The Black Mask (Vol. 2, No. 2 — November 1920)

I.

At two bells The Boy determined to commit murder.

It was no swift decision. On the night the Libertine lifted anchor at Melbourne—and Black Michael flogged him with a rawhide lash — the desire to slay had been impregnated in him, a terrible sore whose putrifying poison daily seeped into his blood and brain.

Quite suddenly, standing there in the shadow of the long-boat, he perceived the death of his soul. Black Michael was responsible. He had inoculated him with a dreadful serum of evil that wiped out the germs of his strength; had proceeded, while he was in this weakened condition, to loot his being of all finer instincts. For that Black Michael must die.

The avenger. That was his role. Tonight he would become the champion of his slain self and write in crimson the final chapter of a bitter story.

As he stood there on the deck, swaying with the drunken pitch of the two-masted, square-rigged vessel, it all came back to him—came back for the millionth time, with a burning sharpness that made him visualize, as though etched with steel upon his brain, the lamp-lit Australian water-front, the slinking shadows along the quay; made him feel, as if experiencing again, the sickening emotions following the blow and the return to consciousness in the hold of the trading brig bound for eleven degrees south of the equator.

“I’ll break you yet, boy—I’ll grind you under my feet—”

That was Black Michael’s threat when he sought to resist the big-fisted, rum-loving skipper. Then followed the first flogging, stripped and lashed to the beam...

The recollection of it was gall in his mouth.

After that life for him consisted chiefly of two things: the lash and rum — the whip to break his body, the liquor to break his brain. These were linked by labors so offensive, so repellent that he welcomed the hours of drunken sleep when for a brief while his senses were drowned in oblivion. In all this darkness there were two candles: the friendly attitude of the first mate and the queer companionship of the brig’s mascot, Kerachi, a Rajputana parrakeet.

Before the vessel reached the white coral walls of Papeite, Black Michael demonstrated that he could keep a threat; The Boy was broken; the slender thread between strength and weakness snapped... like the string of a fine instrument struck by brutal hands; and when the Libertine cast moorings in the blue lagoon of the Tahitian capital he was still aboard, with a bruised body and a bruised mind, knowing in his tortured heart that some day, when the courage was given him, he would kill the master of the brig.

From Tahiti the ship passed through the coral traps of Les Isles Dangereux, sailed around the low archipelago into the phosphorescent waters of the Marquesas... to Hiva-oa; and there, in Atuona Valley, he received the gift of courage—from The White Lotus.

Three days ago—the one time he had gone ashore—he had seen her clinging to the door-frame of a thatched bamboo dwelling. “Old Babache’s kid... a leper,” he heard someone say.

And she had smiled at him.

An hour after that, when the longboat was putting away from the beach, and the tawny maidens of Hiva-oa ran out waist-deep in the green bay to wave farewell, she was there, her gold hair falling like glinting fire about her pale, spray-dashed face.

“Ia ora na i te Atua...”

With the Marquesan girls she sang that farewell—this White Lotus that he had found dying in the mulch of the South Seas...

The sight of her was to him a light that pierced his poisoned, vapor-clung brain. And because he had seen her, this pallid leper-child, he knew that the hour had arrived when the master of the Libertine must pay the penalty for having murdered his soul.

Yet what would she think if she knew? But she would never know. Hiva-oa, dreaming its eternal dreams beneath the brooding thunders of Temetiu, had already slipped into the past—and in its dreams she lay, a part of them.

He shuddered again. Yes, he would kill Black Michael. He was below in his bunk now—drunk, as usual. With the skipper gone, the first mate, Cardigan, would come into command—and then...

He crept across the wet deck and down the companionway.

A door in the rear of the lazarette, which was just off the main cabin, admitted him to a passage amidships, beneath the deck, leading forward to a space in the fo’castle where he and five others of the crew bunked.

In the bulkhead door he paused. A sooty slush-lamp, swung from the blackened beam, cast sluggish light upon six bunks arranged in double tiers along the bulkhead. It was a foul place, reeking of vile sea odors.

Two of the bunks were occupied. The lower tier of one supported the hulking body of a bullet-headed mulatto, clad only in short breeches, while above him lay the boatswain, a Creole from New Orleans. They were both asleep and breathing heavily.

Thrusting the weapon under his belt, he retraced his steps along the passage amidships and in the gloom of the main cabin groped toward Black Michael’s quarters.

A terrible fear laid frigid fingers upon his heart as he reached the door. For a full minute he stood transfixed to the spot, his breath caught in his throat; then he grasped the knob, turned it and the door swung open.

Within, the closed porthole—a pale eye of dread—stared at him. The air was close—tainted with rum... and human flesh. He listened for the sound of breathing, but only the monotonous murmur of the bilge water and the creak of straining timbers could be heard.

He drew the knife from beneath his belt—

The leper child came to him then... a blinding flash of spiritual pallor, the shining recoil of his-dead self that sprang through the darkness of his soul and smote him paralyzed for the moment.

But Black Michael must die.

He reached the bunk; looked down upon the indistinct, sprawling figure. A wave of hysteria swept him, swamping his courage. He wanted to run, to throw himself upon his mattress and weep out the sorrows that twisted his heart. But—

... A swing of the blade, a Sickening sound... and it was finished. He never released his grip on the hilt; held it as though it were a member of his own body; withdrew it and fell against the door.

For some time he lay with his shoulders pressed to the panels, at bay, facing the specter of himself; but when at length the fear-paralysis released him, he burst out of the door, closed it, raced through the main cabin and up the companionway.

