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The Mayor of Troy, a novel by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch |
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Chapter 15. Up-Channel |
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_ CHAPTER XV. UP-CHANNEL
(Sings Allan Cunningham), "A wind that follows fast,
Mr. Sturge was not criticising (by anticipation) Allan Cunningham's lines, but talking, as usual, about himself. Many circumstances combined to induce a cheerful mood in him. To begin with, his manacles had been removed. Also he had overcome the morning's nausea. The _Vesuvius_--a deep vessel for her size--was by no means speedy off the wind, and travelled indeed like a slug; but her frame, built for the heavy mortars, was extraordinarily stout in comparison with her masts, and this gave her stability. She was steering a course, too, which kept her fairly close inshore and in smooth water. Indeed, so far as physical conditions went, Mr. Sturge was enjoying a pleasure trip. His bold expostulations, moreover (for he did not lack courage), had considerably impressed Captain Crang, who, though not easily cowed as a rule, met them at a double disadvantage, being at once unable to recall the events of overnight, and firmly convinced that the whole misadventure was a trick of his Royal Highness. In this state of mind the Captain, shaken by his debauch, had almost collapsed before Mr. Sturge's demand that the ship should be put about--or, as he expressed it, turned round--and navigated to the nearest point of shore. "If," said Mr. Sturge, with a comprehensive wave of the hand, "if along yon coast, in cove or bay or any natural recess--call it how you will--there lurk a bench of magistrates insensate enough, as you believe, to uphold this violation of a British subject's liberty, steer for them, sir! I challenge you to steer for them! I can say no fairer than that. Select what tribunal you please, sir, and I will demonstrate before it that I and my companions, in spite of appearances, are _no_ seamen. You are to understand that by this disclaimer I cast no reflection upon even the humblest toiler of the deep. Nay, while myself inept either to trim the sail or net the finny tribes, I respect those hardy callings--no man more so. Only I claim that my own profession exempts me from this respectable but un-congenial service; and that in short, sir, by forcibly trepanning me, you have rendered yourself liable to swingeing damages, besides inviting public attention to the fact that you were senselessly intoxicated last night." This harangue, admirably delivered, took Captain Crang between wind and water. It was in vain he looked to his first officer for help. Mr. Wapshott, still swaying by the poop rail, lifted and wagged an admonitory forefinger. "No use y'r asking me," said Mr. Wapshott. "_I_ didn't dine with the Duke." He paused and asked with sudden inconsequent heartiness, "Well, and how did you get along, you two?" "If only I could tell!" murmured Captain Crang, passing a hand over his brow. "Not stuck-up, I hope? Affable? I'll bet any man sixpence he was affable. Mind you, I don't speak from 'xperience," went on Mr. Wapshott, more in sorrow than in anger. "_I_ don't dine out with Admirals of the Fleet. The Blood Royal don't invite James Wapshott to take a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne, for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld. . . . You'll excuse me, sir, some little emotion; Robert Burns--Robbie--affecting beggar, mor' specially in his homelier passages. A ploughman, sir; and from Ayrshire, damme!"
