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Sir John Constantine, a novel by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch |
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Chapter 11. We Fall In With A Sallee Rover |
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_ CHAPTER XI. WE FALL IN WITH A SALLEE ROVER "We laid them aboard the larboard side-- ---The Sailor's Onely Delight.
"Thou, thou, that art "My star! Adrift "With ivory comb, "Yet when the bird "Yea, to the white "Fray'd rope, burst sail, "Be it frost or fire, "Thou, thou, that art
"Mackerel?" said Captain Jo. "Why, where's your bait?" "You shall lend me an inch off your pipe-stem," said I, and, to tease Nat, began to hum the senseless old song: "Mackerel?" said Captain Pomery. "If ye found one fool enough to take hold at the rate we're sailing, ye'd pull his head off." "Why, then, he would be off his head," answered I: "and there are plenty here to make him feel at home." In truth I was nettled; jealous, as a lad in his first friendship is quick to be. Were not Nat and I of one age? Then why should he be leaving thoughts we might share, to think of woman? I had chafed at Oxford against his precocious entanglements. Here on shipboard his propensity was past a joke; with no goose in sight to mistake for a swan, he must needs conjure up an imaginary princess for his devotion. What irritated most of all was his assuming, because I had not arrived at his folly, the right to treat me as a child. South and across the Bay of Biscay the weather gave us a halcyon passage; the wind falling lighter and lighter until, within ten leagues of Gibraltar, we ran into a flat calm, and Captain Pomery's face began to show his vexation. The vexation I could understand--for your seaman naturally hates calm weather--but scarcely the degree of it in a man of temperament so placid. Hitherto he had taken delight in the strains of Mr. Badcock's flute. Suddenly, and almost pettishly, he laid an embargo on that instrument, and moreover sent word down to the hold and commanded old Worthyvale to desist from hammering on the ballast. All noise, in fact, appeared to irritate him. Mr. Badcock pocketed his flute in some dudgeon, and for occupation fell to drinking with Mr. Fett; whose potations, if they did not sensibly lighten the ship, heightened, at least, her semblance of buoyancy with a deck-cargo of empty bottles. My father put no restraint upon these topers. "Drink, gentlemen," said he; "drink by all means so long as it amuses you. I had far rather you exceeded than that I should appear inhospitable." "Magnifshent old man," Mr. Fett hiccuped to me confidentially, "_an'_ magnifshent liquor. As the song shays--I beg your pardon, the shong says--able 'make a cat speak an' man dumb--
Out of the little logic I had picked up at Oxford I tried to explain to him the process known as _sorites_; and suggested that Captain Pomery, while tolerant of "I attempt from Love's sickness to fly" up to the hundredth repetition, might conceivably show signs of tiring at the hundred-and-first. Yet in my heart I mistrusted my own argument, and my wonder at the skipper's conduct increased when, the next dawn finding us still becalmed, but with the added annoyance of a fog that almost hid the bowsprit's end, his demeanour swung back to joviality. I taxed him with this, in my father's hearing. "I make less account of fogs than most men," he answered. "I can smell land; which is a gift and born with me. But this is no weather to be caught in anywhere near the Sallee coast; and if we're to lose the wind, let's have a good fog to hide us, I say." He went on to assure us that the seas hereabouts were infested with Moorish pirates, and to draw some dismal pictures of what might happen if we fell in with a prowling Sallateen. With all his fears he kept his reckoning admirably, and we half-sailed, half-drifted through the Strait, and so near to the Rock of Gibraltar that, passing within range of it at the hour of reveilly, we heard the British bugles sounding to us like ghosts through the fog. Captain Pomery here was in two minds about laying-to and waiting for a breeze; but a light slant of wind encouraged him to carry the _Gauntlet_ through. It bore us between the invisible strait, and for a score of sea-miles beyond; then, as casually