The Beach of Dreams

The Beach of Dreams, by H. De
Vere Stacpoole

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Title: The Beach of Dreams
Author: H. De Vere Stacpoole
Release Date: December 10, 2006 [EBook #20084]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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THE BEACH OF DREAMS

A ROMANCE
BY H. DE VERE STACPOOLE AUTHOR OF "THE MAN WHO
LOST HIMSELF," "THE GHOST GIRL," "THE GOLD TRAIL,"
"THE BLUE LAGOON," ETC.
THE NATIONAL BOOK CO. PUBLISHERS 28 WEST 44TH ST.,
NEW YORK
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COPYRIGHT, 1919 BY STREET & SMITH COPYRIGHT, 1919 BY
JOHN LANE COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
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CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE
">
PART I
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ALBATROSS 9 II. NORTH-WEST 14 III. THE GASTON DE
PARIS 22 IV. DISASTER 41 V. VOICES IN THE NIGHT 48 VI.
DAWN 53 VII. THE COAST 66

PART II

VIII. THE AWAKENING 73
IX. THE WOOLEY 80 X. THE CROSS 94 XI. THE CACHE 103 XII.
THE QUARREL 117 XIII. WHERE IS BOMPARD? 124 XIV. THE
DEATH TRAPS 132 XV. THE STROKE 143 XVI. ALONE 146 XVII.
FRIENDS IN DESOLATION 153

PART III
XVIII. GOD MADE FRIENDSHIP 159
XIX. THE BIRDS 167 XX. VÆ VICTIS 171

PART IV
XXI. TIME PASSES 181
XXII. A NEWCOMER 185 XXIII. RAFT 194 XXIV. A DREAM 203
XXV. STORIES ON THE BEACH 211 XXVI. THE GREAT WIND
225

PART V
XXVII. THE CORRIDOR 233
XXVIII. NIGHT 248 XXIX. THE SUMMIT 253 XXX. THE BAY 259
XXXI. THE SHIP 264 XXXII. THE OPIUM SMOKERS 272 XXXIII.
MAINSAIL HAUL 277 XXXIV. THE CARCASSONNE 281

PART VI
XXXV. MARSEILLES 289
XXXVI. THE LEPER 301 XXXVII. A NEW HOME 313
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THE BEACH OF DREAMS
CHAPTER I
THE ALBATROSS
The fo'c'sle, lit by a teapot lamp, shewed the port watch in their bunks,
snoring, all but Harbutt and Raft seated on a chest, Harbutt patching a
pair of trousers, Raft smoking.
Raft was a big red-headed man with eyes that seemed always roving
over great distances as though in search of something. He was
thirty-two years of age and he had used the sea since twelve--twenty
years. His past was a long succession of fo'c'sles, bar-rooms, blazing
suns, storms and sea happenings so run together that all sequence was
lost. Beyond them lay a dismal blotch, his childhood. He had entered
the world and literally and figuratively had been laid at the door of a
workhouse; of his childhood he remembered little, of his parentage he
knew nothing. In drink he was quiet, but most dangerous under certain
provocations.
It was as though deep in his being lay a blazing hatred born of injustice
through ages and only coming to light when upborne by balloon-juice.
On these occasions a saloon bar with its glitter and phantom show of
mirth and prosperity sometimes called on him to dispense and destroy
it, the passion to fight the crowd seized him, a passion that has its
origin, perhaps, in sources other than alcohol.

He was talking now to Harbutt, scarcely lowering his voice on account
of the fellows in the bunks. Snoring and drugged with ozone a kick
would only have made them curse and turn on the other side, and as he
talked his voice made part of that procession of noises inseparable from
the fo'c'sle of a ship under sail against a head sea. He had been holding
forth on the food and general conditions of this ship compared with the
food and conditions of his last, when Harbutt cut in.
"There's not a pin to choose between owners, and ships is owners as far
as a sailorman's concerned.--Blast them."
"I was in a hooker once," said Raft, "and the Old Man came across a lot
of cheap sugar, served it out to save the m'lasses. It was lead, most of it,
and the chaps that swallowed it their teeth came out."
"What happened to them then?"
"They croaked. I joined at Bombay, after the business, or I'd have
croaked too."
"What ship was that?" asked Harbutt.
"I've forgot her name, it was a good bit back--but it's the truth."
"Of course it's the truth," replied the other, "who's doubtin' you, any
dog's trick played on a sailorman's the truth, you can lay to that. I've
had four years of sea and I oughta know."
"What's this you were?"