 An Arrest by Ambrose Bierce. Having murdered his brother-in-law, Orrin Brower of Kentucky was a fugitive from justice. From the county jail where he had been confined to await his trial he had escaped by knocking down his jailer with an iron bar, robbing him of his keys and opening the outer door, walking out into the night. The jailer being unarmed, Brower got no weapon with which to defend his recovered liberty. As soon as he was out of the town he had the folly to enter a forest. This was many years ago when that region was wilder than it is now. The night was pretty dark with neither moon nor stars visible, and as Brower had never dwelt there about and knew nothing of the lay of the land he was naturally not long in losing himself. He could not have said if he were getting farther away from the town or going back to it. A most important matter to Orrin Brower. He knew that in either case a posse of citizens with a pack of bloodhounds would soon be on his track, and his chance of escape was very slender, but he did not wish to assist in his own pursuit. Even an added hour of freedom was worth having. Suddenly he emerged from the forest into an old road, and there before him saw indistinctly the figure of a man, motionless in the gloom. It was too late to retreat. The fugitive felt that at the first movement back toward the wood he would be, as he afterward explained, filled with buckshot. So the two stood there like trees, Brower nearly suffocated by the activity of his own heart. The other, the emotions of the other, are not recorded. A moment later, it may have been an hour, the moon sailed into a patch of unclouded sky, and the hunted man saw that visible embodiment of law lift an arm and point significantly toward and beyond him. He understood. Turning his back to his captor, he walked submissively away in the direction indicated, looking to neither the right nor the left, hardly daring to breathe, his head and back actually aching with the prophecy of buckshot. Brower was as courageous a criminal as ever lived to be hanged. Buckshot was shown by the conditions of awful personal peril in which he had coolly killed his brother-in-law. It is needless to relate them here. They came out at his trial, and the revelation of his calmness in confronting them came near to saving his neck. But what would you have, when a brave man is beaten, he submits. So they pursued their journey jailward along the old road through the woods. Only once did Brower venture a turn of the head, just once when he was in deep shadow, and he knew that the other was in moonlight. Brower looked backward. His captor was Burton Duff, the jailer, as white as death, and bearing upon his brow the livid mark of the Iron Brower. Oren Brower had no further curiosity. Eventually they entered the town, which was a light but deserted. Only the women and children remained, and they were off the streets. Straight toward the jail, the criminal held his way. Straight up to the main entrance he walked, laid his hands upon the knob of the heavy iron door. Should open without command, entered, and found himself in the presence of a half-dozen armed men. Then he turned. Nobody else entered. On a table in the corridor lay the dead body of Burton Duff. End of an arrest. Recording by Sean Michael Hogan, St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada. THE BOLMAN By Arthur Macken. It was during the retreat of the Eighty Thousand, and the authority of the censorship is sufficient excuse for not being more explicit. But it was on the most awful day of that awful time. On the day when ruin and disaster came so near that their shadow fell over London far away, and without any certain news the hearts of men failed within them and grew faint, as if the agony of the army in the battlefield had entered into their souls. On this dreadful day then, when three hundred thousand men in arms with all their artillery swelled like a flood against the little English company, there was one point above all other points in our battle-line which was, for a time, an awful danger. Not merely of defeat, but of utter annihilation. With the permission of the censorship, and of the military expert, this corner may, perhaps, be described as assailant. And if this angle were crushed and broken, then the English force as a whole would be shattered, the Allied Left would be turned, and sedan would inevitably follow. All the morning the German guns had thundered and shrieked against this corner and against a thousand or so of men who held it. The men joked at the shells, and found funny names for them, and had bets about them, and greeted them with scraps of musical songs. But the shells came on and burst, and tore good Englishmen limb from limb, and tore brother from brother, and, as the heat of the day so did the fury of that terrific cannonade. There was no help, it seemed. The English artillery was good, but there was not nearly enough of it, and it was being steadily battered into scrap iron. There comes a moment in the storm at sea when people say to one another, It is at its worst, it can blow no harder. And then there is a blast ten times more fierce than any before it. So it was in these British trenches. There were no stouter hearts in the world than the hearts of these men. But even they were appalled as this seven times heated hell of the German cannonade fell upon them, and overwhelmed them, and destroyed them. And at this very moment they saw from their trenches that a tremendous host was moving against their lines. Five hundred of the thousand remained, and as far as they could see the German infantry was pressing on against them, column after column, a grey world of men, ten thousand of them, as it appeared afterwards. There was no hope at all. They shook hands, some of them. One man improvised a new version of the battle-song. Good-bye, good-bye to Tipperary, ending with, and we shat, get there. And they all went on firing steadily. The officers pointing out that such an opportunity for high-class fancy shooting might never occur again. The Germans dropped line after line. The Tipperary humorist asked, What price Sidney Street? And the few machine-guns did their best. But everyone knew it was of no use. The dead grey bodies lay in companies and battalions, as others came on and on and on. And they swarmed and stirred and advanced from beyond and beyond. World without end, amen, said one of the British soldiers with some irreverence as he took aim and fired. And then he remembered. He says he cannot think why or wherefore. A queer vegetarian restaurant in London, where he had once or twice eaten eccentric dishes of cutlets made of lentils and nuts that pretended to be steak. On all the plates in this restaurant, there was printed a figure of St. George in blue with the motto, Ad Sint Angus Sanctus Georgus. May St. George be a present help to the English. This soldier happened to know Latin and other useless things, and now, as he fired at his man in the grey advancing mass, three hundred yards away, he entered the pious vegetarian model. He went on firing to the end, and at last Bill, on his right, had to clout him cheerfully over the head to make him stop, pointing out as he did so that the king's ammunition cost money and was not likely to be wasted in drilling funny patterns into dead Germans. As the Latin scholar uttered his invocation, he felt something between a shudder and an electric shock pass through his body. The roar of the battle died down in his ears to a gentle murmur. Instead of it, he says, he heard a great voice and a shout louder than a thunder peel crying, Hooray, hooray, hooray. His heart grew hot as a burning coal. It grew cold as ice within him, as it seemed to him that a two-multi-voices answered to his summons. He heard, or seemed to hear, thousands shouting, St. George, St. George. Ah, monsieur, ah, sweet saint, grant us good delivery. St. George for Mary England. A roe, a roe. Monsieur St. George took of us. Ah, St. George, a longbow and a strongbow. Heaven's night ate us. And as a soldier heard these voices, he saw before him, beyond the trench, a long line of shapes, with a shining about them. They were like men who drew the bow, and with another shout, their cloud of arrows flew singing and tingling through the air toward the German hosts. The other men in the trench were firing all the while. They had no hope, but they aimed just as if they had been shooting at Bisley. Suddenly one of them lifted up his voice in the plainest English. God, help us! he bellowed to the man next to him. That were blooming marvels. Look at those gray gentlemen. Look at them. Do you see them? They're not going down in dozens, nor in hundreds. It's thousands, it is. Look, look. There's a regiment gone while I'm talking to him. Shut it. The other soldier bellowed taking aim. What are you gassing about? But he gulped with astonishment, even as he spoke. For indeed the gray men were falling by the thousands. The English could hear the guttural screams of the German officers. The crackle of the revolvers as they shot the reluctant, and still, line after line, crashed to the earth. All the while the Latin bread soldier heard the cry. Aro, aro, Monsignor, dear state, quick to our aid, Saint George, help us, why should all ye defend us? The singing arrows fled so swift and thick that they darkened the air the heathen horde melted before them. More machine guns! Bill yelled to Tom. Don't hear them, Tom yelled back. But thank God, anyway, they've got it in the neck. In fact, there were ten thousand dead German soldiers left before that salient of the English army, and consequently there was no sedan. In Germany, a country ruled by scientific principles, the great general staff decided that the contemptible English must have employed shells containing an unknown gas of a poisonous nature, as no wounds were discernable on the bodies of the dead German soldiers. But the man who knew what nuts tasted like when they called themselves steak knew also that Saint George had brought his Agent-Court Bowman to help the English. End of THE BOWMAN, Recording by David Lawrence, July 2009 in Brampton, Ontario. The conclave of corpses, anonymous. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Piazza. The Conclave of Courses, Anonymous. Some 300 years since, when the Convent of Kreuzberg was in its glory, one of the monks who dwelt therein, wishing to ascertain something of the hereafter of those whose bodies lay all undecayed in the cemetery, visited it alone in the dead of night, for the purpose of prosecuting his inquiries on that fearful subject. As he opened the trapdoor of the vault, a light burst from below, but deeming it to be only the lamp of the Sacristan, the monk drew back and awaited his departure, concealed behind the high altar. The Sacristan emerged not, however, from the opening, and the monk, tired of waiting, approached and finally descended the rugged steps which led into the dreary depths. No sooner had he set foot on the lowermost stair than the well-known scene underwent a complete transformation in his eyes. He had long been accustomed to visit the vault, and whenever the Sacristan went wither, he was almost sure to be with him. He therefore knew every part of it, as well as he did the interior of his own narrow cell, and the arrangement of its contents was perfectly familiar to his eyes. What then was his horror to perceive that this arrangement, which even but that morning had come under his observation as usual, was altogether altered and the new and wonderful one substituted in its stead. A dim lurid light pervaded the desolate abode of darkness, and it just suffice to give to his view a sight of the most singular description. On each side of him the dead but imperishable bodies of the long-buried brothers of the convent sat erect in their littlest coffins, their cold, starry eyes glaring at him with lifeless rigidity, their withered fingers locked together on their breasts, their stiffened limbs motionless and still. It was a sight to petrify the stoutest heart, and the monks quailed before it, though he was a philosopher and a skeptic to boot. At the upper end of the vault, at a rude table formed of a decayed coffin or something which once served the same purpose, sat three monks. They were the oldest courses in the charnel house, for the inquisitive brother knew their faces well, and the cadaverous hue of their cheeks seemed still more cadaverous in the dim light shed upon them, while their hollow eyes gave forth what looked to him like flashes of flame. A large book lay open before one of them, and the others bent over the rotten table as if in intense pain or in deep and fixed attention. No word was said, no sound was heard. The vault was as silent as the grave, its awful tenets still as statues. Fain were the curious monk have receded from this horrible place. Fain would he have retraced his steps and sought again his cell. Fain would he have shut his eyes to the fearful scene, but he could not stir from the spot. He felt rooted there, and though he once succeeded in turning his eyes to the entrance of the vault, to his infinite surprise and dismay, he could not discover where it lay, nor perceive any possible means of exit. He stood thus for some time. At length the aged monk at the table beckoned him to advance. With slow, tottering steps he made his way to the group, and at length stood in front of the table while the other monks raised their heads and glanced at him with a fixed lifeless look that froze the current of his blood. He knew not what to do. His senses were fast forsaking him. Heaven seemed to have deserted him for his incredulity. In this moment of doubt and fear he befought him of a prayer, and as he proceeded he felt himself becoming possessed of a confidence he had before unknown. He looked on the book before him. It was a large volume bound in black and clasped with bands of gold, with fastenings of the same metal. It was inscribed at the top of each page, Lieber, obedientie. He could read no further. He then looked, first in the eyes of him before whom it lay open, and then in those of his fellows. He finally glanced around the vault of the corpses who filled every visible coffin in its dark and spacious womb. Speech came to him and resolution to use it. He addressed himself to the awful beings in whose presence he stood, in the words of one having authority with him. Pax Wobis, it was thus he spake. Peace be to you. Hick Nula Pax replied an ancient monk in a hollow tremulous tone bearing his breast a while. Here is no peace. He pointed to his bosom as he spoke, and the monk casting his eye upon it beheld his heart within, surrounded by living fire, which seemed to feed on it, but not consume it. He turned away in a fright, but ceased not to prosecute his inquiries. Pax Wobis, in nobony nominee, he spake again. Peace be to you, in the name of the Lord. Hick Nula Pax, the hollow and heart-rending tone of the ancient monk who sat at the right of the table, were heard to answer. Unglancing at the bared bosom of this hapless being, also the same sight was exhibited, the heart surrounded by a devouring flame, but still remaining fresh and unconsumed under its operation. Once more the monk turned away and addressed the aged man in the center. Pax Wobis, in nobony nominee, he proceeded. At these words the being to whom they were addressed raised his head, put forward his hand, and closing the book with a loud clap said, Speak on, it is yours to ask and mine to answer. The monk felt reassured, and his courage rose with the occasion. Who are ye, he inquired? Who may he be? We know not, was the answer. Alas, we know not. We know not, we know not, echoed in melancholy tones the denizens of the vault. What do ye here? pursued the querest. We await the last day, the day of the last judgment. Alas for us, woe, woe, woe, woe resounded on all sides. The monk was appalled, but still he proceeded. What did ye to deserve such doom as this? What may your crime be that deserves such dole and sorrow? As he asked the question, the earth shook under him, and a crowd of skeletons up rose from a range of graves which yawned suddenly at his feet. These are our victims, answered the old monk. They suffered at our hands. We suffer now, while they are at peace, and we shall suffer. For how long, asked the monk, forever and ever, was the answer. Forever and ever, forever and ever, died alone. May God have mercy on us, was all the monk could exclaim. The skeletons vanished, the graves closing over them, the aged men disappeared from his view, the bodies fell back in their coffins, the light fled, and the den of death was once more enveloped in its usual darkness. On the monk's revival he found himself lying at the foot of the altar. The gray dawn of a spring morning was visible, and he was feigned to retire to his cell as secretly as he could, for fear he should be discovered. From thence forth he eschewed vain philosophy, says the legend, and devoting his time to the pursuit of true knowledge, and the extension of the power, greatness, and glory of the church, died in the odor of sanctity, and was buried in that holy vault, where his body is still visible. Like we eschewed in Pache, and of the conclave of corpses. The woman in the doorway looked so harmless. Who was to tell she had some rather startling interests? The woman in the doorway looked like mom in the homey or political cartoons. She was plump, apple-cheeked, white-haired. She wore a fussy old-fashioned nightgown, and was busily clutching a worn house-robe around her expansive middle. She blinked at Saul Becker's rain-flattened hair, and hang-dog expression, and said, What is it, what do you want? I'm sorry, Saul's voice was pained. The man in the diner said, you might put me up. I had my car stolen, a hitchhiker, going to Salinas. He was puffing. Hitchhiker, I don't understand. She clucked at the sight of the pool of water he was creating in her foyer. Well, come inside for heaven's sake, you're soaking. Thanks, Saul said, gratefully. With the door firmly shut behind him, the warm interior of the little house covered him like a blanket. He shivered and let the warmth seep over him. I'm terribly sorry, I know how late it is. He looked at his watch, but the face was too misty to make out the hour. Must be nearly three, the woman sniffed. You couldn't have come at a worse time, I was just on my way to court. The words slid by him. If I could just stay overnight until the morning, I could call some friends in San Fernando. I'm very susceptible to head-colds," he added innately. Well, take those shoes off first, the woman grumbled. You can undress in the parlor, if you'll keep off the rug. You won't mind using the sofa? No, of course not, I'd be happy to pay. Oh, Tush, nobody's asking you to pay, this isn't a hotel. You mind if I go back upstairs, they're gonna miss me at the palace. No, of course not, Saul said. He followed her into the darkened parlor and watched as she turned the screw on a hurricane-style lamp, shedding a yellow pool of light over half a flowery sofa and doily-covered wing-chair. You go up, I'll