Читать книгу The White Witch - Jack McLaren - Страница 5

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After tea Sherwin took a book round to the rear verandah and settled down for a quiet read. This side of the house was sheltered from the wind and the lamp burned steadily and without an annoying flicker. But, somehow, he could not set his mind on the book. He read without assimilating the meaning of the words. A strange uneasiness was creeping over him, and twice he got up and went to the front and stared into the wind-swept darkness.

With the coming of the night the wind had increased and the pounding of the surf had swelled to a sullen roar. The flimsily-built house swayed and creaked, and an intermittent flapping told of a portion of the palm-thatch broken loose from its lashings.

"I suppose I am worrying for nothing," he muttered once. "Morton is too shrewd to anchor too close in. Still, it looked to me as if she should have been a bit further out. But then it was hard to tell in that dim light. I wish the moon was up, so that I could see."

He went inside and brought out a watch to the lamp.

"Eight o'clock, and the moon full four days past. It will show up in about an hour. I'll wait for it."

He took up the book again and turned its pages listlessly. Then he put it down and filled his pipe. For a time he sat smoking, his ears subconsciously trying to detect a falling off in the velocity of the wind. He got up and began pacing the floor, his hands clasped behind him.

As he turned at the corner of the verandah, Bamu appeared. The old man's face wore a gloomy expression, and, as the white man stopped in front of him, he opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and closed it again.

"What's the matter with you, you lump of misery?" Sherwin asked. Bamu coughed and stuttered.

"Big sea come," he said at last. "Too much big sea."

Sherwin knew what was in the native's mind.

"What you think?" he asked simply.

Again Bamu hesitated, shrinking back into the shadows till only his eyes reflected the lamp-light.

"I—no—savee," he said very slowly. "Nobody savee."

"Come on," said Sherwin, buttoning his singlet at the neck and slipping on a pair of sand-shoes. "We go."

He led the way along the verandah and down the steps. On the ground both headed by mutual impulse for the village. Bamu took the lead along the beach, Sherwin stumbling along as best he could behind. In ten seconds both were sopping wet with the spray of the seas thundering on the shore, and particles of flying sand struck their faces and got into their eyes.

"She ought to be quite safe," Sherwin kept repeating to himself. "She is well over two miles out. That ought to be enough." But somehow the thought did not relieve him.

At the village a half-dozen fires of quick-burning sticks flared in positions that could be clearly seen from out to sea. A number of women sat round each fire, feeding it as the flames threatened to die down. Twenty or thirty men were engaged in drawing some canoes higher up on the beach, where they would be well out of reach of the advancing seas. Others sat in little groups beating the palms of their hands against their thighs.

"Them feller make one big cry," Bamu said as Sherwin sat down on the ground beside a coconut-palm. "They very sorry."

"What are they sorry for?"

"Wind too much angry, too much wild al'ogether."

"And what's the wind angry for?"

"Wind make bad friend longa sea. Them two feller fight. Wind fight sea; sea fight wind. Might-be schooner broke."

Before Sherwin could make any comment, Bamu slipped across to where a score of old men were sitting in an outer circle of firelight. He sat down amongst them, and presently the white man's ears caught a note or two of a chant above the roar of the surf and the ripping of the wind.

"They are not a very cheerful crowd, I must say," Sherwin thought as he turned to the eastward to look for the first light of the moon.

"Niggers are always anticipating trouble. They—" He stopped as he realised that he himself was not free from forebodings.

It was not long before the eastern sky began to lighten, and soon a faint flush appeared which quickly strengthened. The new-born light revealed numerous layers of nimbus clouds, and when the upper limb of the moon appeared its light was half-hidden behind a veil of white. Sherwin waited impatiently for the big disc to struggle up clear, but masses of cloud continually got in the way. It was not nearly so dark now, but the furthest the white man's straining eyes could see were the white tops of the breakers of the second line.

The natives were all crowding to the water's edge now, their hands shielding their faces from the spray, all waiting for the moon to win free of the entangling clouds. Stolidly, impassively, they stared seaward, not a man or woman speaking.

