this too ready acquiescence would have been enough. I knew him too well.
If he had had the slightest intention of permitting me to go free, he
would have bargained.
The Nigger called us to mess. We ate in the after cabin. The chest was
locked and the men had as yet been unable to break into it. Pulz professed
some skill in locksmithing and promised to experiment later. After mess we
went on deck again. The island had dropped down to the horizon and showed
as a brilliant glow under a dark canopy. I leaned over the rail looking at
it. Below me the extra dory bumped along. The idea came to me that if I
could escape that night, I could row back to Percy Darrow. The two of us
could make shift to live on fish and shellfish and mutton. The plan
rapidly defined itself in my brain. From the remains of the _Golden Horn_
we could construct some kind of a craft in which to run free to the summer
trades. Thus we might in time reach some one or another of the Sandwich
Islands, whence a passing trader could take us back to civilisation. There
were many elements of uncertainty in the scheme, but it seemed to me less
desperate than trusting to the caprices of these men, especially since
they now had free access to the liquor stores.
While I leaned over the rail engrossed in these thoughts, one of the black
thunder clouds that had been gathering and dissipating over the island
during the entire afternoon suddenly glowed overhead with a strange white
incandescence startlingly akin to Darrow's so-called "devil fires."
Strangely enough, this illumination, unlike the volcanic glows, appeared
to be cast on the clouds from without rather than shot through them from
within, as were the other volcanic emanations. At the same instant I
experienced a sharp interior revulsion of some sort, most briefly
momentary, but of a character that shook me from head to toe.
I had no time to analyse these various impressions, however, for my
attention was almost instantly distracted. From the cabin came the sound
of a sharp fall, then a man cried out, and on the heels of it Pulz darted
from the cabin, screaming horribly. We were all on deck, and as the little
man rushed toward the stern Handy Solomon twisted him deftly from his
feet.
"My God, mate, what is it?" he cried, as he pinned the sufferer to the
deck.
But Pulz could not answer. He shivered, stiffened, and lay rigid, his eyes
rolled back.
"Fits," remarked Thrackles impatiently.
The excitement died. Rum was forced between the victim's lips. After a
little he recovered, but could tell us nothing of his seizure.
After the dishes had been swept aside from supper, Handy Solomon announced
a second attempt to open the chest.
"Pancho, here, says he's been a mechanic," said he. "I right well know
he's been a housebreaker. So he's got the _sabe_ for the job, and you can
kiss the Book on that."
Perdosa, with a grin, leaned over the cover from behind and began to pick
away at the lock with a long, crooked wire. The others drew close about. I
slipped nearer the door, imagining that in their riveted interest I saw my
opportunity. To my surprise I caught a glimpse of legs disappearing up the
companion. I took stock. Pulz had gone on deck.
This surprised me, for I should have thought every man interested enough
in the supposed treasure to wish to be present at its uncovering; and it
annoyed me still more--the success of my plan demanded a clear deck.
However, there was nothing for it now but to trust that Pulz had wished to
visit the forecastle, and that I might find the afterworks empty.
I paused at the foot of the companion and looked back. A breathlessness of
excitement held the pirates in a vise. From above, the hanging lamp threw
strong shadows across their faces, bringing out the deep lines,
accentuating the dominant passions. With their rags and blood, their
unshaven faces, their firearms, their filth, they showed in violent
antithesis to the immaculate white of Old Scrubs's cabin, its glittering
brass, and its shining leather. I darted up the steps.
The contrast of the starry night with the glare of the cabin lamp dazzled
my eyes. I stood stock still for a moment, during which the only sounds
audible were the singing of the winds through the rigging, the wash of the
sea, and the small, sharp click of Perdosa's instrument as he worked at
the chest.
Presently I could see better. I looked forward and aft for Pulz, but could
see nothing of him, and had just about concluded that he had gone forward
when I happened to glance aloft. There, to my astonishment, I made him
out, huddled in silhouette against the stars, close to the main truck.
What he was doing there I could not imagine. However, I did not have time
to bother my head about him, further than to rejoice that he could not
obstruct me.
I should very much have liked to get hold of a rifle and ammunition, or at
least to lay in biscuit and water, but for this there was no time. It was
not absolutely essential. The dull glow of the island was still visible. I
had my pillar of fire and smoke to guide me.
Without further delay I jerked loose the painter and drew the extra dory
alongside.
