The Seventh Man

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　In a one-roomed hut, high within the Arctic Circle, and only a littlesouth of the eightieth parallel, six men were sitting--much as they hadsat, evening after evening, for months. They had a clock, and by itthey divided the hours into day and night. As a matter of fact, it wasalways night. But the clock said half-past eight, and they called thetime evening.The hut was built of logs, with an inner skin of rough match-boarding,daubed with pitch. It measured seventeen feet by fourteen; but oppositethe door four bunks--two above and two below--took a yard off thelength, and this made the interior exactly square. Each of these bunkshad two doors, with brass latches on the inner side; so that the owner,if he chose, could shut himself up and go to sleep in a sort ofcupboard. But as a rule, he closed one of them only--that by his feet.The other swung back, with its brass latch showing. The men kept theselatches in a high state of polish.Across the angle of the wall, to the left of the door, and behind itwhen it opened, three hammocks were slung, one above another. No oneslept in the uppermost.But the feature of the hut was its fireplace; and this was merely asquare hearth-stone, raised slightly above the floor, in the middle ofthe room. Upon it, and upon a growing mountain of soft grey ash, thefire burned always. It had no chimney, and so the men lost none of itswarmth. The smoke ascended steadily and spread itself under theblackened beams and roof-boards in dense blue layers. But abouteighteen inches beneath the spring of the roof there ran a line of smalltrap-doors with sliding panels, to admit the cold air, and below thesethe room was almost clear of smoke. A newcomer's eyes might havesmarted, but these men stitched their clothes and read in comfort.To keep the up-draught steady they had plugged every chink and crevicein the match-boarding below the trap-doors with moss, and payed theseams with pitch. The fire they fed from a stack of drift and wreckwood piled to the right of the door, and fuel for the fetching strewedthe frozen beach outside--whole trees notched into lengths by lumberers'axes and washed thither from they knew not what continent. But thewreck-wood came from their own ship, the J. R. MacNeill, which hadbrought them from Dundee.They were Alexander Williamson, of Dundee, better known as The Gaffer;David Faed, also of Dundee; George Lashman, of Cardiff; Long Ede, ofHayle, in Cornwall; Charles Silchester, otherwise The Snipe, of RatcliffHighway or thereabouts; and Daniel Cooney, shipped at Tromso six weeksbefore the wreck, an Irish-American by birth and of no known address.The Gaffer reclined in his bunk, reading by the light of a smoky andevil-smelling lamp. He had been mate of the J. R. MacNeill, and wasnow captain as well as patriarch of the party. He possessed threebooks--the Bible, Milton's "Paradise Lost," and an odd volume of"The Turkish Spy." Just now he was reading "The Turkish Spy."The lamplight glinted on the rim of his spectacles and on the silveryhairs in his beard, the slack of which he had tucked under the edge ofhis blanket. His lips moved as he read, and now and then he broke offto glance mildly at Faed and the Snipe, who were busy beside the firewith a greasy pack of cards; or to listen to the peevish grumbling ofLashman in the bunk below him. Lashman had taken to his bed six weeksbefore with scurvy, and complained incessantly; and though they hardlyknew it, these complaints were wearing his comrades' nerves tofiddle-strings--doing the mischief that cold and bitter hard work andthe cruel loneliness had hitherto failed to do. Long Ede lay stretchedby the fire in a bundle of skins, reading in his only book, the Bible,open now at the Song of Solomon. Cooney had finished patching a pair oftrousers, and rolled himself in his hammock, whence he stared at theroof and the moonlight streaming up there through the little trap-doorsand chivying the layers of smoke. Whenever Lashman broke out into freshquaverings of self-pity, Cooney's hands opened and shut again, till thenails dug hard into the palm. He groaned at length, exasperated beyondendurance."Oh, stow it, George! Hang it all, man! . . ."He checked himself, sharp and short: repentant, and rebuked