Anthony Stevens' journey across New Jersey was slow; the track he followed was through the pine barrens, dismal even in the flush of spring. The wheels of the wagon sank in the sand, and the span of stout horses sweated in their collars. Of an evening—the fourth since his start—he arrived at a small white town, standing sparsely upon the banks of a creek which let out into the bay. This was Barnegat; and here the young man bargained for transportation to his journey's end.
His goods were transferred to a flat-boat, and with the first peep of morning they were out of the creek; the patched sail filled, and the boat stood away for the long, low shore that faced them. The morning was still wet with mist when they grounded in a cove; across the meadows Anthony saw the blue-white of the dunes, and beyond them was the shine of the moving sea; thousands of migrating birds filled the sky, coming from the south, and hovered in twittering hordes over the wax-myrtle thickets; here and there a pair of black-ducks, delayed in their journey north, paddled about, feeding on the edge of the cove.
"There's the house you mean," said the boatman to Anthony.
It stood upon a dune and overlooked both the bay and the sea; it was low and strong and had small windows much like ships' dead-lights; the timbers plainly were parts of vessels, broken by the sea and cast ashore.
"'Twas built years ago by a man who lived by what he took out of the bay and what he found on the beach," the boatman told Anthony. "But it's seldom used now by any one; this beach is not much frequented; you'd go many a mile along it and never see a soul."
The man helped Anthony carry his provisions along what remained of a track across the meadows; then his bedding and blankets and other equipment followed. The door was fast only by a wooden latch; inside, the place resembled a ship's cabin; and after the boatman had gone Anthony opened the small, round windows and permitted the fresh sea air to blow through it; then he sat down upon a keg and looked around.
The timbers of the hut were massive, and had been hewn to fit; the crevices were overlapped outside by scantling; there were shelves over the windows and the door; in one corner was a rough cupboard, in another a bunk; and there were chairs and a table made up of materials cast up on the shore. A battered brass ship's lamp hung from the center of the ceiling by a chain. Through the open door he saw the dunes and the sea and the sky, like a picture set in a frame—the dunes with their sparse, strong grass, and mist-like blue that blurred the glare of the sun; the sea heaved, green and endless, breaking white upon the bars; the sky carried soft, floating draperies over its deep bosom, and, far out, stooped suddenly to meet the lifting waters.
Anthony cut some soft branches from a small cedar-tree which grew near the hut and fashioned himself a broom; with this he swept the walls and floor; then he unrolled his bedding and made up the bunk, sailor-fashion, stowed his salt beef and dried fish and fruit, his flour and beans and peas, and meal and tea; a well sunken from the top of a neighboring dune was cleaned and made sweet, the roof was seen to, to guard against possible rains. Then Anthony cleared the fireplace of the ash of an ancient fire, and laid some sticks for the building of a new one; he placed a thin array of books upon a shelf over a window, hung a fowling-piece and the pistol which Tom Horn had given him upon the wall; he saw to it that his powder was protected from the damp, and began to feel at home.
Toward evening he set out for a tramp on the beach; it was broad and steep; the broken waves would rush up the incline frothing, and then go swirling dangerously back. High on the horizon-line he saw some filled topsails; and to the northeast he saw a shoal which ran as far as his vision carried, and the hurrying waves broke over its bars in a cloud of mist.
"That," said Anthony, "must be the point Tom Horn spoke of. And I can see well how the 'white ghosts would move through the night when the winds blew.'"
It was dark when he returned to the hut; he lighted two candles, and, when he had a good bed of coals in the fireplace, cooked his supper, which he ate with great comfort. The sea air was thin and chill after the sun had gone; so with the fire built up, the candles drawn close, and a blanket thrown over the biggest of the arm-chairs, he sat with a book until almost midnight; after that he rolled himself up in his bunk and slept soundly.
Next morning he bent a sail on a boat he'd brought from the mainland and prowled about among the coves of the bay; in the afternoon he explored the island to the north, and found it abruptly cut by a swift and dangerous-looking inlet, at the mouth of which began the range of shoals and bars he'd noticed the evening before.
To the south all was beach and dunes and sky; the gulls winged above the water; fish-hawks flopped drearily up and down the line of surf; sandpipers followed one receding wave in search of beach insects, to scamper alertly back before the rolling advance of the next. The air was bracing; the smell of the sea was grateful. As the charm of the place settled upon him, Anthony would stand at midday upon elevations, with the free wind blowing about him, the sun warm upon his body, and feel the life mounting in him. Days and then weeks went by; he took fish out of the bay for food; he brought turtles from the high bar; he cut green, edible plants for his table; now and then he had a duck, though they were none too plump at that season; at rare times he had a rabbit for the pot with a dried leek from the cluster hanging to a hook in the rafters.
The sun burned him brown; the rowing, hauling, and tramping toughened his thews and gave stiffness to his bones. His eyes grew bright and ready; and, as those grinding, punishing last days at Rufus Stevens' Sons became fainter in his memory, the old tilt came back to his chin and the steadfast quality returned once more to his gaze. He'd plunge into the surf of a morning; tingling with the water, air, and sun, he'd cut wood for his fire, and cook his porridge, and bake his corn-bread upon the coals. Then he'd sit by the open window, eating, and sipping his wine and water, and he said to himself that he had begun no days like them since those he'd spent breasting the wilderness, or stepping the deck of a Spanish ship, voyaging among the southern seas.
After breakfast he'd scour the beach to see what the tide had brought in; planks, cordage, spars, broken ship's furniture, all added to his ease of life; and tinkering it into useful things passed many of his hours with profit. In mid-morning he'd hoist the sail of his boat and point away to his fishing-places; in the afternoon he'd lie on the top of a dune in the still of the sun; the sea washed in monotonously, a fishing bird complained in his passage, the wind rustled in the thickets on the meadow edge; but the sense of isolation would be on him completely; his eye and body were keen and eager, but his mind drowsed, resting after its wearing fight.
In all this time Anthony had seen no one on the island, and there was no sign of another habitation anywhere. Toward the mainland he'd frequently see a small sail, but they kept to their side of the bay; to seaward many vessels passed. Ships, schooners, brigs, and sloops, when the wind was in the west, ventured into the flat, near-shore waters, though none ever paused on their way. But one day while a tower of storm-clouds was building in the northwest he saw a small brig, standing on and off, and seeming in no haste. She was, as far as Anthony could see, a craft of no outstanding character; her hull had the unkempt look of a carelessly kept fishing-vessel; her dress of sails was patched, and discolored by long use, except one topsail, and that was white and new and shining. Though the wind freshened and blew levelly out of the windows of the storm-tower, the brig still kept pondering in and out; once a boat was lowered; but a shrill note crept into the wind, and the sea began to leap a little under its urging, and the boat was hoisted aboard directly; and the vessel pointed her nose toward the southeast and ran for deep water.
