Pocket Island Part 12

"This is good enough for me," replied Manson, "and I guess the gulls will be the more cheerful companions!"

When the sloop was at anchor, sails furled, and they were all waiting for mackerel bites, he said: "What is there so mysterious about this Pocket Island, and why are people afraid to go there? Tell me all about it! You have got me so worked up over it, I dreamed I heard a bull bellowing last night."

"Well," replied Frank, "it's like all ghost stories and spook spots in the world; all imagination, I guess. I do not take any stock in them, and dad laughs at the entire batch. The only reality about it is that the island itself is the most forbidding pile of rock, covered with the worst tangle of scrub spruce you ever saw, and the sh.o.r.e is full of deep fissures and cracks. The one mysterious fact is, that strange bellowing noise that you can't locate anywhere. You may clamber all over the island and all around the sh.o.r.es and it seems to be just ahead of you, or just behind; so far as the stories go, well; the queer harbor inside is said to have been a smuggler's hiding-place years ago, and there are all kinds of yarns connected with the island, from b.l.o.o.d.y murders down to strange sea monsters seen crawling over the rocks. It has a bad name and is seldom visited; for one reason, I think, because it's impossible to land there except in a small boat, and then only when the sea is smooth. The bellowing noise, I believe, is made by the waves entering some cavern below high-water mark. There is also an odd sort of a story linked with it about a little Jew who was known to be a smuggler and who played a sharp trick on a few people ten or twelve years ago. I do not think he had any connection with the island, however, although some say he had. I fancy it's because any ghost-haunted spot always attracts all the mysterious stories told in its neighborhood."

All this was interesting to Manson, and not only added a charm to all the islands he had visited, but made him especially anxious to explore this one.

"Do not laugh at me," he said when Frank had finished his recital, "for expecting to see Indians paddling canoes among your islands when your people down here believe all the ghost stories they do. My fancy is only the shadow of what was certainly a reality not so very long ago; while your stories are spook yarns of the most hobgoblin shape. I want to go to Pocket Island, however," he added a little later, reflectively, "and hear that mysterious bellowing anyhow."

That evening when the sloop was riding quietly at anchor in the little Spoon Island harbor and the full moon just rising, round and red, out of the sea, Obed brought his banjo on deck and away out there, miles from any other island, and mingling with the murmur of the ocean's voice about this one, there came the strains of old, familiar plantation songs sung by those three young friends, at peace with all the world and happy in their seclusion. The gulls had gone to rest, the sea almost so, for the ground swell only washed the island's sandy sh.o.r.e and idly rocked the sloop as she rode secure at anchor. The moon and the man in it both smiled, and when Manson and Frank, wearied of singing, lived over once more the battle scenes they had pa.s.sed through, feeling that never again could they or would they be called upon to face such danger, it may be said that they were as near contentment as often comes in life. And if the droll look of the man in the moon brought back to one a certain night years before, when, as a bashful boy, he could hardly find courage to kiss a blue-eyed girl whom he had walked home with, and who had since become very dear to him, it is not surprising. Neither was it at all strange, if, when looking seaward, that night, he could see far away in the broadening path of silvery sheen, a small, dark island; that he should feel it held a mystery; and that some occult influence had linked that uncanny place, in some way not as yet understood, with his own past and future; that it was some link, some tangible spot, some queer connection between dreams and hopes that might develop into real facts.

While not what is usually called superst.i.tious, Manson could not understand why he had from the very first mention of this island, felt an unaccountable influence attracting him toward it. What it was he could not tell, and yet every hour seemed to bind this influence all the closer, and as it were, cast its spell over him. When they all turned in for the night, he could not go to sleep. His thoughts would go back to that horrible night on the battlefield when he, in his agonies, fancied himself wading down a cool, clear brook; then to the strange influence Liddy had said she felt when, in keeping a foolish promise, she had all alone paid a visit to Blue Hill, and now this weird spell of enchantment that was growing upon him. Was there some mysterious plot in his life that was being unfolded step by step, and one that was far beyond his comprehension? Was his chance meeting with this friend, Frank, on the picket line, a part of it? Was the imperative inclination to always take Liddy away to the top of Blue Hill when he wished to speak to her very soul, also due to some incomprehensible power that was shaping and bending their lives together? That they were, and must be as one in the future--as long as life lasted, he believed as firmly as he believed he lived, and yet beyond that belief there was--and here he met an impa.s.sable barrier and could go no further, only realizing that he was being led by an unseen force. Was it a power that was pus.h.i.+ng him toward Pocket Island? He could not tell.

