The Sea-Story Megapack: 30 Classic Nautical Works Page 2

  But at such times the Glarus seemed to me to be threading a loneliness beyond all words and beyond all conception desolate. Even in more populous waters, when no sail notches the line of the horizon, the propinquity of one’s kind is nevertheless a thing understood, and to an unappreciated degree, comforting. Here, however, I knew we were out, far out in the desert. Never a keel for years upon years before us had parted these waters, never a sail had bellied to these winds. Perfunctorily, day in and day out we turned our eyes through long habit towards the horizon. But we knew, before the look, that the searching would be bootless. Forever and forever, under the pitiless sun and cold blue sky stretched the indigo of the ocean floor. The ether between the planets can be no less empty, no less void. I never, till that moment, could have so much as conceived the imagination of such loneliness, such utter stagnant abomination of desolation. In an open boat, bereft of comrades, I should have gone mad in thirty minutes.

  I remember to have approximated the impression of such empty immensity only once before, in my younger days, when I lay on my back on a treeless, bushless mountain side, and stared up into the sky for the better part of an hour. You probably know the trick. If you do not, you must understand that if you look up at the blue long enough, steadily enough, the flatness of the thing begins little by little to expand, to give here and there; and the eye travels on and on and up and up, till at length (well for you that it lasts but the fraction of a second), you all at once see space. You generally stop there and cry out, and—your hands over your eyes—are only too glad to grovel close to the good old solid earth again. Just as I, so often on short voyage, was glad to wrench my eyes away from that horrid vacancy, to fasten them upon our sailless masts and stack, or to lay my grip upon the sooty smudged taffrail of the only thing that stood between me and the Outer Dark.

  For we had come at last to that region of the Great Seas, where no ship goes, the silent sea of Coleridge and the Ancient One, the unplumbed, untracked, uncharted Dreadfulness, primordial, hushed, and we were as much alone as a grain of star dust whirling in the empty space beyond Uranus and the ken of the greater telescopes.

  So the Glarus plodded and churned her way onward. Every day and all day the same pale blue sky and unwinking sun bent over that moving speck. Every day and all day the same black-blue water-world, untouched by any known wind, smooth as a slab of syenite, colorful as an opal, stretched out and around and beyond and before and behind us, forever, illimitable, empty. Every day the smoke of our fires veiled the streaked whiteness of our wake. Every day Hardenberg (our skipper) at noon pricked a pin-hole in the chart that hung in the wheel house, and that showed we were so much farther into the wilderness. Every day the world of men, of civilization, of newspapers, policemen, and street railways, receded, and we steamed on alone, lost and forgotten in that silent sea.

  “Jolly lot o’ room to turn raound in,” observed Ally Bazan, the colonial, “withaout steppin’ on y’r neighbor’s toes.”

  “We’re clean, clean out o’ the track of navigation,” Hardenberg told him. “An’ a blessed good thing for us, too. Nobody ever comes down into these waters. Ye couldn’t pick no course here. Everything leads to nowhere.”

  “Might as well be in a bally balloon,” said Strokher.

  I shall not tell of the nature of the venture on which the Glarus was bound, further than to say it was not legitimate. It had to do with an ill thing done over two centuries ago. There was money in the venture, but it was to be gained by a violation of metes and bounds which are better left intact.

  The island toward which we were heading is associated in the minds of men with a Horror. A Ship had called there once, two hundred years in advance of the Glarus—a ship not much unlike the crank high-prowed caravel of Hudson, and her company had landed, and having accomplished the evil they had set out to do, made shift to sail away. And then, just after the palms of the island had sunk from sight below the water’s edge, the unspeakable had happened. The Death that was not Death had arisen from out the sea and stood before the Ship; and over it and the blight of the thing lay along the decks like mould, and the ship sweated in the terror of that which is yet without a name. Twenty men died in the first week, all but six in the second. These six, with the shadow of insanity upon them, made out to launch a boat, returned to the island and died there, after leaving a record of what had happened.

