Hurricane (6 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

The Castle

T
HE
source of the blow seemed to be directly ahead, and with their one laboring engine and with their one necessarily
rudder
-corrected prop, they made very little speed.

The
Venture
shipped the waves over her bows and then, rearing up, spilled hundreds of tons of roaring water aft in great tidal waves which swept the decks clean of everything but the planks themselves. The foremast went first in a shower of tangled, drenched rigging which snaked about in vicious circles until the whole was driven over the side.

From the smashed ports of the bridge, from which even the dodger had been ripped away, Spar could not penetrate the curtain of spray and wind more than thirty feet. His face was set in an ugly twist as he thought about the engineer.

Someone, something on this craft was striving for an unknown end he could not fathom. Someone had wanted the party and Tom Perry out of Martinique. Someone craved their destruction at sea.

Who was it?

And Spar wondered if all these things had happened according to a definite plan. First they had meant to kill him and then they had obviously found a use for him. And would he die as soon as his usefulness was over?

If anyone desired Spar’s death, the yacht was certainly heading for the most likely spot in these waters. Hurricane Hill reeked of it.

The helmsman clung obstinately to the brass wheel, his black shoulders bared by the blow, his muscles rippling with the effort of keeping them on their course.

Buffeted by the gale, Spar stood with his back to the bulkhead, tired out after a battle which had lasted all night and half the day. The fever had taken its toll of his once great strength.

From time to time his expression softened into a grin as he considered his own position here. A convict in charge of a murder ship.

But whatever his position might be at the moment, a few hours were to bring him into one of the strangest predicaments, the most unique situation, that Spar had ever heard of or seen. And Spar had seen and done many strange things.

The blow began to lessen in force at five in the afternoon. And in a half-hour, the wind had died to a
six strength
. The force of the water had also subsided and soon, in the comparatively clear air, Spar could make out the dim darkness of a headland.

They were in the shelter of Hurricane Hill. To Spar it seemed odd to find reprieve in the lee of so avoided a place.

Folston came up on the wrecked bridge, suave and smiling. “Now, Captain, you can make in toward that point. Beyond it you’ll find a better anchorage.” He paused apologetically. “Sorry to give you advice but I’ve been studying a chart down below and I see by the headland that we are a little to the south of it.”

Spar frowned and then ordered the helm spun to starboard. Folston was right about the anchorage.

Peg Mannering came up a moment later. “Where are we going?”

“Folston tells me,” said Spar, “that we have an anchorage at hand. We’ll have to
lay to
until I can fix the reduction gear.”

After the shriek of the hurricane, their ears rang in the comparative silence. All except Folston appeared very tired.

“Where’s young Perry? And that Bereau girl?” said Spar.

“Tom’s drunk,” replied Folston. “Very, very drunk. It’s better that way.”

“What is?”

“I didn’t want to see him bothering Peg.”

“Thank you so much,” said Peg Mannering with not a little sarcasm.

“Oh, ’twas nothing,” replied Folston.

Spar headed the craft around the point and they came into quiet water. Dusk was settling over the high black cliffs which bound them in. In sight of such immensity, the
Venture,
to Spar, seemed very small.

Folston looked long at the high summits about them, but no sign of life was evident.

“I would suggest,” said Folston, “that we go ashore for the night. The boat’s pretty damp, y’know, and I’m the least bit squeamish about the way the hull has held out.”

“Ashore?” said Spar. “You mean sleep over there with the . . . on the rocks?”

“With the dead men?” said Folston. “No, sailor, I assure you that there are no dead men on Hurricane Hill. You see, er . . . I have a hut over there I use for shooting.”

“Shooting,” snapped Spar. “There’s no game down here.”

“Oh, yes, goats and small deer and such. I had a hut constructed so that I could get away from it all, you know. It’s really quite comfortable.”

“I’m staying with the ship,” replied Spar, definitely.

Felice Bereau came up in time to hear Folston’s statement.

“Oh, I’d love it. When can we go?”

“I’d advise you to stay here,” said Spar.

“But why?”

Spar looked at her annoyed face and smiled bleakly. “The ship is comfortable enough.”

Perry appeared. “What’s this? Go ashore? My God, yes.”

“I thought you were drunk,” said Spar, looking at Folston.

“Sure I was,” grinned Perry. “Now, lower us a boat, you captain, and let’s go. I command it—instantly.”

Peg Mannering looked longingly at the shore. “Perhaps we’d better go.”

“Go ahead,” snapped Spar, gruffly. “Helmsman, tell the mate to drop the hook and then lower the tender.”

They waited for several minutes until the launch was set in the water. And then all but Spar turned to go. Peg Mannering looked appealingly at him. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

“No,” said Spar.

She hung back from the rest and looked long at him.

“All right,” said Spar. “Let me get a razor and some dry clothes. I need a rest.”

She seemed very relieved and when Spar joined them some minutes later in the launch, she was talking gaily with Felice Bereau.

“We’ll be back shortly,” yelled Spar at the mate on deck. “Stand by and see what the engineers can do with that reduction gear.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said the black mate.

