Watching narrowly its effect he swung off into one of the genuine old
crooning voodoo songs, once so common down South, now so rarely heard.
No one knows what the words mean--they are generally held to be
charm-words only--a magic gibberish. But the Nigger sprang across the
fire like lightning, his face altered by terror, to seize Darrow by
the shoulders.
"Doan you! Doan you!" he gasped, shaking the assistant violently back
and forth. "Dat he King Voodoo song! Dat call him all de voodoo--all!"
He stared wildly about in the darkness as though expecting to see the
night thronged. There was a moment of confusion. Eager for any chance
I hissed under my breath; "Danger! Look out!"
I could not tell whether or not Darrow heard me. He left soon after.
The mention of the chest had focussed the men's interest.
"Well," Pulz began, "we've been here on this spot o' hell for a long
time."
"A year and five months," reckoned Thrackles.
"A man can do a lot in that time."
"If he's busy."
"They've been busy."
"Yes."
"Wonder what they've done?"
There was no answer to this, and the sea lawyer took a new tack.
"I suppose we're all getting double wages."
"That's so."
"And that's say four hunder' for us and Mr. Eagen here. I suppose the
Old Man don't let the schooner go for nothing."
"Two hundred and fifty a month," said I, and then would have had the
words back.
They cried out in prolonged astonishment.
"Seventeen months," pursued the logician after a few moments. He
scratched with a stub of lead. "That makes over eleven thousand
dollars since we've been out. How much do you suppose his outfit
stands him?" he appealed to me.
"I'm sure I can't tell you," I replied shortly.
"Well, it's a pile of money, anyway."
Nobody said anything for some time.
"Wonder what they've done?" Pulz asked again.
"Something that pays big." Thrackles supplied the desired answer.
"Dat chis'----" suggested Perdosa.
"Voodoo----" muttered the Nigger.
"That's to scare us out," said Handy Solomon, with vast contempt.
"That's what makes me sure it _is_ the chest."
Pulz muttered some of the jargon of alchemy.
"That's it," approved Handy Solomon. "If we could get----"
"We wouldn't know how to use it," interrupted Pulz.
"The book----" said Thrackles.
"Well, the book----" asserted Pulz pugnaciously.
"How do you know what it will be? It may be the Philosopher's Stone
and it may be one of these other damn things. And then where'd we be?"
It was astounding to hear this nonsense bandied about so seriously.
And yet they more than half believed, for they were deep-sea men of
the old school, and this was in print. Thrackles voiced approximately
the general attitude.
"Philosopher's stone or not, something's up. The old boy took too good
care of that box, and he's spending too much money, and he's got hold
of too much hell afloat to be doing it for his health."
"You know w'at I t'ink?" smiled Perdosa. "He mak' di'mon's. He
_say_ dat."
The Nigger had entered one of his black, brooding moods from which
these men expected oracles.
"Get him ches'," he muttered. "I see him full--full of di'mon's!"
They listened to him with vast respect, and were visibly impressed.
So deep was the sense of awe that Handy Solomon unbent enough to whisper
to me:
"I don't take any stock in the Nigger's talk _ordinarily_. He's
a hell of a fool nigger. But when his eye looks like that, then you
want to listen close. He sees things then. Lots of times he's seen
things. Even last year--the _Oyama_--he told about her three days
ahead. That's why we were so ready for her," he chuckled.
Nothing more developed for a long time except a savage fight between
Pulz and Perdosa. I hunted sheep, fished, wandered about--always with
an escort tired to death before he started. The thought came to me
to kill this man and so to escape and make cause with the scientists.
My common sense forbade me. I begin to think that common sense is a
very foolish faculty indeed.
It taught me the obvious--that all this idle, vapouring talk was
common enough among men of this class, so common that it would hardly
justify a murder, would hardly explain an unwarranted intrusion on
those who employed me. How would it look for me to go to them with
these words in my mouth:
"The captain has taken to drinking to dull the monotony. The crew
think you are an alchemist and are making diamonds. Their interest
in this fact seemed to me excessive, so I killed one of them, and here
I am."
"And who are you?" they could ask.
"I am a reporter," would be my only truthful reply.
You can see the false difficulties of my position. I do not defend
my attitude. Undoubtedly a born leader of men, like Captain Selover
at his best, would have known how to act with the proper decision both
now and in the inception of the first mutiny. At heart I never doubted
the reality of the crisis.