"Norratall. Field-mouse. _That_"--Mr. Wapshott drew himself up-- "_that's_ the 'stonishing thing about it." "Go to your cabin, sir," the Captain commanded; "and you, Mr. What's-your-name, come below and explain yourself." Thus, not without dignity, he withdrew from the field. But he was beaten; and in his cabin a few minutes later he capitulated. Mr. Sturge having been convinced that the ship could not be turned around and headed back for Plymouth without grave inconvenience, and perhaps detriment to his Majesty's service, it was agreed that he and his company should be packed ashore immediately on reaching Portsmouth. The question of compensation was waived by consent; though Captain Crang shrewdly expressed his hope that, whatever steps Mr. Sturge might take after consulting a solicitor, his Royal Highness would not be dragged into the affair. In short, Mr. Sturge reappeared on deck in high spirits. He had bearded a British officer--and a formidable one--in his den and had come off victorious. He had secured his own liberty and his comrades', and (as reflection told him) a first-class advertisement to boot. Altogether, he had done very well indeed; and Mr. Jope, chastened by his own narrow escape from a situation which at one moment had promised to be serious, wisely left him all the credit of this lucky turn of affairs. Mr. Jope, who ranked next to the Captain and First Officer on the ship's executive, and actually ruled her during their indisposition, exacted no work from his prisoners; but was content to admire them from a distance--as, indeed, did the rest of the crew--retiring from time to time behind convenient shelters to hide their indecorous mirth. During the afternoon it may be said that Mr. Sturge's troupe had the deck aft of the forecastle to themselves. Being unacquainted with naval usage, they roamed the poop indifferently with the main deck, no man forbidding them, while Captain Crang and Mr. Wapshott slumbered below; the one of set purpose, in the hope of recapturing through the gates of horn, if not the complete data of last night's imbroglio, at least sufficient for a plausible defence; the other under the influence of sedatives administered by the Doctor. "I should soon get used to this life, d'ye know?" announced Mr. Sturge, approaching the Major with a jaunty, almost extra-nautical step, and clapping him, seaman fashion, on the shoulder. It was the hour of sunset. The _Vesuvius_, bowling along merrily, a bare three miles off Berry Head, had opened the warm red-sandstone cliffs of Torbay; and the Major, leaning over the larboard bulwark, gazed on the slowly moving shore in gloomy abstraction. He had been less fortunate than Mr. Sturge in his encounter with the Captain, whom he had interrupted in the act of retiring to slumber. "One moment, sir," he had begun, confidently enough. "The accomplished _artiste_ to whose representations you have been good enough to listen, has told you--so far as he is concerned--the simple truth. To a certain extent I can corroborate him. But I beg you to understand that he and I--if I may employ a nautical phrase--are not in the same boat." "Who the devil may _you_ be?" Captain Crang interposed. "That, sir," answered the Major with dignity, "is precisely what I propose to explain. By an accident I find myself without a visiting-card; but my name, sir, is Hymen--Major Hymen, sir--of the Troy Volunteer Artillery (better known to you, perhaps, as the Gallants), and Chief Magistrate of that ancient and picturesque little borough." Captain Crang stared at him for a moment with lowered brows and jaw working as if it chewed the cud of his wrath. "Look here," he replied. "You're the funny man of the troupe, I suppose? Comic Irishman and that sort of thing, hey?" "I assure you, sir--" "And I assure _you_, sir, that if you come the funny dog over me, I'll have you up to the gratings in two shakes of a duck's tail, and tickle your funny ribs with three dozen of the best. Understand?" The Captain paused, trembling with rage. "Understand, hey, you '--' little barnstorming son of a '--'? Made a mistake, have I? Cut your capers at my expense, would you, you little baldheaded runt? By '--' if you pull another face at me, sir, you shall caper off the yardarm, sir; on a string, sir; high as Haman, sir! I hope, sir," wound up Captain Crang, recovering his calm, "that on this point, at any rate, I have left no room for misunderstanding."