I had proceeded just so far in my movements, when the most extraordinary
thing happened. I shall try to tell you of it as accurately as possible,
and in the exact order of its occurrence. First a long, straight shaft of
white light shot straight up through the cabin roof to a great height. It
shone through the wooden planks as an ordinary light shines through glass.
By contrast the surrounding blackness was thrown into a deeper shade, and
yet the shaft itself was so brilliant as almost to scotch the sight.
Curiously enough, it was defined accurately, being exactly in shape like
one of the rectangular tin air-shafts you see so often in city hotels. At
the instant of its appearance, the wind fell quite calm.
Almost immediately the rectangle on the roof through which the light made
its passage began to splay out, like lighted oil, although the column
retained still the integrity of its outline. The fire, if such it could be
called, ran with incredible rapidity along the seams between the planks,
forward and aft, until the entire deck was sketched like a pyrotechnic
display in thin, vivid lines of incandescence. From each of these lines
then the fire began again to spread, as though soaking through the planks.
All took place practically in an instant of time. I had no opportunity to
move nor to cry out; indeed, my perceptions were inadequate to the task of
mere observation. Up to now there had been no sound. The wind had fallen;
the waters passed unnoticed. A stillness of death seemed to have descended
on the ship. It was broken by a sharp double report, one as of the fall of
a metallic substance, the other caused by the body of Pulz, which, shaken
loose from the truck by a heavy roll, smashed against the rail of the ship
and splashed overboard. Someone cried out sharply. An instant later the
entire crew struggled out from the companionway, rushed in grim silence to
the side of the vessel, and threw themselves into the sea.
My own ideas were somewhat confused. The fire had practically enveloped
the ship. I thought to feel it; and yet my skin was cool to the touch. The
ship's outlines became blurred. A dizziness overtook me; and then all at
once a great desire seized and shook my very soul. I cannot tell you the
vehemence of this desire. It was a madness; nothing could stand in the way
of its gratification. Whatever happened, I must have water. It was not
thirst, nor yet a purpose to allay the very real physical burning of which
I was now dimly conscious; but a craving for the liquid itself as
something apart from and unconnected with anything else. Without
hesitation, and as though it were the most natural thing in the world, I
vaulted the rail to cast myself into the ocean. I dimly remember a last
flying impression of a furnace of light, then a great shock thudded
through me, and I lost consciousness.
PART THREE
THE MAROON
I
IN THE WARDROOM
Over the wardroom of the _Wolverine_ had fallen a silence. It held after
Slade had finished. Captain Parkinson, stiff and erect in his chair,
staring fixedly at a spot two feet above the reporter's head, seemed to
weigh, as a judge weighs, the facts so picturesquely, set forth. Dr.
Trendon, his sturdy frame half in shadow, had slouched far down into
himself. Only the regard of his keen eyes fixed upon Slade's face,
unwaveringly and a bit anxiously, showed that he was thinking of the
narrator as well as of the narrative. The others had fallen completely
under the spell of the tale. They sat, as children in a theatre, absorbed,
forgetful of the world around them, wrapped in a more vivid element. At
the close, they stirred and blinked, half dazed by the abrupt fall of the
curtain.
Slade had told his story with fire, with something of passion, even. Now
he felt the sharp reflex. He muttered uncertainly beneath his breath and
glanced from one to another of the circled faces.
"That's all," he said unsteadily.
There passed through the group a stir and a murmur. Someone broke into
sharp coughing. Chairs, shoved back, grated on the floor.
"Well, of all the extraordinary--" began a voice, ruminatingly, and broke
short off, as if abashed at its own infraction of the silence.
"That's all," repeated Slade, a note of insistence in his voice. "Why
don't you say something? Confound you, why don't you say something?" His
speech rose husky and cracked. "Don't you believe it?"
"Hold on," said the surgeon quietly. "No need to get excited."
"Oh, well," muttered the reporter, with a sudden lapse. "Possibly you
think I'm romancing. It doesn't matter. I don't suppose I'd believe it
myself, in your place."
"But we're heading for the island," suggested Forsythe.
"That's so," cried Slade. "Well, that's all right. Believe or disbelieve
as much as you like. Only get Percy Darrow off that island. Then we'll
have his version. There are a few things I want to find out about,
myself."
"There are several that promise to be fairly interesting," said Forsythe,
under his breath.