The air on deck seemed to lift from his brain the mantle of a loathsome vapor. Here in the tropic moisture of the night, where the wind swelled amongst the waving spars, his reason returned, swept over him like a cold and shuddersome flood.

He glanced fore and aft. The decks were deserted but for a lone figure on the poop deck. The watch—he could recognize him—a form planted as a piece of statuary upon the wheel-grating.

He slunk past the forward hatch and climbed the ladder to the fore-poop. A stinging spray, flung over the bowsprit by a long gust of wind, struck his face sharply. It seemed to awaken him to the fact that he still gripped the knife, and with a shudder of repulsion he let it fall to the deck planks. For an instant he stood above it, looking as one fascinated upon the glinting thing; then he touched it with his bare foot... shivered... and pushed it across the deck until it disappeared over the bow...

A sobbing breath was drawn from his throat. He turned and fled down-deck—as one pursued by the horrors of the nethermost hell.

Upon reaching his quarters he found the mulatto and the Creole still asleep; the slush-lamp hung from the blackened beam, swaying with the heave of the brig.

A chill started him to trembling and he knelt beside his bunk, removing a flask from beneath the mattress. As he lifted it to his lips a sound behind him made him pause with it in mid-air.

“Get below, you dirty lubbers!... Bahdsoodai!..”

He turned his head sharply. Neither the mulatto nor the Creole had altered his position—but perched upon the beam was a feathery green body. His rigid muscles relaxed as he recognized Kerachi, his friend, the Rajputana parrakeet.

He raised the flask to his mouth. The vile Tahitian rum was like vitriol, searing a path from his throat to the pit of his stomach. It choked him, but when he ceased coughing he took another gulp—another...

“Step lively, lads!... Adrushtam!... Two bells, mate!”

Two bells. Those words startled him. That was just before he—

He shuddered; swallowed quantities of the liquid fire; drained the bottle and fell with his face buried in the reek of the mattress. The flask slipped from his nerveless hand—struck the floor with a distant thud.

“O, God—” he moaned. Hot tears burned his cheeks as he lay there sobbing in the awful abandonment of drunken grief.

“All hands aft!” shrieked the parrakeet, then began to swear in Hindustani and Mandarin. That was the last thing he heard, the grotesque profanity of the little bird. Like a barque severed from its mooring-lines, his brain was carried downstream on the current of slumber...

His labored breathing had hardly joined that of the other occupants of the foul place when the big mulatto sat up cautiously, a stealthy, anticipatory smile spreading over his negroid features.

He rose, the movement bringing into visible play the thick, heavy-corded muscles beneath the bared brown skin; stood an instant looking up at the sleeping boatswain; crept across to The Boy’s bunk and slipped one hand under the mattress...

II.

The sharp cutwater of the Libertine broke the phosphorus into javelins of green brilliancy, her yards, slightly checked, ran with easy motions beneath bellied topsail, while the deck-timbers creaked and groaned as the vessel wallowed in the heavy sea.

To Cardigan, the first mate, standing alone at the wheel, firmly gripping the spokes at right angles, these sounds blended into a fierce, savage tune that vibrated responsive chords in his seaman’s being.

Since six bells he had been on watch, listening to the lawless song of the sea, and except on two occasions, when the cabin boy emerged from the main companion, the decks had been deserted during this time.

At thought of The Boy the first mate felt a tinge of sympathy. Poor chap. Only seventeen. And shanghaied— But, after all, life was a rather grim affair; it had been none too kind to him. He—

Four bells jangled out. A moment afterward he saw the big body of Bjornsen, the second mate, emerge from the rear companion.

“Where’s the captain?” inquired Cardigan, as the Norwegian, a great hulk of sunburnt physical manhood, reached his side and took the wheel.

A faint smile traced itself on the big blonde’s face. “Below in his quarters, I suppose, sir—with a belly full of rum...”

Cardigan did not smile, merely nodded, saying, “Stearns will relieve you” — and moved down the ladder to the main companion.

Upon reaching Black Michael’s door he entered without knocking. In the vague half-light supplied by the porthole he could make out the skipper’s huge body sprawled full length in the berth. The odor of rum was heavy on the air.

“Captain!” he called, gripping one shoulder and shaking it. “Captain, wake up!... Hullo!”

The latter exclamation was brought forth as his hand accidentally brushed the cheek of the recumbent man] It was cold, clammy. He quickly felt the heart. An oath left his tongue.

He fumbled in the pocket of his pea-jacket and withdrew a box of matches. Igniting one he lit the slush-lamp and in the better light examined the body.

“Dead,” he muttered to himself with a semi-professional air. “Two incisions—one just below the heart, the other above...”

Though Cardigan was not yet thirty-five, there were times when he seemed at least forty. This was such an occasion. About his lips was a grim tightness, a truculence that suggested inflexible metal beneath the bronzed exterior.

“Struck in the dark, I’ll wager,” he said to himself, running his fingers through his gray-shot hair whilst he continued his investigation. “Dead about an hour or I’m... And two distinctly different instruments, one a straight blade, the other curved.”

At one time he had studied surgery — in the days before the gray appeared in his hair. He... But that was an ancient story, a sheaf torn out of his life and laid away in a crevice of his memory.

After the first surprise caused by the discovery, he experienced a feeling that bordered on satisfaction. No love had ever existed between him and the master of the brig, and after The Boy was shanghaied at Melbourne there was open antagonism, a hostility that resulted in Cardigan’s decision to leave the Libertine at the end of the return voyage.

