Fire Mountain Part 24

A boat was lowered, and Little Billy was pulled into the void ahead; and directly his musical chant came back, as he sounded their path with the lead.

The surging thunder came from both sides, and Martin knew they were entering the haven. The voices of Ruth and Little Billy brought echoes from the giant sounding-board ahead.

A sharp command from Captain Dabney, a moment's rush of work to the accompaniment of a deal of fiery swiggling on the boatswain's part, the ship lost way and rounded up, the anchor dropped with a dull _plub_, the chain roared through the hawse-pipe and brought a vastly multiplied echoing roar from the invisible cliffs, and there was a sudden, myriad-voiced screeching from the startled birds. Succeeded an ominous, oppressive quiet, broken only by the dull thunder of the surf.

Martin drew a long breath and stared at the blank, impervious void about him.

"So this," he thought whimsically, "is the terrible Fire Mountain!" He was excitedly happy.

A few moments later, when he went aloft to furl sail, he saw the sh.o.r.e, this unmarked, unknown rock that had filled his thoughts for months.

It was a sudden and eery transition as he mounted the rigging, from gray night to sunshine in the s.p.a.ce of a few ratlines. On the foretopgallant-yard he was above the fog, the very roof of the bank lying a dozen feet below. The decks were concealed from him.

Overhead, the sky was blue and the gulls drove past and circled about in white screaming clouds. Before him, and on either side, not five hundred yards distant, loomed the mountain.

Martin stared intently and curiously, and, despite himself, that bleak and desolate outlook sobered the gaiety of his mood. On three sides the rock reared skyward, bare and black, with never a hint of vegetation.

The mountain formed a rough cone; some two thousand feet overhead was the summit, and over it hovered a cloud of white steam vapor, and a twisting column of curiously yellow-brown smoke that trailed away lazily on a light wind. Martin, staring at it, decided that the air he breathed did have an alien, a sulphurous taint.

There were no raw fissures about the crater edge, and no evidence beyond the rather thin volume of smoke that the volcano contained life.

Yet Martin seemed to hear, above the thunder of the surf in the fog beneath him, a distant, ominous rumbling, as if the slumbering Vulcan of the mountain were snoring in his sleep.

But it was the mountainside that longest held Martin's fascinated gaze.

For, in her fiery past, the volcano had clad her flanks with black lava that was now molded into a vast chaos of fantastic architecture and sculptures. It was as if an army of crazy artists had here expended their lunatic energies.

He saw huge, round towers, leaning all awry; a vast pile fashioned like a church front, with twin steeples canting drunkenly; the tremendous columns the captain had told him of; jutting ma.s.ses that hinted in their half-formed outlines of gigantic, crouching beasts. And everywhere in that weird field of shapes were the openings of caves--dark blots in the black stone.

The mountain was truly a sponge-like labyrinth, Martin perceived. He could not see the strip of beach, however, or the cavern mouth, shaped like an elephant's head, of the whaleman's log. The fog hid them from view.

But what he did see was sufficient. It was an evil landscape. It loomed black and forbidding against the background of blue sky, and the sun failed to lighten the aspect. It threatened. The stark desolateness of the place was enhanced by the wild cawing of the gulls and the mournful booming of the sea upon the reef.

Martin was depressed, as by a foreboding of ill fortune. He turned to Rimoa, who was on the yard-arm with him, and spoke with forced lightness--

"A cheerful-looking place, eh, Rimoa?"

The Maori shuddered, and there was fear in his eyes.

"No like!" he said. "This place bad, bad, bad!"

Then, as they bent to their work, the fog-bank suddenly lifted, enveloped them, and hid the black mountain from view.

CHAPTER XIV

OUT OF THE FOG

"No, we'll not go ash.o.r.e tonight," stated Captain Dabney at supper.

"We would only lose ourselves blundering about in this fog. If the stuff is still there, it will keep until tomorrow. In the morning we'll have a try, whether the fog has lifted or not."

"We'll find the junk unless Wild Bob and Ichi have beaten us to it,"

said Little Billy. "Hope they are not snugged close by behind this blooming curtain."

"No danger of that," answered Ruth. "If the _Dawn_ had been anywhere near us, I would have raised her topmasts above the bank. I didn't, so she is neither outside nor inside. They have either been here or gone, or they never arrived. In either case, I am thankful for Carew's absence. Shall we stand watch and watch tonight, captain?"

