Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (224 page)

“Pistols!” he cried, and charged at the companion, Wicks at his heels, Tommy and Amalu following. They trod the body of Holdorsen underfoot, and flew up-stairs and forth into the dusky blaze of a sunset red as blood. The numbers were still equal, but the Flying Scuds dreamed not of defence, and fled with one accord for the forecastle scuttle. Brown was first in flight; he disappeared below unscathed; the Chinaman followed head-foremost with a ball in his side; and the others shinned into the rigging.

A fierce composure settled upon Wicks and Carthew, their fighting second wind. They posted Tommy at the fore and Amalu at the main to guard the masts and shrouds, and going themselves into the waist, poured out a box of cartridges on deck and filled the chambers. The poor devils aloft bleated aloud for mercy. But the hour of any mercy was gone by; the cup was brewed and must be drunken to the dregs; since so many had fallen all must fall. The light was bad, the cheap revolvers fouled and carried wild, the screaming wretches were swift to flatten themselves against the masts and yards or find a momentary refuge in the hanging sails. The fell business took long, but it was done at last. Hardy the Londoner was shot on the foreroyal yard, and hung horribly suspended in the brails. Wallen, the other, had his jaw broken on the maintop-gallant crosstrees, and exposed himself, shrieking, till a second shot dropped him on the deck.

This had been bad enough, but worse remained behind. There was still Brown in the forepeak. Tommy, with a sudden clamour of weeping, begged for his life. “One man can’t hurt us,” he sobbed. “We can’t go on with this. I spoke to him at dinner. He’s an awful decent little cad. It can’t be done. Nobody can go into that place and murder him. It’s too damned wicked.”

The sound of his supplications was perhaps audible to the unfortunate below.

“One left, and we all hang,” said Wicks. “Brown must go the same road.” The big man was deadly white and trembled like an aspen; and he had no sooner finished speaking, than he went to the ship’s side and vomited.

“We can never do it if we wait,” said Carthew. “Now or never,” and he marched towards the scuttle.

“No, no, no!” wailed Tommy, clutching at his jacket.

But Carthew flung him off, and stepped down the ladder, his heart rising with disgust and shame. The Chinaman lay on the floor, still groaning; the place was pitch dark.

“Brown!” cried Carthew, “Brown, where are you?”

His heart smote him for the treacherous apostrophe, but no answer came.

He groped in the bunks: they were all empty. Then he moved towards the forepeak, which was hampered with coils of rope and spare chandlery in general.

“Brown!” he said again.

“Here, sir,” answered a shaking voice; and the poor invisible caitiff called on him by name, and poured forth out of the darkness an endless, garrulous appeal for mercy. A sense of danger, of daring, had alone nerved Carthew to enter the forecastle; and here was the enemy crying and pleading like a frightened child. His obsequious “Here, sir,” his horrid fluency of obtestation, made the murder tenfold more revolting. Twice Carthew raised the pistol, once he pressed the trigger (or thought he did) with all his might, but no explosion followed; and with that the lees of his courage ran quite out, and he turned and fled from before his victim.

Wicks sat on the fore hatch, raised the face of a man of seventy, and looked a wordless question. Carthew shook his head. With such composure as a man displays marching towards the gallows, Wicks arose, walked to the scuttle, and went down. Brown thought it was Carthew returning, and discovered himself, half crawling from his shelter, with another incoherent burst of pleading. Wicks emptied his revolver at the voice, which broke into mouse-like whimperings and groans. Silence succeeded, and the murderer ran on deck like one possessed.

The other three were now all gathered on the fore hatch, and Wicks took his place beside them without question asked or answered. They sat close, like children in the dark, and shook each other with their shaking. The dusk continued to fall; and there was no sound but the beating of the surf and the occasional hiccup of a sob from Tommy Hadden.

“God, if there was another ship!” cried Carthew of a sudden.

Wicks started and looked aloft with the trick of all seamen, and shuddered as he saw the hanging figure on the royal yard.

“If I went aloft, I’d fall,” he said simply. “I’m done up.”

It was Amalu who volunteered, climbed to the very truck, swept the fading horizon, and announced nothing within sight.

“No odds,” said Wicks. “We can’t sleep ...”

“Sleep!” echoed Carthew; and it seemed as if the whole of Shakespeare’s
Macbeth
thundered at the gallop through his mind.