When they drew in toward the small landing stage which Spar had not known existed there, the group fell silent. There was something about the dismal blackness of the doleful cliffs which struck them into silence, something about the bleak, treeless heights which made them feel that they were in the presence of something greater than themselves.

The musty odor of the seaweed on the small beach mingled with a salt taste of the air. One lone gull wheeled high above, calling out with his mournful voice, as though warning them back away from Hurricane Hill.

Spar tied their launch to the landing stage and began to help the others out of the craft. And then there came to them a sound, a screaming sound which seemed far away across the water.

Peg Mannering gripped Spar’s arm. “What was that?”

Spar did not answer. The sound came again, louder, more awful than before, as though some poor devil was dying in exquisite agony.

Folston assayed to be jocular about it. “The wind in the cliffs, that’s all. No need to be afraid. I’ve heard it many times. Your sailor here will try to tell you that it’s the scream of men dying in the gray sea, but that’s merely superstition. It’s true that the sandy strip here has often been littered with the drowned, but—”

“Shut up!” cried Spar at the sight of Peg’s blanching face.

Folston smiled and led the way up a narrow ledge which had been hacked into steps, slimy with the sea. The sea gull swooped lower and cried out again. The far-off scream dwindled away.

And through the heavy darkness which settled upon them like a shroud, they heard a human call high up on the cliff.

“My caretaker,” explained Folston. “Hello, up there! We have guests!”

The call came down once more and the sea gull vanished into the dark air. Far below they could see the
Venture
swinging gently at her anchor, a sliver of white on the black sea.

Spar helped Peg up the steps and felt her hands shake as the terrible sound came to them again.

“You say . . . it’s the dead, the drowned, calling for help?”

“No, no,” said Spar, not wishing to frighten her. “Just the wind in the cliffs, that’s all. You heard Folston.”

“But I don’t trust Folston in anything.”

“What’s that?” said Folston behind them.

“The lady said she thought you an excellent gentleman to provide a hut so thoughtfully,” replied Spar.

“I imagine she did,” said Folston. “Well, here’s the summit. I’ve always despised that climb.”

In the grayness of the night they could see the hill rising high above them even yet, but something intervened, something which could not be seen from the sea.

It was a spreading black bulk which had the skyline of some medieval castle. No lights shined out from it, and it seemed to Spar that nothing but darkness could be embraced in so dismal a structure.

“Capital, isn’t it?” said Folston, leading off. “I found it here, just as it is. Some old refugee from the Spanish Inquisition came here and built it. They say he died and that he wanders about but I’ve never seen him.”

“Cheerful, aren’t you?” said Spar.

“Oh, not at all. You see, I found his skull in the banquet hall, as no one had ever had courage enough to come up here and bury him. The skull was crushed at the back. God knows what happened to the skeleton.”

“Quit it,” said Spar.

“Oh, don’t you like it? I find it very interesting, myself. But then I forget that most human beings squirm at such things.”

The scream came again, drawn out and shivering, but this time Spar knew that it came from the castle, not the sea. He stopped and halted Peg Mannering with him. They stood before a mammoth gate from which the hinges leaned, within thirty feet of the front door.

“Miss Mannering and I are going back to the ship,” said Spar. “I don’t give a damn what the others do.”

“You think so, eh?” said Folston.

“Yes,” said Spar and turned to go.

“I wouldn’t,” said Folston, evenly, his voice queerly hard.

Spar saw a shimmer of steel in the man’s hand. He stepped nearer and saw that it was a gun.

“Stand where you are,” said Folston, “or perhaps you’ll stay where you are a long, long time.”

But Spar did not stand. He sidestepped with a swift motion, and Folston deflected the gun in that direction. Spar whipped back and before Folston could shoot, Spar had the man by the throat. The gun went spinning across the paved courtyard and slammed into the steps.

Spar lifted Folston clear of the ground and shook him. “Now what the hell are you trying to do? What’s your game?” Spar shook harder when Folston failed to answer.

Peg Mannering cried out. Bare feet slapped across the stones. Men yelled. The courtyard blazed with lights.

Spar whirled to see a horde of men with bare chests and dark faces swirl out of the doors and down the steps. They held guns and machetes, and from their throats sprang a cry which rolled and shivered through the castle like a siren’s blast.

Spar dropped Folston and heard the man bellow an order. The attackers deployed, and in one swift rush completely surrounded the group.

Chacktar detached himself from the path behind them and came forward with an ugly grin, holding an automatic in each hand.

“Now, my fine convict,” said Chacktar, “don’t you wish you were back in French Guiana? Ah, what we’ll do to you here!”

“Shut up!” barked Folston. “Tie his arms behind him and light up the castle.”

But Spar was not so easily taken. He sprang at Folston, but the man evaded him neatly. Chacktar, with a bull bellow, came forward waving his guns, trying to shoot.

The crowd closed in. Spar found himself in the center of hammering fists and slashing knives. Men grabbed him from every side, and though he struck out, kicked and tried to get away, they had him pinioned in a few seconds and bound his arms close to his body.