Slade turned to the captain. "Have you any questions to put to me, sir?"
he asked formally.
"Just one moment," interrupted Trendon. "Boy, a pony of brandy for Mr.
Slade."
The reporter drank the liquor and again turned to Captain Parkinson.
"Only about our men," said the commanding officer, after a little thought.
Slade shook his head.
"I'm sorry I can't help you there, sir."
"Dr. Trendon said that you knew nothing about Edwards."
"Edwards?" repeated Slade inquiringly. His mind, still absorbed in the
events which he had been relating, groped backward.
Trendon came to his aid. "Barnett asked you about him, you remember. It
was when you recovered consciousness. Our ensign. Took over charge of the
_Laughing Lass_."
"Oh, of course. I was a little dazed, I fancy."
"We put Mr. Edwards aboard when we first picked up the deserted schooner,"
explained the captain.
"Pardon me," said the other. "My head doesn't seem to work quite right
yet. Just a moment, please." He sat silent, with closed eyes. "You say you
picked up the _Laughing Lass_. When?" he asked presently.
"Four--five--six days ago, the first time."
"Then you put out the fire."
The circle closed in on Slade, with an unconscious hitching forward of
chairs. He had fixed his eyes on the captain. His mouth worked. Obviously
he was under a tensity of endeavour in keeping his faculties set to the
problem. The surgeon watched him, frowning.
"There was no fire," said the captain.
Slade leaped in his chair. "No fire! But I saw her, I tell you. When I
went overboard she was one living flame!"
"You landed in the small boat. Knocked you senseless," said Trendon.
"Concussion of the brain. Idea of flame might have been a retroactive
hallucination."
"Retroactive rot," cried the other. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Trendon. But
if you'd seen her as I saw her--Barnett!"
He turned in appeal to his old acquaintance.
"There was no fire, Slade," replied the executive officer gently. "No sign
of fire that we could find, except that the starboard rail was blistered."
"Oh, that was from the volcano," said Slade. "That was nothing."
"It was all there was," returned Barnett.
"Just let me run this thing over," said the free lance slowly. "You found
the schooner. She wasn't afire. She didn't even seem to have been afire.
You put a crew aboard under your ensign, Edwards. Storm separated you from
her. You picked her up again deserted. Is that right?"
"Day before yesterday morning."
"Then," cried the other excitedly, "the fire was smouldering all the time.
It broke out and your men took to the water."
"Impossible," said Barnett.
"Fiddlesticks!" said the more downright surgeon.
"I hardly think Mr. Edwards would be driven overboard by a fire which did
not even scorch his ship," suggested the captain mildly.
"It drove our lot overboard," insisted Slade. "Do you think we were a pack
of cowards? I tell you, when that hellish thing broke loose, you had to
go. It wasn't fear. It wasn't pain. It was--What's the use. You can't
explain a thing like that."
"We certainly saw the glow the night Billy Edwards was--disappeared,"
mused Forsythe.
"And again, night before last," said the captain.
"What's that!" cried Slade. "Where is the _Laughing Lass_?"
"I'd give something pretty to know," said Barnett.
"Isn't she in tow?"
"In tow?" said Forsythe. "No, indeed. We hadn't adequate facilities for
towing her. Didn't you tell him, Mr. Barnett?"
"Where is she, then?" Slade fired the question at them like a cross-
examiner.
"Why, we shipped another crew under Ives and McGuire that noon. We were
parted again, and haven't seen them since."
"God forgive you!" said the reporter. "After the warnings you'd had, too.
It was--it was--"
"My orders, Mr. Slade," said Captain Parkinson, with quiet dignity.
"Of course, sir. I beg your pardon," returned the other. "But--you say you
saw the light again?"
"The first night they were out," said Barnett, in a low voice.
"Then your second crew is with your first crew," said Slade, shakily. "And
they're with Thrackles, and Pulz and Solomon, and many another black-
hearted scoundrel and brave seaman. Down there!"
He pointed under foot. Captain Parkinson rose and went to his cabin. Slade
rose, too, but his knees were unsteady. He tottered, and but for the swift
aid of Barnett's arm, would have fallen.
"Overdone," said Dr. Trendon, with some irritation. "Cost you something in
strength. Foolish performance. Turn in now."
