The William Hope Hodgson Megapack Read online

  He was sitting at his instrument, and the thing was tapping out a message in a curiously irregular fashion—stopping a few seconds, then going on at a furious pace.

  It was during a somewhat longer-than-usual pause that, growing slightly impatient, I ventured to address him.

  “Anything important?” I asked.

  “For God’s sake, shut up!” he answered back in a high, strained voice.

  I stared. I am used to pretty abrupt treatment from him at times, when he is much engrossed in some particular experiment; but this was going a little too far, and I said so.

  He was writing, and, for reply, he pushed several loosely-written sheets over to me with the one curt word: “Read!”

  With a sense half of anger, half of curiosity, I picked up the first and glanced at it. After a few lines, I was gripped and held securely by a morbid interest. I was reading a message from one in the last extremity. I will give it word for word:—

  “John, we are sinking! I wonder if you really understand what I feel at the present time—you sitting comfortably in your laboratory, I out here upon the waters, already one among the dead. Yes, we are doomed. There is no such thing as help in our case. We are sinking—steadily, remorselessly. God! I must keep up and be a man! I need not tell you that I am in the operator’s room. All the rest are on deck—or dead in the hungry thing which is smashing the ship to pieces.

  “I do not know where we are, and there is no one of whom I can ask. The last of the officers was drowned nearly an hour ago, and the vessel is now little more than a sort of breakwater for the giant seas.

  “Once, about half an hour ago, I went out onto the deck. My God! The sight was terrible. It is a little after midday; but the sky is the color of mud—do you understand?—gray mud! Down from it there hang vast lappets of clouds. Not such clouds as I have ever before seen; but monstrous, mildewed-looking hulls. They show solid, save where the frightful wind tears their lower edges into great feelers that swirl savagely above us, like the tentacles of some enormous Horror.

  “Such a sight is difficult to describe to the living; though the Dead of the Sea know of it without words of mine. It is such a sight that none is allowed to see and live. It is a picture for the doomed and the dead; one of the sea’s hell-orgies—one of the Thing’s monstrous gloatings over the living—say the alive-in-death, those upon the brink. I have no right to tell of it to you; to speak of it to one of the living is to initiate innocence into one of the infernal mysteries—to talk of foul things to a child. Yet I care not! I will expose, in all its hideous nakedness, the death-side of the sea. The undoomed living shall know some of the things that death has hitherto so well guarded. Death knows not of this little instrument beneath my hands that connects me still with the quick, else would he haste to quiet me.

  “Hark you, John! I have learnt undreamt of things in this little time of waiting. I know now why we are afraid of the dark. I had never imagined such secrets of the sea and the grave (which are one and the same).

  “Listen! Ah, but I was forgetting you cannot hear! I can! The Sea is— Hush! the Sea is laughing, as though Hell cackled from the mouth of an ass. It is jeering. I can hear its voice echo like Satanic thunder amid the mud overhead— It is calling to me! Calling— I must go— The sea calls!

  “Oh! God, art Thou indeed God? Canst Thou sit above and watch calmly that which I have just seen? Nay! Thou art no God! Thou art weak and puny beside this foul Thing which Thou didst create in Thy lusty youth. It is now God—and I am one of its children.

  “Are you there, John? Why don’t you answer! Listen! I ignore God; for there is a stronger than He. My God is here, beside me, around me, and will be soon above me. You know what that means. It is merciless. The sea is now all the God there is! That is one of the things I have learnt.

  “Listen! It is laughing again. God is it, not He.

  “It called, and I went out on to the decks. All was terrible. It is in the waist—everywhere. It has swamped the ship. Only the forecastle, bridge, and poop stick up out from the bestial, reeking Thing, like three islands in the midst of shrieking foam. At times gigantic billows assail the ship from both sides. They form momentary arches above the vessel—arches of dull, curved water half a hundred feet towards the hideous sky. Then they descend—roaring. Think of it! You cannot.

