OUT OF THE FOG
“No, we’ll not go ashore tonight,” stated Captain Dabney at supper. “We
would only lose ourselves blundering about in this fog. If the stuff is
still there, it will keep until tomorrow. In the morning we’ll have a
try, whether the fog has lifted or not.”
“We’ll find the junk unless Wild Bob and Ichi have beaten us to it,”
said Little Billy. “Hope they are not snugged close by behind this
blooming curtain.”
“No danger of that,” answered Ruth. “If the _Dawn_ had been anywhere
near us, I would have raised her topmasts above the bank. I didn’t,
so she is neither outside nor inside. They have either been here or
gone, or they never arrived. In either case, I am thankful for Carew’s
absence. Shall we stand watch and watch tonight, captain?”
“Hardly necessary,” said the captain. “Make it an anchor watch. Guess
you’ll welcome a couple of extra hours in your bunks. Let’s see,
Martin, you stand watch with the afterguard; that will make four of
you—Ruth, Bosun, Little Billy, and Martin. Have the fo’c’s’le stand
watch in batches of two. Make Chips and Sails—they have been farmers
the passage—stand watch and watch. That will make four hands on deck at
a time—plenty for any sudden emergency. But if the fog lifts during the
night, rouse the ship at once and we’ll set off for the beach. Got your
directions ready, Billy?”
“Yes, in my pocket,” said the hunchback. “But I venture that we all
know them by heart.”
“If the fog lifts, wind may follow,” added the captain. “If it breezes
up from the south we may have to hike out of here in a hurry. How much
chain is out? Forty-five? Well, have the bosun clap the devil’s claw on
ahead of the shackle, and loosen the pin, in case we have to drop the
cable. And—all hands at four o’clock.”
In the lottery that presently followed, Martin drew the watch from two
to four in the morning. Little Billy’s paper called for from twelve to
two. Ruth and the boatswain divided the first four hours.
Before he turned in, Martin went forward to discover which of the
forecastle hands would share his vigil. When he came abreast the galley
door, where a beam of light shining out lighted dimly a small patch of
the pervading, foggy murk, he encountered Sails.
MacLean was standing in the light, bitterly recounting his troubles to
the cheerfully grinning Charley Bo Yip. Martin paused, and was promptly
aware that Sails had transferred his flow of words to the newcomer, as
being a better audience than the unresponsive Chinaman.
Martin gathered that Sails was to stand the middle watch, and that he
was aggrieved that the best blood of Scotland had been bested in a
game of chance by a blanked squarehead ship’s carpenter, who had, it
seemed, won the right to stand the earlier watch. And, in any case, it
was sacrilege to violate the night’s rest of a MacLean. And a sailmaker
was a dash-blanked tradesman and should never be blankety well asked to
stand a watch under any dashed circumstances! So quoth Sails.
Martin commiserated with the other.
“You’ll be on watch with me, Sails,” he concluded. “I have the two to
four. Little Billy has the earlier half of the watch.”
“Little Billy!” echoed Sails. “Did ye say Little Billy, lad?” His
belligerent voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “_Och_, lad—Little
Billy?”
“Why, yes. What is wrong with that?” answered Martin.
Suddenly Sails raised an arm and shook a clenched fist at the mountain
that brooded invisible behind the fog curtain.
“_Och_, ye black de’il’s kirk!” he declaimed. “Ye blood-sucker! The
MacLean’s curse on ye!”
He stood in relief against the muddy background, his features dimly
lighted by the ray from the galley lamp, wisps of fog eddying about
his gray head and beard, his features wild and passion-working. And
he cursed the Fire Mountain. It was unreal, unearthly, a scene from
another age. But Martin felt a superstitious thrill.
“Great Scott! What is the matter?” he cried, startled.
MacLean lowered his arm, and his shoulders slumped despondently. He
mumbled to himself. Then, in answer to Martin, he said:
“Little Billy—_och_, ’tis Little Billy, dear Billy! ’Tis feydom, lad!”
