silver pathway of its light sailed a far-off ship, small and black.
Mahoney gazed at it with longing. An hour or two later another ship
crossed the radiant pathway. But none came near the wreck. Only that
sharp black fin, that prowled and prowled, kept always in sight, always
near, till Mahoney began to wonder if it were really possible that the
tireless monster would get him in the end. He registered a vow that if
he should find himself growing delirious with thirst he would lash
himself so securely to the bulwark that, come what might, the shark
should never get his body. Comforted by this resolve, and the torment of
his thirst mitigated a trifle by a drenching in the brine, Mahoney fell
asleep again, and did not wake till the sun was streaming savagely on
his face.
Untying himself from the bulwark, Mahoney stared about him wildly. A
tall-masted brig, with royal and topgallant sails drawing full, was
retreating in the distance. Apparently, it had passed not far from the
wreck. Mahoney cursed himself wildly for having allowed himself to fall
asleep. This had been perhaps, his one chance. No other sail was in
sight. There was nothing but a wisp of smoke on the horizon, betraying
the passage of an unseen steamer. Mahoney found that he was babbling to
himself about it, and the realization shocked him. He shook himself,
pulled his courage and his nerve together sharply, then took off his
clothes and splashed himself with water from head to foot. It was
certain that his thirsty skin must absorb a good share of the liquid so
generously applied to it; and thus assuring himself, his thirst became,
or seemed to become less intolerable. When he had dressed
again,--leaving off his shirt, which he kept tied to the bulwark ready
for instant use,--he leaned over and peered down into the smooth water
to look for the shark.
Grim and spectral, the great shape was just in sight, rising with
strange indolence toward the surface. Evidently, some good-sized victim
had just been devoured. The shark came to rest within a few inches of
the surface, where the sun could warm its rough back through the thin
barrier of the water. There it lay, apparently basking, with the content
of one that has well dined. The complacent malignity of its eyes, which
seemed to meet the man's eyes with a peculiarly confident menace, filled
Mahoney with rage. He tore savagely at the bulwarks, in a foolish
attempt to provide himself with a missile.
In the midst of this futile effort, Mahoney chanced to drop his glance
into the depths. There he caught sight of something that arrested him,
making him forget for the moment even the tortures of his thirst. In the
deepest green, at the very confines of his vision, a gigantic shape came
faintly into view. It stirred, and grew more distinct. Motionless he
peered down upon it, striving to make out what it was. His sea lore,
more abundant than exact, did not inform him as to whether or not the
shark had any enemies to fear; but his imagination, always finding free
play in the mysteries of the deep sea, was hospitably ready for any
marvel. With fantastic expectancy he watched the sinister form of the
strange creature, as it slowly, and stealthily floated upward.
Presently he recognized it, having caught glimpse of its like once
before in a deep lagoon of the Ladrones. It was not altogether
dissimilar to the great shark basking above it, but slenderer in build,
and with a pair of curious lateral fins outspread like broad, blunt
wings. The most conspicuous difference was in its head, which was broad
and blunt like the fins, and armed with a kind of two-edged saw, perhaps
eight inches in width, projecting from its snout to a length of about
four feet. The tip of the saw looked as if it had been chopped off
square. Down both edges ran a series of keen, raking teeth. It was the
mysterious and dreadful sawfish, perpetrator of fabulous horrors.
[Illustration: "DIRECTLY BENEATH THE SHARK THE STRANGER CAME."]
Mahoney was afraid to move a muscle, lest he should arouse the shark and
put it on its guard. The eyes of the stranger stared up with a dead
coldness at the bulk of the sleeping monster on the surface. More
rapidly now, but still almost without movement of fin or tail, the
ominous form rose through the transparent flood, till Mahoney could
fairly count the teeth on its awkward-looking but hideous weapon.
Directly beneath the shark the stranger came, till at last there was no
more than the space of a few feet between the two giant shapes. And
still the shark slumbered. Mahoney held his breath. Then the sawfish
rolled over on its side, turning one edge of the saw toward the surface.
For an instant it hung so, poised and still. Then the fins and flukes
heaved together, the long bulk shot forward and upward, and the living
saw cut straight across the belly of the shark, deeply and cleanly,
under the urge of that tremendous thrust.