So Black Michael was dead, he mused, murdered—

At this juncture his eyes, involuntarily lowered, were captured by a bright object on the floor. He stooped, picked it up and perceived that it was a small, curved blade—a murderous Malay knife that bore ugly stains. As he recognized it he felt a shock like nothing short of a volt of electricity — for the weapon was his own, a relic of the days before the gray appeared among his dark hairs.

There was a slim, dark-eyed Malay girl, down on the drowsy shores of the Archipelago where the restless surf drums to the tune of lawless love, and... But that, too, was an ancient tale, laid away in lavender with the other poignant recollections. She had given him the knife, this brown maiden, as she lay dying in his arms, and it was the only tangible remembrance of a still smouldering passion...

His face settled into sterner lines. This was undoubtedly the blade with which the incision was made. But how had it been obtained from his cabin and why was it used? The most logical answer for both was: treachery.

His first impulse was to wipe the soiled blade upon his handkerchief, but he refrained, for Cardigan and discretion were synonymous. Blood-stains often proved incriminating.

No, innocent though he was, he decided, he dared leave no evidence where it might be discovered and used against him. This weapon was sufficient proof that he had an enemy aboard.

He first considered throwing the knife into the sea, but this proposed means of disposal he immediately dismissed; he would sooner separate himself from an arm than the weapon. He would hide it; there were many places on the ship where so small an object would never be found—and the place that appealed to him as one less frequented was the paint-locker.

After covering the body with a sheet, he quitted the cabin, locked the door and made his way to the paint-locker. A moment later the Malay knife lay hidden behind a pile of cans and Cardigan went up on deck.

An impalpable mist was drifting in from the dark waste of waters, smoothing out the sharp lines of the Libertine and giving to her the look of a phantom craft as she rode the steadily increasing swell, her lights burning hazily, like nebula-belted planets in the fog.

Near the forward hatch Cardigan encountered Stearns, the midshipman, a sallow youth of twenty-one or less.

“Go below and send the hands aft, Mr. Stearns,” the mate ordered, “every man Jack of them...” Then he moved to the poop-deck where Bjornsen stood as one petrified at the wheel.

“Bjornsen,” he began, “the captain has been murdered, stabbed twice. I have sent for the crew to notify them. I’m in command now and I want your hearty support.”

The Norwegian nodded, his stolid face unaltered.

Five minutes later the crew was assembled below the poop, a nervous, shuffling crowd, looking up with uneasy eyes at the first mate. Scum of the East and West they were, washed together on the tides of the Seven Seas.

“Are they all here, Mr. Stearns?” inquired Cardigan of the midshipman, who was climbing to the poop-deck.

“All but the cabin boy, sir; he’s down in the fo’c’s’le drunk as—”

“I’ll see him later,” interposed the first mate. Then he cupped his hands about his mouth to make himself heard about the wind and sea. “Men, I’ll be brief. A crime has been committed aboard this brig. Just before six bells I was in the skipper’s quarters—and when I returned a few minutes ago I found him dead—murdered.”

He paused to observe the effect of this announcement upon the men. Rows of sullen eyes looked up at him—eyes in which there was mingled fear and questioning. What a ghastly lot they looked, huddled there in the mist, thought Cardigan!

“One of you” — he made a sweeping gesture with his bronzed hand — “one of you killed him. And I’ve called you here to ask if the guilty man is willing to confess and thus lighten his punishment, or, in the event a confession isn’t forthcoming, if anyone knows anything that might be instrumental in locating the murderer.”

After a long silence England Charlie, third mate, a big, gaunt cockney, with a red face and red hands, spoke up: “You said one o’ us wus th’ murderer, sir, but ’ow d’ we know you didn’t croak ’im?”

At this there was a murmur from the men. Encouraged, the cockney continued. “You’d be th’ one to benefit by ’is snuffin’ it—an Hi arsks, ’ow d’ we know you didn’t send ’im orf?”

Cardigan met his gaze coolly and smiled.

“You’re justified in saying that,” he admitted. “But I was at the wheel from six bells to four bells—and if any man aboard understands post mortem conditions he can examine the body and see that the skipper has been dead just about an hour—”

“But you could ’ave lashed th’ wheel,” persisted English Charlie.

Cardigan’s jaw shot forward at an ugly angle. “Are you trying to accuse me, Charlie?” he demanded. There came no reply and he went on, “More than ever I’m determined to leave nothing undone to find the man who killed the captain—and as a first step every one shall submit to a search for evidence—now. I’m in command here and I intend to assert my authority. Sykes, you and Stearns help me. Meanwhile, no one will leave the deck.”

As Cardigan started to descend the ladder he heard a savage oath, and, pausing, fastened his eyes upon the men.

“Did someone speak?” he rapped.

Ladd, a seaman, answered — “Jim Hickey here said he’d be damned if he was searched—”

“That’s a lie, sir!” broke in the bullet-headed mulatto, the great muscles in his arms standing out like whipcords.

Cardigan moved down and confronted the mulatto. “Did you say that?”

The boatswain, a Creole, stepped forward. “Eet ees so, m’sieur; I, ’Poleon Moncrief, hear’ heem. W’at ees more” — he cast a malicious glance at the mulatto, who stood with clinched fists, glaring at him — “I know w’y zat nigger he not want to be search’. I was een my bunk trying to go to sleep w’en ze cabanne boy he come below an’ drink a dam’ lot of rum. An’ w’en ze boy he fall asleep zat nigger he sink I not ’wake an’ get up an’ go to ze bunk of ze cabanne boy an’—”

A blasphemous oath left the mulatto’s thick lips. He made a move to spring at the Creole, but Cardigan placed himself between them.

