“A MAN OVERBOARD!”
In so small a town as Sydney then was Brandon could hope to learn all
that could be learned about Cigole. By casual inquiries he learned that
the Italian had come out in the _Rival_, and had given out that he
was agent for a London house in the wool business. He had bought up a
considerable quantity which he was preparing to ship.
Brandon could not help feeling that there was some ruse about this. Yet
he thought, on the other hand, why should he flaunt his name so boldly
before the world? If he is in reality following me why should he not
drop his name? But then, again, why should he? Perhaps he thinks that
I can not possibly know any thing about his name. Why should I? I was a
child when Despard was murdered. It may be merely a similarity of names.
Brandon from time to time had opportunities of hearing more about
Cigole, yet always the man seemed absorbed in business.
He wondered to himself whether he had better confide his suspicions to
Mr. Compton or not. Yet why should he? The old man would become excited,
and feel all sorts of wild hopes about discovering his wife and son.
Could it be possible that the Italian after so many years could now
afford any clew whatever? Certainly it was not very probable.
On the whole Brandon thought that this man, whoever he was or whatever
his purpose might be, would be encountered best by himself singly. If
Mr. Compton took part he would at once awaken Cigole’s fears by his
clumsiness.
Brandon felt quite certain that Mr. Compton would not know any thing
about Cigole’s presence in Sydney unless he himself told him. For the
old man was so filled with trouble at the loss of his partner that he
could think of nothing else, and all his thoughts were taken up with
closing up the concern so as to send forward remittances of money to
London as soon as possible. Mr. Compton had arranged for him to draw
£2000 on his arrival at London, and three months afterward £3000-£10,000
would be remitted during the following year.
Brandon had come to the conclusion to tell Mr. Compton about Cigole
before he left, so that if the man remained in the country he might
be bribed or otherwise induced to tell what he knew; yet thinking it
possible that Cigole had designed to return in the same ship with
him, he waited to see how things would turn out. As he could not help
associating Cigole in his mind with Potts, so he thought that whichever
way he turned this man would try to follow him. His anticipations proved
correct. He had taken passage in the ship _Java_, and two days before
the vessel left he learned that Cigole had taken his passage in her
also, having put on board a considerable quantity of wool. On the whole
Brandon felt gratified to hear this, for the close association of a long
sea voyage would give him opportunities to test this man, and probe him
to the bottom. The thought of danger arising to himself did not enter
his mind. He believed that Cigole meant mischief, but had too much
confidence in his own powers to fear it.
On the 5th of August the ship _Java_ was ready, and Mr. Compton stood on
the quarterdeck to bid good-by to Brandon.
“God bless you, dear boy! You will find the money coming promptly, and
Smithers & Co.’s house is one of the strongest in London. I have brought
you a parting gift,” said he, in a low voice. He drew from his pocket
a pistol, which in those days was less known than now--indeed, this was
the first of its kind which had reached Australia, and Mr. Compton had
paid a fabulous price for it. “Here,” said he, “take this to remember me
by. They call it a revolver. Here is a box of patent cartridges that go
with it. It is from me to you. And mind,” he continued, while there
came over his face a vengeful look which Brandon had never seen there
before--“mind, if ever you see John Potts, give him one of those
patent cartridges, and tell him it is the last gift of a broken-hearted
father.”
Brandon’s face turned ghastly, and his lips seemed to freeze into a
smile of deadly meaning.
“God bless you.” cried Compton, “I see by your face that you will do it.
Good-by.”
He wrung Brandon’s hand hard and left the ship.
About six feet away stood Cigole, looking over the stern and smoking
a cigar. He was near enough to hear what had been said, but he did not
appear to have heard it. Throwing his cigar into the water, he plunged
his hands into his pockets, and began whistling a lively air.
“Aha, Capitano,” said he, in a foreign accent, “I have brought my wool
off at last.”
Brandon paced the deck silently yet watchfully.