Despite the sound of wind and sea, Sherwin was conscious of a sensation of tense, high-strung silence, a silence that rasped the nerves and gave distinct physical pain. Yet the scene and circumstances were of noise and strife and struggle. The wind, screaming a nocturne of hate, lashed and whipped the water; and the water, roaring, tossed its head and snapped back savagely. The moon fought against a smother of clouds determined on blotting out this disc of light that dared to invade their domain from the regions below the horizon. But the sensation of silence was more penetrating, more impressive, than the conflict.

Suddenly the clouds fell away, and the moon shone clearly for the full area of its surface. The natives shouted with one accord and pointed. "He up-sail!" cried Bamu, who was standing near Sherwin. "He try get away!"

In the unhampered moonlight the "Mokohu" was clearly visible now, and Sherwin saw that she had lifted her anchor and got under weigh. Her sails were still double-reefed and she was racing through the water on a course parallel to the shore.

"No can do," said Bamu. "He go loo'ard all the time."

"Shut up, you croaker!" Sherwin exclaimed. "You always try to make out things to be worse than they are."

But, nevertheless, he knew that the "Mokohu" would have to do some fine sailing to get out. The wind was blowing directly on to the shore, and that meant that the vessel would have to sail right up to the wind. There was no favoring slant; every yard would have to be fought for.

Presently the vessel swung up in a sharp curve till her nose smelt the wind. Here she hung a moment, irresolute, uncertain, her sails flapping, her masts splitting the wind. Then, as though in response to sudden resolve, she heeled over and fell away on the other tack.

Sherwin sighed his relief. With her reduced sail area there had been the danger of "missing stays," in which case a lot of ground would have been lost in getting her into position for another attempt at going about-ship.

A few minutes later the "Mokohu" took another tack, and, though she again went round safely, it was clearly evident she was a little closer to the outer line of breakers than before.

"Too much go loo'ard!" said Bamu. "Bye-embye he broke al'ogether. I too much sorry for that schooner."

For an hour the laboring vessel beat up and down, sloggiug across the wind and going about in a manner that told of a skilful hand at the wheel. But all the time her leeway took her a little further inshore. The moon floated clear, except for an occasional scurry of cloud streaking its face for a moment, and as the schooner rose on top of the high waves the details of her hull and deck were visible to the watchers on the beach. Sherwin could see the figure of the man at the wheel and two or three others standing on the deck near the after rigging. Sherwin watched with his hand so tightly clenched that the nails drew blood. He had been a sailor himself—master and owner of a small craft that poked about the rivers and inlets of Western New Guinea—and the sight of the schooner fighting against heavy odds stirred his sea-instincts. He continually calculated her chances of escape, now hoping, now despairing. Would it not be wiser if the reefs were shaken out he asked himself. With more sail the vessel would certainly travel faster and make less leeway. But could she carry it in such a wind? That was the question. More sail might mean the loss of a mast; and then there would be nothing to prevent the crippled vessel drifting helplessly into the breakers. He decided that the Skipper, with a full knowledge of the capabilities of his craft, had reckoned it all out and decided to carry on as he was doing.

The natives had begun wailing now, the high-pitched voices of the women piercing the roar of the surf. The fires, unattended since the appearance of the moon, had died down to a scatter of glowing coals. A couple of mangy dogs and a long-snouted pig or two prospected the colder ashes for scraps of food, now and then assisting the wailing chant of their owners with a howl or grunt. From one of the houses came the intermittent crying of a child, and the leaves of the coconut-palms sighed and soughed and occasionally groaned. The spirit of mournfulness was in the very air.

The "Mokohu" was very near the breakers now. From the shore it looked as if a distance of not more than two hundred yards separated her from the white-topped outer line. In spite of all her brave sailing, her battling, her taking advantage of every favoring trifle, she had lost a mile of ground. It was with a sinking heart that Sherwin realised that the vessel was doomed. He was not thinking of his stores, or the inconvenience their loss would cause him; such thought had not entered his head from the time he had first seen the schooner was in danger. It distressed his sailor's love of a ship to see a vessel destroyed. Hardly knowing what he did, he shook his fist at the sea and hurled imprecations into the teeth of the wind.

