Complete Works of Frank Norris Read online

  “Up in the crow’s nest,” exclaimed Wilbur. “It’s Jim, see, he’s waving his arms.”

  “Well, whaduz he wave his dam’ fool arms for?” growled Kitchell, angry because something was going forward he did not understand.

  “There, he’s shouting again. Listen — I can’t make out what he’s yelling.”

  “He’ll yell to a different pipe when I get my grip of him. I’ll twist the head of that swab till he’ll have to walk back’ard to see where he’s goin’. Whaduz he wave his arms for — whaduz he yell like a dam’ philly-loo bird for? What’s him say, Charlie?”

  “Jim heap sing, no can tell. Mebbee — tinkum sing, come back chop-chop.”

  “We’ll see. Oars out, men, give way. Now, son, put a little o’ that Yale stingo in the stroke.”

  In the crow’s nest Jim still yelled and waved like one distraught, while the dory returned at a smart clip toward the schooner. Kitchell lathered with fury.

  “Oh-h,” he murmured softly through his gritted teeth. “Jess lemmee lay mee two hands afoul of you wunst, you gibbering, yellow philly-loo bird, believe me, you’ll dance. Shut up!” he roared; “shut up, you crazy do-do, ain’t we coming fast as we can?”

  The dory bumped alongside, and the Captain was over the rail like quicksilver. The hands were all in the bow, looking and pointing to the west. Jim slid down the ratlines, bubbling over with suppressed news. Before his feet had touched the deck Kitchell had kicked him into the stays again, fulminating blasphemies.

  “Sing!” he shouted, as the Chinaman clambered away like a bewildered ape; “sing a little more. I would if I were you. Why don’t you sing and wave, you dam’ fool philly-loo bird?”

  “Yas, sah,” answered the coolie.

  “What you yell for? Charlie, ask him whaffo him sing.”

  “I tink-um ship,” answered Charlie calmly, looking out over the starboard quarter.

  “Ship!”

  “Him velly sick,” hazarded the Chinaman from the ratlines, adding a sentence in Chinese to Charlie.

  “He says he tink-um ship sick, all same; ask um something — ship velly sick.”

  By this time the Captain, Wilbur, and all on board could plainly make out a sail some eight miles off the starboard bow. Even at that distance, and to eyes so inexperienced as those of Wilbur, it needed but a glance to know that something was wrong with her. It was not that she failed to ride the waves with even keel, it was not that her rigging was in disarray, nor that her sails were disordered. Her distance was too great to make out such details. But in precisely the same manner as a trained physician glances at a doomed patient, and from that indefinable look in the face of him and the eyes of him pronounces the verdict “death,” so Kitchell took in the stranger with a single comprehensive glance, and exclaimed:

  “Wreck!”

  “Yas, sah. I tink-um velly sick.”

  “Oh, go to ‘ll, or go below and fetch up my glass — hustle!”

  The glass was brought. “Son,” exclaimed Kitchell— “where is that man with the brains? Son, come aloft here with me.” The two clambered up the ratlines to the crow’s nest. Kitchell adjusted the glass.

  “She’s a bark,” he muttered, “iron built — about seven hundred tons, I guess — in distress. There’s her ensign upside down at the mizz’nhead — looks like Norway — an’ her distress signals on the spanker gaff. Take a blink at her, son — what do you make her out? Lord, she’s ridin’ high.”

  Wilbur took the glass, catching the stranger after several clumsy attempts. She was, as Captain Kitchell had announced, a bark, and, to judge by her flag, evidently Norwegian.

  “How she rolls!” muttered Wilbur.

  “That’s what I can’t make out,” answered Kitchell. “A bark such as she ain’t ought to roll thata way; her ballast’d steady her.”

  “What’s the flags on that boom aft — one’s red and white and square-shaped, and the other’s the same color, only swallow-tail in shape?”

  “That’s H. B., meanin: ‘I am in need of assistance.’”

  “Well, where’s the crew? I don’t see anybody on board.”

  “Oh, they’re there right enough.”

  “Then they’re pretty well concealed about the premises,” turned Wilbur, as he passed the glass to the Captain.

  “She does seem kinda empty,” said the Captain in a moment, with a sudden show of interest that Wilbur failed to understand.

  “An’ where’s her boats?” continued Kitchell. “I don’t just quite make out any boats at all.” There was a long silence.

  “Seems to be a sort of haze over her,” observed Wilbur.