be perfectly fine. Guess you can use a towel, though, I'll get you one, then I'm going up. We wake pretty early in this house, breakfast's at seven, you'll have to be up if you want any. I really can't thank you enough. Tush, the woman said. She scurried out and returned a moment later with a thick bath towel. Sorry, I can't give you any bedding, but you'll find it nice and warm in here. She squinted at the dim face of a ship's wheel-clock on the mantle and made a noise with her tongue. Three-thirty, she exclaimed, I'll miss the whole execution. The what? Good night, young man, mom said firmly. She patted off, leaving Saul holding the towel. He patted his face and then scrubbed the wet tangle of brown hair. Carefully, he stepped off the carpet and onto the stone floor in front of the fireplace. He removed his drenched coat and suit jacket and squeezed water out over the ashes. He stripped down to his underwear, wondering about next morning's possible embarrassment and decided to use the damp bath towel as a blanket. The sofa was downy and comfortable. He curled up under the towel, shivered once and closed his eyes. He was tired and very sleepy and his customary nightly review was limited to a few detached thoughts about the wedding he was supposed to attend in Salinas that weekend, the hoodlum who had responded to his good nature by dumping him out of his own car, the slogging walk to the village, the little round woman who was hurrying off like the white rabbit to some mysterious appointment on the upper floor. Then he went to sleep. A voice awoke him shrill and questioning, are you naked? His eyes flew open and he pulled the towel protectively around his body and glared at the little girl with the rust red pigtails. Huh, mister? She said, pushing a finger against her freckled nose. Are you? No, he said angrily. I'm not naked, will you please go away? Sally, it was mom appearing in the doorway of the parlor. You leave the gentleman alone. She went off again. Yes, Saul said, please let me get dressed if you don't mind. The girl didn't move. What time is it? To know, Sally shrugged. I like poached eggs. They're my favorite eggs in the whole world. That's good, Saul said desperately. Now why don't you be a good girl and eat your poached eggs in the kitchen? Ain't ready yet. You going to stay for breakfast? I'm not going to do anything until you get out of here. She put the end of a pigtail in her mouth and sat down on the chair opposite. I went to the palace last night. They had an exsolution. Please, Saul groaned. Be a good girl, Sally. If you let me get dressed, I'll show you how to take off your thumb. Oh, that's an old trick. Did you ever see an exsolution? No. Did you ever see a little girl with her hide tanned? Huh? Sally! Mom again, Sterner. You get out of there or you know what. Okay, the girl said blithely. I'm going to the palace again if I brush my teeth. Aren't you ever going to get up? She skipped out of the room and Saul hastily sat up and reached for his trousers. When he had dressed, the clothes still damp and unpleasant against his skin, he went out of the parlor and found the kitchen. Mom was busy at the stove. He said, good morning. Breakfast in 10 minutes, she said cheerfully. You like poached eggs? Sure. Do you have a telephone? In the hallway, party line, so you may have to wait. He tried for 15 minutes to get through, but there was a woman on the line who was terribly upset about a cotton dress she had ordered from Sears and was telling the world about it. Finally he got his call through to Salinas and a sleepy-voiced Fred, his old army buddy, listened somewhat indifferently to his tale of woe. I might miss the wedding, Saul said unhappily. I'm awfully sorry. Fred didn't seem to be half as sorry as he was. When Saul hung up, he was feeling more despondent than ever. A man tall and rangy with a bobbing Adam's apple and a lined face came into the hallway. Hello? He said inquiringly. You the fella had the car stolen? Yes. The man scratched his ear. Take you over to Sheriff Kugen after breakfast. He'll let the stateies know about it. My name's Dawes. Saul accepted a careful handshake. Don't get many people coming to town, Dawes said, looking at him curiously. Ain't seen a stranger in years, but you look like the rest of us. He chuckled. His mom called out. Breakfast. At the table, Dawes asked his destination. Wedding in Salinas, he explained. Old army friend of mine. I picked this hitchhiker up about two miles from here. He seemed OK. Never can tell, Dawes said, placidly munching egg. Hey, ma, that's why you were so late coming to court last night. That's right, pa. She poured the blackest coffee Saul had ever seen. Didn't miss much, though. What court is that? Saul asked politely, his mouth full. Armageddon. Sally said, a piece of toast, sticking out from the side of her mouth. Don't you know nothing? Armageddon. Dawes corrected. He looked sheepishly at the stranger. Don't expect, Mr. He cocked an eyebrow. What's the name? Becker. Don't expect Mr. Becker knows anything about Armageddon. It's just a dream, you know. He smiled apologetically. Dream, you mean this Armageddon is a place you dream about? Yup, Dawes said. He lifted cup to lip. Great coffee, ma. He leaned back with a contented sigh. Dream about it every night. Got so used to the place I get all confused in the daytime. Mom said, I get muddleheaded too sometimes. You mean, Saul put his napkin in his lap, you mean you dream about the same place? Sure, Sally piped. We all go there at night. I'm going to the palace again too. If you brush your teeth, Mom said primely. If I brush my teeth, boy, you should have seen the exollution. Execution, her father said. Oh my goodness, Mom got up hastily. That reminds me, I gotta call poor Mrs. Brundage. It's the least I could do. Good idea, Dawes said. And I'll have to round up some folks and get old Brundage out of there. Saul was staring. He opened his mouth but couldn't think of the right question to ask. Then he blurted out, what execution? None of your business, the man said coldly. You eat up, young man. If you want me to get sure of Cougen looking for your car. The rest of the meal went silently, except for Sally's insistence upon singing her school song between mouthfuls. When Dawes was through, he pushed back his plate and ordered Saul to get ready. Saul grabbed his topcoat and followed the man out the door. Have to stop someplace first, Dawes said. But we'll be picking up the sheriff on the way, okay with you? Fine, Saul said uneasily. The rain had stopped, but the heavy clouds seemed reluctant to leave the skies over the small town. There was a skittish breeze blowing and Saul Becker tightened the collar of his coat around his neck as he tried to keep up with the fast-stepping Dawes. They crossed the street diagonally and entered a two-story wooden building. Dawes took the stairs at a brisk pace and pushed open the door on the second floor. A fat man looked up from behind the desk. Hi, Charlie. Thought I'd like to see if you wanted to help move Brundidge. The man batted his eyes. Oh, Brundidge, he said. You know, I clung for God about him. He laughed. Imagine me forgetting that. Yeah, Dawes wasn't amused. And you, Prince Regent. Ah, Willie. Well, come on. Stir that fat carcass. Gotta pick up Sheriff Cougen, too. This year, gentlemen has to see him about something else. The man regarded Saul suspiciously. Never seen you before, night or day. Stranger, come on, Dawes said. The fat man grunted and hoisted himself out of the swivel chair. He followed lamely behind the two men as they went out into the street again. A woman with an empty market basket nodded casually to them. Morning, folks. Enjoyed it last night. Thought you made a right nice speech, Mr. Dawes. Thanks. Dawes answered gruffly, but obviously flattered. We were just going over to Brundidge's to pick up the body. Ma's gonna pay a call on Mrs. Brundidge around 10 o'clock. You care to visit? Why, I think that's very nice, the woman said. I'll be sure to do that. She smiled at the fat man. Morning, Prince. Saul's head was spinning as they left the woman and continued their determined march down the quiet street he tried to find answers. Look, Mr. Dawes, he was panting. The pace was fast. Does she dream about this armagon, too, that woman back there? Yup. Charlie chuckled. He's a stranger, all right. And you, Mr. Saul, turn to the fat man. You also know about this palace and everything? I told you, Dawes said testily. Charlie hears Prince Regent. But don't let the fancy title fool you. He's got no more power than any knight of the realm. He's just too darned fat to do much more than sit on a throne and eat grapes. That right, Charlie? The fat man giggled. Here's the sheriff, Dawes said. The sheriff, a sleepy-eyed citizen with a long sad face, was rocking on a porch as they approached his house, trying to puff a half-lit pipe. He lifted one hand wearily when he saw them. Hi, Cookie. Dawes grinned. Thought you and me and Charlie would get Brungage's body out of the house. This here is Mr. Becker. He's got another problem. Mr. Becker, meet Cookie Coogan. The sheriff joined the procession, pausing only once to inquire into Saul's predicament. He described the Hitchhiker incident, but Coogan listened stoically. He murmured something about the troopers and shuffled alongside the puffing fat man. Saul soon realized that their destination was a barber shop. Dawes cupped his hands over the plate glass and peered inside. Gold letters on the glass advertised haircut, shave, and massage parlor. He