“—He steal ze cabanne boy’s pay. I saw heem take eet from under ze mattress. An’ zat w’y he not want to be search’, m’sieur—because he know you fin’ too much money on heem.”

Cardigan turned upon the huge, brown-skinned figure.

“Is that the truth, Hickey? Aren’t you willing to be searched?”

The mulatto glared at ’Poleon Moncrief, spitting out a stream of vile oaths. “It’s a lie, sir; a damned, stinkin’ lie — made up by that—!”

With a quick, stealthy movement the Creole leaped around Cardigan and flung himself at the mulatto’s throat. Together they went to the deck, rolling upon the moist timbers.

As Cardigan stooped to separate them the mulatto freed himself by a sudden wrench and gained his feet, dashing along the deck toward the forward companion.

The first mate started in pursuit, but halted as his eyes fell upon a belaying pin that lay upon the deck not many feet away. Hastily arming himself with this formidable missile, he sent it spinning through the air after the fleeing figure. It caught the negro in the back of the skull; knocked him flat upon the deck planks.

Cardigan, followed by several of the crew, reached his side.

“He’s out for some time,” reported the first mate, bending over him. “Two of you lads carry him below and lock him up— But wait!”

He ran one hand into the rear pocket of the mulatto’s trousers, producing a black leather wallet. Opening it he withdrew a wad of bills, which he swiftly counted and returned to the wallet.

He smiled grimly. “All right, men; below with him.”

III.

In the very midst of a dream The Boy was shot into consciousness. For a moment he could not remember where he was. He seemed to be caught in the teeth of a monster that shook him horribly, mercilessly. Half-remembered objects separated themselves from the chaos and he heard a distant voice pronouncing his name. Yet for some inexplicable reason he was unable to reply.

Gradually he extracted himself from the teeth of the monster; gradually objects settled into their regular places. Above him was a familiar face. As he recognized it sleep dropped from him as though severed by a blade.

“Get up,” he heard Cardigan say, while he shook him vigorously.

The Boy lurched to-his feet. As he brushed one hand across his lips he inhaled his breath, an odor that sickened him. Invisible hands seemed to jerk aside a drowsy fabric, revealing in their biting sharpness the incidents before his drunken sleep.

His soul shrank, dwindled with fear. Black Michael’s body had been found and the mate had come to accuse him— But how did he find out? The only incriminating evidence, the knife, had been thrown into the sea...

“I thought you promised me never to do this again,” reproved Cardigan. “But we’ll discuss that later. Come with me.”

The Boy was dreadfully afraid. The blood pounded in his temples, beat so loudly that it seemed to boom out his guilt. God! How could he meet Cardigan’s honest gaze—knowing in his heart that he had wielded the knife that finished Black Michael?

In some manner—he knew not how - he forced himself to follow the mate along the passage amidships and when they reached the cabin his fear increased to a panic as he perceived that Cardigan was making directly for Black Michael’s quarters.

He stood with a rapidly pounding heart behind the mate while he inserted a key in the lock and turned it.

Within, the slush-lamp, turned low, threw quivering shadows upon the walls. The air was warm and unpleasantly heavy with the smell of stale rum.

And there in the bunk it lay, covered with a sheet—The Thing.

Cardigan closed the door and turned the lamp higher. Mercy of God, thought The Boy, was he going to draw aside that sheet and...

“Boy,” commenced the man, halting beside the bunk. “I brought you here to show you this.” And he turned back the sheet.

Something worse than horror reached up and clutched at The Boy’s throat. He half closed his eyes; dared not shut them entirely, for The Thing fascinated him.

“The captain has been murdered,” Cardigan continued. “A few minutes ago I happened on the fore-poop. I dropped a wallet and it fell overside — but fortunately caught in the projecting space under the bowsprit. And when I picked it up I found this with it—”

He withdrew an object from the pocket of his pea-jacket. A cry leaped to The Boy’s lips—died.

There before him, sharp and ugly in the flickering glow of the slush-lamp, was the knife with which he killed Black Michael!

“Now come here,” commanded the mate.

He obeyed, the cabin reeling dizzily about him. What use was there of trying to hide the truth now? Cardigan knew and—

“Look,” was the sharp injunction.

And he looked... at The Thing on the bunk. As he saw the exposed chest a shriek of sheer terror was wrung from his throat.

“No, no!” he cried. “I didn’t stab him twice—I didn’t! Only once, in the dark... and then I ran—” He shuddered. “O, God, what have I said?”

With a broken sob he sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands. An instant later fingers closed over his shoulders and lifted him to his feet — fingers that were not rough but firm and determined.

“You said what I wanted to hear,” announced Cardigan. “Look at me, boy... There... Now, I’m going to question you and I want the truth, the truth — before the God that you just called on... When did you stab Black Michael?”

“A little after two bells, sir—”

“Why? Because he had mistreated you?... How did you do it?”

“I...” And there followed a stumbling, detached account of his movements from the time he left the deck until he surrendered to sleep in his bunk in the fo’castle.

