الفصل الفصل 1 · Out to Sea

. Out to Sea

I had this story from one who had no business to tell it to me, or to

any other. I may credit the seductive influence of an old vintage upon

the narrator for the beginning of it, and my own skeptical incredulity

during the days that followed for the balance of the strange tale.

When my convivial host discovered that he had told me so much, and that

I was prone to doubtfulness, his foolish pride assumed the task the old

vintage had commenced, and so he unearthed written evidence in the form

of musty manuscript, and dry official records of the British Colonial

Office to support many of the salient features of his remarkable

narrative.

I do not say the story is true, for I did not witness the happenings

which it portrays, but the fact that in the telling of it to you I have

taken fictitious names for the principal characters quite sufficiently

evidences the sincerity of my own belief that it _may_ be true.

The yellow, mildewed pages of the diary of a man long dead, and the

records of the Colonial Office dovetail perfectly with the narrative of

my convivial host, and so I give you the story as I painstakingly

pieced it out from these several various agencies.

If you do not find it credible you will at least be as one with me in

acknowledging that it is unique, remarkable, and interesting.

From the records of the Colonial Office and from the dead man’s diary

we learn that a certain young English nobleman, whom we shall call John

Clayton, Lord Greystoke, was commissioned to make a peculiarly delicate

investigation of conditions in a British West Coast African Colony from

whose simple native inhabitants another European power was known to be

recruiting soldiers for its native army, which it used solely for the

forcible collection of rubber and ivory from the savage tribes along

the Congo and the Aruwimi. The natives of the British Colony complained

that many of their young men were enticed away through the medium of

fair and glowing promises, but that few if any ever returned to their

families.

The Englishmen in Africa went even further, saying that these poor

blacks were held in virtual slavery, since after their terms of

enlistment expired their ignorance was imposed upon by their white

officers, and they were told that they had yet several years to serve.

And so the Colonial Office appointed John Clayton to a new post in

British West Africa, but his confidential instructions centered on a

thorough investigation of the unfair treatment of black British

subjects by the officers of a friendly European power. Why he was sent,

is, however, of little moment to this story, for he never made an

investigation, nor, in fact, did he ever reach his destination.

Clayton was the type of Englishman that one likes best to associate

with the noblest monuments of historic achievement upon a thousand

victorious battlefields—a strong, virile man—mentally, morally, and

physically.

In stature he was above the average height; his eyes were gray, his

features regular and strong; his carriage that of perfect, robust

health influenced by his years of army training.

Political ambition had caused him to seek transference from the army to

the Colonial Office and so we find him, still young, entrusted with a

delicate and important commission in the service of the Queen.

When he received this appointment he was both elated and appalled. The

preferment seemed to him in the nature of a well-merited reward for

painstaking and intelligent service, and as a stepping stone to posts

of greater importance and responsibility; but, on the other hand, he

had been married to the Hon. Alice Rutherford for scarce a three

months, and it was the thought of taking this fair young girl into the

dangers and isolation of tropical Africa that appalled him.

For her sake he would have refused the appointment, but she would not

have it so. Instead she insisted that he accept, and, indeed, take her

with him.

There were mothers and brothers and sisters, and aunts and cousins to

express various opinions on the subject, but as to what they severally

advised history is silent.

We know only that on a bright May morning in 1888, John, Lord

Greystoke, and Lady Alice sailed from Dover on their way to Africa.

A month later they arrived at Freetown where they chartered a small

sailing vessel, the _Fuwalda_, which was to bear them to their final

destination.

And here John, Lord Greystoke, and Lady Alice, his wife, vanished from

the eyes and from the knowledge of men.

Two months after they weighed anchor and cleared from the port of

Freetown a half dozen British war vessels were scouring the south

Atlantic for trace of them or their little vessel, and it was almost

immediately that the wreckage was found upon the shores of St. Helena

which convinced the world that the _Fuwalda_ had gone down with all on

board, and hence the search was stopped ere it had scarce begun; though

hope lingered in longing hearts for many years.

The _Fuwalda_, a barkentine of about one hundred tons, was a vessel of

the type often seen in coastwise trade in the far southern Atlantic,

their crews composed of the offscourings of the sea—unhanged murderers

and cutthroats of every race and every nation.

