The Mystery by Samuel Hopkins Adams (read e books online free txt) 📕

the facts so picturesquely, set forth. Dr. Trendon, his sturdy frame half in shadow, had slouched far down into himself. Only the regard of his keen eyes fixed upon Slade's face, unwaveringly and a bit anxiously, showed that he was thinking of the narrator as well as of the narrative. The others had fallen completely under the spell of the tale. They sat, as children in a theatre, absorbed, forgetful of the world around them, wrapped in a more vivid element. At the close, they stirred and blinked, half dazed by the abrupt fall of the curtain.

Slade had told his story with fire, with something of passion, even. Now he felt the sharp reflex. He muttered uncertainly beneath his breath and glanced from one to another of the circled faces.

"That's all," he said unsteadily.

There passed through the group a stir and a murmur. Someone broke into sharp coughing. Chairs, shoved back, grated on the floor.

"Well, of all the extraordinary--" began a voice, ruminatingly, and broke short off, as if abashed at its own infraction of the silence.

"That's all," repeated Slade, a note of insistence in his voice. "Why don't you say something? Confound you, why don't you say something?" His speech rose husky and cracked. "Don't you believe it?"

"Hold on," said the surgeon quietly. "No need to get excited."

"Oh, well," muttered the reporter, with a sudden lapse. "Possibly you think I'm romancing. It doesn't matter. I don't suppose I'd believe it myself, in your place."

"But we're heading for the island," suggested Forsythe.

"That's so," cried Slade. "Well, that's all right. Believe or disbelieve as much as you like. Only get Percy Darrow off that island. Then we'll have his version. There are a few things I want to find out about, myself."

"There are several that promise to be fairly interesting," said Forsythe, under his breath.

Slade turned to the captain. "Have you any questions to put to me, sir?" he asked formally.

"Just one moment," interrupted Trendon. "Boy, a pony of brandy for Mr. Slade."

The reporter drank the liquor and again turned to Captain Parkinson.

"Only about our men," said the commanding officer, after a little thought.

Slade shook his head.

"I'm sorry I can't help you there, sir."

"Dr. Trendon said that you knew nothing about Edwards."

"Edwards?" repeated Slade inquiringly. His mind, still absorbed in the events which he had been relating, groped backward.

Trendon came to his aid. "Barnett asked you about him, you remember. It was when you recovered consciousness. Our ensign. Took over charge of the Laughing Lass."

"Oh, of course. I was a little dazed, I fancy."

"We put Mr. Edwards aboard when we first picked up the deserted schooner," explained the captain.

"Pardon me," said the other. "My head doesn't seem to work quite right yet. Just a moment, please." He sat silent, with closed eyes. "You say you picked up the Laughing Lass. When?" he asked presently.

"Four--five--six days ago, the first time."

"Then you put out the fire."

The circle closed in on Slade, with an unconscious hitching forward of chairs. He had fixed his eyes on the captain. His mouth worked. Obviously he was under a tensity of endeavour in keeping his faculties set to the problem. The surgeon watched him, frowning.

"There was no fire," said the captain.

Slade leaped in his chair. "No fire! But I saw her, I tell you. When I went overboard she was one living flame!"

"You landed in the small boat. Knocked you senseless," said Trendon. "Concussion of the brain. Idea of flame might have been a retroactive hallucination."

"Retroactive rot," cried the other. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Trendon. But if you'd seen her as I saw her--Barnett!"

He turned in appeal to his old acquaintance.

"There was no fire, Slade," replied the executive officer gently. "No sign of fire that we could find, except that the starboard rail was blistered."

"Oh, that was from the volcano," said Slade. "That was nothing."

"It was all there was," returned Barnett.

"Just let me run this thing over," said the free lance slowly. "You found the schooner. She wasn't afire. She didn't even seem to have been afire. You put a crew aboard under your ensign, Edwards. Storm separated you from her. You picked her up again deserted. Is that right?"

"Day before yesterday morning."

"Then," cried the other excitedly, "the fire was smouldering all the time. It broke out and your men took to the water."

"Impossible," said Barnett.

"Fiddlesticks!" said the more downright surgeon.

"I hardly think Mr. Edwards would be driven overboard by a fire which did not even scorch his ship," suggested the captain mildly.

"It drove our lot overboard," insisted Slade. "Do you think we were a pack of cowards? I tell you, when that hellish thing broke loose, you had to go. It wasn't fear. It wasn't pain. It was--What's the use. You can't explain a thing like that."

"We certainly saw the glow the night Billy Edwards was--disappeared," mused Forsythe.

"And again, night before last," said the captain.

"What's that!" cried Slade. "Where is the Laughing Lass?"

"I'd give something pretty to know," said Barnett.

"Isn't she in tow?"

"In tow?" said Forsythe. "No, indeed. We hadn't adequate facilities for towing her. Didn't you tell him, Mr. Barnett?"

"Where is she, then?" Slade fired the question at them like a cross- examiner.

"Why, we shipped another crew under Ives and McGuire that noon. We were parted again, and haven't seen them since."

"God forgive you!" said the reporter. "After the warnings you'd had, too. It was--it was--"

"My orders, Mr. Slade," said Captain Parkinson, with quiet dignity.

"Of course, sir. I beg your pardon," returned the other. "But--you say you saw the light again?"

"The first night they were out," said Barnett, in a low voice.

"Then your second crew is with your first crew," said Slade, shakily. "And they're with Thrackles, and Pulz and Solomon, and many another black- hearted scoundrel and brave seaman. Down there!"

He pointed under foot. Captain Parkinson rose and went to his cabin. Slade rose, too, but his knees were unsteady. He tottered, and but for the swift aid of Barnett's arm, would have fallen.