“It’s fortunate for you that I found the knife,” remarked Cardigan when he had finished, “for it has your initials upon the hilt. I saw you come on deck twice while I was at the wheel; one time you went near the bowsprit but not until after I found the knife did I attach any importance to it.” He paused, resuming after a moment. “It’s quite evident that two people stabbed the captain—you and an unknown person. But who stabbed him first? Who is the real murderer? These are skeins that must be untangled. All I require of you is a close mouth and an open eye—”

“Then—then you’re not going to lock me in the brig?”

“You are free; only remember my instructions—and regard them.”

The Boy stared at him. He was dazed, stunned. Instead of a blow he had received kindness. Kindness. New and loftier emotions stirred within him; he tried to speak, to utter words that; would convey his gratitude to the mate; he could only stand and stare mutely. Nor was that dumb look, mirroring his deepest and most profound emotions, unobserved by Cardigan; it came to him as an illuminating signal-flash from The Boy’s soul.

“Now run along,” he said, not unkindly, opening the door.

In silence The Boy passed out.

As he moved through the cabin, which was faintly lit by a hanging lamp, his brain groped in a labyrinth. Some one else had sought to end Black Michael. Who was the owner of this other hand that had driven a blade into the skipper’s breast? And which of the two had accomplished his purpose, he or the unknown person?

In his agony he prayed that it was the other, for though a short while ago The White Lotus had seemed a lamp that lighted the way to this ghastly action, he now saw, with the cold clearness of returned sanity, that with blood upon his soul he was severed from even spiritual companionship with this pallid leper-child who had impressed herself so deeply upon his memory.

But how could he ever find out? It all seemed very hopeless...

As he neared the fo’castle he saw a vertical strip of yellow light cleaving the dark passage from the bulkhead door. Voices within were murmuring in hushed conversation.

He was almost in the opening when a sentence, flung against his ears with the sting of a whip, cemented him to the spot: “I only struck once, I tell you, once — yet there are two wounds...”

Those words, spoken in a voice that was lowered to a tone just above a whisper, yet strangely familiar, brought forth his breath in a gasp.

He crept nearer the source of light; peered within.

The slush-lamp was turned low, casting flickering shadows as it swung with the motion of the brig. Five of the bunks were vacant; the sixth, near another bulkhead-door, opposite The Boy, was occoupied.

Moncrief, the Creole, sat on the edge of the bunk, a cigarette between his thin, moist lips, and at his side, face arid shoulders hidden by the boatswain’s slender body, was another man. That bunk was used by the Chinese cook, The Boy knew, yet the one who lay there was not the Oriental.

They were talking again.

“By gar, eet ees ghastly, m’sieur,” commented Moncrief.

“Yes—a ghastly failure,” spat out the other. “ ’Poleon” — a note of intensity came into the voice — “I see but one thing to do now. By four in the morning we should be near the coral reefs—they’re just a mile off course. Wajo, the Polynesian, will be at the wheel; we can overpower him—”

“Sacre dam, m’sieur!” broke in the boatswain. “Do zat — zat?”

“Why not? To reach Tahiti means investigation by the authorities. If the brig goes down she carries all evidence with her. We can escape in the longboat; islands are numerous along here—”

“But, m’sieur, ze knife of ze firs’ mate zat you lef’ in ze—”

“God knows what became of it! When he found the body he must have hidden the damned thing — and if I knew where... But no; I’m afraid to try it now. The Second wound is what has scared me off; it’s a sign to warn us.” Then he swore a volley of oaths so vile that they burned The Boy’s ears.

“With the captain killed,” went on the voice, after a moment, “and the first mate disposed of by the incriminating evidence, we could have easily bought the crew over to us. With me in command we could have gone straight to Melbourne for the cargo of rum. McAllister would have paid well when we delivered it to him at Hiva-oa, for when his cursed natives have plenty of rum they do more work—and since the French government has restricted the— Oh, well, what’s the use to talk of it? You got the best of the deal; I had the dirty work of killing the swine. It was too big an undertaking for two men to try—”

“But, m’sieur—”

“No, ’Poleon; the only thing to do now is save ourselves...”

A pregnant dread was spreading through The Boy’s body, a sensation of abysmal emptiness. The coral reefs; the Polynesian. Then they intended to—

Now he could learn who stabbed Black Michael first! But did he want to know? Yes, the truth was far better than horrible uncertainty. Yet he dared not enter the fo’castle alone; he must go and bring Cardigan.

As he turned to creep away a sudden plunge of the vessel sent him flat upon the deck of the passage with a sound that seemed loud enough to be heard from stem to stern.

He was almost on his feet when a lean figure appeared in the bulkhead door. Instantly he recognized Moncrief. He made a dive toward the lazarette, but the boatswain was too quick for him; he flung his lithe body upon him and bore him to the floor.

The Boy opened his lips to cry out and the Creole’s fist descended upon his mouth. The pain stung him to action. With a desperate wrench he freed himself and fell against the bulkhead, but before he could move a second figure was momentarily silhouetted upon the light in the oblong aperture—a figure that hurled itself upon him, pinning him to the wall.

Again he tried to scream—again a fist bruised his lips horribly. He felt blood dripping from his chin.

“No, don’t—” he cried, his mouth throbbing with pain. Something crashed down upon his skull and as he fell, plunging into what seemed a depthless abyss, a picture was photographed upon his brain—that of a dark, sinister figure silhouetted upon the glow in the bulkhead door.

Then the world reeled, a drunken universe—

IV.

A knock on the door of his quarters brought Cardigan out of a light sleep. Sitting up on the edge of his bunk he called, “Come in!”

The opening of the door admitted a wavering blade of light and in the frame, outlined upon the pale illumination from the main cabin, was a form.