While at his supper that night Anthony listened to the rain washing against the cabin windows and roaring on the roof. The wind carried the sand and spray before it; the thunder rattled, and the lightning drove sharply across the sky. But the fine fish Anthony had hooked smoked deliciously on the table; there was rice cooked white and dry; there were stewed leeks and good corn-bread; and a brandy-flask seemed to expand its stout mid-section and smile rosily at the candle-light. And, later, snug and safe in the stout cabin, Anthony put more wood upon the fire; for all of early June the east wind chilled the air with its wet touch; the candles were cheery, the billets flamed up, and, with a book and pipe and a comfortable chair, he saw the storm through to its peak; then he blew out the light and went to bed, while it still jeered and strove, but with a tiring voice; and he slept soundly.
He found the beach cut and lashed desperately next day; and the seas were still roaring and boiling in, making the cuts deeper and changing the whole aspect of the shore. But the wind had gone down, and late in the day the sea sullenly did likewise. Then, far down the line of shore, as Anthony trudged along to view the havoc of the gale, he saw the stern of a long-boat sticking out of the sand. His eye told him, as he approached it, that some previous storm had driven it in and buried it; and now this one had uncovered it once more. The stern was badly stove; he saw that as he drew nearer; and another thing he saw was that the boat, for all her mishandling, was a new one. And then, as he stepped around the broken stern, he found painted upon it the name ofRufus Stevens!
Anthony stood quite still for a long time; his eyes never moved from the painted name; his mind carried a picture of the vessel to which the boat had belonged. TheRufus Stevens! A stout, good ship! The hopes that had been put in her!—hopes as precious as the stuffs she stowed! And now she was a broken ruin somewhere in the sea's depths, and the hopes were broken, too, in the ruined mind of her owner. A plunging, bold ship! And she would have come safe home if the dirty hand of villainy had not been put upon her. A broad-sailed ship. Christ! it was a shame to think of her, used like that; and no mind or voice to save her.
"I'd give my arm to have stood on her deck when her peril came upon her," said Anthony, all his muscles tight. "The rats! They sank her in the sea, and brought living death to as kindly a man as ever God made!"
That night Anthony did not sleep well, for the thought of the lost ship troubled him gravely; so he arose and dressed and stepped out into the quiet of the summer night. His eyes went seaward, for something there caught his attention; it was a light at no great distance—intermittent, winking, sometimes with long pauses between, sometimes rapid, considered, carrying an undoubted meaning. Then the night grew dark and blank; and, though he watched a long time, Anthony saw the light no more. He tramped about until weariness urged him back to bed, and this time he slept with no disturbing thoughts breaking in upon him.
Next morning he was early upon the beach and looking sharply about for any sign that might give a reason for the light that had come winking offshore. He saw nothing until he reached the spot where the stove long-boat of theRufus Stevensprotruded from the sands. All about her were the imprints of men's feet, which the making tide had already begun to wash away. Anthony studied them, his eyes intent under frowning brows; and then, as he lifted his head, he saw a vessel riding upon the horizon-line. She was a brig; and one of her topsails glinted white in the morning sun.
It so chanced that Tom Horn did not appear at Christopher Dent's for some nights; and so Mademoiselle Lafargue, with brisk little shoes clicking upon the floor, and silken gloves upon her hands, and a lace shawl about her head, came into the apothecary's shop in the twilight before he had kindled his lamps. She forthwith demanded that he keep his promise and go with her to Tom Horn's lodgings, that she might speak with the odd clerk in the matter he had dwelt so earnestly upon some nights before.
Christopher eagerly put on his hat and tailed coat, and wrote a legend announcing that because of unavoidable matters his shop would be closed for a few hours, which he stuck upon the door; then he turned the key in the lock with care and, with mademoiselle at his side, proceeded in the direction of Pump Court. This was a wide court, of no great depth, with three broad-fronted houses on each side of it, and a cool flagged space between; and in the center stood the pump, with a tub under its spout, from which the court took its name. There was a little fringe of grass about the edge of each of the houses, and vines climbed the walls; the shutters were green and stood wide; the door- and window-frames were white. Christopher pointed to the sloping roof of one of the houses, where a dormer-window leaned outward.
"That," said the little apothecary, "is Tom Horn's lodgings."
They climbed the wide, solid steps, and at the top of the house knocked upon a door. Tom Horn opened it; he did not seem at all surprised, but only opened it a great deal wider when he saw who it was.
"Come in," he said. "I am glad to see you."
The room was a very large one and sparely furnished; on a broad table, with lighted candles set about it, was a great clutter of papers.
"Figures," said Christopher, as he looked down at the papers. "All figures." He looked at Tom Horn and rubbed his own shining crown. "They must be like a spoken language to you."
"Figures are truer and more dependable than a language made of words," said Tom Horn. "The circles come at through them are perfect ones. There is no bending them to other shapes. Words, now, can be wrought to fit both prejudice and unreason."
"That is true," said the little apothecary, and he turned a look upon mademoiselle which told of his admiration for the saying. "That is very true, indeed."
There were bare spaces upon the walls of Tom Horn's lodgings, and pinned there were what looked like maps, but maps such as neither mademoiselle nor Christopher had ever seen before. For about the islands and along the headlands and through the bulk of the sea itself were drawn long lines which curled slowly toward an inevitable roundness. Figures were set down in red ink along these lines, and arrows of blue pointed out their circular, grasping sweep. Upon the mantel was a slim array of books, and mademoiselle, as she looked at their worn sheep bindings and their inked-in titles, saw that astronomy, navigation, and geometry were the matters there dealt with.
The place had a clean, bare look; the single twinkling light in the court could be seen from the high window; a thrush on an open perch stirred now and then and chirped sleepily; and a wooden-wheeled clock ticked and grumbled in its high case. Mademoiselle listened to the two men for a space after they had settled down, and then, in a silence between them, she spoke to Tom Horn.
"Mr. Dent has told me of the interest he feels in your theory of tides and currents, and especially in how they might have affected the shipRufus Stevens. And we have come to-night to hear more of it, if you are of the mind to tell it."
