What they really are is fingerprints!
The door is busting o—
Terror in Cut-Throat Cove
When an editor assigned Bloch to come up with a story to fit this title, he might have written pretty much any type of action or adventure yarn. But he made a tale of the Cthulhu Mythos. Here we have something of a modern Obed Marsh, propelled by venal greed into unlocking a submerged trove of unearthly horror. And in the eventual mind-meld between the hapless narrator and the alien entity we have an echo of the psychic fusion of Robert Blake and the avatar from the steeple many years before in “The Haunter of the Dark”. With its apocalyptic denouement, the story prefigures Bloch’s later Cthulhu Mythos novel, Strange Eons.
The story was based on a plot germ Bloch had related to Lovecraft back in 1933, which Lovecraft summarizes in his reply: “that idea of finding a Thing in the hold of a long-sunken treasure-ship is excellent” (July 1933). Bloch later expressed some surprise that fans had not noticed the Mythos character of the tale: “I came up with a Cthulhu-inspired yarn, on which no one has ever commented.” Though bearing none of the expected Mythos jargon, the Lovecraftian character is manifest in its “direct affiliation with HPL’s cosmology beyond mere use of nomenclature”. (These Bloch quotes are taken from Randall D. Larson, ed., The Robert Bloch Companion: Collected Interviews 1969-1989, pp. 39, 38.)
More importantly, the story demonstrates something about the adaptability of the classic Cthulhuvian tale to new modes of narration. Lovecraft cloistered his cosmic horrors in a castle of antique prose and purposely kept character development to a minimum. His success raises the question of whether it is possible to write in a distinctly un-Lovecraftian manner and yet pen a tale true to his vision of the Mythos. “Terror in Cut-Throat Cove” answers that question in the affirmative, as Cthulhu’s tentacles reach forth through the medium of Bloch’s punchy, hard-boiled style and his strong, well-defined characters. The challenge could be met, and Bloch was the one to meet it.
Terror in Cut-Throat Cove
by Robert Bloch
You won’t find Cut-Throat Cove on any map, because that is not its real name. And you can search a chart of the West Indies thoroughly without locating the island of Santa Rita.
I have changed the names for obvious reasons. If those reasons are not obvious at the moment, they will be by the time you finish this account.
My own name is Howard Lane, and I lived on Santa Rita for almost a year without ever hearing of Cut-Throat Cove. That isn’t too surprising, for it wasn’t the lure of buccaneers and bullion that brought me here—in fact, you might say I left the United States just to get away from the atmosphere of piracy and plunder which dominates the modern commercial scene.
You might say it, but I did say it, night after night, in Rico’s Bar. Eventually, of course, I’d stop talking and fall down. Nobody ever paid much attention to me—before, or after.
Except on the night when I met Don and Dena. The teddy-bear and the Christmas-tree angel.
I had a little bit too much of Rico’s rum that evening, and I admit it. But even after I got to know them I still thought my first impression was right.
Teddy-bear. That was Don, standing at the bar beside me; blond, burly, his short arms thick and bare and covered with that soft golden fuzz; his nose splayed and pink, and his eyes like big brown buttons. I watched him order a drink, American beer. American beer, in cans, at a dollar a throw! And he was tossing American money on the bar—a twenty. That was enough to make me look twice. We seldom get strangers or tourists in Santa Rita, and the infrequent visitors never have any money. So I watched the teddy-bear as he carried the two cans of beer over to a table in the corner. And that’s when I saw her sitting across from him.
The Christmas-tree angel. Her dress was white and wispy, her hair was spun gold, her eyes china-blue. The complexion was peaches-and-cream, the peaches being slightly ripened by the sun. She laughed up at the teddy-bear as he approached, and I felt an unreasoning resentment.
Why is it always that way? Why does that kind of a girl always pick that kind of a man?
I’d asked myself that question a thousand times. I’d asked it ever since I’d come to Santa Rita a year ago. In fact, that’s the real reason I had come; because once I’d picked just such a girl—only to find she picked that sort of man.
