CHAPTER XIV
OUT OF THE FOG
"No, we'll not go ashore tonight," stated Captain Dabney at supper. "We would only lose ourselves blundering about in this fog. If the stuff is still there, it will keep until tomorrow. In the morning we'll have a try, whether the fog has lifted or not."
"We'll find the junk unless Wild Bob and Ichi have beaten us to it," said Little Billy. "Hope they are not snugged close by behind this blooming curtain."
"No danger of that," answered Ruth. "If the Dawn had been anywhere near us, I would have raised her topmasts above the bank. I didn't, so she is neither outside nor inside. They have either been here or gone, or they never arrived. In either case, I am thankful for Carew's absence. Shall we stand watch and watch tonight, captain?"
"Hardly necessary," said the captain. "Make it an anchor watch. Guess you'll welcome a couple of extra hours in your bunks. Let's see, Martin, you stand watch with the afterguard; that will make four of you—Ruth, Bosun, Little Billy, and Martin. Have the fo'c's'le stand watch in batches of two. Make Chips and Sails—they have been farmers the passage—stand watch and watch. That will make four hands on deck at a time—plenty for any sudden emergency. But if the fog lifts during the night, rouse the ship at once and we'll set off for the beach. Got your directions ready, Billy?"
"Yes, in my pocket," said the hunchback. "But I venture that we all know them by heart."
"If the fog lifts, wind may follow," added the captain. "If it breezes up from the south we may have to hike out of here in a hurry. How much chain is out? Forty-five? Well, have the bosun clap the devil's claw on ahead of the shackle, and loosen the pin, in case we have to drop the cable. And—all hands at four o'clock."
In the lottery that presently followed, Martin drew the watch from two to four in the morning. Little Billy's paper called for from twelve to two. Ruth and the boatswain divided the first four hours.
Before he turned in, Martin went forward to discover which of the forecastle hands would share his vigil. When he came abreast the galley door, where a beam of light shining out lighted dimly a small patch of the pervading, foggy murk, he encountered Sails.
MacLean was standing in the light, bitterly recounting his troubles to the cheerfully grinning Charley Bo Yip. Martin paused, and was promptly aware that Sails had transferred his flow of words to the newcomer, as being a better audience than the unresponsive Chinaman.
Martin gathered that Sails was to stand the middle watch, and that he was aggrieved that the best blood of Scotland had been bested in a game of chance by a blanked squarehead ship's carpenter, who had, it seemed, won the right to stand the earlier watch. And, in any case, it was sacrilege to violate the night's rest of a MacLean. And a sailmaker was a dash-blanked tradesman and should never be blankety well asked to stand a watch under any dashed circumstances! So quoth Sails.
Martin commiserated with the other.
"You'll be on watch with me, Sails," he concluded. "I have the two to four. Little Billy has the earlier half of the watch."
"Little Billy!" echoed Sails. "Did ye say Little Billy, lad?" His belligerent voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Och, lad—Little Billy?"
"Why, yes. What is wrong with that?" answered Martin.
Suddenly Sails raised an arm and shook a clenched fist at the mountain that brooded invisible behind the fog curtain.
"Och, ye black de'il's kirk!" he declaimed. "Ye blood-sucker! The MacLean's curse on ye!"
He stood in relief against the muddy background, his features dimly lighted by the ray from the galley lamp, wisps of fog eddying about his gray head and beard, his features wild and passion-working. And he cursed the Fire Mountain. It was unreal, unearthly, a scene from another age. But Martin felt a superstitious thrill.
"Great Scott! What is the matter?" he cried, startled.
MacLean lowered his arm, and his shoulders slumped despondently. He mumbled to himself. Then, in answer to Martin, he said:
"Little Billy—och, 'tis Little Billy, dear Billy! 'Tis feydom, lad!" And he turned abruptly, strode forward, and was lost in the fog.
When Martin reached aft again, he intended to tell Little Billy about MacLean's strange behavior. He found the hunchback restlessly pacing the tiny floor space of their common room. Little Billy lifted a haggard face as Martin entered.
"Hello, Martin," he said. "I was waiting up for you. Here—keep these for me, will you?" He extended a bunch of keys. "I'm feeling extra dry tonight, and I don't want to be tempted by knowing I have the key to the medicine-chest in my pocket. Whenever I pass that confounded box, I think of the two quarts of booze inside, and my tongue swells. Just keep the keys till tomorrow, will you? Ruth kept them for me when I had my last big thirst, a few weeks ago—remember? But I would rather you kept them this time. I don't want her to know I'm having a hard time. She makes such a fuss over me, stuffs me with pills, and makes me drink that vile sassafras tea."