“Well, then, we can’t sit and chitter here,” said Wicks, “till we’ve cleaned ship; and I can’t turn to till I’ve had gin, and the gin’s in the cabin, and who’s to fetch it?”

“I will,” said Carthew, “if any one has matches.”

Amalu passed him a box, and he went aft and down the companion and into the cabin, stumbling upon bodies. Then he struck a match, and his looks fell upon two living eyes.

“Well?” asked Mac, for it was he who still survived in that shambles of a cabin.

“It’s done; they’re all dead,” answered Carthew.

“Christ!” said the Irishman, and fainted.

The gin was found in the dead captain’s cabin; it was brought on deck, and all hands had a dram, and attacked their farther task. The night was come, the moon would not be up for hours; a lamp was set on the main hatch to light Amalu as he washed down decks; and the galley lantern was taken to guide the others in their graveyard business. Holdorsen, Hemstead, Trent, and Goddedaal were first disposed of, the last still breathing as he went over the side; Wallen followed; and then Wicks, steadied by the gin, went aloft with a boathook and succeeded in dislodging Hardy. The Chinaman was their last task; he seemed to be light-headed, talked aloud in his unknown language as they brought him up, and it was only with the splash of his sinking body that the gibberish ceased. Brown, by common consent, was left alone. Flesh and blood could go no further.

All this time they had been drinking undiluted gin like water; three bottles stood broached in different quarters; and none passed without a gulp. Tommy collapsed against the mainmast; Wicks fell on his face on the poop ladder and moved no more; Amalu had vanished unobserved. Carthew was the last afoot: he stood swaying at the break of the poop, and the lantern, which he still carried, swung with his movement. His head hummed; it swarmed with broken thoughts; memory of that day’s abominations flared up and died down within him like the light of a lamp in a strong draught. And then he had a drunkard’s inspiration.

“There must be no more of this,” he thought, and stumbled once more below.

The absence of Holdorsen’s body brought him to a stand. He stood and stared at the empty floor, and then remembered and smiled. From the captain’s room he took the open case with one dozen and three bottles of gin, put the lantern inside, and walked precariously forth. Mac was once more conscious, his eyes haggard, his face drawn with pain and flushed with fever; and Carthew remembered he had never been seen to, had lain there helpless, and was so to lie all night, injured, perhaps dying. But it was now too late; reason had now fled from that silent ship. If Carthew could get on deck again, it was as much as he could hope; and casting on the unfortunate a glance of pity, the tragic drunkard shouldered his way up the companion, dropped the case overboard, and fell in the scuppers helpless.

CHAPTER XXV. A BAD BARGAIN.

With the first colour in the east, Carthew awoke and sat up. A while he gazed at the scroll of the morning bank and the spars and hanging canvas of the brig, like a man who wakes in a strange bed, with a child’s simplicity of wonder. He wondered above all what ailed him, what he had lost, what disfavour had been done him, which he knew he should resent, yet had forgotten. And then, like a river bursting through a dam, the truth rolled on him its instantaneous volume: his memory teemed with speech and pictures that he should never again forget; and he sprang to his feet, stood a moment hand to brow, and began to walk violently to and fro by the companion. As he walked, he wrung his hands. “God — God — God,” he kept saying, with no thought of prayer, uttering a mere voice of agony.

The time may have been long or short, it was perhaps minutes, perhaps only seconds, ere he awoke to find himself observed, and saw the captain sitting up and watching him over the break of the poop, a strange blindness as of fever in his eyes, a haggard knot of corrugations on his brow. Cain saw himself in a mirror. For a flash they looked upon each other, and then glanced guiltily aside; and Carthew fled from the eye of his accomplice, and stood leaning on the taffrail.

An hour went by, while the day came brighter, and the sun rose and drank up the clouds: an hour of silence in the ship, an hour of agony beyond narration for the sufferers. Brown’s gabbling prayers, the cries of the sailors in the rigging, strains of the dead Hemstead’s minstrelsy, ran together in Carthew’s mind, with sickening iteration. He neither acquitted nor condemned himself: he did not think, he suffered. In the bright water into which he stared, the pictures changed and were repeated: the baresark rage of Goddedaal; the blood-red light of the sunset into which they had run forth; the face of the babbling Chinaman as they cast him over; the face of the captain, seen a moment since, as he awoke from drunkenness into remorse. And time passed, and the sun swam higher, and his torment was not abated.

