THE EDGE OF THE ABYSS
During the voyage Martin had listened to many discussions between
Little Billy and Captain Dabney concerning the formation of Fire
Mountain, and their descriptions of the strange features of the
island had made him impatient to see with his own eyes the grotesque
sculptures, and with his own feet explore the mysterious caverns.
In some long past age, argued the captain, the volcano had erupted
during the Arctic winter, and the flowing lava had been quickly chilled
by the intense cold, and in the hardening formed the odd sculpting and
the numberless caves. But, urged the captain, this lava cloak could
not be very thick, and while the caves existed from base to summit
and all the way around the mountain, it was unlikely that any of them
penetrated into the heart of the mountain.
Little Billy disagreed. He cited John Winters’s log in disproof; and he
and Martin made plans to thoroughly explore the Island. The prospect
charmed Martin. He felt he could hardly wait to reach Fire Mountain
beach, and enter the gloomy depths through the portal of the Elephant
Head on his errand of discovery.
And here at last he was on the very beach, stepping through the very
opening! How different was reality from his bright dreams? Instead of
friendly company, he was surrounded by alien, hostile figures; instead
of Ruth’s little hand snuggling confidingly in his, his arms were bound
behind him; instead of inspecting his path with carefree, curious gaze,
he looked about him with eyes of desperation.
He had little interest in discovery as he stepped through the Elephant
Head. The details of the physical appearance of the passageway
were sharply impressed upon his mind, but they were subconscious
impressions. His active mind was at the moment wholly concerned with
his arms. They ached cruelly. Would they fail him? When he jerked them
free, would he be able to use them? Or would they drop numb and useless
by his sides? No, he decided after cautious experiment, they were not
numbed. He could wriggle his fingers easily.
Ichi walked first, then Martin, the grim Moto next, and the four
sailors trailed behind, the last man carrying the second lantern. The
gallery they traversed was a deep fissure in the black rock, of uneven
height and width. The walls narrowed until they could hardly squeeze
through, and then widened until the lanterns’ rays failed to reveal
them; at times Martin had to bend his head to pass beneath the low
roof; again the roof was lost in the gloom.
After a few steps, the sand underfoot gave place abruptly to a floor
of hard, smooth lava rock. The gallery twisted, and the thin shaft of
daylight from the entrance was lost. The way sloped gently upward. The
lanterns waged but a feeble battle against the darkness; Martin felt he
was being crushed by that heavy, intense gloom. Their steps echoed upon
the glasslike, slippery rock underfoot.
Soon Martin was sensible of a sharp rise in temperature. There was a
strong draft in the passageway, and a hot, smelly air blew against his
face, and ruffled his hair. And now he was also conscious of the low
moaning, a vast, spine-prickling moaning like the protest of a giant in
pain, that came out of the darkness ahead.
They wound this way and that. Martin had lost count of the steps,
but he thought they must have gone sixty or seventy yards into the
mountain. They passed an opening, but it was on the left hand.
The whaleman’s directions were in Martin’s mind: “4 starboard—windy
cave.” That must mean the fourth opening on the right hand. The cave
of winds. Ichi said that was where the “deep place” was located. This
horrible moaning must come from there. Ichi’s “deep place” must be
Winters’s “bottomless hole”; the weird moaning must be the “Voice” that
called the conscience-stricken Silva to his doom.
In quick succession they passed three openings on the right hand.
The hot wind blew more strongly; it was a moisture-laden breeze and
Martin’s clothes were damp. Suddenly the passage angled obliquely. A
few steps more and Ichi stopped. Over his head Martin saw the yawning
mouth of the windy cave.
It was a large opening, and the agitated air rushed out through it as
though expelled by a giant fan. The air smelled and tasted evilly of
gas and sulphur. The moaning came with the air; it seemed to come from
below, from an immense distance.
The group clustered at the mouth of the cave, and the two lanterns,
held high, beat back the gloom for a few yards. Ichi shouted orders to
his men, and his words were hardly audible above the deep, rhythmic
moan that rose steadily from somewhere beneath their feet. Martin
peered into the cavern; it was huge, he knew, but he could not even
guess its dimensions.