Slade tried to protest, but the surgeon would not hear of it, and marched
him incontinently to his berth. Returning, Trendon reported, with growls
of discontent, that his patient was in a fever.
"Couldn't expect anything else," he fumed. "Pack of human interrogation
points hounding him all over the place."
"What do you think of his story?" asked Forsythe.
The grizzled surgeon drew out a cigar, lighted it, took three deliberate
puffs, turned it about, examined the ash end with concentration, and
replied:
"Man's telling a straight story."
"You think it's all true?" cried Forsythe.
"Humph!" grunted the other. "_He thinks it's all true_."
An orderly appeared and knocked at the captain's cabin.
"Beg pardon, sir," they heard him say. "Mr. Carter would like to know how
close in to run. Volcano's acting up pretty bad, sir."
Captain Parkinson went on deck, followed by the rest.
II
THE JOLLY ROGER
Feeling the way forward, the cruiser was soon caught in a maze of cross
currents. Hither and thither she was borne, a creature bereft of volition.
Order followed order like the rattle of quick-fire, and was obeyed with
something more than the _Wolverine's_ customary smartness. From the bridge
Captain Parkinson himself directed his ship. His face was placid: his
bearing steady and confident. This in itself was sufficient earnest that
the cruiser was in ticklish case. For it was an axiom of the men who
sailed under Parkinson that the calmer that nervous man grew, the more
cause was there for nervousness on the part of others.
The approach was from the south, but suspicious aspects of the water had
fended the cruiser out and around, until now she stood prow-on to a bold
headland at the northwest corner of the island. Above this headland lay a
dark pall of vapour. In the shifting breeze it swayed sluggishly, heavily,
as if riding at anchor like a logy ship of the air. Only once did it show
any marked movement.
"It's spreading out toward us," said Barnett to his fellow officers,
gathered aft.
"Time to move, then," grunted Trendon.
The others looked at him inquiringly.
"About as healthful as prussic acid, those volcanic gases," explained the
surgeon.
The ship edged on and inward. Presently the sing-song of the leadsman
sounded in measured distinctness through the silence. Then a sudden
activity and bustle forward, the rattle of chains, and the _Wolverine_ was
at anchor. The captain came down from the bridge.
"What do you think, Dr. Trendon?" he asked.
More explicit inquiry was not necessary.
The surgeon understood what was in his superior's mind.
"Never can tell about volcanoes, sir," he said.
"Of course," agreed the captain. "But--well, do you recognise any of the
symptoms?"
"Want me to diagnose a case of earthquake, sir?" grinned Trendon. "She
might go off to-day, or she might behave herself for a century."
"Well, it's all chance," said the other, cheerfully. "The man _might_ be
alive. At any rate we must do our best on that theory. What do you make of
that cloud on the peak?"
"Poisonous vapours, I suppose. Thought we'd have a chance to make sure
just now. Seemed to be coming right for us. Wind's shifted it since."
"There couldn't be anything alive up there?"
"Not so much as a bug," replied the doctor positively.
"Yet I thought when the vapour lifted a bit that I saw something moving."
"When was that, sir?"
"Ten or fifteen minutes back."
"We'll see soon enough, sir," put in Forsythe. "The wind is driving it
down to the south'ard."
Sullenly, reluctantly, the forbidding mass moved across the headland. All
glasses were bent upon it. Without taking his binocular from his eyes,
Trendon began to ruminate aloud.
"If he could have got to the beach.... No vapour there.... Signal,
though.... Perhaps he hadn't time.... And I'd hate to risk good men on
that hell's cauldron.... Just as much risk here, perhaps. Only it seems--"
"There it is," cried Forsythe. "Look. The highest point."
Dull, gray wisps of murk, the afterguard of the gaseous cloud, were
twisting and spiraling in a witch-dance across the landscape, and, seen by
snatches and glimpses through it, something flapped darkly in the breeze.
Suddenly the veil parted and fled. A flag stood forth in the sharp gust,
rigid, and appalling. It was black.
"The Jolly Roger, by God! They've come back!" exclaimed Forsythe.
"And set up the sign of their shop," added Barnett.
"If they stuck to their flag--good-bye," observed Trendon grimly.
"Dr. Trendon," said Captain Parkinson, "you will arm yourself and go with
me in the gig to make a landing."
"Yes, sir," responded the surgeon.
"Mr. Barnett."
"Yes, sir."
