The Black Cat

January 1896.

Contents

5 CENTS

THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO., 144 HIGH ST. BOSTON, MASS. 4. Copyright 1895 by The Shortstory Publishing Co.

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[1]

The Black Cat

A Monthly Magazine of Original Short Stories.

Entered at the Post-Office at Boston, Mass., as second-class matter.

IMPORTANT.—The entire contents of this magazine are covered by copyright and publishers everywhere are cautioned against reproducing any of the stories, either wholly or in part.

Copyright, 1895, by the Shortstory Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

In Solomon’s Caverns.

BY CHARLES EDWARD BARNS.

Three men stood in the doorway of the Bohemian Club, that meeting-place of men of the world from all over the world. It was the hour of noon, when the human tide in this busy quarter of San Francisco is at its height. Just as the party was about to separate, their way was temporarily blocked by a squad of policemen, who escorted a score or more of Chinamen handcuffed in pairs.

“What’s up?” asked one of the club-men.

“Opium smuggling,” replied the police captain.

“Speaking of opium,” said another of the trio, turning to his companions, “reminds me of an experience that befell a traveler in the Holy Land, an experience in which opium saved a man’s life.”

“Tell us about it.”

“It’s too long a story for the sidewalk, but if you will step upstairs and join me in a dish of frijoles, with etceteras, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“It happened in the ancient city of Jerusalem,” said the speaker, after they were seated in the Bohemian’s dining-room, whose walls bore picturesque record of many a “High and Low [2]Jinks” in the club’s history. “Not many people know that the famous walled hamlet stands on a shell of rock; in other words, that there is a series of wonderful caverns extending for some miles in an intricate chain underneath the city, and that a little hole near the Golden Gate of the Holy Land, barely large enough to admit a man, is the only entrance and exit. These caverns, unlike the caves of Kentucky, were made by man. The stones which came from them were used in the building of Solomon’s Temple, just one thousand years before Christ. The old king employed eighty thousand men to cut out these stones, forty thousand working by day and as many by night, so you see that there must have been plenty of elbow room, and you can judge of the vastness of the present caverns. You remember the passage in 1 Kings,—that in the building of the temple ‘there was neither

hammer, nor axe, nor any tool of iron heard.’

“One lovely spring morning, this man I’m telling about, who had a passion for out-of-the-way adventures, started for these caverns with a trusty dragoman guide, his mind bent on exploring the subterranean chambers further than had any one before him. In fact, he had a secret idea that he might discover a passage leading to the cavern under the pool of Siloam on the other side of the city; but this plan he kept to himself until he had reached the caverns, and spent an hour or more studying the marks left by the tools of Solomon’s workmen. When he finally revealed his scheme, the dragoman combated with the greatest vehemence an undertaking that, he said, might cost them their lives.

“Not at all affected by this dismal prophecy, which, in fact, added a certain relish to the adventure, the explorer took accurate bearings, and pressed on to what appeared to be the lowest spot in the whole series of caverns. Here, to his amazement, his guide sat down and absolutely refused to go farther. It was useless for his master to attempt to urge him on by the assurance that they could not be far from the south wall, where he hoped to find a connecting passage to the pool of Siloam. The old chap sat immovable, declaring that to go farther, provided as they were with but two torches and little food, meant certain death. He even appealed to Allah to restore his master to reason.

[3]

“But, guide or no guide, the explorer was determined to hang on to his project as a dog does to a bone. A few yards away rose a huge ledge that promised a better view of the caverns’ unexplored depths. Directing the dragoman to remain where he was seated and to answer whenever he heard his master’s call, he picked up his staff and started toward the ledge, promising that if he could find no outlet without going beyond calling distance he would give up his search. Once on his way to the ledge the man stopped, and, looking back to make sure that the dragoman understood his instruction, saw the old fellow sitting just as he had left him, the staff of his torch supported by his breast, so that the light shone full upon him, while his hands, which were thus left free, were rolling a cigarette, breaking an opium pill and sprinkling it into the tobacco, as was his custom. With a loud cry, which the guide returned in a deep guttural that resounded in a decidedly ghostly fashion in the grim caverns, the man passed on, lighted now only by the flame of his

own torch. No sooner had he reached the high ledge than, seeing another still higher, farther on, he started for that, calling each moment, and as often hearing the sound of encouragement ever further and further away. Suddenly the answer, ‘Aiya!’ rose to a shrill scream, like that of a wounded animal. Instinctively he turned back, and called again. There was no answer. Another and yet another cry echoed vainly down the grim caverns. Seized with dread of some awful catastrophe, he rushed back the way he had come. When finally he reached his starting point he found, to his amazement, that the dragoman’s lamp was out; but by the light of his own he could see the man still sitting there in the hollow where he had left him, upright and motionless. Again he spoke, and again. The man made no reply. Then, thrusting his torch forward, he caught his first glimpse of the guide’s face, and stood rigid with terror. The bronze countenance was of a deathly pallor; the mouth was drawn as in agony, and the eyes were wide open,—so wide that the whites glowed through the