And he turned abruptly, strode forward, and was lost in the fog.
When Martin reached aft again, he intended to tell Little Billy about
MacLean’s strange behavior. He found the hunchback restlessly pacing
the tiny floor space of their common room. Little Billy lifted a
haggard face as Martin entered.
“Hello, Martin,” he said. “I was waiting up for you. Here—keep these
for me, will you?” He extended a bunch of keys. “I’m feeling extra dry
tonight, and I don’t want to be tempted by knowing I have the key to
the medicine-chest in my pocket. Whenever I pass that confounded box,
I think of the two quarts of booze inside, and my tongue swells. Just
keep the keys till tomorrow, will you? Ruth kept them for me when I had
my last big thirst, a few weeks ago—remember? But I would rather you
kept them this time. I don’t want her to know I’m having a hard time.
She makes such a fuss over me, stuffs me with pills, and makes me drink
that vile sassafras tea.”
Martin dropped the bunch of keys into his trousers pocket. He regarded
Little Billy with sympathy. For the past few days, the hunchback had
again been engaged in a bout with his ancient enemy. Little Billy was
fighting manfully, but the strain was telling, aging his mobile face,
making rare his sunny smile and whimsical banter. Martin keenly felt
the other’s suffering, for he had learned to love the little cripple.
“Cheer up, Billy!” he said. “A better day coming.”
“Oh, sure! Don’t worry about me,” responded Little Billy. “Turn in
and get your sleep. I’m for the bunk, too—but I guess I’ll read a bit
before I turn the lamp down. Lord, don’t I wish I owned a saloon! Well,
tomorrow we’ll find the ambergris, and I’ll have money enough to drink
myself peacefully to death—providing that devil, Carew, hasn’t been
before us to this cheerful spot. Good night.”
Clambering into his bunk, the little man composed himself to a pretense
of reading.
Martin decided he would not trouble Little Billy with a recital of
MacLean’s outburst. The poor fellow’s mind was feverish enough without
being bothered with the old Scotchman’s wild, nonsensical raving.
Martin knew the hunchback would consider gravely, and be disturbed, if
he spoke. Little Billy apparently had some faith in Sails’ mystical
foresight.
In truth, Martin himself, was impressed and oppressed by the Scot’s
obscure hints of evil to come—they fitted so well with the wild and
gloomy face of the volcano and the depressing fog. Martin was half
ashamed of his dread of something he could not name; but he turned
in standing, removing only his shoes and loosening his belt, before
crawling into his bunk and drawing the blankets over him.
A strange hand grasping his shoulder brought Martin out of deep sleep
to instant consciousness. The light still burned in the room, and
his opening eyes first rested on the tin clock hanging on the wall
opposite. It was one o’clock.
The hand that shook him belonged to MacLean. The old man was bending
over him with the white face of one who has seen a ghost.
“He’s gone!” he softly exclaimed, before Martin could frame a question.
Startled, Martin sat up and swung his legs outboard.
“What—Little Billy?” A glance showed him the upper bunk was empty.
“Aye—Billy,” responded Sails. “_Och_, ’tis a bad night outdoors, lad—a
thick, dark night. And Billy’s gone. Didna’ I see him in the dark, and
wearing the black shroud, these months agone! He was feyed! Yon mount
is the de’il’s home, and others——”
“What are you talking about?” interrupted Martin impatiently. “What
nonsense! Isn’t Little Billy on deck? Isn’t he on watch?”
“On watch? Aye, who kens where he watches now? He’s gone, I tell ye!”
hissed the old man fiercely. And then, apparently observing Martin’s
bewilderment, he went on: “He has disappeared from deck. _Och_, I can
no say how! The Powers o’ Darkness can no be seen through, and he was
under the black shroud! I saw him at one bell when he came for’rd and
routed me oot the galley where I was taking a wee spell.
