Hamilton Craigie - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 2, No. 2 — November 1920)

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.