The good ship _Java_ went out with a fine breeze, which continued for
some days, until at last nothing could be seen but the wide ocean. In
those few days Brandon had settled himself comfortably on board, and had
learned pretty well the kind of life which he would have to lead for
the next six months or so. The captain was a quiet, amiable sort of a
person, without much force of character; the mate was more energetic
and somewhat passionate; the crew consisted of the average order of men.
There was no chance, certainly, for one of those conspiracies such as
Mr. Compton had hinted at as having taken place on the _Vishnu_; for in
his account of that affair he evidently believed that Uracao had been
made a scape-goat for the sins of the others.
Brandon was soon on the best of terms with the officers of the ship. As
to Cigole it was different. The fact of their being the only passengers
on board might of itself have been a sufficient cause to draw them
together; but Brandon found it difficult to pass beyond the extremest
limits of formal intercourse. Brandon himself considered that his
purposes would be best served by close association with this man; he
hoped that in the course of such association he might draw something
from Cigole. But Cigole baffled him constantly. He was as polite and
courteous as all Italians are; he had an abundance of remarks all ready
about the state of the weather, the prospects of the voyage, or the
health of the seamen; but beyond these topics it was difficult to induce
him to go. Brandon stifled the resentment which he felt toward this man,
in his efforts to break down the barriers of formality which he kept up,
and sought to draw him out on the subject of the wool trade. Yet here he
was baffled. Cigole always took up the air of a man who was speaking to
a rival in business, and pretended to be very cautious and guarded in
his remarks about wool, as though he feared that Brandon would interfere
with his prospects. This sort of thing was kept up with such great
delicacy of management on Cigole’s part that Brandon himself would have
been completely deceived, and would have come to consider him as nothing
more than a speculator in wool, had it not been for a certain deep
instinct within him, which made him regard this man as one who was
actuated by something far deeper than mere regards for a successful
speculation.
Cigole managed to baffle the most dextrous efforts and the most delicate
contrivances of Brandon. He would acknowledge that he was an Italian,
and had been in all parts of Italy, but carefully refrained from telling
where he was born. He asserted that this was the first time that he had
been in the Eastern seas. He remarked once, casually, that Cigole was a
very common name among Italians. He said that he had no acquaintances at
all in England, and was only going there now because he heard that there
was a good market for wool. At another time he spoke as though much of
his life had been passed in Marseilles, and hinted that he was a partner
of a commercial house there.
Cigole never made any advances, and never even met half-way those
which Brandon made. He was never off his guard for one instant. Polite,
smiling, furtive, never looking Brandon fairly in the face, he usually
spoke with a profusion of bows, gestures, and commonplaces, adopting, in
fact, that part which is always at once both the easiest and the safest
to play--the non-committal, pure and perfect.
It was cunning, but low cunning after all, and Brandon perceived that,
for one who had some purpose to accomplish, with but a common soul
to sustain him, this was the most ordinary way to do it. A villain of
profounder cunning or of larger spirit would have pursued a different
path. He would have conversed freely and with apparent unreserve; he
would have yielded to all friendly advances, and made them himself; he
would have shown the highest art by concealing art, in accordance with
the hackneyed proverb, “Ars est celare artem.”
Brandon despised him as an ordinary villain, and hardly thought it worth
his while to take any particular notice of him, except to watch him in a
general way. But Cigole, on the contrary, was very different. His eyes,
which never met those of Brandon fairly, were constantly watching him.
When moving about the quarter-deck or when sitting in the cabin
he usually had the air of a man who was pretending to be intent on
something else, but in reality watching Brandon’s acts or listening to
his words. To any other man the knowledge of this would have been in
the highest degree irksome. But to Brandon it was gratifying, since it
confirmed his suspicions. He saw this man, whose constant efforts were
directed toward not committing himself by word, doing that very thing by
his attitude, his gesture, and the furtive glance of his eye. Brandon,
too, had his part, but it was infinitely greater than that of Cigole,
and the purpose that now animated his life was unintelligible to this
man who watched him. But Cigole’s whole soul was apparent to Brandon;
and by his small arts, his low cunning, his sly observation, and many
other peculiarities, he exhibited that which is seen in its perfection
in the ordinary spy of despotic countries, such as used to abound most
in Rome and Naples in the good old days.