Mahoney cried out, shuddering at the horrible and unexpected sight. The
shark was completely disembowelled. With a gigantic convulsion it sprang
almost clear of the water, which was instantly dyed with blood. Mahoney
now looked for a battle of Titans to follow. But in truth the battle was
already over. The victim made no attempt at retaliation. It did not even
seem to see its foe, or to know what had stricken it. For a few seconds
it lashed the surface convulsively. Then it dived, plunging straight
downward to die unseen in some rayless cavern of the deeps.
With a leisurely zest which turned Mahoney sick, the monster guzzled its
meal, then swam up and nosed inquiringly along the fringe of barnacles.
Nothing there seeming to interest him, he turned with a disdainful sweep
of his huge flukes and bored his way slowly downwards toward the unknown
deep whence he had so mysteriously come. Unstirring, held fast as if in
a hideous dream, Mahoney watched the dull gray-black form grow green,
and spectral, and faint till at last it vanished. For a brief space he
continued to stare after it, picturing it in his fevered imagination
when it had sunk far beyond any reach of sight. At last, as if tearing
himself free from a horrid spell, he drew a long breath and lifted his
eyes to the horizon.
There, in full view, but too far away to notice such a speck among the
waves as Mahoney on his bit of wreck, was a small freight-boat, steaming
past at a leisurely pace. Mahoney was himself in an instant. He realized
that the sawfish had freed him from his dreadful jailer. With his knife
between his teeth he dived beneath the upturned sloop and fell to
cutting ropes and lashings with a cool but savage haste. In half a
minute he reappeared, gasping, but not discouraged. After two or three
deep breaths he dived again, and this time when he came up, he brought
the long slender pole of the gaff with him. With frantic eagerness he
hoisted the white pennon of his shirt and coat, thanking Heaven that the
gaff was so long. He was about to lash the pole to the bulwarks with his
belt, when he remembered that there was not wind enough to run out the
signal. Lifting it in both hands as high as he could, he waved the flag
wildly over his head in great arcs and sudden violent dips. Would the
lookout on the steamer see? Or seeing, would he understand? Mahoney felt
his strength suddenly failing, as a wave of despair sucked up at his
heart. It was all he could do to keep the signal moving. Then, at last,
he saw that the long line of the steamer's broadside was shortening.
Yes,--she was coming, she was coming. Tremblingly, with fingers that
fumbled, he lashed the staff to the bulwark, and sank panting upon the
deck.
A Stranger to the Wild
As the vessel, a big three-masted schooner, struck again and lurched
forward, grinding heavily, she cleared the reef by somewhat more than
half her length. Then her back broke. The massive swells, pounding upon
her from the rear, overwhelmed her stern and crushed it down inescapably
upon the rock; and her forward half, hanging in ten fathoms, began to
settle sickeningly into the loud hiss and chaos. Around the reef, around
the doomed schooner, the lead-coloured fog hung thick, impenetrable at
half a ship's length. Her crew, cool, swift, ready,--they were Gaspe and
New Brunswick fishermen, for the most part,--kept grim silence, and took
the sharp orders that came to them like gunshots through the din. The
boats were cleared away forward, where the settling of the bow gave some
poor shelter.
At this moment the fog lifted, vanishing swiftly like a breath from the
face of a mirror. Straight ahead, not two miles away, loomed a high,
black, menacing shore--black, scarred rock, with black woods along its
crest and a sharp, white line of surf shuddering along its base. Between
that shore and the shattered schooner lay many other reefs, whereon the
swells boiled white and broke in dull thunder; but off to the southward
was clear water, and safety for the boats. At a glance the captain
recognized the land as a cape on the south coast of the Gaspe peninsula,
so far from her course had the doomed schooner been driven. Five minutes
more, and the loaded boats, hurled up from the seething caldron behind
the reef, swung out triumphantly on a long, oil-dark swell, and gained
the comparative safety of the open. Hardly had they done so when the
broken bow of the schooner, with a final rending of timbers, settled in
what seemed like a sudden hurry, pitched nose downward into the smother,
and sank with a huge, startling sigh. The rear half of the hull was left
lodged upon the reef, a kind of gaping cavern, with the surf plunging
over it in cataracts, and a mad mob of boxes, bales, and wine-casks
tumbling out from its black depths.