  “There is an infection of sin in the air: it is the exhalations from the Thing. Those left upon the drenched islets of shattered wood and iron are doing the most horrible things. The Thing is teaching them. Later, I felt the vile informing of its breath; but I have fled back here—to pray for death.

  “On the forecastle, I saw a mother and her little son clinging to an iron rail. A great billow heaved up above them—descended in a falling mountain of brine. It passed, and they were still there. The Thing was only toying with them; yet, all the same, it had torn the hands of the child from the rail, and the child was clinging frantically to its Mother’s arm. I saw another vast hill hurl up to port and hover above them. Then the Mother stooped and bit like a foul beast at the hands of her wee son. She was afraid that his little additional weight would be more than she could hold. I heard his scream even where I stood—it drove to me upon that wild laughter. It told me again that God is not He, but it.

  “Then the hill thundered down upon those two. It seemed to me that the Thing gave a bellow as it leapt. It roared about them, churning and growling, then surged away, and there was only one—the Mother. There appeared to me to be blood as well as water upon her face, especially about her mouth; but the distance was too great, and I cannot be sure. I looked away. Close to me, I saw something further—a beautiful young girl (her soul hideous with the breath of the Thing) struggling with her sweetheart for the shelter of the charthouse side. He threw her off; but she came back at him. I saw her hand come from her head, where still clung the wreckage of some form of headgear. She struck at him. He shouted and fell away to leeward, and she—smiled, showing her teeth. So much for that. I turned elsewhere.

  “Out upon the Thing, I saw gleams, horrid and suggestive, below the crests of the waves. I have never seen them until this time. I saw a rough sailorman washed away from the vessel. One of the huge breakers snapped at him!—Those things were teeth. It has teeth. I heard them clash. I heard his yell. It was no more than a mosquito’s shrilling amid all that laughter, but it was very terrible. There is worse than death.

  “The ship is lurching very queerly with a sort of sickening heave—”

  * * * *

  “I fancy I have been asleep. No—I remember now. I hit my head when she rolled so strangely. My leg is doubled under me. I think it is broken; but it does not matter—

  “I have been praying. I—I— What was it? I feel calmer, more resigned, now. I think I have been mad. What was it that I was saying? I cannot remember. It was something about—about—God. I—I believe I blasphemed. May He forgive me! Thou knowest, God, that I was not in my right mind. Thou knowest that I am very weak. Be with me in the coming time! I have sinned; but Thou art all merciful.

  “Are you there, John? It is very near the end now. I had so much to say; but it all slips from me. What was it that I said? I take it all back. I was mad, and—and God knows. He is merciful, and I have very little pain now. I feel a bit drowsy.

  “I wonder whether you are there, John. Perhaps, after all, no one has heard the things I have said. It is better so. The Living are not meant—and yet, I do not know. If you are there, John, you will—you will tell her how it was; but not—not—

  “Hark! there was such a thunder of water overhead just then. I fancy two vast seas have met in mid-air across the top of the bridge and burst all over the vessel. It must be soon now—and there was such a number of things I had to say! I can hear voices in the wind. They are singing. It is like an enormous dirge—”

  * * * *

  “I think I have been dozing again. I pray God humbly that it be soon! You will not—not tell her anything about, about what I may have s
aid, will you, John? I mean those things which I ought not to have said. What was it I did say? My head is growing strangely confused. I wonder whether you really do hear me. I may be talking only to that vast roar outside. Still, it is some comfort to go on, and I will not believe that you do not hear all I say. Hark again! A mountain of brine must have swept clean over the vessel. She has gone right over on to her side.…

  “She is back again. It will be very soon now—

  “Are you there, John? Are you there? It is coming! The Sea has come for me! It is rushing down through the companionway! It—it is like a vast jet! My God! I am dr-own-ing! I—am—dr—”

  THE FINDING OF THE “GRAIKEN”

  When a year had passed and still there was no news of the full-rigged ship Graiken, even the most sanguine of my old chum’s friends had ceased to hope perchance, somewhere, she might be above water.