Even Percy Darrow saw the surliness of the men's attitudes, and with
his usual good sense divined the cause.
"You chaps are getting lazy," said he, "why don't you do something?
Where's the captain?"
They growled something about there being nothing to do, and explained
that the captain preferred to live aboard.
"Don't blame him," said Darrow, "but he might give us a little of his
squeaky company occasionally. Boys, I'll tell you something about
seals. The old bull seals have long, stiff whiskers--a foot long. Do
you know there's a market for those whiskers? Well, there is. The
Chinese mount them in gold and use them for cleaners for their long
pipes. Each whisker is worth from six bits to a dollar and a quarter.
Why don't you kill a few bull seal for the 'trimmings'?"
"Nothin' to do with a voodoo?" grunted Handy Solomon.
Darrow laughed amusedly. "No, this is the truth," he assured. "I'll
tell you what: I'll give you boys six bits apiece for the whisker
hairs, and four bits for the galls. I expect to sell them at a
profit."
Next morning they shook off their lethargy and went seal-hunting.
I was practically commanded to attend. This attitude had been growing
of late: now it began to take a definite form.
"Mr. Eagan, don't you want to go hunting?" or "Mr. Eagen, I guess I'll
just go along with you to stretch my legs," had given way to, "We're
going fishing: you'd better come along."
I had known for a long time that I had lost any real control of them;
and that perhaps humiliated me a little. However, my inexperience at
handling such men, and the anomalous character of my position to some
extent consoled me. In the filaments brushed across the face of my
understanding I could discover none so strong as to support an overt
act on my part. I cannot doubt, that had the affair come to a focus,
I should have warned the scientists even at the risk of my life. In
fact, as I shall have occasion to show you, I did my best. But at the
moment, in all policy I could see my way to little besides
acquiescence.
We killed seals by sequestrating the bulls, surrounding them, and
clubbing them at a certain point of the forehead. It was surprising
to see how hard they fought, and how quickly they succumbed to a blow
properly directed. Then we stripped the mask with its bristle of long
whiskers, took the gall, and dragged the carcass into the surf where
it was devoured by fish. At first the men, pleased by the novelty,
stripped the skins. The blubber, often two or three inches in
thickness, had then to be cut away from the pelt, cube by cube. It
was a long, an oily, and odoriferous job. We stunk mightily of seal
oil; our garments were shiny with it, the very pores of our skins seemed
to ooze it. And even after the pelt was fairly well cleared, it had
still to be tanned. Percy Darrow suggested the method, but the process
was long, and generally unsatisfactory. With the acquisition of the
fifth greasy, heavy, and ill-smelling piece of fur the men's interest
in peltries waned. They confined themselves in all strictness to the
"trimmings."
Percy Darrow showed us how to clean the whiskers. The process was
evil. The masks were, quite simply, to be advanced so far in the way
of putrefaction that the bristles would part readily from their
sockets. The first batch the men hung out on a line. A few moments
later we heard a mighty squawking, and rushed out to find the island
ravens making off with the entire catch. Protection of netting had
to be rigged. We caught seals for a month or so. There was novelty
in it, and it satisfied the lust for killing. As time went on, the
bulls grew warier. Then we made expeditions to outlying rocks.
Later Handy Solomon approached me on another diplomatic errand.
"The seals is getting shy, sir," said he.
"They are," said I.
"The only way to do is to shoot them," said he.
"Quite like," I agreed.
A pause ensued.
"We've got no cartridges," he insinuated.
"And you've taken charge of my rifle," I pointed out.
"Oh, not a bit, sir," he cried. "Thrackles, he just took it to clean
it--you can have it whenever you want it, sir."
"I have no cartridges--as you have observed," said I.
"There's plenty aboard," he suggested.
"And they're in very good hands there," said I.
He ruminated a moment, polishing the steel of his hook against the
other arm of his shirt. Suddenly he looked up at me with a humorous
twinkle.
"You're afraid of us!" he accused.
I was silent, not knowing just how to meet so direct an attack.
"No need to be," he continued.
I said nothing.
He looked at me shrewdly; then stood off on another tack.
