The Curious Quests of Brigadier Ffellowes Read online

  " 'Get down, Verner, get down flat!' Dad bellowed. Verner, whose back was to them, fell as if struck dead. The others being prone already, a clear field of fire was possible. Dad began to turn the crank.

  "The bellow of the Gatling drowned out all other noises, and my father traversed it back and forth as coldly as if he had been on a target range. Old Umpa, his dark, scarred visage expressionless, broke open the boxes and emptied cartridges into the hopper as calmly as if he were shelling nuts. The result was appalling. The great furry brutes went down like nine-pins, and as fast as those in front fell, the others behind followed. It was over in five minutes.

  "My father stopped firing and the bluish smoke drifted in the faint breeze. The water at the beach edge was red, and so too were the sands. It looked like a slaughter-house. The bulky carcasses lay in their gory death like so many shot muskrats, which indeed they resembled, save in size.

  "Verner rose from the sand and dusted himself off in a precise, almost mincing way. His three trusties also got up, old Burung in the lead, and walked over to us.

  " 'You have justified my belief in you, Captain,' he said in his usual icy tones. 'These dangerous vermin were tolerably close to terminating a career which has not been without some small distinction. And who is this, pray tell?'

  "It was a considerable pleasure for my father to introduce Van Ouisthoven to Mr. Verner, though the latter was, to be sure, as imperturbable as usual.

  " 'I see that the reports of your death, Mynjheer, have been considerably exaggerated.' Verner's voice was even chiller than its normal wont 'You have much to answer for, sir. You have imperiled the entire human race by your meddling in matters better left to Providence.'

  "His rebuke, however, went unnoticed. For even Verner had forgotten the ship. Now, with a cry, the old Hollander pointed, and we all remembered her. Under easy sail, square sails set on the two foremasts, and gaff on the mizzen, the Matilda Briggs was standing out to sea. The three small boats which had been plying to and from shore drifted on the tide.

  "It was a beautiful scene, really. There was the brown ship, as lovely as only a sailing vessel can be, the azure waters, the fringe of nipa and coco palms on the shore, and then the open sea beyond the harbor's mouth. But it was horror! One thing had been made plain to my father; that the ship must not escape. And here she was, stealing out to sea, and they were helpless. The Gatling, though unparalleled at close range, was useless beyond two hundred yards, and the ship was thrice that already. Everyone stood in numb silence, and simply watched her go. And saw her end.

  "Around the corner of the northern point of the bay came the bow of a small black steamer with white upper works. And as she appeared, she began to fire, first the bow gun and then the stern, as soon as they could bear upon the target. She was not large, but on her staff she wore the blue, red and white of the navy of Holland. In silence the little crowd on the beach watched the annihilation of the Matilda Briggs. The two guns the gunboat used were not of great caliber, but the bark was a fragile thing, wood-built, old and hard-used. Her masts fell in seconds, and the fires kindled by the exploding shells were all over her in another instant. Ceaselessly, remorselessly, the warship fired. When she stopped and the echoes of her guns no longer resounded in one's ears, there was nothing on the surface of the lagoon, nothing but a smear of oily muck, some oily smoke, a litter of wood scraps, and the dark fins of countless sharks.

  " 'The Dolfjin has justified the Dutch naval estimates, indeed those of the entire mass of all the world's navies,' came the didactic comment of Verner over my father's shoulder. 'A curious reflection on the rise of modern fleets, that one minute gunboat should prove the probable savior of the human race. She came only just in time,' he added.

  "But my father was not really listening to Verner. He was watching Van Ouisthoven instead. The old man was walking slowly down the beach to the pile of bodies where the Folk lay, the males in front of their females and young. For some reason, my father followed him as he skirted the fringe of the mass of dead creatures and advanced slowly and with head bent on the last heap at the water's edge.

  "While my father stood silent behind him, the old fellow began to pull the bodies apart in the last heap, the one nearest the water, ignoring the warm blood that stained his arms and clothing. Persistently, he tugged and hauled, shoving the great carcasses aside, until at last he was rewarded.

  "Something moved under his hands, and his motions grew more excited. My father drew one of his revolvers and stood waiting, poised for any eventuality.

  "A blunt-nosed head appeared from under one of the larger shapes, and into the bright sun of noon wiggled a small furry creature, no more than three feet high. In one arm it clutched something flat, but the other hand it held out to Van Ouisthoven, squeaking plaintively as it did so. The man whom it addressed stood silent, his shoulders seeming to stoop even more, if possible. Then in the same absence of sound, Van Ouisthoven held out one hand to my father. In the same bleak silence, as if no other noise could be allowed, my father handed over the revolver he held. He saw tears pouring down Van Ouisthoven's face. There was a shot. My father confessed he had his eyes close at this juncture. Then a second shot.

  "When Dad could bear to look again, two figures were clasped together. The old Hollander lay hugging the small shape of the last of the Folk, a bullet in his own brain. Beside them on the sand lay the object which the little thing had been holding so tightly. My father stirred it with his foot. It was a Dutch primer, brightly illustrated in color, with pictures of children in Holland at play.

