Rope's End Page #7

"Rope's End" by Rex Ellingwood Beach is a gripping adventure novel set in the rugged landscape of the American West. The story follows the life of a resourceful and determined protagonist as he navigates the challenges of survival and the complexities of human relationships amidst the backdrop of a harsh and unforgiving environment. With themes of resilience, loyalty, and the quest for identity, Beach's vivid prose brings to life the struggles and triumphs of those who inhabit this wild frontier. The novel captures the spirit of adventure and the human condition, making it a compelling read for fans of classic Western literature.

• Short story

								

he began his return journey. Again he resisted furiously and again his
body missed the mast, all but one shoulder, which brushed lightly in
passing and served to spin him like a top. The measured slowness of that
oscillation added to its horror; with every escape the victim's strength
decreased, his fear grew, and the end approached. It was a game of
chance played by the hand of the sea. Under him the deck appeared and
disappeared at regular intervals, the rope cut into his wrists, the slim
spar sprung to his efforts. In the distance was a charcoal smear which
grew blacker.

After a time Laguerre heard Inocencio counting, and saw his upturned
face.

"Ha! Very close, Monsieur le Général, but we will try once again. Ship's
timber is not so hard as cocomacaque, but sufficiently hard,
nevertheless. And the rope bites, eh? But there was old Julien--What?
Again? You were always lucky. His flesh was cold and his bones brittle,
yet he did not kick like you. If Pierrine were here to see this! What a
sight--the liberator of his country--God's blood, Laguerre! The sea is
with you! That makes five times. But you are tiring, I see. What a sight
for her--the hero of a hundred battles dangling like a strangled parrot.
It is not so hard to die, monsieur, it--Ah-h!"

A cry of horror arose from the crew who had gathered forward, for
Petithomme Laguerre, dizzied with spinning, had finally fetched up with
a crash against the mast. He ricocheted, the swing of the pendulum
became irregular for a time or two, then the roll of the vessel set it
going again. Time after time he missed destruction by a hair's-breadth,
while the voice from below gibed at him, then once more there came the
sound of a blow, dull, yet loud, and of a character to make the hearers
shudder. The victim struggled less violently; he no longer drew his
weight upward like a gymnast. But he was a man of great vitality; his
bones were heavy and thickly padded with flesh, therefore they broke one
by one, and death came to him slowly. The sea played with him
maliciously, saving him repeatedly, only to thresh him the harder when
it had tired of its sport. It was a long time before the restless
Caribbean had reduced him to pulp, a spineless, boneless thing of putty
which danced to the spring of the resilient spruce.

They let him down finally and slid him into the oily waters, overside,
but the breeze refused to come and the Stella continued to wallow
drunkenly. The sky was glittering, the pitch was oozing from the deck,
in the distance the Haytian mountains scowled through the shimmer.

Inocencio turned toward the approaching gunboat, which was very close by
now, a rusty, ill-painted, ill-manned tub. Her blunt nose broke the
swells into foam, from her peak depended the banner of the Black
Republic, symbolic of the motto, "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity." The
captain of the Stella rolled and lit a cigarette, then seated himself
upon the cabin roof to wait. And as he waited he drummed with his naked
heels and smiled, for he was satisfied.
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