as it had helped, it deserted us. Day broke and discovered us with the Moorish coast low on our starboard horizon. To Mr. Fett and Mr. Badcock this meant nothing, and my father might have left them to their ignorance had he not in the course of the forenoon caught them engaged upon a silly piece of mischief, which was, to scribble on small sheets of paper various affecting narratives--as that the _Gauntlet_ was sinking, or desperately attacked by pirates, in such and such a latitude and longitude--insert them in empty bottles, and commit them to the chances of the deep. The object (as Mr. Fett explained it) being to throw Billy Priske's sweetheart off the scent. For two days past he had been slyly working upon Billy's fears, and was relating to him how, with two words, a Moorish lady had followed Gilbert a Becket from Palestine to London, and found him there--when my father, attracted by the smell of pitch, strolled forward and caught Mr. Badcock in the act of sealing the bottles from a ladle which stood heating over a lamp. In the next five minutes the pair learnt that my father could lose his temper, and the lesson visibly scared them. "Your pardon, sir," twittered Mr. Fett. "'Twas a foolish joke, I confess." "I may lend some point to it," answered my father grimly, "by telling you what I had a mind to conceal, that you stand at this moment at no far remove from one of the worst dangers you have playfully invented. The wind has dropped again, as you perceive. Along the coast yonder live the worst pirates in the world, and with a glass we may all but discern the dreadful barracks in which so many hundreds of our fellow-Christians lie at this moment languishing. Please God we are only visible from the hill-country, and coast tribes may miss to descry us! For our goal lies north and east, and to fail of it would break my heart. But 'twere a high enterprise for England some day to smoke out these robbers, and I know none to which a Christian man could more worthily engage himself." Mr. Badcock shivered. "In our parish church," said he, "we used to take up a collection for these poor prisoners every Septuagesima. Many a sermon have I listened to and wondered at their sufferings, yet idly, as no doubt Axminster folk would wonder at this plight of mine, could they hear of it at this moment." "My father, his wrath being yet recent, did not spare to paint our peril of capture and the possible consequences in lively colours; but observing that Nat and I had drawn near to listen, he put on a cheerfuller tone. "He will turn all this to the note of love, and within five minutes," I whispered to Nat, "or I'll forfeit five shillings." My father could not have heard me; yet pat on the moment he rose to the bet as a fish to a fly. "Yet love," said he, "love, the star of our quest, has shone before now into these dungeons, these dark ways of blood, these black and cruel hearts, and divinely illuminated them; as a score of histories bear witness, and among them one you shall hear." THE STORY OF THE ROVER AND THE LORD PROVOST'S DAUGHTER. "In Edinburgh, in the Canongate, there stands a tenement known as Morocco Land, over the second floor of which leans forward, like a figure-head, the wooden statue of a Moor, black and naked, with a turban and a string of beads; and concerning this statue the following tale is told. "In the reign of King James or King Charles I.--I cannot remember which--there happened a riot in Edinburgh. Of its cause I am uncertain, but in the progress of it the mob, headed by a young man named Andrew Gray, set fire to the Lord Provost's house. The riot having been quelled, its ringleaders were seized and cast into the Tol-booth, and among them this Andrew Gray, who in due course was brought to judgment, and in spite of much private influence (for he came of good family) condemned to die. Before the day of execution, however, his friends managed to spirit him out of prison, whence he fled the country; and so escaped and in time was forgotten. "Many years after, at a time when the plague was raging through Edinburgh, a Barbary corsair sailed boldly up the Firth of Forth and sent a message ashore to the Lord Provost, demanding twenty thousand pounds ransom, and on a threat, if it were not paid within twenty-four hours, to burn all the shipping in the firth and along