  Yet Ned Barlow, in his inmost thoughts, I knew, still hugged to himself the hope that she would win home. Poor, dear old fellow, how my heart did go out towards him in his sorrow!

  For it was in the Graiken that his sweetheart had sailed on that dull January day some twelve months previously.

  The voyage had been taken for the sake of her health; yet since then—save for a distant signal recorded at the Azores—there had been from all the mystery of ocean no voice; the ship and they within her had vanished utterly.

  And still Barlow hoped. He said nothing actually, but at times his deeper thoughts would float up and show through the sea of his usual talk, and thus I would know in an indirect way of the thing that his heart was thinking.

  Nor was time a healer.

  * * * *

  It was later that my present good fortune came to me. My uncle died, and I—hitherto poor—was now a rich man. In a breath, it seemed, I had become possessor of houses, lands, and money; also—in my eyes almost more important—a fine fore-and-aft-rigged yacht of some two hundred tons register.

  It seemed scarcely believable that the thing was mine, and I was all in a scutter to run away down to Falmouth and get to sea.

  In old times, when my uncle had been more than usually gracious, he had invited me to accompany him for a trip round the coast or elsewhere, as the fit might take him; yet never, even in my most hopeful moments, had it occurred to me that ever she might be mine.

  And now I was hurrying my preparations for a good long sea trip—for to me the sea is, and always has been, a comrade.

  Still, with all the prospects before me, I was by no means completely satisfied, for I wanted Ned Barlow with me, and yet was afraid to ask him. I had the feeling that, in view of his overwhelming loss, he must positively hate the sea; and yet I could not be happy at the thought of leaving him and going alone. He had not been well lately, and a sea voyage would be the very thing for him, if only it were not going to freshen painful memories.

  Eventually I decided to suggest it, and this I did a couple of days before the date I had fixed for sailing.

  “Ned,” I said, “you need a change.”

  “Yes,” he assented wearily.

  “Come with me, old chap,” I went on, growing bolder. “I’m taking a trip in the yacht. It would be splendid to have—”

  To my dismay, he jumped to his feet and came towards me excitedly.

  “I’ve upset him now,” was my thought. “I am a fool!”

  “Go to sea!” he said. “My God! I’d give—” He broke off short and stood opposite me, his face all a-quiver with suppressed emotion. He was silent a few seconds, getting himself in hand; then he proceeded more quietly: “Where to?”

  “Anywhere,” I replied, watching him keenly, for I was greatly puzzled by his manner. “I’m not quite clear yet. Somewhere south of here—the West Indies, I have thought. It’s all so new, you know—just fancy being able to go just where we like. I can hardly realise it yet.”

  I stopped, for he had turned from me and was staring out of the window.

  “You’ll come, Ned?” I cried, fearful that he was going to refuse me.

  He took a pace away and then came back.

  “I’ll come,” he said, and there was a look of strange excitement in his eyes that set me off on a tack of vague wonder; but I said nothing, just told him how he had pleased me.

  II

  We had been at sea a couple of weeks and were alone upon the Atlantic—at least, so much of it as presented itself to our view.

  I was leaning over the taffrail, staring down into the boil of the wake; yet I noticed nothing, for I was wrapped in a tissue of somewhat uncomfortable thought. It was about Ned Barlow.

  He had been queer, decidedly queer, since leaving port. His whole attitude mentally had been that of a man under the influence of an all-pervading excitement. I had said that he was in need of change, and had trusted that the splendid tonic of the sea breeze would serve to put him soon to rights mentally and physically; yet here was the poor old chap acting in a manner calculated to cause me anxiety as to his balance.

  Scarcely a word had been spoken since leaving the Channel. When I ventured to speak to him, often he would take not the least notice, other times he would answer only by a brief word; but talk—never. In addition, his whole time was spent on deck among the men, and with some of them he seemed to converse both long and earnestly; yet to me, his chum and true friend, not a word.