"We have a curiosity concerning your idea," said Christopher cautiously. "And so, if there is any more to tell, we beg of you to tell it plainly, for it may be a thought with a deal of value, and which could be put to a practical use."
Never had Tom Horn looked so worn and fragile as he did at that moment, sitting with the mass of calculations before him and with the candle-light upon him; never before had the strange, luminous quality that he threw off been so pronounced, never had the odd, hopeful look in his eyes shown so fully through their fixed despair.
"I will say what I can," he said, "and that is not much; for no man can speak with authority on things urged by powers whose weight he can only surmise. But this I know: In the south region of the world, the edge of Africa and that of South America make the two sides of a vast throat, and through this the waters warmed by the tropics force themselves northward. The current clings to the American side and, when opposite the mouth of the Amazon, begins to thicken. It sweeps between Trinidad and the Barbados into the Carribbean; it rounds the West Indies to the south and curves into the gulf, and then, out and away, along the North American coast."
"And holds all its parts to itself on the way," marveled Christopher. "That is wonderful, indeed. It is as though it were a vast living thing."
"From the north," said Tom Horn, and he pointed a long finger at one of the maps on the wall, "comes a second current, cold, holding to the coast and meeting the warm current where the ocean's bed rises so abruptly off Newfoundland. Here the two merge and swing off toward the east. But the land turns them south; holding to the African rim they flow back through the great throat, completing the circle. And somewhere inside that circle," said Tom Horn, "is the Sargasso; it lies to the south of the Azores, to the west of the Canaries, and northwest of the Cape Verdes Islands, a vast pool of slack water; and into it is drawn all those things which the currents have ravished from the world."
"It is your thought, then," said mademoiselle, "that the shipRufus Stevens, if still afloat, may have fallen into the grip of this great circle. But might it not be that the storm blew her out of reach of the currents? Who can say what happened in a great wind like that?"
Tom Horn took one of the sheets from the table.
"It was Captain Frisbee who saw the ship. And the spot where he saw her, made by dead reckoning, is set down here. It was three in the afternoon, and the wind was blowing from the southwest. Captain Frisbee told me these things himself," said Tom Horn. "I went to him and asked. And he judged that the gale was blowing at seventy miles an hour, and held so until nightfall on the following day, when it had blown itself out. That gives twenty-seven hours of wicked weather, the wind blowing into the east by north all the time.
"With that body of wind," the clerk went on, "and that number of hours, a ship without masts or sails can be figured to have been driven so many leagues. And my calculations show me that when the storm fell theRufus Stevenslay at or near this spot on the ocean's water," and he picked the place out on the paper with his finger, "at or near this spot, which is south of the Azores, and on the inner rim of the great circle. And being so situated, and without help," said Tom Horn, "nothing can prevent her from drifting into the Grassy Sea."
"Could it not be," said Christopher Dent, "that she might have settled into some other current after the wind fell, and so floated away in another direction?"
"One whole year I drifted in theWilliam and Mary," said Tom Horn. "Each day of that year I marked down in a book, and underneath I wrote what I saw in the sea and in the sky. TheWilliam and Marywas a good ship, but misfortune touched her. Time has told me that it was not the misfortune of chance; men had to do with it; there was a purpose in it; but what, or how, I could never contrive. The ship was down by the head when they left her; they desired me to get into a boat with the second mate, Ezra Hardy, who was a plain, honest man. But I said I would stay with the ship. And that boat, with all who were in her, was never heard of again."
"And the others?" asked Christopher Dent.
"The boat of the captain was a strong one," said Tom Horn. "And so was the first mate's. They lived: oh, yes, that was seen to. They lived buoyantly through the storm."
"Do you say," and mademoiselle's voice shook, "that you refused to leave the ship because you believed the second mate's boat was meant to go down?"
"First," said Tom Horn, "I desired to remain with the cargo while there was a chance of saving it. Second," and he whispered this, "it was as you say."
"Now, God save us!" said Christopher Dent in horror. "God in His Heaven save us!"
"I watched the sea all that day," said the clerk, "and I listened through the night; for it was heavy in my mind that the captain and first mate would return. For I knew the men who were in their boats,—hardy, desperate, unsparing men,—and I feared for my life."
"They did not return!" said the little apothecary. "Oh, no, I trust not! I dread to think otherwise."
"The drifting water took the hulk, weighted as it was," said Tom Horn; "with her forecastle down and her forward hatch almost under, the great circle took her and carried her away; and so the villains lost all track of her, and I drifted into the lonely sea. The sun shone through a haze," said the clerk; "its color was russet and streaked with white; so still was the air I saw spirals of mist, like ropes, lowered from the sky. On every side the sea was like a grassy field; I saw planks and spars lying on what seemed solid ground; great birds sat and watched me as though waiting for the time when I should die. There was a ghastly kind of vegetation: pallid, slimy plants,—bloodless,—like things that had grown in the dark; they were horrible to see and more horrible to touch. And," said Tom Horn, "a monstrous life stirred beneath the green scum of the sea. Since time began, God's hand has been turned to many dreadful tasks; but He has hidden them from most men's eyes."
"We will grant," said the girl, "that a ship, circumstanced as you believe theRufus Stevenswas at the end of the storm, must have fallen into the grasp of the great current and so came, or will come, to the Grassy Sea. But before going so far we must assure ourselves she remained afloat."
"Any one who watched her building," said Tom Horn, "must have seen she was a strong vessel. Siddons is an honest man; he never slights a task; he does honest, sound work. Live-oak is tough; hammered iron does not give readily; the ship was new, and, though the masts were out of her when Frisbee saw her, the decks were sound and the hatches fast down. I questioned him about that, and he was quite sure. The ship was like a cask," said Tom Horn. "The sea could not harm her, there being nothing to dash her against. Mark me! she is adrift at this moment in the slimy grass of that silent place; and her cargo is as dry and safe as it would be if it were in a merchant's storehouse."
Mademoiselle's hands trembled, but her voice was steady as she said:
"Would it be possible to find this strange ocean backwater? Could you—could any one—take a ship into it?"
"South of the Azores," said Tom Horn, "northwest of the Cape Verdes, and west of the Canaries." He nodded his head. "I could find my way back to it," said he. "Through all the vast spaces of the sea I could find my way back there, for it is so fixed in my mind that the very sky above it would be known to me if I once lifted it to the horizon-line."
"Anthony Stevens!" said mademoiselle to Christopher. "He must be told!"
"But his health!" protested the little apothecary.
"This will be health to him," said the girl. "This news would put life in him if he stood on the verge of the grave."
