“Queer?” McLagan laughed shortly. He shook his head. “That don’t say a thing. Think back, man. What have we found so far? From the carpenter’s shop under the fo’castle head to the men’s quarters and the galley, and this, we’ve found just the thing you’d expect to find in a full-crewed, well-found ship—except the ship’s company itself.” He shrugged. “There were chips and wood lying around in the tool shop—and tools—just as if the boy who worked there had only just quit his job. The men’s quarters in the fo’castle looked to be in the sort of order you’d find in a ship about to set out for sea, an’ before she’s taken on her crew. As for the galley, you could start right in to fix food there now and not be worried a thing, except for being short on pots an’ things. Look at the lumber stacked on the deck. It’s there ready for a sea-trip without a stick or lashing out of place, and I’d say the hold cargo’s likely the same. And as for the boats——” He paused and gazed thoughtfully about him, and his eyes came to rest again on the rat-gnawed food on the table, which held him fascinated. “That’s the queerest thing of it all. This craft was built with four boats and they’re all in place snugged down, and I’d say they’ve never been unshipped except for a coat of paint. Here’s a darn craft been sailing loose for maybe weeks or months without a soul on board we can locate, not even with the rats belonging her—now. And there’s not a sign of how or why the folks belonging her quit.”
He turned and flung himself into the chair that had obviously been that usually occupied by the captain of the vessel. He seemed to be completely at a loss. Peter moved over to one of the doors, and peered into the apartment beyond. Sasa displayed no curiosity. His dark eyes were unusually wide, and a curious brooding light left them almost expressionless. He stood staring down at the littered table, and after a few prolonged moments of silence, McLagan stirred irritably in his chair.
“Get around in those three state-rooms, or whatever they are, Peter, an’ take the darn breed with you,” he cried. “Poke around and smell out. Sasa’ll be more use that way than gawking like some darn mutt around here. If you find a thing, shout me. I’m stopping around to worry this thing out right here.”
McLagan was rarely enough given to irritation. But oppressive irritation was driving him now. He remained where he was until his lieutenant and the half-breed had passed into the first of the three compartments. Then, as the door swung to behind them, he started up and passed swiftly from the room. Moving down the alleyway, beyond the steward’s pantry, he came to the break of the poop and out into the daylight.
Here he paused. It was good to be out in the air again, and a sense of relief came to him as he surveyed the scene. The main deck here was clear of cargo. It was clean, almost as clean as if it had only just endured the attentions of the sand and canvas so beloved of the seaman. Rope-ends, that should have been neatly cleated, or coiled away, were littered where the weather had flung them, but it was the only sign of any confusion.
He breathed his relief as he leant against the doorway and surveyed it all with contemplative eyes. The wind was screaming through the rigging and the torn sails were booming out their protests. The sky was darkening with a real threat of storm, and beyond the high prow of the wreck the grey walls of the bay rose up gaunt and forbidding.
The whole thing had gotten hold of McLagan in a curiously depressing fashion. He felt that somehow there was an unusual story lying behind the circumstances of this fair-weather wreck. And his practical mind was searching every avenue that opened up to its vision.
Mutiny? His mind naturally turned to mutiny, but he dismissed the thought immediately. There was not a sign of mutiny from the ship’s bows to her stern-post. There was not a sign of force or struggle, and her boats were in place. Storm? He shook his head. No storm had broken the heart of her crew. What else was there to cause her abandonment? Nothing. No. Look which way he would, there was no reasonable solution in the vessel’s condition. There had been a purely voluntary exodus, orderly, quiet, even if hasty. Of that he was convinced. There was no other conclusion to come to. No. Whatever there still remained to be discovered in her holds, and in those cabins behind him, there was nothing much else for him to do but to drive into Beacon on the work he had in hand, and carry in with him the report of this wreck to Alan Goodchurch, who represented the United States Government for the district. That would have to be done. But meanwhile——
A curious look crept suddenly into his narrow eyes. He was looking out straight before him down the deck. Immediately in his focus were the securely battened main hatch and the galley and the fo’castle. There were the iron-shod steps of the companion-ladder up to the roof of these, and, to the right of that stood a tarpaulin-covered winch, with behind it the donkey-engine room. His gaze was riveted on the deckway that passed beyond this and which was stacked high with great baulks of lumber.
But it was not these things which had inspired the curious, questioning, incredulous look with which he gazed upon them. It was something else. Something which startled him, and made him turn quickly to the stormy sky, which, at that moment, had broken to permit a pallid beam of sunshine to make its way through. It was only for a moment he looked up, however. Then again he became absorbed in the deck ahead of him.