“It’s Stearns, sir,” announced the man. “I’m sorry to wake you up, but I have something queer to report.”

Cardigan rose. “Wait a second till I make a light.” Then a moment later when the slush-lamp cast its ill light upon his nearly-clad form he added, “All right, Stearns, what is it?”

The midshipman’s sallow face seemed paler than ever; he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

“I’ve seen something that I don’t quite understand, sir,” he began. “I had just been relieved by Wajo and was going toward the fo’castle when I happened to glance athwart the brig. I saw what looked like two shadows; then I realized they weren’t shadows but men—two of them, moving along the port deck. They disappeared behind the after-cabin as soon as I saw them, but I got the impression that they were carrying something—or—or someone. A minute later I could have sworn I heard a cry. It scared me a little, sir, after all that’s happened on this brig, so I hurried down in the fo’c’s’le. I didn’t know what to do — and after about an hour I decided to tell you.”

“And you did right,” commended Cardigan—for while the midshipman was telling his story something insidious had taken root in his brain, an alarming possibility that caused him no little apprehension.

“I’m going on deck,” he announced, removing his pea-jacket and cap from a peg on the wall. “Return to your quarters and say nothing to the men of what you’ve seen...”

He followed Stearns into the poorly-lighted main cabin, and as the midshipman reached the top of the companionway, gripping the brass rail to keep from being hurled back by the dangerous roll of the vessel, the mate moved through the lazarette.

Midway in the dark passage leading into the fo’castle he collided with something that sprang away from him and swore lurid oaths.

“Who’s that?” demanded Cardigan.

“Hinglish Charlie. ’Oo th’ blurry ’ell’s that?”

“The first mate. Is the cabin boy in the fo’c’s’le?”

“No, sir; Hi ayn’t seen ’im this evenin’.”

“Well, help me look for him. You start at the bow and I’ll go aft.”

Together they passed through the main cabin and at the top of the companionway staggered out upon the deck, gripping the wet lee rail. Here they separated.

A blanket of fog had been dropped from the dark sky and the peak-gutters snarled and roared as the heavy sea, dashed inboard, was sucked back again to the surface.

Clinging to the drenched rail the mate moved aft. Near the long-boat amidships, a human form darted suddenly around the corner of the after-cabin and ran into him.

Cardigan was thrown roughly against the rail, and as he gained his balance the figure, head down, lurched past him toward the main companion.

“Who’s that?” he bellowed, hollowing his hands.

For answer the figure plunged on; gained the companion; vanished.

Cardigan swore savagely. Moving across the slippery timbers, he reached the companionway and descended. Below, in the main cabin, the door of the lazarette gaped at him.

With quick strides he made his way toward the fo’castle. The passage was not dark this time, for during the interval that he was on deck a light had been made in the crew’s quarters and it sent a pale, trembling shaft through the bulkhead door.

In the entrance to the fo’castle Cardigan halted, an exclamation on his lips—for he stood face to face with English Charlie.

“How the devil did you get here?” he demanded suspiciously.

The cockney indicated the entrance opposite the bulkhead door, through which opening the bottom of a flight of stairs was visible. “I came down the steps, sir. I just stopped a minute to make a light ’ere.”

“I thought I sent you to find the cabin boy.”

“You did, sir—but Hi ayn’t found ’im yet.”

Cardigan whirled about and at that moment a voice behind him shrieked: “Two bells, mate—two bells...”

The sound brought him around again and the cockney, grinning, pointed to a feathery green body perched on the upper tier of one of the bunks.

Cardigan swore as he made his way alone to the main cabin. Damn him, who was this fellow who had slunk past him on deck?

In the lazarette door he paused to consult his watch. Ten minutes to four. From the timepiece his eyes rose to the compass in the deck-beam overhead. He could distinguish the tiny figures on the white disc.

“Good God!” sprang from his lips. Who was on watch? Wajo—and the fool was headed off the course... toward where the coral traps lav—

He took a step to cross the main cabin and at that very instant—so exact is the time-table of Fate—a sudden titanic shock hurled him flat upon his back. The fall partially stunned him, and as he lay there trying to marshal his scattered faculties the bow of the vessel seemed to leap up, rolling him against the cabin bulkhead. Following that loose objects tumbled down; glass shattered.

After a moment of struggle, Cardigan succeeded in getting to his feet. Finding himself in darkness, he realized that the lamp had been broken.

A splotch of misty light showed him the companionway, and, slipping and stumbling across the slanting floor, he groped his way to the foot of the stairs, where his outstretched hands found the brass rail.

He ascended. On deck charging billows broke in white foam over the gunwale, sweeping angrily against the cabins and masthead.

It seemed a deathless period to Cardigan before he reached the break of the poop; here he gripped the ladder and looked over his shoulder at the wreckage.

The bow was thrust up into the throat of the fog, the stern so deeply sunk that the main-chains dipped, while a list to the port permitted the sea free entrance through a tear in the bulwarks. She had evidently struck with tremendous force; the forward mast was down and the deck, below the fore-poop, in splinters where broken spars had crashed through.

He grasped the situation instantly, realizing the urgency of keeping a cool head. The bows were jammed between the rocks and at any moment the wounded ship might slide back off the reefs—

His teeth snapped shut and he climbed the ladder. As he stood upright on the poop-deck, peering into the mist that masked the remote end of the vessel, a vague shape slid across the timbels at him. Instantly he saw that it was a man and tried to steady himself for the encounter that he knew was unavoidable.