"Very well. He shall be told," said Christopher. "He shall be told, and at once."
The movements of the brig which hung so close to shore, and which prowled up and down so mysteriously, greatly interested Anthony Stevens. Late in the day, after the episode of the wrecked long-boat, he saw the vessel at anchor a few miles out and just to the south of the shoals; a small boat had put out from her and was weaving in and out slowly apparently searching for a channel to the inlet.
She was still there next morning, riding at anchor, and before noon two boats had put away from her and engaged in the same weaving in and out. At evening Anthony baked his bread on the coals and roasted a fish; he ate his supper at the window and then tidily washed and put away his gear. He read for an hour or two by candle-light; and about ten o'clock, when he'd made up his mind for bed, he stepped out for a breath of cool air. The night was quiet; the sky carried thousands of stars; through a space between two dunes he could see the surf, thick with phosphorus, breaking brilliantly on the sand. The moon was lifting out of the sea—a great, yellow moon; he moved toward the beach; for a time the light was hidden by a high dune; then the moon's rim began to rise above it, enormous, like a wide eye searching the quiet world. Higher and higher it lifted, the light bathing the sand-hills mysteriously; half of it was now above the line of the dune, and suddenly, against its shining face, Anthony saw a movement. There were two figures,—men,—and they stood upon the top of the hill with the half-moon behind them; their heads were together as though they were conversing, and one of them lifted a hand and pointed out to sea.
At once Anthony was in motion; softly he stepped through the sand, and climbed the side of the hill. The two men stood with their backs to him, their eyes fixed upon the sea. There lay the brig in the track of the moon; and it was at this they were pointing. When Anthony spoke they turned; and he was amazed to see Tom Horn and Christopher Dent.
"We reached the town beyond at nightfall and crossed the bay in a skiff," said Christopher. "We came to see you; we have a message."
Tom Horn was studying the brig once more.
"I know her well," he said. "She belongs to the Simpsons and has the look of having been rigged by a landsman."
"She's been haunting the coast," said Anthony.
Tom Horn laughed, and he pointed away to the northeast.
"There are the shoals," he said. "There are the white ghosts. That's why the brig's people are here. They know every set of teeth on the coast." He looked at Anthony. "Have they been searching?"
"They have had boats out," said the young man.
Tom Horn nodded.
"Such as they take nothing for granted. No ship is to be seen broken on the bars but they know what a great storm can do; they know how it can rend its victim, and then cover it with the smothering sand."
Anthony frowned out at the brig, lying so peacefully in the white track of the moon.
"They set out to find a wreck, then?" he said.
"A month ago," said Tom Horn. "They manned yonder vessel for no other purpose than to pick and search along the coast. This shoal was one they had well in the front of their minds. And the hulk they hope to sight is that of theRufus Stevens."
All three stood looking out at the vessel across the flattened line of surf.
"What men are aboard her?" asked Anthony.
"Those whom you have in your mind," said the clerk. "They could be no other."
Anthony continued to hold the brig with his eye; his mind was dark and active, and anger was lifting in it.
"Mademoiselle desired that word be brought you," said Christopher to the young man.
"Of this?" said Anthony, and he pointed to the vessel.
"Oh, no. She knows nothing of either the brig or her business," said the little apothecary. "Her message is more urgent than that. It will open your eyes," prophesied Christopher, confidently. He took a letter from his pocket and gave it to Anthony. "But let us go where you can read it quietly," said he. "And afterwards we can talk; for you'll have many questions to ask, I know, and Tom Horn will have a deal of answering to do to satisfy you."
So they descended the dune; a brace of candles were lighted in the cabin, and the three sat down at the table. Anthony read mademoiselle's letter; his muscles grew tight and his blood began to race; he read it once more, then quietly placed it upon the table and, looking at Tom Horn, said:
"Tell me what you have told her."
The clerk once more stated his beliefs, and his reasons for holding to them; Christopher added those details which escaped the other; Anthony listened, and his eyes glowed; a slow smile crept to the corners of his mouth, but got no farther.
"Safe!" said he, when the man had done. "Safe, with the cargo unharmed; lying quiet and waiting."
"Yes," said Tom Horn.
"And you can point the nose of a vessel toward this strange sea?"
"I would engage to put you alongside the ship itself," said Tom Horn.
Anthony's eyes narrowed. These were high words, and he was one to be moved little by sounds, no matter how brave. But Tom Horn was peculiar. Inside that odd exterior, a wisdom worked which was not common. Tom Horn, alone, of all who felt the burrowing under Rufus Stevens' Sons, had pointed out the runways of the rats. He had said strange things; and facts had sprung up to bear him out. There was a long silence; and then Anthony said:
"A vessel to make the search! How is one to be had?"
Thrilled, Christopher leaned across the table.
"Mademoiselle bade me say," said he, "that she'll be waiting and will have a ship at her call."
Anthony looked at the little apothecary; then the smile crept forward from the corners of his mouth, and his lips parted in a laugh.
"Mademoiselle grows better and better," he said. He turned a look upon the broad face of his watch, which hung upon the wall. "I have bedding enough for us all," he said. "So let's turn to it and get some sleep. To-morrow we take the track back to the city."
They were astir early in the morning and had their breakfast. The brig was still in sight, but some distance to the northeast, as Christopher reported after a look through one of the windows. And as they ate Anthony nodded toward the pistol, which still hung upon the wall.
"I have not had occasion to use it," said he. "But, with those gentlemen in the offing, there is no telling what might have come about in the long run."
Tom Horn looked from the weapon to Anthony.
"No man's life is safe if he places it between these villains and their will," he said.
"They are spending a deal of time loitering along the coast," said Christopher. "Of what service would it be to them to find the ruins of a ship piled upon a bar?"
"They would then know that ship's fate," said Tom Horn. "It would be shown to them that they need seek no further."
Christopher looked at the odd clerk with round eyes.
"This, then," said he, "is only a beginning of their search?"
"The prize is a rich one," said Tom Horn. "They'd hunt the seas of the world if they thought they might come upon it."
All that was readily portable of Anthony's effects was carried to the boat which had brought Christopher and Tom to the island; and by mid-morning they hoisted sail and headed for the mainland. Here the baggage was transferred to a wagon, and they were on their way through the barrens, on the first stretch of sand tracks toward the city. By hard traveling they accomplished the distance by the third morning, and Anthony went at once to his lodgings. It was a gorgeous, blowy July day; the sun was in Sassafras Street; the scent of the little gardens round about rose to him as he raised his windows; all the world seemed open before him, and he felt a mounting life in his body that would carry him through it. He was shaving by a window, with a mirror propped against a hat-box, when a knock came upon the door.