“_Och_, ’tis a black, bad night the night. Ye canna’ see your
hand afore ye. And Billy went aft, and I leaned on the rail, and
listened—listened, for I couldna’ see. And I heard _It_! Aye, I kenned
’twas _It_, for ’twas no the soond o’ the waves, nor the calling o’ the
birds, nor the splash o’ anything that lives in the sea. I kenned it
was _It_. Hadna’ I seen the shroud? Soonded like an oar stroke. ’Twas
the Prince o’ Evil soonding his way, a-coming wi’ his shroud. _Och_! I
run aft to tell Billy, and I tell ye, lad, Little Billy was gone!”
MacLean leaned forward, grunting his words earnestly, his face working
with superstitious fear.
“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Martin. “You make me tired with your eternal
‘fey’ business. Little Billy is somewhere around the deck—probably
seeking you, this minute.”
“He’s gone!” reiterated Sails. “I searched, I tell ye! I got my
lantern, and I looked all aboot the poop, and all aboot the decks,
clear for’rd, and I sang oot as loud as I could wi’oot rousing all
hands—and no hide or hair o’ Billy could I find. _Och_, he’s gone, I
tell ye, lad. Didna’ I see him lying stark in the dark place, wi’ the
black shroud over him. The MacLeans ha’ the sight, lad, and I am the
seventh son.”
“All right, all right! Don’t chatter so loud, you’ll awaken everybody,”
interrupted Martin. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and bent over
and pulled on his shoes. “I’ll go on deck with you, and of course
Little Billy will give us the laugh.”
But Martin was, in fact, a little bit impressed by the old sailmaker’s
earnest conviction. As he laced his shoes, a little superstitious
thrill tingled along his spine at the thought of _It_ plucking Little
Billy from the deck and carrying him into the dark depths of the
brooding mountain.
But that was nonsense, he immediately reflected, half angry with
himself. By George! If he allowed that confounded volcano to affect
him so, he would soon be as bad as old Sails! Still, he had better go
on deck and take a look at Little Billy, and satisfy the old man. His
watch was soon, anyway.
Martin was recalling the hunchback’s nervousness a few hours previous;
Little Billy was wrestling John Barleycorn. If he had disappeared as
the sailmaker claimed, he had probably lost the bout and would be found
in drunken sleep. There was whisky in the medicine-chest—no, he had the
keys. Well, then the alcohol in the boatswain’s locker.
“Was there anything unusual about Little Billy’s manner when you saw
him at one bell?” he asked MacLean.
“No, lad. I ken your thought,” replied the other. “He’d no had a drop,
though he was jumpy as a cat.”
Martin was taken aback by Sails’ shrewd guess. He tiptoed to the door.
“Come on,” he whispered to Sails. “Don’t make any noise. We don’t want
to disturb the others until we make sure Little Billy isn’t on the job.”
They stepped into the cabin, and Martin’s first glance was toward the
medicine-chest. It had not been disturbed. They went forward, through
the cabin alleyway, toward the main deck. The boatswain’s room opened
off here.
Martin opened the door, half expecting to see the hunchback chatting
with his bosom friend. But the room was dark, and the red giant was
sleeping noisily. Then they opened the door at the end of the alleyway
and stepped out on deck, Martin softly closing the door behind him.
Abruptly, Martin found himself isolated in a sea of murk. At that hour,
the sun had dipped for its brief concealment beneath the horizon, and
the fog, which had been a gray-brown curtain in daylight, was now an
all-enshrouding cloak of blackness that rendered eyesight useless.
Literally, Martin could not see his hand before his face. Nor could he
see the door to the cabin alleyway, that he had just closed, though he
had stepped but a couple of paces away from it. Nor could he see Sails,
though the latter stood but an arm’s length distant. Sails’s hoarse
whisper came through the gloom:
“Ye see the night, lad? _Och_, ’tis a night for evil!”