But it was not the length or breadth of the windy cave that fastened
his regard. It was the depth. There, at his feet, plainly revealed by
the lanterns’ light, was the “deep place,” the “bottomless hole.” It
was a crack in the floor, its width and length lost in the gloom. Its
near edge was but a couple of feet inside the cavern entrance. It was
from this half revealed gaping slit that the wind came rushing; it was
from somewhere in that hole, down, down, an immeasurable distance, that
the eerie wailing came.
The lanterns revealed white vapors swirling upward out of the hole.
Everything was wet, water dripped from overhead, the black walls
glistened with moisture, underfoot was wet and slippery as a waxed
floor. Martin’s clothes were wet through.
The four sailors huddled fearfully together, peering into the chasm.
Ichi’s orders finally aroused them to action. The man with the tackle
slipped it from his shoulder, and, with the aid of another, overhauled
it. Martin had supposed the tackle was to be used in recovering the
treasure, but now he saw it was intended for another purpose. This was
not Ichi’s first visit to the cave of winds, and he came prepared.
The opening in which they stood was near the left hand wall of the
windy cave. A ledge, no more than six feet wide at the widest, ran
between the wall and the edge of the pit. It sloped towards the gaping
hole, and it was wet and shining like the walls. Martin could see it
must be a most treacherous footing, and he knew from the words of the
code—“windy cave—2 port—aloft”—that they must travel that dangerous
path.
It was here, on this ledge, that the blocks and tackle were to be used.
The man who carried the second lantern, took the head block in his free
hand, and stepped onto the ledge. He sidled along, hugging the wall,
dragging the rope behind him.
A few feet inside he crept past the first opening in the wall. A score
of feet beyond, man and lantern melted into the wall, and Martin
knew the second opening was reached. In a moment, man and lantern
reappeared, and the fellow sang out.
The sailor in the entrance, who held the foot block, fastened its hook
in a little raised hump of rock; then, grasping the hauling line,
pulled the tackle taut. The result was a serviceable lifeline, waist
high, across the dangerous passage.
The sailor took a turn about his body with the bight of the rope, and
leaned back, holding a steady strain upon the tackle. Martin could see
now why they had fetched a tackle, and not just a length of rope—there
were no boldly jutting rocks about which a rope might be looped and
knotted, but the hooks of the blocks fitted into the small inequalities
the edges of the walls presented. So long as a strain was kept upon the
hauling line, the hooks would bite, and the lifeline would be quite
safe.
Martin followed this work with a watchful eye. He was on the lookout
for a chance to execute his plan, waiting for a careless moment on the
part of those about him, which would give him an opportunity to free
his hands, and strike his blow.
For this was the time and the place! Here, by the edge of the abyss,
must come his opportunity, his only opportunity. Somehow he must get
possession of Ichi’s revolver, the only firearm in the crowd. If he
obtained that, he might be able to hold this gang at bay, and prevent
them returning to the ship until after the bosun’s surprise party. Or,
failing that, he could surely finish some of them before their sharp
knives finished him. He could dispose of Ichi.
And this was the only plan he had. To fight, and to sacrifice himself,
if need be. He had dismissed the thought of escape, of making a dash
and losing himself in the black caves. He could do that, he knew. But
his escape would not help his shipmates; it would not save Ruth.
He knew that if he did not run for it, his death was almost certain.
If he fought, when he fought, he would be killed. If he did not make
his chance to fight, Ichi would murder him as soon as the ambergris
was discovered—he was sure this program was agreed upon by Carew and
Ichi. And if the ambergris were not discovered he would be given over
to Moto for torture. Martin was afraid of Moto, and a little bit afraid
of death—but his fear for himself was quite overshadowed by his other
great fear, his fear for Ruth. His fate was nothing. But her fate! It
was because of Ruth he disdained an attempt at flight; it was for Ruth
he would strike his blow, and take death if it came.
