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SINISTER ISLAND

BY CHARLES WADSWORTH CAMP

NEW YORK DODD, MEAD & COMPANY

1915

COPYRIGHT, 1914

CONTENTS

I The Dangerous Habitation

II Captainā€™s Inlet

III The Fear in the Coquina House

IV The ā€œQueerā€ Girl

V Jakeā€™s Premonition

VI The Snakeā€™s Strike

VII The Forest Vigil

VIII The Coroner from Sandport

IX The Grave in the Shadows

X The Grim Fisherman

XI The Circle and the Wrists Again

XII The Conquering Influence

XIII The Bivouac in the Marshes

XIV Miller Prepares to Fight

XV The Room of Evil Memories

XVI The Cry in the Night

XVII The Blue Flame

XVIII The Path to the Flame

XIX Within the Circle

XX Noyerā€™s Relics

XXI The Menace of the Slave Quarters

XXII The Dawn

SINISTER ISLAND

Chapter I THE DANGEROUS HABITATION

Captainā€™s Island is not far from civilisation as one measures space. Dealing with the less tangible medium of custom, it isā€”or wasā€”practically beyond perception.

James Miller didnā€™t know this. When ho had thought at all of his friend Andersonā€™s new winter home he had pictured the familiar southern resort with hotels and cottages sheltering Hammonds peerage, and a seductive bathing beach to irritate the conservative.

That background, indeed, was given detail by his own desires. For he had received Andersonā€™s letter concerning the new move while still in bed with a wearisome illness. Now, after two monthsā€™ convalescence in quiet waterways, he was ready to snare pleasure where it was most alluring before returning to the North and Wall Street. So he sent a telegram from Allairville, instructing Anderson to meet him in Martinsburg and conduct him to the revels of his tropical resort. As a matter of fact it was this wire, despatched with such smiling anticipation, that became the leash by which he was drawn into the erratic, tragic, and apparently unaccountable occurrences which at the time added immeasurably to the lonely islandā€™s evil fame.

Still it went, and Miller, ignorant of what he faced, went after it as quickly as he could, which was with the speed of a snail. It took his small cruising launch forty-eight hours, including a minimum of rest, to conquer the fifty miles between Allairville and Martinsburg. Because of this aversion of his boat to anything approximating haste he had caused the name Dart to be painted across the stern in arresting letters.

As the droll craft loafed down into the busy roadsteads of the southern metropolis this warm May morning. Miller, in perfect consonance with its bland indifference, lay in a steamer chair on the upper deck. Clothed in white flannels and smoking a pipe, he surveyed with gentle calm a petulant, unreasonable world. He smiled pleasantly at enraged tug-boat and barge captains. Crawling through the railroad drawbridge, he waved a greeting free from malice at the keeper, who, arms akimbo, chin uptilted, bawled his expectations of a train by midnight and his reasonable ambition to clear the draw before that hour.

Nor did the native, leaning against the wheel forward, respond even by a glance to these studied incivilities. His ears seemed to be occupied exclusively by the engine as capricious symptoms; his eyes, by his goal, at last within view; his hands, by the wheel as he coaxed the Dart to the urgencies of traffic.

Miller eyed the fellow approvingly. By rare good luck he had hired him down the state when he had bought this boat as the first ingredient of the doctorā€™s prescription for a long rest in the South. At the start the man had proved his fitness by exposing an abnormal affection for diseased gasoline motors. Since then he had served Miller acceptably as captain, engineer, deck-hand, cook, and, in a sketchy sense, valet. Moreover he knew obscure, uncharted channels. He had a special intuition for the haunts of fish and game. In the villages where they paused for supplies he out-bargained the storekeepers almost without words. Miller appreciated that it was due only to his devotion and ingenuity that the Dart at present indifferently blocked traffic in the river before Martinsburg. With the inexcusable confidence most of us bring to the contemplation of the immediate future he regretted his early parting with this admirable Crichton.

When the Dart was made fast to her appointed place at the dock Miller lowered his legs, arose, and stretched himself to his full height comfortably. He glanced at his watch. It was noon. He had wired Anderson to meet him at the boat at one oā€™clock. For the first time he realised he had made a thoughtless rendezvous. Why had he not mentioned an hotel? This thriving town might have offered comparative culinary splendour after the plainness to which he had abandoned himself on the Dart. As it was he must offer his hospitality to Anderson at that hour, and Anderson, no doubt, after two months of heavy luxury at his winter resort, would gratefully accept.

ā€œTony,ā€ he said, ā€œyou deserve the rest of the day. Why should injustice always trouble the deserving?ā€

Tony, standing below, leaned his elbows on the break of the upper deck. His eyes behind the bushy brows expressed no positive emotionā€”certainly not chagrin or revolt.

ā€œIā€™ve asked some one to meet me here at one oā€™clock,ā€ Miller went on. ā€œI must offer him luncheon unless you strike, in which case I wouldnā€™t be much annoyed. In fact Iā€™d take you back tonight. Do as you wish. Iā€™m going up-town.ā€

Tony lowered his bearded face and slid down the companionway. Miller stepped to the dock.

ā€œTony!ā€ he called.

The native thrust his head through the hatch and waited impassively. Miller handed him some silver.

ā€œFor what we lack in case your sense of duty throttles commonsense.ā€

A brown hand closed over the money. The emotionless face was withdrawn.