Martin shivered at the sound of Sails’ dismal croaking. See the night!
He could see nothing. The other’s voice came out of an impenetrable
void. Above him, beneath him, all about him, was nothing but blackness,
thick, clinging gloom. The Stygian, fog-filled night crushed, like a
heavy, intangible weight; one choked for breath.
Martin felt like an atom lost in back immensity. He wanted to shout at
the top of his voice. But what he did do was lift his voice gently, so
the words would not arouse the sleepers in the cabin.
“Little Billy! Billy!” he called.
His call was swallowed up, smothered, by the night. He strained his
ears. But the only answer was the eery cry of a night-flying gull and
the deep moaning of the sea upon the rocks—that and the hoarse, uneasy
breathing of the invisible MacLean.
Martin was more than disturbed by that silence.
“Sails, who are the foc’sle hands who have this watch?” he said.
“Rimoa and Oomak,” came MacLean’s voice. “They were for’rd when I came
aft for you.”
Martin called again, along the decks.
“Rimoa! Oomak! For’rd there—speak up!”
The wailing voices of the night replied; not a word, not a footfall
came out of the gloom to tell of stirring human life.
“Good Lord, they must all be asleep!” exclaimed Martin testily. “Sails,
where is that lantern you spoke of?”
“In the galley—I left it there,” answered the sailmaker. “I will go
fetch it.”
He heard MacLean’s retreating footsteps, uncertain and uneven, as
the man felt his way forward. The diminishing sounds affected him
strangely; he was suddenly like a little child affrighted by the
dark. The sinister night contained a nameless threat. The black wall
that encompassed him, flouting his straining gaze, seemed peopled by
rustlings and leering eyes. Abruptly, Martin decided to follow MacLean,
instead of waiting for him.
He stepped out in the other’s wake, as he thought. After a blundering
moment, he fetched up against the ship’s rail. He tacked away and
bumped into the after capstan, which stood in the middle of the deck.
He barked his shins there and swore aloud to relieve his surcharged
feelings.
Then his groping hand encountered a little object, lying on top of the
capstan, that checked his words instantly. It was a well-known article,
one he had handled often, and recognized immediately he touched it—it
was Little Billy’s rubber tobacco-pouch. He fingered it apprehensively,
staring about him. Why was Little Billy’s pouch abandoned there on
the capstan-head, this pocket companion of an inveterate smoker? Why,
Little Billy must be near by! He called excitedly:
“Billy! Billy! Where are you?”
The night took his hail and returned its own sphinx-like reply. Martin
stuffed the pouch into his pocket. He was distinctly uneasy, now, on
the hunchback’s account. Something had happened, he felt—some accident
had happened to Little Billy. It was not like Little Billy to thus
forsake his beloved shag, his constant ally in his fight against the
drink hunger. Had the poor devil succumbed after all? Had he deserted
Nicotine for Barleycorn?
Martin leaned over the capstan, peering into that baffling gloom. He
stiffened tensely. He seemed to hear whispering; it came out of that
black pit before him, the very ghost of a man’s voice.
He strained his ears, but the sound, if sound it were, was not
repeated. He was impatient for MacLean to appear with the lantern,
but he could no longer hear MacLean’s footfalls. Then his ears caught
another sound; it was peculiar, like the patter of bare feet.
“MacLean! Where are you?” he called sharply. “Hurry with that lantern!”
Instead of MacLean’s voice in reply, he heard a heavy breathing, the
sound of a man taking several long, sobbing breaths. The breathing
ceased immediately, but a light patter followed it, and then the scrape
of a shod foot across the deck. The sounds came from just ahead, close
by, but he could see nothing. But he sensed some kind of a struggle was
taking place on the deck.
He started forward, and then stopped dead. Out of the black void before
him came MacLean’s voice—strangled words in a horrible, ascending pitch:
“Marty! Marty! My God! Ah-h-h!”