the quays. He required, meanwhile, a score of hostages for payment, and among them the Lord Provost's own son. "The Lord Provost ran about like a man demented; since, to begin with, audacious as the terms were, the plague had spared him scarcely a hundred men capable of resistance. Moreover, he had no son, but an only daughter, and she was lying sick almost to death with the distemper. So he made answer, promising the ransom, but explaining that he for his part could send no hostage. To this the Sallee captain replied politely--that he had some experience of the plague, and possessed an elixir which (he made sure) would cure the maiden if the Lord Provost would do him the honour to receive a visit; nay, that if he failed to cure her, he would remit the city's ransom. "You may guess with what delight the father consented. The pirate came ashore in state, and was made welcome. The elixir was given; the damsel recovered; and in due course she married her Paynim foe, who now revealed himself as the escaped prisoner, Andrew Gray. He had risen high in the service of the Emperor of Morocco, and had fitted out his ship expressly to be revenged upon the city which had once condemned him to death. The story concludes that he settled down, and lived the rest of his life as one of its most reputable citizens." "But what was the elixir?" inquired Mr. Badcock. "T'cht!" answered my father testily. "I agree with you, sir," said Mr. Fett. "Mr. Badcock's question was a foolish one. Speaking, however, as a mere man of business, and without thought of rounding off the story artistically, I am curious to know how they settled the ransom?" Captain Pomery had taken in all canvas, to be as little conspicuous as possible; and all that day we lay becalmed under bare poles. Not content with this, he ordered out the boat, and the two seamen (Mike Halliday and Roger Wearne their names were) took turns with Nat and me in towing the _Gauntlet_ off the coast. It was back-breaking work under a broiling sun, but before evening we had the satisfaction to lose all sight of land. Still we persevered and tugged until close upon midnight, when the captain called us aboard, and we tumbled asleep on deck, too weary even to seek our hammocks. At daybreak next morning (Sunday) my father roused me. A light wind had sprung up from the shore, and with all canvas spread we were slipping through the water gaily; yet not so gaily (doubted Captain Pomery) as a lateen-sailed craft some four or five miles astern of us--a craft which he announced to be a Moorish xebec. The _Gauntlet_--a flattish-bottomed ship--footed it well before the wind, but not to compare with the xebec, which indeed was little more than a long open boat. After an hour's chase she had plainly reduced our lead by a mile or more. Then for close upon an hour we seemed to have the better of the wind, and more than held our own; whereat the most of us openly rejoiced. For reasons which he kept to himself Captain Pomery did not share in our elation. For sole armament (besides our muskets) the ketch carried, close after of her fore-hatchway, a little obsolete 3-pounder gun, long since superannuated out of the Falmouth packet service. In the dim past, when he had bid for her at a public auction, Captain Pomery may have designed to use the gun as a chaser, or perhaps, even then, for decoration only. She served now--and had served for many a peaceful passage--but as a peg for spare coils of rope, and her rickety carriage as a supplement, now and then, for the bitts, which were somewhat out of repair. My father casting about, as the chase progressed, to put us on better terms of defence, suggested unlashing this gun and running her aft for a stern-chaser. Captain Pomery shook his head. "Where's the ammunition? We don't carry a single round shot aboard, nor haven't for years. Besides which, she'd burst to a certainty." "There's time enough to make up a few tins of canister," argued my father. "Or stay--" He smote his leg. "Didn't I tell you old Worthyvale would turn out the usefullest man on board?" "What's the matter with Worthyvale?" "While we've been talking, Worthyvale has been doing. What has he been doing?" Why, breaking up the ballast, and, if I'm not mistaken, into stones of the very size to load this gun." "Give Badcock and me some share of credit," pleaded