Complete weird tales of.., p.1287
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1287
Eastward, between the vast salt river and the ocean, the dunes were smoking like wind-lashed breakers; a heron, laboring heavily, flapped inland, broad pinions buffeting the gale.
“Something’s due to happen,” said Haltren, reflectively, closing the breech of his gun. He had hauled his boat up an alligator-slide; now he shoved it off the same way, and pulling up his hip-boots, waded out, laid his gun in the stern, threw cartridge-sack and a dozen dead ducks after it, and embarked among the raft of wind-tossed wooden decoys.
There were twoscore decoys bobbing and tugging at their anchor-cords outside the point. Before he had fished up a dozen on the blade of his oar a heavier squall struck the lagoon, blowing the boat out into the river. He had managed to paddle back and had secured another brace of decoys, when a violent gale caught him broadside, almost capsizing him.
“If I don’t get those decoys now I never shall!” he muttered, doggedly jabbing about with extended oar. But he never got them; for at that moment a tropical hurricane, still in its infancy, began to develop, and when, blinded with spray, he managed to jam the oars into the oar-locks, his boat was half a mile out and still driving.
For a week the wind had piled the lagoons and lakes south of the Matanzas full of water, and now the waves sprang up, bursting into menacing shapes, knocking the boat about viciously. Haltren turned his unquiet eyes towards a streak of green water ahead.
“I don’t suppose this catspaw is really trying to drive me out of Coquina Inlet!” he said, peevishly; “I don’t suppose I’m being blown out to sea.”
It was a stormy end for a day’s pleasure — yet curiously appropriate, too, for it was the fourth anniversary of his wedding-day; and the storm that followed had blown him out into the waste corners of the world.
Perhaps something of this idea came into his head; he laughed a disagreeable laugh and fell to rowing.
The red lightning still darted along the southern horizon, no nearer; the wilderness of water, of palm forests, of jungle, of dune, was bathed in a sickly light; overhead oceans of clouds tore through a sombre sky.
After a while he understood that he was making no headway; then he saw that the storm was shaping his course. He dug his oars into the thick, gray waves; the wind tore the cap from his head, caught the boat and wrestled with it.
Somehow or other he must get the boat ashore before he came abreast of the inlet; otherwise —
He turned his head and stared at the whitecaps tumbling along the deadly raceway; and he almost dropped his oars in astonishment to see a gasoline-launch battling for safety just north of the storm-swept channel. What was a launch doing in this forsaken end of the earth? And the next instant developed the answer. Out at sea, beyond the outer bar, a yacht, wallowing like a white whale, was staggering towards the open ocean.
He saw all this in a flash — saw the gray-green maelstrom between the dunes, the launch struggling across the inlet, the yacht plunging seaward. Then in the endless palm forests the roar deepened. Flash! Bang! lightning and thunder were simultaneous.
“That’s better,” said Haltren, hanging to his oars; “there’s a fighting chance now.”
The rain came, beating the waves down, seemingly, for a moment, beating out the wind itself. In the partial silence the sharp explosions of the gasoline-engine echoed like volleys of pistol-shots; and Haltren half rose in his pitching boat, and shouted: “Launch ahoy! Run under the lee shore. There’s a hurricane coming! You haven’t a second to lose!”
He heard somebody aboard the launch say, distinctly, “There’s a Florida cracker alongside who says a hurricane is about due.” The shrill roar of the rain drowned the voice. Haltren bent to his oars again. Then a young man in dripping white flannels looked out of the wheel-house and hailed him. “We’ve grounded on the meadows twice. If you know the channel you’d better come aboard and take the wheel.”
Haltren, already north of the inlet and within the zone of safety, rested on his oars a second and looked back, listening. Very far away he heard the deep whisper of death.
On board the launch the young man at the wheel heard it, too; and he hailed Haltren in a shaky voice: “I wouldn’t ask you to come back, but there are women aboard. Can’t you help us?”
“All right,” said Haltren.
A horrible white glare broke out through the haze; the solid vertical torrent of rain swayed, then slanted eastward.
