Fire in the Galley Stove

I

THE ship Unicorn loitered to the westward, running large with a gentle breeze from the south. In the light of the brilliant moon her decks gleamed whitely; aloft, sly shadows played among her sails and spars. Overside, the quiet sea murmured as she passed.

Mister Mergam stood on the weather side of the poop, staring sourly ahead and seeing though not perceiving the beauty of the night. His keen ears caught the various sounds of ship and sea and wind, and his trained mind recognized them automatically, especially the soft thud of the rudder as the sea touched it, now on one side and now on the other. It was a simple sound, near and familiar, relentless as fate and sounding a note of caution, obscurely ominous, as if the voice of the helm attempted to warn him against any lack of vigilance. In this particular morning watch it gave him that impression, not because he was feeling down and defeated, since he had felt that way for years, but owing to his mood of sour rebellion, which had now reached a climax. He hated the empty plains of the sea and the narrow rounds of sailing-ship duties, but had to endure them because he could not make a living ashore.

Through all his years of roving, even on nights like this, he had remained blind to the beauty of the sea, and now his feeling toward it had settled into weary hatred. He knew its effects of blended color, its wide gradations of sound and action, the tireless charm of a sailing ship’s effortless movement, the quality of silent distance and the wonder of the skies. Dimly at times, in moments of rare emotion, he had caught a glimpse of the mystic hand that beckons beyond the horizon and felt for a little while the fated urge of the wanderer. But that was in the beginning, long ago when he had first gone to sea, and he had forgotten it.

The lee side of the deck, to starboard, abounded in shadows cast by the moon. Under the mainsail a dark blotch extended from the half deck to the main hatch, and a bright space lay between that and the forward house. Observing this with his customary dull disinterest in details not requiring action, he watched the shadow thrown by the foot of the mainsail, backing and filling in the languid breeze. Raising his eyes from the deck to the sail, he suddenly stiffened and gazed unseeing in front of him as he felt an unusual movement of the hull, a strange shaking that startled him because it was outside of all his former experience. The whole ship, hull and spars and rigging, trembled eerily, and all the gear aloft made a weird clatter. He had never known any ship to move like this, and as he stood wondering what had caused it the skipper came hurriedly from the companion and halted beside him.

‘What was that?’ he demanded nervously.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Mister Mergam answered. ‘I’ve never felt anything like it until now, so I would n’t know what it was.’

‘You don’t know!’ exclaimed the skipper. ‘You’re here on deck in charge of the ship and something scrapes along her side — a derelict, more than likely — and you don’t know what it was! You don’t know.’ The skipper waved his hands helplessly. ‘Why don’t you know? Did n’t you see anything? Invisible things don’t shake a ship like that. It must have been something big enough to be seen. Were you asleep?’

‘No, sir, I was n’t asleep. I was wider awake than you are now, attending to my job, and I saw nothing. There was nothing to be seen. The lookout did n’t see anything, or he would’ve reported it, and the man at the wheel did n’t see anything, either.’

‘The man at the wheel,’ the skipper repeated unpleasantly. ‘How do you know he did n’t see anything? It is n’t his job to see things and report them. He’s there to steer the ship, not to keep lookout.’

The mate turned away sullenly and approached the man at the wheel.

‘Did you see what shook her a minute ago, Thomson?’ he inquired.

‘No, sir,’ Thomson answered. ‘I did n’t see nothin’. I looked astern after she stopped shakin’ an’ there was n’t nothin’ in sight.’

‘You heard what he said, sir,’ Mister Mergam remarked to the skipper in a tone of meagre triumph. ‘There was nothing in sight.’

‘Aye, I heard him,’ Captain Garton returned impatiently. ‘What do you suppose it could have been? Possibly a submerged derelict.’

‘No, sir, I don’t think so. It was n’t the sort of shock any kind of a derelict would give. I’ve been in collision with a derelict, and it was something entirely different. This was strong, but soft and trembly. A derelict would grind and scrape along her side and make enough noise to wake the dead.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ the skipper admitted unwillingly. He moved away from the mate and stood with his hands on the poop rail staring at the sea ahead, a tall man, gaunt and irascible from chronic dyspepsia due to overeating and lack of exercise, tired of life and hating everybody, including himself. His excessively bright eyes wandered fretfully along the deck on the weather side, which was lit by the moon except for an edge of shadow here and there, and he glanced at the leech of the mainsail. Something attracted his attention then, and he looked over on the port bow. A startled exclamation broke from him and he threw up his arm in swift apprehension, pointing urgently.