  The six left the ship exactly as she was, sails all set, lanterns all lit, left her in the shadow of the Death that was not Death. The wind made at the time, they said, and as they bent to their bars, she sailed after them, for all the world like a thing refusing to abandon them or be herself abandoned, till the wind died down. Then they left her behind, and she stood there, becalmed, and watched them go. She was never heard of again.

  Or was she—well, that’s as may be.

  But the main point of the whole affair to my notion, has always been this. The ship was the last friend of those six poor wretches who made back for the island with their poor chests of plunder. She was their guardian, as it were, would have defended and befriended them to the last; and also we, the Three Black Crows and myself, had no right under heaven, nor before the law of men, to come prying and peeping into this business—into this affair of the dead and buried past. There was sacrilege in it. We were no better than body snatchers.

  * * * *

  When I heard the others complaining of the loneliness of our surroundings, I said nothing at first. I was no sailor man and I was on board only by tolerance. But I looked again at the maddening sameness of the horizon—the same vacant, void horizon that we had seen now for sixteen days on end, and felt in my wits and in my nerves that same formless rebellion and protest such as comes when the same note is reiterated over and over again.

  It may seem a little thing that the mere fact of meeting with no other ship should have ground down the edge of the spirit. But let the incredulous—bound upon such a hazard as ours—sail straight into nothingness for sixteen days on end, seeing nothing but the sun, hearing nothing but the thresh of his own screw, and then put the question.

  And yet, of all things, we desired no company. Stealth was our one great aim. But I think there were moments—toward the last—when the Three Crows would have welcomed even a cruiser.

  Besides, there was more cause for depression, after all, than mere isolation.

  On the seventh day, Hardenberg and I were forward by the cat-head adjusting the grain with some half-formed intent of spearing the porpoises that of late had begun to appear under our bows, and Hardenberg had been computing the number of days we were yet to run.

  “We are some five hundred odd miles off that island by now,” he said, “and she’s doing her thirteen knots handsome. All’s well so far—but do you know, I’d just as soon raise that point o’ land as soon as convenient.”

  “How so?” said I, bending on the line. “Expect some weather?”

  “Mr. Dixon,” said he, giving me a curious glance, “the sea is a queer proposition, put it any ways. I’ve been a sea-farin’ man since I was as big as a minute, and I know the sea, and what’s more, the Feel o’ the Sea. Now, look out yonder. Nothin’, hey? Nothin’ but the same ol’ skyline we’ve watched all the way out. The glass is as steady as a steeple, and this ol’ hooker, I reckon, is as sound as the day she went off the ways. But just the same, if I were to home now, a-foolin’ about Gloucester way in my little dough-dish—d’ye know what? I’d put into port. I sure would. Because why? Because I got the Feel o’ the Sea, Mr. Dixon. I got the Feel o’ the Sea.”

  I had heard old skippers say something of this before, and I cited to Hardenberg the experience of a skipper captain I once knew who had turned turtle in a calm sea off Trincomalee. I asked what this Feel of the Sea was warning him against just now (for on the high sea any premonition is a premonition of evil, not of good.) But he was not explicit.

  “I don’t know,” he answered moodily, and as if in great perplexity, coiling the rope as he spoke. “
I don’t know. There’s some blame thing or other close to us, I’ll bet a hat. I don’t know the name of it, Mr. Dixon, and I don’t know the game of it, but there’s a big Bird in the air, just out of sight som-eres, and,” he suddenly exclaimed, smacking his knee and leaning forward, “I—don’t—like—it—one—dam’—bit.”

  The same thing came up in our talk in the cabin that night, after the dinner was taken off, and we settled down to tobacco. Only, at this time, Hardenberg was on duty on the bridge. It was Ally Bazan who spoke instead.