by thesilence of the others. They were good seamen all, and tender dealingwith a sick shipmate was part of their code.Lashman's voice, more querulous than ever, cut into the silence like aknife--"That's it. You've thought it for weeks, and now you say it.I've knowed it all along. I'm just an encumbrance, and the sooneryou're shut of me the better, says you. You needn't to fret. I'll besoon out of it; out of it--out there, alongside of Bill--""Easy there, matey." The Snipe glanced over his shoulder and laid hiscards face downward. "Here, let me give the bed a shake up. It'll easeyer.""It'll make me quiet, you mean. Plucky deal you care about easin' me,any of yer!""Get out with yer nonsense! Dan didn' mean it." The Snipe slipped anarm under the invalid's head and rearranged the pillow of skins andgunny-bags."He didn't, didn't he? Let him say it then . . ."The Gaffer read on, his lips moving silently. Heaven knows how he hadacquired this strayed and stained and filthy little demi-octavo with thearms of Saumarez on its book-plate--"The Sixth Volume of Letters writ bya Turkish Spy, who liv'd Five-and-Forty Years Undiscovered at Paris:Giving an Impartial Account to the Divan at Constantinople of themost remarkable Transactions of Europe, And discovering severalIntrigues and Secrets of the Christian Courts (especially of thatof France)," etc., etc. "Written originally in Arabick. Translatedinto Italian, and from thence into English by the Translator of theFirst Volume. The Eleventh Edition. London: Printed for G. Strahan,S. Ballard"--and a score of booksellers--"MDCCXLI." Heavens knows why heread it; since he understood about one-half, and admired less thanone-tenth. The Oriental reflections struck him as mainly blasphemous.But the Gaffer's religious belief marked down nine-tenths of mankind forperdition: which perhaps made him tolerant. At any rate, he read ongravely between the puffs of his short clay-- "On the 19th of this Moon, the King and the whole Court werepresent at a Ballet, representing the grandeur of the Frenchmonarchy. About the Middle of the Entertainment, there was anAntique Dance perform d by twelve Masqueraders, in the suppos'dform of Daemons. But before they had advanc'd far in theirDance, they found an Interloper amongst 'em, who by encreasingthe Number to thirteen, put them quite out of their Measure:For they practise every Step and Motion beforehand, till they areperfect. Being abash'd therefore at the unavoidable Blunders thethirteenth Antique made them commit, they stood still like Fools,gazing at one another: None daring to unmask, or speak a Word;for that would have put all the Spectators into a Disorder andConfusion. Cardinal Mazarmi (who was the chief Contriver of theseEntertainments, to divert the King from more serious Thoughts) stoodclose by the young Monarch, with the Scheme of the Ballet in hisHand. Knowing therefore that this Dance was to consist but oftwelve Antiques, and taking notice that there were actuallythirteen, he at first imputed it to some Mistake. But, afterwards,when he perceived the Confusion of the Dancers, he made a morenarrow Enquiry into the Cause of this Disorder. To be brief, theyconvinced the Cardinal that it could be no Error of theirs, by akind of Demonstration, in that they had but twelve Antique Dressesof that sort, which were made on purpose for this particular Ballet.That which made it seem the greater Mystery was, that when they camebehind the Scenes to uncase, and examine the Matter, they found buttwelve Antiques, whereas on the Stage there were thirteen . . .""Let him say it. Let him say he didn't mean it, the rotten Irishman!"Cooney flung a leg wearily over the side of his hammock, jerked himselfout, and shuffled across to the sick man's berth."Av coorse I didn' mane it. It just took me, ye see, lyin' up yondherand huggin' me thoughts in this--wilderness. I swear to ye, George: andye'll just wet your throat to show there's no bad blood, and that yebelave me." He took up a pannikin from the floor beside the bunk,pulled a hot iron from the fire, and stirred the frozen drink.The invalid turned his shoulder pettishly. "I didn't mane it," Cooneyrepeated. He set down the pannikin, and shuffled wearily back to hishammock.The Gaffer blew a long cloud and stared at the fire; at the smokemounting