reported, nobody in the shop must be upstairs. The fat man rang the bell. It was a while before an answer came. It was a reedy woman in a housecoat, her hair in curlers, her eyes red and swollen. Now, now, Dawes said gently, don't you take on like that, Mrs. Brungage. You heard the charges. It had to be this way. My poor Vincent! She sobbed. Better let us up, the sheriff said kindly. No use just letting him lay there, Mrs. Brungage. He didn't mean no harm. The woman snuffled. He was just purely ornery Vincent was, just plain mean stubborn. The law's the law, the fat man sighed. Saul couldn't hold himself in. What law? Who's dead? How did it happen? Dawes looked at him disgustedly. Now, is it any of your business? I mean, is it? I don't know, Saul said miserably. You better stay out of this, the sheriff warned. This is a local matter, young man. You better stay in the shop while we go up. They filed past him and the crying Mrs. Brungage. When they were out of sight, Saul pleaded with her. What happened? How did your husband die? Please! You must tell me, was it something to do with Armagon? Do you dream about the place, too? She was shocked at the question. Of course! And your husband, did he have the same dream? Fresh tears resulted. Can't you leave me alone? He turned her back. I got things to do. You could make yourself comfortable. She indicated the barber-chairs and left through the back door. Saul looked after her and then ambled over to the first chair and slipped into the high seat. His reflection in the mirror, strangely gray in the dim light, made him groan. His clothes were a mess and he needed a shave, if only Brungage had been alive. He leaped out of a chair as voices sounded behind the door. Pajamas was kicking it open with his foot, his arms laden with two rather large feet, still encased in bedroom slippers. Charlie was at the other end of the burden, which appeared to be a middle-aged man in pajamas. The sheriff followed the trio up with a sad undertaker expression. Behind him came Mrs. Brungage, properly leaping. We'll take him to the funeral parlor. Dawes said, breathing hard. Ways a ton, Dony! What killed him, Saul said? The fat man chuckled. The tableau was grisly. Saul looked away towards the comfortingly mundane atmosphere of the barbershop, but even the sight of the thick-padded chairs, the shaving mugs on the wall, the neat rows of cutting instruments, seemed grotesque and morbid. Listen, Saul said, as they went through the doorway, about my car. The sheriff turned and regarded him legubriously. Your car? Young man, ain't you got no respect? Saul swallowed hard and fell silent. He went outside with them, the woman slamming the barbershop door behind him. He waited in front of the building while the men towed it away the corpse to some new destination. He took a walk. The town was just coming to life. People were strolling out of their houses, commenting on the weather, chuckling amably about local affairs. Kids on bicycles were beginning to appear, jangling the little bells and hooting to each other. A woman hanging wash in the backyard called out to him, thinking he was somebody else. He found a little park, no more than twenty yards in circumference, centered around a weather-beaten monument of some unrecognizable military figure. Three old men took their places on the bench that circled the general and leaned on their canes. Saul was a civil engineer, but he made like a reporter. Pardon me, sir, the old man leathery-faced with a fine yellow moustache looked at him dumbly. Have you ever heard of Armagan? You a stranger? Yes. Thought so? Saul repeated the question. Of course I did. Been going there ever since I was a kid. Not times, that is. How? I mean, what kind of a place is it? Said you a stranger? Yes. Then taint your business. That was that. He left the park and wandered into a thriving luncheonette. He tried questioning the man behind the counter who merely snickered and said, You stay in with the Dawes's, ain't you? Better ask Willie then. He knows the place better than anybody. He asked about the execution, and the man stiffened. Don't think I can talk about that. Fella broke one of the laws, that's about it. Don't see where you come into it. At eleven o'clock he returned to the Dawes' residence and found Mom in the kitchen surrounded by the warm nostalgic odor of home-baked bread. She told him that her husband had left a message for the stranger, informing him that the state police would be around to get his story. He waited in the house, gloomily turning the pages of the local newspaper, searching for references to Armagan. He found nothing. At eleven thirty a brown-faced state trooper came to call, and Saul told his story. He was promised nothing and told to stay in town until he was contacted again by the authorities. Mom fixed him a light lunch, the greatest feature of which was some hot biscuits she plucked out of the oven. It made him feel almost normal. He wandered around the town some more after lunch, trying to spark conversation with the residents. He learned little. At five-thirty he returned to the Dawes' house and was promptly leaped upon by little Sally. Hi, hi, hi! She said, clutching his right leg and almost toppling him over. We had a party in school. I had chocolate cake. Are you going to stay with us? Just another night, Saul told her, trying to shake the girl off. If it's OK with your folks, they haven't found my car yet. Sally! Mom was peering out of the screen door. You let Mr. Becker alone and go wash. Your paw will be home soon. Oh, poo! the girl said, her pigtail swinging. Do you got a girlfriend, mister? No. Saul struggled towards the house with her dead weight on his leg. Would you mind? I can't walk. Would you be my boyfriend? Well, we'll talk about it if you let go of my leg. Inside the house, she said, we're having pot roast. You stay in? Of course, Mr. Becker's stay in, mom said. He's our guest. That's very kind of you, Saul said. I really wish you'd let me pay for something. Don't want to hear another word about pay. Mr. Dawes came home an hour later, looking tired. Mom pecked him lightly on the far head. He glanced at the evening paper and then spoke to Saul. Here you've been asking questions, Mr. Becker. Saul nodded embarrassed. Guess I have. I'm awfully curious about this Armagon place. Never heard of anything like it before. Dawes grunted. You ain't a reporter? Oh, no. I'm an engineer. I was just satisfying my own curiosity. Uh-huh. Dawes looked reflective. You wouldn't be thinking about writing us up or anything. I mean, this is a pretty private affair. Writing it up, Saul blinked. I hadn't thought of it, but you'll have to admit it's sure interesting. Yeah, Dawes said narrowly. I guess it would be. Supper, mom called. After the meal they spent a quiet evening at home. Sally went to bed screaming her reluctance at eight thirty. Mom dozing in the big chair near the fireplace padded upstairs at nine. And Dawes yawned widely and stood up and said good night at quarter of ten. He paused in the doorway before leaving. I'd think about that, he said. Writing it up, I mean, a lot of folks would think you were just plum crazy. Saul laughed feebly. I guess they would at that. Good night, Dawes said. Good night. He read Sally's copy of Treasure Island for about half an hour. Then he undressed, made himself comfortable on the sofa, snuggled under the soft blanket that Mom had provided, and shut his eyes. He reviewed the events of the day before dropping off to sleep. The troublesome Sally, the strange dream world of Armagan, the visit to the barbershop, the removal of Brundage's body, the conversations with the townspeople, Dawes's suspicious attitude. Then sleep came. He was flanked by marble pillars thrusting toward a high domed ceiling. The room stretched long and wide before him. The walls bedecked in stunning purple draperies. He whirled at the sound of footsteps echoing stridently on the stone floor. Someone was running towards him. It was Sally, pigtail streaming out behind her, the small body wearing a flowing white toga. She was shrieking, laughing as she skittered past him, clutching a gleaming gold helmet. He called out to her, but she was too busy out distancing her pursuer. It was Sheriff Coogan, puffing and huffing. The metal and gold cloth uniformed ludicrous on his lanky frame. It's our kid, he wheezed. Give me my hat. Mom was following him, her stout body regal in scarlet robes. Sally, you give Mr. Coogan his helmet, you hear? Mrs. Dawes, Saul said. Why, Mr. Becker, how nice to see you again. Pa! Pa! Look who's here! Willie Dawes appeared. No, Saul thought. This was King Dawes. Nothing else could explain the magnificence of his attire. Yes, Dawes said craftily. So I see. Welcome to Armagon, Mr. Becker. Armagon, Saul gaped. Then this is the place you've been dreaming about? Yup. The King said. And now you're in it, too. Then I'm only dreaming? Charlie, the fat man, clumsy as ever in his robes of state, said, So that's the Snooper, eh? Yup. Dawes chuckled. Think you better round up the nights. Saul said, the nights. Exeggution, exeggution! Sally shrieked. Now, wait a minute! Charlie shouted. Running feet, clanging of armor, Saul backed up against a pillar. Now look here, you've gone far enough. Not quite, said the King. The night stepped forward. Wait! Saul screamed. Familiar faces under shining helmets moved towards him, the tips of sharp pointed spears gleaming wickedly. Saul Becker wondered, would he ever wake up? End of Dreamtown by Henry Slesar. The Facts in the Case of M. Voldemar by Edgar Allan Poe. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. The Facts in the Case of M. Voldemar by Edgar Allan Poe. Of course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder that the extraordinary case of M. Voldemar has excited discussion. It would have been a miracle had it not, especially under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties concerned to keep the affair from the public at least for the present, or until we had farther opportunities for investigation, through our endeavors to affect this, a garbled or exaggerated account made its way into society and became the source of many unpleasant misrepresentations, and very naturally of a great deal of disbelief. It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts as far as I comprehend them myself. They are succinctly these. My attention for the last three years has been repeatedly drawn to the subject of mesmerism. And about nine months ago it occurred to me quite suddenly that in the series of experiments made hitherto, there had been a very remarkable and most unaccountable omission. No person had as yet been mesmerized in articular mortis. It remained to be seen first whether in such condition there existed in the patient any susceptibility to the magnetic influence. Secondly, whether if any existed it was impaired or increased by the condition. Only to what extent or for how long a period the encroachments of death might be arrested by the process. There were other points to be ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity. The last in is special, from the immensely important character of its consequences. In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test these particulars I was brought to think of my friend M. Ernest Waldemar, the well-known compiler of the Bibliotheca Forensica, and author under the nom de plume of Issacar Marx of the Polish versions of Wallenstein and Gargantua. M. Waldemar, who has resided principally at Harlem, New York since the year 1839, is, or was, particularly noticeable for the extreme spareness of his person, his lower limbs much resembling those of John Randolph, and also for the whiteness of his whiskers in violent contrast to the blackness of his hair, the latter in consequence being very generally mistaken for a wig. His temperament was markedly nervous and rendered him a good subject for mesmeric experiment. On two or three occasions I had put him to sleep with little difficulty, but was disappointed in other results which his peculiar constitution had naturally led me to anticipate. His will was at no period positively or thoroughly under my control, and in regard to clairvoyance I could accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always attributed my failure at these points to the disordered state of his health. For some months previous to my becoming acquainted with him his physicians had declared him in a confirmed pithesis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his approaching dissolution, as of a matter neither to be avoided nor regretted. When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me it was of course very natural that I should think of M. Voldemort. I knew the steady philosophy of the man too well to apprehend any scruples from him, and he had no relatives in America who would be likely to interfere. I spoke to him frankly upon the subject, and to my surprise his interests seemed vividly excited. I say to my surprise for although he had always yielded his person freely to my experiments he had never before given me any tokens of sympathy with what I did. His disease was, if that character which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of its termination in death, and it was finally arranged between us that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the period announced by his physicians as that of his decease. It is now rather more than seven months since I received from M. Voldemort himself the subjoined note. My dear P., you may as well come now. P. and F. are agreed that I cannot hold out beyond tomorrow midnight, and I think they have hit the time very nearly. Voldemort. I received this note within half an hour after it was written, and in fifteen minutes more I was in the dying man's chamber. I had not seen him for ten days, and was appalled by the fearful alteration which the brief interval had wrought in him. His face were a leaden hue, the eyes were utterly lusterless, and the emaciation was so extreme that the skin had been broken through by the cheekbones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse was barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very remarkable manner both his mental power and a certain degree of physical strength. He spoke with distinctness, took some palliative medicines without aid, and when I entered the room was occupied in penciling memoranda in a pocket-book. He was propped up in the bed by pillows. Doctors D. and F. were in attendance. After pressing Voldemort's hand I took these gentlemen aside and obtained from them a minute account of the patient's condition. The left lung had been for eighteen months in a semi-osseous and cartilaginous state, and was, of course, entirely useless for all purposes of vitality. The right in its upper portion was also partially, if not thoroughly, ossified, while the lower region was merely a mass of purulent tubercles running one into another. Several extensive perforations existed, and at one point permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These appearances in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date. The ossification had proceeded with very unusual rapidity. No sign of it had been discovered a month before, and the adhesion had only been observed during the three previous days. Independently of the pythesis, the patient was suspected of aneurysm of the aorta, but on this point the osseous symptoms rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of both physicians that M. Waldemar would die about midnight on the morrow, Sunday. It was then seven o'clock on Saturday evening. On quitting the invalid's bedside to hold conversation with myself, doctors D. and F. had bitten him a final farewell. It had not been their intention to return, but at my request they agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night. When they had gone I spoke freely with M. Waldemar on the subject of his approaching dissolution, as well as more particularly of the experiment proposed. He still professed himself quite willing and even anxious to have it made, and urged me to commence it at once. A male and female nurse were in attendance, but I did not feel myself altogether at liberty to engage in a task of this character with no more reliable witnesses than these people in case of sudden accident might prove. I therefore postponed operations until about eight the next night when the arrival of a medical student with whom I had some acquaintance, Mr. Theodore L. I, relieved me from farther embarrassment. It had been my design originally to wait for the physicians, but I was induced to proceed first by the urgent entreaties of M. Waldemar, and secondly by my conviction that I had not a moment to lose as he was evidently sinking fast. Mr. L. I was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take notes of all that occurred, and it is from his memoranda that what I have now to relate is, for the most part, either condensed or copied verbatim. It was about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient's hand, I begged him to state as distinctly as he could to Mr. L. I, whether he am Waldemar, was entirely willing that I should make the experiment of mesmerizing him in his then condition. He replied feebly, yet quite audibly. Yes, I wish to be. I fear you have mesmerized. But I, standing immediately afterwards, deferred it too long. While he spoke thus I commenced the passes which I had already found most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced with the first lateral stroke of my hand across his far-head, but although I exerted all my powers, no farther perceptible effect was induced, until some minutes after ten o'clock when doctors D and F called, according to appointment. I explained to them in a few words what I designed, and as they opposed no objection, saying that the patient was already in the death agony, I proceeded without hesitation, exchanging, however, the lateral passes for downward ones and directing my gaze entirely into the right eye of the sufferer. By this time his pulse was imperceptible, and his breathing was stertorious, and at intervals of half a minute. This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At the expiration of this period, however, a natural, very deep sigh escaped the bosom of the dying man. And the stertorious breathing ceased. That is to say, its stertoriousness was no longer apparent. The intervals were undiminished. The patient's extremities were of an icy coldness. At five minutes before eleven I perceived unequivocal signs of the mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed for that expression of uneasy inward examination, which is never seen except in cases of sleepwalking, and which it is quite impossible to mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the lid's quiver as an insipant sleep, and with a few more I closed them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest exertion of the will, until I had completely stiffened the limbs of the slumberer after placing them in a seemingly easy position. The legs were at full length, the arms were nearly so, and reposed on the bed at a moderate distance from the loin. The head was very slightly elevated. When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I requested the gentleman present to examine M. Voldemort's condition. After a few experiments they admitted him to be in an unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D. resolved at once to remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F. took leave with a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L. I. and the nurses remained. We left M. Voldemort entirely undisturbed until about three o'clock in the morning, when I approached him and found him in precisely the same condition as when Dr. F. went away. That is to say he lay in the same position. The pulse was imperceptible, the breathing was gentle, scarcely noticeable unless through the application of a mirror to the lips. The eyes were closed naturally, and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble. Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death. As I approached M. Voldemort, I made a kind of half-effort to influence his right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the latter gently to and fro above his person. In such experiments with this patient I had never perfectly succeeded before, and assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now. But to my astonishment his arm very readily, although feebly followed every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a few words of conversation. M. Voldemort, I said, Are you asleep? He made no answer, but I perceived a tremor about the lips and was thus induced to repeat the question again and again. At its third repetition his whole frame was agitated by a very slight shivering. The eyelids unclosed themselves so far as to display a white line of the ball. The lips moved sluggishly and from between them in a barely audible whisper issued the words, Yes, asleep now. Do not wake me. Let me die so. I here felt the limbs and found them as rigid as ever. The right arm as before obeyed the direction of my hand. I questioned the sleep-waker again. Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Voldemort? The answer was now immediate, but even less audible than before. No pain. I am dying. I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then, and nothing more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F., who came a little before sunrise and expressed unbounded astonishment at finding the patient still alive. After feeling the pulse and applying a mirror to the lips he requested me to speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying, M. Voldemort, do you still sleep? As before some minutes elapsed, ere a reply was made, and during the interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies to speak. At my fourth repetition of the question he said very faintly, almost inaudibly, Yes, still asleep, dying. It was now the opinion or rather the wish of the physicians that M. Voldemort should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his present apparently tranquil condition, until death should superveen, and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once more and merely repeated my previous question. While I spoke there came a marked change over the countenance of the sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open. The pupils disappearing upwardly. The skin generally assumed a cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper. The circular, hectic spots which hitherto had been strongly defined in the center of each cheek went out at once. I used this expression because the suddenness of their departure put me in mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a puff of the breath. The upper lip at the same time writhed itself away from the teeth which it had previously covered completely. While the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk, leaving the mouth widely extended and disclosing in full view the swollen and blackened tongue, I presumed that no member of the party then present had been unaccustomed to deathbed horrors, but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M. Waldemar at this moment that there was a general shrinking back from the region of the bed. I now feel that I have reached a point in this narrative at which every reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my business, however, simply to proceed. There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Waldemar, and concluding him to be dead we were consigning him to the charge of the nurses when a strong vibratory motion was observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At the expiration of this period there issued from the distended and motionless jaws a voice such as it would be madness in me to attempt describing. There are indeed two or three epithets which might be considered as applicable to it. In part, I might say, for example, that the sound was harsh and broken and hollow, but the hideous whole is indescribable for the simple reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of humanity. There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I thought then and still think might fairly be stated as characteristic of the intonation, as well as adapted to convey some idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place the voice seemed to reach our ears, at least mine, from a vast distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place it impressed me, I fear indeed that it will be impossible to make myself comprehended, as gelatinous or glutenous matters impress the sense of touch. I have spoken both of sound and of voice. I mean to say that the sound was one of distinct, or even wonderfully thrillingly distinct, syllabification. But Valdemar spoke, obviously, in reply to the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had asked him it will be remembered if he still slept. He now said, Yes. No. I have been sleeping. And now? Now. I am dead. No person present even affected to deny or attempt to repress the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words thus uttered were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L. I, the student, swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber and could not be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour we busied ourselves silently, without the utterance of a word, in endeavors to revive Mr. L. I. When he came to himself, we addressed ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar's condition. It remained in all respects, as I have last described it, with the exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric influence was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue. Whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question, he seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition. Two queries put to him by any other person than myself, he seemed utterly insensible, although I endeavored to place each member of the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the sleep-waker's state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured, and at ten o'clock I left the house in company with the two physicians and Mr. L. I. In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him, but we had little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be served by doing so. It was evident that so far death, or what is usually termed death, had been arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us that to awaken M. Valdemar would merely be to ensure his instant or at least his speedy dissolution. From this period until the close of last week, an interval of nearly seven months, we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar's house, accompanied now and then by medical and other friends. All this time the sleep-waker remained exactly as I have last described him. The nurses' attentions were continual. It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening or attempting to awaken him, and it is the, perhaps, unfortunate result of this latter experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in private circles, to so much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling. For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance I made use of the customary passes. These for a time were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed as especially remarkable that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by the profuse outflowing of a yellowish icor from beneath the lids of a pungent and highly offensive odor. It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient's arm as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F. then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so as follows. M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now? There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks. The tongue quivered or rather rolled violently in the mouth, although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before, and at length the same hideous voice which I have already described broke forth. For God's sake, quick, quick, put me to sleep, or quick, awaken me, quick! I say to you that I am dead!" I was thoroughly unnerved and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I made an endeavor to recompose the patient, but failing in this, through total abeyance of the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful, or at least I soon fancied that my success would be complete, and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken. Whatever what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could have been prepared. As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes amid ejaculations of dead, dead, absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once, within the space of a single minute or even less shrunk, crumbled, absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome, of detestable putridity. End of The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar by Edgar Allen Poe. The Francis Spate by Jack London. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Francis Spate by Jack London. The Francis Spate was running before it solely under a mizent top sail when the thing happened. It was not due to carelessness so much as to the lack of discipline of the crew and to the fact that they were in different seamen at best. The man at the wheel in particular, a limerick man, had had no experience with salt water beyond that of rafting timber on the Shannon between the Quebec vessels and the shore. He was afraid of the huge seas that rose out of the merc astern and bore down upon him, and he was more given to cowering away from their threatened impact than he was to meeting their blows with the wheel and checking the ship's rush to broach too. It was three in the morning when his unseemly conduct precipitated the catastrophe. At sight of a sea far larger than its fellows, he crouched down, releasing his hands from the spokes. The Francis Spate sheared as her stern lifted on the sea, receiving the full fling of the cap on her quarter. The next instant she was in the trough, her lee rail buried till the ocean was level with her hatch comings, sea after sea breaking over her weather rail and sweeping what remained exposed of the deck with icy deluges. The men were out of hand, helpless and hopeless, stupid in their bewilderment and fear, and resolute only in that they would not obey orders. Some wailed, others clung silently in the weathered shrouds, and still others muttered prayers or shrieked vile implications, and neither captain nor mate could get them to bear a hand at the pumps or at setting patches of sails to bring the vessel up to the wind and sea. Inside the hour the ship was over on her beam ends, the loverly cowards climbing up her side and hanging on in the rigging. When she went over the mate was caught and drowned in the after-cabin, as were two sailors who had sought refuge in the forecastle. The mate had been the ablest man on board, and the captain was now scarcely less helpless than his men, beyond cursing them for their worthlessness. He did nothing. And it remained for a man named Mahoney, a Belfast man, and a boy, O'Brien, of Limerick, to cut away the fore and main masts. This they did at great risk, on the perpendicular wall of the wreck, sending the mizzen-topped masts oversight along in the general crash. The Francis Bate writed, and it was well that she was lumber-laden else she would have sunk, for she was already waterlogged. The main mast, still fast by the shrouds, beat like a thunderous sledgehammer against the ship's side, every stroke bringing groans from the men. Day dawned on the savage ocean, and in the cold gray light all that could be seen of the Francis Bate emerging from the sea were the poop, the shattered mizzen mast, and a ragged line of bulwarks. It was midwinter in the North Atlantic, and the wretched men were half-dead from cold. But there was no place where they could find rest. Every sea breached clean over the wreck, washing away the salt and crustaceans from their bodies, and depositing fresh crustaceans. The cabin under the poop was awash to the knees, but here at least was shelter from the chill wind, and here the survivors congregated, standing upright, holding on by the cabin furnishings, and leaning against one another for support. In vain Mahoney strove to get the men to take turns in watching aloft from the mizzen mast for any chance vessel. The icy gale was too much for them, and they preferred the shelter of the cabin. O'Brien, the boy, who was only fifteen, took turns with Mahoney on the freezing perch. It was the boy at three in the afternoon who called down that he had sighted a sail. This did bring them from the cabin, and they crowded the poop-rail and weather mizzen shrouds as they watched the strange ship. But his course did not lie nearer, and when it disappeared below the skyline they returned shivering to the cabin, not one offering to relieve the watch at the mast head. By the end of the second day Mahoney and O'Brien gave up their attempt, and thereafter the vessel drifted in the gale uncared for and without a lookout. There were thirteen alive, and for seventy-two hours they stood knee-deep in the sloshing water on the cabin floor, half frozen, without food, and with but three bottles of wine shared among them. All food and fresh water were below, and there was no getting at such supplies in the waterlogged condition of the wreck. As the days went by no food would ever pass their lips. Fresh water, in small quantities, they were able to obtain by holding a cover of a terrine under the saddle of the mizzen mast, but the rain fell infrequently and they were hard put. When it rained they also soaked their handkerchiefs, squeezing them out into their mouths or into their shoes. As the wind and sea went down they were even able to mop the exposed portions of the deck that were free from O'Brien, and so add to their water supply. But food they had none, and no way of getting it. Those seabirds flew repeatedly overhead. In the calm weather that followed the gale, after having remained on their feet for ninety-six hours they were able to find dry planks in the cabin on which to lie. But the long hours of standing in the salt water had caused sores to form on their legs. They sores were extremely painful. The slightest contact or scrape caused severe anguish. And in their weak condition and crowded situation they were continually hurting one another in this manner. Not a man can move without being followed by volleys of abuse, curses, and groans. So great was their misery that the strong oppressed the weak, shoving them aside from the dry planks to shift for themselves in the cold and wet. The boy, O'Brien, was especially maltreated. Though there were three other boys, it was O'Brien who came in for most of the abuse. There was no explaining it, except on the ground that he was a stronger and more dominant spirit than those of the other boys, and that he stood up more for his rights, resenting the petty injustices that were made it out to all the boys by the men. Whenever O'Brien came near the men in search of a dry place to sleep, or merely moved about, he was kicked and cuffed away. In return he cursed them for their selfish brutishness and blows and kicks and curses were reigned upon him. Miserable, as were all of them, he was thus made far more miserable. And it was only the flame of life unusually strong in him that enabled him to endure. As the days went by, and they grew weaker, their peevishness and ill temper increased, which in turn increased the ill treatment and sufferings of O'Brien. By the sixteenth day all hands were far gone with hunger, and they stood together in small groups, talking in undertones, and occasionally glancing at O'Brien. It was at high noon that the conference came to a head. The captain was the spokesman. All were collected on the poop. Men, the captain began, we have been a long time without food. Two weeks and two days it is, though it seems more like two years and two months. We can't hang out much longer. It is beyond human nature to go on hanging out with nothing in our stomachs. There was a serious question to consider. Whether it is better for all to die or for one to die, we are standing with our feet in our graves. If one of us dies, the rest may live until a ship is sited. What say you? Michael Behan, the man who had been at the wheel when the Francis spade broached to, called out that it was well. The others joined in the cry. Let it be one of the buys! cried Solomon, a tarbert man, glancing at the same time significantly at O'Brien. It is my opinion, the captain went on, that it will be a good deed for one of us to die for the rest. A good deed! A good deed! the men interjected. And it is my opinion that it is best for one of the boys to die. They have no families to support, nor would they be considered so great a loss to their friends as those who have wives and children. It is right, very right, very fit, it should be done. The men muttered one to another. But the four boys cried out against the injustice of it. Our lives is just as dear to us as the rest of Yez, O'Brien protested, and our families too, as were wives and children. Who is there saving me self to care for me, old mother, that's a widow? As you know, well, Michael Behang, that comes from a lemur, tis not fair. Let the lots be drawn between all of us, men and boys. Mahoney was the only man who spoke in favour of the boys, declaring that it was the fair thing for all to share alike. Sullivan and the captain insisted on the drawing of lots, being confined to the boys. There were high words, in the midst of which Sullivan turned upon O'Brien, snarling, it would be a good deed to put you out of the way. You deserve it. It would be the right way to serve you, and serve you, we will. He started toward O'Brien, with intent to lay hands on him, and proceed at once with the killing, while several others likewise shuffled toward him and reached for him. He stumbled backwards to escape them, at the same time crying that he would submit to the