CHAPTER XXIV.

POCKET ISLAND.

When the sun rose red and sullen the next morning, and our three friends had breakfasted and were hoisting sail on the sloop, Frank said:

"If the wind holds up as it did yesterday, we can run to Pocket Island and back easily. There is no chance to land"--addressing Manson--"or even to go within half a mile of it in the sloop; but I can lay her to while Obed rows ash.o.r.e in the dory. One hour there will give you all the ghost hunting you want, I guess. The only thing I don't like is the way the sun looked this morning. Old Sol appeared mad!"

When they were under way and the sloop was heeling over before the fresh morning breeze, Manson said: "I do not want you to take any chances on my account, Frank. We can go there some other day."

"Oh, I'll take no risks," replied his friend. "It's not the wind that worries me, for we can reef close, and the sloop takes big seas like a duck. It's these beastly coast fogs that come in without warning and absolutely bury you. If the wind s.h.i.+fts, then your compa.s.s is the only salvation."

Manson was silent, for he was only a pa.s.senger, and as his friend's guest, he felt it unwise to offer any suggestion.

"We are all right," continued Frank, scanning the horizon, "so long as the wind holds this way, for we can beat up to the island by noon, and have a fair run back."

Manson was in no mood for talking, for the strange strain of reflections that had come to him the night before still oppressed him and he silently watched the little island ahead growing nearer. When they were within a mile of it, the wind began to drop away and by the time they could see the many rocks that surrounded it, rising like black fangs out of the white froth of the wave wash, it died out entirely.

Frank looked anxious. "You had better," he said, addressing Manson, "eat a bite while Obed and I furl the jib and lower the tops'l. He can then row you ash.o.r.e in the dory. I do not like the way the wind acts."

When Manson started for the island in the small boat he was almost ready to give his visit up, for the little look of anxiety on his friend's face, coupled with the ugly-looking reefs between which Obed was rowing him, and the forbidding sh.o.r.es of the island itself, made a strange feeling of fear creep over him. Beneath it, however, was that queer influence that, like a beckoning spirit, seemed to lure him forward in spite of himself.

"I'll land you on the lee side," said Obed, as he pulled into a narrow opening between two cliffs, "and wait here for you while you go across to the harbor on the other side. It will save time, and I can keep an eye on the sloop."

That Obed felt it necessary to watch the sloop was not rea.s.suring to Manson, but, bidding him good-bye cheerfully, he leaped ash.o.r.e. When he had made his way up over the confusion of rocks that confronted him, and out of sight of the dory, he stopped and listened. It was a silent and desolate spot, but, true to his expectations, as he pa.s.sed there he caught the sound of a low, moaning bellow that rose and fell, almost dying away, and seemed to come from the farther side of the island. He looked and listened, and then, with a parting glance at the sloop half a mile away, started over the island. He soon found he had been rightly informed, for its surface was the worst tangle of rocks and scrub spruce thick between them he ever saw or heard of. He crawled in a little way and then retraced his steps and followed the sh.o.r.e, but even that was almost impa.s.sable. He worked his way slowly along, until all at once, when he had climbed a ledge, he found himself looking down into what seemed like a sunken lake surrounded by a wall, with a narrow opening on the seaward side, and so still that not a ripple disturbed its surface.

Cautiously he crawled down to the edge and glanced about! The spot seemed to fascinate him, and as he gazed at the irregular cliff wall shutting him in, he felt he had descended into a den infested by evil spirits!

Then he started around the sh.o.r.e of this harbor, avoiding the weed-covered rocks, for the tide was low, and as he was slowly moving along, he came suddenly upon a keg caught between two rocks, and just above high-water mark. Its staves were warped and gaping, and when he stooped to lift it they fell apart and disclosed another keg inside.

This he found was heavy, and as he stood it on end he discovered it was filled with some liquid. For a moment he was dazed by the discovery, and then he turned it around till he came to a piece of metal midway between the rusted hoops, and this he pried off with his knife and found it covered a small bung. Trembling with excitement at this mysterious find, he hunted for a pointed stone, and with it drove the bung in, when to his intense surprise he was saluted by the well-known odor of rum!

