The Unknown Sea Part 21

In the deep water unshadowed by the boat a darkness slid, catching his eye. He peered, but it was gone. His heart stood in his throat; a palsy of terror shook him. Oh speak, speak, St. Mary, St. Margaret, St. Faith, help a poor body--a poor soul!

When he could stir he headed about, and slunk away for the open, out of the accursed region. A draught of wine steadied him somewhat, and softly overstepping Christian he roused the Adventurer, to get comfort of human speech. He told of the coming storm, he told of the coming sail, but of that other thing he said nothing. Yet presently the Adventurer asked why he shook. 'It is for cold,' and he drank again. And presently asked, what did he look for over the side? 'A shark's fin,' he said, 'that I thought I saw,' and he drank again.

At their feet Christian lay motionless, heeding nothing outside his darkness. Yet presently the Adventurer said further: 'He sleeps. From what disquiet should you eye him so?'

'If you list you shall know of his past,' muttered Philip. His speech was a little thick.

From the coming from the sea of the alien child he started, and rambled on, with fact and fiction very inextricably mingled; but the hearer could make out the main truth of the blasting of a proud young life, and pitied, and was minded now to make large allowance for any misdemeanour.

From their feet Christian rose, and without a look removed to the bows.

They were stricken to silence.

Suddenly Philip clutched the other, staring down. Both saw and blanched, though what they glimpsed gave to them no shape for a name. It was gone.

'What is it?'

'No rowan! not a leaf.'

At that the old man mastered his nerves and laughed scorn in his beard.

Philip cast a scared look towards Christian.

'Last night,' he whispered, 'he looked over the side. I saw him--twice--it was for this.'

'What is it?'

'You saw. That was his familiar.'

'Now look you,' returned the other with grave sarcasm, 'that is a creature I have seen never, and would gladly. You, if you be skilled as a fisher, catch me that familiar, and I will pay you in gold; or in broad silver if you win me but a fair sight.'

Philip, ashy white, crossed himself. 'Heaven keep us! The one bait were a human soul.'

Not with all his art and wisdom could the Adventurer now reinstate the earlier hardihood of his companion. Against a supplement by wine he protested.

'Sir,' said Philip, sullen, 'I have braved enough for you and my conscience, and more. Longer here I will not bide; no, not for any price. We go to meet our fortune yonder of friend or foe.'

The Adventurer looked at him and smiled. 'You miscount. Should I and he yonder, the Alien, be of another mind, your course may be ordered otherwise.'

Taken in his own toils, Philip glared in wrath and fear, sundered from a common cause, an adversary.

From the shrouded sea grew a roar; Christian sprang up; the darkness swayed forward, broke, and flew shredded; a line of racing waves leapt upon them as with icy stroke the squall pa.s.sed. Through the broken vapours a rim of sun showed on the horizon; and there full west beat a tall three-master; a second was standing nearer; of a third a sway of mist withheld certainty. Here rose hope wellnigh clear of doubt.

But the mists spread down again with twilight adding. The House Monitory woke and spoke far behind as they went to windward. Now Christian steered.

Again was he aware of a stealthy threat moving below, and again looking he could nothing define. He was seen of both: the Adventurer came boldly to his side, and Philip dare not bide aloof. They peered, and he would not.

For an intolerable moment he forbore them, gripping the tiller hard.

'There is it!' said the old man. 'What say you is the creature? Your mate has named it--your familiar,' and he laughed.

Even then Christian forbore still, though the stress of long hours of repressed pa.s.sion culminated in a weight of frantic anger and loathing, cruel to bear.

Then Philip lied, denying his words, and Christian knew that he lied; his crafty wits disturbed by wine, reverse, and fear, he blundered, protesting overmuch.

Said the Adventurer grimly: 'Now my offer holds good for silver or gold; be you man enough to back your words, you who would give me the lie?'

Without tackle men take fish by flamelight, spearing; and thus fell the wording of Philip's menace, as, reeling between fear and resentment on either hand, he cried wildly:

'I care not--though, by heavens! a famous take may come of it. We have but to try fire.'

Christian gripped him, very death in his face and in his strength; swayed him from his feet; gripped the harder for his struggles, till the ribs of the poor wretch gave, and cracked within his arms; with a great heave had him shoulder high; with another could have flung him overboard. And did not.

On the finest verge of overpoise he held, swung round with a slackening hold, and dropped him like a cast bale to the bottom of the boat. Then he caught the tiller and clung to it with the strength of a drowning man.

Philip lay groaning, broken and wrung in body and mind. He realised a dreadful truth: for one brief second he had seen in Christian's eyes fierce, eager hatred; clear, reasonable, for informed by most comprehensive memory; mad he was, but out of no deficiency; mad, with never a blank of mind to disallow vengeance; as cunning and as strong he was as ever madness could make a man; unmasked, a human devil.

The Adventurer lifted him and felt his bones, himself half stunned and bleeding, for he had been flung heavily from unpractised balance, as suddenly the boat lurched and careened in the wallop of the sea.

The menace of an extreme peril closed their difference, compelling fellowship. They counselled and agreed together with a grasp and a nod and few words. Philip fumbled for his knife, unclasped, and showed it.

'Our lives or his. Have you?' 'Better,' returned the other, and had out a long dagger-knife sheathed, that he loosened to lie free for instant use.

'It has done service before. Can you stand? are you able?' It was darkening so that sight could inform them but little concerning the Alien.

Christian was regarding them not at all. From head to foot he was trembling, so that he had ado to stand upright and keep the boat straight. Not from restraint his lips were bitten and his breath laboured hard: quick revulsion had cast him down, so pa.s.sion-spent, conscience-stricken, and ashamed, that scarcely had he virtue left for the face of a man.

Their advance strung him, for he saw the significant reserve of each right hand. That his misdeed justified any extreme he knew, not conscious in his sore compunction of any right to resist even for his life. He waited without protest, but neither offered to strike.

Reason bade for quick despatch--very little would have provoked it; but not Philip at his worst could conduct a brutal butchery, when conviction dawned that a human creature stood at their mercy by his own mere resolute submission. With names of coward and devil he struck him first, but they did not stir him to affording warrant. The Adventurer took up the word.

'Brutal coward, or madman, which you be, answer for your deed; confess you are a traitor paid and approved.'

He shook his head.

'Why else have you now half murdered your fellow? Verily are you an alien through and through, for no man born on these sh.o.r.es would so basely betray a trust.'

'Nor I,' he got out, and rather wished they would strike with their hands.

'You lie!' said his accuser; 'or robbery, or murder, or treachery you intend--or all. Own your worst; try it; this time openly, fairly: your brute strength upon two who are not your match: on your mate damaged from your foul handling: on an old man, whose gold you have taken, the trust of whose life you have accepted.'

He could not attempt a protest, though his heart was like to break enforced to silence. The other advanced in temerity with an order.

'You have a knife. Give it up.'

He obeyed without a word. Then the two made no reserve, but with a show of bare steel proved his temper. He did not lift a hand.

Lois might come to hear of his transgression: she would never know how hard it was to atone, because they dawdled so cruelly, because he knew they would bungle so cruelly: he did not think either had force to drive a blade home at a stroke.

The Adventurer paused. Here without madness was a guilty wretch cowed at detection, abject as a wolf in a pit!

'We would not your blood on our hands, yet to no oath of yours may our lives trust.'