THE FATE OF THE "ST. BARBARA."
The "St. Barbara" could now pursue her way unmolested; and Timar had no
worse misfortunes than the daily disputes with the leader of the
towing-team. On the great Hungarian plains the voyage up the Danube
becomes extremely wearisome; there are no rocks, no water-falls or old
ruins, nothing but willows and poplars, which border both sides of the
river. Of these there is nothing interesting to relate.
Timea frequently did not come out of her cabin during a whole day, and
not a word did her lips utter. She sat alone, and often the food they
set before her was brought out again untouched. The days grew shorter,
and the bright autumn weather turned to rain; Timea now shut herself
entirely into her cabin, and Michael heard nothing of her except the
deep sighs which at night penetrated to his ear through the thin
partition. But she was never heard to weep; the heavy blow which had
fallen on her had perhaps covered her heart with an impenetrable layer
of ice. How glowing must that love be which could melt it!
Ah, my poor friend, how came you by that thought? Why do you dream
waking and sleeping of this pale face? Even if she were not so
beautiful, she is so rich, and you are only a poor devil of a fellow.
What is the good of a pauper like you filling all his thoughts with the
image of such a rich girl? If only it were the other way, and you were
the rich one and she poor! And how rich is Timea? Timar began to reckon,
in order to drive himself to despair, and turn these idle dreams out of
his head. Her father left her a thousand ducats in gold and the cargo,
which, according to the present market prices, must be worth, say, ten
thousand ducats--perhaps she has ornaments and jewels besides--and might
be counted in Austrian paper-money of that date as worth a hundred
thousand gulden; that in a Hungarian provincial town is a very rich
heiress. And then Timar asked himself a riddle whose solution he could
not guess.
If Ali Tschorbadschi had a fortune of eleven thousand ducats, that would
not weigh more than sixteen pounds; of all metals, gold has the smallest
volume in proportion to its weight. Sixteen pounds of ducats could be
packed in a knapsack, which a man could carry on his back a long way,
even on foot. Why was the Turk obliged to change it into grain and load
a cargo-ship with it, which would take a month and a half for its
voyage, and have to struggle with storms, eddies, rocks, and
shallows--which might be delayed by quarantine and custom-houses--when
he could have carried his treasure with him in his knapsack, and by
making his way cautiously on foot over mountain and river, could have
reached Hungary safely in a couple of weeks?
The key to this problem was not to be found.
And another riddle was connected with this one. If Ali's treasure
(whether honestly come by or not) only consists of eleven or twelve
thousand ducats altogether, why does the Turkish Government institute a
pursuit on such a large scale, sending a brigantine with four-and-twenty
rowers, and spies and couriers after him? What would be a heap of money
for a poor supercargo is for his highness the Padischa only a trifle;
and even if it had been possible to lay an embargo on the whole cargo,
representing a value of ten or twelve thousand ducats, by the time it
had passed through the fingers of all the informers, tax-collectors, and
other official cut-purses, there would be hardly enough left for the
sultan to fill his pipe with.
Was it not ridiculous to set such great machinery in motion in order to
secure so small a prize?
Or was it not so much the money as Timea that was the object? Timar had
enough romance about him to find this a plausible assumption, however
little it agreed with a supercargo's one-times-one multiplication table.
One evening the wind dispersed the clouds, and when Timar looked out of
his cabin window he saw on the western horizon the crescent moon.
The "red moon!"
The glowing sickle seemed to touch the glassy surface of the Danube. It
looked to Timar as if it really had a human face, as it is depicted in
the almanacs, and as if it said something to him with its crooked mouth.
Only that he could not always understand--it is a strange language.
Moonstruck people perhaps comprehend it, for they follow it; only they,
as well as the sleep-walkers, remember nothing of what was said when
they awake. It was as if the moon answered Timar's questions. Which?
All. And the beating of his heart? or his calculations? All.
Only that he could not put these answers into words.
The red crescent dipped slowly toward the water, and sent its reflected
rays along the waves as far as the ship's bows, as if to say, "Don't you
understand now?" At last it drew its horns gently below the surface,
saying plainly, "I shall return to-morrow, and then you will know."
The pilot was in favor of making the most of the light of the after-glow
to go on further, until it grew dark. They were already above Almas, and
not far from Komorn; in those parts he knew the channel so well that he
could have steered the vessel safely with his eyes shut. As far up as
the Raab Danube, there was no more danger to fear.
And yet there was something! Off Fuzito a soft, dull thud was heard; but
at this thud the steersman cried "Halt!" in a fright, to the
towing-team.
Timar also grew pale, and stood petrified for a moment. For the first
time during the whole voyage dismay was depicted in his features. "We
have struck a snag!" he cried to the steersman.
And that great strong man entirely lost his head, left the rudder, and
ran crying like a little child across the deck to the cabin.