  “Seems to me,” he hazarded, “as haow they’s somethin’ or other a-goin’ to bump up, pretty blyme soon. I shouldn’t be surprized, naow, y’know, if we piled her up on some bally uncharted reef along o’ tonight and went strite daown afore we’d had a bloomin’ charnce to s’y ‘So long, gen’lemen all.’”

  He laughed as he spoke, but when, just at that moment, a pan clattered in the galley, he jumped suddenly with an oath, and looked hard about the cabin.

  Then Strokher confessed to a sense of distress also. He’d been having it since day before yesterday, it seemed.

  “And I put it to you the glass is lovely,” he said, “so it’s no blow. I guess,” he continued, “we’re all a bit seedy and ship sore.”

  And whether or not this talk worked upon my own nerves, or whether in very truth the Feel of the Sea had found me also, I do not know; but I do know that after dinner that night, just before going to bed, a queer sense of apprehension came upon me, and that when I had come to my stateroom, after my turn upon deck, I became furiously angry with nobody in particular, because I could not at once find the matches. But here was a difference. The other men had been merely vaguely uncomfortable.

  I could put a name to my uneasiness. I felt that we were being watched.

  * * * *

  It was a strange ship’s company we made after that. I speak only of the Crows and myself. We carried a scant crew of stokers, and there was also a chief engineer. But we saw so little of him that he did not count. The Crows and I gloomed on the quarter-deck from dawn to dark, silent, irritable, working upon each other’s nerves till the creak of a block would make a man jump like cold steel laid to his flesh. We quarreled over absolute nothings, glowered at each other for half a word, and each one of us, at different times, was at some pains to declare that never in the course of his career had he been associated with such a disagreeable trio of brutes. Yet we were always together, and sought each other’s company with painful insistence.

  Only once were we all agreed, and that was when the cook, a Chinaman, spoiled a certain batch of biscuits. Unanimously we fell foul of the creature with so much vociferation as fish wives till he fled the cabin in actual fear of mishandling, leaving us suddenly seized with noisy hilarity—for the first time in a week. Hardenberg proposed a round of drinks from our single remaining case of beer. We stood up and formed an Elk’s chain and then drained our glasses to each other’s health with profound seriousness.

  That same evening, I remember, we all sat on the quarter-deck till late and—oddly enough—related each one his life’s history up to date; and then went down to the cabin for a game of euchre before turning in.

  We had left Strokher on the bridge—it was his watch—and had forgotten all about him in the interest of the game, when—I suppose it was about one in the morning—I heard him whistle long and shrill. I laid down my cards and said:

  “Hark!”

  In the silence that followed we heard at first only the muffled lope of our engines, the cadenced snorting of the exhaust, and the ticking of Hardenberg’s big watch in his waistcoat that he had hung by the arm hole to the back of his chair. Then from the bridge, above our deck, prolonged, intoned—a wailing cry in the night—came Strokher’s voice: “Sail oh-h-h.”

  And the cards fell from our hands, and, like men turned to stone, we sat looking at each other across the soiled red cloth for what seemed an immeasurably long minute.

  Then stumbling and swearing, in a hysteria of hurry, we gained the deck.

  There was a moon, very low and reddish, but no wind. The sea beyond the taffrail was as smooth as lava, and so still that the swells from the cutwater of the Glarus did not break as they rolled away from the bows.

  I remember that I stood staring and blinking at the empty ocean—where the moonlight lay like a painted stripe reaching to the horizon—stupid and frowning, till Hardenberg, who had gone on ahead, cried:

  “Not here—on the bridge!”

  We joined Strokher, and as I came up the others were asking:

  “Where? Where?”

  And there, before he had pointed, I saw—we all of us saw—. And I heard Hardenberg’s teeth come together like a spring trap, while Ally Bazan ducked as though to a blow, muttering:

  “Gord’a mercy, what nyme do ye put to a ship like that?”

  And after that no one spoke for a long minute, and we stood there, moveless black shadows, huddled together for the sake of the blessed elbow touch that means so incalculably much, looking off over our port quarter.

