The Wings of the Morning

"Before mine eyes in opposition sits

Grim death."

--Milton.

He awoke to find the sun high in the heavens. Iris was preparing

breakfast; a fine fire was crackling cheerfully, and the presiding

goddess had so altered her appearance that the sailor surveyed her with

astonishment.

He noiselessly assumed a sitting posture, tucked his feet beneath him,

and blinked. The girl's face was not visible from where he sat, and for

a few seconds he thought he must surely be dreaming. She was attired in

a neat navy-blue dress and smart blouse. Her white canvas shoes were

replaced by strong leather boots. She was quite spick and span, this

island Hebe.

So soundly had he slept that his senses returned but slowly. At last he

guessed what had happened. She had risen with the dawn, and, conquering

her natural feeling of repulsion, selected from the store he

accumulated yesterday some more suitable garments than those in which

she escaped from the wreck.

He quietly took stock of his own tattered condition, and passed a

reflective hand over the stubble on his chin. In a few days his face

would resemble a scrubbing-brush. In that mournful moment he would have

exchanged even his pipe and tobacco-box--worth untold gold--for shaving

tackle. Who can say why his thoughts took such trend? Twenty-four hours

can effect great changes in the human mind if controlling influences

are active.

Then came a sharp revulsion of feeling. His name was Robert--a menial.

He reached for his boots, and Iris heard him.

"Good morning," she cried, smiling sweetly. "I thought you would never

awake. I suppose you were very, very tired. You were lying so still

that I ventured to peep at you a long time ago."

"Thus might Titania peep at an ogre," he said.

"You didn't look a bit like an ogre. You never do. You only try to talk

like one--sometimes."

"I claim a truce until after breakfast. If my rough compliment offends

you, let me depend upon a more gentle tongue than my own--

"'Her Angel's face

As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright,

And made a sunshine in the shady place.'

"Those lines are surely appropriate. They come from the Faerie

Queene."

"They are very nice, but please wash quickly. The eggs will be hard."

"Eggs!"

"Yes; I made a collection among the trees. I tasted one of a lot that

looked good. It was first-rate."

He had not the moral courage to begin the day with a rebuke. She was

irrepressible, but she really must not do these things. He smothered a

sigh in the improvised basin which was placed ready for him.

Miss Deane had prepared a capital meal. Of course the ham and biscuits

still bulked large in the bill of fare, but there were boiled eggs,

fried bananas and an elderly cocoanut. These things, supplemented by

clear cold water, were not so bad for a couple of castaways, hundreds

of miles from everywhere.

For the life of him the man could not refrain from displaying the

conversational art in which he excelled. Their talk dealt with Italy,

Egypt, India. He spoke with the ease of culture and enthusiasm. Once he

slipped into anecdote à propos of the helplessness of British

soldiers in any matter outside the scope of the King's Regulations.

"I remember," he said, "seeing a cavalry subaltern and the members of

an escort sitting, half starved, on a number of bags piled up in the

Suakin desert. And what do you think were in the bags?"

"I don't know," said Iris, keenly alert for deductions.

"Biscuits! They thought the bags contained patent fodder until I

enlightened them."

It was on the tip of her tongue to pounce on him with the comment:

"Then you have been an officer in the army." But she forbore. She had

guessed this earlier. Yet the mischievous light in her eyes defied

control. He was warned in time and pulled himself up short.

"You read my face like a book," she cried, with a delightful little

moue.

"No printed page was ever so--legible."

He was going to say "fascinating," but checked the impulse. He went on

with brisk affectation--

"Now, Miss Deane, we have gossiped too long. I am a laggard this

morning; but before starting work, I have a few serious remarks to

make."

"More digs?" she inquired saucily.

"I repudiate 'digs.' In the first place, you must not make any more

experiments in the matter of food. The eggs were a wonderful effort,

but, flattered by success, you may poison yourself."

"Secondly?"

"You must never pass out of my sight without carrying a revolver, not

so much for defence, but as a signal. Did you take one when you went

bird's-nesting?"

"No. Why?"

There was a troubled look in his eyes when he answered--

"It is best to tell you at once that before help reaches us we may be

visited by cruel and blood-thirsty savages. I would not even mention

this if it were a remote contingency. As matters stand, you ought to

know that such a thing may happen. Let us trust in God's goodness that

assistance may come soon. The island has seemingly been deserted for

many months, and therein lies our best chance of escape. But I am

obliged to warn you lest you should be taken unawares."