"Should we be overtaken by the vapour while on the highland and be unable
to get back to the beach, you are to send no rescuing party up there until
the air has cleared."
"But, sir, may we not--"
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"In case of an attack you will at once send in another boat with a
howitzer."
"Yes, sir."
"Dr. Trendon, will you see Mr. Slade and inquire of him the best point for
landing?"
Trendon hesitated.
"I suppose it would hardly do to take him with us?" pursued the commanding
officer.
"If he is roused now, even for a moment, I won't answer for the
consequences, sir," said the surgeon bluntly.
"Surely you can have him point out a landing place," said the captain.
"On your responsibility," returned the other, obstinately. "He's under
opiate now."
"Be it so," said Captain Parkinson, after a time.
Going in, they saw no sign of life along the shore. Even the birds had
deserted it. For the time the volcano seemed to have pretermitted its
activity. Now and again there was a spurtle of smoke from the cone,
followed by subterranean growlings, but, on the whole, the conditions were
reassuring.
"Penny-pop-pinwheel of a volcano, anyhow," remarked Trendon,
disparagingly. "Real man-size eruption would have wiped the whole thing
off the map, first whack."
As they drew in, it became apparent that they must scale the cliff from
the boat. Farther to the south opened out a wide cove that suggested easy
beaching, but over it hung a cloud of steam.
"Lava pouring down," said Trendon.
Fortunately at the point where the cliff looked easiest the seas ran low.
Ropes had been brought. After some dainty manoeuvring two of the sailors
gained foothold and slung the ropes so that the remainder of the
disembarcation was simple. Nor was the ascent of the cliff a harsh task.
Half an hour after the landing the exploring party stood on the summit of
the hill, where the black flag waved over a scene of utter desolation. The
vegetation was withered to pallid rags: even the tiniest weedling in the
rock crevices had been poisoned by the devastating blast.
In the midst of that deathly scene, the flag seemed instinct with a
sinister liveliness. Whoever had set it there had accurately chosen the
highest available point on that side of the island, the spot of all others
where it would make good its signal to the eye of any chance farer upon
those shipless seas. For the staff a ten-foot sapling, finely polished,
served. A mound of rock-slabs supported it firmly. Upon the cloth itself
was no design. It was of a dull black, the hue of soot. Captain Parkinson,
standing a few yards off, viewed it with disfavour.
"Furl that flag," he ordered.
Congdon, the coxswain of the gig, stepped forward and began to work at the
fastenings. Presently he turned a grinning face to the captain, who was
scanning the landscape through his glass.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir," he said.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Captain Parkinson.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, that ain't rightly no flag. That's what you
might rightly call a garment, sir. It's an undershirt, beggin' your
pardon."
"Black undershirt's a new one to me," muttered Trendon.
"No, sir. It ain't rightly black, look."
Wrenching the object from its fastenings, he flapped it violently. A cloud
of sooty dust, beaten out, spread about his face. With a strangled cry the
sailor cast the shirt from him and rolled in agony upon the ground.
"You fool!" cried Trendon. "Stand back, all of you."
Opening his medicine case, he bent over the racked sufferer. Presently the
man sat up, pale and abashed.
"That's how poisonous volcanic gas is," said the surgeon to his commanding
officer. "Only inhaled remnants of the dust, too."
"An ill outlook for the man we're seeking," the captain mused.
"Dead if he's anywhere on this highland," declared Trendon. "Let's look at
his flag-pole."
He examined the staff. "Came from the beach," he pronounced. "Waterworn.
H'm! Maybe he ain't so dead, either."
"I don't quite follow you, Dr. Trendon."
"Why, I guess our man has figured this thing all out. Brought this pole up
from the beach to plant it here. Why? Because this was the best
observation point. No good as a permanent residence, though. Planted his
flag and went back."
"Why didn't we see him on the beach, then?"
"Did you notice a cave around to the north? Good refuge in case of fumes."
"It's worth trying," said the captain, putting up his glass.
"Hold on, sir. What's this? Here's something. Look here."
Trendon pointed to a small bit of wood rather neatly carved to the shape
of an indicatory finger, and lashed to the staff, at the height of a man's
face. The others clustered around.
"Oh, the devil!" cried Trendon. "It must have got twisted. It's pointing
straight down."
"Strange performance," said the captain. "However, since it points that
way--heave aside those rocks, men."