For an instant his heart almost stopped beating, as there flashed through his mind all the vague tales of this island having been a smuggler's hiding-place long before, and then he looked quickly about him. Naught was visible save the frowning rock walls and the still cove.

Then he stooped again and inserted a finger in the keg and smelled and then tasted! Rum it was, and no mistake, and the best he had ever sipped! But what a find! And what a place to find it in! He looked about him again. Crusoe, when he came upon the footprints in the sand, was not more surprised than Manson at this moment.

Unconscious of the lapse of time, or where he was, or how he came there, he gazed upon that harmless keg as if it held some ghastly secret instead of rum! Where did it come from? Who brought it there? Why had it been concealed in an outer sh.e.l.l? What did it all mean, and was he about to make some horrible discovery? Once more he looked about, and then in an instant, he found himself staring at a dark opening beneath an overhanging shelf of rock not two rods away! Breathless with excitement now, and feeling himself yielding to some dread spell, he almost sprang to the spot, and oblivious of weed-covered rocks and mud, he went down on his hands and knees and peered in. It was a cave opening, sure enough! Trembling still, and yet lured by a weird fascination, he crawled in a short distance and then paused. The hole looked larger inside, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he could see it sloped upward. He felt for a match, and lighting it tried to peer further in. The match burned out and left him unable to see as far as before. Then reason began to a.s.sert itself, and he turned and crawled out, realizing the folly of trying to explore a cave with lighted matches as an aid.

When once more he stood upright outside a strange thing had happened.

Not only had the tide crept up almost to the cave entrance, but the sun was no longer visible, and as he looked up to the top of the rock wall that environed him, a white pall of fog was slowly settling down and hiding all things. He looked at his watch. He had been on the island over four hours! With sudden fear he started around the way he had come, and when he reached the keg of rum an inspiration almost, made him lift and carry it to a place of safety, well above high-tide mark. Then he retraced his steps to where he had left Obed, but the dory had gone and no one was there, and to add to the situation, the fog had so shut the island in that he could not see two rods over the water. He hallooed again and again, but received no answer.

He was alone on Pocket Island with not a morsel to eat, not a blanket to cover him, night coming on, and a fog so thick that he could not see a rod ahead! Even all this did not for one moment obliterate that mysterious keg or cave discovery from his mind, but he felt that he must take steps at once to protect himself from coming night, and darkness, and possible rain, for he knew that when the fog lifted, his friends would return. The first thing was to build himself a shelter, and then a fire. Here his army experience came in well, and he searched until he found two rocks with a level s.p.a.ce between, and laying sticks across and cutting spruce boughs to pile over them and others to serve as a bed, he soon made ready a place to at least crawl into when night came.

Hunger began to a.s.sert itself, but food was out of the question. That keg of rum came to his mind as he worked, however, and when the rude shelter was complete he searched the rocky sh.o.r.es for some large sh.e.l.l, or anything that would hold a small portion of the liquor. He found a cocoanut that the sea had kindly cast up among the rocks, and cutting one end off with his pocket-knife, and digging out the interior, he once more returned where he had left the mysterious keg.

Twilight was near and the dark cave entrance and frowning walls about the little harbor seemed more ominous than ever. He made haste to fill his rude cup with rum and return to his shelter. Then he gathered fuel, for fire at least would be a little company, and a strange dread of spending the coming night alone there on that haunted island was creeping over him. He did not believe in ghosts, but when he thought of the peculiar sequence of events, mingled with a slowly growing belief that some mysterious power was leading him--he knew not whither--a feeling that he was soon to face some ghastly experience, came like an icy hand grasping his in the dark. He could not shake that feeling off, and as he gathered driftwood, bits of dead spruce--anything that would burn, and piled the fuel near his shelter--his dread increased. What strange spell was it that had kept him four hours beside that wall-enclosed harbor unconscious of the lapse of time? Why had he not seen the fog coming until too late? And that keg and cave!--what did all these mysteries mean? Then, searching further along the sh.o.r.e for driftwood, he came suddenly upon a tangle of wreckage piled high among the rocks. It would serve as fuel, and he began to drag large pieces to his shelter. Three trips he made, and was just lifting the end of a broken spar, when right at his feet, and half-buried in the sand, he saw a white object. The night was fast approaching and he was in a hurry, but some impulse made him stoop, and there in the gathering gloom he saw--a grinning human skull!

CHAPTER XXV.

THE SMUGGLER'S CAVE.

