The Red Derelict Part 44

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

ON THE GREAT DEEP.

A flaming sun and a flaming sky; an oily sea, rippled up ever and anon by the skimming rush of a flight of flying-fish; a shark fin or two here and there gliding above the surface. In the far distance a low foresh.o.r.e with broad palms just distinguishable; and out here, alone on the wide waters, a man in a canoe--fis.h.i.+ng.

To be strictly accurate, however, he is not fis.h.i.+ng now, though he came out with that intent. He has a line over the side, but seems to be heading out to sea, as though purposing to cross the ocean itself. The line is of native make, likewise the hooks; the canoe ditto, and the paddles. The man is clothed almost entirely with lightly-woven native attire, but otherwise there is nothing of the negro, or even negroid, about the sunburnt face and the thick, dark beard. He is a white man technically, though long exposure to tropical heat in all its changes has rendered him as swarthy as an Arab. The expression of his face is one of profound melancholy, as that of a man condemned to lifelong and hopeless exile. And such, in fact, he is, not through the justice or malevolence of his fellow-man, but through sheer force of circ.u.mstances.

That distant palm-plumed foresh.o.r.e is his home, and at the same time his prison. He cannot get away from it.

Now he sends the canoe over the water with each long sweep of his powerful arm--hard and brown and sinewy--regardless of heat or toil, as though the boundless freedom of the liquid plain inspired him with a new life; to those who had made the canoe and its gear the said liquid plain was merely a place where you could catch fish--but they were not imaginative people. Glancing back sh.o.r.eward an eager then a startled look comes into the man's face. Between the sh.o.r.e and him, in the far, far distance, are several black specks. You or I could not have seen them; but he can, and, with the sight, he puts the canoe straight out to sea with renewed resolve, intending to remain there until dark; for he knows those tiny distant specks to be other canoes--and that spells foes.

The last time we saw this man was on the occasion of his meeting with another man--a savage--in the lonely silence of the forest after the battle and rout. Then had followed weeks, during which he and the savage had led the lives of hunted beasts, and their narrow escapes from other and hostile bands were many and wonderful. Added to such the perils of the wilderness--of weeks threading the sluggish channels of some great, mysterious river, the gloom and awesome silence of it only broken by the weird blowing of gigantic hippopotami or the splash of ugly crocodiles, the thick foliage reaching over the black, smooth waterway rendering their path as though threading some never-ending cavern--and all in a very cranky canoe, which the native had managed to steal at the risk of both their lives from an unwary village. At last they had gained the coast. For days before they had done so the river seemed to branch off into innumerable deltas, forming islands. Here animal life was plentiful, but of human inhabitants, however barbarous, was no sign. It seemed an utterly wild, unexplored, untrodden region, clean outside any of the known world.

It was a strange companions.h.i.+p that between these two, if only that neither understood a word of the other's speech--and by no possibility did either seem able to impart it. Sometimes while they were resting Wagram would endeavour to instruct his companion by making drawings on the ground with a bit of stick, but hardly any of them were understood.

A tree or an animal or a man was recognised, but all attempt to establish any sequence of ideas by dint of such pictorial instruction proved hopeless. But he himself soon became proficient in the sign language, and the two would talk quite rapidly therein; only the subject-matter must fall within the sphere of the latter's experience, or he was hopelessly fogged. He was absolutely lacking in imagination.

Often Wagram had found himself wondering as to the other's motive in sticking to him thus closely. It could hardly be all grat.i.tude; and every attempt to convey that his own restoration to civilisation would result in considerable reward to the other seemed to fail, for on reaching the coast the native had squatted down, as though quite content to spend the rest of his life there. Or, from his barbarous and heathen point of view, the man might have come to regard him as a great magician, and one whose magic was immeasurably greater than that of the only other white man he had ever seen. As to this, he would often beguile the time by singing, a great deal of such being echoes of the choir-loft at Hilversea, and the dusky barbarian would listen, entranced, open-mouthed. It was possible that a belief in his supernatural powers had something to do with this fidelity.