We have touched a snag! Yes, that was so. When the Danube is in flood it
makes breaches in the bank, the uprooted trees fall into the current,
and are carried to the bottom by the weight of the soil clinging to
their roots; if a cargo-ship drawn by horses touches such a tree-trunk,
it pierces the hull. From shallows and rocks the steersman can guard his
vessel, but against a tree-trunk lying in ambush under water, neither
knowledge, experience nor skill is of any avail. Most of the shipwrecks
on the Danube are from this cause.
"It is all up with us!" howled the pilot and the sailors. Every one left
his post and ran for his bundle and his chest, to get them into the
boat.
The vessel swung across the stream, and the forepart began to sink. It
was useless to think of saving it--absolutely impossible. The hold was
filled with sacks of grain; before they could shift these in order to
get at the leak and stop it, the vessel would long ago have gone down.
Timar broke in the door of Timea's cabin.
"Fraulein, put on your cloak quickly, and take the casket which stands
on the table; our ship is sinking, we must save ourselves." As he spoke
he helped her into her warm kaftan, and gave her directions to get into
the boat; the pilot would help her. He himself ran back into his cabin
to get the box which held the ship's papers and cash. But Johann Fabula
was not thinking of helping Timea; he flew into a rage when he saw the
girl. "Didn't I say this milk-face, this witch with the meeting
eyebrows, would bring us all to destruction? We ought to have thrown her
overboard."
Timea did not understand what he said, but she shrunk from his bloodshot
eyes, and preferred to go back to her cabin, where she lay down, and saw
the water rush through the door and mount gradually to the level of the
edge of her bed. She thought to herself that if the water washed her
away, it would carry her down-stream, to where her father was lying at
the bottom of the Danube, and then they would again be united.
Timar was wading up to his knees in water before he had collected all he
wanted from his cabin and packed them in a box, which he took on his
shoulder and then hurried to the boat.
"And where is Timea?" he cried, not seeing her there.
"The devil knows!" growled the pilot. "I wish she had never been born."
Timar flew back into Timea's cabin, now up to his waist in water, and
took her in his arms. "Have you the casket?"
"Yes," whispered the girl.
He asked no more, but hurried with her on deck, and carried her in his
arms into the boat, where he put her on the middle seat. The fate of the
"St. Barbara" was being decided with awful rapidity. The ship was going
down stern first, and in a few minutes only the upper deck and the mast,
with the dangling tow-rope, were visible above water.
"Shove off!" Timar said to the rowers, and the boat moved toward the
shore.
"Where is the casket?" Timar asked the girl, when they had already gone
some distance.
"Here it is," answered Timea, showing him what she had brought away.
"Miserable girl! that is the box of sweetmeats, not the casket." In
fact, Timea had brought the box of Turkish sweets, meant as a present to
her new sister, and had totally forgotten the casket which held her
whole fortune. That was left behind in the submerged cabin. "Back to the
ship!" Timar cried to the pilot.
"Surely nobody has got such a mad notion as to look for anything in a
sunken ship," grumbled Fabula.
"Back!--no words--I insist!"
The boat returned to the vessel. Timar asked no one's help, but sprung
himself to the deck and down the steps to the cabin.
Timea looked after him with her great dark eyes as he vanished under the
surface, as if to say--"And you too go before me into the watery grave."
Timar reached the bulwarks, but had to be very careful, because the
vessel had a list toward the side where Timea's cabin door was. He had
to hold on by the timbers of the roof, so as not to slip altogether
under water. He found the door, luckily, not shut by the waves; for it
would have been a long job to get it open. It was quite dark inside, the
water had filled it almost to the ceiling; he groped to the table, the
casket was not there; perhaps she had left it on the bed. The water had
floated the bed to the roof, and he had to draw it down; but the casket
was not there either. Perhaps it had been knocked over by the rush of
water. He felt about vainly with his hands, stooping under water. His
feet were more fortunate, for he stumbled over the object sought for;
the casket had fallen to the ground. He lifted it, and tried while
holding it to climb up to the other side, where he need not hold on with
both hands.
The minute that Timar was under water seemed to Timea an eternity.
He was a full minute under water. He had held his breath the whole time,
as if to try an experiment how long a man could do without breathing.
When Michael's head appeared above the water she heaved a deep sigh,
and her face beamed when Timar gave her the rescued casket, but not on
its account.
"Well, captain!" exclaimed the steersman, as he helped Timar into the
boat, "that's thrice you've got soaked for the love of these eyebrows.
Thrice!"
Timea asked Michael in a whisper, "What is the Greek for the word
thrice?" Michael translated it. Then Timea looked at him long, and
repeated to herself in a low voice "Thrice."
The boat approached the shore in the direction of Almas.
Against the steely mirror in the twilight a long line was visible, like
a distressful note of exclamation or a pause in life. It was the topmast
of the "St. Barbara."