and the grey ash dropping; at David Faed dealing the cards andlicking his thumb between each. Long Ede shifted from one cramped elbowto another and pushed his Bible nearer the blaze, murmuring, "Take usthe foxes, the little foxes, that spoil our vines.""Full hand," the Snipe announced."Ay." David Faed rolled the quid in his cheek. The cards were so thumbedand tattered that by the backs of them each player guessed prettyshrewdly what the other held. Yet they went on playing night afternight; the Snipe shrilly blessing or cursing his luck, the Scotsmanphlegmatic as a bolster."Play away, man. What ails ye?" he asked.The Snipe had dropped both hands to his thighs and sat up, stiff andlistening."Whist! Outside the door. . . ."All listened. "I hear nothing," said David, after ten seconds."Hush, man--listen! There, again . . ."They heard now. Cooney slipped down from his hammock, stole to the doorand listened, crouching, with his ear close to the jamb. The soundresembled breathing--or so he thought for a moment. Then it seemedrather as if some creature were softly feeling about the door--fumblingits coating of ice and frozen snow.Cooney listened. They all listened. Usually, as soon as they stirredfrom the scorching circle of the fire, their breath came from them inclouds. It trickled from them now in thin wisps of vapour. They couldalmost hear the soft grey ash dropping on the hearth.A log spluttered. Then the invalid's voice clattered in--"It's the bears--the bears! They've come after Bill, and next it'll bemy turn. I warned you--I told you he wasn't deep enough. O Lord, havemercy . . . mercy . . . !" He pattered off into a prayer, his voice andteeth chattering."Hush!" commanded the Gaffer gently; and Lashman choked on a sob."It ain't bears," Cooney reported, still with his ear to the door."Leastways . . . we've had bears before. The foxes, maybe . . . let melisten."Long Ede murmured: "Take us the foxes, the little foxes . . .""I believe you're right," the Gaffer announced cheerfully. "A bearwould sniff louder--though there's no telling. The snow was falling anhour back, and I dessay 'tis pretty thick outside. If 'tis a bear, wedon't want him fooling on the roof, and I misdoubt the drift by thenorth corner is pretty tall by this time. Is he there still?""I felt something then . . . through the chink, here . . . like a warmbreath. It's gone now. Come here, Snipe, and listen.""'Breath,' eh? Did it smell like bear?""I don't know . . . I didn't smell nothing, to notice. Here, put yourhead down, close."The Snipe bent his head. And at that moment the door shook gently.All stared; and saw the latch move up, up . . . and falteringly descendon the staple. They heard the click of it.The door was secured within by two stout bars. Against these there hadbeen no pressure. The men waited in a silence that ached. But thelatch was not lifted again.The Snipe, kneeling, looked up at Cooney. Cooney shivered and looked atDavid Faed. Long Ede, with his back to the fire, softly shook his feetfree of the rugs. His eyes searched for the Gaffer's face. But the oldman had drawn back into the gloom of his bunk, and the lamplight shoneonly on a grey fringe of beard. He saw Long Ede's look, though, andanswered it quietly as ever."Take a brace of guns aloft, and fetch us a look round. Wait, ifthere's a chance of a shot. The trap works. I tried it this afternoonwith the small chisel."Long Ede lit his pipe tied down the ear-pieces of his cap, lifted alight ladder off its staples, and set it against a roof-beam: then, withthe guns under his arm, quietly mounted. His head and shoulders waveredand grew vague to sight in the smoke-wreaths. "Heard anything more?" heasked. "Nothing since," answered the Snipe. With his shoulder Long Edepushed up the trap. They saw his head framed in a panel of moonlight,with one frosty star above it. He was wriggling through. "Pitch him upa sleeping-bag, somebody," the Gaffer ordered, and Cooney ran with one."Thank 'ee, mate," said Long Ede, and closed the trap.They heard his feet stealthily crunching the frozen stuff across theroof. He was working towards the eaves over-lapping the door.Their breath tightened. They waited for the explosion of his gun.None came. The crunching began again: it was heard down by the veryedge of the eaves. It