"Well, sir, I didn't mean just that. I didn't mean you was really
scared of us. But we're gettin' to know each other, livin' here on
this old island, brothers-like. There ain't no officers and men
ashore--is there, now, sir? When we gets back to the old _Laughing
Lass_, then we drops back into our dooty again all right and
proper. You can kiss the Book on that. Old Scrubs, he knows that. He
don't want no shore in his. _He_ knows enough to stay aboard,
where we'd all rather be."
He stopped abruptly, spat, and looked at me. I wondered whither this
devious diplomacy led us.
"Still, in one way, an officer's an officer, and a seaman's a seaman,
thinks you, and discipline must be held up among mates ashore or
afloat, thinks you. Quite proper, sir. And I can see you think that
the arms is for the afterguard except in case of trouble. Quite
proper. You can do the shooting, and you can keep the cartridges
always by you. Just for discipline, sir."
The man's boldness in so fully arming me was astonishing, and his
carelessness in allowing me aboard with Captain Selover astonished
me still more. Nevertheless I promised to go for the desired cartridges,
fully resolved to make an appeal.
A further consideration of the elements of the game convinced me,
however, of the fellow's shrewdness. It was no more dangerous to allow
me a rifle--under direct surveillance--for the purposes of hunting,
than to leave me my sawed--off revolver, which I still retained. The
arguments he had used against my shooting Perdosa were quite as cogent
now. As to the second point, I, finding the sun unexpectedly strong,
returned from the cove for my hat, and so overheard the following
between Thrackles and his leader:
"What's to keep him from staying aboard?" cried Thrackles, protesting.
"Well, he might," acknowledged Handy Solomon, "and then are we the
worse off? You ain't going to make a boat attack against Old Scrubs,
are you?"
Thrackles hesitated.
"You can kiss the Book on it, you ain't," went on Handy Solomon
easily, "nor me, nor Pulz, nor the Greaser, nor the Nigger, nor none
of us all together. We've had our dose of that. Well, if he goes
aboard and _stays_, where are we the worse off? I asks you that.
But he won't. This is w'ats goin' to happen. Says he to Old Scrubs,
'Sir, the men needs you to bash in their heads.' 'Bash 'em in
yourself,' says he, 'that's w'at you're for.' And if he should come
ashore, w'at could he do? I asks you that. We ain't disobeyed no
orders dooly delivered. We're ready to pull halliards at the word.
No, let him go aboard, and if he peaches to the Old Man, why all the
better, for it just gets the Old Man down on him."
"How about Old Scrubs----"
"Don't you believe none in luck?" asked Handy Solomon. "Aye."
"Well, so do I, with w'at that law-crimp used to call joodicious
assistance."
I rowed out to the _Laughing Lass_ very thoughtful, and a little
shaken by the plausible argument. Captain Selover was lying dead drunk
across the cabin table. I did my best to waken him, but failed, took
a score of cartridges--no more--and departed sadly. Nothing could be
gained by staying aboard; every chance might be lost. Besides, an
opening to escape in the direction of the laboratory might offer--I,
as well as they, believed in luck judiciously assisted.
In the ensuing days I learned much of the habits of seals. We sneaked
along the cliff tops until over the rookeries; then lay flat on our
stomachs and peered cautiously down on our quarry. The seals had
become very wary. A slight jar, the fall of a pebble, sometimes even
sounds unnoticed by ourselves, were enough to send them into the
water. There they lined up just outside the surf, their sleek heads
glossy with the wet, their calm, soft eyes fixed unblinkingly on us.
It was useless to shoot them in the water: they sank at once.
When, however, we succeeded in gaining an advantageous position, it
was necessary to shoot with extreme accuracy. A bullet directly
through the back of the head would kill cleanly. A hit anywhere else
was practically useless, for even in death the animals seemed to
retain enough blind instinctive vitality to flop them into the water.
There they were lost.
Each rookery consisted of one tremendous bull who officiated
apparently as the standing army; a number of smaller bulls, his direct
descendants; the cows, and the pups. The big bull held his position
by force of arms. Occasionally other, unattached, bulls would come
swimming by. On arriving opposite the rookery the stranger would utter
a peculiar challenge. It was never refused by the resident champion,
who promptly slid into the sea, and engaged battle. If he conquered,
the stranger went on his way. If, however, the stranger won, the big
bull immediately struck out to sea, abandoning his rookery, while the
new-comer swam in and attempted to make his title good with all the
younger bulls. I have seen some fierce combats out there in the blue
water. They gashed each other deep----
You can see by this how our hunting was never at an end. On Tuesday
we would kill the boss bull of a certain establishment. By Thursday,
at latest, another would be installed.