Iris was serious enough now.

"How do you know that such danger threatens us?" she demanded.

He countered readily. "Because I happen to have read a good deal about

the China Sea and its frequenters," he said. "I am the last man in the

world to alarm you needlessly. All I mean to convey is that certain

precautions should be taken against a risk that is possible, not

probable. No more."

She could not repress a shudder. The aspect of nature was so beneficent

that evil deeds seemed to be out of place in that fair isle. Birds were

singing around them. The sun was mounting into a cloudless sky. The

gale had passed away into a pleasant breeze, and the sea was now

rippling against the distant reef with peaceful melody.

The sailor wanted to tell her that he would defend her against a host

of savages if he were endowed with many lives, but he was perforce

tongue-tied. He even reviled himself for having spoken, but she saw the

anguish in his face, and her woman's heart acknowledged him as her

protector, her shield.

"Mr. Jenks," she said simply, "we are in God's hands. I put my trust in

Him, and in you. I am hopeful, nay more, confident. I thank you for

what you have done, for all that you will do. If you cannot preserve me

from threatening perils no man could, for you are as brave and gallant

a gentleman as lives on the earth today."

Now, the strange feature of this extraordinary and unexpected outburst

of pent-up emotion was that the girl pronounced his name with the

slightly emphasized accentuation of one who knew it to be a mere

disguise. The man was so taken aback by her declaration of faith that

the minor incident, though it did not escape him, was smothered in a

tumult of feeling.

He could not trust himself to speak. He rose hastily and seized the axe

to deliver a murderous assault upon a sago palm that stood close at

hand.

Iris was the first to recover a degree of self-possession. For a moment

she had bared her soul. With reaction came a sensitive shrinking. Her

British temperament, no less than her delicate nature, disapproved

these sentimental displays. She wanted to box her own ears.

With innate tact she took a keen interest in the felling of the tree.

"What do you want it for?" she inquired, when the sturdy trunk creaked

and fell.

Jenks felt better now.

"This is a change of diet," he explained. "No; we don't boil the leaves

or nibble the bark. When I split this palm open you will find that the

interior is full of pith. I will cut it out for you, and then it will

be your task to knead it with water after well washing it, pick out all

the fiber, and finally permit the water to evaporate. In a couple of

days the residuum will become a white powder, which, when boiled, is

sago."

"Good gracious!" said Iris.

"The story sounds unconvincing, but I believe I am correct. It is worth

a trial."

"I should have imagined that sago grew on a stalk like rice or wheat."

"Or Topsy!"

She laughed. A difficult situation had passed without undue effort.

Unhappily the man reopened it. Whilst using a crowbar as a wedge he

endeavored to put matters on a straightforward footing.

"A little while ago," he said, "you seemed to imply that I had assumed

the name of Jenks."

But Miss Deane's confidential mood had gone. "Nothing of the kind," she

said, coldly. "I think Jenks is an excellent name."

She regretted the words even as they fell from her lips. The sailor

gave a mighty wrench with the bar, splitting the log to its clustering

leaves.

"You are right," he said. "It is distinctive, brief, dogmatic. I cling

to it passionately."

Soon afterwards, leaving Iris to the manufacture of sago, he went to

the leeward side of the island, a search for turtles being his

ostensible object. When the trees hid him he quickened his pace and

turned to the left, in order to explore the cavity marked on the tin

with a skull and cross-bones. To his surprise he hit upon the remnants

of a roadway--that is, a line through the wood where there were no

well-grown trees, where the ground bore traces of humanity in the shape

of a wrinkled and mildewed pair of Chinese boots, a wooden sandal, even

the decayed remains of a palki, or litter.

At last he reached the edge of the pit, and the sight that met his eyes

held him spellbound.

The labor of many hands had torn a chasm, a quarry, out of the side of

the hill. Roughly circular in shape, it had a diameter of perhaps a

hundred feet, and at its deepest part, towards the cliff, it ran to a

depth of forty feet. On the lower side, where the sailor stood, it

descended rapidly for some fifteen feet.

Grasses, shrubs, plants of every variety, grew in profusion down the

steep slopes, wherever seeds could find precarious nurture, until a

point was reached about ten or eleven feet from the bottom. There all

vegetation ceased as if forbidden to cross a magic circle.