"I should soon get used to this life," he repeated. "There's a spirit in it--a breeziness, I may call it--which is positively infectious. You don't find it so?" "I do not," the Major confessed. Mr. Sturge pointed his toe and seemed about to execute the first steps of a hornpipe, but checked himself. "Rough tongue, the Captain's?" he queried. The Major swallowed a lump in his throat but did not answer. "Hasty temper. Under the circumstances, we may make some little excuse, perhaps." "I prefer not to discuss it. The man has insulted me." "His bark is worse than his bite, I find," said Mr. Sturge complacently. "And, after all, the moment you chose was not precisely opportune--was it, now?" "I am not used, sir, to have my word doubted by any man." "Well, but--appearances considered--you pitched it pretty strong, eh? Local magnate, and that sort of thing . . . it _did_ seem like taking advantage of his condition." "Advantage? Appearances? What do you mean, sir?" The Major turned resentfully, and at the same instant recollected that he wore no wig. He blushed, His hand went up to his scalp. "Makes a difference," said Mr. Sturge. "Allow me." He drew from the breast of his shirt a small pocket mirror. "I carry it always. Useful--tittivate myself--in the wings." "The wings?" echoed the Major dully, taking the glass. He gazed into it and started back with a cry. What an image was there confronting him! Was this the face of Troy's Chief Magistrate? (forgive the blank verse). Were these the features--was this the aspect--from which virtue had so often derived its encouragement and wrongdoing its reproof? Was this the figure the ladies of Troy had been wont to follow with all but idolatrous gaze? Nay, who was this man--unshaven, unkempt, unbewigged, smeared with mud from head to foot, and from scalp to jaw with commingling bloodstains? The Major groaned incredulous, horrified; gazed, shuddered, and groaned again. "Mind you," said Mr. Sturge reassuringly, "I'm not calling the truth of your story into question for a moment. But under the circumstances you'll allow it was a trifle stiff." "It is true to the last particular," insisted the Major, recovering his dignity. "But come, now! Without a penny in your pocket, or so much as a scrap of paper to identify you, you'll admit it was stiff? Look here," he went on with a change of tone, slipping his arm amicably within the Major's, "I've an idea. Comrades in adversity, you know, and all that sort of thing. I've taken a liking to you, and can do you a good turn. Drop that yarn of yours--'yarn,' seafaring expression; odd how one catches the _colour_, so to speak. Drop that yarn of yours. You're one of _us_, understand? The Captain'll believe that; indeed, he believes it already--called you a damned low-comedy man in my hearing. Very well; soon as we anchor off Spithead, he outs with a boat and lands us ashore. I have his solemn promise. Leave me to square that bos'n fellow--Jope, or whatever he calls himself--and the job's as good as done." "And do you seriously propose," interrupted the Major, folding his arms, "that I should pass myself off for a play-actor? Never, sir; never!" "Why not?" asked Mr. Sturge easily. "I forbear, sir, to wound your feelings by explaining why your suggestion is repugnant to me. Let it suffice that I detest deceit, subterfuge, equivocation; or, if that suffice not, let me ask if you do not propose, on reaching shore, to institute legal proceedings against this petty tyrant?" "Probably." "Why, then, and how much more reparation does he not owe _me_, a Justice of the Peace? Nay, sir, he shall pay me damages for this kidnapping; but he has not stopped short there. He has used language to me which can only be wiped out in blood. My first business on stepping ashore will be to seek someone through whom I can convey my demand for satisfaction. With what face, think you, could I present this cartel if my own behaviour had been other than correct?" "You're not telling me you mean to fight him?" asked Mr. Sturge, convinced by this time that he had to deal with a lunatic. "Pardon me." The Major bowed with grave irony. "This conversation, sir, was of your seeking. I have paid you, it appears, too high a compliment in assuming that you would understand what follows when a gentleman is called the son of a--!" Mr. Sturge shrugged his shoulders and walked forward to seek Ben Jope, whom he found by the forecastle hatchway engaged in slicing a quid of black tobacco. "You'll excuse me," he asked, "but that rum little man who calls himself Hymen--where did he escape from?" "Escape!" Ben Jope sprang to his feet, but catching sight of the Major, who had resumed his pensive attitude by the bulwarks, sat down again heavily. "Lord, but you frightened me! That Hymen don't escape; not if I know it. He's the apple of my eye, or becoming so. Now I tell you," said Mr. Jope, beginning to slice again at his tobacco, then pausing to look up with engaging frankness; "you took my fancy terrible for a few minutes; but, come to see you by daylight, you're too pink." Mr. Sturge might have pressed for an explanation; but at this juncture the first lieutenant of H.M.S. _Poseidon_ came forward, still with his painted scowl, and demanded to know, since the _Vesuvius_ could not reach Portsmouth for many hours, when supper would be served, and what bedroom accommodation she provided. _ |
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