The Mystery

THE JOLLY ROGER

Feeling the way forward, the cruiser was soon caught in a maze of cross currents.  Hither and thither she was borne, a creature bereft of volition.  Order followed order like the rattle of quick-fire, and was obeyed with something more than the Wolverine’s customary smartness.  From the bridge Captain Parkinson himself directed his ship.  His face was placid:  his bearing steady and confident.  This in itself was sufficient earnest that the cruiser was in ticklish case.  For it was an axiom of the men who sailed under Parkinson that the calmer that nervous man grew, the more cause was there for nervousness on the part of others.

The approach was from the south, but suspicious aspects of the water had fended the cruiser out and around, until now she stood prow-on to a bold headland at the northwest corner of the island.  Above this headland lay a dark pall of vapour.  In the shifting breeze it swayed sluggishly, heavily, as if riding at anchor like a logy ship of the air.  Only once did it show any marked movement.

“It’s spreading out toward us,” said Barnett to his fellow officers, gathered aft.

“Time to move, then,” grunted Trendon.

The others looked at him inquiringly.

“About as healthful as prussic acid, those volcanic gases,” explained the surgeon.

The ship edged on and inward.  Presently the sing-song of the leadsman sounded in measured distinctness through the silence.  Then a sudden activity and bustle forward, the rattle of chains, and the Wolverine was at anchor.  The captain came down from the bridge.

“What do you think, Dr. Trendon?” he asked.

More explicit inquiry was not necessary.

The surgeon understood what was in his superior’s mind.

“Never can tell about volcanoes, sir,” he said.

“Of course,” agreed the captain.  “But—­well, do you recognise any of the symptoms?”

“Want me to diagnose a case of earthquake, sir?” grinned Trendon.  “She might go off to-day, or she might behave herself for a century.”

“Well, it’s all chance,” said the other, cheerfully.  “The man might be alive.  At any rate we must do our best on that theory.  What do you make of that cloud on the peak?”

“Poisonous vapours, I suppose.  Thought we’d have a chance to make sure just now.  Seemed to be coming right for us.  Wind’s shifted it since.”

“There couldn’t be anything alive up there?”

“Not so much as a bug,” replied the doctor positively.

“Yet I thought when the vapour lifted a bit that I saw something moving.”

“When was that, sir?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes back.”

“We’ll see soon enough, sir,” put in Forsythe.  “The wind is driving it down to the south’ard.”

Sullenly, reluctantly, the forbidding mass moved across the headland.  All glasses were bent upon it.  Without taking his binocular from his eyes, Trendon began to ruminate aloud.

“If he could have got to the beach….  No vapour there….  Signal, though….  Perhaps he hadn’t time….  And I’d hate to risk good men on that hell’s cauldron….  Just as much risk here, perhaps.  Only it seems—­”

“There it is,” cried Forsythe.  “Look.  The highest point.”

Dull, gray wisps of murk, the afterguard of the gaseous cloud, were twisting and spiraling in a witch-dance across the landscape, and, seen by snatches and glimpses through it, something flapped darkly in the breeze.  Suddenly the veil parted and fled.  A flag stood forth in the sharp gust, rigid, and appalling.  It was black.

“The Jolly Roger, by God!  They’ve come back!” exclaimed Forsythe.

“And set up the sign of their shop,” added Barnett.

“If they stuck to their flag—­good-bye,” observed Trendon grimly.

“Dr. Trendon,” said Captain Parkinson, “you will arm yourself and go with me in the gig to make a landing.”

“Yes, sir,” responded the surgeon.

“Mr. Barnett.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Should we be overtaken by the vapour while on the highland and be unable to get back to the beach, you are to send no rescuing party up there until the air has cleared.”

“But, sir, may we not—­”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In case of an attack you will at once send in another boat with a howitzer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dr. Trendon, will you see Mr. Slade and inquire of him the best point for landing?”

Trendon hesitated.

“I suppose it would hardly do to take him with us?” pursued the commanding officer.

“If he is roused now, even for a moment, I won’t answer for the consequences, sir,” said the surgeon bluntly.

“Surely you can have him point out a landing place,” said the captain.

“On your responsibility,” returned the other, obstinately.  “He’s under opiate now.”