"Schooner al'ogether broke now very quick," said Bamu's voice. The old man was sitting on the sand, his legs crossed beneath him, his arms raised as though in benediction. "Wind too much angry, sea too much angry. No good!" His voice assumed a droning note. "Plenty man dead bye-em-bye. Big sea, big wind—"

Sherwin grasped him by the hair and jerked him to his feet.

"Get out of this!" he roared. "Clear out—"

He stopped abruptly as a shout arose from the other natives. He dropped Bamu and looked seaward again.

The "Mokohu" was falling away from the wind rapidly. Her bow was swinging so as to point to the shore. Then, with the great seas directly behind her, she headed straight for the breakers.

"The best thing he could have done!" Sherwin exclaimed. "The ship will be smashed up, but the men might have a chance."

He assembled the natives and instructed them to be ready to bear a hand when the vessel grounded. There was no hope of a canoe living a minute in even the nearest of the breakers, but a practised surf-swimmer might hold his own for a few minutes. He sent to the houses for any lengths of native rope that could be fouud at short notice, and he drove the women and youngsters back up the beach out of the way.

The "Mokohu" took the first breaker of the outer line clean over her and emerged still holding her course for the shore.

"Good steering!" Sherwin ejaculated. "It would have been easy enough for her to have got beam-on and capsized."

A distance of about forty yards separated the lines of breakers, and for a few seconds the schooner travelled through unbroken water. Then she rose high on a roller that broke into foaming froth beneath her and sent showers of spray far up the sails. She slipped easily enough into the trough left by the departing sea, but before she could again rise, a great breaker lifted her stern high in the air and surged over her full length. For ten long seconds she was completely submerged, and the watchers on the beach thought her decks had been stove in and she would never reappear. But presently the distressed vessel shot up, still heading straight for the shore, one of her masts gone and her deck swept clean of dinghies, galley, and bulwarks.

"He come right in now," said Bamu. "Big high-water."

The worst of the breakers were behind her now, but she was still in a bad way. Instead of following one another with easy regularity the seas were all jumbled up, a mass of whirling, rushing water. The vessel was tossed from side to side, the seas breaking over and across her from all directions. But she held her course in a more or less direct manlier that called from Sherwin fresh admiration of the skill of the steersman.

It was a weird sight. The bright moonlight outlined the details of the crippled vessel struggling in the grip of the surf. The stump of the broken mast projected about five feet above the top of the cabin house, a mass of tangled rigging and torn canvas trailed over the side. The starboard stays of the remaining mast were gone, and the mast itself, deprived of half of its support, leaned dangerously to one side. The sail had lost its whiteness through being wetted and a dozen ragged holes showed in its grey-brown area. At the wheel and against the broken mast were three figures. Sherwin knew they must be lashed in their places, for no unattached thing could have kept the deck in that welter of sea. He wondered if these were the sole survivors. The "Mokohu" often carried passengers—traders on business visits to other parts of the coast; missionaries going away on furlough; government officials visiting outlying stations. Sherwin fervently hoped there were no passengers on this, the last, trip of the "Mokohu."

The schooner was bumping the bottom now. Sherwin could tell from the sluggish way she lifted her stern to the seas. She was still too far out for swimmers to reach her, and when the natives pressed round him with suggestions that they should try getting a line off, he shook his head.

"Wait little bit," he said. "It's a very big tide and she will come in long way yet. We wait till she is close-to."

He watched the vessel bumping the ground and wondered at the strength of the hull that could survive such treatment. All the time she forged ahead, stopping for an instant as she took the ground, then rushing forward on top of the next sea.

The tide was at its top now, the water breaking over the grass above the bare sand of the beach. In some places it splashed the front of a village house that had been built a little nearer the water's edge than the others. One of these, a long, narrow building with a high, arched front facing the sea, was wet for a quarter of its length. It was a Dubu, or meeting-house of the chiefs.

"She will come right ashore," Sherwin said. The schooner was very close now and grounding heavily between seas. "The beach slopes so steeply here that at the present state of the tide and sea there are full five fathoms only twenty yards out."

He was right. For, suddenly, the wreck of the "Mokohu" perched high on a monster wave, hung a moment as though trying to balance, and then slipped forward and crashed on to the sand, her splintered jib-boom striking the front of the Dubu.

Then, above the hissing of the receding water, came a hoarse voice from the deck—

"Grab the girl!"