Even as the companions.h.i.+p so had the experience been a strange one. The frequency and variety of peril had inspired in the man thus reft from the peaceful ease of a stately English home, if not a contempt for it, at any rate an indifference to danger. In the matter of food he had long since learned that a native could live in luxury for a month where he would have starved in three days. The whole experience had hardened him into magnificent physical form; but as weeks grew into months, and months multiplied, a great depression grew and deepened upon him. He would already have been given up for dead, when the loss of the _Baleka_ became known, especially on the report of her survivors. Poor Gerard would be in a terrible state of grief, and Haldane and Yvonne--it would be a blow to them, and to others perhaps. And at the thought of Hilversea his depression would take the form of a great bitterness, which it would tax all his robust faith to overcome.

Something of this depression is upon him now as he sends his little craft skimming over the oily sea, a mere speck at this great distance out. Once before, he and his companion had been visited from outside, but had been able to hide in the thickest recesses of their island home in time--a glance at the ferocious-looking savages who const.i.tuted the intruders having convinced them that they might as well fall again into the hands of those from whom they had originally fled as into the power of such as these.

Soon hardly the fringe of palms upon the coast he has left is visible above the mirage-like horizon; the sh.o.r.e itself no longer is. Yet to him this matters nothing. He is at home on this blue, mysterious sea.

Even the triangular shark fins gliding here and there make no appeal to his imagination. They are just so many incidents, and that is all, for he is thoroughly accustomed to that sort of thing by this time.

And now the sun is drooping, and the cloudless sky takes on that molten, sickly murk so frequently attendant on the sunset in tropical seas.

Night will be here directly, with a sudden rush; but that concerns him in no wise, for he has a supply of water, well covered with wet matting, within his canoe, also food of a kind--and he has learnt to do with very little food of late. There is no need to exert himself with further paddling.

With a dewy rush the night falls, and alone beneath the misty stars, alone on the great deep, its silence only broken by the splash and hollow "sough" of some sea-monster, his thoughts wing themselves back to the home which, in all likelihood, he will never see again, and with the idea comes another as though in a flash. This living death prolonged for years--why not end it now? Not in yielding up life--oh no--but only in risking it. Gravely risking it, true; but still, is not some risk, even grave risk justifiable under the circ.u.mstances? Why not keep on his way, paddle straight out to sea, on the off chance of falling in with a pa.s.sing s.h.i.+p? How far he would have to paddle he had no idea.

He had been thrown upon the coast in an unconscious state, but it could not have been very distant if his captors had pulled him off the hulk in their canoes--and the hulk had been in the path of s.h.i.+pping. But was it the same part of the coast as that from which he had now put forth, or was it, perhaps, some hundreds of miles farther off, and, in the trend of the coast-line, standing out much farther into the ocean? Anyhow, he made up his mind to chance it. His canoe was a mere c.o.c.klesh.e.l.l, out here in the ocean waste; but, then, the seas were placid, and, beyond a ripple, only too smooth.

What of his companion, apparently deserted? Even though a savage, would not that companion feel his loss? No. The utter lack of imagination of the savage would not allow room for sentimental qualms; while, as for the loss of the canoe, that could be remedied in half a day. So, his resolution fixed, he started forth--truly in the very sublimity of desperation--for, should he fail, death was the alternative, grim death from hunger and thirst amid the awful solitude of the boundless sea.

Hour followed upon hour, and still in the darkness this man urges his craft forward in search of his one chance of life, well knowing that against that one chance there are a hundred--nay, a thousand. Still, he takes it.

He feels neither hunger nor thirst. The heavy moisture of the night dews are effective against the latter; while, as for the first, the hard training he has been through has got him into the way of doing with very little. As hour after hour goes by he begins to strain his eyes over the pathless deep for a distant light, his ears for the throb of an approaching propeller. Then drowsiness overtakes him and he falls asleep, and the canoe drifts at the mercy of the currents--drifts farther and farther away from land.