Manson had faced death on the battlefield when comrades were falling beside him; he had paced for hours on the picket-line in the darkness of night, feeling that at any moment an enemy might fire at him from some thicket or from behind some tree or rock; but amid all these dangers he had not felt the nameless horror that came to him as he saw that hideous skull grinning at him there in the tangle of wreckage just at dusk on Pocket Island. It was like a hand reaching out from a grave, or a voice calling to him from a tomb. Alone on that little, sea-grit isle, trembling beneath the waves that beat upon it, and in the fast-gathering darkness he stood for a moment spellbound. All the ghostly tales he had been told of this spot came to him in an instant and with the force of truth, and had he at that moment beheld some spectral figure rise from among the black rocks he would not have been surprised. Then feeling his strength leaving him, he turned and ran as fast as he could back to where he had built the shelter. With trembling hands he managed to start a fire and sat down beside it. It was a little comfort, but not enough to drive away the dread that seemed to increase as the night grew blacker. He dared not use his small stock of fuel except sparingly, fearing it would not last till morning, and he should be left in total darkness. Back of him was the impa.s.sable thicket, and in front the rock-bound sh.o.r.e, and as he listened to the booming of the surges he could see, just in the edge of the zone of light, those eyeless sockets and that mocking grin ever hovering near. Then as the night wore on and the wind increased, slowly rising and falling and rising again, each time a little louder, came that ominous, bellowing sound. It was not like that of any creature he had ever heard or dreamed of, but rather the menace of some horrible monster unknown to earth or air. All the stories of hideous shapes that dwelt beneath the ocean waves, and all the old legends of the sea and its unknown denizens, came to him, and ever mingling with these phantasms that seemed to be crawling all about was that grinning skull.

Solitude and night on a lonely sh.o.r.e, far removed from human kind, inevitably produces in the mind strange effects. All ordinary reasoning is set at naught and common sense goes astray. The nearness of the unknown and unapproachable ocean; the ever varying and menacing sounds that issue from it; the leaping and curling billows that, like white and black demons, seem trying to engulf the earth and make even the rocks tremble--all have a weird and uncanny influence. In their presence the imagination runs riot and the ghostly and supernatural usurp reason.

Spectral shapes crawl out of dark fissures and leap from rock to rock and hideous sea monsters creep in the verge of shadows. To be alone on a small island of evil repute and many miles out in the ocean, as Manson was, was to have this weird influence more than doubled. At times, when reason seemed trembling in the balance, he fancied himself hovering over the battlefield where he had lain for hours suffering indescribable agony; and looking at the ghastly faces of dead men in the moonlight! He could see their white teeth showing in mocking grin and their glazed eyes staring at him! Here and there were parts of bodies: a head in one place, an arm and hand in another! Then he could see himself sitting upon the ground amid thick bushes, and resting in his lap was a boy's face, the eyes looking up into his in piteous appeal! How well he could recall every moment of that half-hour of dumb anguish and the last fight for life that dying boy had made! He could see the blood gush from his lips at every breath drawn in desperate effort, and feel the tight clasp of his hands and oh! the awful dread of coming death in his eyes! Then the last earthly effort when the poor boy had, in grat.i.tude at sight of a pitying face, kissed the hand that killed him!

To Manson's keen imagination it seemed as if Fate had led him to this horrible spot to go mad and die alone, tortured by remorse and despair.

As he sat by his one companion, the little fire, all that long night, trying to fight back the imaginary horrors that menaced him, one constant thought weighed heaviest upon his feelings, and that was that some uncomprehended motive force was shaping his every action and a.s.serting itself more and more. What evil was in store for him, or what fate was to come, was a greater burden than all the rest. How long that night was no pen can describe, and when the first faint tinge of morning light came, he felt that nothing in life was quite so blessed as daylight. The fog was still thick, but the hideous darkness, with all its terrors, was pa.s.sed, and with the light came a bit of returning courage. He had sipped from the cup of rum at times through the night, but had felt no effect, and now he was faint from need of food. He hunted the sh.o.r.e, where clams could be found, and securing a few roasted and ate them. Then once more came the uncanny fascination of that cave!