Martin dropped the bunch of keys into his trousers pocket. He regarded Little Billy with sympathy. For the past few days, the hunchback had again been engaged in a bout with his ancient enemy. Little Billy was fighting manfully, but the strain was telling, aging his mobile face, making rare his sunny smile and whimsical banter. Martin keenly felt the other's suffering, for he had learned to love the little cripple.
"Cheer up, Billy!" he said. "A better day coming."
"Oh, sure! Don't worry about me," responded Little Billy. "Turn in and get your sleep. I'm for the bunk, too—but I guess I'll read a bit before I turn the lamp down. Lord, don't I wish I owned a saloon! Well, tomorrow we'll find the ambergris, and I'll have money enough to drink myself peacefully to death—providing that devil, Carew, hasn't been before us to this cheerful spot. Good night."
Clambering into his bunk, the little man composed himself to a pretense of reading.
Martin decided he would not trouble Little Billy with a recital of MacLean's outburst. The poor fellow's mind was feverish enough without being bothered with the old Scotchman's wild, nonsensical raving. Martin knew the hunchback would consider gravely, and be disturbed, if he spoke. Little Billy apparently had some faith in Sails' mystical foresight.
In truth, Martin himself, was impressed and oppressed by the Scot's obscure hints of evil to come—they fitted so well with the wild and gloomy face of the volcano and the depressing fog. Martin was half ashamed of his dread of something he could not name; but he turned in standing, removing only his shoes and loosening his belt, before crawling into his bunk and drawing the blankets over him.
A strange hand grasping his shoulder brought Martin out of deep sleep to instant consciousness. The light still burned in the room, and his opening eyes first rested on the tin clock hanging on the wall opposite. It was one o'clock.
The hand that shook him belonged to MacLean. The old man was bending over him with the white face of one who has seen a ghost.
"He's gone!" he softly exclaimed, before Martin could frame a question.
Startled, Martin sat up and swung his legs outboard.
"What—Little Billy?" A glance showed him the upper bunk was empty.
"Aye—Billy," responded Sails. "Och, 'tis a bad night outdoors, lad—a thick, dark night. And Billy's gone. Didna' I see him in the dark, and wearing the black shroud, these months agone! He was feyed! Yon mount is the de'il's home, and others——"
"What are you talking about?" interrupted Martin impatiently. "What nonsense! Isn't Little Billy on deck? Isn't he on watch?"
"On watch? Aye, who kens where he watches now? He's gone, I tell ye!" hissed the old man fiercely. And then, apparently observing Martin's bewilderment, he went on: "He has disappeared from deck. Och, I can no say how! The Powers o' Darkness can no be seen through, and he was under the black shroud! I saw him at one bell when he came for'rd and routed me oot the galley where I was taking a wee spell.
"Och, 'tis a black, bad night the night. Ye canna' see your hand afore ye. And Billy went aft, and I leaned on the rail, and listened—listened, for I couldna' see. And I heard It! Aye, I kenned 'twas It, for 'twas no the soond o' the waves, nor the calling o' the birds, nor the splash o' anything that lives in the sea. I kenned it was It. Hadna' I seen the shroud? Soonded like an oar stroke. 'Twas the Prince o' Evil soonding his way, a-coming wi' his shroud. Och! I run aft to tell Billy, and I tell ye, lad, Little Billy was gone!"
MacLean leaned forward, grunting his words earnestly, his face working with superstitious fear.
"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Martin. "You make me tired with your eternal 'fey' business. Little Billy is somewhere around the deck—probably seeking you, this minute."
"He's gone!" reiterated Sails. "I searched, I tell ye! I got my lantern, and I looked all aboot the poop, and all aboot the decks, clear for'rd, and I sang oot as loud as I could wi'oot rousing all hands—and no hide or hair o' Billy could I find. Och, he's gone, I tell ye, lad. Didna' I see him lying stark in the dark place, wi' the black shroud over him. The MacLeans ha' the sight, lad, and I am the seventh son."
"All right, all right! Don't chatter so loud, you'll awaken everybody," interrupted Martin. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and bent over and pulled on his shoes. "I'll go on deck with you, and of course Little Billy will give us the laugh."
But Martin was, in fact, a little bit impressed by the old sailmaker's earnest conviction. As he laced his shoes, a little superstitious thrill tingled along his spine at the thought of It plucking Little Billy from the deck and carrying him into the dark depths of the brooding mountain.
But that was nonsense, he immediately reflected, half angry with himself. By George! If he allowed that confounded volcano to affect him so, he would soon be as bad as old Sails! Still, he had better go on deck and take a look at Little Billy, and satisfy the old man. His watch was soon, anyway.
