A MAN SEEN BEFORE
There was sullen anger and worse in the Rose of Devon when day broke,
for the boatswain, too, had gone and the boat lay in sight upon the
beach whereby all might know the means of his going.
One watching from the mountain would have seen the Rose of Devon spread
her sails and put to sea like a great bird with white wings. But there
was no one on the mountain to watch, and when the ship had sailed,
no human being remained to interrupt the placid calm that overspread
the bay that summer morning. The sun blazed from a clear sky, and the
green palms rustled and swayed beside the blue water, and in all the
marvelously fair prospect of land and sea no sign or mark of violence
remained.
Phil Marsham had gone in the night over the hills and across the narrow
peninsula between two bays. Though the way was rough, the land was high
and--for the tropics--open, and he had put the peninsula behind him by
sunrise. He had then plunged down into a swampy region, but, finding
the tangle of vines and canes well nigh impassable in the dark, he had
struggled round it and had again come to the shore.
There, finding once more a place where a man could walk easily, he had
pressed on at dawn through a forest of tall trees in infinite number
and variety, with flowers and fruits in abundance, and past a plain of
high grass of wonderful greenness.
A short time after sunrise he drank from a spring of water and ate
ship's bread from the small store with which he had provided himself.
But he dared not linger, and resuming his journey he came upon two huts
where nets and fishing-tackle were spread in the sun to dry. The heat,
which seemed to swell from the very earth, by then so sorely oppressed
him that he stopped for a while in a shady place to rest. But still he
dared not stay, and although upon again arising he saw that dark clouds
were covering the sky, he once more stepped forth with such a stout
heart as had carried him out of London and all the long way to Bideford
in Devon.
It gave him a queer feeling to be tramping through an unknown land with
no destination in his mind, yet he vowed to himself that, come what
might, he would never go back to the Rose of Devon. There is a time
when patience and forbearance are enough to earn a man a hempen halter,
and thinking thus, he faced the storm and renewed his determination.
The wind rose to a furious gale; the clouds overswept the sky and
thunder shook the earth and heavens. The rain, sweeping down in
slanting lines, cut through the palm leaves like hundreds upon hundreds
of thrusting swords; and lightning flamed and flashed, and leaped from
horizon to horizon, and hung in a sort of continual cloud of deathly
blue in the zenith, blazing and quivering with appalling reverberations
that went booming off through the mountains and came rolling back in
ponderous echoes. It was enough to make a brave man think the black
angels were marshalling for the last great battle; it was such a
storm as a boy born in England and taught his seamanship in northern
waters knew only by sailors' tales. The rain beat through the poor
shelter that he found and drenched him to the skin, and the roaring and
thundering of the tempest filled him with awe. And when the storm had
passed, for it lasted not above three quarters of an hour, the sun came
out again and filled the air with a steamy warmth that was oppressive
beyond description.
Then the woods came to life and insects stirred and droned, and
mosquitoes, issuing from among the leaves and grasses, plagued him to
the verge of madness.
One who has lived always in a land where mosquitoes return each year in
summer is likely to have no conception of the venomous strength with
which their poison can work upon one who has not, by much experience of
their bites, built up a measure of resistance against it. Phil's hands
swelled until he could not shut them, and the swelling of his face so
nearly closed his eyes that he could hardly see. When two hours later,
all but blinded, and thirsting and hungry, he came again to the shore
and made out in the offing, by squinting between swollen eyelids, the
same Rose of Devon from which he had run away and to which he had vowed
he would never return, his misery was such that he would have been glad
enough to be on board her and away from such torment, though they ended
the day by hanging him. But the Rose of Devon sailed away over the blue
sea on which the sun shone as calmly and steadily as if there had been
no tempest, and Philip Marsham sat down on a rock and gave himself up
as a man already dead.
There two natives of the country found him, and by grace of God, who
tempered their hearts with mercy, carried him to their poor hut and
tended him with their simple remedies until he was in such measure
recovered of the poison that he could see as well as ever. He then set
out once more upon his way to he knew not where, having rubbed himself
with an ointment of vile odour, which they gave him in goodly quantity
to keep off all pestiferous insects, and on the day when he ate the
last morsel of the food with which the natives had provided him he saw
from the side of a high hill a strange ship at anchor in a cove beneath.
Now a ship might mean one thing or she might mean another; and a man's
life might depend on the difference.