mounted to the blunt ridge overhead; then itceased."He will not have seen aught," David Faed muttered."Listen, you. Listen by the door again." They talked in whispers.Nothing; there was nothing to be heard. They crept back to the fire,and stood there warming themselves, keeping their eyes on the latch.It did not move. After a while Cooney slipped off to his hammock; Faedto his bunk, alongside Lashman's. The Gaffer had picked up his bookagain. The Snipe laid a couple of logs on the blaze, and remainedbeside it, cowering, with his arms stretched out as if to embrace it.His shapeless shadow wavered up and down on the bunks behind him; and,across the fire, he still stared at the latch.Suddenly the sick man's voice quavered out--"It's not him they want--it's Bill! They're after Bill, out there!That was Bill trying to get in. . . . Why didn't yer open? It was Bill,I tell yer!"At the first word the Snipe had wheeled right-about-face, and stood now,pointing, and shaking like a man with ague."Matey . . . for the love of God . . .""I won't hush. There's something wrong here to-night. I can't sleep.It's Bill, I tell yer. See his poor hammock up there shaking. . . ."Cooney tumbled out with an oath and a thud. "Hush it, you white-liveredswine! Hush it, or by--" His hand went behind him to his knife-sheath."Dan Cooney"--the Gaffer closed his book and leaned out--"go back toyour bed.""I won't, Sir. Not unless--""Go back.""Flesh and blood--""Go back." And for the third time that night Cooney went back.The Gaffer leaned a little farther over the ledge, and addressed thesick man."George, I went to Bill's grave not six hours agone. The snow on itwasn't even disturbed. Neither beast nor man, but only God, can breakup the hard earth he lies under. I tell you that, and you may lay toit. Now go to sleep."Long Ede crouched on the frozen ridge of the hut, with his feet in thesleeping-bag, his knees drawn up, and the two guns laid across them.The creature, whatever its name, that had tried the door, was nowhere tobe seen; but he decided to wait a few minutes on the chance of a shot;that is, until the cold should drive him below. For the moment theclear tingling air was doing him good. The truth was Long Ede had begunto be afraid of himself, and the way his mind had been running for thelast forty-eight hours upon green fields and visions of spring.As he put it to himself, something inside his head was melting.Biblical texts chattered within him like running brooks, and as theyfleeted he could almost smell the blown meadow-scent. "Take us thefoxes, the little foxes . . . for our vines have tender grapes . . .A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon. . . Awake, O north wind, and come, thou south . . . blow upon mygarden, that the spices thereof may flow out . . ." He waslight-headed, and he knew it. He must hold out. They were all goingmad; were, in fact, three parts crazed already, all except the Gaffer.And the Gaffer relied on him as his right-hand man. One glimpse of thereturning sun--one glimpse only--might save them yet.He gazed out over the frozen hills, and northward across the ice-pack.A few streaks of pale violet--the ghost of the Aurora--fronted the moon.He could see for miles. Bear or fox, no living creature was in sight.But who could tell what might be hiding behind any one of a thousandhummocks? He listened. He heard the slow grinding of the ice-pack offthe beach: only that. "Take us the foxes, the little foxes. . ."This would never do. He must climb down and walk briskly, or return tothe hut. Maybe there was a bear, after all, behind one of the hummocks,and a shot, or the chance of one, would scatter his head clear of thesetom-fooling notions. He would have a search round.What was that, moving . . . on a hummock, not five hundred yards away?He leaned forward to gaze.Nothing now: but he had seen something. He lowered himself to the eavesby the north corner, and from the eaves to the drift piled there.The drift was frozen solid, but for a treacherous crust of fresh snow.His foot slipped upon this, and down he slid of a heap.Luckily he had been careful to sling the guns tightly at his back.He picked himself up, and unstrapping one, took a step into the brightmoon-light to examine the nipples; took two steps: and stoodstock-still.There, before