Commodore Junk

How it all occurred was more than he could afterwards clearly arrange in his own mind; what he could recall was that the pain weakened him, and the man with whom he struggled wrenched his left arm free, snatched the knife he held from his right hand, and would have plunged it into Humphrey’s breast had not the latter struck him a sharp blow upwards in the face so vigorously, that the knife fell tinkling on the ground, and the struggle was resumed upon more equal terms.

It was a matter of less than a minute, during which Humphrey in his rage and pain fought less for life than to master his assailant and keep him prisoner. They had been down twice, tripping over the stone-strewn pavement, and once Humphrey had been forced against the wall, but by a sudden spring he had driven his opponent backwards, and they were struggling in the middle of the opening, when a wild shriek rang out from the inner temple – a cry which seemed to curdle the young officer’s blood – and this was followed by a rush of someone escaping.

His retreat was only witnessed by one, for the struggle was continued on the floor. The two adversaries, locked in a tight embrace, strove to reach the feet, and, panting and weak, Humphrey had nearly succeeded in so doing, when his foe forced him backwards, and he fell to cling to the rugged stonework.

For as he was driven back the flooring seemed to crumble away beneath his feet; there was a terrible jerk, and he found himself hanging by his hands, his enemy clinging to him still, and the weight upon his muscles seeming as if it would tear them apart. In the hurry and excitement Humphrey could hardly comprehend his position for the moment. The next he understood it too well, for the stone which had given way fell with a hideous echoing noise, which came from a terrible distance below.

Almost in total darkness, his hands cramped into the interval between two masses of broken stone which formed part of the débris of the roof above, hanging over a hideous gulf at the full stretch of his arms, and with his adversary’s hands fixed, talon-like, in garb and dress as he strove to clamber up him to the floor above.

At every throe, as the man strove to grip Humphrey with his knees and climb up, some fragment of stone rushed down, to fall far beneath, splashing and echoing with a repetition of sounds that robbed him of such strength as remained to him, and a dreamy sensation came on apace.

“It is the end,” thought Humphrey, for his fingers felt as if they were yielding, the chilling sensation of paralysis increased, and in another minute he knew that he must fall, when the grip upon him increased, and the man who clung uttered a hoarse yell for help.

“Quick, for God’s sake! Quick!” he shrieked. “I’m letting go!”

But at that instant something dark seemed to come between him and the gleaming wet stone away above him in the roof, and then there was quite an avalanche of small stones gliding by.

It was the scoundrel’s companion come at the call for help, thought Humphrey; and he clung still in silence, wondering whether it was too late as his strained eye-balls glared upward.

“Where are you?” came in a husky voice.

It was to save his life; but though Humphrey recognised the voice, he could not speak, for his tongue and throat were dry.

“Are you here? Hold on!” cried the voice again; and then there was the sound of someone feeling about, but dislodging stones, which kept rattling down and splashing below.

“Where are you!” cried the voice above Humphrey; but still he could not reply. His hands were giving way, and he felt that his whole energy must be devoted to the one effort of clinging to the last ere he was plunged down into that awful gulf.

But the man who clung to him heard the hoarsely-whispered question, and broke out into a wild series of appeals for help – for mercy – for pity.

“For God’s sake, captain!” he yelled, “save me – save me! It was Black Mazzard! He made me come! Do you hear! Help! I can’t hold no longer! I’m falling! Help! Curse you – help!”

As these cries thrilled him through and through, Humphrey was conscious in the darkness that the hands he heard rustling above him and dislodging stones, every fall of which brought forth a shriek from the wretch below, suddenly touched his, and then, as if spasmodically, leaped to his wrists, round which they fastened with a grip like steel.

To Humphrey Armstrong it was all now like one hideous nightmare, during which he suffered, but could do nothing to free himself. The wretch’s shrieks were growing fainter, and he clung in an inert way now, while someone seemed to be muttering above —

“I can do nothing more – I can do nothing more!” but the grip about Humphrey’s wrists tightened, and two arms rested upon his hands and seemed to press them closer to the stones to which they clung.

“Captain – captain! Are you there?”

“Yes,” came from close to Humphrey’s face.

“Forgive me, skipper, and help me up! I’ll be faithful to you! I’ll kill Black Mazzard!”

“I can do nothing,” said the buccaneer, hoarsely. “You are beyond my reach.”