Now he dreams, and his dreaming is strange. He is at Hilversea once more, at dear old Hilversea, amid the waving of summer woods and rustle of ripening corn, and all the glad sights and sounds of the fairest of English landscapes, and all is as it has been. Yes; all as it has been.

This fearful experience is as a thing of the past--a nightmare out of which he has awakened; and yet--and yet--there is still a want--a strange, uneasy, restless want of something, or somebody, which is not altogether sad, or, if sad, is leavened by a confused sweetness. The dream fades into more confusion, then blank. Then the dreamer awakes, and--Great Heaven!

Half of the great lurid orb of day has lifted itself above the horizon, gleaming along the smooth folds of the waste of waters, and on these he is no longer alone. About a quarter of a mile distant lies a s.h.i.+p.

A s.h.i.+p? A wreck. Two jagged stumps of masts rise from the submerged hull, over whose main bulwarks the water is lazily was.h.i.+ng, leaving the p.o.o.p and the forecastle but a few feet above the surface. He has seen it before--not once, but twice. Great Heaven! it is the Red Derelict-- the Red Derelict again.

He stares, then rubs his eyes, then stares again. Is he still dreaming?

No; there the thing lies, this ghost of a vessel, just as it had lain when it had afforded him timely refuge from imminent peril. A mysterious inner prompting moves him once more to board the hulk--acting upon which not long does it take him to shoot his canoe alongside, and, making her fast with the stout woven gra.s.s rope which does duty for a painter, he climbs on to the dry, glistening deck of the p.o.o.p.

His glance takes in the long length of the s.h.i.+p. Swift, keen as that of the wild creatures of earth and air is that glance now, and it falls upon an object lying under water on the submerged main deck--the skeleton of a pistol. In a moment it is in his hand. A further glance shows it to be the same rusted weapon he had held in his hand before.

The nameplate, bearing the letters E.W., is still lying near at hand.

The letters seem to stand out at him.

Thoughts many and various come crowding into his mind as he stares at the thing. All his experiences of blood and horror, since last he stood upon this deserted deck arise. The savage demoniac of his own race and colour, in whose power he had been, who was he? More than ever some strange instinct convinces him that the man is the murderer of his brother. This hulk seems to have drifted about these seas within a very circ.u.mscribed compa.s.s for years. What if it had been the scene of a b.l.o.o.d.y fight, a mutiny perhaps, wherein Everard had been slain, and the white savage, with others, had escaped to the mainland? And with the thought comes another. What if the body of his brother is lying below-- shut up, with the bodies of others, here in its floating tomb, beneath his feet? Strange, indeed, if his quest should end here.

Three times he has sighted this sad derelict, twice stood on board her.

Has this been ordered with a purpose? Yet--why not? And with the thought he flings off his upper garment of woven gra.s.s. He is going to explore the interior of the s.h.i.+p--so far as he is able.

On the former occasion of his standing here he would have shrank from such an attempt, not only on account of the possible horrors that he might find, but because doubting his power to carry out so hazardous a venture. Now it is different. Good swimmer as he was before, now he is as thoroughly at home in the water as the barbarous inhabitants of yonder coast--that is to say, as thoroughly at home as in his natural element. He gazes down into the gaping pit of the companion-way, then, drawing a long breath, dives down into the blackness within.

At first he can see little enough as he gropes his way around, then by the sickly green light through the gla.s.s ports, and also that coming down the companion-way, he is able to make out the interior of the cuddy. A few small fish, imprisoned, dart hither and thither, but of human bodies there is no sign. Then, unable to hold his breath any longer, he shoots up once more into outer air.

Shading his eyes, so that the glare may not impede his vision for his next descent, he sits for a few minutes taking in the air, then, feeling rested, dives down once more into the heart of the waterlogged s.h.i.+p.

Now he can see better, can distinguish some sodden litter lying about, but still no human bodies. Then, just as he is about to give up all further exploration, his hand encounters something hard.