Hence Martin stood meekly by while the sailors rigged the line,
and watched for his chance. Moto’s eyes remained fixed upon him
unwaveringly; Ichi was surrounded by his men. The moment was not yet.
Martin could not help according the little yellow men a certain
admiration. They were frightened, plainly terrified, by this gloomy
cave, and especially by the gruesome sounds that came from the “deep
place.” But their native courage, or, perhaps, the iron discipline
to which they were accustomed, caused them to fight down their
superstitious fears. Even Ichi, himself, was visibly unnerved by
his surroundings. “Scientificness” and “Fate” evidently could not
stop his ears, nor quite eradicate inherited fears. But he held his
disquiet firmly under control, and his bearing was sure as he shouted
his orders—only a side glance into the hole, and a momentary shudder,
betrayed his nervousness.
Ichi placed his lantern on the ground, beside the man who was holding
the line, and beckoned to Martin. Then he stepped out upon the ledge,
one steadying hand upon the tackle.
For the fraction of a second, Martin hesitated to follow. “What if they
shove me over?” he thought. His hands were useless, doubled behind
him; if Moto were to give him the slightest shove, over the edge into
that dreadful hole he would go, for he would have no saving grip upon
the lifeline. But the instant’s reflection reassured him. They would
not try to get rid of him until the treasure’s hiding place were
discovered; and by that time he would have made his opportunity to
strike.
He followed Ichi. Although the comforting touch of the lifeline was not
for him, his nerves were steady, and he did not falter on the glassy,
inclined way. Ichi minced his steps, compelling Martin to shorten his
stride. Martin saw that Ichi was trembling, and gazing fearfully into
the abyss. He had an impulse to throw himself upon Ichi, and roll with
him over the edge. But then, he thought, this blow would not help his
shipmates; indeed, it would harm them, for the rest would immediately
scurry back to the ship. No, he must try to get the revolver into his
hand.
Ichi reached the lantern, and stepped into the cleft in the wall.
Martin followed, and found himself again on a level floor, and in the
entrance to another cave.
This entrance was not large. There was standing room there for but
four of them, the sailor who had strung the line, and who was guarding
the head block, Ichi, Moto, and himself. The other two sailors were
compelled to stay on the ledge, grasping the tackle. The remaining man
in the party held to his position at the other end of the tackle, the
rope wrapped about his body.
“Ah—It is here we must commence our looking,” exclaimed Ichi. “It is
here we must test the statements of the young female and your honorable
self, Mr. Blake. You are—ah—of a sureness as to direction? My worthy
Moto is of a readiness.”
Martin could feel the worthy Moto’s fingers resting lightly upon his
shoulder. But he also felt against his leg, the hard outline of the
revolver in Ichi’s coat pocket—so closely were they crowded together in
the cave entrance.
“The code says ‘aloft,’” answered Martin. “Look for a hole in the roof
leading up into a dry cave.”
Ichi chattered an order, and the sailor picked up the lantern and held
it over his head. Very cautiously, so Moto would not feel and interpret
the movement, Martin began to squeeze his hand free from the handcuff.
The lantern revealed the overhead rock for quite an area. It revealed
the very spot they sought. Just to the left of the entrance and on
level with Martin’s chin a shelf of rock jutted out a couple of feet
from the wall. Above this shelf was an opening, a crack in the ceiling
wide enough to admit a man’s body.
Ichi pointed and exclaimed excitedly. The lantern light illumined his
upturned face and Martin saw it contorted with triumphant greed. The
others also exclaimed their joy. Half glancing over his shoulder,
Martin saw that Moto’s attention was fixed on the ceiling. It was the
careless moment Martin awaited, his moment—with a convulsive jerk he
freed his hands.
But before he could straighten his arms, Ichi turned and grinned up
into his face.
“Ah—so, it was with truthfulness you spoke. But we must prove, yes?”
He gave an order to the sailor, and the latter, replacing the lantern
on the floor, boosted himself to the ledge and disappeared through
the hole. Martin backed against the wall to conceal the fact that his
hands were free, that one-half of his handcuffs were empty. He waited
stolidly—Ichi and Moto were both watching his face, gloating upon him.