"Come in," said Anthony, and Mr. Sparhawk, neat, precise, and looking more like a wise old bird than ever, walked into the room.
"Why, this is a splendid surprise, indeed," said the little gentleman. "I had expected you, it's true, for there was reason to think you'd be attracted back to town; but such immediate action in the matter is quite heartening, and charming."
He shook Anthony's hand, and sat down, crossed his silk-stockinged legs, and his alert gaze ran over the young man from head to foot. The bronzed, rugged health that he saw, the long, powerful muscles under the close-fitting shirt, caused him to nod with approval; the brisk, sure movements and the snapping light of the eyes brought a smile to the little gentleman's face—a smile of assurance and content.
"You had the news of my return very quickly," said Anthony, as he proceeded with his shaving at the window.
"Christopher Dent came in upon me while I was still at breakfast," said Mr. Sparhawk. "A kindly, good soul! I appreciate Christopher very much. And after he left me he was off to Mademoiselle Lafargue with his tidings. He anticipated great excitement there, I know."
"You have heard this theory of Tom Horn's regarding the shipRufus Stevens?" Anthony held the razor suspended as he asked this question, and his soap-covered face was turned toward Mr. Sparhawk.
The precise little gentleman put down his hat carefully; and then he answered:
"Mademoiselle Lafargue brought the matter to my attention some days ago. She attached much value to it."
"And you?" said Anthony.
"I have known Tom Horn a long time," said Mr. Sparhawk. "A very long time. He is a person of strange moods; many look on him as a man distraught, but I have never been convinced that he is so. For, do you see," and Mr. Sparhawk nodded, quite firmly, "though his manner is odd and his method of expression is not usual, there is much matter in his sayings. He has a mind that thinks; though, as I've said before, many do not credit it."
"Have any steps been taken in this matter?" asked Anthony.
Mr. Sparhawk put his head to one side in the way that gave him the bird-like look.
"No doubt you'll be calling at the Lafargues' before the day is out," said he. "And, if so, mademoiselle will tell you what has been done."
Anthony rasped at his beard with a not over-sharp razor.
"I had it in my mind to visit them early in the day," said he.
"Very good," said the old gentleman. "As she knows you've come back to town, no doubt she'll be at home."
Mr. Sparhawk then fell into talk of many things; most of them had to do with the clouded affairs of Rufus Stevens' Sons, and the plans and purposes of those reasonable creditors who had its destiny in charge.
"A deal is due you and Mr. Crousillat for your interest," said Anthony. "You have gone much out of your way to do a kindly thing."
"Why, as to that," said Mr. Sparhawk, "there are many who would do as we have done,—more especially as I have done,—had the same urge induced them forward."
Anthony, glancing over his shoulder, nodded soberly. And Mr. Sparhawk went on to tell all the steps that had been taken to bring some degree of order out of the ruin. It was a bleak, dispiriting catalogue; the track of events wound through gloomy places; there were voids which had been filled with promises; there were moneys paid out of which there was no accounting; there were debts due or owing which had never been written down; there were passages dull with stupidity, or foul with malpractice; and Anthony grew a little sick as he listened; for it was familiar ground; it had broken him before, and he felt it could break him again. He tried to shut his ears to the dull hammering of Mr. Sparhawk's facts. The clever parrying of that little gentleman, or of old Mr. Crousillat, in some close engagements of wits, or their sudden and skilful assault upon some detected plunderer, brought nothing but pain to Anthony's mind; for he could think only of his own struggles and defeats in that same place of gloom, of dismal suspicion, of maddening unreality. He felt as a trapped wolf might feel, brought back to the place of its disaster.
And he wanted no more of it! He fervently wanted no more of it. A struggle he did not mind; indeed, he welcomed it; but it must be a struggle with things seen, with men or events with which one might come in open contact. This ship, now—adrift, lost, crammed with a treasure of merchandise! She was a thing to make his nerves crackle and his blood leap. His mind could value the danger she was in, if the sea held her at all—danger at the hands of wandering or purposeful men, in the crush of winds and seas, in the heart of a vast silence, and a desolation almost impossible to penetrate. With a sound deck under him, a few resourceful hands to carry out his orders, and the far seas ahead! That would be a man's part. He'd rise to that. But to be like a mole, digging, digging in the dark! He'd have no more of it! He could stand no more of it!
Mr. Sparhawk stayed for an hour and talked. The things he said were needful things, though unpleasant; and Anthony, understanding this, tried to bear with them. But, when the little man finally took his leave, the young one drew a deep breath and at once began to change his dress, preparatory to his day's affairs.
Within an hour he was at the Lafargues' lodgings. Both mademoiselle and her father were awaiting him.
"It is generous of you to come back to the city so promptly," said Monsieur Lafargue eagerly.
"Are not my interests involved?" asked Anthony. "When a chance is shown me finally to accomplish a thing for which I once strove and failed, could I stand still and see it pass?"
"You think, then," said the girl, her eyes shining, "that thereisa chance?"
"It is a strange thing," said Anthony. "A strange thing, indeed. But, then, why not? If we stopped because things were not usual, our hands would hang at our sides in all the important turnings of our lives."
"That a ship could live through a storm like that, seems impossible," said Monsieur Lafargue.
"Others did, and came into port," said mademoiselle.
"True." Monsieur Lafargue stroked his shaven chin. "True, indeed. But I cannot forget theRufus Stevenswas already a wreck when seen."
"Her masts were gone," said Anthony. "That is always grave; but it is not necessarily fatal. I have seen vessels so stricken which have lived boldly; I myself was once in a ship so circumstanced; she was battered and beaten by the sea for days; but she held together and sailed many a voyage afterwards."
"Christopher was greatly excited," said mademoiselle, "and he came to me with the story of what Tom Horn had said; he was perplexed and did not know what to believe. And I was in the same state of mind, even after I'd talked to the man himself and written the letter asking you to return. I wanted to believe and accept it all as an actual thing," she said, "for it seemed the only hope left. But it was not until I saw Mr. Sparhawk that my mind became settled."
Anthony looked at her questioningly; he recalled the attitude of that same little gentleman an hour before, the cock of his head, and the tolerant tone with which he spoke of Tom Horn and his theory.
"His disbelief fixed your mind in opposition, then?" said Anthony.
