Adventure stories; Islands of the Pacific -- Fiction; Ship captains -- Fiction
He nodded his head, and but half understanding what I was about he
watched me anxiously when I put my naked foot with wary step on the
ladder and began to go up. I saw him for a moment, a comrade's figure
in the dim light of the cavern, and then thinking only of my purpose,
and of what it would mean to one who waited for me, I clenched my teeth
and began my journey. Below me were the little cave and the glimmer of
a distant lamp, shipmates crying "God speed!" the hidden house, the
mystery; above me that dark funnel of the rock and the sky, which
seemed to beckon me upward to freedom and the sea.
If danger lay there I could not espy it nor detect its presence. Not a
sound came from the open trap, no figures were to be seen, no spoken
voice to be heard. The moaning waves upon the iron reef, the echo of
gunshots in the silence of the night, alone spoke of life and being and
the open sea without. And I went up like a cat, rung by rung, my hand
hot upon the iron, the thought in my head that madness sent me and that
I might never see another day.
No man appeared at the orifice, I say; the gate might have been
unguarded for any sentinel I could espy. Nevertheless, I knew that the
Italian spoke the truth, and that his reckoning was good. Edmond Czerny
was no fool to leave a sea-gate open to all the world. Somewhere on the
foothold of the rocks men were lurking, I made sure. That they heard
nothing of their friends' outcry in the corridor below, that they did
not answer it, was a thing I had not, at the first, understood; but it
became plain when the chimney I climbed shut out every sound but that
of the breaking seas, and gave intervals of silence so great that a man
might have heard a ticking watch. No, truly, it was no wonder that they
had not gone down nor heard that loud alarm, for they hungered for the
wreck; for pillage and plunder, and all the gruesome sights Ken's
Island that night could show them; and this hunger kept them at the
water's edge, hounds kennelled when others were free, unwilling idlers
on a harvest day. God knows, they paid a price for that when the good
time came.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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