  “I noticed that, air kinda quivers oily-like. No boats, no boats — an’ I can’t see anybody aboard.” Suddenly Kitchell lowered the glass and turned to Wilbur. He was a different man. There was a new shine in his eyes, a wicked line appeared over the nose, the jaw grew salient, prognathous.

  “Son,” he exclaimed, gimleting Wilbur with his contracted eyes; “I have reemarked as how you had brains. I kin fool the coolies, but I can’t fool you. It looks to me as if that bark yonder was a derelict; an’ do you know what that means to us? Chaw on it a turn.”

  “A derelict?”

  “If there’s a crew on board they’re concealed from the public gaze — an’ where are the boats then? I figger she’s an abandoned derelict. Do you know what that means for us — for you and I? It means,” and gripping Wilbur by the shoulders, he spoke the word into his face with a savage intensity. “It means salvage, do you savvy? — salvage, salvage. Do you figger what salvage on a seven-hundred-tonner would come to? Well, just lemmee drop it into your think tank, an’ lay to what I say. It’s all the ways from fifty to seventy thousand dollars, whatever her cargo is; call it sixty thousand — thirty thou’ apiece. Oh, I don’t know!” he exclaimed, lapsing to landman’s slang. “Wha’d I say about a million to one on the unexpected at sea?”

  “Thirty thousand!” exclaimed Wilbur, without thought as yet.

  “Now y’r singin’ songs,” cried the Captain. “Listen to me, son,” he went on, rapidly shutting up the glass and thrusting it back in the case; “my name’s Kitchell, and I’m hog right through.” He emphasized the words with a leveled forefinger, his eyes flashing. “H — O — G spells very truly yours, Alvinza Kitchell — ninety-nine swine an’ me make a hundred swine. I’m a shoat with both feet in the trough, first, last, an’ always. If that bark’s abandoned, an’ I says she is, she’s ours. I’m out for anything that there’s stuff in. I guess I’m more of a beach-comber by nature than anything else. If she’s abandoned she belongs to us. To ‘ll with this coolie game. We’ll go beach-combin’, you and I. We’ll board that bark and work her into the nearest port — San Diego, I guess — and get the salvage on her if we have to swim in her. Are you with me?” he held out his hand. The man was positively trembling from head to heel. It was impossible to resist the excitement of the situation, its novelty — the high crow’s nest of the schooner, the keen salt air, the Chinamen grouped far below, the indigo of the warm ocean, and out yonder the forsaken derelict, rolling her light hull till the garboard streak flashed in the sun.

  “Well, of course, I’m with you, Cap,” exclaimed Wilbur, gripping Kitchell’s hand. “When there’s thirty thousand to be had for the asking I guess I’m a ‘na’chel bawn’ beach-comber myself.”

  “Now, nothing about this to the coolies.”

  “But how will you make out with your owners, the Six Companies? Aren’t you bound to bring the ‘Bertha’ in?”

  “Rot my owners!” exclaimed Kitchell. “I ain’t a skipper of no oil-boat any longer. I’m a beach-comber.” He fixed the wallowing bark with glistening eyes. “Gawd strike me,” he murmured, “ain’t she a daisy? It’s a little Klondike. Come on, son.”

  The two went down the ratlines, and Kitchell ordered a couple of the hands into the dory that had been rowing astern. He and Wilbur followed. Charlie was left on board, with directions to lay the schooner t
o. The dory flew over the water, Wilbur setting the stroke. In a few moments she was well up with the bark. Though a larger boat than the “Bertha Millner,” she was rolling in lamentable fashion, and every laboring heave showed her bottom incrusted with barnacles and seaweed.

  Her fore and main tops’ls and to’gallants’ls were set, as also were her lower stays’ls and royals. But the braces seemed to have parted, and the yards were swinging back and forth in their ties. The spanker was brailed up, and the spanker boom thrashed idly over the poop as the bark rolled and rolled and rolled. The mainmast was working in its shoe, the rigging and backstays sagged. An air of abandonment, of unspeakable loneliness, of abomination hung about her. Never had Wilbur seen anything more utterly alone. Within three lengths the Captain rose in his place and shouted:

  “Bark ahoy!” There was no answer. Thrice he repeated the call, and thrice the dismal thrashing of the spanker boom and the flapping of the sails was the only answer. Kitchell turned to Wilbur in triumph. “I guess she’s ours,” he whispered. They were now close enough to make out the bark’s name upon her counter, “Lady Letty,” and Wilbur was in the act of reading it aloud, when a huge brown dorsal fin, like the triangular sail of a lugger, cut the water between the dory and the bark.