"Disbelief!" The girl laughed, her beautiful teeth flashing. "He was as credulous as a child. He walked the floor; he took great quantities of snuff; he at once began to plan how moneys might be had to equip a vessel to be sent searching the seas."
Anthony also laughed. The cunning of the dapper little fox! Not once had he shown even a trace of actual belief; and yet there he was, mad to set forward, and hoping, Anthony had no doubt, with the best of them!
"The money was easily had; those who had interests in the cargo were willing to chance something; the larger creditors were of a like mind; this was all spoken of secretly, and the sums gathered in the same way. And so there is a small vessel, all ready for sea, lying in Pegg Run; and you are to be her master if you care to undertake the task."
"There is no task in the world at this moment that I am so eager for," said Anthony. "And, thank God, it's one for which I feel fitted. It's not like the mousing, grubbing work I was compelled to do in the counting-room, trying to hold off the things that I see now were bound to come."
They talked of the prospects for an early beginning; of the storing of the vessel, which, so it seemed, was already under way, the chances for slipping out to sea with no one the wiser. And then they left the house and walked north on Water Street until they reached Pegg Run; and the girl pointed out to Anthony a trim little schooner, fit, and fresh with paint, her tall masts telling of a fine spread of sail, and her strong hull bending into the curving sweep of speed. The young man glowed at sight of the craft; she was so like the one he would have selected himself for the work ahead of him that it might well have been his will, acting through another, when she was fixed upon.
"You like her?" asked the girl.
"She's a fine, upstanding craft," said Anthony, "roomy, with plenty of space for a press of wind, and I have no doubt, sails well in most weathers. She'll ride like a duck; I know that buoyant look."
"I'm glad," said mademoiselle. "I tried to please you."
His eyes met hers, and he held them steadily.
"You have pleased me in more than that," said Anthony. "One by one I have been storing the instances away in my mind; some day I shall tell you what they are."
There was an open look in his eye that stopped the speech on her lips: a flush came into her face, and her own eyes were very bright as she turned her head, so that he might not see. The tackle from the schooner's foremast strained and whined through the blocks; some negroes, chanting monotonously, laid their weight against the capstan bars.
"In two days," said the girl, "she will be ready."
"In two days," said Anthony, "she will be gone."
It was in less than two days that the last keg and case was received on board and the last carpenter packed his kit and left the schooner; in the meantime Anthony made calculations as to the hands needed to man her and set about procuring them. Almost the first person he met, at a tavern frequented by sailors in Front Street, was Corkery, who had been mate in Rufus Stevens' Sons' shipGeneral Stark. And in an instant Anthony had him at the far end of the bar, a mug of beer before each of them, and was explaining his errand—or as much of it as the occasion seemed to need.
"A crew?" said Corkery; "four men, a cook, a mate? A short voyage and good pay? What ship?"
"The schoonerRoebuck," said Anthony.
Corkery nodded.
"I know her," he said. "Owned by Crousillat, and lately engaged in the trade with Havana." He took a draft of the beer. "About the mate, now: I'm looking for a ship myself, and this voyage might fit me well if you'd be inclined to have me."
"The papers are waiting for your name," said Anthony, his eyes snapping, for he felt the value of the man. "And, now, the others."
"A quiet crew, you say," said Corkery thoughtfully; "one that goes about its affairs, gives its time to handling the ship, and leaves all other matters to its officers. Such should be found readily enough. When do you sail?"
"To-morrow," replied Anthony.
"Where bound?" asked the mate.
"That," said Anthony, "I do not yet know."
Corkery looked surprised; but he took another draft of the good beer and said:
"Put it in my hands, and I'll have your men on board by night."
Willingly Anthony did so and gave himself to other matters. Late in the day he had his effects carried to the wharf in Pegg Run and placed on board. At almost the same time Tom Horn arrived with his bedding in a roll, and his other belongings in a stout chest. He looked into Anthony's cabin, after stowing these, and nodded approval of the little array of muskets and pistols and stout hangers which he saw on the wall.
"The forehanded man is the least likely to meet danger," he said. "Your grandfather never allowed a ship to sail without plenty of powder and ball, and a musket to a man; his seamen always knew how to load and fire them; and that is an example many a ship-owner could follow with profit."
Corkery reached the vessel by nightfall as he had said he would, and with him were the hands. By the light of a lantern swinging amidships, Anthony watched the men bear their dunnage aboard, inspect their new ship, and then disappear into the forecastle.
"Two of them are off a Dutch ship just in from the East," said Corkery. "I don't know them, but they have the name of good seamen; the other two sailed under me in one of your uncle's brigs a few years ago. The cook is a mulatto, as you've seen, a clever man, and not above lending a hand when required in other matters."
"We should have a carpenter," said Anthony, "but I suppose, if the need of one is pressing, we can make shift between us."
Corkery, as an active mate should, soon had his company divided into watches and employed about the schooner. And, having seen things all right and prospering, Anthony went ashore. At Christopher Dent's he bade the little apothecary good-by.
"Good fortune!" said Christopher. "And a swift return. I have, with discretion, mind you, spoken with several people about theRoebuck. She has the name of a lucky ship. So you have that much in your favor, at least. I wish I were going with you; but," wistfully, "I wouldn't be of much use in such an enterprise." He shook Anthony's hand again. "I feel," he said, "that you are to return with great credit. Every night I shall mark the stars that must hang above your ship; and I'll try to read from them what is before you."
When Anthony was shown into the sitting-room of Monsieur Lafargue, mademoiselle was there with her father, and Mr. Sparhawk sat comfortably in a big chair. Some trunks, corded and ready, rested near the head of the stairs.
"Well," said Mr. Sparhawk, after the visitor had been greeted and had taken a chair. "You are busy making ready, I suppose?"
"The company is aboard," said Anthony. "And we'll drop down the river with the next tide."
Mr. Sparhawk applauded this news with soft pattering hands.
"Brisk work!" praised he. "Oh, excellent!"
"When does the tide turn?" asked Mademoiselle Lafargue.
"At three in the morning," said Anthony.
"You will have time for a few hours' sleep," said Monsieur Lafargue to mademoiselle. "But your baggage had better be sent aboard at once."
Anthony looked from one to the other; then he turned his gaze upon Mr. Sparhawk. The little gentleman spoke in his most persuasive voice.
"I trust," said he, "that theRoebuckis as roomy as she looks, and that you have managed to set apart quarters that will be reasonably comfortable for mademoiselle."
"For mademoiselle!" said Anthony, astonished.