Presently the torrent ceased. Then, in the yawning gloom, appeared the
head and fore-quarters of a white horse, mane streaming, eyes starting
with frantic terror at the terrific scene that met them. The vision sank
back instantly into the darkness. A moment later a vast surge, mightier
than any which had gone before, engulfed the reef. Its gigantic front
lifted the remnant of the wreck half-way across the barrier, tipping it
forward, and letting it down with a final shattering crash; and the
white horse, hurled violently forth, sank deep into the tumult behind
the reef.
The schooner which had fallen on such sudden doom among the St. Lawrence
reefs had sailed from Oporto with a cargo, chiefly wine, for Quebec.
Driven far south of her course by a terrific northeaster roaring down
from Labrador, she had run into a fog as the wind fell, and been swept
to her fate in the grip of an unknown tide-drift. On board, as it
chanced, travelling as an honoured passenger, was a finely bred, white
Spanish stallion of Barb descent, who had been shipped to Canada by one
of the heads of the great house of Robin, those fishing-princes of
Gaspe. When the vessel struck, and it was seen that her fate was
imminent and inevitable, the captain had loosed the beautiful stallion
from his stall, that at the last he might at least have a chance to
fight his own fight for life. And so it came about that, partly through
his own agile alertness, partly by the singular favour of fortune, he
had avoided getting his slim legs broken in the hideous upheaval and
confusion of the wreck.
[Illustration: "HE STRUCK OUT DESPERATELY, AND SOON CLEARED THE TURMOIL
OF THE BREAKERS."]
When the white stallion came to the surface, snorting with terror and
blowing the salt from his wide nostrils, he struck out desperately, and
soon cleared the turmoil of the breakers. Over the vast, smooth swells
he swam easily, his graceful, high head out of water. But at first, in
his bewilderment and panic, he swam straight seaward. In a few moments,
however, as he saw that he seemed to be overcoming disaster very well,
his wits returned, and the nerve of his breeding came to his aid.
Keeping on the crest of a roller, he surveyed the situation keenly,
observed the land, and noted the maze of reefs that tore the leaden
surges into tumult. Instead of heading directly shoreward,
therefore,--for every boiling whiteness smote him with horror,--he
shaped his course in on a long slant, where the way seemed clear.
Once well south of the loud herd of reefs, he swam straight inshore,
until the raving and white convulsion of the surf along the base of the
cliff again struck terror into his heart; and again he bore away
southward, at a distance of about three hundred yards outside the
breakers. Strong, tough-sinewed, and endowed with the unfailing wind of
his far-off desert ancestors, he was not aware of any fatigue from his
long swim. Presently, rounding a point of rock which thrust a low spur
out into the surges, he came into a sheltered cove where there was no
surf. The long waves rolled on past the point, while in the cove there
was only a measured, moderate rise and fall of the gray water, like a
quiet breathing, and only a gentle back-wash fringed the black-stoned,
weedy beach with foam. At the head of the cove a shallow stream, running
down through a narrow valley, emptied itself between two little red
sand-spits.
Close beside the stream the white stallion came ashore. As soon as his
feet were quite clear of the uppermost fringe of foam, as soon as he
stood on ground that was not only firm, but dry, he shook himself
violently, tossed his fine head with a whinny of exultation, and turned
a long look of hate and defiance upon the element from which he had
just made his escape. Then at a determined trot he set off up the
valley, eager to leave all sight and sound of the sea as far as possible
behind him.
Reared as he had been on the windy and arid plateau of Northern Spain,
the wanderer was filled with great loneliness in these dark woods of fir
and spruce. An occasional maple in its blaze of autumn scarlet, or a
clump of white birch in shimmering, aerial gold, seen unexpectedly upon
the heavy-shadowed green, startled him like a sudden noise.