‘Hey, Mister Mergam!’ he cried. ‘What’s that?’

The mate looked in the direction indicated by the captain’s finger and noted a lifting of the sky line, an effect he had often observed while approaching a high coast from the sea, though this was not quite so well defined. He stared in silence and without understanding, disregarding the impatient questions of the captain until he arrived at the conclusion that the elevation ahead was a great wave approaching the ship at high speed. In the moonlight he could see its steep unbroken slope shining like bright metal and rushing toward them, and he was disturbed by the thought that it might sweep the decks clean.

‘It’s a big wave, sir,’ he said at last in faint excitement.

‘Yes, it is,’ the skipper agreed. ‘It could n’t be anything else. And it explains the shaking of the ship a few minutes ago. There’s been an upheaval of the sea bottom, a submarine earthquake, and when the sea bottom shook, the sea shook with it. The sea floor hereabouts has risen nearly two thousand feet during the past twenty years.’

‘Tidal wave on the port bow, sir,’ the lookout reported belatedly. He had been uncertain what name to give it, or whether to make any report about it, since waves of any size are not usually reported aboard ships at sea. They take them as they come.

‘Aye, aye,’ replied Mister Mergam. ‘Close all ports forrid.’

They could see the forms of the men moving about on their bare feet as they carried out this order, scattering silently and passing among the shadows from the sails on the foremast. The ports were closed in a little while, and the men thought they ought to shut all the doors, but before they could begin to do this the big wave rolled up like the side of a mountain.

The skipper and the mate watched it come, not expecting any particular trouble from it, whatever its size, since ships are built to ride the seas in all weathers and conditions, and the wave was approaching from a favorable direction, about two points on the weather bow. As it drew nearer and revealed its enormous size, its smooth crest towering loftily above the level of the sea, the two officers began to feel doubtful. They could hardly expect the ship to ride dry over such a mass of water as that, so abruptly sloped and moving so swiftly. When it reached the bows of the Unicorn, she gave a mighty heave and lifted her head in a gallant effort to climb the watery height, but she could not rise swiftly enough. Halfway up, her bowsprit and cutwater drove into it, and it broke over her, coming down on the decks with a solid crash that seemed to beat her under the sea. It swept over the forecastle head and rolled along the main deck in an avalanche, burying the houses far under and foaming against the masts as high as the foot of the courses. Rolling over the poop a fathom deep, it submerged the skipper, the mate, and the man at the wheel. They held on grimly, and in a few seconds the wave passed on.

The water sluiced off the decks into the calm sea, and soon all was normal again, save that the galley fire was black out, the morning coffee was ruined, and all the pots and pans were adrift in eighteen inches of salt water. Both forecastles were flooded, because the watch on deck, having been given barely enough time to close the ports, had not been able to shut the doors, and the watch below came spluttering out, cursing the other blokes for not having sense enough to do such things without waiting for orders.

‘ Call yourselves sailors,’ they sneered malevolently. ‘You ain’t got sense enough to tighten your belts when your pants are slippin’ down. Nurses is what you need.’ They raved back and forth till somebody struck out and the forward deck became a tumbled scene of fighting sailors, cursing and mauling each other but inflicting no serious injuries. Like a pack of sportive demons in the shadows of the moon they rolled about the main deck as far aft as the main hatch, locked in fierce embraces of sound and fury.

The skipper and the mate stood on the poop watching the brawl, and a light came into Mister Mergam’s eye. Extracting a heavy teakwood belaying pin from the taffrail, he swung it gently up and down, almost lovingly, holding it loosely in his right hand.

‘I’d better put a stop to that,’ he suggested to the skipper.

‘No,’ said Captain Garton. ‘They won’t hurt each other too much, and a little exercise will do them good. They’ve had it too easy this passage.’