A wave threw him alongside the launch; he scrambled over the low rail and ran forward, deafened by the din. A woman in oilskins hung to the companion-rail; he saw her white face as he passed. Haggard, staggering, he entered the wheel-house, where the young man in dripping flannels seized his arm, calling him by name. Haltren pushed him aside.
“Give me that wheel, Darrow,” he said, hoarsely. “Ring full speed ahead! Now stand clear—”
Like an explosion the white tornado burst, burying deck and wheel-house in foam; a bellowing fury of tumbling waters enveloped the launch. Haltren hung to the wheel one second, two, five, ten; and at last through the howling chaos his stunned ears caught the faint staccato spat! puff! spat! of the exhaust. Thirty seconds more — if the engines could stand it — if they only could stand it!
They stood it for thirty-three seconds and went to smash. A terrific squall, partly deflected from the forest, hurled the launch into the swamp, now all boiling in shallow foam; and there she stuck in the good, thick mud, heeled over and all awash like a stranded razor-back after a freshet.
Twenty minutes later the sun came out; the waters of the lagoon turned sky blue; a delicate breeze from the southeast stirred the palmetto fronds.
Presently a cardinal-bird began singing in the sunshine.
* * *
Haltren, standing in the wrecked wheel-house, raised his dazed eyes as Darrow entered and looked around.
“So that was a white tornado! I’ve heard of them — but — good God!” He turned a bloodless visage to Haltren, who, dripping, bareheaded and silent, stood with eyes closed leaning heavily against the wheel.
“Are you hurt?”
Haltren shook his head. Darrow regarded him stupidly.
“How did you happen to be in this part of the world?”
Haltren opened his eyes. “Oh, I’m likely to be anywhere,” he said, vaguely, passing a shaking hand across his face. There was a moment’s silence; then he said:
“Darrow, is my wife aboard this boat?”
“Yes,” said Darrow, under his breath. “Isn’t that the limit?”
Through the silence the cardinal sang steadily.
“Isn’t that the limit?” repeated Darrow. “We came on the yacht — that was Brent’s yacht, the Dione, you saw at sea. You know the people aboard. Brent, Mrs. Castle, your wife, and I left the others and took the launch to explore the lagoons.… And here we are. Isn’t it funny?” he added, with a nerveless laugh.
Haltren stood there slowly passing his hand over his face.
“It is funnier than you know, Darrow,” he said. “Kathleen and I — this is our wedding-day.”
“Well, that is the limit,” muttered Darrow, as Haltren turned a stunned face to the sunshine where the little cardinal sang with might and main.
“Come below,” he added. “You are going to speak to her, of course?”
“If she cared to have me—”
“Speak to her anyway. Haltren; I” — he hesitated— “I never knew why you and Kathleen separated. I only knew what everybody knows. You and she are four years older now; and if there’s a ghost of a chance — Do you understand?”
Haltren nodded.
“Then we’ll go below,” began Darrow. But Major Brent appeared at that moment, apoplectic eyes popping from his purple face as he waddled forward to survey the dismantled launch.
Without noticing either Haltren or Darrow, he tested the slippery angle of the deck, almost slid off into the lagoon, clutched the rail with both pudgy hands, and glared at the water.
“I suppose,” he said, peevishly, “that there are alligators in that water. I know there are!”
He turned his inflamed eyes on Haltren, but made no sign of recognition.
“Major,” said Darrow, sharply, “you remember Dick Haltren—”
“Eh?” snapped the major. “Where the deuce did you come from, Haltren?”
“He was the man who hailed us. He took the wheel,” said Darrow, meaningly.
“Nice mess you made of it between you,” retorted the major, scowling his acknowledgments at Haltren.
Darrow, disgusted, turned on his heel; Haltren laughed. The sound of his own laugh amused him, and he laughed again.
“I don’t see the humor,” said the major. “The Dione is blown half-way to the Bermudas by this time.” He added, with a tragic gesture of his fat arms; “Are you aware that Mrs. Jack Onderdonk is aboard?”
The possible fate of Manhattan’s queen regent so horrified Major Brent that his congested features assumed the expression of an alarmed tadpole.