  "The next scene of the drama, or what have you, took place in the captain's cabin of His Netherlandish Majesty's ship, the Dolfjin. They were headed down the coast to pick up my father's prau. The Dutch naval officer had ceased his questions, and the interminable voice of Verner had taken up the tale. Through a fog of fatigue blended with irritation, my father tried to follow what the man was saying. His comprehensive dislike of the fellow's personality was palliated only by a genuine admiration of the man's attainments and perseverance.

  " 'It becomes quite clear, I think, to all present, that no report of this affair must reach any but the few constituted authorities, those who are cognizant to some extent, that is, of the problem. Were the facts to be made plain, I fear, some scientific rascals would be able to reproduce the late Van Ouisthoven's work. While he had a good degree from Leyden, he was hardly, save in sheer persistence, a genius, and it is highly possible ...'

  "Here, my father, who could not forget the old man's death, made some ejaculation or even swore, though this was most unlike him.

  " 'My dear Ffellowes,' said Verner, his voice losing some of its habitual sang-froid. 'No one is more cognizant than myself of that unfortunate man's dilemma. He must, perforce, destroy the very thing he had created. His last moments, which I also observed, were charged with remorse and grief. Yet, what choice had he? Or indeed, any of us? His final actions, awful though they may appear to an observer, gave him rank with the leaders of the human race. He raised Caliban from the depths and to the depths he dispatched him.'

  "My father said nothing. He was too sunk in weariness and sadness to venture further. Yet for one moment, Verner's wiry hand had pressed his shoulder, and he felt the unspoken sympathy which the other could not express in any other way, both to the dead, and to himself. There was a silence.

  " 'To resume,' Verner continued, his high querulous voice cutting off any debate, 'the facts are indeed singular. They stem, in fact, from the unpaid bills of a Manchester firm of machinery manufacturers. These people, whose name is in the highest degree inconsequential to this story, retained in turn, my employers, Messrs. Morrison, Morrison and Dodd, who act only as appraisers of various mechanical artifices and manufacturers, but also, in a subsidiary vein, as assurers of the same. Thus are great affairs put in train! The bills of the original company were not being paid! A steady and reliable account had ceased payment, without prior notice! An outrage, in the ordered commun
ity of business! What transpired? Morrison, Morrison and Dodd were called in and found themselves at sea, literally and figuratively. The account was in the great Dutch island of Sumatra. Some ten thousands of pounds sterling were owed. The Dutch, when appealed to, could give no assistance.

  " 'The area in question was remote and feverish, on the so-called Tapanuli coast. Few ships called there. In any case, the Holland Government could hardly prosecute a bankrupt on behalf of an English firm. They declined action. So the matter stood. But do not undervalue the persistence of the English man of business. He will follow a bad debt to the end. Hence my appearance in this matter, brought about by devious means and my own desires, let it be said.

  " 'When the matter was first put to me, I was at first totally disinterested. It seemed to have little of consequence, and less of any noteworthy quality about it. I was resistant to the idea of my services being engaged. Yet, I made a few preliminary moves. One of these was to frequent the numerous haunts in the areas of the London docks, where information on this part of the world might be ascertained, if patience were applied.

  " 'My patience was rewarded. Some mouthings of a dying lascar seaman in a den of the vilest description caused me to accept the commission. What the fellow said was vague and in the highest degree inconclusive. Nevertheless, it brought me out here to the East. For, in speaking of the very area of coast in which we now find ourselves, he said something of great interest.

  " 'Do not go there,' he choked out 'That is the land of Not-men. Men like you and me, we are killed on sight!'

  " 'So, by strange methods, including enlisting persons so lofty in stature they may not be mentioned on this vessel, through a previous indebtedness to my humble person, I secured the right to anywhere in these islands. And also to ask for the aid of such Dutch naval craft as might be available. In fact, I could tell my colleague here to sink anything he saw moving on this coast.

  " 'And so by circuitous means,' continued Verner, 'I came to one Cornelius Van Ouisthoven, the original bad debtor of my employers. The man was presumed dead. Not one relative in his family had heard from him for many years. But and a large BUT it was he had ordered mining machinery, railway machinery, all sorts of machinery, and had not paid for it, that is, after a certain point in time.

  " 'I found myself with a curious and unsolvable equation, involving this hitherto unknown Dutch gentleman, whose background I was at some pains to look into. Added to him there was some unpaid-for machinery, and finally, as I drew closer to the area in question, more and more rumors about a land where men were not welcome!

  " 'So curious were all these circumstances that I felt I must investigate in person. I did so, and the results were as you know. I found myself the prisoner of these creatures the old gentleman chose to call "the Folk."

  " 'I managed to escape and even flee the harbor in one of the native craft whose previous owners, no doubt innocent fishermen, the Folk had slain. These vessels, which were beyond their management, were left drawn up on the beach.

  " 'I have not been so fortunate as to secure Van Ouisthoven's notes, but I rather fancy I can piece together the main membra.

  " 'Briefly, the old man was a biologist, and one of extraordinary patience. He bred some native rodent, almost certainly Rhizomys sumatrensis, the local so-called, "bamboo rat" to extraordinary size. In my dissecting days at Barts, various genera of the Rodentia were exposed to me, and I well remember noting that this particular species had very well-developed paws, quite resembling hands, in fact.