"Hardly necessary," said the captain. "Make it an anchor watch. Guess you'll welcome a couple of extra hours in your bunks. Let's see, Martin, you stand watch with the afterguard; that will make four of you--Ruth, Bosun, Little Billy, and Martin. Have the fo'c's'le stand watch in batches of two. Make Chips and Sails--they have been farmers the pa.s.sage--stand watch and watch. That will make four hands on deck at a time--plenty for any sudden emergency. But if the fog lifts during the night, rouse the ship at once and we'll set off for the beach. Got your directions ready, Billy?"

"Yes, in my pocket," said the hunchback. "But I venture that we all know them by heart."

"If the fog lifts, wind may follow," added the captain. "If it breezes up from the south we may have to hike out of here in a hurry. How much chain is out? Forty-five? Well, have the bosun clap the devil's claw on ahead of the shackle, and loosen the pin, in case we have to drop the cable. And--all hands at four o'clock."

In the lottery that presently followed, Martin drew the watch from two to four in the morning. Little Billy's paper called for from twelve to two. Ruth and the boatswain divided the first four hours.

Before he turned in, Martin went forward to discover which of the forecastle hands would share his vigil. When he came abreast the galley door, where a beam of light shining out lighted dimly a small patch of the pervading, foggy murk, he encountered Sails.

MacLean was standing in the light, bitterly recounting his troubles to the cheerfully grinning Charley Bo Yip. Martin paused, and was promptly aware that Sails had transferred his flow of words to the newcomer, as being a better audience than the unresponsive Chinaman.

Martin gathered that Sails was to stand the middle watch, and that he was aggrieved that the best blood of Scotland had been bested in a game of chance by a blanked squarehead ship's carpenter, who had, it seemed, won the right to stand the earlier watch. And, in any case, it was sacrilege to violate the night's rest of a MacLean. And a sailmaker was a dash-blanked tradesman and should never be blankety well asked to stand a watch under any dashed circ.u.mstances! So quoth Sails.

Martin commiserated with the other.

"You'll be on watch with me, Sails," he concluded. "I have the two to four. Little Billy has the earlier half of the watch."

"Little Billy!" echoed Sails. "Did ye say Little Billy, lad?" His belligerent voice dropped to a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "_Och_, lad--Little Billy?"

"Why, yes. What is wrong with that?" answered Martin.

Suddenly Sails raised an arm and shook a clenched fist at the mountain that brooded invisible behind the fog curtain.

"_Och_, ye black de'il's kirk!" he declaimed. "Ye blood-sucker! The MacLean's curse on ye!"

He stood in relief against the muddy background, his features dimly lighted by the ray from the galley lamp, wisps of fog eddying about his gray head and beard, his features wild and pa.s.sion-working. And he cursed the Fire Mountain. It was unreal, unearthly, a scene from another age. But Martin felt a superst.i.tious thrill.

"Great Scott! What is the matter?" he cried, startled.

MacLean lowered his arm, and his shoulders slumped despondently. He mumbled to himself. Then, in answer to Martin, he said:

"Little Billy--_och_, 'tis Little Billy, dear Billy! 'Tis feydom, lad!" And he turned abruptly, strode forward, and was lost in the fog.

When Martin reached aft again, he intended to tell Little Billy about MacLean's strange behavior. He found the hunchback restlessly pacing the tiny floor s.p.a.ce of their common room. Little Billy lifted a haggard face as Martin entered.

"h.e.l.lo, Martin," he said. "I was waiting up for you. Here--keep these for me, will you?" He extended a bunch of keys. "I'm feeling extra dry tonight, and I don't want to be tempted by knowing I have the key to the medicine-chest in my pocket. Whenever I pa.s.s that confounded box, I think of the two quarts of booze inside, and my tongue swells.

Just keep the keys till tomorrow, will you? Ruth kept them for me when I had my last big thirst, a few weeks ago--remember? But I would rather you kept them this time. I don't want her to know I'm having a hard time. She makes such a fuss over me, stuffs me with pills, and makes me drink that vile sa.s.safras tea."

Martin dropped the bunch of keys into his trousers pocket. He regarded Little Billy with sympathy. For the past few days, the hunchback had again been engaged in a bout with his ancient enemy. Little Billy was fighting manfully, but the strain was telling, aging his mobile face, making rare his sunny smile and whimsical banter. Martin keenly felt the other's suffering, for he had learned to love the little cripple.

"Cheer up, Billy!" he said. "A better day coming."