The _Fuwalda_ was no exception to the rule. Her officers were swarthy

bullies, hating and hated by their crew. The captain, while a competent

seaman, was a brute in his treatment of his men. He knew, or at least

he used, but two arguments in his dealings with them—a belaying pin and

a revolver—nor is it likely that the motley aggregation he signed would

have understood aught else.

So it was that from the second day out from Freetown John Clayton and

his young wife witnessed scenes upon the deck of the _Fuwalda_ such as

they had believed were never enacted outside the covers of printed

stories of the sea.

It was on the morning of the second day that the first link was forged

in what was destined to form a chain of circumstances ending in a life

for one then unborn such as has never been paralleled in the history of

man.

Two sailors were washing down the decks of the _Fuwalda_, the first

mate was on duty, and the captain had stopped to speak with John

Clayton and Lady Alice.

The men were working backwards toward the little party who were facing

away from the sailors. Closer and closer they came, until one of them

was directly behind the captain. In another moment he would have passed

by and this strange narrative would never have been recorded.

But just that instant the officer turned to leave Lord and Lady

Greystoke, and, as he did so, tripped against the sailor and sprawled

headlong upon the deck, overturning the water-pail so that he was

drenched in its dirty contents.

For an instant the scene was ludicrous; but only for an instant. With a

volley of awful oaths, his face suffused with the scarlet of

mortification and rage, the captain regained his feet, and with a

terrific blow felled the sailor to the deck.

The man was small and rather old, so that the brutality of the act was

thus accentuated. The other seaman, however, was neither old nor

small—a huge bear of a man, with fierce black mustachios, and a great

bull neck set between massive shoulders.

As he saw his mate go down he crouched, and, with a low snarl, sprang

upon the captain crushing him to his knees with a single mighty blow.

From scarlet the officer’s face went white, for this was mutiny; and

mutiny he had met and subdued before in his brutal career. Without

waiting to rise he whipped a revolver from his pocket, firing point

blank at the great mountain of muscle towering before him; but, quick

as he was, John Clayton was almost as quick, so that the bullet which

was intended for the sailor’s heart lodged in the sailor’s leg instead,

for Lord Greystoke had struck down the captain’s arm as he had seen the

weapon flash in the sun.

Words passed between Clayton and the captain, the former making it

plain that he was disgusted with the brutality displayed toward the

crew, nor would he countenance anything further of the kind while he

and Lady Greystoke remained passengers.

The captain was on the point of making an angry reply, but, thinking

better of it, turned on his heel and black and scowling, strode aft.

He did not care to antagonize an English official, for the Queen’s

mighty arm wielded a punitive instrument which he could appreciate, and

which he feared—England’s far-reaching navy.

The two sailors picked themselves up, the older man assisting his

wounded comrade to rise. The big fellow, who was known among his mates

as Black Michael, tried his leg gingerly, and, finding that it bore his

weight, turned to Clayton with a word of gruff thanks.

Though the fellow’s tone was surly, his words were evidently well

meant. Ere he had scarce finished his little speech he had turned and

was limping off toward the forecastle with the very apparent intention

of forestalling any further conversation.

They did not see him again for several days, nor did the captain accord

them more than the surliest of grunts when he was forced to speak to

them.

They took their meals in his cabin, as they had before the unfortunate

occurrence; but the captain was careful to see that his duties never

permitted him to eat at the same time.

The other officers were coarse, illiterate fellows, but little above

the villainous crew they bullied, and were only too glad to avoid

social intercourse with the polished English noble and his lady, so

that the Claytons were left very much to themselves.

This in itself accorded perfectly with their desires, but it also

rather isolated them from the life of the little ship so that they were

unable to keep in touch with the daily happenings which were to

culminate so soon in bloody tragedy.

There was in the whole atmosphere of the craft that undefinable

something which presages disaster. Outwardly, to the knowledge of the

Claytons, all went on as before upon the little vessel; but that there

was an undertow leading them toward some unknown danger both felt,

though they did not speak of it to each other.

On the second day after the wounding of Black Michael, Clayton came on

deck just in time to see the limp body of one of the crew being carried

below by four of his fellows while the first mate, a heavy belaying pin

in his hand, stood glowering at the little party of sullen sailors.