But Haltren, the unaccustomed taste of mirth in his throat once more, stood there, dripping, dishevelled, and laughing. For four years he had missed the life he had been bred to; he had missed even what he despised in it, and his life at moments had become a hell of isolation. Time dulled the edges of his loneliness; solitude, if it hurts, sometimes cures too. But he was not yet cured of longing for that self-forbidden city in the North. He desired it — he desired the arid wilderness of its treeless streets, its incessant sounds, its restless energy; he desired its pleasures, its frivolous days and nights, its satiated security, its ennui. Its life had been his life, its people his people, and he longed for it with a desire that racked him.
“What the devil are you laughing at, Haltren?” asked the major, tartly.
“Was I laughing?” said the young man. “Well — now I will say good-bye, Major Brent. Your yacht will steam in before night and send a boat for you; and I shall have my lagoons to myself again.… I have been here a long time.… I don’t know why I laughed just now. There was, indeed, no reason.” He turned and looked at the cabin skylights. “It’s hard to realize that you and Darrow and — others — are here, and that there’s a whole yacht-load of fellow-creatures — and Mrs. Van Onderdonk — wobbling about the Atlantic near by. Fashionable people have never before come here — even intelligent people rarely penetrate this wilderness.… I — I have a plantation a few miles below — oranges and things, you know.” He hesitated, almost wistfully. “I don’t suppose you and your guests would care to stop there for a few hours, if your yacht is late.”
“No,” said the major, “we don’t care to.”
“Perhaps Haltren will stay aboard the wreck with us until the Dione comes in,” suggested Darrow.
“I dare say you have a camp hereabouts,” said the major, staring at Haltren; “no doubt you’d be more comfortable there.”
“Thanks,” said Haltren, pleasantly; “I have my camp a mile below.” He offered his hand to Darrow, who, too angry to speak, nodded violently towards the cabin.
“How can I?” asked Haltren. “Good-bye. And I’ll say good-bye to you, major—”
“Good-bye,” muttered the major, attempting to clasp his fat little hands behind his back.
Haltren, who had no idea of offering his hand, stood still a moment, glancing at the cabin skylights; then, with a final nod to Darrow, he deliberately slid over-board and waded away, knee-deep, towards the palm-fringed shore.
Darrow could not contain himself. “Major Brent,” he said, “I suppose you don’t realize that Haltren saved the lives of every soul aboard this launch.”
The major’s inflamed eyes popped out.
“Eh? What’s that?”
“More than that,” said Darrow, “he came back from safety to risk his life. As it was he lost his boat and his gun—”
“Damnation!” broke out the major; “you don’t expect me to ask him to stay and meet the wife he deserted four years ago!”
And he waddled off to the engine-room, where the engineer and his assistant were tinkering at the wrecked engine.
Darrow went down into the sloppy cabin, where, on a couch, Mrs. Castle lay, ill from the shock of the recent catastrophe; and beside her stood an attractive girl stirring sweet spirits of ammonia in a tumbler.
Her eyes were fixed on the open port-hole. Through that port-hole the lagoon was visible; so was Haltren, wading shoreward, a solitary figure against the fringed rampart of the wilderness.
“Is Mrs. Castle better?” asked Darrow.
“I think so; I think she is asleep,” said the girl, calmly.
There was a pause; then Darrow took the tumbler and stirred the contents.
“Do you know who it was that got us out of that pickle?”
“Yes,” she said; “my husband.”
“I suppose you could hear what we said on deck.”
There was no answer.
“Could you, Kathleen?”
“Yes.”
Darrow stared into the tumbler, tasted the medicine, and frowned.
“Isn’t there — isn’t there a chance — a ghost of a chance?” he asked.
“I think not,” she answered— “I am sure not. I shall never see him again.”
“I meant for myself,” said Darrow, deliberately, looking her full in the face.
She crimsoned to her temples, then her eyes flashed violet fire.
“Not the slightest,” she said.
“Thanks,” said Darrow, flippantly; “I only wanted to know.”
“You know now, don’t you?” she asked, a trifle excited, yet realizing instinctively that somehow she had been tricked. And yet, until that moment, she had believed Darrow to be her slave. He had been and was still; but she was not longer certain, and her uncertainty confused her.
