White / Allam Collected Short Stories - Book8

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-82-7249-844-2
Verlag: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, Band 8, 280 Seiten

Reihe: Collected Short Stories

Collected Short Stories - Book 8 by Fred M. White is a captivating collection that showcases the masterful storytelling of one of the genre's greats. In this eighth volume, White weaves a tapestry of intriguing characters, unexpected twists, and atmospheric settings. Each story delves into a different facet of human nature, exploring themes of mystery, romance, and adventure. With a knack for creating suspenseful plots and memorable dialogue, White delivers a series of short stories that are both entertaining and thought-provoking. Whether you're a long-time fan or new to White's work, this collection promises to enchant and engage with every page.

Fred M. White (1859-1935) was a British author known for his prolific output of mystery, adventure, and speculative fiction. He is most famous for his early science fiction disaster novels, particularly 'The Doom of London' series, which depicted catastrophic events befalling the city. White wrote hundreds of short stories and serialized works, which were popular in magazines during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. His works contributed significantly to the development of early science fiction and thriller genres.

Autoren/Hrsg.

White, Fred M.

Allam, Rafat

Leseproben

THE DESERT SHIP

ILLUSTRATED BY ALEC BALL

Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XXXIII, May 1911, pp 805-810

JELTHAM smote the chart lying on the bark of a fallen mimosa angrily.

"We've made no mistake, Hilton," he said; "it's that infernal chart that's wrong. I'll back my instruments against any that ever came out of Greenwich. I've figured out our position to an inch. According to mathematical formula, we should now be sailing over eighty fathoms of water. We should be within a mile of the treasure ship. As it is, we are two leagues from the sea, and on firm, hard ground whichever way we go." "It's certainly very exasperating," George Hilton murmured.

"It's maddening!" Feltham went on. "Who ever heard of a ship in the middle of an island? These treasure ships are never found except in a boy's story, though a good many fools like ourselves have sunk hard money looking for them. But, dash it all, one does expect to find the ocean where the ship has gone down—not a solid chunk of land like this!"

Hilton murmured something to the effect that he gave it up. He and Reggie Feltham had been unfortunate from the first. They had embarked every penny they could rake together in this venture of the sunken treasure, inspired in the first instance by an old chart and cipher, which had originally been in the possession of Admiral Sir Amyas Feltham, in the good old days when the Spanish Main had been the field, so to speak, of considerable profit to Elizabethan commanders. The founder of the Feltham fortunes, regarded in the light of romance, was a picturesque figure enough, but he had been a murderous old pirate, all the same. He left behind him considerable property, and inter alia the cipher and chart that was the cause of all the present mischief.

Unhappily, the march of civilisation was responsible for a generation that looked coldly upon the profession of buccaneering, and of recent years the Feltham fortunes had waned. There was very little now beyond the old family mansion and the old family pride. So when it had occurred to George Hilton to ask the head of the house for the hand of his daughter Alys, there had been what the early dramatists called "alarums and excursions," followed by the disgrace of a young couple and a tearful parting under one of the hundred and fifty oaks in which Charles II. is supposed to have hidden himse lf upon occasion—not necessarily Boscobel.

George Hilton was young, he was in love, he had the command of two thousand pounds, plus expectations from a distant—a very distant—relative. Here was a chance to show Alys and Sir Gregory Feltham what he was made of. He had seen the cipher and the chart, to question which, at Feltham Court, was flat blasphemy. The mere suggestion of the scheme was sufficient for Reggie Feltham. Anything was better than loafing about at home with hardly the price of a gun licence in his pocket. It was all very well to have the old house and all that lovely furniture, to say nothing of the pictures, but it was impossible to live on the contemplation of those treasures.

They started out filled with ambitious dreams and high spirits. They had learnt everything there was to learn, short of experience itself, but misfortune had dogged them from the first. They had been robbed right and left, and finally deserted by a rascally crew. Within a few leagues of their destination, their cutter had drifted on to a reef and became a total wreck, and they had been hard put to it to save their skins. And here they were on the very spot at last, only to find that, in the place of eighty fathoms of water, they were practically in the centre of an island!

"There is only one plausible explanation, so far as I can see," Hilton suggested. "The islands here are largely volcanic. There has been an earthquake here within the last century or so, and this island is the result. We shall be able to put the Admiralty chart right, anyway. And no doubt the treasure ship is here all right, only there are about a million tons of solid island on the top of it. We shall shut down the lid on our hopes in that direction. The question is, how are we going to get out of this?"