And I knew what he was, the moment I looked at him. He was the Muscle Beach Boy, the busy-eyebrows type, the kind who shows up in all the cigarette ads with a tattoo on his hand. I made a little bet with myself about what would happen after he had poured out the beer. Sure enough, I won. He took hold of the empty beer-can in one ham-like hand and squeezed, crushing it flat.
That made her laugh again, and I knew why. Because she wasn’t a Christmas-tree angel, after all. She was just the kind of girl who fooled my kind of man into thinking that’s what she was. So that we treated her that way: like a fragile, precious, enchanting ornament at the unattainable top of the tree of illusion. Until one of these crude animals came along to grab her with his furry paws, drink his fill, slake his lust, then squeeze her and toss her aside. But she liked that. Beer-cans are made to be crushed. Laughing beer-cans and tattooed teddy-bears.
Yes, I was drunk enough, I suppose, with my stupid similes and maudlin metaphors and the whole sickening mixture of cheap cynicism, sentimental self-pity, and raw rum.
Drunk enough so that when the teddy-bear returned to the bar and ordered another round, I pretended complete indifference. Even after he tapped me on the shoulder, I took my own ill-natured time before turning around.
“Care for a drink?” he asked.
I shrugged. “No, thank you.”
“Come on, have a beer! Thought maybe you’d like to join us—we’re strangers here, and we’d like to get acquainted.”
That intrigued me. I knew the teddy-bear type, or thought I did. And while they’re often full of false geniality at the bar, they never invite you to join them when they have a Christmas-tree angel in tow. Unless, of course, there’s some ulterior motive involved.
Well, I had ulterior motives, too. American beer was a dollar a can—and I hadn’t been able to lay a dollar bill down on the bar for a single drink in over eight months now.
I nodded. He held out a golden paw.
“My name’s Don Hanson.”
“Howard Lane.
“Pleased to meet you. Come on over, I’d like you to meet Dena, here. Dena, this is Howard Lane.” He turned to me. “Dena Drake, my secretary.”
I stared at her.
“It’s really Dinah,” she told me. “Like in the song. But Danny Kaye made a recording once, years ago, before I was born, and be pronounced it Dena, and that’s what my older sister called me. So I guess I’m stuck with it. Everybody does a double take when they hear it.”
I nodded, but not in agreement. It wasn’t her name that caused me to stare. It was Don Hanson’s description of her as his secretary. Their relationship was so obvious I couldn’t imagine anyone except a child coming up with such an uninspired lie. Besides, it wasn’t necessary here. Santa Rita isn’t Santa Monica—only a newcomer would feel it necessary to apologize for the obvious. Still, this Don Hanson was a newcomer. In fact, that’s what he was talking about now.
“Just got in before sundown,” he was saying. “Little surprised to see how small this place is—not even a hotel, is there? Doesn’t matter, really, because I can sleep right on the boat.”
“You came in your own boat?”
“It’s a yacht,” Dena said. “We sailed all the way from Barbados.”
Don chuckled. “Pay no attention to her. It isn’t much of a yacht, and besides, the crew did all the sailing. We couldn’t be bothered, could we, honey?”
I would have liked it if Dena had blushed. But she didn’t blush; she squealed as Don did the crushing act with the beer-cans again.
Then he turned to me and grinned. “Lucky I ran into you this way,” he said. “I was intending to look you u
p very soon.”
“That’s right,” Dena chimed in. “We don’t speak Spanish, either of us, but Robert—that’s the first mate of our crew—he does, and he talked to somebody here in town after we landed. That’s how we found out you’re the only white man on the whole island.”
“Is that true?” Don asked. “Are you living down here all alone with these blacks?”
“No,” I said.
“But they told Roberto—”
“No,” I repeated. “It is not true. There are very few pure-blooded blacks on Santa Rita. The bulk of the population is of mixed blood, mestizo and marino and even more complicated combinations of African, Carib, Spanish, Portuguese, and French racial stocks. These people are for the most part simple and uneducated, but they have pride.”
“Sure, I understand. I thank you for the tip. But you are the only white man.”
“According to your interpretation of anthropology, yes.”