Drinking deeply from a stream that ran over the rocks and through the
forest, and so at last into the cove, Philip Marsham returned into the
wood and sat upon a fallen tree. He saw a boat put out from the ship
and touch on the shore a long way off, where some men left her and
went out of sight. After an hour or two they came back, and, entering
the boat, returned to the ship. He saw men working on deck and in the
rigging; he heard the piping of a whistle, and now and again, as the
wind changed, he heard more faintly than the drone of insects the
voices of the men.
Being high above the shore, he found the mosquitoes fewer and the wind
helped drive them away; yet they plagued him continually, despite his
ointment, of which little was left, and made him miserable while he
stayed. He would have hurried off had he dared; but the chance that the
ship would be the means of saving his life withheld him from pursuing
his journey, while doubt concerning the manner of craft she was
withheld him from making known his presence.
In mid-afternoon he saw far away a sail, which came slowly in across
the blue plain of the sea; and having clear eyes, trained by long
practice, he descried even at that great distance the motion of a
heavily rolling ship. From his seat high on the hill he could see a
long way farther than the men in the ship in the cove, and a point of
land shut off from them an arc of the sea that was visible from the
hill; so when night fell they were still unaware of the sail.
Though he had watched for hours the ship in the cove, the runaway
boatswain of the Rose of Devon had discovered no sign of what nation
had sent her out or what trade her men followed; but there came a time
when his patience could endure suspense no longer. He picked his way
down to the shore, following the stream from which he had been drinking
during his long watch, and cautiously moved along the edge of the water
till he came to the point of land nearest the anchored ship, whence he
could very plainly hear voices on board her. There were lights on the
stern and on deck, and through an open port he got sight of hammocks
swinging above the guns on the main deck.
At last he took off the greater part of his clothes and piled them
on a rock; then, strapping his dirk to his waist, he waded silently
into the water. Reaching his depth, he momentarily hesitated, but
fortifying his resolution with such philosophy as he could muster, he
began deliberately and silently to swim. Letting himself lie deep in
the water and moving so slowly that he raised no wake, he came into the
shadow of the ship. It was good to feel her rough planking. He swam
aft under the quarter, and coming to the rudder laid hands on it and
rested. Above him he could see, upon looking up, a lighted cabin-window.
His own body seemed ponderous as he slowly lifted himself out of
water. He raised one hand from the tip of the rudder just above the
tiller to the carving overhead and got grip on a scroll wrought in
tough oak. He put his foot on the rudder, and feeling above him with
his other hand seized fast the leg of a carved dragon. Very thankful
for the brave ornaments with which the builder had bedecked the ship,
he next got hold of the dragon's snout, and clinging like a fly, unseen
and unsuspected, above the black water that gurgled about the rudder
and the hull, he crawled silently up the stern.
Coming thus to the lighted cabin window, he peeked in and found the
place deserted. On the table a cloth was laid, and on the cloth such a
dinner service as he could scarce have dreamed of. There were glasses
of rare tints, with a few drops of wine left in them, which glowed
like garnets under the bright candles. There were goblets of silver,
and even, he believed, of gold. There were wonderfully delicate plates
crusted with gold about the edges. There was an abundance of silver to
eat with and a great decanter, wrought about with gold and precious
stones, such as simple folk might not expect to see this side of Heaven.
At the sound of steps, Phil drew back and hung over the water on the
great stern of the ship.
A boy came into the cabin and stepped briskly about clearing the table.
Voices came down from above--and they were speaking in English! What
a prize she would have made for the Rose of Devon, Phil thought, and
grimly smiled.
"Boy!" a voice bellowed from somewhere in the bowels of the ship.
"Yea, yea, master," cried the boy, and with that he scurried from the
cabin like a startled chick.
Phil raised his head and renewed his hold, for he could not cling there
forever; yet how to introduce himself on board the ship was a question
that sorely puzzled him. He threw a bare leg over the sill, the more
easily to rest, and revolved the problem in his mind. They were plainly
honest Englishmen, and right glad would he have been to get himself in
among them. Yet if he came like a thief in the night, they must suspect
him of evil intentions without end. While he thus attacked the problem
from one side and from the other, it occurred to him that the best way
was to crawl down again into the water and swim back to the shore from
whence he had come. There, having donned his clothes, he would call for
help. Surely there was no one so hard of heart as to refuse a lad help
in escaping from the pirates.
He raised his leg to swing it out of the window again and put his
scheme into practice, when he felt--and it startled him nearly out of
his skin--a hand lay hold on his ankle.
