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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
The Island of Shadows by Fred M. White is a thrilling adventure that plunges readers into a world shrouded in mystery and danger. When a group of explorers stumbles upon a hidden island, they quickly realize that it harbors secrets far darker than they ever imagined. Strange occurrences, eerie whispers, and a series of unexplained disappearances unravel as the island reveals its sinister past. As the explorers delve deeper, they uncover a chilling conspiracy that could change the course of history. Can they escape the island's malevolent grip, or will they become permanent residents of the shadows? Embark on this spine-tingling journey and discover the chilling secrets of The Island of Shadows.
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Table of Contents
The Island of Shadows
BIBLIOGRAPHIC NOTE
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The Island of Shadows
BIBLIOGRAPHIC NOTE
This newly-discovered short novel is believed to be Fred M. White's first foray into science fiction. It predates his famous "Doom of London" series, which debuted in Pearson's Magazine in 1903, by nearly 11 years. The e-book edition provided here was created from digital scans of the serialized version originally published in the British boys' magazine Illustrated Chums, archived in the Digital Resources Section of the Cambridge University Library.
Readers familiar with Fred M. White's works may find the style of The Island of Shadows somewhat uncharacteristic. This could be attributed to White adapting his writing for the publication—a budget-friendly boys' magazine aimed at a sensation-driven audience.
However, the reference in Illustrated Chums to the author of this story also being credited with a work titled In the Eye of the Law raises questions about the true authorship. It’s possible that the story was written by another Fred M. White, a journalist on the staff of the 19th-century London newspaper The Morning Star.
This speculation arises because, to date, no record has been found of a book by any author named Fred M. White titled In the Eye of the Law. Any information from readers that could clarify this matter would be greatly appreciated.
Regardless of the authorship uncertainty, Roy Glashan's Library and Project Gutenberg Australia are delighted to present this "lost" late-Victorian science-fiction novel, which is being published in book form for the first time.
[ On October 23, 1895, the Pall Mall Gazette published the following obituary: "By a curious coincidence, the death is also announced today, at the same age [67], of Mr. Fred M. White, a veteran London journalist, whose name is associated in the minds of his friends with the same troubled times in Italian history. He knew Mazzini; his sister Jessie married Count Mario, a devoted follower of Garibaldi. Madame Jessie Mario, who still lives in Italy, has written biographies of both Mazzini and Garibaldi. Mr. White served on the editorial staff of The Morning Star under Mr. John Morley, and in 1870 joined the Press Association, where he was the oldest member of the original staff. He retired at the end of last year on a pension. He was a man of great literary talent, with a notably modest disposition and a kind, generous spirit. He was beloved by all his colleagues, who affectionately referred to him as the 'Field-Marshal.'"]
CHAPTER I.
ON a fine March evening some five years ago there sat, in the bay window of an old-fashioned Greenwich hostelry, two men who were pondering deeply over a confused mass of charts and plans that lay before them. The redly-setting sun flashed upon the bosom of the river, with its picturesque mass of shipping and masts like grey needles pointing to the sky, an flooded the low-roofed oak-panelled room, in which the men were seated, with a golden glory. They had the apartment quite to themselves, no other feet disturbed the sanded floor, and no maritime reveller disturbed the hallowed sanctuary of the place.
Concerning the quiet beauty of the scene, the flashing, winding river melting away into the golden horizon, the two men saw or cared nothing. The older of the twain had the air and manner of one born to the sea, his hard, rugged face was bronzed by a thousand gales, his bright blue eyes were keen and fearless, and his white hair seemed almost out of place on a man whose frame was as muscular and powerful as it had been five-and-twenty years before. Tom Armstrong, generally known by the generic title of Captain Armstrong, might have boasted, had he been a boasting man, that there was no quarter of the globe unfamiliar to him. For nearly five years he had given up the sea and lived retired on a small competency he had amassed, devoting his time to scientific pursuits, of which he was passionately fond. Very few people knew the extent of his knowledge in this direction, and few people were aware of the really startling discoveries that lay dormant in that magnificent old sea lion's head.