For the common spy of Europe may deceive the English or American
traveler; but the Frenchman, the German, the Spaniard, or the Italian,
always recognizes him.
So Brandon’s superior penetration discovered the true character of
Cigole.
He believed that this man was the same Cigole who had figured in the
affair of the _Vishnu_; that he had been sent out by Potts to do some
injury to himself, and that he was capable of any crime. Yet he could
not see how he could do any thing. He certainly could not incite the
simple-minded captain and the honest mate to conspiracy. He was too
great a coward to attempt any violence. So Brandon concluded that he had
simply come to watch him so as to learn his character, and carry back to
Potts all the knowledge that he might gain.
This was his conclusion after a close association of one month with
Cigole. Yet he made up his mind not to lose sight of this man. To him he
appeared only an agent in villainy, and therefore unworthy of vengeance;
yet he might be made use of as an aid in that vengeance. He therefore
wished to have a clew by which he might afterward find him.
“You and I,” said he one day, in conversation, “are both in the same
trade. If I ever get to England I may wish some time to see you. Where
can I find you?”
Cigole looked in twenty different directions, and hesitated for some
time.
“Well,” said he at last, “I do not think that you will wish to see me--”
and he hesitated; “but,” he resumed, with an evil smile, “if you
should by any possibility wish to do so, you can find out where I am by
inquiring of Giovanni Cavallo, 16 Red Lion Street, London.”
“Perhaps I may not wish to,” said Brandon, coolly, “and perhaps I may.
At any rate, if I do, I will remember to inquire of Giovanni Cavallo, 16
Red Lion Street, London.”
He spoke with deep emphasis on the address. Cigole looked uncomfortable,
as though he had at last made the mistake which he dreaded, and had
committed himself.
So the time passed.
After the first few days the weather had become quite stormy.
Strong head-winds, accompanied often by very heavy rains, had to
be encountered. In spite of this the ship had a very good passage
northward, and met with no particular obstacle until her course was
turned toward the Indian Ocean. Then all the winds were dead against
her, and for weeks a succession of long tacks far to the north and to
the south brought her but a short distance onward. Every day made the
wind more violent and the storm worse. And now the season of the equinox
was approaching, when the monsoons change, and all the winds that sweep
over these seas alter their courses. For weeks before and after this
season the winds are all unsettled, and it seems as if the elements were
let loose. From the first week in September this became manifest, and
every day brought them face to face with sterner difficulties. Twice
before the captain had been to Australia; and for years he had been in
the China trade; so that he knew these seas well; but he said that he
had never known the equinoctial storms begin so early, and rage with
such violence.
Opposed by such difficulties as these the ship made but a slow
passage--the best routes had not yet been discovered--and it was the
middle of September before they entered the Indian Ocean. The weather
then became suddenly calm, and they drifted along beyond the latitude
of the western extremity of Java, about a hundred miles south of the
Straits of Sunda. Here they began to encounter the China fleet which
steers through this strait, for every day one or more sails were
visible.
Here they were borne on helplessly by the ocean currents, which at this
place are numerous and distracted. The streams that flow through the
many isles of the Indian Archipelago, uniting with the greater southern
streams, here meet and blend, causing great difficulties to navigation,
and often baffling even the most experienced seaman. Yet it was not all
left to the currents, for frequently and suddenly the storms came up;
and the weather, ever changeful, kept the sailors constantly on the
alert.
Yet between the storms the calms were frequent, and sometimes long
continued, though of such a sort as required watchfulness. For out of
the midst of dead calms the storm would suddenly rise in its might, and
all the care which experience could suggest was not always able to avert
disaster.
“I don’t like this weather, Mr. Brandon. It’s the worst that we could
have, especially just here.”
“Why just here?”
“Why, we’re opposite the Straits of Sunda, the worst place about these
parts.”
“What for?”
