Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 67: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Snow Driver Presently he stooped down and touched a misshapen form on the deck planking, a human body so bundled up in cloaks and blankets that it was hardly to be recognized. It was bent up in a knot as if gripped by intolerable agony. With his hand on the man’s shoulder he tried to turn him over, and was forced to pull with all his strength. The body did turn over, but the bent legs came up into the air without altering their position. “That would be Dick Ingram, master’s mate,” said Peter behind him in a strained voice, “his carcass, poor Ses Thorne released his hold and the coiled-up body fell over on its side again with a muf- fled thump. “Save us!” cried the boatswain, his eyes starting from his. head. “I’ve seen the workings of dropsy and scurvy and such, but here is a black plague. The black death itself hath fallen upon this ship.” “Nay,” said Thorne slowly, “these twain are frozen.” “Aye, they are now. But how did they die? Let us go for’ard.” They searched the forecastle in vain, and descended from the hold to the galley which was nearly in darkness. But Peter stum- bled over another body, and fumbled around on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. “Here be a mort o’ dead men,” he - grunted. ‘What cheer, mates, who has a word for Peter Palmer that’s come a weary way to have speech with ye? Who is living?” Their ears strained, they listened for a space, then Peter gave a yell of fear, and, thrusting Thorne aside, sprang up the Jadder. On the spar deck he wrenched down the waist curtain, staring out at the Bona Esperanza. His broad red face was streaming perspiration, as he cupped his hands and sent a quavering hail over the ice. “Ahoy, the Esperanza! Nick Anthony, where be ye? Ho, Allen! Master Davison —Garge Blage——”’ When no response came from the admiral- ship, Peter choked and the blood drained from his face. Wagging his massive head from side to side he began to walk un- steadily toward the ladder. “Feared I be, Master Ralph. Feared and boding—let be; by all the saints, let me go.” “Then go,” assented Thorne, “and bid Kyrger make camp beyond sight of the 49 ships. I will seek out Sir Hugh and his company.” AN HOUR later Thorne stood alone - in the roundhouse of the Bona Es- peranza, his brows knit in thought, his eyes heavy with grief. Alone he was, assuredly, except for the wide-winged gulls that circled over the masts, swerving away when the tip of the pennant flapped. Yet was the Esperanza fully manned, the stern cabins occupied. The cook was in his galley, curled up on the cold stove, Sir Hugh seated at his table by the stern casements. Crew and officers were dead. Cadavers leered at the armiger from deck planks or berths, the eyes standing open as if gazing upon some devastating horror. All the faces were tinged with the same bluish cast. All the bodies were wrapped in odds and ends of garments, tabards and cloaks over all. Some, apparently, had died while crawl- ing to the lower portions of the ship; others, chiefly the merchant-adventurers, in their berths. Thorne fought down a rising fear that im- pelled him to run after Peter and escape from this assemblage of the unspeaking dead. He had seen on the captain-general’s table two folded pamphlets and judged that Sir Hugh had written therein. This mes- sage must be read. With an effort, he made his way into the passage and so to the main cabin which was nearly dark, the ports being boarded over. And at once the skin of his head grew cold, a cry trembled in his throat. Before him and below him in the gloom two red eyes were fastened upon him. He knew that they were eyes because they moved, and he was aware of a faint hissing. Before he could take a grip on himself, or reach for a weapon, the tiny fires glowed brighter. There was a scam- pering of little feet and something darted past him. Turning swiftly he saw an ermine, a white creature kin to the weasel, void of fear and relentless as a ferret on the scent of prey. “What a chucklehead I am,’ he cried aloud, “to be frighted by a ferret.” But his own voice, ringing hollow in the chill of the pent-in ship did not serve to re- assure him. Passing into the presence of the dead leader, he forced himself to take up the papers under the open eyes of tall Sir Hugh. COMiicloOoe (©