“Dig him.” Dena giggled. She gave me a melting sideways glance from beneath the long eyelashes—the kind of a glance such girls practice while sitting before a mirror and curling those eyelashes. “You’ll pardon my curiosity, but just what are you doing way off here in this god-forsaken place?”
“I am drinking your employer’s beer,” I said, in a flat voice. “And for the past year I have been drinking rum. And this is not a god-forsaken place. It is an exotic tropical paradise, complete with cockroaches, beetles, bedbugs, mosquitoes, flies, and black widow spiders. Only one form of vermin is unknown here—the tax-collector. His absence more than makes up for the presence of the other insect pests, and also explains my own.”
“You a tax-dodger, is that it?” Dena’s voice held genuine interest. “A gambler on the lam, maybe?”
I shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s not quite that romantic. I happen to be a free-lance writer with an unpredictable income. Having no family ties, I decided to look around for a place where the cost of living is low. Here in Santa Rita I have rented a roomy old furnished house built in the days of Spanish occupation, acquired a devoted couple as servants, and supplied myself with ample food—for less than I’d spend in such mainland paradises as Downhill, Oklahoma or Flyspeck, Utah.”
“But don’t you ever get lonely?”
“I was lonely long before I came to Santa Rita,” I told her. “You can be lonely in New York.”
“Brother, don’t I know it!” Her smile seemed a little more genuine, but I didn’t have an opportunity to analyze it.
Don put his hand on my arm. “Free-lance writer, eh? How’s it going?”
“So-so. Some months good, some months not so good. It varies.”
“Well. Maybe you’d like to earn a few bucks. I could use a little help.”
“What doing?”
“Oh, sort of straightening things out with the local natives. You know these people, maybe you could smooth the way for me. I’d like to get a couple of permits, for one thing.”
“Fishing? You don’t need anything for that.”
“Not fishing, exactly. Diving.”
“He’s a marvelous skin diver,” Dena said. “Absolutely fabulous.”
I nodded. “That won’t require any official permission, either.”
“Even if it’s a salvage job?”
“Salvage?”
“Treasure,” Dena said. “Why don’t you level with him, darling?”
“Why don’t you shut up?” Don scowled. He turned it into a grin for me. “All right, you might as well know. I’ve got a lead on something pretty big down here.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Did somebody sell you a map?”
“No, it isn’t a map. It’s a manuscript. An old manuscript.”
I nodded. “And it describes how one of the galleons laden with bullion from the Inca mines was wrecked and sunk right here off the shoals of Santa Rita, in clear water. Is that it?” I gave him back his grin, with interest. “Why, that’s one of the stalest yarns in the Indies! Somebody’s always waiting to make a sucker out of the tourists with that gag. As far as I know, nobody has salvaged a Spanish treasure ship anywhere in Caribbean waters for years.”
Don shook his head. “Perhaps we’d better get a few things straight,” he said. “First of all, I know about the treasure ship dodge. I’ve knocked around these parts for a couple of years, mostly diving, and doing some fishing for kicks. A man can really live down here.”
“The Hemingway bit,” I said.
“Did you know Papa?”
“I spit in his milk. I’m a Beatrix Potter fan, myself.”
“You don’t say,” Don muttered. “Well, anyway, I’m not a sucker fresh out of Miami. And I’ve gotten together a pretty good crew of boys. Five of them, including this mate of mine, Roberto. It was his father who had the manuscript.”
“Don went after him when the sharks got him,” Dena said. “He told me about it. He pulled him out, but his legs were gone and—”
“Knock it off. Maybe I should have left you on the boat. Or back in Barbados.” He gave us each our portion of the frown-and-grin routine again, then continued. “Well, the father died, and Roberto came to me with this manuscript. He’d found it in with the old man’s effects. Didn’t know what it was—neither he nor the father could read English.”
“You keep talking about a manuscript,” I said. “Just what is it, really?”
“Actually, it’s a sort of a journal.”
“Written by an old Spanish prisoner on old Spanish parchment, and watermarked 1924, in Yonkers?”