Mister Mergam seemed disappointed by this decision, but he obediently replaced the pin in the rail and continued to watch the waning battle on the forward deck. Before long, the rage of the men abated and they separated two by two. Returning to their respective forecastles, they found that the water had drained out through the scupper holes, so the starboard watch lit their pipes and turned in to smoke while falling asleep. In the galley the cook cursed tidal waves and everything else as he gathered up his pots and pans and relit the fire in the stove after cleaning out the mess of sodden coals. It was now half-past four, and morning coffee — the most welcome event of the day to seafaring men — was due at two bells, therefore he must hurry. He would have a fresh brew ready in time if it could be done.

II

The skipper felt better after witnessing the fight between the watches, and he smiled for the first time in weeks as he listened to the reeking obscenities of the cook. There was something reckless and defiant in his piercing blasphemies that pleased the old man, who suffered a great deal from indigestion. But he soon became aware of the chill from his wet clothing and turned toward the companion with a sigh.

‘Keep a sharp lookout, Mister,’ he said to the mate as he started down to the cabin. ‘We don’t want any more tidal waves.’

‘Very good, sir,’ Mister Mergam replied, swearing under his breath. The skipper’s remark seemed to imply that he was to blame for tidal waves.

‘Damned old fool,’ he muttered. ‘He did n’t even know the difference between a collision with a derelict and an earthquake shock.’

In the port forecastle the men of the watch were changing into dry dungarees and discussing after their fashion the events of the morning.

‘That was a big sea,’ said one.

‘Aye, it was, but I’ve seen bigger off the Horn,’ old Charlie declared.

‘You never seen a bigger one anywheres, Charlie. You must of dreamt it.’

‘This old hooker is full of bad luck.’

‘So she is. She ain’t had a lucky day since we left port.’

‘When d’ya think coffee will be ready?’

‘Ask the cook. Mebbe he knows.’

‘I give Snooky in the sta’bo’d watch a coupla black eyes.’

‘Take a squint at yer own.’

‘The skipper’s crazy.’

‘Naw, he ain’t crazy. He’s sick. He oughta stay ashore.’

‘Say! Did ya feel that? What the hell was that?’

On the quiet poop Mister Mergam stood with feet apart, glancing listlessly at the sky line from time to time, casting his eyes aloft at the towering sails, surveying the deck, and watching the play of shadows born of the moon. The color of the sea had changed, and it no longer gleamed with the purple blue of deep water. As they were not within two hundred miles of the Grand Bank he surmised that the disturbance on the sea bottom had sent up clouds of ooze that imparted a dull hue to the water. While considering this, turning it over in his mind with slow interest, he felt the ship quiver again to a sudden shock, altogether different from the first. It felt as if a floating body, soft and enormously heavy, had come to rest against the bottom of the ship, and he went swiftly to the taffrail to peer intently over the side. At the same time he noticed the men of the watch running silently to the main rail forward, where they also stared down at the sea. Evidently they had felt the shock. He had just finished his casual observance of them when the skipper erupted on the poop again, very much annoyed.

‘What was that, Mister Mergam?’ he demanded in his usual exasperated tone. ‘That was no earthquake shock. Something hit her that time — you can’t deny it. Something actual and material struck against her bottom.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m not denying it. Something certainly hit her then, and I’m looking to see what it was, but there’s nothing in sight.’

‘Nothing in sight,’ the skipper repeated. ‘Nothing in sight. What in the name of all the mysteries is happening to this ship, anyhow? All sorts of things going on, and nobody knows anything about it!’

There came another soft, heavy shock, followed by others at short intervals.

‘My God!’ the skipper whispered, staring fearfully down at the muddy sea. More and more of the things, a whole crowd of them, monsters of some horrible sort, clamped along her keel, driven up from the bottom of the sea by the disturbance down there! ‘What are they? Can you tell me that, Mister Mergam?’

‘No, sir, I can’t,’ the mate replied uneasily.

They stared at each other in the light of the sinking moon, two perturbed and bewildered men suspecting some lurking danger.

‘The wheel’s jammed, sir!’ cried Thomson. ‘I can’t move it.’

The skipper and the mate turned and stared at the man, watching his strenuous but unavailing efforts to move the wheel.

‘She’s lost headway, sir,’ said Mister Mergam, looking over the side again. ‘She’s standing still.’