Armstrong's companion, Harold Coventry by name, was a young man somewhere about six-and-twenty years of age. Like his companion, the sea was his passion, and, whilst being anything but a well-to-do man, he contrived to maintain a small yacht, in which he had penetrated into every sea. His friendship with Armstrong was a long one, and from him he had derived all his knowledge of seamanship, a craft to which he had taken by instinct, for Coventry belonged to a famous old naval family, whose name had been a powerful one from the days of Elizabeth onwards. More than one Coventry had found his way to fortune on the Spanish Main in company with Drake and Frobisher and Martin. But a long course of adventuring and reckless plundering in search of excitement had had its effect and now the last of the Coventrys had nothing remaining to him besides the record of family glory by sea, an income of some three hundred pounds yearly, and a mass of papers, parchment and documents which were a matter of vague curiosity to him and a source of unfailing delight to Armstrong.
They had them out now, in Armstrong's room in "The Mermaid," the strong spring light falling upon faded papers and yellow parchments, and more especially upon the shred of parchment Armstrong held in his hand.
"You nay make as much fun of me as you like," he said; "but I am right."
"So, in this instance. Though I generally find you to be correct," Harold replied. "There is part of the cypher; the legend in our family came home to me intact concerning this fabulous treasure, and that is all I know."
"Let me repeat the story you told me," Armstrong said quietly. "Your ancestor, Amyas Coventry, with three other gentlemen adventurers, sailed from Plymouth in the month of June 1579, and after a successful voyage, reached Vera Cruz. He had his only daughter, Valerie, with him, a child of fourteen years. It was a strange thing to take a girl like that, but he took her. In the log-book of the Albatross, his ship, which is now in your possession, I find the following passage."
Armstrong took up a parchment-covered volume filled with symbols and scientific signs, and turning to a well-thumbed page, read as follows:—
"March 18, 1581.—Dyd this dae take after much peryl and adventure, ye Spanish bark, Don Gonzola, a prize of exceedinge value. Amongst ye treasure we found doubloons to ye value of eighty thousand pounds English, also rix dollars to a great many more times thatte sum, and being in ye Gulf of Mexico about three degrees west of Havana and one north of the Island of Pines did land on the island called Santa Anna, and bury ye treasure, whereof ye exact spotte and ye bearing of ye same are given in ye cypher what follows."
"Very well then," Armstrong went on, "we know that treasure to the extent of something more than a million pounds of our money lies buried there.''
"Yes," Coventry interrupted, "but where is the island? I was there all last summer in the Firefly, and although I went over every inch of ground there is positively no such island extant. There can be no possible mistake on this point, as log-book and observations will clearly demonstrate."
Armstrong searched amongst his papers until he produced what he required. It was an ancient chart of the Gulf of Mexico, and upon it was fully set out the various places therein. Upon one spot he placed a bony forefinger, and as Harold looked down he saw the words "Santa Anna" marked on the yellow parchment.
"It is very strange," he said, "and yet I am certain I am right. If that chart is correct the island must have disappeared."
But Armstrong did not smile; he regarded his young companion gravely.
"It has disappeared," he said, gravely. "By consulting the chart and going carefully into your observations I have satisfied myself that you must have sailed over the very place where Santa Anna was."
"In which case we need not give ourselves any further trouble in this matter."
"In which case," Armstrong repeated, gravely, "the trouble is about to begin. I am going to find that island and raise it to sea level again."
Harold laughed heartily. He knew something of Armstrong's visionary ideas, but the suggestion of raising a submerged island out of three hundred fathoms of water was wild and romantic even for the scientist before him.
"People always laugh at what they don't understand," Armstrong said, quite unmoved by Harold's laughter. "My theory is that the island was a coral one, one of those floating masses which rise to the surface and gradually accumulate matter until they become quite a respectable size. You know what vegetation in the tropics is and how rapidly things grow. Well, Santa Anna grew and spread, the birds brought the seeds there, trees grew, and the soil became fertile. But at the same time the island was a floating one, anchored to its moorings by the long tenacious fibres of weed and other marine plants like millions of ropes, each in itself fragile, but when combined, capable of keeping a continent in place. We know the island was there, we need not argue that, and for the sake of argument we admit that it was composed of coral. Now I come to a vital point. What caused it to disappear, or to speak more plainly, to sink?