In a moment the expected hail came from overhead. The sailor returned
from his exploration, stuck his head through the opening, and shouted
a sentence to Ichi, a triumphant, exultant shout. Martin’s knees bent
slightly and his body tensed for the leap. And Ichi, leering up at him,
said, “And now—we have no needfulness of Mr. Blake——”
So far he got. And then the smirk disappeared from his sagging mouth,
the cruelty and cupidity left his eyes, and terror crept in.
It was not Martin that checked him. It was the Voice of the Pit.
In the passing of a second, the moan from the chasm had become an
appalling roar. A very gale of hot air hit their backs as it gushed
up from below. The terrifying roaring grew in volume. It seemed to
be a tangible thing approaching them. Moto and Ichi, their prisoner
forgotten, were crouching, staring wide-eyed into the pit.
Martin reached out and gathered Ichi into his arms.
He had mentally rehearsed his movements. He hugged the Jap with his
left arm, from which wrist the irons dangled, while his right hand dove
for Ichi’s coat pocket. His fingers closed about the pistol butt, and
he jerked the weapon out.
Ichi struggled furiously, awake to danger at the first touch. He could
not break Martin’s bear-like hug. He screamed at the fascinated Moto;
Martin could see his lips framing cries, but not a syllable sounded
above the huge roaring that filled the caverns. Then Ichi bent his head
and sunk his teeth into Martin’s arm.
The pain of the bite caused Martin to jerk his arm violently upward.
He wrenched it free from the other’s teeth; involuntarily, he pressed
the trigger, and the weapon discharged. But he did not lose his grasp
on the gun; he clubbed it, and brought it down with all his might on
Ichi’s head.
Ichi collapsed. He sagged in Martin’s encircling arm as limply and
as lifelessly as a sack of wheat. The shot had aroused Moto; the
torturer’s terrible fingers were reaching for Martin’s throat. The
latter dropped Ichi, and sprang backward; and even as he did so, he
hurled the weapon at Moto’s face.
It was a true shot. The heavy butt caught the Jap squarely on the
forehead, and sent him reeling and stumbling, hurled him off the
level underfooting at the cave entrance, and caused him to slip and
over-balance upon the sloping edge outside. He fell. His momentum
carried him on, and he slid down the slope toward the chasm, clutching
futilely at the wet, glassy surface. At the edge he appeared to hang
motionless for an instant, his face lifted to Martin, his mouth wide
open, his contorted features half obscured by the wreathing vapors.
Then he vanished.
Martin’s knees sagged. He was horrified. So suddenly had the tragedy
happened, he was still in the posture of throwing the revolver—and now
revolver and victim were both gone, and Ichi—Ichi was this lump at his
feet. Unconsciously, he strained his ears for Moto’s death cry. But the
thunder that ascended from the depths drowned all other sounds. This
roar was swelling, swelling; it seemed to rock the world.
He felt sick. He squatted there in the entrance, beside Ichi’s body,
his wide eyes fixed upon the dancing rim of the chasm. In his mind’s
eye he could see Moto falling, falling down, down, down, past black,
slippery walls, down into the heart of that tremendous sound. But he
was too stunned by the awful noise to feel either glad or sorry. Only
horror, and a dumb wonder.
He thought, “This is death.” Then, strangely, his mind inquired, “Why
the sound? What is it?” Once the query was put to himself, his mind
worked upon it quite independent of his will. It was a saving quest,
something to keep him sane, this groping for an explanation. He watched
the vapors. The windy cave seemed less dark, and the white clouds
poured upward and swirled about like dancing ghosts. The hot, wet air
beat upon him. He was half choked, and sopping wet. And the noise grew
and grew. It was like a thousand huge boilers all blowing off at once.
Steam! The thought of boilers was the clue. He had it; he was sure he
was right. It was the roar of escaping steam far, far down in that
fearful hole. The vapors, the hot, wet wind—dead steam, half condensed
during its long rush upward. Down there in the bowels of the mountain
the sea seepage was being turned to steam. The live heart of this old
volcano was nothing else than a tremendous boiler, and this chasm was
the boiler’s safety valve. But, God—how far down must be the fires!