‘You’re quite right,’ the captain agreed in a different tone of voice, low and troubled. ‘These big brutes clinging to her bottom have stopped her, and one of them has clamped itself across the rudder. Whatever they are down there, they’re keeping out of sight. Ah! There’s another. That one struck forrid under the bows. There must be a lot of them.’

The man at the wheel, peering at the timepiece in the binnacle, saw that it was five o’clock and made two bells. Forward on the forecastle head, the man on lookout struck the ship’s bell twice, two measured strokes that boomed and lingered about the shadowy decks. Placid now, and smoking a short clay pipe as black as ebony, the cook, who had flaming red hair and hailed from Glasgow, thrust his head through the galley doorway and asked what the hell was wrong now. The men strung along the rail told him they did n’t bloody well know what was wrong, but if he would hurry with the coffee they would tell him as soon as they found out.

‘ If there’s anither tidal wave comin’, give us a shout so’s I can close the doorrs and the porrts,’ the cook requested.

‘How about coffee?’ they inquired, turning from the rail to observe him with the bantering regard that sailors bestow on sea cooks.

‘It’ll be ready in aboot ten meenits,’ he promised them.

In a little less time than that he beat with a ladle on the bottom of an empty pan, making a racket that might have been heard or felt by the beasts along the keel, and the men left the rail to fetch their hook-pots from the forecastle. They were puzzled and a trifle scared and had little to say to each other, though they had chattered enough when those queer shocks had been felt. Some of them thought whales had rubbed their backs against the hull, but others argued that this would not have stopped the ship’s headway. There must be a lot of big soft beasts hanging on to her, scared up from the depths by the earthquake down there that had caused the tidal wave, or the ship would n’t be standing still the way she was. In silence they went one by one to the galley door and waited in line for their pots of coffee. Charlie was first. He stood at the door holding his hookpot inside, to be filled with a ladleful of the stuff the cook called coffee, dipped from a boiler on the stove.

III

The skipper and the mate still waited at the taffrail for a sight of the things from the deep, and the long inaction had begun to affect their nerves.

‘If we could only see them, and find out what they are,’ muttered the captain, ‘we might be able to decide on some plan of action. But how can we fight against invisible things of unknown nature!’ He paced back and forth along a short path between the taffrail and the standard binnacle, frowning impatiently, clenching and opening his hands nervously.

Mister Mergam had glanced forward at the sound of the cook’s gong, and he watched the men as they came out of the forecastle and went to the galley door to await their turn for coffee. The first man in line received his coffee and started for the fore hatch, where he intended to sit while drinking it, and he did not see the long slender tentacle that quirted over the rail above his head and waved here and there seeking what it might find. It found old Charlie as he reached the fore hatch, concealed from his watchmates by the corner of the forward house, wrapped itself round his neck with a strangling hold that prevented him from uttering a sound, and dragged him violently over the rail. The next man, following with his coffee, saw Charlie at the rail, striking madly at the tentacle with his hookpot, and a startled yell attracted the attention of the others. They spun round and saw old Charlie going over the side in a headlong dive with his waving hook-pot, but were too late to notice the deadly tentacle round his neck. They rushed to the rail and stared down at the dull water, but the man who had seen the tentacle held back. He knew the sort of beast it belonged to.

Men may sail the seas for a lifetime and seldom, if ever, come in contact with the nightmare monsters that inhabit the caves and cliffs of the ocean floor. Gazing down at the slightly muddy water, the men of the Unicorn saw a squirming mass of interwoven tentacles resembling enormous snakes, immensely thick and long and tapering at their free ends to the size of a man’s thumb. It was a foul sight, an obscene growth from the dark places of the world, where incessant hunger is the driving force. At one place, down near the bulge of the hull, appeared a staring gorgon face with great lidless eyes and a huge parrot beak that moved slightly, opening and shutting as though it had just crunched and swallowed a meal of warm flesh. In its neighborhood the water was stained a reddish hue, possibly with blood from the veins of old Charlie. There were many of those deep-sea devils under the ship, ravenously hungry and now aware that there was food on her decks in the form of puny bodies that could be had for the taking.