Mr. Fett. "Speaking less as an expert than from an imagination quickened by terror of all missiles, I suggest that a hundredweight or so of empty bottles, nicely broken up, would lend a d--d disagreeable diversity to the charge--" "Not a bad idea at all," agreed my father. "And a certain sting to our defiance; since I understand these ruffians drink nothing stronger than water," Mr. Fett concluded. We spent the next half-hour in dragging the gun aft, and fetching up from the hold a dozen basket-loads of stone. It required a personal appeal from my father before old Worthyvale would part with so much of his treasure. During twenty minutes of this time, the xebec, having picked up with the stronger breeze, had been shortening her distance (as Captain Pomery put it) hand-over-fist. But no sooner had we loaded the little gun and trained her ready for use, than my father, pausing to mop his brow, cried out that the Moor was losing her breeze again. She perceptibly slackened way, and before long the water astern of her ceased to be ruffled. An oily calm spreading across the sea from shoreward overhauled her by degrees, overtook, and held her, with sails idle and sheets tautening and sagging as she rolled on the heave of the swell. Captain Pomery promptly checked our rejoicing, telling us this was about the worst that could happen. "We shall carry this wind for another ten minutes at the most," he assured us. "And these devils have boats." So it proved. Within ten minutes our booms were swinging uselessly; the sea spread calm for miles around us; and we saw no fewer than three boats being lowered from the xebec, now about four miles away. "There is nothing but to wait for 'em," said my father, seating himself on deck with his musket across his knees. "Mr. Badcock!" "Sir?" "To-day is Sunday." "It is, sir. Six days shalt thou labour and do all thou hast to do, but on the Seventh day (if you'll excuse me) there's a different kind of feeling in the air. At home, sir, I have observed that even the rooks count on it." "You have a fine voice, Mr. Badcock, and have been, as I gather, an attentive hearer of sermons." "I may claim that merit, sir." "If you can remember one sufficiently well to rehearse it to us, I feel that it would do us all good." Mr. Badcock coughed. "Oh, sir," he protested, "I couldn't! I reelly couldn't. You'll excuse me, but I hold very strong opinions on unlicensed preaching." He hesitated; then suddenly his brow cleared. "But I can read you one, sir. _Reading_ one is altogether another matter." "You have a book of sermons on board?" "Before starting, sir, happening to cast my eye over the book-case in the bedroom . . . a volume of Dr. South's, sir, if you'll excuse my liberty in borrowing it." He ran and fetched the volume, while we disposed ourselves to listen. "Where shall I begin, sir?" "Wherever you please. The book belongs to my brother Gervase. For myself I have not even a bowing acquaintance with the good Doctor." "The first sermon, sir, is upon Human Perfection." "It should have been the last, surely?" "Not so, sir; for it starts with Adam in the Garden of Eden." "Let us hear, then." Mr. Badcock cleared his throat and read:
"This is the first page, sir." "Then the Doctor himself began at the wrong end. Prosper, will you take a look astern and report me how many boats are coming?" "Three, sir," said I. "The third has just pushed off from the ship." "Thank you. Proceed, Mr. Badcock."
"A fine fiddlestick, sir!" quoth my father. "The man is talking largely on matters of which he can know nothing; and in five minutes (I bet you) he will come a cropper." Mr. Badcock resumed-- "For the understanding speculative there are some general maxims and notions in the mind of man, which are the rules of discourse and the basis of all philosophy."
"Now it was Adam's happiness in the state of innocence to have these clear and unsullied. He came into the world a philosopher--"
"He could see consequents yet dormant in their principles, and effects yet unborn and in the womb of their causes."
"His understanding could almost pierce to future contingencies. . . ."
"his conjectures improving even to prophecy, or to certainties of prediction. Till his fall he was ignorant of nothing but sin; or, at least, it rested in the notion without the smart of the experiment."