Miller strolled through the city. After his months of exile from so familiar a setting he experienced a sense of elation at the thud of a hard pavement beneath his feet, at the cacophony of street noises, at the air of badly-guarded impatience given out by these men and women who crowded him at the crossings. It was good to be well, to be on the threshold of that vaster, more selfish hubbub of his own city. No more days and nights on the boat in lonely places, he reminded himself. And he was glad.

This was the frame of mind in which he returned to the dock to meet his first dampening and significant disappointment. He saw Tony leaning, sphinx-like, against the rail of the Dart, but there was no sign of Anderson.

ā€œAny word from the guest?ā€ he asked Tony as he came up.

The native drew a crumpled, soiled envelope from his pocket. He handed it over the rail.

As he took the envelope Miller recognised his friendā€™s writing. While he read the brief note a frown drove the satisfaction from his face, leaving bewilderment.

Anderson had commenced in his customary affectionate manner, but beyond that everything was unexpectedā€™, puzzling.

ā€œIt is far from convenient for me to leave Mollyā€ the letter ran; and Miller could frame no satisfactory explanation for that except the serious illness of Andersonā€™s wife. Yet the rest of the letter said nothing of illness; did not even suggest it.

ā€œFor heavenā€™s sake,ā€ it went on, ā€œor more strictly for our own, come down to Captainā€™s Island, Jim. Come this afternoon if it is humanly possible. Anchor in the inlet if you can get anybody to steer you through. The channel is hard to negotiate, but you wonā€™t find that the chief difficulty in hiring a pilot. Iā€™ll watch for you. If you make it Iā€™ll row out immediately and tell you the rest. Then you can decide if you want to help us out of this mess and back to commonsense. Molly sends her anxious best.ā€

Miller read the letter twice before returning it to the soiled envelope. The only clear fact was that Anderson and Molly were in trouble. Anderson had written that he would tell him the rest on his arrival. But the rest of what! For he had told him nothing.

ā€œHow did this come?ā€ he asked Tony.

The native pointed to a steamboat, diminutive and unkempt, made fast to a neighbouring dock.

ā€œBoy brought it over,ā€ he mumbled.

Miller glanced at his watch. Curiosity was useless. His friends needed him. He would leave at the earliest possible moment.

ā€œThis letter, Tony,ā€ he said, ā€œis unexpected and important. If youā€™ve the usual plans of seafaring men while in port banish them.ā€

He swung on his heel.

ā€œIā€™ll be back in a few minutes.ā€

He hurried from the dock to a telegraph office which he had noticed during his walk. He saw only one operator on duty and he found himself the only patron. He wrote a despatch to Anderson, saying he was leaving at once, and handed it to the agent, a good-natured young fellow in his shirt sleeves.

The man glanced at the address, raised his eyes quickly to Millerā€™s face, and let the yellow slip flutter to the counter.

ā€œWell!ā€ Miller demanded.

ā€œCanā€™t send that to Captainā€™s Island.ā€

ā€œPlace censored or quarantined?ā€ Miller asked impatiently.

ā€œMight as well be quarantinedā€”for the yellow fever,ā€ the agent drawled, ā€œbut the main point is there isnā€™t any wire there. Of course I can send a messenger boy down on the little boat to Sandport this afternoon. He might get somebody to row him across the river, and he could walk the three miles or so. Sent one down to Mr. Anderson that way yesterday. But this doesnā€™t seem important, and you can figure the expense.ā€

Millerā€™s preconceived notions of Captainā€™s Island began to crumble.

ā€œNot worth it,ā€ he said.

ā€œBesides,ā€ the agent went on, ā€œitā€™s hard to get anybody to walk that island at night. Since youā€™re going yourselfā€”ā€

Again he stared curiously and with a sort of wonder at Miller.

ā€œI donā€™t want to pry, but mighty few people goā€”ā€

Miller laughed.

ā€œIt seems to me my question comes first. Whatā€™s the matter with Captainā€™s Island?ā€

The agent picked the yellow form up and handed it to Miller.

ā€œAnd you ask me Iā€”I donā€™t know. Nobody knows. People been asking that for a good many more years than I am old.ā€

Miller tore the message up. He glanced around the somnolent office.

ā€œIā€™m not good at riddles either,ā€ he said, ā€œbut if youā€™ll let me have this one Iā€™ll try. You see Iā€™m going there.ā€

The agent shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

ā€œItā€™s this way,ā€ he said at last. ā€œItā€™s all talk, but itā€™s been going on a long while, as I said, and we understand it down here. Now youā€™re from the North. I donā€™t want to make myself a laughing stock!ā€

Miller smiled. Then he recalled the troubled tone of Andersonā€™s letter and his smile died,

ā€œI promise I wonā€™t laugh,ā€ he said. ā€œOf course I can guess. Superstition?ā€

ā€œThatā€™s it,ā€ the agent answered. ā€œThe negroes and the fishermen around Sandport have given the island a bad name. They wonā€™t go near it if they can help themselves, and even the people here have got in the habit of leaving it a wide berth. I went down one Sunday with a crowd of wild boys, and Iā€™ve never wanted to go backā€”not that I saw anything. Donā€™t think that. But thereā€™s a clammy, damp, unhealthy feeling about the place. Iā€™ll say this much: if thereā€™s such things as ghosts thatā€™s the

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