Martin was recalling the hunchback's nervousness a few hours previous; Little Billy was wrestling John Barleycorn. If he had disappeared as the sailmaker claimed, he had probably lost the bout and would be found in drunken sleep. There was whisky in the medicine-chest—no, he had the keys. Well, then the alcohol in the boatswain's locker.
"Was there anything unusual about Little Billy's manner when you saw him at one bell?" he asked MacLean.
"No, lad. I ken your thought," replied the other. "He'd no had a drop, though he was jumpy as a cat."
Martin was taken aback by Sails' shrewd guess. He tiptoed to the door.
"Come on," he whispered to Sails. "Don't make any noise. We don't want to disturb the others until we make sure Little Billy isn't on the job."
They stepped into the cabin, and Martin's first glance was toward the medicine-chest. It had not been disturbed. They went forward, through the cabin alleyway, toward the main deck. The boatswain's room opened off here.
Martin opened the door, half expecting to see the hunchback chatting with his bosom friend. But the room was dark, and the red giant was sleeping noisily. Then they opened the door at the end of the alleyway and stepped out on deck, Martin softly closing the door behind him.
Abruptly, Martin found himself isolated in a sea of murk. At that hour, the sun had dipped for its brief concealment beneath the horizon, and the fog, which had been a gray-brown curtain in daylight, was now an all-enshrouding cloak of blackness that rendered eyesight useless.
Literally, Martin could not see his hand before his face. Nor could he see the door to the cabin alleyway, that he had just closed, though he had stepped but a couple of paces away from it. Nor could he see Sails, though the latter stood but an arm's length distant. Sails's hoarse whisper came through the gloom:
"Ye see the night, lad? Och, 'tis a night for evil!"
Martin shivered at the sound of Sails' dismal croaking. See the night! He could see nothing. The other's voice came out of an impenetrable void. Above him, beneath him, all about him, was nothing but blackness, thick, clinging gloom. The Stygian, fog-filled night crushed, like a heavy, intangible weight; one choked for breath.
Martin felt like an atom lost in back immensity. He wanted to shout at the top of his voice. But what he did do was lift his voice gently, so the words would not arouse the sleepers in the cabin.
"Little Billy! Billy!" he called.
His call was swallowed up, smothered, by the night. He strained his ears. But the only answer was the eery cry of a night-flying gull and the deep moaning of the sea upon the rocks—that and the hoarse, uneasy breathing of the invisible MacLean.
Martin was more than disturbed by that silence.
"Sails, who are the foc'sle hands who have this watch?" he said.
"Rimoa and Oomak," came MacLean's voice. "They were for'rd when I came aft for you."
Martin called again, along the decks.
"Rimoa! Oomak! For'rd there—speak up!"
The wailing voices of the night replied; not a word, not a footfall came out of the gloom to tell of stirring human life.
"Good Lord, they must all be asleep!" exclaimed Martin testily. "Sails, where is that lantern you spoke of?"
"In the galley—I left it there," answered the sailmaker. "I will go fetch it."
He heard MacLean's retreating footsteps, uncertain and uneven, as the man felt his way forward. The diminishing sounds affected him strangely; he was suddenly like a little child affrighted by the dark. The sinister night contained a nameless threat. The black wall that encompassed him, flouting his straining gaze, seemed peopled by rustlings and leering eyes. Abruptly, Martin decided to follow MacLean, instead of waiting for him.
He stepped out in the other's wake, as he thought. After a blundering moment, he fetched up against the ship's rail. He tacked away and bumped into the after capstan, which stood in the middle of the deck. He barked his shins there and swore aloud to relieve his surcharged feelings.
Then his groping hand encountered a little object, lying on top of the capstan, that checked his words instantly. It was a well-known article, one he had handled often, and recognized immediately he touched it—it was Little Billy's rubber tobacco-pouch. He fingered it apprehensively, staring about him. Why was Little Billy's pouch abandoned there on the capstan-head, this pocket companion of an inveterate smoker? Why, Little Billy must be near by! He called excitedly:
"Billy! Billy! Where are you?"
The night took his hail and returned its own sphinx-like reply. Martin stuffed the pouch into his pocket. He was distinctly uneasy, now, on the hunchback's account. Something had happened, he felt—some accident had happened to Little Billy. It was not like Little Billy to thus forsake his beloved shag, his constant ally in his fight against the drink hunger. Had the poor devil succumbed after all? Had he deserted Nicotine for Barleycorn?
Martin leaned over the capstan, peering into that baffling gloom. He stiffened tensely. He seemed to hear whispering; it came out of that black pit before him, the very ghost of a man's voice.