Miles, perhaps. He wondered if Moto had yet reached bottom.
Gradually, he became conscious that the roar was diminishing, that the
vapors no longer gushed forth in such volume. He had lost track of
time; he felt he had always been sitting here by the edge of the pit;
he had forgotten all about the other Japs, all about the bosun and
Ruth. The noise had even driven Ruth from his conscious mind. But now,
with the lessening of the pressure against his ear drums, and the end
of the great humming inside his head, his apathy was gone. He peered
about him.
He looked out of the entrance, along the ledge. The two sailors still
clung to the lifeline; there was only air between them and the chasm,
and they clutched the ropes tightly and stared down into the hole.
Martin could not see their faces, but their postures were eloquent
of their terror. Beyond, by the light of the lantern at his feet,
the remaining Jap was plainly revealed. His face was visible—and
terror-stricken. But he still had the hauling line about him, and was
leaning backwards keeping the saving strain upon the lifeline.
The great steam roar died away to the rhythmic, whistling wail that
had preceded it. But another great noise was commencing. It was not
the shattering scream of steam, but a mighty rumble that came from
an immense distance. Coincidentally, the mountain itself came alive
and shook, not violently, but gently, shudderingly, as if Atlas, far
beneath, were hunching his burdened shoulders.
A dim light appeared, hovering over the great crack in the cave floor.
It seemed a reflection of some distant glare, in color a pale green.
Slowly it mounted and spread, diffusing a soft, eerie radiance, and
revealing to Martin’s fascinated gaze the truly vast dimensions of the
cave of winds.
Something forced Martin’s gaze to the other entrance. And, as his eyes
rested upon the figure of the rope-holding Jap, Martin’s own body
stiffened convulsively with a shock of surprise. His heart skipped a
beat, and then began to furiously race, while cold chills crawled up
and down his spine.
For a second figure had suddenly materialized beside the figure of a
Jap. Another figure—a gnome, a wraith! The unholy light from the pit
painted it an unearthly greenish hue, and accentuated the haggardness
of face, and the gleaming eyes, the humped body, its crookedness
magnified by the crouched attitude. It looked like some demon come
floating up on the wicked light from the “deep place.” It crouched to
leap, to strike, and a bared knife gleamed in an upraised hand; it
glared balefully, fixedly, at the living anchor of the lifeline.
The yellow sailor seemed to feel that fearsome presence at his side. He
did not turn his head, but he slowly rolled his eyes and regarded the
menacing apparition. An expression of complete horror and despair swept
into his face.
For an instant he remained motionless. Then his surrender to his terror
was complete. He leaped as though released by a spring, cast the rope
from him, covered his face with his hands, and backed away from the
figure. He backed into the big cave, toward the pit.
In another second they were gone—all three of them. Gone before Martin
could utter his cry of warning—or recognition. Gone before the stranger
could move.
For, when the sailor cast away the rope, the strain on the tackle was
released, and the freed hauling line whipped snakelike through the
air as it rushed through the sheaves. The two men on the ledge fell
backward, as their lifeline collapsed; the blocks, with no weight to
hold them taut dropped from the rock; and the two poor wretches sliding
down the incline towards the pit dragged the tackle after them. The
tail block, swishing over the smooth surface, twined about the feet of
the backward-stumbling first man, and jerked him from his feet. With
the swiftly waning light revealing a writhing jumble of outflung arms
and legs, ropes and blocks, the three men slipped over the chasm edge.
The quake rumble had ceased. Above the simmering moan of the steam,
Martin heard the death wail of the trio, a wild, hideous shriek that
grew fainter and fainter, farther and farther away, and finally merged
completely with the other sound.
The greenish glow subsided into the depths from which it had sprung.
The black gloom swept down over the caves, covering all save the narrow
circles about the lanterns. And Martin squatted, sick and shaken, by
one lantern, and stared beyond the ledge at the other lantern. By it
stood Little Billy.