“Be it so,” said Captain Parkinson, after a time.

Going in, they saw no sign of life along the shore.  Even the birds had deserted it.  For the time the volcano seemed to have pretermitted its activity.  Now and again there was a spurtle of smoke from the cone, followed by subterranean growlings, but, on the whole, the conditions were reassuring.

“Penny-pop-pinwheel of a volcano, anyhow,” remarked Trendon, disparagingly.  “Real man-size eruption would have wiped the whole thing off the map, first whack.”

As they drew in, it became apparent that they must scale the cliff from the boat.  Farther to the south opened out a wide cove that suggested easy beaching, but over it hung a cloud of steam.

“Lava pouring down,” said Trendon.

Fortunately at the point where the cliff looked easiest the seas ran low.  Ropes had been brought.  After some dainty manoeuvring two of the sailors gained foothold and slung the ropes so that the remainder of the disembarcation was simple.  Nor was the ascent of the cliff a harsh task.  Half an hour after the landing the exploring party stood on the summit of the hill, where the black flag waved over a scene of utter desolation.  The vegetation was withered to pallid rags:  even the tiniest weedling in the rock crevices had been poisoned by the devastating blast.

In the midst of that deathly scene, the flag seemed instinct with a sinister liveliness.  Whoever had set it there had accurately chosen the highest available point on that side of the island, the spot of all others where it would make good its signal to the eye of any chance farer upon those shipless seas.  For the staff a ten-foot sapling, finely polished, served.  A mound of rock-slabs supported it firmly.  Upon the cloth itself was no design.  It was of a dull black, the hue of soot.  Captain Parkinson, standing a few yards off, viewed it with disfavour.

“Furl that flag,” he ordered.

Congdon, the coxswain of the gig, stepped forward and began to work at the fastenings.  Presently he turned a grinning face to the captain, who was scanning the landscape through his glass.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he said.

“Well, what is it?” demanded Captain Parkinson.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, that ain’t rightly no flag.  That’s what you might rightly call a garment, sir.  It’s an undershirt, beggin’ your pardon.”

“Black undershirt’s a new one to me,” muttered Trendon.

“No, sir.  It ain’t rightly black, look.”

Wrenching the object from its fastenings, he flapped it violently.  A cloud of sooty dust, beaten out, spread about his face.  With a strangled cry the sailor cast the shirt from him and rolled in agony upon the ground.

“You fool!” cried Trendon.  “Stand back, all of you.”

Opening his medicine case, he bent over the racked sufferer.  Presently the man sat up, pale and abashed.

“That’s how poisonous volcanic gas is,” said the surgeon to his commanding officer.  “Only inhaled remnants of the dust, too.”

“An ill outlook for the man we’re seeking,” the captain mused.

“Dead if he’s anywhere on this highland,” declared Trendon.  “Let’s look at his flag-pole.”

He examined the staff.  “Came from the beach,” he pronounced.  “Waterworn.  H’m!  Maybe he ain’t so dead, either.”

“I don’t quite follow you, Dr. Trendon.”

“Why, I guess our man has figured this thing all out.  Brought this pole up from the beach to plant it here.  Why?  Because this was the best observation point.  No good as a permanent residence, though.  Planted his flag and went back.”

“Why didn’t we see him on the beach, then?”

“Did you notice a cave around to the north?  Good refuge in case of fumes.”

“It’s worth trying,” said the captain, putting up his glass.

“Hold on, sir.  What’s this?  Here’s something.  Look here.”

Trendon pointed to a small bit of wood rather neatly carved to the shape of an indicatory finger, and lashed to the staff, at the height of a man’s face.  The others clustered around.

“Oh, the devil!” cried Trendon.  “It must have got twisted.  It’s pointing straight down.”

“Strange performance,” said the captain.  “However, since it points that way—­heave aside those rocks, men.”

The first slab lifted brought to light a corner of cardboard.  This, on closer examination, proved to be the cover of a book.  The rocks rolled right and left, and as the flag-staff, deprived of its support, tottered and fell, the trove was dragged forth and handed to the captain.  While the ground jarred with occasional tremors and the mountain puffed forth its vaporous threats, he and the surgeon, seated on a rock, gave themselves with complete absorption to the reading.