I learned curious facts about seals in those days. The hunting did
not appeal to me particularly, because it seemed to me useless to kill
so large an animal for so small a spoil. Still, it was a means to my
all-absorbing end, and I confess that the stalking, the lying belly
down on the sun-warmed grass over the surge and under the clear sky,
was extremely pleasant. While awaiting the return of the big bull often
we had opportunity to watch the others at their daily affairs, and
even the unresponsive Thrackles was struck with their almost human
intelligence. Did you know that seals kiss each other, and weep tears
when grieved?
The men often discussed among themselves the narrow, dry cave. There
the animals were practically penned in. They agreed that a great
killing could be made there, but the impossibility of distinguishing
between the bulls and the cows deterred them. The cave was quite dark.
Immerced in our own affairs thus, the days, weeks, and months went
by. Events had slipped beyond my control. I had embarked on a journalistic
enterprise, and now that purpose was entirely out of my reach.
Up the valley Dr. Schermerhorn and his assistant were engaged in some
experiment of whose very nature I was still ignorant. Also I was
likely to remain so. The precautions taken against interference by
the men were equally effective against me. As if that were not enough,
any move of investigation on my part would be radically misinterpreted,
and to my own danger, by the men. I might as well have been in London.
However, as to my first purpose in this adventure I had evolved
another plan, and therefore was content. I made up my mind that on
the voyage home, if nothing prevented, I would tell my story to Percy
Darrow, and throw myself on his mercy. The results of the experiment
would probably by then be ready for the public, and there was no
reason, as far as I could see, why I should not get the "scoop" at
first hand.
Certainly my sincerity would be without question; and I hoped that
two years or more of service such as I had rendered would tickle Dr.
Schermerhorn's sense of his own importance. So adequate did this plan
seem, that I gave up thought on the subject.
My whole life now lay on the shores. I was not again permitted to
board the _Laughing Lass_. Captain Selover I saw twice at a
distance. Both times he seemed to be rather uncertain. The men did
not remark it. The days went by. I relapsed into that state so well
known to you all, when one seems caught in the meshes of a dream existence
which has had no beginning and which is destined never to have an end.
We were to hunt seals, and fish, and pry bivalves from the rocks at
low tide, and build fires, and talk, and alternate between suspicion
and security, between the danger of sedition and the insanity of men
without defined purpose, world without end forever.
XII
"OLD SCRUBS" COMES ASHORE
The inevitable happened. One noon Pulz looked up from his labour of
pulling the whiskers from the evil-smelling masks.
"How many of these damn things we got?" he inquired.
"About three hunder' and fifty," Thrackles replied.
"Well, we've got enough for me. I'm sick of this job. It stinks."
They looked at each other. I could see the disgust rising in their
eyes, the reek of rotten blubber expanding their nostrils. With one
accord they cast aside the masks.
"It ain't such a hell of a fortune," growled Pulz, his evil little
white face thrust forward. "There's other things worth all the seal
trimmin's of the islands."
"Diamon's," gloomed the Nigger.
"You've hit it, Doctor," cut in Solomon.
There we were again, back to the old difficulty, only worse. Idleness
descended on us again. We grew touchy on little things, as a misplaced
plate, a shortage of firewood, too deep a draught at the nearly empty
bucket. The noise of bickering became as constant as the noise of the
surf. If we valued peace, we kept our mouths shut. The way a man spat,
or ate, or slept, or even breathed became a cause of irritation to
every other member of the company. We stood the outrage as long as
we could; then we objected in a wild and ridiculous explosion which
communicated its heat to the object of our wrath. Then there was a
fight. It needed only liquor to complete the deplorable state of
affairs.
Gradually the smaller things came to worry us more and more. A certain
harmless singer of the cricket or perhaps of the tree-toad variety
used to chirp his innocent note a short distance from our cabin. For
all I know he had done so from the moment of our installation, but
I had never noticed him before. Now I caught myself listening for his
irregular recurrence with every nerve on the quiver. If he delayed
by ever so little, it was an agony; yet when he did pipe up, his feeble
strain struck to my heart cold and paralysing like a dagger. And with
every advancing minute of the night I became broader awake, more
tense, fairly sweating with nervousness. One night--good God, was it
only last week? ... it seems ages ago, another existence ... a state
cut off from this by the wonder of a transmigration, at least ... Last
week!