Nevertheless, strange though they were, they were trees, and so not
altogether alien to his memory. And the brook, with its eddying pools
and brawling, shallow cascades, that seemed to him a familiar, kindly
thing. It was only the sea that he really feared and hated. So long as
he was sure he was putting the huge surges and loud reefs farther and
farther behind him, he felt a certain measure of content as he pushed
onward deeper and deeper into the serried gloom and silence of the
spruce woods. At last, coming to a little patch of brook-side meadow
where the grass kept short and sweet and green even at this late season,
he stopped his flight, and fell to pasturing.
Late in the afternoon, the even gray mass of cloud which for days had
veiled the sky thinned away and scattered, showing the clear blue of the
north. The sun, near setting, sent long rays of cheerful light down the
narrow valley, bringing out warm, golden bronzes in the massive, dull
green of the fir and spruce and hemlock, and striking sharp flame on the
surfaces of the smooth pools. Elated by the sudden brightness, the white
stallion resumed his journey at a gallop, straight toward the sunset,
his long mane and tail, now dry, streaming out on the light afternoon
breeze that drew down between the hills. He kept on up the valley till
the sun went down, and then, in the swiftly deepening twilight, came to
a little grassy point backed by a steep rock. Here where the rippling of
the water enclosed him on three sides, and the rock, with a thick mass
of hemlocks, surmounting it, shut him in on the fourth, he felt more
secure, less desolate, than when surrounded by the endless corridors of
the forest; and close to the foot of the rock he lay down, facing the
mysterious gloom of the trees across the stream.
Just as he was settling himself, a strange voice, hollow yet muffled,
cried across the open space "_Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, woo-hoo-hoo!_" and he
bounded to his feet, every nerve on the alert. He had never in his life
before heard the voice of the great horned owl, and his apprehensive
wonder was excusable. Again and yet again came the hollow call out of
the deep dark of the banked woods opposite. As he stood listening
tensely, eyes and nostrils wide, a bat flitted past his ears, and he
jumped half around, with a startled snort. The ominous sound, however,
was not repeated, and in a couple of minutes he lay down again, still
keeping watchful eyes upon the dark mass across the stream. Then, at
last, a broad-winged bird, taking shape softly above the open, as
noiseless as a gigantic moth, floated over him, and looked down upon him
under his rock with round, palely luminous eyes. By some quick intuition
he knew that this visitor was the source of the mysterious call. It was
only a bird, after all, and no great thing in comparison with the eagles
of his own Pyrenean heights. His apprehensions vanished, and he settled
himself to sleep.
Worn out with days and nights of strain and terror, the exile slept
soundly. Soon, under the crisp autumn starlight, a red fox crept down
circumspectly to hunt mice in the tangled dry grasses of the point. At
sight of the strange white form sleeping carelessly at the foot of the
rock he bounded back into cover, startled quite out of his philosophic
composure. He had never before seen any such being as that; and the
smell, too, was mysterious and hostile to his wrinkling fastidious
nostrils. Having eyed the newcomer for some time from his hiding-place
under the branches, he crept around the rock and surveyed him stealthily
from the other side. Finding no enlightenment, or immediate prospect of
it, he again drew back, and made a careful investigation of the
stranger's tracks, which were quite unlike the tracks of any creature he
knew. Finally he made up his mind that he must confine his hunting to
the immediate neighbourhood, keeping the stranger under surveillance
till he could find out more about him.
Soon after the fox's going a tuft-eared lynx came out on the top of the
rock, and with round, bright, cruel eyes glared down upon the grassy
point, half-hoping to see some rabbits playing there. Instead, she saw
the dim white bulk of the sleeping stallion. In her astonishment at this
unheard-of apparition, her eyes grew wider and whiter than before, her
hair stood up along her back, her absurd little stub of a tail fluffed
out to a fussy pompon, and she uttered a hasty, spitting growl as she
drew back into the shelter of the hemlocks. In the dreaming ears of the
sleeper this angry sound was only a growl of the seas which had for days
been clamouring about the gloom of his stall on the ship. It disturbed
him not at all.
At about two o'clock in the morning, at that mystic hour when Nature
seems to send a message to all her animate children, preparing them for
the advent of dawn, the white stallion got up, shook himself, stepped
softly down to the brook's edge for a drink, and then fell to cropping
the grass wherever it remained green. The forest, though to a careless
ear it might have seemed as silent as before, had in reality stirred to
a sudden, ephemeral life. Far off, from some high rock, a she-fox barked
sharply. Faint, muffled chirps from the thick bushes told of junkos and
chickadees waking up to see if all was well with the world. The mice set
up a scurrying in the grass. And presently a high-antlered buck stepped
out of the shadows and started across the open toward the brook.
