The Mystery of Cloomber by Arthur Conan Doyle (best motivational novels .TXT) 📖

no man could have lived for a moment among that terrible surge.”

“Who were they?” I asked. “I could not have believed that it was possible for men to appear so unconcerned in the face of such imminent peril.”

“As to who they are or were,” the captain answered, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe, “that is by no means easy to say. Our last port was Kurrachee, in the north of India, and there we took them aboard as passengers for Glasgow. Ram Singh was the name of the younger, and it is only with him that I have come in contact, but they all appeared to be quiet, inoffensive gentlemen. I never inquired their business, but I should judge that they were Parsee merchants from Hyderabad whose trade took them to Europe. I could never see why the crew should fear them, and the mate, too, he should have had more sense.”

“Fear them I!” I ejaculated in surprise.

“Yes, they had some preposterous idea that they were dangerous shipmates. I have no doubt if you were to go down into the kitchen now you would find that they are all agreed that our passengers were the cause of the whole disaster.”

As the captain was speaking the parlour door opened and the mate of the barque, a tall, red-bearded sailor, stepped in. He had obtained a complete rig-out from some kind-hearted fisherman, and looked in his comfortable jersey and well-greased seaboots a very favourable specimen of a shipwrecked mariner.

With a few words of grateful acknowledgment of our hospitality, he drew a chair up to the fire and warmed his great, brown hands before the blaze.

“What d’ye think now, Captain Meadows?” he asked presently, glancing up at his superior officer. “Didn’t I warn you what would be the upshot of having those niggers on board the Belinda?”

The captain leant back in his chair and laughed heartily.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he cried, appealing to us. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“It might have been no laughing matter for us,” the other remarked petulantly. “I have lost a good sea-kit and nearly my life into the bargain.”

“Do I understand you to say,” said I, “that you attribute your misfortunes to your ill-fated passengers?”

The mate opened his eyes at the adjective.

“Why ill-fated, sir?” he asked.

“Because they are most certainly drowned,” I answered.

He sniffed incredulously and went on warming his hands.

“Men of that kind are never drowned,” he said, after a pause. “Their father, the devil, looks after them. Did you see them standing on the poop and rolling cigarettes at the time when the mizzen was carried away and the quarter-boats stove? That was enough for me. I’m not surprised at you landsmen not being able to take it in, but the captain here, who’s been sailing since he was the height of the binnacle, ought to know by this time that a cat and a priest are the worst cargo you can carry. If a Christian priest is bad, I guess an idolatrous pagan one is fifty times worse. I stand by the old religion, and be d—d to it!”

My father and I could not help laughing at the rough sailor’s very unorthodox way of proclaiming his orthodoxy. The mate, however, was evidently in deadly earnest, and proceeded to state his case, marking off the different points upon the rough, red fingers of his left hand.

“It was at Kurrachee, directly after they come that I warned ye,” he said reproachfully to the captain. “There was three Buddhist Lascars in my watch, and what did they do when them chaps come aboard? Why, they down on their stomachs and rubbed their noses on the deck—that’s what they did. They wouldn’t ha’ done as much for an admiral of the R’yal Navy. They know who’s who—these niggers do; and I smelt mischief the moment I saw them on their faces. I asked them afterwards in your presence, Captain, why they had done it, and they answered that the passengers were holy men. You heard ‘em yourself.”

“Well, there’s no harm in that, Hawkins,” said Captain Meadows.

“I don’t know that,” the mate said doubtfully. “The holiest Christian is the one that’s nearest God, but the holiest nigger is, in my opinion, the one that’s nearest the devil. Then you saw yourself, Captain Meadows, how they went on during the voyage, reading books that was writ on wood instead o’ paper, and sitting up right through the night to jabber together on the quarter-deck. What did they want to have a chart of their own for and to mark the course of the vessel every day?”

“They didn’t,” said the captain.

“Indeed they did, and if I did not tell you sooner it was because you were always ready to laugh at what I said about them. They had instruments o’ their own—when they used them I can’t say—but every day at noon they worked out the latitude and longitude, and marked out the vessel’s position on a chart that was pinned on their cabin table. I saw them at it, and so did the steward from his pantry.”

“Well, I don’t see what you prove from that,” the captain remarked,” though I confess it is a strange thing.”

“I’ll tell you another strange thing,” said the mate impressively. “Do you know the name of this bay in which we are cast away?”

“I have learnt from our kind friends here that we are upon the Wigtownshire coast,” the captain answered, “but I have not heard the name of the bay.”

The mate leant forward with a grave face.

“It is the Bay of Kirkmaiden,” he said.

If he expected to astonish Captain Meadows he certainly succeeded, for that gentleman was fairly bereft of speech for a minute or more.

“This is really marvellous,” he said, after a time, turning to us. “These passengers of ours cross-questioned us early in tile voyage as to the existence of a bay of that name. Hawkins here and I denied all knowledge of one, for on the chart it is included in the Bay of Luce. That we should eventually be blown into it and destroyed is an extraordinary coincidence.”

“Too extraordinary to be a coincidence,” growled the mate. “I saw them during the calm yesterday morning, pointing to the land over our starboard quarter. They knew well enough that that was the port they were making for.”

“What do you make of it all, then, Hawkins?” asked the captain, with a troubled face. “What is your own theory on the matter?”

“Why, in my opinion,” the mate answered, “them three swabs have no more difficulty in raising a gale o’ wind than I should have in swallowing this here grog. They had reasons o’ their own for coming to this God-forsaken—saving your presence, sirs—this God-forsaken bay, and they took a short cut to it by arranging to be blown ashore there. That’s my idea o’ the matter, though what three Buddhist priests could find to do in the Bay of Kirkmaiden is clean past my comprehension.”

My father raised his eyebrows to indicate the doubt which his hospitality forbade him from putting into words.

“I think, gentlemen,” he said, “that you are both sorely in need of rest after your perilous adventures. If you will follow me I shall lead you to your rooms.”

He conducted them with old-fashioned ceremony to the laird’s best spare bedroom, and then, returning to me in the parlour, proposed that we should go down together to the beach and learn whether anything fresh had occurred.

The first pale light of dawn was just appearing in the east when we made our way for the second time to the scene of the shipwreck. The gale had blown itself out, but the sea was still very high, and all inside the breakers was a seething, gleaming line of foam, as though the fierce old ocean were gnashing its white fangs at the victims who had escaped from its clutches.

All along the beach fishermen and crofters were hard at work hauling up spars and barrels as fast as they were tossed ashore. None of them had seen any bodies, however, and they explained to us that only such things as could float had any chance of coming ashore, for the undercurrent was so strong that whatever was beneath the surface must infallibly be swept out to sea.

As to the possibility of the unfortunate passengers having been able to reach the shore, these practical men would not hear of it for a moment, and showed us conclusively that if they had not been drowned they must have been dashed to pieces upon the rocks.

“We did all that could be done,” my father said sadly, as we returned home. “I am afraid that the poor mate has had his reason affected by the suddenness of the disaster. Did you hear what he said about Buddhist priests raising a gale?”

“Yes, I heard him,” said I. “It was very painful to listen to him,” said my father. “I wonder if he would object to my putting a small mustard plaster under each of his ears. It would relieve any congestion of the brain. Or perhaps it would be best to wake him up and give him two antibilious pills. What do you think, Jack?”

“I think,” said I, with a yawn, “that you had best let him sleep, and go to sleep yourself. You can physic him in the morning if he needs it.”

So saying I stumbled off to my bedroom, and throwing myself upon the couch was soon in a dreamless slumber.