him, on the frozen coat of snow, was a footprint.No: two, three, four--many footprints: prints of a naked human foot:right foot, left foot, both naked, and blood in each print--a littlesmear.It had come, then. He was mad for certain. He saw them: he put hisfingers in them; touched the frozen blood. The snow before the door wastrodden thick with them--some going, some returning."The latch . . . lifted . . ." Suddenly he recalled the figure he hadseen moving upon the hummock, and with a groan he set his face northwardand gave chase. Oh, he was mad for certain! He ran like a madman--floundering, slipping, plunging in his clumsy moccasins. "Take us thefoxes, the little foxes . . . My beloved put in his hand by the hole ofthe door, and my bowels were moved for him . . . I charge you, Odaughters of Jerusalem . . . I charge you . . . I charge you . . ."He ran thus for three hundred yards maybe, and then stopped as suddenlyas he had started.His mates--they must not see these footprints, or they would go mad too:mad as he. No, he must cover them up, all within sight of the hut.And to-morrow he would come alone, and cover those farther afield.Slowly he retraced his steps. The footprints--those which pointedtowards the hut and those which pointed away from it--lay closetogether; and he knelt before each, breaking fresh snow over the hollowsand carefully hiding the blood. And now a great happiness filled hisheart; interrupted once or twice as he worked by a feeling that someonewas following and watching him. Once he turned northwards and gazed,making a telescope of his hands. He saw nothing, and fell again to hislong task.Within the hut the sick man cried softly to himself. Faed, the Snipe,and Cooney slept uneasily, and muttered in their dreams. The Gaffer layawake, thinking. After Bill, George Lashman; and after George? . . .Who next? And who would be the last--the unburied one? The men wereweakening fast; their wits and courage coming down at the end with arush. Faed and Long Ede were the only two to be depended on for a day.The Gaffer liked Long Ede, who was a religious man. Indeed he had agrowing suspicion that Long Ede, in spite of some amiable laxities ofbelief, was numbered among the Elect: or might be, if interceded for.The Gaffer began to intercede for him silently; but experience hadtaught him that such "wrestlings," to be effective, must be noisy, andhe dropped off to sleep with a sense of failure . . .The Snipe stretched himself, yawned, and awoke. It was seven in themorning: time to prepare a cup of tea. He tossed an armful of logs onthe fire, and the noise awoke the Gaffer, who at once inquired for LongEde. He had not returned. "Go you up to the roof. The lad must befrozen." The Snipe climbed the ladder, pushed open the trap, and cameback, reporting that Long Ede was nowhere to be seen. The old manslipped a jumper over his suits of clothing--already three deep--reachedfor a gun, and moved to the door. "Take a cup of something warm tofortify," the Snipe advised. "The kettle won't be five minutesboiling." But the Gaffer pushed up the heavy bolts and dragged the dooropen."What in the! . . .Here, bear a hand, lads!"Long Ede lay prone before the threshold, his out-stretched hands almosttouching it, his moccasins already covered out of sight by the powderysnow which ran and trickled incessantly--trickled between his long,dishevelled locks, and over the back of his gloves, and ran in a thinstream past the Gaffer's feet.They carried him in and laid him on a heap of skins by the fire.They forced rum between his clenched teeth and beat his hands and feet,and kneaded and rubbed him. A sigh fluttered on his lips: somethingbetween a sigh and a smile, half seen, half heard. His eyes opened, andhis comrades saw that it was really a smile."Wot cheer, mate?" It was the Snipe who asked."I--I seen . . ." The voice broke off, but he was smiling still.What had he seen? Not the sun, surely! By the Gaffer's reckoning thesun would not be due for a week or two yet: how many weeks he could notsay precisely, and sometimes he was glad enough that he did not know.They forced him to drink a couple of spoonfuls of rum, and wrapped himup warmly. Each man contributed some of his own bedding. Then theGaffer called to morning prayers, and the three sound men dropped