If you will balance yourself on the outside of any window with one foot
over the sill, you will find it exceedingly difficult to pull your foot
away from some one inside the window without throwing yourself off the
wall, and Phil for the moment was reluctant to make the plunge. Slowly
at first he twisted and pulled, but to no purpose. With waxing vigour
he struggled and yanked and kicked and jerked, but completely failed to
get his ankle out of the hand that held it.
It seemed that a gentleman who had been sitting at a little desk, so
placed that Phil could not have seen it without thrusting his head all
the way into the cabin, had looked up, and, perceiving to his mild
surprise a naked foot thrust in through the window, had nimbly arisen,
and stepping lightly toward the foot, had seized the ankle firmly at
the moment when Phil was about to withdraw it.
The gentleman marvelled much at what he had discovered and purposed to
get at the reason for it. Not only did he succeed with ease in holding
the ankle fast against his captive's somewhat cautious first kicks;
he anticipated a more desperate effort by getting firm hold with both
hands, so that when his captive decided to risk all, so to speak, and
tried with might and main to fling himself free and into the water by
a great leap, the gentleman kept fast his hold and held the lad by his
one leg, who dangled below like a trapped monkey.
Very likely it was foolish of Philip Marsham to attempt escaping,
but as I have said he was of no mind to be caught thus like a thief
entering in the night, and he was so completely surprised that he had
no time at all to collect his wits before he acted. Yet caught he was,
and, for a bad bargain, hung by the heels to boot.
"Boy," the gentleman said, and his voice indicated that he had a droll
humour, "call Captain Winterton."
The boy, further sounds revealed, who had come silently and in leisure,
departed noisily and in haste.
Heavy steps then approached, and a gruff voice cried, "What devilish
sort of game is this?"
"Take his other leg, Charles, and we shall soon have him safe on board.
I am not yet prepared to say what sort of game it is, beyond saying
that it is a rare and curious game."
Thereupon a second pair of hands closed on Philip Marsham's other
ankle, and, would he or would he not, he was hauled speedily through
the cabin window.
"Young man," said the gentleman who had first seized him, "who and what
are you, and from whence have you come?"
"I am Philip Marsham, late boatswain of the Rose of Devon frigate. I
came to learn from what country this ship had sailed and to ask for
help. I myself sailed from Bideford long since in the Rose of Devon,
but, falling into the hands of certain sailors of fortune who killed
our master and took our ship, I have served them for weary months as a
forced man. Having at last succeeded in running away from them, I have
come hither by land, as you can see, suffering much on the way, and I
ask you now to have compassion on me, in God's name, and take me home
to England."
"Truly," said the gentleman, "those devilish flies have wrought their
worst upon him. His face is swelled till it is as thick-lipped as a
Guinea slave's." He spoke lightly and with little thought of Phil's
words, for his humour was uppermost in him. He was in every way the
fine gentleman with an eye for the comical, accustomed to having all
things done for him and as little likely to feel pity for this nearly
naked youth as to think it wrong that the little cabin boy should stand
till morning behind his chair, lest by chance, desiring one thing or
another, he must compromise his dignity by fetching it for himself.
But now the other, Captain Winterton, a tall, grave man, with cold face
and hard cold eyes, stepped forward, and speaking for the first time
said: "Do you remember me?"
Phil looked him in the eye and felt his heart sink, but he was no
coward. "I do," he replied.
Captain Winterton smiled. He was the first of the three men who had
come on board the Rose of Devon by way of her gallery, and had entered
the great cabin the night when Phil Marsham sat there at supper.
It then burst upon Phil that in the whole plain truth lay his only hope.
"I ran away from them--they had forced me into their service!--a week
since. Nay, it is true! I am no liar! And it will pay you well to keep
a sharp watch this night, for a vessel like enough to the Rose of Devon
to be her twin is this minute lying behind yonder point."
"Ah! And you sailed, I believe you said, from Bideford. Doubtless you
have kept the day in mind?"
"Why, 'twas in early May. Or--stay! 'Twas--"
"Enough! Enough! The master of--"
"But though I marked neither the day of the week nor the day of the
month, I remember the sailing well."
"Doubtless," quoth the captain dryly, "but it will save time and serve
thy cause to speak only when I bid thee. Interrupt me not, but tell me
next the name of the lawful master in whose charge thy most excellent
ship sailed from Bideford."
This keen and quiet captain in the King's service was of no mind that
his prisoner should tell with impunity such a story as he might make
up on the moment. Accordingly he proceeded to draw forth by question
after question such particular parts of the story as he himself desired
to hear, now attacking the matter from one angle and now from another,
watching his prisoner closely the while and all the time standing in
such a place that the lad had no chance at all of escaping through the
open window.