Below this belt the place was a charnel-house. The bones of men and

animals mingled in weird confusion. Most were mere skeletons. A few

bodies--nine the sailor counted--yet preserved some resemblance of

humanity. These latter were scattered among the older relics. They wore

the clothes of Dyaks. Characteristic hats and weapons denoted their

nationality. The others, the first harvest of this modern Golgotha,

might have been Chinese coolies. When the sailor's fascinated vision

could register details he distinguished yokes, baskets, odd-looking

spades and picks strewed amidst the bones. The animals were all of one

type, small, lanky, with long pointed skulls. At last he spied a

withered hoof. They were pigs.

Over all lay a thick coating of fine sand, deposited from the eddying

winds that could never reach the silent depths. The place was gruesome,

horribly depressing. Jenks broke out into a clammy perspiration. He

seemed to be looking at the secrets of the grave.

At last his superior intelligence asserted itself. His brain became

clearer, recovered its power of analysis. He began to criticize,

reflect, and this is the theory he evolved--

Some one, long ago, had discovered valuable minerals in the volcanic

rock. Mining operations were in full blast when the extinct volcano

took its revenge upon the human ants gnawing at its vitals and

smothered them by a deadly outpouring of carbonic acid gas, the

bottled-up poison of the ages. A horde of pigs, running wild over the

island--placed there, no doubt, by Chinese fishers--had met the same

fate whilst intent on dreadful orgy.

Then there came a European, who knew how the anhydrate gas, being

heavier than the surrounding air, settled like water in that terrible

hollow. He, too, had striven to wrest the treasure from the stone by

driving a tunnel into the cliff. He had partly succeeded and had gone

away, perhaps to obtain help, after crudely registering his knowledge

on the lid of a tin canister. This, again, probably fell into the hands

of another man, who, curious but unconvinced, caused himself to be set

ashore on this desolate spot, with a few inadequate stores. Possibly he

had arranged to be taken off within a fixed time.

But a sampan, laden with Dyak pirates, came first, and the intrepid

explorer's bones rested near the well, whilst his head had gone to

decorate the hut of some fierce village chief. The murderers, after

burying their own dead--for the white man fought hard, witness the

empty cartridges--searched the island. Some of them, ignorantly

inquisitive, descended into the hollow. They remained there. The

others, superstitious barbarians, fled for their lives, embarking so

hastily that they took from the cave neither tools nor oil, though they

would greatly prize these articles.

Such was the tragic web he spun, a compound of fact and fancy. It

explained all perplexities save one. What did "32 divided by 1" mean?

Was there yet another fearsome riddle awaiting solution?

And then his thoughts flew to Iris. Happen what might, her bright

picture was seldom absent from his brain. Suppose, egg-hunting, she had

stumbled across this Valley of Death! How could he hope to keep it

hidden from her? Was not the ghastly knowledge better than the horror

of a chance ramble through the wood and the shock of discovery, nay,

indeed, the risk of a catastrophe?

He was a man who relieved his surcharged feelings with strong

language--a habit of recent acquisition. He indulged in it now and felt

better. He rushed back through the trees until he caught sight of Iris

industriously kneading the sago pith in one of those most useful

dish-covers.

He called to her, led her wondering to the track, and pointed out the

fatal quarry, but in such wise that she could not look inside it.

"You remember that round hole we saw from the summit rock?" he said.

"Well, it is full of carbonic acid gas, to breathe which means

unconsciousness and death. It gives no warning to the inexperienced. It

is rather pleasant than otherwise. Promise me you will never come near

this place again."

Now, Iris, too, had been thinking deeply. Robert Jenks bulked large in

her day-dreams. Her nerves were not yet quite normal. There was a catch

in her throat as she answered--

"I don't want to die. Of course I will keep away. What a horrid island

this is! Yet it might be a paradise."

She bit her lip to suppress her tears, but, being the Eve in this

garden, she continued--

"How did you find out? Is there anything--nasty--in there?"

"Yes, the remains of animals, and other things. I would not have told

you were it not imperative."

"Are you keeping other secrets from me?"

"Oh, quite a number."

He managed to conjure up a smile, and the ruse was effective. She

applied the words to his past history.

"I hope they will not be revealed so dramatically," she said.

"You never can tell," he answered. They were in prophetic vein that

morning. They returned in silence to the cave.

"I wish to go inside, with a lamp. May I?" he asked.

"Certainly. Why not?"

He had an odd trick of blushing, this bronzed man with a gnarled soul.