Mr. Badcock hastily turned a page. "The image of God was no less resplendent in that which we call man's practical understanding--namely, that storehouse of the soul in which are treasured up the rules of action and the seeds of morality. Now of this sort are these maxims: 'That God is to be worshipped,' 'That parents are to be honoured,' 'That a man's word is to be kept.' It was the privilege of Adam innocent to have these notions also firm and untainted--"
"Belike," suggested Billy Priske, scratching his head, "Eve was expecting, and he invented it to keep her spirits up." "I assure you, sir," Mr. Badcock protested with dignity, "Dr. South was the most admired preacher of his day. Her late Majesty offered him the Deanery of Westminster." "I could have found a better preferment for him, then; that of Select Preacher to the Marines." "If you will have patience, sir--" "Prosper, how near is the leading boat?" "A good mile away, sir, as yet." "Then I will have patience, Mr. Badcock." "The Doctor, sir, proceeds to make some observations on Love, with which you will find yourself able to agree. Love, he says--
By this time, through our glasses, we could discern the faces of the pirates, who, crowded in the bows and stern-sheets of the two leading boats, weighted them almost to the water's edge. The third had dropped, maybe half a mile behind in the race, but these two came on, stroke for stroke, almost level--each measuring, at a guess, some sixteen feet, and manned by eight rowers. They bore down straight for our stern, until within a hundred yards; then separated, with the evident intention of boarding us upon either quarter. At fifty yards the musketeers in their bows opened fire, while my father whistled to old Worthyvale, who, during Dr. South's sermon, had been bringing the points of half a dozen handspikes to a red heat in the galley fire. The two seamen, Nat and I, retorted with a volley, and Nat had the satisfaction to drop the steersman of the boat making towards our starboard quarter. Unluckily, as it seemed--for this was the boat on which my father was training our 3-pounder--this threw her into momentary confusion at a range at which he would not risk firing, and allowed her mate to run in first and close with us. The confusion, however, lasted but ten seconds at the most; a second steersman stepped to the helm; and the boat came up with a rush and grated alongside, less than half a minute behind her consort. Now the _Gauntlet_, as the reader will remember, sailed in ballast, and therefore carried herself pretty high in the water. Moreover, our enemies ran in and grappled us just forward of her quarter, where she carried a movable panel in her bulwarks to give access to an accommodation ladder. While Nat, Captain Pomery, Mr. Fett, and the two seamen ran to defend the other side, at a nod from my father I thrust this panel open, leapt back, and Mr. Badcock aiding, ran the little gun out, while my father depressed its muzzle over the boat. In our excess of zeal we had nearly run her overboard; indeed, I believe that overboard she would have gone had not my father applied the red-hot iron in the nick of time. The explosion that followed not only flung us staggering to right and left, but lifted her on its recoil clean out of her rickety carriage, and kicked her back and half-way across the deck. Recovering myself, I gripped my musket and ran to the bulwarks. A heave of the swell had lifted the boat up to receive our discharge, which must have burst point-blank upon her bottom boards; for I leaned over in bare time to see her settling down in a swirl beneath the feet of her crew, who, after vainly grabbing for hold at the _Gauntlet's_ sides, flung themselves forward and were swimming one and all in a sea already discoloured for some yards with blood. My father called to me to fire. I heard; but for the moment the dusky upturned faces with their bared teeth fascinated me. They looked up at me like faces of wild beasts, neither pleading nor hating, and in response I merely stared. A cry from the larboard bulwarks aroused me. Three Moors, all naked to the waist, had actually gained the deck. A fourth, with a long knife clenched between his teeth, stood steadying himself by the main rigging in the act to leap; and in the act of turning I saw Captain Pomery chop at his ankles with a cutlass and bring him down. We made a rush on the others. One my father clubbed senseless with the butt of his musket; another the two seamen turned and chased forward to the bows, where he leapt overboard; the third, after hesitating an instant, retreated, swung himself over the bulwarks, and dropped back into the boat. But a second cry from Mr. Fett warned us that more were coming. Mr. Fett had caught up a sack of stones, and was staggering with it to discharge it on our assailants when this fresh uprush brought him to a check. "That fellow has more head than I gave him credit for," panted my father. "The gun, lad! Quick, the gun!" We ran to where the gun lay, and lifted it between us, straining under its weight; lurched with it to the side, heaved it up, and sent it over into the second boat with a crash. Prompt on the crash came a yell, and we stared in each other's faces, giddy with our triumph, as John Worthyvale came tottering out of the cook's galley with two fresh red-hot handspikes. The third boat had come to a halt, less than seventy yards away. A score of bobbing heads were swimming for her, the nearer ones offering a fair mark for musketry. We held our fire, however, and watched them. The boat took in a dozen or so, and then, being dangerously overcrowded, left the rest to their fate, and headed back for the xebec. The swimmers clearly hoped nothing from us. They followed the boat, some of them for a long while. Through our glasses we saw them sink one by one. _ |
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