There, was the thud of a heavy, falling body striking the deck.
For a second Martin was anchored by horror. Then he leaped forward,
giving voice as he did to a great, arousing, wordless bellow. And even
as he ran blindly ahead those few paces, he heard a heavy voice give a
shouted supplement to his call.
The darkness was suddenly alive with rushing feet. A body hurled itself
against him, an arm struck a sweeping blow, and he felt the knife rip
through his flannel shirt and graze his shoulder near his neck.
He went reeling backward, his foot tripped on a ring-bolt in the deck,
and he fell heavily. His head struck with stunning force against a
bulwark stanchion.
The collision scattered his wits, and Martin lay in the scuppers,
blinking at the dancing lights before his eyes. In his ears was a great
humming. Then, after a moment, the humming broke into parts and became
a babel of shouts.
He heard a harsh chatter—voices crying out in a foreign tongue.
He heard a great booming voice that stirred memory. He heard a
pistol-shot. He heard Ruth’s voice, raised in a sharp, terror-stricken
cry:
“Martin—Billy—Martin! Oh, help!”
The scream galvanized Martin to action. _She_ was calling him!
He struggled to arise, got upon his knees, reached upward and grasped
a belaying-pin in the rail above. Clutching the pin, he drew himself
erect.
He swayed drunkenly for a moment, still dizzied by his fall. The
pandemonium of a moment agone was stilled. Ruth did not cry out again,
but voices came from aft. The belaying-pin he grasped was loose in its
hole and unencumbered by rope. Quite without reasoning, Martin drew it
out, and, grasping it clublike, lurched aft.
Twice during his headlong flight toward the cabin, hands reached out of
the darkness to stay him. And twice the stout, oaken club he wielded
impacted against human skulls, and men dropped in their tracks.
Martin burst out of the gloom into the small half-circle of half light
that came from the now open alleyway door. He rushed through, into the
cabin.
He had time but for a glimpse of the scene in the cabin. One whirling
glance that took in the scattered company—the bedraggled Japanese,
Captain Dabney lying face down across the threshold of his room, his
white hair bloodied, Wild Bob Carew lifting a startled face. And Carew
was holding a squirming, fighting Ruth in his arms!
Martin hardly checked the stride of his entrance. He flung himself
toward the man who held his woman, and his club cracked upon another
skull.
A man hurtled against him and drove him against the wall. He saw Carew
fall, and Ruth spill free of the encircling arms.
Then a hand took him by the throat, long, supple, muscular fingers
stopping his wind. He saw a face upraised to his—an expressionless
yellow face, with glittering, slanting eyes. He drew up his club for
the blow. The slender fingers were probing upward, behind his jawbone,
and he was choking.
Then, it seemed to Martin, a stream of liquid fire flooded his veins,
searing his entire body. The belaying-pin dropped from his nerveless
hand, his arms dropped, his knees sagged.
The terrible fingers squeezed tighter. He could feel his eyeballs
starting, his tongue swelling. The flame consumed his vitals. It was
hellish pain—quite the sharpest agony Martin had ever felt.
He was upon his back on the floor. The fingers were gone, but the
awful pain continued. His wits were swimming. A pair of soft arms were
about him. His reeling head was cushioned against a loved and fragrant
breast; a dear voice spoke his name anxiously.
“Martin, Martin! What have they done? Oh, Martin, speak to me!” He
tried to speak, but could not.
Then the loved presence was gone, and he was alone. A face bent over
him!—a yellow face. It was a well-remembered face, the face of little
Dr. Ichi. But what a towsled, bedraggled successor to the former dandy!
Ichi was smiling at him. It was all very strange to Martin, unreal,
like the fancies of a delirium. A mist came before his eyes and blotted
out the smiling face. But his senses left him with Ichi’s courteously
spoken words in his ears:
“Very, very sorry, Mr. Blake. You were of such roughness we were
compelled to use the ju-jitsu!”