Talbot Mundy

“ The brown skins of the Somalis blended with the night; Stanley’s khaki shirt was of a piece with it; and the boat’s sides, dripping phosphorus, were but another splash of dancing light amid the luminous, life-laden blackness. They were low-sided—half-hidden in the trough of a beam-on Red Sea swell—rising over it second after second, only to sink between again, invisible. And behind them, up above their heads, the revolving light on Matthew kept up its ceaseless vigil, winking at them every sixty seconds with a bloodshot eye. ”

“ Stanley leaned back in a corner of the stern, with his right arm hooked up above the tiller, and one eye all the while on the Somali who was rowing stroke. The Somali’s gaze was fixed on the big revolving light behind them; every once in a while he would jerk his head sideways, one way or the other, and Stanley would put the helm up or down—in the direction of his nod. But no one spoke; the glow of Stanley’s pipe, the kung-tunk, kung-tunk of oars against the thole-pins, and the heavy breathing of the boatmen were all that distinguished them from the Flying Dutchman’s jolly-boat. ”

“ Promoted after that to the rank of sergeant—a full-fledged, tested connecting-link between the bayonets and the brains. A man of pride now—pride of Empire—pride of decency—pride in his own word—preacher of pride and cleanliness to new recruits—straight-backed and polished as a service cleaning-rod.
But the desolation of the Twelve Apostles, as those Red Sea island rocks are named, had seeped into his soul. Even the British sergeant must be busy, unless he is to lose that indefinable, but absolutely certain Regimental grip that tightens up his moral fiber while it trains his muscles. ”

“ But Jim Bates never once looked round.
A moment later, Stanley saw him talking to the sentry on an upstanding crag that jutted out seaward by the lighthouse; he could just make out their two forms, like black shadows—the sentry leaning on his rifle, and the old man pointing somewhere away beyond. But the Somalis hustled him along and pushed him through the lighthouse door and up some more steps, and turned the key of a round, whitewashed, bare-walled room on him. ”

“ He would die sooner! He would dive among the sharks before they caught him! With the foolish, childish instinct of a man hard gripped by fear, he began to pull his boots off.
Then another thought occurred to him. He sprang forward and sat down on the stroke-man’s thwart and seized his oar. The man resisted, and Stanley kicked and pushed him away toward the stern. After that, he set the pace himself and made it a rouser—rowing until the veins swelled on his temples, and his breath came in noisy gasps, and his head grew giddy with the heat and sweat and effort. ”

“ The answer to that’s easy, sergeant. I keep busy! It’s perfectly obvious why you men don’t enjoy life on the island: you lie on your cots all day and smoke and quarrel until you’re peeved all to pieces—any fool could explain that! What is puzzling is how the lighthouse-keeper enjoys himself so much. He simply loves his job. He doesn’t take any exercise beyond climbing up and down the tower every now and then ”

“ But Aden is absolutely child’s play—a pellucid, angel-haunted paradise—compared to any single one of the Twelve Apostles. And of all the Twelve, the one that men have christened Matthew is the worst—the baldest—the bleakest—the hottest—the one with most claim to be the model that Satan tried to imitate. ”

“ It was five minutes before he spoke again. “They dowse them glims when they’re busy!" he said presently.
Stanley cared nothing for the lights; he was busy thinking. What evidence was there against him? Nothing! He had got a night’s leave, and had gone off in a whale-boat, and had come back again. How, and when, and why he came back, was nobody’s concern except his own—unless he chose to force an explanation from the lighthouse-keeper!
“They’re fishing now!” confided Bates suddenly, in his usual abrupt tones that invited no reply. ”

“ A man who can tame Somalis isn’t ignorant—he’s wise!”
“I’d as soon tame sharks, sir!” answered Stanley.
Brasenose leaned back and looked at him through puckered eyes. “Have you tried catching ’em?” he asked.
“How—catching ’em, sir?”
“Hook and line—fun of the world! They fight you for half an hour sometimes. See here!” He bared a freckled forearm that was lean and brown and sinewy beyond belief. “I got all that catching ’em. Look at this!” He showed the callous where a thirty-fathom line had ripped across his fingers. “A shark did that—a thirteen-footer. ”

“ Ten minutes later still, while Second-Lieutenant Brasenose—pajama-clad again and sun-burnt—sat writing up his daily official log, a knock came at his door, and it was followed by the grizzled, wrinkled face of the lighthouse-keeper, silhouetted in the lamplight.
“Has any one got leave of absence?” he demanded.
“Yes. Sergeant Stanley has—and four boys. I was just writing in the log here that the climate and conditions seem to be very trying to the men. I told Stanley he might go shark-fishing, to try and get rid of his grouch. If that’s a success, I shall try to get the men interested too.” ”

“ You ought to take to fishing sharks, sergeant—it ’ud be no end good for you—keep your mind off grouching, and all that kind of thing, and give you enough exercise to keep you fit!”
“I’d get sunstroke, sir!” said Stanley, who had no enthusiasm left.
“Go out at night then. I go in the daytime, but there’s no reason why you should; they’ll take the hook all right at night. Take a whale-boat and two or three of the boys to-night, after I get back, and try your luck!”
“How about the men, sir?” suggested Stanley. “They’re in need of watching! ”

“ They mold ’em all on one pattern hereabouts! There’s no originality—rocks, Arabs, heat, Somalis—everything’s the same as it was in old King Solomon’s time! Go on, help yourself to eggs. Twopence! Where are you? Bring the sergeant a cup, can’t you! ’Pon my soul, I believe the lighthouse-keeper’s been here since Solomon’s day too!”
“He’s the ignorantest man I ever talked to!” said Sergeant Stanley, sniffing at an egg suspiciously. ”

“ A man could not swim for fear of sharks and worse things; he could not play games, because the ragged rock-surface was hot enough to raise blisters through the soles of ammunition boots; he could not read because the sweat ran into his eyes ”