“Then go and fetch the lads and a rope. Don’t let me fall into this cursed, watery hell!”

“If I quit my hold here, man, you will both go down; unless help comes, nothing can be done.”

“Then, call help! Call help now, captain, and I’ll be your slave! Curse him for leaving me here! Where’s Joe Thorpe?”

“He was killed by Mazzard with a blow meant for me,” said the buccaneer, slowly.

“Curse him! Curse him!” shrieked the man. “Oh, captain, save me, and I’ll kill him for you! He wants to be skipper; and I’ll kill him for you if you’ll only – Ah!”

He uttered a despairing shriek, for as he spoke a sharp tearing sound was heard; the cloth he clung to gave way, and before he could get a fresh hold he was hanging suspended by the half-torn-off garb. He swung to and fro as he uttered one cry, and then there was an awful silence, followed by a plunge far below.

The water seemed to hiss and whisper and echo in all directions, and the silence, for what seemed quite a long space, was awful. It was, however, but a few instants, and then there was a terrific splashing as if a number of horrible creatures had rushed to prey upon the fallen man, whose shrieks for help began once more.

Appeals, curses, yells, piteous wails, followed each other in rapid succession as the water was beaten heavily. Then the cries were smothered, there was a gurgling sound, and the water whispered and lapped and echoed as it seemed to play against the stony walls of the place.

A few moments and the cries recommenced, and between every cry there was the hoarse panting of a swimmer fighting hard for his life as he struck out.

The buccaneer’s eyes stared wildly down into the great cenote, or water-tank, whose vast proportions were hidden in the gloom. He could see nothing; but his imagination supplied the vacancy, and pictured before him the head and shoulders of his treacherous follower as he swam along the sides of the great gulf, striving to find a place to climb up; and this he did, for the hoarse panting and the cries ceased, and from the dripping and splashing it was evident that he had found some inequality in the wall, by means of which he climbed, with the water streaming from him.

The task was laborious, but he drew himself up and up, climbing slowly, and then he suddenly ceased, uttered a terrible cry, and once more there was a splash, the lapping and whispering of the water, and silence.

He was at the surface again, swimming hard in the darkness and striving once more to reach the place where he had climbed; but in the darkness he swam in quite a different direction, and his hoarse panting rose again, quick and agitated now, the strokes were taken more rapidly, and like a rat drowning in a tub of water, the miserable wretch toiled on, swimming more and more rapidly and clutching at the wall.

Once an inequality gave him a few moments’ rest, and he clung desperately, uttering the most harrowing cries, but only to fall back with a heavy splash. Then he was up once more fighting for life, and the vast tank echoed with his gurgling appeals for help.

Again they were silenced, and the water whispered and lapped and echoed.

There was a splash, a hoarse gurgle, a beating of the water as a dog beats it before it sinks.

Again silence and the whispering and lapping against the sides more faint; then a gurgling sound, the water beat once or twice, a fainter echo or two, and then what sounded like a sigh of relief, and a silence that was indeed the silence of death.

Suddenly the silence in that darkness was broken, for a hoarse voice said —

“Climb up!”

“Climb!” exclaimed Humphrey, who seemed to have recovered his voice, while his frozen energies appeared to expand.

“Yes. Climb. I can hold you thus, but no more. Try and obtain a foothold.”

Humphrey obeyed as one obeys who feels a stronger will acting upon him.

“Can you keep my hands fast?” he said. “They are numbed.”

“Yes. You shall not slip now. Climb!”

Humphrey obeyed, and placed his feet upon a projection; but it gave way, and a great stone forced from the wall by his weight fell down with a splash which roused the echoes once more.

Humphrey felt half-paralysed again; but the voice above was once more raised.

“Now,” it said, “there must be foothold in that spot where the stone fell. Try.”

The young officer obeyed, and rousing himself for a supreme effort as his last before complete inaction set in, he strove hard. The hands seemed like steel bands about his wrists, and his struggle sent the blood coursing once more through his nerveless arms. Then, with a perfect avalanche of stones falling from the crumbling side, he strove and strained, and, how he knew not, found foothold, drew himself up, and half crawling, half dragged by the buccaneer as he backed up the slope, reached the level part of the passage between the entrance and the doorway of the inner temple, where he subsided on the stones, panting, exhausted, and with an icy feeling running through his nerves.