Clayton asked no questions—he did not need to—and the following day, as

the great lines of a British battleship grew out of the distant

horizon, he half determined to demand that he and Lady Alice be put

aboard her, for his fears were steadily increasing that nothing but

harm could result from remaining on the lowering, sullen _Fuwalda_.

Toward noon they were within speaking distance of the British vessel,

but when Clayton had nearly decided to ask the captain to put them

aboard her, the obvious ridiculousness of such a request became

suddenly apparent. What reason could he give the officer commanding her

majesty’s ship for desiring to go back in the direction from which he

had just come!

What if he told them that two insubordinate seamen had been roughly

handled by their officers? They would but laugh in their sleeves and

attribute his reason for wishing to leave the ship to but one

thing—cowardice.

John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, did not ask to be transferred to the

British man-of-war. Late in the afternoon he saw her upper works fade

below the far horizon, but not before he learned that which confirmed

his greatest fears, and caused him to curse the false pride which had

restrained him from seeking safety for his young wife a few short hours

before, when safety was within reach—a safety which was now gone

forever.

It was mid-afternoon that brought the little old sailor, who had been

felled by the captain a few days before, to where Clayton and his wife

stood by the ship’s side watching the ever diminishing outlines of the

great battleship. The old fellow was polishing brasses, and as he came

edging along until close to Clayton he said, in an undertone:

“’Ell’s to pay, sir, on this ’ere craft, an’ mark my word for it, sir.

’Ell’s to pay.”

“What do you mean, my good fellow?” asked Clayton.

“Wy, hasn’t ye seen wats goin’ on? Hasn’t ye ’eard that devil’s spawn

of a capting an’ ’is mates knockin’ the bloomin’ lights outen ’arf the

crew?

“Two busted ’eads yeste’day, an’ three to-day. Black Michael’s as good

as new agin an’ ’e’s not the bully to stand fer it, not ’e; an’ mark my

word for it, sir.”

“You mean, my man, that the crew contemplates mutiny?” asked Clayton.

“Mutiny!” exclaimed the old fellow. “Mutiny! They means murder, sir,

an’ mark my word for it, sir.”

“When?”

“Hit’s comin’, sir; hit’s comin’ but I’m not a-sayin’ wen, an’ I’ve

said too damned much now, but ye was a good sort t’other day an’ I

thought it no more’n right to warn ye. But keep a still tongue in yer

’ead an’ when ye ’ear shootin’ git below an’ stay there.

“That’s all, only keep a still tongue in yer ’ead, or they’ll put a

pill between yer ribs, an’ mark my word for it, sir,” and the old

fellow went on with his polishing, which carried him away from where

the Claytons were standing.

“Deuced cheerful outlook, Alice,” said Clayton.

“You should warn the captain at once, John. Possibly the trouble may

yet be averted,” she said.

“I suppose I should, but yet from purely selfish motives I am almost

prompted to ‘keep a still tongue in my ’ead.’ Whatever they do now they

will spare us in recognition of my stand for this fellow Black Michael,

but should they find that I had betrayed them there would be no mercy

shown us, Alice.”

“You have but one duty, John, and that lies in the interest of vested

authority. If you do not warn the captain you are as much a party to

whatever follows as though you had helped to plot and carry it out with

your own head and hands.”

“You do not understand, dear,” replied Clayton. “It is of you I am

thinking—there lies my first duty. The captain has brought this

condition upon himself, so why then should I risk subjecting my wife to

unthinkable horrors in a probably futile attempt to save him from his

own brutal folly? You have no conception, dear, of what would follow

were this pack of cutthroats to gain control of the _Fuwalda_.”

“Duty is duty, John, and no amount of sophistries may change it. I

would be a poor wife for an English lord were I to be responsible for

his shirking a plain duty. I realize the danger which must follow, but

I can face it with you.”

“Have it as you will then, Alice,” he answered, smiling. “Maybe we are

borrowing trouble. While I do not like the looks of things on board

this ship, they may not be so bad after all, for it is possible that

the ‘Ancient Mariner’ was but voicing the desires of his wicked old

heart rather than speaking of real facts.

