THE HARBOUR OF REFUGE
It was up anchor and away, for they needs must flee ere the hunters
find them. They stood along the coast with a light breeze in the early
morning, when the sun was rising over the sea and tipping with gold
the branches of the dark palms; but the Rose of Devon was a hawk with
clipped wings.
A company of twenty-nine or thirty men in a staunch ship with a
goodly number of brass cannon and with powder and balls in abundance
(which provident merchants had bought to defend their venture against
pirates!) might have done very well on a merchant voyage or fishing. If
there are not too many to share in the adventure, a man can earn his
wages by the one; or if he would go to the banks of Newfoundland or to
Massachusetts Bay, his lay of a fishing voyage will doubtless bring
him enough golden chinks to drink in strong ale or sack the health of
every fair maiden of Plymouth ere he must be off to fill his pockets
anew. Though the times be ever so hard, he is a feckless sailor who
cannot earn in such a company the price of drinking the three outs.
But to work a ship and lay aboard a rich prize, with perhaps need to
show heels to a King's cruiser or to fight her, is quite another game;
and the Old One and Harry Malcolm, who had their full share of the
ill-temper that prevailed throughout the ship, cursed their fortune,
each in his own way, and wrangled together and quarrelled with the men.
And indeed, among all the men of the Rose of Devon there were only two
or three who that morning remained unperturbed by their misadventures
of the night. One was Jacob, who sat in this corner or that and eyed
all comers coldly and as if from a distance. A second was Philip
Marsham, who did not, like Jacob, appear to lose his warmer interest in
the ship and her company, but whose interest had been always less as
for himself alone.
Meeting in groups of three or five, the men ripped out oaths and told
of how one captain or another had once taken a ship or a town with
vast bloodshed and plunder, and thus they stormed about the deck at
intervals until an hour after sunrise, when Phil from the forecastle
and Old Jacob from his corner under the quarter-deck, having observed
them for some time putting their heads together and conversing in
undertones, heard them crying out, "Yea, yea! Go on, go on! We are
all with you!" Four of the men then started through the steerage room
to the great cabin and the rest gathered in a sullen half circle just
under the quarter-deck.
Jacob raised his head and listened; his face was very thoughtful and
his small mouth was puckered tight. At the sounds that issued from the
cabin, Phil himself drew nearer.
"Well," cried the Old One in a voice that seemed as full of wonder as
of wrath,--they heard him plainly,--"what in the Devil's name mean ye
by this?"
"We ha' lost a dozen men and our shallop by this foolish march, and
from this rich town of which you have promised much we have got only
blows and balls for our labour." The speaker's voice was loud and
harsh, and he larded his speech with such oaths and obscene bywords
as are not fit for printing. "We are of a mind to change captains. You
shall go forward and Paul Craig shall come aft. Speak up, Paul! Tell
your tale of no marching to wear out a man's feet--"
There came a string of oaths in the Old One's voice and a wild stamping
and crashing; then out they burst, jostling one another in their haste,
and after them the Old One with a clubbed musket.
He subdued his fury, when he faced the ring of sullen men, as if he had
taken it with his hands and pushed it down. But they feared him none
the less, and perhaps the more. A man looking at him must perceive that
his mind was keen and subtle, which made his quietness, when he was
angry, more terrible than a great show of wrath.
"I have sailed before with mad, fickle crews," said he; "yea, once
with a crew so mad that it would send a gentleman post unto the King
with a petition of grievances because a King's ship had chased us from
the South Foreland to the Lizard. But never saw I a more mad crew than
this, which is enough to give a man a grievous affliction of the colic
and stone by the very excess of its madness."
"As for madness," cried a man who stood at a safe distance behind the
rest, "I charge thee with worse than madness. We have lost two fights
and many men and have got to show for it--a kettle of fish."
Some laughed, but more muttered angrily.
"Why--we have had our ill fortunes. But what gentlemen of the sea have
not? Come, make an end of this talk. Come out, you who spoke, and let
us consider the matter. Nay? He will not come, though by his speech he
is a bold man?"
Again some of them laughed, but in a mean way, for he had cowed them by
his show of violence and they feared more than ever that subtle spirit
which over-leaped their understanding.
"Listen, then, my hearts of gold: we will come about and sail back.
We will lie tonight by the very town that last night we stormed. We
will seek it out as a harbour of refuge. We will tell them a tale of
meeting pirates who captured our shallop and part of our men. We will
give them such a story that they will think we have met the very men
they themselves last night beat off, and will welcome us with open arms
to succour our distress. Who knows but that we can then take them by
assault? Or if for the time they are too strong for us, we will mark
well the approaches and the defenses, and some night we will again come
back."
