe.
"No, I don't see that!" broke out Thrackles finally, with some
impatience. "I _sabe_ how a man goes after treasure with a box; but
why should he take treasure away in a box? What do you think, Bucko?" he
suddenly appealed to me.
I looked up from my investigation of the empty berths.
"I don't think much about it," I replied, "except that by the look of the
stores we're due for more than Honolulu; and from the look of the light
we'd better turn to on deck."
An embarrassed pause fell.
"Who are you, anyway?" bluntly demanded the man with the steel hook.
"My name is Eagen," I replied; "I've the berth of mate. Which of these
bunks are empty?"