darkness like phosphorescent globes. At the first touch the man fell heavily backward. As his master bent, attempting to raise the body, he saw, to his amazement, the torch, which he had laid aside, flicker and die. Then he understood. They were in a lake of deadly [4]gas, which, being heavier than the air, had settled to the bottom of the cave. He groped for his torch, found it, and lighted it again, testing the lake of deadly carbon. Soon he found that if he lowered the light below his hips, when standing erect, it would go out. Thus he was half submerged in a lake of death, where he was safe only as long as he stood upright. Malook had seated himself, hence was literally drowned. Drawing a deep breath and holding it, he stooped and placed his hand on the guide’s heart. The action made him doubly sure of the deadly nature of the gas. The heart was still, and his own almost ceased beating in the brief moment spent in the suffocating carbon. But, even in the presence of death and danger, the instinct of self-preservation did not fail him. In a moment he had

possessed himself of the dead man’s torch, his knapsack and luncheon, and his staff, and then, sacrilege though it seemed, he rifled his pockets. Here he found only tobacco and a box containing about a hundred little pellets of opium. These last he was about to put back, but, missing the pocket, he thrust the box into his own, and hurried to a higher and safer place. Once there, he set himself to puzzling out his next course of action. To make his way back to the entrance of the cave after these miles of wandering would be impossible. He had trusted his guide too implicitly for that. His only hope was to reach the pool of Siloam, which he was still doggedly convinced was not far away, although of a passage through there was no record. With this idea he started out once more, wandering aimlessly first this way and then that, finally bringing up, faint and exhausted, by the side of a body of still water. Grateful for this discovery, he scooped a little into his hands, bathed his hot head, and, as he was hungry, took a few mouthfuls of food. Finally, in the

face of danger, just as has been told of famous generals in the thick of battle, he sat down and rolled a cigarette. The food and the tobacco, topped by a strong pull at his brandy flask, renewed his courage, and he set himself once more to reviewing the situation. From his extreme fatigue, he felt convinced that he had wandered miles. His legs ached as they never had before, and this, too, although he was accustomed to the severest mountain climbing. Looking at his watch, he was surprised to find that it was night in the world beyond and above him. Satisfied that [5]even if he came near the passage to the pool the darkness would deceive him, he resolved to rest where he was until daybreak. An inventory of his supplies convinced him that he might fight off starvation for three days, but that at the extreme limit. Possessed by these frightful thoughts, he lay back, and, overcome by fatigue, soon fell into a slumber troubled by the most horrible dreams. In the midst of one of these nightmares he awoke with a scream, which resounded appallingly. The sense of desolation

was almost unbearable. Indeed, if his torch had not been lighted, he would certainly have lost his reason. He knew that madness often preceded death under such circumstances, and in his desperation resolved that at the first signs of a failing mind he would put an end to his existence with his revolver. The case was desperate. Oil and food were low; above him stretched a crust of rock from forty to one hundred feet thick, through which no sound or ray of light from the outer world could penetrate. As a test of his courage, he put out his torch, but found that he could not endure the torture for long, though he resolved to inure himself to the strain of the intense darkness and silence, at any cost. Oil was now as precious as blood drops.

“When at last his watch told him that the night had worn away, he took another morsel of food and a sip of brandy, rose, and started out again, keeping close to the pool. As he walked, he heard a slight sound, like that made by a leaping fish. Here, at last, was a chance to test his theory. If that fish had eyes, then this cavern lake connected with the pool of Siloam. If not—At the end of a full hour spent in searching for the fish he finally caught the squirming thing in his hands, and brought it to the light. It was eyeless! In his rage the man flung the ugly thing back into the water. A moment later, however, the thought of the poverty of his supplies sent him groping on hands and knees for the object of his wrath, which he killed and cleaned, storing it away in his bag. He even bagged a huge bat that, frightened by his torch, flew so near that he brought it down with his staff, saving it as carefully as if it had been a chicken. For all that he knew, its few drops of blood might be the means of preserving his life.

“For three days and nights he wandered away from that pool, [6]each time, however, bringing up there again, as though propelled by fate. Fortunately it was impossible for him to find his way back to the guide’s body; that visible presence of death would undoubtedly have extinguished the last spark of his own life. As it was, with each hour he felt his flesh fail and his strength wane, until finally it was only by a supreme effort that he could drag himself along. By this time he had become so accustomed to the darkness that he lighted his torch only under compulsion, determined to save his oil for some possible emergency. It was while he was groping his way, unlighted, through the darkness, that a rat ran across his path, so near that he struck at and killed it. Upon feeling of it he found that it seemed sleek and prosperous, while its cheeks were pouched out with what proved on examination to be kernels of grain. This discovery, however, only aggravated his despondency, for it convinced him that even the vermin knew the secret of the passageway

which he alone had no way of finding out. Then, driven to one of the extremities to which desperate men are reduced, he wrote a message to the world, spent half a day in catching another rat, tied the message to it, and set it free, laughing meanwhile at his own folly.