"Now, God bless my soul!" said Mr. Sparhawk regretfully. "How could I have been so neglectful? I have not told him," to Monsieur Lafargue. "How can you forgive me?" to mademoiselle.
"Not told him!" said mademoiselle, her face crimson.
"I ask your pardon," said Mr. Sparhawk. He waved a hand helplessly. "There is no possible excuse that I can offer." For all he seemed so distressed, there was, so Anthony thought, a gleam at the back of his eye that was self-possessed enough. "We had arranged it all between us," said Mr. Sparhawk to Anthony, "that Mademoiselle Lafargue was to sail with you; and it was further arranged that I make you acquainted with our purpose, which, stupidly enough, I have not done."
"There is no place for a woman in such an expedition," said Anthony. He looked at the girl, who had now arisen and was standing by her father's chair, tall, straight, wonderful. It rose in his heart to say that he was a fool; that there was a place for her anywhere; that, if it were given him to do, he'd make a place for her—and a safe place—at the very feet of peril itself. But he did not say it. He only looked at her stubbornly, and denied her permission to put foot on theRoebuck. But she said nothing; it was Mr. Sparhawk who spoke.
"It would be as well," said the little gentleman, "to hear our reasons for this." He crossed his legs and dandled one foot, while he looked at Anthony mildly. "It is customary," he proceeded, "when a ship puts to sea to have on board of her a person who represents the owners of the cargo. The presence of this person also serves the owners and officers of the ship; because, in case of unavoidable mischance, he is present as a witness and can absolve them from blame. Of course," and Mr. Sparhawk gestured lightly, "theRoebuckcarries no cargo out; but it is the hope of those who send her, the creditors of Rufus Stevens' Sons, that she will return with a most valuable one. It would be a useful thing if there were some one on board to receive this merchandise and set down, as far as might be, a report of its conditions."
"And it is your thought to send a girl to fill that office?" said Anthony, frowning. "A ship like this, and bound upon the errand this one's to set out on, stands to meet peril of more than the usual kind. If a supercargo must be sent, let it be a man, and one used to the sea and its mishaps."
"Do not forget," said Mr. Sparhawk, "that we who engage in this enterprise must keep it secret. If the news of theRoebuck'spurpose got out, the sea would be covered with sail, and each ship would be seeking to salvage theRufus Stevens. So we must guard our intention; we must trust no one. I would go with you, but matters of business press; monsieur is not in good health; the only person available in whom the creditors have complete confidence is mademoiselle; so," and Mr. Sparhawk pursed his lips and raised his brows, "what are we to do?"
The stubborn answer was in Anthony's mouth; but before it was spoken he chanced to look at the girl. She was so still; there was such spirited beauty in her fine eyes; her color was wonderful; her attitude was of eager desire; and yet she held herself proudly. A rush of feeling came smothering into the young man's mind; he tried to fight it back, but could not. Then he felt very quiet; peace followed where resentment had been; there was a warm joy; he admired the cleverness of Mr. Sparhawk in making it so impossible to refuse. His eyes drank her in; there was a surprise, an incredulous amazement, that he should have ever held her off, that he had been resolved to leave her behind, when everything favored her going with him.
"I shall have your trunks taken on board," said he to the girl. "And you must follow well before the tide swings."
"Yes, Captain Stevens," she said.
He caught the smile hidden behind the words and smiled himself. And for the first time since the night at the Crooked Billet the bitter wind that blew between them died completely down; he placed her chair for her, and drew his own toward it; and he talked to her in a new tone, with confidence and spirit; she sat and listened, and the hands which were folded in her lap trembled ever so little, and her eyes were even brighter than before.
TheRoebucklet go her moorings in the gray of the July morning; one of the boats towed her out of the run and into the river; then under mainsail, topsail, and jibs she pointed her nose downstream on the tedious journey to the capes. The tide ran out strongly, and the wind favored the vessel's progress; she had dropped the city behind by sun-up, the flats went by, and she picked up the towns on the river-bank one by one. The bay opened out late in the afternoon; the mate marked the lights of Lewes well into the night; and by morning they were at sea, under full sail and headed directly east.
The mulatto proved a good cook, and the breakfast he brought into the main cabin was excellent and plentiful. There was a large cut of Westphalia ham upon a broad platter, hot, candied, and delicious; there was a dish of rice like a hillock of snow, ship's biscuit, and steaming chocolate in a tall, slim pot.
"We are to be well fed, at all events," said Anthony, as he sat to the breakfast, with satisfaction. Mademoiselle and Tom Horn had been seated before he came in, and the clerk had a chart, marked in red and blue and black ink, upon the table between them. "The schooner is pointed due east," said Anthony. "Corkery tells me those were your directions."
"East, on the inner skirt of the circle until we reach the Azores," said Tom Horn, pointing to the characters on his chart and following them with a finger. "Then south to the Sargasso."
Mademoiselle, as she followed the tracing finger, bent forward; and, as it stopped at the region where lay the sea of grass, she saw its place was marked by a widening circle of skulls. She shivered a little and drew back.
"With the wind holding," said Anthony, "We should raise the Azores in two weeks."
"We must cling to the inner rim of the circle," said Tom Horn, still with his finger on the chart, "for all things carried by the current drift toward its center; the moon and the running tides and the turning of the world draw them. And we must follow the circle to the place where it begins to bend to the south; the hulk we seek may have been delayed in its passage, for no man knows what the sea will do, and no one can judge the mysteries of the wind."
All through the breakfast, Anthony and mademoiselle talked with Tom Horn, and more than one of his peculiar charts came to the table while they sat there; then the two went on deck, leaving the man poring over his figures, his signs, and his curving lines. The morning was sparkling: the west wind pushed boisterously in the sails, and the little schooner leaped ahead. Corkery approached from amidships, at a look from Anthony.
"How does she set into her work?" asked the young man.
"As ably as a craft twice her bulk," said the mate. "This is no narrow spread of sail," with a look up at the strong, weather-stained canvas, "and yet see how steadily she stands under it."
TheRoebuckslipped easily up the long sides of the sea, her sharp prow split its crests, and then she'd sleek jauntily down into the vast hollows, flirting the water from her like a duck. The sky was a rare color, with racing clouds upon its breast; the sun lifted higher and higher, and the gleam of the sea grew brighter, throwing back the sky's own blue, the waves thinning to a green and breaking into a sudden, hissing white. The face of mademoiselle was filled with wonder.
"I have never before been to sea in a little ship," she said, "and so I have not known what being at sea means." Her eyes swept the sky and heaving water; she breathed in the wonderful, singing air; her body swayed with the spring of the craft beneath her. "It is glorious!" she said.