drawing of the lots among the boys. The captain prepared four sticks of different lengths, and handed them to Sullivan. You're thinking the drawing will not be fair, the latter snared to O'Brien, so it's your soulful duty to draw them. To this O'Brien agreed. A handkerchief was tied over his eyes, blindfolding him, and he knelt down on the deck, with his back to Sullivan. Whoever you name for the shortest stick will die, the captain said. Sullivan held up one of the sticks. The rest were concealed in his hand, so that no one could see whether it was the short stick or not. At O's stick will it be? Sullivan demanded. For little Johnny's sheen, O'Brien answered. Sullivan laid the stick aside. Those who looked could not tell if it were the fatal one. Sullivan held up another stick. Who's will it be? For George Burns, was the reply. The stick was laid with the first one, and a third held up. And who's is this one? For myself, said O'Brien. With a quick movement, Sullivan threw the four sticks together no one had seen. Tis for yourself you've drawn it, Sullivan announced. A good deed, several of the men muttered. O'Brien was very quiet. He arose to his feet, took the bandage off, and looked around. Where is it? He demanded. The short stick, the one for me. The captain pointed to the four sticks lying on the deck. How do you know the stick was mine? O'Brien questioned. Did you see it, Johnny's sheen? Johnny's sheen, who was the youngest of the boys, did not answer. Did you see it? O'Brien next asked Mahoney. No, I didn't see it. The men were muttering and growling. It was a fair drawing, Sullivan said. You had your chance, and you lost. That's all it had. A fair drawing, the captain added. Didn't I behold it myself? The stick was yours, O'Brien. And you may, as well, get ready. Where's the cook? Gorman, come here. Fetch the terrain cover. Some of you, Gorman, do your duty like I'm on. But how I do it, the cook demanded. He was a weak-eyed, weak-chunned, indecisive man. Tis a damn murder, O'Brien cried out. I'll have none of it, Mahoney announced. Not a bite shall pass me lips. Then tis your share for better man than yourself, Sullivan sneered. Go on with your duty, cook. Tis not me duty, the killing of boys, Gorman protested, irresolutely. If yous don't make mate for us, we'll be makin' mate of yourself, behind threatened. Somebody must die, and as well you as another. Johnny Sheehan began to cry. O'Brien listened anxiously. His face was pale, his lips trembled, and at times his whole body shook. I signed on as cook, Gorman announced, and cook I would, if Gally there was. But I'll not lay me hands to murder. Tis not in the articles. I'm the cook. And cook you'll be for one minute more only, Sullivan said grimly, at the same moment gripping the cook's head from behind, and bending it back to the windpipe and jugular were stretched taut. Where's your knife, Mike? Pass it along. At the touch of the steel, Gorman whimpered, I'll do it, if yous hold the boy. The pitiable condition of the cook seemed in some fashion to nerve up O'Brien. It's all right, Gorman, he said. Go on, what did? Tis me self knows you're not wanting to do it. It's all right, sir. This to the captain, who had laid a hand heavily on his arm. You won't have to hold me, sir. I'll stand still. Stop your blithering, and go get that terrain cover, behind commanded Johnny Sheehan, at the same time dealing him a heavy cuff alongside the head. The boy, who was scarcely more than a child, fetched the cover. He crawled and tottered along the deck, so weak was he from hunger. The tears still ran down his cheeks. Behan took the cover from him, at the same time administering another cuff. O'Brien took off his coat, and bared his right arm. His underlip still trembled, but he held a tight grip on himself. The captain's pen-knife was opened, and passed to Gorman. Mahoney, tell me, mother, what happened to me? If ever you get back, O'Brien requested. Mahoney nodded. Tis black mother, black and damned, he said, the boy's flesh, do none of ye's any good? Mark me words, ye'll not profit by it, none of ye's. Get ready, the captain ordered. You, Sullivan, hold the cover. That's it. Close up. Spill nothing. Freshest stuff. Gorman made an effort. The knife was dull. He was weak. Besides, his hand was shaking so violently that he nearly dropped the knife. The three boys were crouched apart in a huddle, crying and sobbing. With the exception of Mahoney, the men were gathered about the victim, craning their necks to see. Be a man, Gorman. The captain cautioned. The wretched cook was seized with a spasm of resolution, sawing back and forth with the blade on O'Brien's wrist. The veins were severed. Sullivan held the terrain cover close underneath. The cut veins gaped wide, but no ruddy flood gushed forth. There was no blood at all. The veins were dry and empty. No one spoke. The grim and silent figures swayed in unison with each heave of the ship. Every eye was turned fixedly upon that inconceivable and monstrous thing, the dry veins of a creature that was alive. "'Tis a warning,' Mahoney cried. "'Lave the boy alone. Mark me words. His death will do none of ye as any good. Try at the elbow. The left elbow. Tis nearer the heart,' the captain said finally. In a dim and husky voice that was unlike his own. "'Give me the knife,' O'Brien said, roughly, taking it out of the cook's hand. "'I can't be lookin' at ye puttin' me to hurt.' Quite coolly he cut the vein of the left elbow, but like the cook he failed to bring blood. "'This is all if no use,' Sullivan said, "'tis better to put him out of his misery by bleeding him at the throat.' The strain had been too much for the lad. "'Don't be doin' it,' he cried. "'There'll be no blood in me throat. Give me a little more time. Tis cold and weak I am. Be lettin' me lay down and sleep a bit. Then I'll be warm and the blood'll flow.' "'Tis no use,' Sullivan objected. "'As if ye could be sleeping at a time like this. Ye'll not sleep, and ye'll not warm up. Look at ye now. Ye'll v'n ague. I was sick and limerick one night.' O'Brien hurried on, and the doctor couldn't bleed me. But after sleeping a few hours and getting warm in bed, the blood came freely. It's God's truth I'm tellin' ye's. Don't be murdering me.' "'His veins are open now,' the captain said. "'Tis no use leaving him in his pain. Do it now and be done with it.' They started to reach for O'Brien, but he backed away. "'I'll be the death of ye's,' he screamed. "'Take your hands off of me, Sullivan. I'll come back. I'll hunt ye's, waking or sleeping. I'll hunt ye's, steady or die.' "'Tis disgraceful, ye'll behan. If the short stick had been mine, I'da let me mates cut the head off of me and died happy.' Sullivan leaped in and caught the unhappy lad by the hair. The rest of the men followed. O'Brien kicked and struggled, snarling and snapping at the hands that clutched him from every side. Little Johnny Sheehan broke out into wild screaming, but the men took no notice of him. O'Brien was bent backward to the deck, the terrain cover under his neck. Gorman was shoved forward. Someone had thrust a large sheath-knife into his hand. "'Do yer duty! Do yer duty!' The men cried. The cook bent over, but he caught the boy's eyes and faltered. "'If ye don't, I have to kill ye with mehan hands,' Behan shouted. From every side a torrent of abuse and threats poured in upon the cook. Still he hung back. "'Maybe there'll be more blood in his veins than O'Brien's,' Sullivan suggested significantly. Behan caught Gorman by the hair and twisted his head back, while Sullivan attempted to take possession of the sheath-knife, but Gorman clung to it desperately. "'Live go, and I'll do it!' he screamed frantically. "'Don't be cutting me throat. I'll do the deed. I'll do the deed!' "'See that you do it, then,' the captain threatened him. Gorman allowed himself to be shoved forward. He looked at the boy, closed his eyes, and muttered a prayer. Then, without opening his eyes, he did the deed that had been appointed him. O'Brien admitted a shriek that sank swiftly to a gurgling sob. The men held him till his struggles ceased, when he was laid upon the deck. They were eager and impatient, and with oaths and threats they urged Gorman to hurry with the preparation of the meal. "'Live it, you bloody butchers,' Mahoney said quietly. "'Live it, Italians! You'll not be needing any of it now. Tis, as I said, you'll not be profiting by the lad's blood. Empty it over a side, Behan, empty it over a side.' Behan, still holding the terrain cover, in both his hands, glanced to whenward. He walked to the rail, and threw the cover and contents into the sea. A full-rigged ship was bearing down upon them a short mile away. So occupied had they been with the deed just committed that none had had eyes for a look-out. All hands watched her coming on, the brightly-coppered forefoot parting the water like a golden knife, the headsails flapping lazily and emptily at each downward surge, and the towering canvas tears dipping and curtsying with each stately swing of the sea. No man spoke. As she hoved to, a cable length away, the captain of the Francis spate misturred himself and ordered a tarpaulin to be thrown over O'Brien's corpse. A boat was lowered from the stranger's side, and began to pull toward them. John Gorman laughed. He laughed softly at first, but he accompanied each stroke of the oars with spasmodically increasing glee. It was this maniacal laughter that greeted the rescue boat as it hauled alongside, and the first officer clambered on board. End of The Francis Spate by Jack London