“Mutiny on the high sea may have been common a hundred years ago, but

in this good year 1888 it is the least likely of happenings.

“But there goes the captain to his cabin now. If I am going to warn him

I might as well get the beastly job over for I have little stomach to

talk with the brute at all.”

So saying he strolled carelessly in the direction of the companionway

through which the captain had passed, and a moment later was knocking

at his door.

“Come in,” growled the deep tones of that surly officer.

And when Clayton had entered, and closed the door behind him:

“Well?”

“I have come to report the gist of a conversation I heard to-day,

because I feel that, while there may be nothing to it, it is as well

that you be forearmed. In short, the men contemplate mutiny and

murder.”

“It’s a lie!” roared the captain. “And if you have been interfering

again with the discipline of this ship, or meddling in affairs that

don’t concern you you can take the consequences, and be damned. I don’t

care whether you are an English lord or not. I’m captain of this here

ship, and from now on you keep your meddling nose out of my business.”

The captain had worked himself up to such a frenzy of rage that he was

fairly purple of face, and he shrieked the last words at the top of his

voice, emphasizing his remarks by a loud thumping of the table with one

huge fist, and shaking the other in Clayton’s face.

Greystoke never turned a hair, but stood eyeing the excited man with

level gaze.

“Captain Billings,” he drawled finally, “if you will pardon my candor,

I might remark that you are something of an ass.”

Whereupon he turned and left the captain with the same indifferent ease

that was habitual with him, and which was more surely calculated to

raise the ire of a man of Billings’ class than a torrent of invective.

So, whereas the captain might easily have been brought to regret his

hasty speech had Clayton attempted to conciliate him, his temper was

now irrevocably set in the mold in which Clayton had left it, and the

last chance of their working together for their common good was gone.

“Well, Alice,” said Clayton, as he rejoined his wife, “I might have

saved my breath. The fellow proved most ungrateful. Fairly jumped at me

like a mad dog.

“He and his blasted old ship may hang, for aught I care; and until we

are safely off the thing I shall spend my energies in looking after our

own welfare. And I rather fancy the first step to that end should be to

go to our cabin and look over my revolvers. I am sorry now that we

packed the larger guns and the ammunition with the stuff below.”

They found their quarters in a bad state of disorder. Clothing from

their open boxes and bags strewed the little apartment, and even their

beds had been torn to pieces.

“Evidently someone was more anxious about our belongings than we,” said

Clayton. “Let’s have a look around, Alice, and see what’s missing.”

A thorough search revealed the fact that nothing had been taken but

Clayton’s two revolvers and the small supply of ammunition he had saved

out for them.

“Those are the very things I most wish they had left us,” said Clayton,

“and the fact that they wished for them and them alone is most

sinister.”

“What are we to do, John?” asked his wife. “Perhaps you were right in

that our best chance lies in maintaining a neutral position.

“If the officers are able to prevent a mutiny, we have nothing to fear,

while if the mutineers are victorious our one slim hope lies in not

having attempted to thwart or antagonize them.”

“Right you are, Alice. We’ll keep in the middle of the road.”

As they started to straighten up their cabin, Clayton and his wife

simultaneously noticed the corner of a piece of paper protruding from

beneath the door of their quarters. As Clayton stooped to reach for it

he was amazed to see it move further into the room, and then he

realized that it was being pushed inward by someone from without.

Quickly and silently he stepped toward the door, but, as he reached for

the knob to throw it open, his wife’s hand fell upon his wrist.

“No, John,” she whispered. “They do not wish to be seen, and so we

cannot afford to see them. Do not forget that we are keeping to the

middle of the road.”

Clayton smiled and dropped his hand to his side. Thus they stood

watching the little bit of white paper until it finally remained at

rest upon the floor just inside the door.

Then Clayton stooped and picked it up. It was a bit of grimy, white

paper roughly folded into a ragged square. Opening it they found a

crude message printed almost illegibly, and with many evidences of an

unaccustomed task.

Translated, it was a warning to the Claytons to refrain from reporting

the loss of the revolvers, or from repeating what the old sailor had

told them—to refrain on pain of death.

“I rather imagine we’ll be good,” said Clayton with a rueful smile.

“About all we can do is to sit tight and wait for whatever may come.”