He strained his ears, but the sound, if sound it were, was not repeated. He was impatient for MacLean to appear with the lantern, but he could no longer hear MacLean's footfalls. Then his ears caught another sound; it was peculiar, like the patter of bare feet.
"MacLean! Where are you?" he called sharply. "Hurry with that lantern!"
Instead of MacLean's voice in reply, he heard a heavy breathing, the sound of a man taking several long, sobbing breaths. The breathing ceased immediately, but a light patter followed it, and then the scrape of a shod foot across the deck. The sounds came from just ahead, close by, but he could see nothing. But he sensed some kind of a struggle was taking place on the deck.
He started forward, and then stopped dead. Out of the black void before him came MacLean's voice—strangled words in a horrible, ascending pitch:
"Marty! Marty! My God! Ah-h-h!"
There, was the thud of a heavy, falling body striking the deck.
For a second Martin was anchored by horror. Then he leaped forward, giving voice as he did to a great, arousing, wordless bellow. And even as he ran blindly ahead those few paces, he heard a heavy voice give a shouted supplement to his call.
The darkness was suddenly alive with rushing feet. A body hurled itself against him, an arm struck a sweeping blow, and he felt the knife rip through his flannel shirt and graze his shoulder near his neck.
He went reeling backward, his foot tripped on a ring-bolt in the deck, and he fell heavily. His head struck with stunning force against a bulwark stanchion.
The collision scattered his wits, and Martin lay in the scuppers, blinking at the dancing lights before his eyes. In his ears was a great humming. Then, after a moment, the humming broke into parts and became a babel of shouts.
He heard a harsh chatter—voices crying out in a foreign tongue. He heard a great booming voice that stirred memory. He heard a pistol-shot. He heard Ruth's voice, raised in a sharp, terror-stricken cry:
"Martin—Billy—Martin! Oh, help!"
The scream galvanized Martin to action. She was calling him!
He struggled to arise, got upon his knees, reached upward and grasped a belaying-pin in the rail above. Clutching the pin, he drew himself erect.
He swayed drunkenly for a moment, still dizzied by his fall. The pandemonium of a moment agone was stilled. Ruth did not cry out again, but voices came from aft. The belaying-pin he grasped was loose in its hole and unencumbered by rope. Quite without reasoning, Martin drew it out, and, grasping it clublike, lurched aft.
Twice during his headlong flight toward the cabin, hands reached out of the darkness to stay him. And twice the stout, oaken club he wielded impacted against human skulls, and men dropped in their tracks.
Martin burst out of the gloom into the small half-circle of half light that came from the now open alleyway door. He rushed through, into the cabin.
He had time but for a glimpse of the scene in the cabin. One whirling glance that took in the scattered company—the bedraggled Japanese, Captain Dabney lying face down across the threshold of his room, his white hair bloodied, Wild Bob Carew lifting a startled face. And Carew was holding a squirming, fighting Ruth in his arms!
Martin hardly checked the stride of his entrance. He flung himself toward the man who held his woman, and his club cracked upon another skull.
A man hurtled against him and drove him against the wall. He saw Carew fall, and Ruth spill free of the encircling arms.
Then a hand took him by the throat, long, supple, muscular fingers stopping his wind. He saw a face upraised to his—an expressionless yellow face, with glittering, slanting eyes. He drew up his club for the blow. The slender fingers were probing upward, behind his jawbone, and he was choking.
Then, it seemed to Martin, a stream of liquid fire flooded his veins, searing his entire body. The belaying-pin dropped from his nerveless hand, his arms dropped, his knees sagged.
The terrible fingers squeezed tighter. He could feel his eyeballs starting, his tongue swelling. The flame consumed his vitals. It was hellish pain—quite the sharpest agony Martin had ever felt.
He was upon his back on the floor. The fingers were gone, but the awful pain continued. His wits were swimming. A pair of soft arms were about him. His reeling head was cushioned against a loved and fragrant breast; a dear voice spoke his name anxiously.
"Martin, Martin! What have they done? Oh, Martin, speak to me!" He tried to speak, but could not.
Then the loved presence was gone, and he was alone. A face bent over him!—a yellow face. It was a well-remembered face, the face of little Dr. Ichi. But what a towsled, bedraggled successor to the former dandy!
Ichi was smiling at him. It was all very strange to Martin, unreal, like the fancies of a delirium. A mist came before his eyes and blotted out the smiling face. But his senses left him with Ichi's courteously spoken words in his ears:
"Very, very sorry, Mr. Blake. You were of such roughness we were compelled to use the ju-jitsu!"