"Overdone," said Dr. Trendon, with some irritation. "Cost you something in strength. Foolish performance. Turn in now."

Slade tried to protest, but the surgeon would not hear of it, and marched him incontinently to his berth. Returning, Trendon reported, with growls of discontent, that his patient was in a fever.

"Couldn't expect anything else," he fumed. "Pack of human interrogation points hounding him all over the place."

"What do you think of his story?" asked Forsythe.

The grizzled surgeon drew out a cigar, lighted it, took three deliberate puffs, turned it about, examined the ash end with concentration, and replied:

"Man's telling a straight story."

"You think it's all true?" cried Forsythe.

"Humph!" grunted the other. "He thinks it's all true."

An orderly appeared and knocked at the captain's cabin.

"Beg pardon, sir," they heard him say. "Mr. Carter would like to know how close in to run. Volcano's acting up pretty bad, sir."

Captain Parkinson went on deck, followed by the rest.

II THE JOLLY ROGER

Feeling the way forward, the cruiser was soon caught in a maze of cross currents. Hither and thither she was borne, a creature bereft of volition. Order followed order like the rattle of quick-fire, and was obeyed with something more than the Wolverine's customary smartness. From the bridge Captain Parkinson himself directed his ship. His face was placid: his bearing steady and confident. This in itself was sufficient earnest that the cruiser was in ticklish case. For it was an axiom of the men who sailed under Parkinson that the calmer that nervous man grew, the more cause was there for nervousness on the part of others.

The approach was from the south, but suspicious aspects of the water had fended the cruiser out and around, until now she stood prow-on to a bold headland at the northwest corner of the island. Above this headland lay a dark pall of vapour. In the shifting breeze it swayed sluggishly, heavily, as if riding at anchor like a logy ship of the air. Only once did it show any marked movement.

"It's spreading out toward us," said Barnett to his fellow officers, gathered aft.

"Time to move, then," grunted Trendon.

The others looked at him inquiringly.

"About as healthful as prussic acid, those volcanic gases," explained the surgeon.

The ship edged on and inward. Presently the sing-song of the leadsman sounded in measured distinctness through the silence. Then a sudden activity and bustle forward, the rattle of chains, and the Wolverine was at anchor. The captain came down from the bridge.

"What do you think, Dr. Trendon?" he asked.

More explicit inquiry was not necessary.

The surgeon understood what was in his superior's mind.

"Never can tell about volcanoes, sir," he said.

"Of course," agreed the captain. "But--well, do you recognise any of the symptoms?"

"Want me to diagnose a case of earthquake, sir?" grinned Trendon. "She might go off to-day, or she might behave herself for a century."

"Well, it's all chance," said the other, cheerfully. "The man might be alive. At any rate we must do our best on that theory. What do you make of that cloud on the peak?"

"Poisonous vapours, I suppose. Thought we'd have a chance to make sure just now. Seemed to be coming right for us. Wind's shifted it since."

"There couldn't be anything alive up there?"

"Not so much as a bug," replied the doctor positively.

"Yet I thought when the vapour lifted a bit that I saw something moving."

"When was that, sir?"

"Ten or fifteen minutes back."

"We'll see soon enough, sir," put in Forsythe. "The wind is driving it down to the south'ard."

Sullenly, reluctantly, the forbidding mass moved across the headland. All glasses were bent upon it. Without taking his binocular from his eyes, Trendon began to ruminate aloud.

"If he could have got to the beach.... No vapour there.... Signal, though.... Perhaps he hadn't time.... And I'd hate to risk good men on that hell's cauldron.... Just as much risk here, perhaps. Only it seems--"

"There it is," cried Forsythe. "Look. The highest point."

Dull, gray wisps of murk, the afterguard of the gaseous cloud, were twisting and spiraling in a witch-dance across the landscape, and, seen by snatches and glimpses through it, something flapped darkly in the breeze. Suddenly the veil parted and fled. A flag stood forth in the sharp gust, rigid, and appalling. It was black.

"The Jolly Roger, by God! They've come back!" exclaimed Forsythe.

"And set up the sign of their shop," added Barnett.

"If they stuck to their flag--good-bye," observed Trendon grimly.

"Dr. Trendon," said Captain Parkinson, "you will arm yourself and go with me in the gig to make a landing."

"Yes, sir," responded the surgeon.

"Mr. Barnett."

"Yes, sir."

"Should we be overtaken by the vapour while on the highland and be unable to get back to the beach, you are to send no rescuing party up there until the air has cleared."

"But, sir, may we not--"

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"In case of an attack you will at once send in another boat with a howitzer."

"Yes, sir."

"Dr. Trendon, will you see Mr. Slade and inquire of him the best point for landing?"

Trendon hesitated.

"I suppose it would hardly do to take him with us?" pursued the commanding officer.

"If he is roused now, even for a moment, I won't answer for the consequences, sir," said the surgeon bluntly.

"Surely you can have him point out a landing place," said the captain.

"On your responsibility," returned the other, obstinately. "He's under opiate now."

"Be it so," said Captain Parkinson, after a time.

Going in, they saw no sign of life along the shore. Even the birds had deserted it. For the time the volcano seemed to have pretermitted its activity. Now and again there was a spurtle of smoke from the cone, followed by subterranean growlings, but, on the whole, the conditions were reassuring.

"Penny-pop-pinwheel of a volcano, anyhow," remarked Trendon, disparagingly. "Real man-size eruption would have wiped the whole thing off the map, first whack."

As they drew in, it became apparent that they must scale the cliff from the boat. Farther to the south opened out a wide cove that suggested easy beaching, but over it hung a cloud of steam.

"Lava pouring down," said Trendon.

Fortunately at the point where the cliff