  Another thing came to me as a surprise—Barlow betrayed the greatest interest in the position of the vessel and the courses set, all in such a manner as left me no room for doubt but that his knowledge of navigation was considerable. Once I ventured to express my astonishment at this knowledge and ask a question or two as to the way in which he had gathered it, but had been treated with such an absurdly stony silence that since then I had not spoken to him.

  With all this it may be easily conceived that my thoughts, as I stared down into the wake, were troublesome.

  Suddenly I heard a voice at my elbow:

  “I should like to have a word with you, sir.” I turned sharply. It was my skipper, and something in his face told me that all was not as it should be.

  “Well, Jenkins, fire away.”

  He looked round, as if afraid of being overheard; then came closer to me.

  “Someone’s been messing with the compasses, sir,” he said in a low voice.

  “What?” I asked sharply.

  “They’ve been meddled with, sir. The magnets have been shifted, and by someone who’s a good idea of what he’s doing.”

  “What on earth do you mean?” I inquired. “Why should anyone mess about with them? What good would it do them? You must be mistaken.”

  “No, sir, I’m not. They’ve been touched within the last forty-eight hours, and by someone that understands what he’s doing.”

  I stared at him. The man was so certain. I felt bewildered.

  “But why should they?”

  “That’s more than I can say, sir; but it’s a serious matter, and I want to know what I’m to do. It looks to me as though there were something funny going on. I’d give a month’s pay to know just who it was, for certain.”

  “Well,” I said, “if they have been touched, it can only be by one of the officers. You say the chap who has done it must understand what he is doing.”

  He shook his head. “No, sir—” he began and then stopped abruptly. His gaze met mine. I think the same thought must have come to us simultaneously. I gave a little gasp of amazement.

  He wagged his head at me. “I’ve had my suspicions for a bit, sir,” he went on; “but seeing that he’s—he’s—” He was fairly struck for the moment.

  I took my weight off the rail and stood upright.

  “To whom are you referring?” I asked curtly.

  “Why, sir, to him—Mr. Ned—”

  He would have gone on, but I cut him short.

  “That will do, Jenkins!” I cried. “Mr. Ned Barlow is my friend. You are forgetting yourself a little. You will accuse me of tampering with the compasses next!”
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br />   I turned away, leaving little Captain Jenkins speechless. I had spoken with an almost vehement over-loyalty, to quiet my own suspicions.

  All the same, I was horribly bewildered, not knowing what to think or do or say, so that, eventually, I did just nothing.

  III

  It was early one morning, about a week later, that I opened my eyes abruptly. I was lying on my back in my bunk, and the daylight was beginning to creep wanly in through the ports.

  I had a vague consciousness that all was not as it should be, and feeling thus, I made to grasp the edge of my bunk and sit up, but failed, owing to the fact that my wrists were securely fastened by a pair of heavy steel handcuffs.

  Utterly confounded, I let my head fall back upon the pillow; and then, in the midst of my bewilderment, there sounded the sharp report of a pistol-shot somewhere on the decks over my head. There came a second, and the sound of voices and footsteps, and then a long spell of silence.

  Into my mind had rushed the single word—mutiny! My temples throbbed a little, but I struggled to keep calm and think, and then, all adrift, I fell to searching round for a reason. Who was it? And why?

  Perhaps an hour passed, during which I asked myself ten thousand vain questions. All at once I heard a key inserted in the door. So I had been locked in! It turned, and the steward walked into the cabin. He did not look at me, but went to the arm-rack and began to remove the various weapons.

  “What the devil is the meaning of all this, Jones?” I roared, getting up a bit on one elbow. “What’s happened?”

  But the fool answered not a word—just went to and fro carrying out the weapons from my cabin into the next, so that at last I ceased from questioning him, and lay silent, promising myself future vengeance.

  When he had removed the arms, the steward began to go through my table drawers, emptying them, so that it appeared to me, of everything that could be used as a weapon or tool.

  Having completed his task, he vanished, locking the door after him.