I did not sleep at all. The moon had risen, had mounted the heavens,
and now was sailing overhead. By the fretwork of its radiance through
the chinks of our rudely-built cabin I had marked off the hours. A
thunderstorm rumbled and flashed, hull down over the horizon. It was
many miles distant, and yet I do not doubt that its electrical
influence had dried the moisture of our equanimity, leaving us
rattling husks for the winds of destiny to play upon. Certainly I can
remember no other time, in a rather wide experience, when I have felt
myself more on edge, more choked with the restless, purposeless
nervous energy that leaves a man's tongue parched and his eyes
staring. And still that infernal cricket, or whatever it was, chirped.
I had thought myself alone in my vigil, but when finally I could stand
it no longer, and kicked aside my covering with an oath of protest,
I was surprised to hear it echoed from all about me.
"Damn that cricket!" I cried.
And the dead shadows stirred from the bunks, and the hollow-eyed
victims of insomnia crept out to curse their tormentor. We organised
an expedition to hunt him down. It was ridiculous enough, six strong
men prowling for the life of one poor little insect. We did not find
him, however, though we succeeded in silencing him. But no sooner were
we back in our bunks than he began it again, and such was the turmoil
of our nerves that day found us sitting wan about a fire, hugging our
knees.
We were so genuinely emptied, not so much by the cricket as by the
two years of fermentation, that not one of us stirred toward breakfast,
in fact not one of us moved from the listless attitude in which day
found him, until after nine o'clock. Then we pulled ourselves together
and cooked coffee and salt horse. As a significant fact, the Nigger
left the dishes unwashed, and no one cared.
Handy Solomon finally shook himself and arose.
"I'm sick of this," said he, "I'm goin' seal-hunting."
They arose without a word. They were sick of it, too, sick to death.
We were a silent, gloomy crew indeed as we thrust the surf boat
afloat, clambered in, and shipped the oars. No one spoke a word; no
one had a comment to make, even when we saw the rookery slide into
the water while we were still fifty yards from the beach. We pulled
back slowly along the coast. Beyond the rock we made out the entrance
to the dry cave.
"There's seal in there," cried Handy Solomon, "lots of 'em!"
He thrust the rudder over, and we headed for the cave. No one
expressed an opinion.
As it was again high tide, we rowed in to the steep shore inside the
cave's mouth and beached the boat. The place was full of seals; we
could hear them bellowing.
"Two of you stand here," shouted Handy Solomon, "and take them as they
go out. We'll go in and scare 'em down to you."
"They'll run over us," screamed Pulz.
"No, they won't. You can dodge up the sides when they go by."
This was indeed well possible, so we gripped our clubs and ventured
into the darkness.
We advanced four abreast, for the cave was wide enough for that. As
we penetrated, the bellowing and barking became more deafening.
It was impossible to see anything, although we _felt_ an
indistinguishable tumbling mass receding before our footsteps.
Thrackles swore violently as he stumbled over a laggard. With uncanny
abruptness the black wall of darkness in front of us was alive with
fiery eyeballs. The seals had reached the end of the cave and had
turned toward us. We, too, stopped, a little uncertain as to how to
proceed.
The first plan had been to get behind the band and to drive it slowly
toward the entrance to the cave. This was now seen to be impossible.
The cavern was too narrow; its sides at this point too steep, and the
animals too thickly congested. Our eyes, becoming accustomed to the
twilight, now began to make out dimly the individual bodies of the
seals and the general configuration of the rocks. One big boulder lay
directly in our path, like an island in the shale of the cave's floor.
Perdosa stepped to the top of it for a better look. The men attempted
to communicate their ideas of what was to be done, but could not make
themselves heard above the uproar. I could see their faces contorting
with the fury of being baffled. A big bull made a dash to get by; all
the herd flippered after him. If he had won past they would have
followed as obstinately as sheep, and nothing could have stopped them,
but the big bull went down beneath the clubs. Thrackles hit the animal
two vindictive blows after it had succumbed.