"You think the island did sink then?" Harold asked.
"Beyond question, there is no other way to account for it. But why? For months I have been reading old voyages and adventures, both in manuscript and print, but at last my search has been rewarded. In the beginning of the seventeenth century, so I read in an old volume, a violent irruption took place on the island of Caraba, so violent, says the chronicle, that for fifty miles around the sea was one mass of dust and liquid fire, and no one could approach within the radius. When the irruption was over, sailors were surprised to hear that several islands round had entirely disappeared, burnt up, as they thought is their ignorance, but sank, as we know now. How far is Caraba from the spot where the island of Santa Anna ought to be?"
"Not far; certainly not more than thirty miles as the crow flies."
"Which all tends to prove my theory," Armstrong said, calmly. "You see that raft and the men below? If I were to pile it two feet high all over with blocks of stone, what would happen to it, do you think?"
"It would sink, Tom; even I can answer that question."
"Precisely in the same way the volcano at Caraba sunk Santa Anna. Thousands and thousands of tons of stone were thrown upon the thin coral shell, till gradually the weight, which was naturally equally distributed, pressed it down, and it settled to the bottom. Santa Anna buried in three hundred fathoms of water."
"It seems plausible enough," Harold replied; "but it is gone. There is an end of it."
"So some people would think; but I believe nothing to be impossible. So convinced do I feel of the fact that there is treasure there that I am going to put all my money into a venture to try and recover it. All we have to do is to get out to Caraba and go from thence to the island of Mea Culpa, which is within two miles of where Santa Anna used to be, and then raise the island."
Harold glanced at his companion in astonishment, but there was no glare of madness in Armstrong's glittering blue eyes as he puffed steadily at his pipe.
Much respect as he had for Armstrong's wonderful scientific knowledge, Harold could not do otherwise than regard the present suggestion as the wild scheme of a visionary. But the wonderful things done by Armstrong had been so many and so strange that it was never safe to contradict him on any matter of theory.
"Even if you can do it," Harold said, "it might take years to find the treasure."
"It might, because you see you have only half the cypher. And now I verily believe I have discovered where the other half is. Latterly I have been spending a deal of time at the British Museum and, naturally, I have been reading all the books relating to the Gulf of Mexico, especially those bearing upon volcanic eruption. Several times lately I have noticed a Spaniard, whose name I find in Barrados, has been interested in much the same volumes. Seeing that we were both engaged in similar pursuits, I spoke to him, and though he was taciturn at first, he warmed up wonderfully when I asked him if, in the course of his reading, he had come across any mention of an island of Santa Anna. It was the very object of his own research.
"You do not mean that?" Harold said with deepest interest. "Did he say more?"
"He will be here presently to speak for himself," Armstrong replied. "The man has in his possession the missing half of the cypher."
An exclamation of astonishment broke from Harold. He would have asked for further information had not the door opened at that moment and a stranger entered.
He was a dark, powerful-looking individual, with handsome, but somewhat sinister features, and he glanced very suspiciously at Harold as Armstrong performed the necessary ceremony of introduction.
"Mr. Miguel Barrados, Mr. Harold Coventry," he said. "It appears that Mr. Barrados can claim a relationship to you, although it is very slight, because Valerie Coventry, Amyas Coventry's daughter, married an ancestor of his."
"Perhaps I had better explain," Barrados took up the thread.
"I know all about you, sir, from Captain Armstrong, but you know nothing of me. After the treasure was hidden at Santa Anna. Amyas Coventry fell into the hands of my father, who commanded a ship in the Spanish Navy. As a freebooter he was condemned to death, but contrived to escape, and what became of him afterwards I am unable to say.
"But we took his ship back to Spain, and in the course of time Valerie Coventry, who remained with them, married the son of the man who had captured her father's vessel.
"There is a tradition in our family that she used to relate a story of how Amyas Coventry concealed a vast treasure at Santa Anna.
"No one was really interested in this until I discovered that at one time such an island as Santa Anna really existed.