The dark buck, himself a moving shadow, saw the stallion first, and
stopped with a loud snort of astonishment and defiance. The stallion
wheeled about, eyed the intruder for a moment doubtfully, then trotted
up with a whinny of pleased interrogation. He had no dread of the
antlered visitor, but rather a hope of companionship in the vast and
overpowering loneliness of the alien night.
The buck, however, was in anything but a friendly mood. His veins aflame
with the arrogant pugnacity of the rutting season, he saw in the white
stranger only a possible rival, and grew hot with rage at his approach.
With an impatient stamping of his slim fore hoofs, he gave challenge.
But to the stallion this was an unknown language. Innocently he came up,
his nose stretched out in question, till he was within a few feet of the
motionless buck. Then, to his astonishment, the latter bounced suddenly
aside like a ball, stood straight up on his hind legs, and struck at him
like lightning with those keen-edged, slim fore hoofs. It was a savage
assault, and two long, red furrows--one longer and deeper than the
other--appeared on the stallion's silky, white flank.
In that instant the wanderer's friendliness vanished, and an avenging
fury took its place. His confidence had been cruelly betrayed. With a
harsh squeal, his mouth wide open and lips drawn back from his
formidable teeth, he sprang at his assailant. But the buck had no vain
idea of standing up against this whirlwind of wrath which he had
evoked. He bounded aside, lightly but hurriedly, and watched for an
opportunity to repeat his attack.
The stallion, however, was not to be caught again; and the dashing
ferocity of his rushes kept his adversary ceaselessly on the move,
bounding into the air and leaping aside to avoid those disastrous teeth.
The buck was awaiting what he felt sure would come, the chance to strike
again; and his confidence in his own supreme agility kept him from any
apprehension as to the outcome of the fight.
But the buck's great weakness lay in his ignorance, his insufficient
knowledge of the game he was playing. He had no idea that his rushing
white antagonist had any other tactics at command. When he gave way,
therefore, he went just far enough to escape the stallion's teeth and
battering fore feet. The stallion, on the other hand, soon realized the
futility of his present method of attack against so nimble an adversary.
On his next rush, therefore, just as the buck bounced aside, he wheeled
in a short half-circle, and lashed out high and far with his steel-shod
heels. The buck was just within the most deadly range of the blow. He
caught the terrific impact on the base of the neck and the forward point
of the shoulder, and went down as if an explosive bullet had struck him.
Before he could even stir to rise, the stallion was upon him, trampling,
battering, squealing, biting madly; and the fight was done. When the
wanderer had spent his vengeance, and paused, snorting and wild-eyed, to
take breath, he looked down upon a mangled shape that no longer
struggled or stirred or even breathed. Then the last of his righteous
fury faded out. The sight and smell of the blood sickened him, and in a
kind of terror he turned away. For a few hesitating moments he stared
about his little retreat and then, finding it had grown hateful to him,
he forsook it, and pushed onward up the edge of the stream, between the
black, impending walls of the forest.
[Illustration: "THE SOUTHWARD JOURNEYING DUCKS, WHICH WOULD DROP WITH
LOUD QUACKING AND SPLASHING INTO THE SHALLOWS"]
About daybreak he came out on the flat, marshy shores of a shrunken
lake, the unstirred waters of which gleamed violet and pale-gold beneath
the twisting coils and drifting plumes of white vapour. All around the
lake stood the grim, serried lines of the firs, under a sky of
palpitating opal. The marshes, in their autumn colouring of burnt gold
and pinky olive, with here and there a little patch of enduring
emerald, caught the wanderer's fancy with a faint reminder of home. Here
was pasture, here was sweet water, here was room to get away from the
oppressive mystery of the woods. He halted to rest and recover himself;
and in the clear, tonic air, so cold that every morning the edges of the
lake were crisped with ice, the aching red gashes on his flank speedily
healed.