“Nothing like that. And it isn’t your treasure ship yarn, either.” He leaned across the table. “Look here. I’m no brain, but I wouldn’t sail a crew of five all the way down here to this crummy little island unless I was pretty sure there was something in it for me. So you needn’t do the needling bit. You want to take a look at it for yourself, come aboard tomorrow morning. Then you can decide if you want in or not.”
I hesitated, thinking of the teddy-bear and the Christmas-tree angel, and how I’d come all this way just to avoid playing with toys again. I had resolved that.
On the other hand, I could use some extra money—for eating, and for drinking, too. Drinking helped me to forget about teddy-bears and angels.
So I stood up and I bowed politely and I said, “Yes, it’s a date,” to the teddy-bear. And all the while I couldn’t take my eyes off the angel . . .
At ten o’clock the next morning I sat on the forward deck of the Rover, reading Isaiah Horner, Hys Journal: Thyse Beeing a True Acct. Of The Voyage of The Black Star; 1711 Anno Domini.
Don had told the truth. It wasn’t a Spanish manuscript at all; it was written in the quaint and barbarous English of a semiliterate seaman in the first years of the eighteenth century. The crabbed handwriting was atrocious, the spelling and grammar worse, and no forger would have been inspired to disguise his bait with a long, rambling preliminary account of a sea voyage.
I’ll make no attempt to reproduce the contents of the journal, but it was obviously genuine. Isaiah Horner had been second mate of the Black Star during what he smugly described as a “trading voyage” to the Isthmus and the northern coast of Venezuela—but it took no great perception to realize that the principal business of the vessel was armed piracy. Indeed, Captain Barnaby Jakes, his commander, bears a name well known to anyone who has ever followed the history of the Brotherhood of the Coast; and there were a number of references to meetings with other gentlemen familiar to students of buccaneer lore. Moreover, the Black Star did no “trading”; instead, it “confiscated” the property of several Spanish and Portuguese ships which it intercepted en route from the Isthmus.
But the big prize was the Santa Maria— not Columbus’ vessel, but a namesake, built well over a hundred years later in Spanish shipyards to convey the wealth of the New World to the coffers of His Most Christian Majesty.
The captain had learned that the Santa Maria was departing for Spain on its annual voyage, laden with a most unusual car
go of booty—the fruit of no less than three forays during which the conquistadores had penetrated far more deeply than ever before into the jungles south of Venezuela, in what is now known as the Amazon backwaters. A civilization had been ravished; not the Inca, but a valley people, worshipping a deity of their own and offering it sacrifice on an altar of beaten gold. The altar and the trappings of the temples constituted the sole “treasure”—but from rumored accounts, this was enough. There was, for example, a huge golden “chest” or “ark” which had been transported on the long march to the coast by no less than forty captured native slaves. Just why the gold had not been melted down into portable ingots on the spot was not made clear, except that the accounts mentioned a certain padre accompanying the expedition who insisted that the artifacts of pagan religion be kept intact. Indeed, there was some confusion as to whether or not he approved of removing the temple’s contents at all; apparently there had been actual conflict with the commander of the expedition, and a number of men had died during the return journey to Spain.
But that was not important. What mattered was that the booty had been placed aboard the Santa Maria, in the deep hold designed for the conveyance of such cargoes, and the ship was sailing for Spanish waters, accompanied by a convoy of two lighter escort vessels, fully armed for protection against piratical marauders.
All this had Isaiah Horner’s commander learned; and so, apparently, had a number of other free-booters whose spies were active in the ports.
Normally, Captain Barnaby Jakes would not have acted upon this knowledge. The Black Star, with its twelve small guns and its mongrel crew of forty, preyed on smaller game; there were few members of the Brotherhood, even those equipped with a fleet of larger vessels, who ever dared attack a full-sized galleon, let alone one accompanied by an armed and alert escort. For pirates, despite the romantic lore and legend accumulating about their exploits through the centuries, were not lions in courage. They could more aptly be compared to jackals, or at best, hyenas. They sought out the defenseless, the crippled ships, the wrecks, and by the eighteenth century the days of the great early commanders—Henry Morgan, L’Olonnais and their like—were past. The true “buccaneers” of the Indies had vanished; those who remained would seldom board an armed brigantine, let alone sack a city.