Instead of the jar that he expected, a smashing blow was delivered full in his face, and with mingled surprise and pain he realized that it was an attack rather than a collision. The moment he hit the deck he was up again, sending his fist into a yielding paunch. The figure went down without a cry, doubled in a knot.

For a moment Cardigan stood above his antagonist, waiting for him to rise; then, believing him rendered breathless by the blow, he bent over to ascertain the identity. He had no sooner abandoned his guard than he regretted it, for the knotted form straightened out and sprang at him—but not too swiftly for him to see the swarthy face of ’Poleon Moncrief.

“So you’re the traitor aboard!” bellowed Cardigan. “You killed—”

Once more they came together. This time they clinched; went to the slanting deck, rolling over and over until they struck the rail, where the force of the impact, separated them.

Leaping to his feet, Cardigan stood ready, and when the boatswain rose a well-aimed blow between the eyes sent him reeling against the gunwale. He crumpled up. The first mate bent swiftly and gripped him about the waist; lifted him and hurled him, clawing and kicking, overboard.

As the body of Moncrief was swallowed by the fog Cardigan staggered back against the wheel. His heel encountered an object, and looking down he saw the Polynesian, Wajo, stretched out beside the wheel grating.

He dropped on his knees to examine the body, and at this juncture someone scrambled over the break of the poop, looming tall and sinister in the mist.

“Mr. Cardigan?” The voice belonged to Stearns. “The whole bow’s smashed—clear to the main hatch! Who in the name of—” He stopped as a roll of the vessel sent him sliding across the wet deck.

“Grip yourself, man!” cried Cardigan, rising and moving to his side. “Remember, you’re midshipman on this brig!... Let’s make for the longboat...”

The mate led the way from the poop to the long-boat, where a group of men, smears of dark animation in the fog, were struggling at the davits. English Charlie’s voice rose above the clamor as he sang out orders.

“Did you find the cabin-boy, Charlie?” asked Cardigan, reaching the cockney, who stood with a dripping tarpaulin thrown over his shoulders.

“No, sir—an’ Hi looked from bow to stern!”

Poor beggar, thought Cardigan. His fears were confirmed. The two figures Stearns had seen in the mist loomed as sinister elements in the fate of the cabin-boy; the cry seemed conclusive evidence that evil had befallen him.

He gripped himself and ordered: “Charlie, send two men below to fetch provisions and blankets—and have them step lively!”

As two of the crew disappeared in the fog, headed for the companion, English Charlie drew himself into the life-boat.

“Everything in shape?” queried Cardigan.

“Aye, aye, sir! Oars, mast, canvas and water!”

“Is the rudder shipped properly?... Here come the provisions. In with them, men... Get the lines clear and the boat ready to swing! One of you tail on the falls!... Lower slowly—slowly or you’ll swamp her! Stand by, lads! Now, ease off — ease off!”

Leaning over the slanting rail Cardigan saw the dark shape of the boat plunge downward, saw it strike the sea and ride free of the hull, borne on a white surge. How small, how helpless it looked, down there in the mist, thought Cardigan.

“Are all hands there?” he called, as the last man shot down the line.

“All but the men for’ard, sir,” answered a voice from the misty smudge below. “They didn’t have a chance when she struck...”

Cardigan, preparing to swing down the line, felt a peculiar reluctance to abandon the brig. Suppose, after all, the cabin-boy was somewhere—

A thought sped like steel through his brain. The Malay knife. He was leaving that behind. Queer that one should suddenly remember a fragment of sentiment amid such chaos—

“Lay her nose close in, lads!” he ordered over the rail. “I’m going to have a look below. If I’m not back in four minutes don’t wait...”

He made his way to the companion, climbing down the almost inverted stairs into the main cabin, where the water reached his waist.

Trusting more to his sense of direction than his outstretched hands, he groped his way aft, beneath the decks, to the paint-locker. In the misty ghost-light that spilled through the nearly demolished deck above he found the nail-riven iron door and drew back the bolt.

With a shriek of hinges it swung out — spitting a large object in the waist-deep flood. Cardigan swore aloud as he perceived it to be a human body; bent over; lifted it; cursed again.

It was the cabin-boy—bound and gagged!

In the half-light he could see the mutely imploring eyes—dark pools of pain. With haste he secured the Malay knife and severed the bonds, afterward removing the gag from the bruised, swollen mouth.

“... God, sir,” burst out The Boy, “they knocked me in the head, ’Poleon Moncrief and another... I couldn’t see his face, but he said—”

“Tell me later,” cut in Cardigan. “We haven’t time now; the ship’s sinking... Can you walk?... I’ll help you...”

The mate half-dragged The Boy along the passage and into the main cabin; here he set him on his feet and thrust him toward the vague gray light in the companionway.

As The Boy began the ascent, clinging to the rail, he heard a crash behind him, a ripping and splintering of broken timbers, and, looking back, he saw something long and dark, the shape of a spar, plunge from aloft and smite Cardigan on the head. With a splash the first mate sank beneath the ugly water in the cabin.

The Boy shrieked. For an instant he stood motionless, paralyzed, then stumbling down the stairs he groped in the flood for the body. Almost instantly he was rewarded. With trembling fingers he sought the heart. It was beating. He laughed hysterically and began to drag the limp form after him.

Midway up the companion-stairs he was brought to a standstill by a sound below, a half croak and half shriek: “On deck, you lubbers!... Sahib hai!...”