  “Shark!” said Kitchell; “and there’s another!” he exclaimed in the next instant, “and another! Strike me, the water’s alive with ‘em’! There’s a stiff on the bark, you can lay to that”; and at that, acting on some strange impulse, he called again, “Bark ahoy!” There was no response.

  The dory was now well up to the derelict, and pretty soon a prolonged and vibratory hissing noise, strident, insistent, smote upon their ears.

  “What’s that?” exclaimed Wilbur, perplexed. The Captain shook his head, and just then, as the bark rolled almost to her scuppers in their direction, a glimpse of the deck was presented to their view. It was only a glimpse, gone on the instant, as the bark rolled back to port, but it was time enough for Wilbur and the Captain to note the parted and open seams and the deck bulging, and in one corner blown up and splintered.

  The captain smote a thigh.

  “Coal!” he cried. “Anthracite coal. The coal he’t up and generated gas, of course — no fire, y’understand, just gas — gas blew up the deck — no way of stopping combustion. Naturally they had to cut for it. Smell the gas, can’t you? No wonder she’s hissing — no wonder she rolled — cargo goes off in gas — and what’s to weigh her down? I was wondering what could ‘a’ wrecked her in this weather. Lord, it’s as plain as Billy-b’damn.”

  The dory was alongside. Kitchell watched his chance, and as the bark rolled down caught the mainyard-brace hanging in a bight over the rail and swung himself to the deck. “Look sharp!” he called, as Wilbur followed. “It won’t do for you to fall among them shark, son. Just look at the hundreds of ‘em. There’s a stiff on board, sure.”

  Wilbur steadied himself on the swaying broken deck, choking against the reek of coal-gas that hissed upward on every hand. The heat was almost like a furnace. Everything metal was intolerable to the touch.

  “She’s abandoned, sure,” muttered the Captain. “Look,” and he pointed to the empty chocks on the house and the severed lashings. “Oh, it’s a haul, son; it’s a haul, an’ you can lay to that. Now, then, cabin first,” and he started aft.

  But it was impossible to go into the cabin. The moment the door was opened suffocating billows of gas rushed out and beat them back. On the third trial the Captain staggered out, almost overcome with its volume.

  “Can’t get in there for a while yet,” he gasped, “but I saw the stiff on the floor by the table; looks like the old man. He’s spit his false teeth out. I knew there was a stiff aboard.”

  “Then there’s more than one,” said Wilbur. “See there!” From behind the wheel-box in the stern protruded a hand and forearm in an oilskin sleeve.

  Wilbur ran up, peered over the little space between the wheel and the wheel-box, and looked straight into a pair of eyes — eyes that were alive. Kitchell came up.

  “One left, anyhow,” he muttered, looking over Wilbur’s shoulder; “sailor man, though; can’t interfere with our salvage. The bark’s derelict, right enough. Shake him out of there, son; can’t you see the lad’s dotty with the gas?”

  Cramped into the narrow space of the wheel-box like a terrified hare in a blind burrow was the figure of a young boy. So firmly was he wedged into the corner that Kitchell had to kick down the box before he could be reached. The boy spoke no word. Stupefied with the gas, he watched them with vacant eyes.

  Wilbur put a hand under the lad’s arm and got him to his feet. He was a tall, well-made fellow, with ruddy complexion and milk-blue eyes, and was dressed, as if for heavy weather, in oilskins.

  “Well, sonny, you’ve had a fine mess aboard here,” said Kitchell. The boy — he might have been two and twenty — stared and frowned.

  “Clean loco from the gas. Get him into the dory, son. I’ll try this bloody cabin again.”

  Kitchell turned back and descended from the poop, and Wilbur, his arm around the boy, followed. Kitchell was already out of hearing, and Wilbur was bracing himself upon the rolling deck, steadying the young fellow at his side, when the latter heaved a deep breath. His throat and breast swelled. Wilbur stared sharply, with a muttered exclamation:

  “My God, it’s a girl!” he said.

  IV. MORAN

  Meanwhile Charlie had brought the “Bertha Millner” up to within hailing distance of the bark, and had hove her to. Kitchell ordered Wilbur to return to the schooner and bring over a couple of axes.