He dreaded to go near it, and yet could not keep away. It was like a voice calling to him that must be answered. But how to enter without a light! Once more he thought of that keg, and going to the pile of wreckage, found pieces of rope, and moistening one end of a bit in the rum that was left in his cup, set it on fire. It burned slowly but steadily, and now he felt he had means to enter the cave. With a few pieces of this rope he made his way down to where the keg was, and soaked them well in the rum. Then he paused and looked around. The frowning walls seemed more menacing than ever, and that black hole just beyond, which he had tried to enter the day before, glared at his like a huge eye of sinister import. He thought of the ghastly skull he had found the night before, and wondered if it had any connection with this cave. Cautiously, step by step, he crept toward it. Was it the hiding-place of some sea monster, and was death there in that dark cavern awaiting him? Once again he felt his courage leaving and a strange weakness stealing his strength. He turned back and sat down by the keg.

Given the right conditions, and our imaginations will surround us with hobgoblins and spectres by day as well as night, and almost upset the reasoning power of strong men. To Manson, who had pa.s.sed one long, sleepless night full of imaginary terrors, and believing himself governed and controlled by some supernatural power, the experience he had pa.s.sed through, and the impulses that were now alternately pulling him back and pus.h.i.+ng him toward that dark cave in front of him, he felt must be ill-omened and uncanny. For an hour he sat and looked at his surroundings, trying to reason away his fears and convince himself they were groundless, and that all the stories he had heard about this island being haunted were purely imaginary. Only partially did he succeed, however, and then, at last yielding to the fascination that constantly drew him toward the cave, arose and once more cautiously crept toward it.

At the entrance he paused and listened. Not a sound could be heard except the faint voice of the ocean outside. He stooped and took one step inward, and listened again. All he could hear now was the beating of his own heart. He lit one of his torches and then another. Then he took two steps more and paused again. The faint light showed the cavern sloped sharply upward. Carefully, on his knees, supporting himself by one hand, he crawled up the incline until the floor became level and then he stood upright. For a moment he halted there, trying to peer into the inky darkness. He seemed to be looking into a wide, open s.p.a.ce; a peculiar odor tainted the air. He took a few steps and paused again.

Then he turned one of his torches down inward to increase the flame, and as it burned brighter he held it above his head. Now he could see the wall of rock all about, and on the further side and close to the wall, a large boulder. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness, he could see the floor formation, and as its outlines grew more distinct, he caught the gleam of white teeth grinning at him from some creature almost at his feet! Breathless now, and trembling, he lowered his torch, and beheld prostrate there in front of him two shriveled and blackened corpses!

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FATE OF A MISER.

As Manson gazed in horror at those two charred bodies reduced to skeletons in that dark cave, he felt more than ever that his every step for many days had been in obedience to some mysterious power that had at last brought him face to face with danger and death.

For one instant the impulse to turn from that ghastly sight and leave the cave came to him, but the baleful fascination of those hideous objects held him prisoner. He could not if he would turn away. One of the skeletons, for such they almost were, was that of a tall man, face up, the grinning teeth fully exposed; the other of smaller size, with legs and arms drawn together. No signs of clothing were visible on either, and the flesh appeared to have shrunk away, showing the shape of every bone. Midway between them lay a rusted pistol and just beyond, glistening in the faint light, were bits of gla.s.s. When his eyes grew accustomed to the sickening sight he raised them, looked around, and for the first time saw, a few feet away, a raised, table-like rock, and on it piles of round dark bits of metal. Taking two steps he stooped, and picking up one of these pieces held it close to the light. It was a twenty-dollar gold piece!

Wonder succeeded horror! What mystery was this? Two charred skeletons beside a pile of gold in this dark and silent cavern! Was it some infernal dream or a reality? He stooped and picked up more of the coins.

Gold, every one! Then he examined others and found silver dollars and halves. He turned and looked about, holding one torch above his head, and almost expecting to see some spectral form half-hid in the shadows.

Only the faintly outlined walls of rock could be seen. Then, feeling faint and weak from the intense strain, he hastily retraced his steps down and out of the cave. He was just in time, for the rising tide had almost cut off his exit. So weak now that he could hardly walk, he crept around to the keg and sat down to think. Then for the first time he looked at the sky and saw the sun faintly visible through the fog. What a blessed sight it was! He had never known before how good the sun could look to a poor, hungry, horror-struck mortal! Then he picked up a sh.e.l.l, and pouring a little of the rum out of the keg, drank it. It had a magic effect, for it brought back his strength and courage and a realization of what he had discovered. In the dread experiences he had just pa.s.sed through, he had not comprehended what it meant to him. Now he did.