“Pirates. The Malays, you know. We’re not over well prepared to meet
them, I’m afraid. If they come we’ll have to fight them the best way we
can; and these calms are the worst thing for us, because the Malay proas
can get along in the lightest wind, or with oars, when we can’t move at
all.”
“Are the Malays any worse than usual now?” asked Brandon.
“Well, no worse than they’ve been for the last ten years. Zangorri is
the worst of them all.”
“Zangorri! I’ve heard of him.”
“I should think you had. Why, there never was a pirate in these seas
that did so much damage. No mortal knows the ships that devil has
captured and burned.”
“I hope you have arms for the seamen, at any rate.”
“Oh, we have one howitzer, and small-arms for the men, and we will have
to get along the best way we can with these; but the owners ought never
to send us here without a better equipment.”
“I suppose they think it would cost too much.”
“Yes; that’s it. They think only about the profits, and trust to
luck for our safety. Well, I only hope we’ll get safely out of this
place--that’s all.”
And the captain walked off much more excited than usual.
They drifted on through days of calm, which were succeeded by fierce
but short-lived storms, and then followed by calms. Their course lay
sometimes north, sometimes south, sometimes nowhere. Thus the time
passed, until at length, about the middle of September, they came in
sight of a long, low island of sand.
“I’ve heard of that sand-bank before,” said the captain, who showed some
surprise at seeing it; “but I didn’t believe it was here. It’s not down
in the charts. Here we are three hundred and fifty miles southwest of
the Straits of Sunda, and the chart makes this place all open water.
Well, seein’s believin’; and after this I’ll swear that there is such a
thing as Coffin Island.”
“Is that the name?”
“That’s the name an old sea-captain gave it, and tried to get the
Admiralty to put it on the charts, but they wouldn’t. But this is it,
and no mistake.”
“Why did he call it Coffin Island?”
“Well, he thought that rock looked like a coffin, and it’s dangerous
enough when a fog comes to deserve that name.”
Brandon looked earnestly at the island which the captain mentioned, and
which they were slowly approaching.
It lay toward the north, while the ship’s course, if it had any in that
calm, was southwest. It was not more than six miles away, and appeared
to be about five miles long. At the nearest extremity a black rock arose
to a height of about fifty feet, which appeared to be about five hundred
feet long, and was of such a shape that the imagination might easily see
a resemblance to a coffin. At the farthest extremity of the island was
a low mound. The rest of the island was flat, low, and sandy, with no
trace of vegetation perceptible from the ship, except a line of dingy
green under the rock, which looked like grass.
The ship drifted slowly on.
Meanwhile the captain, in anticipation of a storm, had caused all the
sails to be taken in, and stood anxiously watching the sky toward the
southwest.
There a dense mass of clouds lay piled along the horizon, gloomy,
lowering, menacing; frowning over the calm seas as though they would
soon destroy that calm, and fling forth all the fury of the winds. These
clouds seemed to have started up from the sea, so sudden had been their
appearance; and now, as they gathered themselves together, their forms
distended, and heightened, and reached forward vast arms into the sky,
striving to climb there, rolling upward voluminous cloud masses which
swiftly ascended toward the zenith. So quick was the progress of these
clouds that they did not seem to come from the banks below; but it was
rather as though all the air suddenly condensed its moisture and made it
visible in these dark masses.
As yet there was no wind, and the water was as smooth as glass; but over
the wide surface, as far as the eye could reach, the long swell of the
ocean had changed into vast rolling undulations, to the motion of which
the ship yielded, slowly ascending and descending as the waters rose
and fell, while the yards creaked, and the rigging twanged to the strain
upon them.
Every moment the sky grew darker, and as gloom gathered above so
it increased below, till all the sea spread out a smooth ebon mass.
Darkness settled down, and the sun’s face was thus obscured, and a
preternatural gloom gathered upon the face of nature. Overhead vast
black clouds went sweeping past, covering all things, faster and faster,
till at last far down in the northern sky the heavens were all obscured.