Then were fulfilled many sayings, and the weakest of these condemned brought relief and healing to the others. Amalu the drudge awoke (like the rest) to sickness of body and distress of mind; but the habit of obedience ruled in that simple spirit, and appalled to be so late, he went direct into the galley, kindled the fire, and began to get breakfast. At the rattle of dishes, the snapping of the fire, and the thin smoke that went up straight into the air, the spell was lifted. The condemned felt once more the good dry land of habit under foot; they touched again the familiar guide-ropes of sanity; they were restored to a sense of the blessed revolution and return of all things earthly. The captain drew a bucket of water and began to bathe. Tommy sat up, watched him awhile, and slowly followed his example; and Carthew, remembering his last thoughts of the night before, hastened to the cabin.

Mac was awake; perhaps had not slept. Over his head Goddedaal’s canary twittered shrilly from its cage.

“How are you?” asked Carthew.

“Me arrum’s broke,” returned Mac; “but I can stand that. It’s this place I can’t abide. I was coming on deck anyway.”

“Stay where you are, though,” said Carthew. “It’s deadly hot above, and there’s no wind. I’ll wash out this —  — ” and he paused, seeking a word and not finding one for the grisly foulness of the cabin.

“Faith, I’ll be obliged to ye, then,” replied the Irishman. He spoke mild and meek, like a sick child with its mother. There was now no violence in the violent man; and as Carthew fetched a bucket and swab and the steward’s sponge, and began to cleanse the field of battle, he alternately watched him or shut his eyes and sighed like a man near fainting. “I have to ask all your pardons,” he began again presently, “and the more shame to me as I got ye into trouble and couldn’t do nothing when it came. Ye saved me life, sir; ye’re a clane shot.”

“For God’s sake, don’t talk of it!” cried Carthew. “It can’t be talked of; you don’t know what it was. It was nothing down here; they fought. On deck — O, my God!” And Carthew, with the bloody sponge pressed to his face, struggled a moment with hysteria.

“Kape cool, Mr. Cart’ew. It’s done now,” said Mac; “and ye may bless God ye’re not in pain and helpless in the bargain.”

There was no more said by one or other, and the cabin was pretty well cleansed when a stroke on the ship’s bell summoned Carthew to breakfast. Tommy had been busy in the meanwhile; he had hauled the whaleboat close aboard, and already lowered into it a small keg of beef that he found ready broached beside the galley door; it was plain he had but the one idea — to escape.

“We have a shipful of stores to draw upon,” he said. “Well, what are we staying for? Let’s get off at once for Hawaii. I’ve begun preparing already.”

“Mac has his arm broken,” observed Carthew; “how would he stand the voyage?”

“A broken arm?” repeated the captain. “That all? I’ll set it after breakfast. I thought he was dead like the rest. That madman hit out like —  — ” and there, at the evocation of the battle, his voice ceased and the talk died with it.

After breakfast, the three white men went down into the cabin.

“I’ve come to set your arm,” said the captain.

“I beg your pardon, captain,” replied Mac; “but the firrst thing ye got to do is to get this ship to sea. We’ll talk of me arrum after that.”

“O, there’s no such blooming hurry,” returned Wicks.

“When the next ship sails in, ye’ll tell me stories!” retorted Mac.

“But there’s nothing so unlikely in the world,” objected Carthew.

“Don’t be deceivin’ yourself,” said Mac. “If ye want a ship, divil a one’ll look near ye in six year; but if ye don’t, ye may take my word for ut, we’ll have a squadron layin’ here.”

“That’s what I say,” cried Tommy; “that’s what I call sense! Let’s stock that whaleboat and be off.”

“And what will Captain Wicks be thinking of the whaleboat?” asked the Irishman.

“I don’t think of it at all,” said Wicks. “We’ve a smart-looking brig under foot; that’s all the whaleboat I want.”

“Excuse me!” cried Tommy. “That’s childish talk. You’ve got a brig, to be sure, and what use is she? You daren’t go anywhere in her. What port are you to sail for?”

“For the port of Davy Jones’s Locker, my son,” replied the captain. “This brig’s going to be lost at sea. I’ll tell you where, too, and that’s about forty miles to windward of Kauai. We’re going to stay by her till she’s down; and once the masts are under, she’s the Flying Scud no more, and we never heard of such a brig; and it’s the crew of the schooner Currency Lass that comes ashore in the boat, and takes the first chance to Sydney.”