He could not frame a satisfactory reply, but busied himself in

refilling the lamp.

"May I come too?" she demanded.

He flung aside the temptation to answer her in kind, merely assenting,

with an explanation of his design. When the lamp was in order he held

it close to the wall and conducted a systematic survey. The geological

fault which favored the construction of the tunnel seemed to diverge to

the left at the further end. The "face" of the rock exhibited the marks

of persistent labor. The stone had been hewn away by main force when

the dislocation of strata ceased to be helpful.

His knowledge was limited on the subject, yet Jenks believed that the

material here was a hard limestone rather than the external basalt.

Searching each inch with the feeble light, he paused once, with an

exclamation.

"What is it?" cried Iris.

"I cannot be certain," he said, doubtfully. "Would you mind holding the

lamp whilst I use a crowbar?"

In the stone was visible a thin vein, bluish white in color. He managed

to break off a fair-sized lump containing a well-defined specimen of

the foreign metal.

They hurried into the open air and examined the fragment with curious

eyes. The sailor picked it with his knife, and the substance in the

vein came off in laminated layers, small, brittle scales.

"Is it silver?" Iris was almost excited.

"I do not think so. I am no expert, but I have a vague idea--I have

seen----"

He wrinkled his brows and pressed away the furrows with his hand, that

physical habit of his when perplexed.

"I have it," he cried. "It is antimony."

Miss Deane pursed her lips in disdain. Antimony! What was antimony?

"So much fuss for nothing," she said.

"It is used in alloys and medicines," he explained. "To us it is

useless."

He threw the piece of rock contemptuously among the bushes. But, being

thorough in all that he undertook, he returned to the cave and again

conducted an inquisition. The silver-hued vein became more strongly

marked at the point where it disappeared downwards into a collection of

rubble and sand. That was all. Did men give their toil, their lives,

for this? So it would appear. Be that as it might, he had a more

pressing work. If the cave still held a secret it must remain there.

Iris had gone back to her sago-kneading. Necessity had made the lady a

bread-maid.

"Fifteen hundred years of philology bridged by circumstance," mused

Jenks. "How Max Müller would have reveled in the incident!"

Shouldering the axe he walked to the beach. The tide was low and the

circular sweep of the reef showed up irregularly, its black outlines

sticking out of the vividly green water like jagged teeth.

Much débris from the steamer was lying high and dry. It was an easy

task for an athletic man to reach the palm tree, yet the sailor

hesitated, with almost imperceptible qualms.

"A baited rat-trap," he muttered. Then he quickened his pace. With the

first active spring from rock to rock his unacknowledged doubts

vanished. He might find stores of priceless utility. The reflection

inspired him. Jumping and climbing like a cat, in two minutes he was

near the tree.

He could now see the true explanation of its growth in a seemingly

impossible place. Here the bed of the sea bulged upwards in a small

sand cay, which silted round the base of a limestone rock, so different

in color and formation from the coral reef. Nature, whose engineering

contrivances can force springs to mountain tops, managed to deliver to

this isolated refuge a sufficient supply of water to nourish the palm,

and the roots, firmly lodged in deep crevices, were well protected from

the waves.

Between the sailor and the tree intervened a small stretch of shallow

water. Landward this submerged saddle shelved steeply into the lagoon.

Although the water in the cove was twenty fathoms in depth, its crystal

clearness was remarkable. The bottom, composed of marvelously white

sand and broken coral, rendered other objects conspicuous. He could see

plenty of fish, but not a single shark, whilst on the inner slope of

the reef was plainly visible the destroyed fore part of the

Sirdar, which had struck beyond the tree, relatively to his

present standpoint. He had wondered why no boats were cast ashore. Now

he saw the reason. Three of them were still fastened to the davits and

carried down with the hull.

Seaward the water was not so clear. The waves created patches of foam,

and long submarine plants swayed gently in the undercurrent.

To reach Palm-tree Rock--anticipating its subsequent name--he must

cross a space of some thirty feet and wade up to his waist.

He made the passage with ease.

Pitched against the hole of the tree was a long narrow case, very

heavy, iron-clamped; and marked with letters in black triangles and the

broad arrow of the British Government.

"Rifles, by all the gods!" shouted the sailor. They were really by the

Enfield Small Arms Manufactory, but his glee at this stroke of luck

might be held to excuse a verbal inaccuracy.