“And now began the epoch in his underground existence when not only his bodily strength but his mind itself rapidly failed him. Each hour his excursions in search of the mythical passage became shorter and shorter, and the idea of any land beyond this gloomy pit faded further and further into the region of dreams. Finally he gave up any active struggle, and lay for hours in a half-tranced condition, roused only occasionally by the sharper pangs of hunger. In this state he lost all trace of day and night, although he still had with him the less important record of the hours. Even in this semi-stupor, however, he noticed that there was a strange stir of the water every now and then for a certain period in the twenty-four hours, and that for the same length of time there was absolute quiet. In one of his waking intervals it suddenly occurred to him, though why he could not explain, that this phenomenon was in some way connected with day and night. The idea that these strange periodical tremblings on the surface of the lake might furnish the clue to that

long-sought outlet to the world above roused him to one last effort. Dragging himself [7]towards the further end, whence the ripplings started, he was rewarded by a glimpse of what seemed to be a slender thread extending from the ceiling directly down into the lake, and which proved upon examination to be nothing else than an iron tube some four inches in diameter. That touch of cold metal thrilled him like an electric battery. This pipe then—this slender thread—this well-tube—was the only connecting link between himself and the habitations of man. But how could he make use of this knowledge? The solution of this problem suggested itself only when, after almost an hour spent in crouching close to the tube, with his ear against it, he distinctly heard the force-pump working above him, and saw the water stir as he had seen it so often. That sound went to his heart like the battle-cry to the soldier’s. For some reason he felt sure that the pipe would be his salvation. Throwing off his shoes and stockings, he clambered into the icy water, and with his feet he traced

the pipe down until he found the end and actually felt the water gushing up. Then he made his way back to his resting-place, where he sank, exhausted with joy.

“It was not until the next day, or, at least, until after the next long period of quiet, that he could command himself sufficiently to write the following note by the light of the last few remaining drops of oil:—

“‘I am in the cavern underneath the city. This is the fourth or fifth day of my entombment. My guide, Iesa Malook, is dead. As only he knew the way out, I am lost. For God’s sake, come to the rescue! Take this to the consul general. He will understand all. Lose no time. All my food and oil are gone. I cannot live much longer.’

“This urgent message he signed, wrapped in a shred of handkerchief, tied to a cork of his now empty flask, and in total darkness he dragged himself back to the well-tube. Then he leaped into the lake with the precious message, and, following the course of the pipe, held the packet under the end, and felt it leave his hand and soar up through the tube to the land of sunshine and freedom. Though nearly killed by the shock of the icy water, he crept back to his resting-place, triumphant. He somehow felt that with the first pumping of water his message must fall out, [8]attract the attention of his unknown rescuers, and that in a few hours more he should be rescued. But he had sadly miscalculated. For three days more he lived on the little opium pellets that he had taken from the body of Malook. By this time his food was quite exhausted, and the effect of the strange drug was to plunge him in the most frightful and fantastic waking dreams. Once he dreamed that he was being garroted for the murder of Malook; and the vision was so vivid that he felt convinced that such

an end actually awaited him if he returned to the world above, and prayed for immediate death. Before long he was obliged to double the dose, in order to lessen the gnawing of hunger, and the saving grace was soon reduced to a day’s supply. These pills were his last comfort. With them gone, he resolved upon suicide. Upon drawing his revolver, however, he found that, straining with all his might, he lacked the strength needed to lift the hammer. Nothing was left, then, except to swallow the three remaining pills, which he did, with the hope that they might bring the end. This done, he lay back motionless, and, listening to the rhythm of his heart-beat, which sounded farther and farther away, he sank into a slumber which he prayed and believed would be his last.

“When he awoke he was lying on the grassy slopes of the valley of the Kedron, not far from the tomb of Absalom. It was twilight, and in the setting sun the Mount of Olives shone like a pyramid of fire. Looking about him, he saw that Malook’s body was lying at his side. Around him stood a strange group, all conversing in strange tongues,—Jews with yellow and black gowns, Russian pilgrims, Bedouins in flowing scarlet, and English tourists in cork helmets. Suddenly some one bent over him. It was the consul. A great joy lighted up his kind face, as he exclaimed, ‘Good God!—he has opened his eyes—he breathes!—he lives! It is a miracle—nothing short of a miracle!’

“Yes,” concluded the speaker, as he deliberately swallowed two pellets drawn from a small, thimble-shaped box that he had leisurely taken from his vest pocket while speaking, “opium saved that man from starvation, but it made him an opium fiend for life.”

[9]

An Angel of Tenderfoot Hill.

BY FREDERICK BRADFORD.