Suddenly the men of the watch saw the air above the rail alive with tentacles. They swayed uncertainly for a second or two in order to feel the position of their prey, then lashed out with swift aim at the horrified men. Whipping round them, they tightened their hold to a vise-like grip that no human strength could break, though a sharp knife could slice them in two if properly used. The men were panic-stricken and struck wildly with sheath knives and hook-pots, but failed in their excitement to cut themselves adrift and went over the rail screaming. The boatswain, carpenter, and sailmaker jumped up from the main hatch and rushed across the deck to rescue the few survivors of the watch, but halfa-dozen tentacles seized them and jerked them over the side, striking futile blows.

When the first tentacle came over the rail and fastened itself on Charlie, the steward was ambling forward to the galley for the cabin coffee. On seeing the man dragged violently over the rail the steward stopped and stared in amazement, trying to imagine what had happened to the sailor and thinking that perhaps he had become suddenly insane. The reeling gait of old Charlie, however, his struggles and the manner in which he went over the rail, convinced the steward that something had hold of him. His smooth-shaven face, round and placid, became puckered with anxiety and he stared in growing consternation at the struggle that developed between the men of the watch and the tapering tentacles that whipped over the rail in dozens. While he stood watching this primitive contest, a tentacle flung itself round his portly waist and dragged him down before his whimper could rise to a scream of terror.

The cook with the flaming hair came out of the galley with a carving knife and tried to run aft to the poop, but was caught. He slashed off the tentacle but was seized by others and dragged over, the severed tentacle clinging round his body. The men of the starboard watch tumbled out raving with drawn knives in ready hands. They had to divide forces to protect themselves on both sides, as the tentacles were now swaying above each rail from forecastle to poop. Though they fought with fury and some skill they had small chance to win against such desperate odds. Some of them jumped into the rigging to get out of reach by climbing aloft, but the men who tried that exposed themselves to the beasts lurking below and were snatched away immediately. There were too many tentacles to be cut, and even when they were slashed clean through they continued to cling round a man’s body. They had suction cups on their under sides and rings of sharp claws within these.

IV

‘There’s the answer,’ said the mate to the skipper when the battle began after the death of old Charlie. ‘The things sticking to the bottom are giant octopuses. They’re the biggest things in the sea, except for the whales, and only the sperm whale can tackle them. He feeds on them, and sometimes they feed on him, if they can hold him down till he drowns. I’ll get a knife and give the men a hand.’

‘Better do that than stand here telling me things I already know,’ the skipper retorted sharply. ‘There’s men dying forrid there.’

The mate hurried to the companion on the way to his room for a hunting knife he kept there — a beautiful weapon hitherto useless, with an eightinch blade as sharp as a razor. The octopus which had folded itself over the stern and jammed the rudder, aware that its companions were obtaining food from the top of this rocklike mass they were clinging to, flung two tentacles over the taffrail and waved one of them in Mister Mergam’s direction.

‘Look out, sir!’ The man at the wheel screamed a warning.

Mister Mergam was just about to descend the companionway when he heard this cry, and he threw a swift glance over his shoulder, saw the thing flicking toward him, and tried to jump down the companionway. He was too late. The tentacle wrapped itself round his chest and tightened. He strained against it, uttering a faint grunt, and braced himself with hands and feet against the hatch.

‘Bring a knife, sir, and cut me loose,’ he implored the captain, who stared at him in horror and rushed away for a knife, going down the poop ladder to the door leading to the cabin from the main deck.

The other tentacle found the man at the wheel and caught him round the waist, binding one arm to his side but leaving the other free. It was the rule aboard the Unicorn that no seaman should wear a knife while standing his trick at the wheel, therefore Thomson carried none. He knew that human strength could not prevail against the power of these tentacles, though they could be cut, and he waited for the return of the skipper with the knife. Meantime, he made a sudden jerk and dragged the tentacle a couple of feet toward him, wrapped two turns of it round a spoke of the wheel, and held it fast there. It required desperate strength to do that with one hand, and he succeeded only because he was an exceptionally powerful man. Now the octopus could not drag him over the side without breaking the spoke, which was teakwood and very tough.

The mate had nothing but his hands, and these could not serve him. A sharp axe was hung on the bulkhead a few steps below him in the companionway, and he made supreme efforts to go down there against the pull of the beast to secure this weapon. His efforts were unsuccessful, for the octopus refused to slack up and tightened its grip till he groaned with the pain of it.