“Do you mean to say that you have any human feeling left for that vagabond?” demanded Darrow. So earnest was he that his tanned face grew tense and white.
“I’ll tell you,” she said, breathlessly, “that from this moment I have no human feeling left for you! And I never had! I know it now; never! never! I had rather be the divorced wife of Jack Haltren than the wife of any man alive!”
The angry beauty of her young face was his reward; he turned away and climbed the companion. And in the shattered wheel-house he faced his own trouble, muttering: “I’ve done my best; I’ve tried to show the pluck he showed. He’s got his chance now!” And he leaned heavily on the wheel, covering his eyes with his hands; for he was fiercely in love, and he had destroyed for a friend’s sake all that he had ever hoped for.
But there was more to be done; he aroused himself presently and wandered around to the engine-room, where the major was prowling about, fussing and fuming and bullying his engineer.
“Major,” said Darrow, guilelessly, “do you suppose Haltren’s appearance has upset his wife?”
“Eh?” said the major. “No, I don’t! I refuse to believe that a woman of Mrs. Haltren’s sense and personal dignity could be upset by such a man! By gad! sir, if I thought it — for one instant, sir — for one second — I’d reason with her. I’d presume so far as to express my personal opinion of this fellow Haltren!”
“Perhaps I’d better speak to her,” began Darrow.
“No, sir! Why the devil should you assume that liberty?” demanded Major Brent. “Allow me, sir; allow me! Mrs. Haltren is my guest!”
The major’s long-latent jealousy of Darrow was now fully ablaze; purple, pop-eyed, and puffing, he toddled down the companion on his errand of consolation. Darrow watched him go. “That settles him!” he said. Then he called the engineer over and bade him rig up and launch the portable canoe.
“Put one paddle in it, Johnson, and say to Mrs. Haltren that she had better paddle north, because a mile below there is a camp belonging to a man whom Major Brent and I do not wish to have her meet.”
The grimy engineer hauled out the packet which, when put together, was warranted to become a full-fledged canoe.
“Lord! how she’ll hate us all, even poor Johnson,” murmured Darrow. “I don’t know much about Kathleen Haltren, but if she doesn’t paddle south I’ll eat cotton-waste with oil-dressing for dinner!”
At that moment the major reappeared, toddling excitedly towards the stern.
“What on earth is the trouble?” asked Darrow. “Is there a pizen sarpint aboard?”
“Trouble!” stammered the major. “Who said there was any trouble? Don’t be an ass, sir! Don’t even look like an ass, sir! Damnation!”
And he trotted furiously into the engine-room.
Darrow climbed to the wheel-house once more, fished out a pair of binoculars, and fixed them on the inlet and the strip of Atlantic beyond.
“If the Dione isn’t in by three o’clock, Haltren will have his chance,” he murmured.
He was still inspecting the ocean and his watch alternately when Mrs. Haltren came on deck.
“Did you send me the canoe?” she asked, with cool unconcern.
“It’s for anybody,” he said, morosely. “Somebody ought to take a snap-shot of the scene of our disaster. If you don’t want the canoe, I’ll take it.”
She had her camera in her hand; it was possible he had noticed it, although he appeared to be very busy with his binoculars.
He was also rude enough to turn his back. She hesitated, looked up the lagoon and down the lagoon. She could only see half a mile south, because Flyover Point blocked the view.
“If Mrs. Castle is nervous you will be near the cabin?” she asked, coldly.
“I’ll be here,” he said.
“And you may say to Major Brent,” she added, “that he need not send me further orders by his engineer, and that I shall paddle wherever caprice invites me.”
A few moments later a portable canoe glided out from under the stern of the launch. In it, lazily wielding the polished paddle, sat young Mrs. Haltren, bareheaded, barearmed, singing as sweetly as the little cardinal, who paused in sheer surprise at the loveliness of song and singer. Like a homing pigeon the canoe circled to take its bearings once, then glided away due south.
Blue was the sky and water; her eyes were bluer; white as the sands her bare arms glimmered. Was it a sunbeam caught entangled in her burnished hair, or a stray strand, that burned far on the water.