The prospect was not altogether alluring; the Robinson Crusoe element was too strongly marked. There was nothing the matter with the island; the climate was perfect, there were fish and game and fruit in abundance. They had tobacco in their patent collapsible lifeboat, a couple of shot-guns and sporting rifles; their wardrobe was more than sufficient for the moment. Sooner or later a ship would come along and take them off, but that would probably be a matter of months.

"Let's make a survey of the island," Feltham suggested; "we might find gold here."

It was something to do, any rate. Apparently there was no gold, but there were orchids of price, had they only known it, brilliant tropical birds, and plenty of fish in the clear streams. For a mile or two back from the sea, the luxurious vegetation rioted, but beyond that was a strange, arid plain of dry, hot sand, practically covering the whole of the island, giving it a grotesque resemblance to a bald man with a fringe of hair. The sun beat down mercilessly on this forbidding-looking waste, where the sand rolled away to the horizon in long, irregular hollows. A mile or two distant the limb of a dead pine stood out erect and stark, like a warning signpost. The blinding sand radiated heat so that the grey landscape was all quivering. There was no sign of life here; no bird passed in the sky overhead; the whole place was one vast, oppressive silence. Feltham turned from the contemplation of it with a shudder.

"I should go mad if I looked at that for long," he said. "Fancy a desert like that in the midst of a jewel of an island like this! You're right about the earthquake, old chap. That stuff is all baked pretty fine, but it's volcanic, all the same. The whole desert must have been thrown up by some big volcanic disturbance. But how, in the name of Fate, did that solitary pine tree get there? I'd like to find that out."

2Better leave it at that," Hilton suggested —"too much of a nightmare. Look here!"

He strode a step or two across the sand, and turned over a log of wood with his foot. Three or four forbidding-looking land-crabs scuttled out, followed by the shining blackness of a scorpion.

"You can bet that the sand is full of those loathsome beasts," he said. "Still, I am going some day when it is cloudy. We shall be safe with a pair of sea-boots each.

I'm not sorry, on the whole, that we've got the island to ourselves; it is just as well. The devil!"

A rifle-shot rang out clear and crisp, and Feltham's panama fell over his left eye. With one accord they dropped flat on a heap of long, dry grass.

"Bit abrupt," Feltham said coolly. "No, I'm not hurt, but it was a pretty near thing. Rather lucky that we brought our guns with us."

They lay there snugly for a moment or two, discussing the situation. Locomotion was not a healthy form of exercise just then. Clearly there was somebody here who resented their intrusion on the island. Hilton began to grow restless.

"Stick up your hat again," he suggested. "Let's try and draw his fire and locate him. If there happens to be more than one of them, I guess and calculate we're in a tight place. If we can get back to the boat in safety, I vote that we change our diggings."

Feltham elevated the perforated panama on a stick. A second later the rifle rang out again, and Hilton popped up his head swiftly. Like a flash he was down again.

"He's over yonder by the mangoes," he said. "You stay here and lie low whilst I stalk the beggar. It's a bit of a risk, but something has to be done. If we stay here, we shall be potted like so many little rabbits. When I tip you our whistle, stick up your hat again. If I can draw his fire, I shall be able to open diplomatic relations with him."

Feltham lay there sweltering on the grass. The blistering heat seemed to be seething his brain. It seemed a long time before he heard the peculiar whistle that he knew so well. He lost no time in lifting his panama; the rifle spoke almost on the instant. Before the echo of it had died away, Hilton stepped from behind a tree with his gun to his shoulder.

"Put up your hands!" he said. He repeated the command in Spanish, and immediately a tall figure rose from a kneeling position and confronted him. There was a rapid motion of the stranger's arm, the hint of a blue-rimmed revolver barrel, but Hilton was too quick for him. His gun spoke, and the right arm of the stranger dropped to his side. Dropping the revolver, he turned, writhing with pain; he showed a fine set of white teeth in a convulsive grin. Strangely enough, his aspect was not wholly unfriendly.

"Call up the rest of the party," Hilton commanded. "Summon the balance of the garrison."

"I am quite alone, señor," the other said in passable English; "I have no friends here."

"Ah, a passion for solitude—the last thing in the way of Selkirks," Hilton responded. "Passion evidently developed to the verge of monomania. This accounts for your hospitable reception of self and partner. I shouldn't have winged you only you brought it on yourself. I'm afraid I've broken your arm."

Feltham came up at the same moment. He took in the situation at a glance.

...