He understood. Kerachi, the parrakeet, was down there in that black hole — but he could not go back until he had carried Cardigan to safety.

A form suddenly blotted out the square of foggy gray light that defined the companion. Following that English Charlie’s voice called, “Mr. Cardigan!”

“Here!” answered The Boy. “For God’s sake take him! He was hit by a spar!... I’ve got to go back—after the parrakeet!”

As he turned to descend the cockney gripped his shoulder.

“Come back, yeh blarsted little fool! You’ll be drowned—” But The Boy broke away and plunged down into the cabin.

A hush that seemed intensified rather than ruptured by the dull, ominous pounding of the waves against the sodden hull brooded in the bowels of the vessel—as if the very timbers of the stricken brig were smitten dumb with dreadful expectancy.

It corrupted The Boy with terror, this hush, but he forced himself to stagger through the water into the flooded passage amidships. Ahead, the bulkhead door hiccoughed yellow light. It gave warmth to his chilled soul, and in another instant he reached the entrance to the fo’castle.

The slush-lamp lay against the beam, spluttering feebly with every heave of the vessel. The foul hole was half-inundated and a great wound in the port bulwarks bled a steady stream of sea water.

“Kerachi!” called The Boy, searching in the flood for the little bird.

As if answering him, the parrakeet, perched upon the top of the furthest bunk, croaked: “Chota hazri... sahibs...”

Then a thing occurred that drew The Boy’s heart into his throat: a human hand rose suddenly from behind an overturned table that floated near the second bulkhead door... clawed at the air... sank.

“Help...” pleaded a faint voice. “A spar... pinned me here... in the passage door... I’m killed unless...”

The blood in The Boy’s veins seemed for the moment sucked up. The voice! Pain had weakened it to scarcely above a whisper, but he recognized it, this voice that he would remember until Death wiped free his brain.

“I’m coming!” he answered, suffused with fright and joy.

As he moved forward a sudden lurch of the brig sent the lamp crashing against the bulkhead. He stumbled; clutched at something tangible; clung. With a sense of aching despair he realized that he was denied the sight of—

Darkness had hardly shut its jaws upon the foul hole when the parrakeet shrieked: “Two bells, mate, two bells...”

An instant of frightful silence came on the heels of the bird’s speech, then: “God, how did you know?” shrilled the voice. “That was when I stabbed him... As I pulled the knife out two bells struck...”

The Boy felt a sudden quiver of the planks beneath his feet, heard a ripping sound forward... and a sudden convulsion of the water flung him backward. Terrified, he regained his balance and groped until he found and pulled himself through the bulkhead-door.

How he made the main cabin he never knew. After a period of breathless struggle, bruised and hurt, almost strangled by the deepening flood, he reached the foot of the now inverted companion-stairs and began to climb.

He was almost at the top when a great wave, hurled through the companion above, descended upon him and bore him, gasping and choking, into the liquid blackness below.

The world swung around in giddy chaos. He experienced a terrible plunging sensation; torrents of delirious water passed over him; pitiless night swirled its black currents about his struggling body.

Buoying himself upward, battling against the legions of water, he strove to attain the surface. His thrashing arms struck something hard. At the contact his body went rigid with horror.

The ceiling of the cabin. Trapped.

A fierce exultation possessed him — the glory of struggle. He tried to fight, but the liquid death crushed him. He screamed—was choked. He knew the torture of suffocation, a seemingly endless period of terror and pain such as he had never known, even when the lash of Black Michael curled about his bare skin; and a vivid, blinding flash of the concentrated events of many years leaped like hundred-hued lightnings athwart his drowning eyes.

In the midst of this glow, surrounded by tiny reeling stars, he saw The White Lotus... burning with the fire of palest moons—a figure that faded, became as destroyed moonlight, a vanishing glory that perished the very instant that it flashed to light his way.

“Ia ora na i te Atua...”

Dark sluice-gates closed upon him.

V.

“ ’Ere she goes, mateys—look!”

That was the first thing that Cardigan heard, a sentence that clove the fabric of unconsciousness and left him lying, pained to the soul, in what seemed a vast, misty cavern.

He felt intermittent sprays upon his face and tried to struggle to a sitting position, but an intense burning in his skull made him fall back. He opened his lips.

“Charlie... where are you?”

An instant afterward a huge face, seeming wraithlike in the fog, materialized in the dusky vacancy above him.

“She’s just gone down, sir!” the third mate said in a husky voice. “Gawd, it was orful... with the little fool aboard—”

“You mean—?”

“Yerss. ’E dragged you up the companionway and Hi ’elped lower you into the long-boat... We’d ’ardly got away, sir, when she went back orf the rocks... straight down.” He paused, then: “Shall Hi call the roll, sir?”

Cardigan shuddered involuntarily. “Yes.”

He saw English Charlie rise; his head was lost in the mist.

“Watkins!” began the Britisher.

“Here!”

“Sykes... Ladd... Cheng Su... Olsen... Huldricksson... Hickey—”

“The nigger was locked in the brig,” put in a voice from the rear.

“Stearns!” went on the cockney. “Moncrief—”

“He went overboard...” This from Cardigan in a half-whisper.

Then, “Bjornsen...”

But Bjornsen did not answer. Nor could anyone account for the big Norwegian.

Cardigan went to his grave wondering who had struck Black Michael first, ’Poleon Moncrief or The Boy.

And perhaps the spirit of Bjornsen, knowing this and possessing a grim sense of humor, chuckled.

But do dead men laugh?