It is lying in one of the bunks--a small box or case of some sort.

Grasping it firmly he makes for the companion-way again and rises to the surface, and on arriving there the fit of gasping, and a desire to vomit, shows that he has been under water long enough. His find is a flat, oblong, tin case of about eight inches by four, and it is hermetically sealed.

He examines it with vivid curiosity--the outside, that is--for he quickly decides that this is no time for investigating its contents.

But it is time for a little frugal refreshment; wherefore, hauling in his canoe by the painter, he proceeds to hand up the requisites for a sparing meal. While he does so a great shark rises from beneath the hulk--it might have been the identical one that had so nearly gripped him before--but it inspires in him no particular horror now; in fact, scarcely any attention. A mere shark is a mere nothing to the dwellers on those coasts.

Having taken off the edge of his appet.i.te he leans back against the ragged stump of the mainmast, and for the first time for long, experiences a craving for tobacco. Perhaps the yearning is brought about by feeling the deck of a s.h.i.+p under him, for he has long since learnt to do without it. Looking idly at the tin case the thought comes over him that it may contain some clue with regard to his brother or to his brother's fate, and acting upon the idea he stows it away carefully, together with the skeleton of the pistol, within the skin pouch which is slung round his neck by way of a pocket. Then a drowsiness comes over him, and he falls asleep.

The sun flames hot above him, but this causes him no inconvenience now.

He slumbers on, and a light breeze rises, rippling the oily surface of the sea--blowing off sh.o.r.e. It winnows in a grateful coolness about him, lulling into deeper slumber, and--the derelict drifts on.

The red rim of the sun touches the sea, seeming to meet the molten water as with a hiss, for the slight breeze has died down with evening, and the last light floods redly over the ghastly hulk with its single human occupant--this man with the attire and colour of a savage and the straight refined features of a European. The sudden, twilightless tropical night falls, falls blackly, and the sleeper sleeps on.

Cras.h.!.+ Whirr! Splas.h.!.+ The hulk starts, s.h.i.+vers from stem to stern, and a great wave comes roaring over her, sweeping the p.o.o.p by several feet. Half stunned by the concussion the sleeper starts up, to be knocked half senseless by violent contact with the stump of the mainmast; yet even then instinct moves him to grip hold of something firm and hang on for all he knows, and well for him that it is so, or he would have been whirled into the sea in a moment by the volume of water sweeping over him. An immense blaze of lights flashes before his dazed gaze, together with a very babel of voices and a wild roaring and a rush of white foam--then another wave rolls over him. Half stunned, half choked, he strives to lift up his voice, but it refuses its office. At last he succeeds in effecting a hoa.r.s.e attempt at a shout.

But the receding lights away there in the black gloom are receding farther and farther, the receding babel of voices too, and amid these and the roar of steam how shall his hoa.r.s.e-throated, feeble shout find its way across the intervening waste? It cannot. Instinctively he springs for his canoe, with a wild idea of overtaking his one chance of rescue by sheer strength of arm. But of it there is no sign--except the frayed end of the painter rope by which it had been made fast. Swamped, crushed by the weight of water which had swirled over the hulk, it has gone to the bottom, and with it his slender stock of provisions. And the tiers of lights are now far distant, and he is left here, as one before him was left--alone on this ghastly hulk--left to die, with his one chance of rescue gliding away in demoniacal mockery upon the black midnight sea.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

THE ECHO OF A PROPHECY.

"Let me pa.s.s. Quick! I want to see the captain."

"But you can't go on the bridge, miss; it's against orders." And the stalwart quartermaster barred with his substantial form the steps leading up to the bridge.

"But I must see the captain, and I will. Do you hear? Let me pa.s.s,"

with a quick stamp of the foot.

Seen by the electric lights the speaker was a well-formed, beautiful girl, her face pale, and her eyes glowing with excitement and purpose.

Behind her, a little in the background, buzzed a throng of excited pa.s.sengers.