Anthony nodded:hedid not look at the sea and sky; he looked ather. And he said:
"Yes, it is glorious."
The full west wind held and blew theRoebuckbefore it all that day; it whistled sharply through the night, and Anthony, whose watch it was on deck stripped the schooner of a part of her sail. The second morning saw the sea running grayer and longer; the sky was steely, and the sun was hidden. This held for twenty-four hours; then the wind hauled around to the east and scraped the sky's gray into mountains of black; the rain and wind lashed about, and the sea leaped to meet them; the schooner, under topsail and jib, was tossed like a chip, but she held stanchly upright and fought her way through, the blow scarcely wetting her decks. At the end of the fourth day out, Anthony, who stood near the helmsman, mademoiselle at his side, saw a blue gleam through the sober sky.
"The sun will shine to-morrow," he said, "and the sea will run down during the night."
"I am almost sorry," she said. "The angry sea is amazing; I'm afraid I shall not like it, smiling, as greatly as I did before."
As Anthony foretold, the wind slackened during the night and the sea ran down; the sun rose, huge and yellow, in the morning, and the sky bent lightly to the water on the horizon's edge. The wind continued good and from the southwest; the schooner heeled a little to it, her sails bulging full; and either Anthony or Corkery constantly walked the deck. But no eye on board was as watchful as Tom Horn's, as those smooth, rolling days at sea slipped by. He'd take his place in the bow, early of a morning, and there he'd stay with intent face until far into the night. The water racing past the vessel's side seemed to fascinate him; he'd brood over its passage, wearing a strange look; and as the earth slowly turned, giving a new facet to the sun's warmth, the odd clerk would watch its progress in wonder and in silence.
The lowering sun, almost level in the west, one evening caught an object to the east and held it glittering.
"St. Michael's," said Anthony, searching the spot with a glass.
The rising of the Azores caused a deal of excitement in Tom Horn. He came aft to where Anthony stood, and the young man felt a shaking hand upon his arm.
"South," said Tom Horn. "South, and a trifle to the west, the merest trifle; for that is as the waters run. The ship may be in those seas," and he pointed to starboard: "she may be drifting there, still outside the rim of dead things. We must watch, night and day; we must watch!"
TheRoebuckwas headed south, and so held for a week; there followed a succession of light winds; they made but little headway; and with each day the sea grew quieter; there seemed a gathering of drift on the surface; the sky was shot with yellow; the dulled sun threw off a sweltering heat. At last the sails hung idle; rocking gently, the schooner was borne on through a thickening sea.
"Slowly," said Tom Horn, "very slowly." He gazed about over the forbidding waters, a look that seemed both exaltation and fear, in his strange eyes. "It was about here that theWilliam and Maryfirst touched the edge of that strange place," he said. "She drifted as we are drifting; sometimes it seemed that she did not move at all. But she came to it at last, as all helpless things must come to it when once the circle draws them. Without wind we are as helpless as she was," said Tom Horn. "Just as helpless. And we are being carried on, as she was carried on, and as theRufus Stevensis being carried on, somewhere outside our vision."
Corkery, who stood by, and heard the man's words, cocked an eye after him as he went forward; and he said to Anthony:
"He's worse than I ever saw him before. I've heard say he was out of balance, but up to now I have noticed only that he kept stiller than most."
"He is excited," said Anthony. "This region brings up memories of certain suffering he's gone through."
Corkery said nothing for a space, and his keen eye went backward and forward over the sluggish sea. Then he spoke:
"You haven't said what your meaning is in this voyage, and I haven't asked any questions. But in the last few days I've come to see that our friend there," and he nodded toward Tom Horn, who had taken his accustomed place in the bow, "has something to do with it; and so I bid you look to your facts. Even now we are in strange seas; and we're headed for stranger still."
Anthony nodded.
"The ship is commissioned for an errand out of the common," he said. "And we are headed now as I intended to head from the first."
Corkery looked at the sky to the north, and then at the limp sails.
"We'll have a stir of wind in a little," he said. "And I'll be pleased enough when it comes."
But the breeze was a light one, and, though it huddled into the sails, it increased the schooner's pace but little. Mademoiselle Lafargue, who had come on deck, gazed out across the water with its masses of weed and its bits of wreckage.
"I had been trying to read," she said. "But there is something oppressive in the air, and I could not. So I sat and looked out at the port; the sea looks strange, and the birds that hover about are stranger still."
She pointed to where some dirty, evil-looking fowl hung, poised, near the schooner; their great wings seldom stirred, and their narrow eyes were fixed upon theRoebuck.
"Tom Horn has told me of those," said Anthony. "It seems to be a sort of vulture, and, no doubt, there is much drifts into these seas which goes to keeping them sleek."
She shivered as she looked at the birds.
"What can be to the south of us," she said, "when the approach is so full of anxiety? The very air seems poisonous."
"It blows over the grave of many a hope, if all I hear is true," said Anthony. "But let us not think of that. To us it offers a chance of victory; and we can't let our nerves grow slack because of the tales of other men, whether false or true. Ahead is our direction." He looked at her soberly. "And ahead we must go, no matter what foul promises grow in our sight."
She looked into his face; and deep in her woman's eyes was the candor of a child.
"That is like you," she said. "It is very like you. I am ashamed."
"God knows," he said, "I like the place no more than you! Give me clear water, and it may rage as it likes, for that is only natural. But a sea which runs with a kind of slime, and whose birds are eaters of carrion, has no place in the book of things. Nevertheless," and he nodded to her and smiled, "we'll move deeper into it; and then I may have occasion to alter my views."
Two weeks passed; often their sails hung idle, while time went completely around the clock; a slow, hot wind sometimes blew; and they held to the south and made what time they might. The drift grew thicker; the weed sometimes choked their progress; a green, stiff sea spread out before them; strange life crept upon it, and the hideous birds perched upon bits of wreckage, much as crows might in a stump-filled field.
In the mists of one morning a cry came from Tom Horn; and Corkery, whose watch on deck it was, advanced toward him. The clerk, trembling and clinging to the forward rail with one hand, was pointing away to the south with the other.
Corkery followed the direction indicated; through the piling formations of mist he saw a vast huddle; it loomed up out of the sea, hung with flying tendrils of fog; a dim light set through its spaces, pale, phosphorescent, unreal.
"Land!" said Corkery. "Land, by God!"
"No," said Tom Horn. "It is the place of my captivity! It is the city of dead ships!"