ontheir knees with him. Now, whether by reason of their joy at Long Ede'srecovery, or because the old man was in splendid voice, they felt theirhearts uplifted that morning with a cheerfulness they had not known formonths. Long Ede lay and listened dreamily while the passion of theGaffer's thanksgiving shook the hut. His gaze wandered over their bowedforms--"The Gaffer, David Faed, Dan Cooney, the Snipe, and--and GeorgeLashman in his bunk, of course--and me." But, then, who was theseventh? He began to count. "There's myself--Lashman, in his bunk--David Faed, the Gaffer, the Snipe, Dan Cooney . . . One, two, three,four--well, but that made seven. Then who was the seventh? Was itGeorge who had crawled out of bed and was kneeling there? Decidedlythere were five kneeling. No: there was George, plain enough, in hisberth, and not able to move. Then who was the stranger? Wrong again:there was no stranger. He knew all these men--they were his mates.Was it--Bill? No, Bill was dead and buried: none of these was Bill, orlike Bill. Try again--One, two, three, four, five--and us two sick men,seven. The Gaffer, David Faed, Dan Cooney--have I counted Dan twice?No, that's Dan, yonder to the right, and only one of him. Five menkneeling, and two on their backs: that makes seven every time. DearGod--suppose--"The Gaffer ceased, and in the act of rising from his knees, caught sightof Long Ede's face. While the others fetched their breakfast-cans, hestepped over, and bent and whispered--"Tell me. Ye've seen what?""Seen?" Long Ede echoed."Ay, seen what? Speak low--was it the sun?""The s--" But this time the echo died on his lips, and his face grewfull of awe uncomprehending. It frightened the Gaffer."Ye'll be the better of a snatch of sleep," said he; and was turning togo, when Long Ede stirred a hand under the edge of his rugs."Seven . . . count . . ." he whispered."Lord have mercy upon us!" the Gaffer muttered to his beard as he movedaway. "Long Ede; gone crazed!"And yet, though an hour or two ago this had been the worst that couldbefall, the Gaffer felt unusually cheerful. As for the others, theywere like different men, all that day and through the three days thatfollowed. Even Lashman ceased to complain, and, unless their eyesplayed them a trick, had taken a turn for the better. "I declare, if Idon't feel like pitching to sing!" the Snipe announced on the secondevening, as much to his own wonder as to theirs. "Then why in thunderdon't you strike up?" answered Dan Cooney, and fetched his concertina.The Snipe struck up, then and there--"Villikins and his Dinah"!What is more, the Gaffer looked up from his "Paradise Lost," and joinedin the chorus.By the end of the second day, Long Ede was up and active again. He wentabout with a dazed look in his eyes. He was counting, counting tohimself, always counting. The Gaffer watched him furtively.Since his recovery, though his lips moved frequently, Long Ede hadscarcely uttered a word. But towards noon on the fourth day he said anextraordinary thing."There's that sleeping-bag I took with me the other night. I wonder if'tis on the roof still. It will be froze pretty stiff by this.You might nip up and see, Snipe, and"--he paused--"if you find it, stowit up yonder on Bill's hammock."The Gaffer opened his mouth, but shut it again without speaking.The Snipe went up the ladder.A minute passed; and then they heard a cry from the roof--a cry thatfetched them all trembling, choking, weeping, cheering, to the foot ofthe ladder."Boys! boys!--the Sun!"Months later--it was June, and even George Lashman had recovered hisstrength--the Snipe came running with news of the whaling fleet. And onthe beach, as they watched the vessels come to anchor, Long Ede told theGaffer his story. "It was a hall--a hallu--what d'ye call it, I reckon.I was crazed, eh?" The Gaffer's eyes wandered from a brambling hoppingabout the lichen-covered boulders, and away to the sea-fowl wheelingabove the ships: and then came into his mind a tale he had read once in"The Turkish Spy." "I wouldn't say just that," he answered slowly."Anyway," said Long Ede, "I believe the Lord sent a miracle to us tosave us all.""I wouldn't say just that, either," the Gaffer objected. "I doubt itwas meant just for you and me, and the rest were presairved, as youmight say incidentally."