Though the skipper had not been gone more than a few seconds, Mister Mergam thought he would never come back and cried in a gasping voice for him to hurry. Captain Garton shouted that he could not find the knife in the mate’s cabin and was bringing the axe from the bulkhead. He was coming right up.

‘For God’s sake, hurry!’ the mate entreated. ‘The brute’s crushing me.’

The skipper wrenched the axe out of the slings and staggered up the companion to cut Mister Mergam free, but as he reached him the mate was dragged violently away from the hatch. Captain Garton followed in urgent pursuit. Dashing out on deck, he made a swift step toward the unfortunate mate and swung up the axe for a severing stroke, but before the blade fell Mister Mergam was whipped with a crash against the taffrail and went down over the side.

The man at the wheel found it difficult to hold against the pull of the octopus, even with a double turn of the tentacle round the spoke. He was gasping and purple in the face, and the harder he strove against it the tighter the tentacle was drawn. He was rapidly becoming exhausted. After peering over the side for a few precious moments to see what became of his lost mate, the skipper drew back from the rail horrified and trembling. He was not a strong man. Turning toward the wheel, he noted the perilous plight of the man there, and stumbled across the deck intending to sever the tentacle where it was wrapped round the spoke. In his condition of quaking repulsion he could hardly lift the axe and stood for seconds trying to swing it above his head.

The octopus jamming the rudder eased its pressure down there, and the wheel spun round under the pull of the tentacle, which slipped off the spoke. Thomson was hurtled across the poop and over the side, crashing against the skipper and knocking him down. The axe fell from Captain Garton’s hands, and he rose staggering to pick it up. As he seized it he saw another tentacle whipping over the rail toward him, and in a surge of blind fury he swung the axe, which left his hands and went flashing into the sea. He swooned when the tentacle gripped him, and the octopus drew him down.

Cowering on the forecastle head, the man on lookout saw the last of the crew go down to feed the octopuses, and his mind roved in every direction searching for a means of saving his life. Up to the present no tentacles had come up over the head rail, and he stood absolutely still, hoping that they would not find him.

But in this he was disappointed. One of them came up and waved about, drawing nearer every second. Out of his mind with terror, he sprang to the rail and saw in the water below the appalling face of an octopus. Taking his knife by the blade, he threw it with miraculous aim and saw it sink out of sight in the eye of the beast, which went into a tremendous flurry. Looking aft, the man saw that there were few tentacles now waving over the main deck, and he crept down the ladder to look for a knife. Stealing along the port side, he searched eagerly but could not find one, returned along the starboard side and met the same result. All the men had gone down fighting with the knives in their hands, and the hook-pots. Reaching the fore hatch, he decided to enter the forecastle and shut the door. The ports were already closed. But he was just a moment too late. They got him.

A little while later a pod of sperm whales came up to blow not far from the Unicorn; and the octopuses, feeling the near presence of their deadly enemies, went away from there and returned to the deep places.

V

The ship Merivale, heading eastward some days out of New York, sighted a ship with all sail set. She was observed to behave in an erratic manner and appeared to be abandoned, since there was nobody at the wheel or about the decks. In the gentle breeze that was blowing shortly after sunrise the strange vessel bore away to the west, came up in the wind with all her canvas flapping, paid off slowly, and bore away again, repeating this endlessly. The skipper and the second mate of the Merivale watched her queer behavior from the poop, and, as no answer was made to their signals, a boat was sent off to the stranger to investigate.

The boat pulled alongside the Unicorn, and the second mate was boosted to the rail. They hove up the boat’s painter, which he made fast, and scrambled up beside him. Except for some stains of coffee on the fore deck, which had not completely dried, the decks were clear and shipshape. In the cabin the second mate noted that the table was set for coffee, but the dishes had not been used. He scratched his head in complete bewilderment. All the boats were in the chocks, their covers untouched, and there was no sign of disease or mutiny. As he stood pondering the mysterious situation, one of his men came aft and halted in front of him.

‘They ain’t been gone very long, sir,’ he reported. ‘The fire’s still fresh in the galley stove.’