  " 'Hands come before brains, you know. This is the most recent opinion. Without grasping organs, our peculiar human brains would be worthless. So, the old recluse went on with his work. And, from what you tell me, Ffellowes, he succeeded.

  " 'Brain is an inevitable increment of size at this rate. These vermin are quite clever enough as it is. Someone at the British Museum has deduced that there are four thousand species of rodents on the planet already. But if we are to be supplanted, let it be in due course. Even the old man agreed with that at the end.'

  "And there," said Ffellowes, extinguishing his cigar, "my story, or 'tale' if you like, Williams, ends. My father was returned to his own vessel, he continued his cruise through the islands, and no report of any of this exists anywhere, unless it be in some hidden archives of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. That is all."

  -

  There was a longer silence this time. It was broken by the younger member who had brought on the whole business in the first place.

  "But, Brigadier, with all respect, sir, there is something vaguely familiar about all this. Who was this man, Verner, or whatever he called himself? He sounds like some creature of fiction himself."

  Ffellowes' answer was well typical. He stared at the young man coldly, but not in anger.

  "Possible, no doubt. Since I never read sensational literature, I fear that I am in no position to give an answer. I have nothing to go on, you understand, but my father's unsupported word. I have always felt that sufficient!"

  After a much longer silence, the brigadier was found to have gone, as silently as always. And, as usual, no one else seemed to have anything to say.

  -

  COMMANDER IN THE MIST

  It was a rather normal day, or actually, afternoon, for New York. In November, that is. Crowds were moving along Fifth Avenue in a cold sleeting rain. Traffic was blaring horns and cab drivers were yelling obscenities at jaywalkers, other hapless motorists and each other. The brown-uniformed Traffic Police, including a few women, with the aid of the standard men in blue, were trying to make sense out of it all and, true to the reputation of New York's police over the Earth, were doing so, with terse, barking commands of "Move along there" and "Can't you see the color of a stop light, goddamnit?"

  I was standing against the solid stone wall of Central Park, in the low Sixties, which was some protection against the cold wind and wet. The wind was out of the west, over the Hudson River and coming over the few leaves on the park trees with some force. The thin, cold drops of water were apt to be driven down one's neck while walking. Still, I had only two blocks to go. Then the park would end and I could easily cross to my destination.

  I was looking downtown and about to move on when I was startled by a voice from my other flank.

  "Like the thunder of the city, old chap?" A man stood beside me, his Burberry belted and his slouch hat, some natty Italian make, maybe a Borsalino, slanted over one blue eye. A grin cut across the ruddy, smooth-shaven face, and I wondered again at the absence of lines on it. The Brigadier, as Ffellowes preferred to be called, had been everywhere in the world and not only done most known things, but seemed to have been mixed up in a whole bunch of things no one else had not only never done, most people had never conceived of them being remotely possible. His years of service to the British Crown had dumped him in every branch of their army I had ever heard of, and then some! If he's truthful, and I think he is, it would hardly take me by surprise to have him state calmly that he had commanded a battle-cruiser at Jutland or been leader of the much later air strike on Dresden. What a man, and how quietly and unobtrusively he could move! A long period in some intelligence branch or branches, that had taught him this trick, or so he claimed. Now he spoke again, the clipped, even tones cutting through street noise like a knife through butter.

  "Don't recognize the quote, do you?" His smile broadened. "It was said to, or thought by, a hero, if you like. Fictional, I'm afraid." He saw from my puzzled look that I had no idea what he was talking about, which was not rare, and went on with his joke. "It was said about this town to one Simon Templar. That ring a bell? Said by or inspired by a lovely girl though, not an aging hack of the Empire."

  My memory raced and finally came up with reading long past but still memorable. "For Christ's sake! The Saint! Didn't know you liked that kind of thing, Brigadier. What's the story called?"

  "If my recollection serves, very simple. The Saint in New York, by that chap, Leslie Charteris. Damne
d good book, too. You ought to try it. Maybe it's in the club library, hmm?"

  "Let's go and look. I was headed there anyway. There's no sun, to put it mildly, and it's getting dark. This park has muggers, you know."

  My answer didn't make him turn a hair. As a matter of fact, I would have feared for any mugger who tried on Ffellowes, unless he had a team headed by a large tank, to help him.

  He was going to the same place I was, and we strolled quickly along the rain-swept street in the growing dark, chatting away together. In no time we were in our club and had shucked our coats and settled down with drinks in the library. He had, not tea, which might have been what he was raised on, but a large cup of black coffee, fresh-ground as the club does it.

  There were three or four of our acquaintances in the big room, and they quickly stopped whatever they were gabbing about and drew near to us and around the fire. I knew what they were hoping for, but I could hardly blame them. Any time I got Ffellowes at his ease by a fire, or just relaxed, I hoped for one of his incredible stories. They were rare but fantastic. We all felt the same way, but none of us wanted to beg or put the man at a disadvantage. If we had, we all felt, he might stop coming around at all. Better an occasional tale from the Brigadier, than none at all.