The idea caught their fancy, and though a few cried nay and whispered
that it was the sheerest madness yet, more cried yea and argued there
was little risk, for if worst should come to worst, they could turn
tail and run as run they had before. As they talked, they forgot their
many woes and whispered about that none but the Old One would ever
think of such a scheme.
Harry Malcolm and the Old One went off by themselves and put their
heads together and conversed secretly, and throughout the ship there
was a great buzz of voices. Only Jacob, who sat in his corner and
watched now one and now another, and Philip Marsham, who watched Jacob,
kept silence amidst the hubble-bubble.
So they wore ship, and returning along the palm-grown shores, came
again at the end of the afternoon into sight of the flat mountain they
had seen first by night; and though the wind fell away at times until
the sails hung in listless folds, they gathered speed with the evening
breeze and came at nightfall into a fine landlocked harbour with the
town at its head, where there were lights shining from the houses and a
ship still lying at anchor.
Upon their coming there was a great stir in the town. They saw lights
moving and heard across the water voices calling; but though the men
of the Rose of Devon stood by their guns, ready to lift the ports at a
word and run out their pieces, they laughed in their sleeves at their
own audacity whereby they hoped greatly to enrich their coffers.
Then one in the fort hailed them in Spanish, and while the Old One
made answer in the same tongue, those who understood it whispered to
the rest that he was giving the men in the fort a sad tale of how the
Rose of Devon had fallen in with a band of sailors of fortune who had
killed part of her men and would have killed them all had not the Old
One himself by a bold and clever stroke eluded them. The Old One and
the man in the fort flung questions and answers back and forth; and as
they talked, the men at the guns relaxed and softly laughed, and Martin
whispered to Philip Marsham, "Yea, they are telling of a band of roving
Englishmen who last night singed their very whiskers; and being clever
men and learning that them whom we ourselves have met and fought were
lawless English dogs, they perceive we needs have met the very rascals
that made them so much trouble." Again Martin listened, then slapped
his thigh. "They are sending us boats!" he exclaimed. "Though they
perceive we are English, it seemeth they bear an Englishman no ill will
because he is English. Truly, a fool shall be known by his folly!"
Most of the men were elated, but old Jacob watched and said nought. His
black, bright eyes and his nose, which came out in a broad curve, made
him look like an old, wise rat.
As the boats came over the dark water, with the soft splash of oars,
there was hurried talking on the quarter-deck, then the Old One came
swiftly. "Good boatswain," said he, "these foolish fellows have bade us
ashore to break bread with them and share a bottle of wine. Now I am
of a mind to go, and Harry Malcolm is of a mind to bear me company. We
will take twelve men and so arrange it that they shall not surprise us.
Yea, I am too old a dog to be caught by tricks. It may be we can strike
them again tonight, and a telling blow. It may be not. But do you and
Jacob keep watch on board, with every man at his station in case of
need."
So the Rose of Devon let go her anchors and swung with the tide a
cable's length from the unknown ship, which lay dark and silent and
apparently deserted.
The strange boats came up in the shadow of the poop and the Old One and
Harry, with their men mustered about them, exchanged greetings with the
oarsmen below, in rough English and in rougher Spanish, as each side
strove to outdo the other in civility.
The men--heavily armed--slid down into the boats and the Old One
smiled as he watched them go, for he was himself well pleased with
the escapade. Such harebrained adventures were his bread of life. He
followed the men, the cabin lanthorn in his hand, and after him came
Harry Malcolm, as cool as a man could desire, and watched very sharply
all that went on while the boats rowed slowly away toward the land.
Then Jacob came out of his corner and spoke to Phil. "I will watch
first," said he. "The cook hath laid a fine supper on the cabin table.
Go you down and eat your fill, then come up and keep the deck and I
will go down and eat in my turn."
At something in the man's manner, which puzzled him, Phil hesitated;
but the thought was friendly, and he said, "I will not be long."
"Do not hurry."
When Phil turned away, old Jacob cleared his throat.
"Boatswain--"
"Yea?"
"Do not hurry."
As Phil sat at the table in the great cabin, which was so dark that he
could scarcely see the plate in front of him (although he ate with no
less eagerness because of the darkness), the planks and timbers and
transoms and benches were merged into an indiscriminate background
of olive-black, and there hung before him by chance a mirror on the
forward bulkhead, in which the reflection of the yellow sky threw into
sharp outline the gallery door at his back. Having no means at hand for
striking a light, he was hungrily eating and paying little heed to his
surroundings, when in the mirror before his eyes, against the yellow
western sky the silhouette of a head wearing a sweeping hat appeared
over the gallery rail.