But amidst all this there was as yet not a breath of wind. Far above the
wind careered in a narrow current, which did not touch the surface of
the sea but only bore onward the clouds. The agitation of the sky above
contrasted with the stillness below made the latter not consoling but
rather fearful, for this could be none other than that treacherous
stillness which precedes the sudden outburst of the hurricane.
For that sudden outburst all were now looking, expecting it every
moment. On the side of the ship where the wind was expected the captain
was standing, looking anxiously at the black clouds on the horizon, and
all the crew were gazing there in sympathy with him. From that
quarter the wind would burst, and it was for this assault that all the
preparations had been made.
[Illustration: “HE PUSHED HIM HEADLONG OVER THE RAIL AND HELPLESSLY INTO
THE SEA.”]
For some time Brandon had watched the collecting clouds, but at
length he turned away, and seemed to find a supreme fascination in the
sand-bank. He stood at the stern of the ship, looking fixedly toward the
rock, his arms folded, and his thoughts all absorbed in that one thing.
A low railing ran round the quarter-deck. The helmsman stood in a
sheltered place which rose only two feet above the deck. The captain
stood by the companion-way, looking south at the storm; the mate was
near the capstan, and all were intent and absorbed in their expectation
of a sudden squall.
Close by the rudder-post stood Cigole, looking with all the rest at the
gathering storm. His face was only half turned, and as usual he watched
this with only a furtive glance, for at times his stealthy eyes turned
toward Brandon; and he alone of all on board did not seem to be absorbed
by some overmastering thought.
Suddenly a faint, fluttering ripple appeared to the southward; it came
quickly: it seemed to flash over the waters; with the speed of the
wind it moved on, till a quick, fresh blast struck the ship and sighed
through the rigging. Then a faint breathing of wind succeeded; but
far away there rose a low moan like that which arises from some vast
cataract at a great distance, whose roar, subdued by distance, sounds
faintly, yet warningly, to the ear.
At this first touch of the tempest, and the menacing voice of its
approach, not a word was spoken, but all stood mute. Brandon alone
appeared not to have noticed it. He still stood with folded arms and
absorbed air, gazing at the island.
The roar of the waters in the distance grew louder, and in the direction
from which it came the dark water was all white with foam, and the
boiling flood advanced nearer in myriad-numbered waves, which seemed now
like an army rushing to the charge, tossing on high its crested heads
and its countless foam-plumes, and threatening to bear down all before
it.
At last the tornado struck.
At the fierce blast of the storm the ship rolled far over, the masts
creaked and groaned, the waves rushed up and dashed against the side.
At that instant Cigole darted quickly toward Brandon, and the moment
that the vessel yielded to the blow of the storm he fell violently
against him. Before Brandon had noticed the storm or had time to steady
himself he had pushed him headlong over the rail and helplessly into the
sea--
“--liquidae projecit in undas
Praecipitem.”
Cigole clung to the rail, and instantly shrieked out:
“Man overboard!”
The startling cry rang through the ship. The captain turned round with a
face of agony.
“Man overboard!” shouted Cigole again. “Help! It’s Brandon!”
“Brandon!” cried the captain. “He’s lost! O God!”
He took up a hen-coop from its fastenings and flung it into the sea, and
a couple of pails after it.
He then looked aloft and to the south with eyes of despair. He could
do nothing. For now the storm was upon them, and the ship was plunging
furiously through the waters with the speed of a race-horse at the touch
of the gale. On the lee-side lay the sand-bank, now only three miles
away, whose unknown shallows made their present position perilous in the
extreme. The ship could not turn to try and save the lost passenger; it
was only by keeping straight on that there was any hope of avoiding that
lee-shore.
All on board shared the captain’s despair, for all saw that nothing
could be done. The ship was at the mercy of the hurricane. To turn was
impossible. If they could save their own lives now it would be as much
as they could do.
Away went the ship--away, farther, and farther, every moment leaving at
a greater distance the lost man who struggled in the waters.
At last they had passed the danger, the island was left behind, and the
wide sea lay all around.
But by this time the storm was at its height; the ship could not
maintain its proper course, but, yielding to the gale, fled to the
northwest far out of its right direction.