  “We’ll have to knock holes all through the house, and break in the skylights and let the gas escape before we can do anything. Take the kid over and give him whiskey; then come along back and bear a hand.”

  Wilbur had considerable difficulty in getting into the dory from the deck of the plunging derelict with his dazed and almost helpless charge. Even as he slid down the rope into the little boat and helped the girl to follow, he was aware of two dull, brownish-green shadows moving just beneath the water’s surface not ten feet away, and he knew that he was being stealthily watched. The Chinamen at the oars of the dory, with that extraordinary absence of curiosity which is the mark of the race, did not glance a second time at the survivor of the “Lady Letty’s” misadventure. To them it was evident she was but a for’mast hand. However, Wilbur examined her with extraordinary interest as she sat in the sternsheets, sullen, half-defiant, half-bewildered, and bereft of speech.

  She was not pretty — she was too tall for that — quite as tall as Wilbur himself, and her skeleton was too massive. Her face was red, and the glint of blue ice was in her eyes. Her eyelashes and eyebrows, as well as the almost imperceptible down that edged her cheek when she turned against the light, were blond almost to whiteness. What beauty she had was of the fine, hardy Norse type. Her hands were red and hard, and even beneath the coarse sleeve of the oilskin coat one could infer that the biceps and deltoids were large and powerful. She was coarse-fibred, no doubt, mentally as well as physically, but her coarseness, so Wilbur guessed, would prove to be the coarseness of a primitive rather than of a degenerate character.

  One thing he saw clearly during the few moments of the dory’s trip between bark and schooner — the fact that his charge was a woman must be kept from Captain Kitchell. Wilbur knew his man by now. It could be done. Kitchell and he would take the “Lady Letty” into the nearest port as soon as possible. The deception would have to be maintained only for a day or two.

  He left the girl on board the schooner and returned to the derelict with the axes. He found Kitchell on the house, just returned from a hasty survey of the prize.

  “She’s a daisy,” vociferated the Captain, as Wilbur came aboard. “I’ve been havin’ a look ‘round. She’s brand-new. See the date on the capst’n-head? Christiania is her hailin’ port — built there; but it’s her papers I’m after. Then we’ll know where we’re at. How�
�s the kid?”

  “She’s all right,” answered Wilbur, before he could collect his thoughts. But the Captain thought he had reference to the “Bertha.”

  “I mean the kid we found in the wheel-box. He doesn’t count in our salvage. The bark’s been abandoned as plain as paint. If I thought he stood in our way,” and Kitchell’s jaw grew salient. “I’d shut him in the cabin with the old man a spell, till he’d copped off. Now then, son, first thing to do is to chop vents in this yere house.”

  “Hold up — we can do better than that,” said Wilbur, restraining Kitchell’s fury of impatience. “Slide the big skylight off — it’s loose already.”

  A couple of the schooner’s hands were ordered aboard the “Lady Letty,” and the skylight removed. At first the pour of gas was terrific, but by degrees it abated, and at the end of half an hour Kitchell could keep back no longer.

  “Come on!” he cried, catching up an axe; “rot the difference.” All the plundering instincts of the man were aroused and clamoring. He had become a very wolf within scent of its prey — a veritable hyena nuzzling about its carrion.

  “Lord!” he gasped, “t’ think that everything we see, everything we find, is ours!”

  Wilbur himself was not far behind him in eagerness. Somewhere deep down in the heart of every Anglo-Saxon lies the predatory instinct of his Viking ancestors — an instinct that a thousand years of respectability and taxpaying have not quite succeeded in eliminating.

  A flight of six steps, brass-bound and bearing the double L of the bark’s monogram, led them down into a sort of vestibule. From the vestibule a door opened directly into the main cabin. They entered.

  The cabin was some twenty feet long and unusually spacious. Fresh from his recollection of the grime and reek of the schooner, it struck Wilbur as particularly dainty. It was painted white with stripes of blue, gold and pea-green. On either side three doors opened off into staterooms and private cabins, and with each roll of the derelict these doors banged like an irregular discharge of revolvers. In the centre was the dining-table, covered with a red cloth, very much awry. On each side of the table were four arm chairs, screwed to the deck, one somewhat larger at the head. Overhead, in swinging racks, were glasses and decanters of whiskey and some kind of white wine. But for one feature the sight of the “Letty’s” cabin was charming. However, on the floor by the sliding door in the forward bulkhead lay a body, face upward.