  For the ship that we saw there—oh, she was not a half mile distant—was unlike any ship known to present day construction.

  She was short, and high-pooped, and her stern, which was turned a little towards us, we could see, was set with curious windows, not unlike a house. And on either side of this stern were two great iron cressets such as once were used to burn signal fires in. She had three masts with mighty yards swung ’thwart ship, but bare of all sails save a few rotting streamers. Here and there about her a tangled mass of rigging drooped and sagged.

  And there she lay, in the red eye of the setting moon, in that solitary ocean, shadowy, antique, forlorn, a thing the most abandoned, the most sinister I ever remember to have seen.

  Then Strokher began to explain volubly and with many repetitions.

  “A derelict, of course. I was asleep; yes I was asleep. Gross neglect of duty. I say I was asleep—on watch. And we worked up to her. When I woke, why—you see, when I woke, there she was,” he gave a weak little laugh, “and—and now, why, there she is, you see. I turned around and saw her sudden like—when I woke up, that is.”

  He laughed again, and as he laughed, the engines far below our feet gave a sudden hiccough. Something crashed and struck the ship’s sides till we lurched as we stood. There was a shriek of steam, a shout—and then silence.

  The noise of the machinery ceased; the Glarus slid through the still water, moving only by her own decreasing momentum.

  Hardenberg sang, “Stand by!” and called down the tube to the engine room.

  “What’s up?”

  I was standing close enough to him to hear the answer in a small faint voice:

  “Shaft gone, sir.”

  “Broke?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hardenberg faced about.

  “Come below. We must talk.” I do not think any of us cast a glance at the Other Ship again. Certainly I kept my eyes away from her. But as we started down the companionway, I laid my hand on Strokher’s shoulder. The rest were ahead. I looked him straight between the eyes as I asked:

  “Were you asleep? Is that why you saw her so suddenly?”

  It is now five years since I asked the question. I am still waiting for Strokher’s answer.

  Well, our shaft was broken. That was flat. We went down into the engine room and saw the jagged fracture that was the symbol of our broken hopes. And in the course of the next five minutes’ conversation with the chief, we found that, as we had not provided against such a contingency, there was to be no mending of it. We said nothing about the mishap coinciding with the appearance of the Other Ship. But I know we did not consider the break with any degree of surprise after a few moments.

  We came up from the engine room and sat down to the cabin table.

  “Now what?” said Hardenberg, by way of beginning.

  Nobody answered at first.

  It was by now three in the morning. I recall it all perf
ectly. The ports opposite where I sat were open and I could see. The moon was all but full set. The dawn was coming up with a copper murkiness over the edge of the world. All the stars were yet out. The sea, for all the red moon and copper dawn, was gray, and there, less than half a mile away, still lay our consort. I could see her through the portholes with each slow careening of the Glarus.

  “I vote for the island,” cried Ally Bazan, “shaft or no shaft. We rigs a bit o’ syle, y’know—” and thereat the discussion began.

  For upwards of two hours it raged, with loud words and shaken forefingers, and great noisy bangings of the table, and how it would have ended I do not know, but at last—it was then maybe five in the morning—the lookout passed word down to the cabin:

  “Will you come on deck, gentlemen?” It was the mate who spoke, and the man was shaken—I could see that—to the very vitals of him. We started and stared at one another, and I watched little Ally Bazan go slowly white to the lips. And even then no word of the Ship, except as it might be this from Hardenberg:

  “What is it? Good God Almighty, I’m no coward, but this thing is getting one too many for me.”

  Then without further speech he went on deck.

  The air was cool. The sun was not yet up. It was that strange, queer mid-period between dark and dawn, when the night is over and the day not yet come, just the gray that is neither light nor dark, the dim dead blink as of the refracted light from extinct worlds.

  We stood at the rail. We did not speak, we stood watching. It was so still that the drip of steam from some loosened pipe far below was plainly audible, and it sounded in that lifeless, silent grayness, like—God knows what—a death tick.