The Sirdar carried a consignment of arms and ammunition from

Hong Kong to Singapore. Providence had decreed that a practically

inexhaustible store of cartridges should be hurled across the lagoon to

the island. And here were Lee-Metfords enough to equip half a company.

He would not risk the precious axe in an attempt to open the case. He

must go back for a crowbar.

What else was there in this storehouse, thrust by Neptune from the

ocean bed? A chest of tea, seemingly undamaged. Three barrels of flour,

utterly ruined. A saloon chair, smashed from its pivot. A battered

chronometer. For the rest, fragments of timber intermingled with

pulverized coral and broken crockery.

A little further on, the deep-water entrance to the lagoon curved

between sunken rocks. On one of them rested the Sirdar's huge

funnel. The north-west section of the reef was bare. Among the wreckage

he found a coil of stout rope and a pulley. He instantly conceived the

idea of constructing an aerial line to ferry the chest of tea across

the channel he had forded.

He threaded the pulley with the rope and climbed the tree, adding a

touch of artistic completeness to the ruin of his trousers by the

operation. He had fastened the pulley high up the trunk before he

realized how much more simple it would be to break open the chest where

it lay and transport its contents in small parcels.

He laughed lightly. "I am becoming addleheaded," he said to himself.

"Anyhow, now the job is done I may as well make use of it."

Recoiling the rope-ends, he cast them across to the reef. In such small

ways do men throw invisible dice with death. With those two lines he

would, within a few fleeting seconds, drag himself back from eternity.

Picking up the axe, he carelessly stepped into the water, not knowing

that Iris, having welded the incipient sago into a flat pancake, had

strolled to the beach and was watching him.

The water was hardly above his knees when there came a swirling rush

from the seaweed. A long tentacle shot out like a lasso and gripped his

right leg. Another coiled round his waist.

"My God!" he gurgled, as a horrid sucker closed over his mouth and

nose. He was in the grip of a devil-fish.

A deadly sensation of nausea almost overpowered him, but the love of

life came to his aid, and he tore the suffocating feeler from his face.

Then the axe whirled, and one of the eight arms of the octopus lost

some of its length. Yet a fourth flung itself around his left ankle. A

few feet away, out of range of the axe, and lifting itself bodily out

of the water, was the dread form of the cuttle, apparently all head,

with distended gills and monstrous eyes.

The sailor's feet were planted wide apart. With frenzied effort he

hacked at the murderous tentacles, but the water hindered him, and he

was forced to lean back, in superhuman strain, to avoid losing his

balance. If once this terrible assailant got him down he knew he was

lost. The very need to keep his feet prevented him from attempting to

deal a mortal blow.

The cuttle was anchored by three of its tentacles. Its remaining arm

darted with sinuous activity to again clutch the man's face or neck.

With the axe he smote madly at the curling feeler, diverting its aim

time and again, but failing to deliver an effective stroke.

With agonized prescience the sailor knew that he was yielding. Were the

devil-fish a giant of its tribe he could not have held out so long. As

it was, the creature could afford to wait, strengthening its grasp,

tightening its coils, pulling and pumping at its prey with remorseless

certainty.

He was nearly spent. In a paroxysm of despair he resolved to give way,

and with one mad effort seek to bury the axe in the monster's brain.

But ere he could execute this fatal project--for the cuttle would have

instantly swept him into the trailing weeds--five revolver shots rang

out in quick succession. Iris had reached the nearest rock.

The third bullet gave the octopus cause to reflect. It squirted forth a

torrent of dark-colored fluid. Instantly the water became black,

opaque. The tentacle flourishing in air thrashed the surface with

impotent fury; that around Jenks's waist grew taut and rigid. The axe

flashed with the inspiration of hope. Another arm was severed; the huge

dismembered coil slackened and fell away.

Yet was he anchored immovably. He turned to look at Iris. She never

forgot the fleeting expression of his face. So might Lazarus have

looked from the tomb.

"The rope!" she screamed, dropping the revolver and seizing the loose

ends lying at her feet.

She drew them tight and leaned back, pulling with all her strength. The

sailor flung the axe to the rocks and grasped the two ropes. He raised

himself and plunged wildly. He was free. With two convulsive strides he

was at the girl's side.

He stumbled to a boulder and dropped in complete collapse. After a time

he felt Iris's hand placed timidly on his shoulder. He raised his head

and saw her eyes shining.

"Thank you," he said. "We are quits now."