"The story was further borne out by the fact that my ancestress, Valerie Barrados, handed down to her descendants part of a cypher written on parchment, the other half being retained by her father, she said, he having taken the precaution to divide it in case he should happen to fall into the hands of enemies.
"The coincidence, and my meeting with Captain Armstrong, is a very singular one, but as a proof that I am only speaking the truth, I will produce my half of the cypher."
Without further preamble, Barrados drew from his pocket a little leather case, and took therefrom a dingy scrap of parchment. With some natural excitement, Armstrong unlocked an iron safe and took out another piece. of vellum-like substance, and, approaching the window so that he might have the full benefit of the light, put the ragged edges together.
"It is the missing portion," he said, exultingly; "see for yourselves."
The three men eagerly scanned the cypher.
It was written in an uncertain hand with many strange signs, was all tattered and stained, and altogether looked anything but a valuable document, yet it contained, no doubt, the secret of the hidden treasure, if they could but decipher it.
Harold and Barrados looked down at the letter, and this is what they saw:—
"Not much to be made out of that," Harold laughed, after all three had examined the cypher intently. "There are the usual skulls, but nothing beyond.
"Doubtless, if we could be at the island, the cypher would be plain enough," Armstrong replied, "and I for one think it can be done."
"You may count on my assistance in that ease," Barrados remarked quietly. "I know you are a man of marked ingenuity, Captain Armstrong, and if you can show me how that is to be done, I do not mind risking £1,000 in the venture; that is, of course, if Mr. Coventry, who is equally interested, will do the same."
They both of them turned to Harold Armstrong, with his blue eyes flashing, and Barrados, with something like a challenge in his face. It was a lot of money to risk upon a visionary venture, but the spirit of the gambler was upon him.
"I will do it," he said. "Armstrong, when will you be ready to start?"
Armstrong rose from his seat and paced the room in strong excitement. In his mind's eye he saw already the accomplishment of his desire.
"Let us go at once," he said. "All we want is Coventry's yacht, manned by an extra fellow or two, who will make himself generally useful, and the less fuss we make the better. My scientific apparatus is a matter requiring but little time to prepare. I can be ready to sail in a week."
CHAPTER II.
IT is a long jump from the bay-windowed room at Greenwich, overlooking the Thames, to an island in the Gulf of Mexico, but one that the reader's imagination will easily compass. The hour was not long before sunset began to tinge the blue waters stretching away to the horizon, and in a quiet little bay a peculiar scene was being enacted. To the dark-skinned inhabitant of the fertile palm-clad island of Mea Culpa, the little band of Englishmen were merely enthusiasts who had come out on an expedition to discover something of no possible interest, and their operations elicited only languid curiosity.
The yacht lay up in a little natural cove; most of the sailors had made their way to Havana, on the understanding that they would not he required for at least a month, so that there only remained the three original promoters and a certain Irish sailor, Larry O'Brady by name, a shrewd dare-devil individual whose admiration for Armstrong amounted to a passion. He could speak Spanish fluently and for this reason they had decided to retain him.
Some huts had been erected on the shore by permission of Don Zalva de Torredos, to whom Mea Culpa belonged, and whose hacienda was the only building of any importance. The adventurers found him a courtly, educated gentleman who took a great interest in the operations, as also did his daughter, Haidee, a dark, olive-complexioned, middling-aged beauty, who as time went on, contrived to distract Harold's attention from the work in hand. It was very pleasant to lounge up at the hacienda in the evenings, when the air was heavy with the scent of myrtles and the fireflies flashed in the purple darkness, chatting with the silver-voiced Haidee and looking into her beautiful eyes. But Armstrong didn't like it: he saw trouble looming in the distance. The same charm attracted Barrados, who looked on gloomily at what appeared to be the Englishman's success. Larry, too, had found a congenial companion in Haidee's maid, Isidore and many were the growls which he caused from the picturesome cigarette-smoking natives, who resented what they regarded as an infringement of their rights.
But no such thoughts troubled Armstrong on that perfect, still evening, as he stood on the shore looking out to sea. Behind him stood the tents and the wooden workroom, and before him a section of pontoon bridge formed of a series of light rafts running some two miles into the sea, at the end of which was a platform upon which Coventry and Barrados were standing.