There was not the faintest noise, and no slightest motion of the ship
was perceptible in the brown stillness of the evening. The head, darkly
silhouetted, appeared in the mirror as if it were a thing not of this
earth, and immediately, for he was one who always kept his wits about
him, Phil slipped silently off the bench, and letting himself down
flat on the deck, slid back into the darkest corner of all, which lay
to the starboard of the gallery door. There, without a sound, he rose
to his feet.
The black silhouette reflected in the mirror grew larger until it
nearly blocked the reflection of the door, then a board in the gallery
gently creaked and Phil knew that the man, whoever he was, was coming
into the cabin. Presently in the subdued light he could dimly see the
man himself, who stood by the table with his back toward Phil and
glanced about the cabin from one side to the other. Knowing only that
he was a stranger and therefore had no right to enter the great cabin
of the Rose of Devon, Phil had it in mind to jump and seize him from
behind, for so far as he could appraise the man's figure, the two were
a fair match in weight and height. But when Phil was gathering himself
for the leap, he saw in the mirror the reflection of a second head, and
then of a third.
Again the gallery creaked, for the newcomers, like the first, were
on their way into the cabin. By the door they stood for a moment
listening, and in the silence Phil heard a boat gently bumping against
the side of the ship. He was first of a mind, naturally, to cry an
alarm; but were he to call for help, he would learn no more of their
errand. They drew together beside the table and conversed in whispers
of which Phil could distinguish nothing, although he was near enough
to reach out his hand and seize hold of the curls and brave hat of the
nearest of them. To attack them single-handed were an act of plain
folly, for they wore swords and doubtless other weapons; but when he
perceived that the first had got out flint and steel, he knew that they
must soon discover him.
"Whence and for what have you come?" he said in a low voice.
They turned quickly but with admirable composure: there were never seen
three calmer men. The first struck light to a slow match and held over
it the wick of a candle drawn from his pocket, upon which the flame
took hold and blazed up, throwing curious shadows into the corner of
the cabin and half revealing the hangings and weapons. The man raised
the candle and the three drew close about Phil and looked at him
steadily.
"So a watch is set in the cabin, I perceive," the man holding the
candle said with a quiet, ironical smile.
By mien and speech Phil knew upon the instant that they were Englishmen
and it took no great discernment to see that they were gentlemen and
men of authority.
They pressed closer about him.
"Whence and for what have you come?" he repeated.
They made no reply but stood in the brown light, holding high their
candle and looking him hard in the face.
Again he heard the boat bumping against the side of the ship and
now the murmur of the wind aloft. Far away he heard a faint sound
of calling which was growing constantly louder. The three exchanged
glances and whispering to one another, moved toward the gallery; but as
they started to go, the one turned back and held the candle to Phil's
face.
"Of this be assured, my fine fellow," said he, "I shall know you well
if ever I see you again."
Phil was of a mind to call after them, to pursue them, to flee with
them; but as it is easy to understand, there were strong reasons
for his staying where he was, and there had been little welcome in
their faces. He stood for a moment by the table and noticed that the
sky in the mirror had turned from a clear olive to a deep gray and
that the lines of the door and the gallery rail had lost their sharp
decisiveness and had blurred into the dark background. Then he darted
out of the cabin through the steerage and called sharply, "Jacob!
Jacob!"
The men watching at the guns stirred in suppressed excitement and
turned from whispering uneasily.
"There are strange sounds yonder, boatswain," called one.
"And shall we knock out the ports and loose the tacklings?" another
asked.
"Be still! Jacob, Jacob!" Phil cried, running up on the quarter-deck.
There was no one on the quarter-deck; there was no one on the poop. The
wind was blowing up into a fair breeze and small waves were licking
against the dark sides of the Rose of Devon. But the after decks were
deserted.
"Jacob!" Phil cried once more, and sent his voice out far across the
water. But there was still no answer. Jacob had gone.
For a moment the lad stood by the rail and intently listened. The
calling on shore had ceased, but a boat was rowing out from the town
and the beat of oars was quick and irregular. Further, to swell his
anxiety, there was a great bustle on board the unknown ship, which had
been lying hitherto with no sign of human life.
Then Philip Marsham took the fate of the Rose of Devon in his hands and
leaned out over the quarter-deck gun. "Holla, there!" he called, but
not loudly, "Let the younkers lay quietly aloft and lie ready on the
yards to let the sails fall at a word."
Seeming encouraged and reassured by a summons to action, the younger
men went swarming up the rigging, and as quietly as one could wish; but
even the low sound of their subdued voices drummed loud in the ears of
the lad on the quarter-deck.
Jacob had gone! The boatswain, for one, remembered old tales of rats
leaving ships of ill fortune.