ABOUT two months before this scene in Eli's home, the natives of a
little maritime place between Naples and Rome might be seen flocking to
the sea beach, with eyes cast seaward at a ship, that laboured against a
stiff gale blowing dead on the shore.
At times she seemed likely to weather the danger, and then the
spectators congratulated her aloud: at others the wind and sea drove her
visibly nearer, and the lookers-on were not without a secret
satisfaction they would not have owned even to themselves.
Non quia vexari quemquam est jucunda voluptas
Sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suave est.
And the poor ship, though not scientifically built for sailing, was
admirably constructed for going ashore, with her extravagant poop that
caught the wind, and her lines like a cocked hat reversed. To those on
the beach that battered labouring frame of wood seemed alive, and
struggling against death with a panting heart. But could they have been
transferred to her deck they would have seen she had not one beating
heart but many, and not one nature but a score were coming out clear in
that fearful hour.
The mariners stumbled wildly about the deck, handling the ropes as each
thought fit, and cursing and praying alternately.
The passengers were huddled together round the mast, some sitting, some
kneeling, some lying prostrate, and grasping the bulwarks as the vessel
rolled and pitched in the mighty waves. One comely young man, whose ashy
cheek, but compressed lips, showed how hard terror was battling in him
with self-respect, stood a little apart, holding tight by a shroud, and
wincing at each sea. It was the ill-fated Gerard. Meantime prayers and
vows rose from the trembling throng amidships, and, to hear them, it
seemed there were almost as many gods about as men and women. The
sailors, indeed, relied on a single goddess. They varied her titles
only, calling on her as "Queen of Heaven," "Star of the Sea," "Mistress
of the World," "Haven of Safety." But among the landsmen Polytheism
raged. Even those who by some strange chance hit on the same divinity
did not hit on the same edition of that divinity. An English merchant
vowed a heap of gold to our lady of Walsingham. But a Genoese merchant
vowed a silver collar of four pounds to our lady of Loretto; and a
Tuscan noble promised ten pounds of wax lights to our lady of Ravenna;
and with a similar rage for diversity they pledged themselves, not on
the true Cross, but on the true Cross in this, that, or the other,
modern city.
Suddenly a more powerful gust than usual catching the sail at a
disadvantage, the rotten shrouds gave way, and the sail was torn out
with a loud crack and went down the wind smaller and smaller, blacker
and blacker, and fluttered into the sea, half a mile off, like a sheet
of paper; and, ere the helmsman could put the ship's head before the
wind, a wave caught her on the quarter and drenched the poor wretches to
the bone, and gave them a foretaste of chill death. Then one vowed aloud
to turn Carthusian monk, if St. Thomas would save him. Another would go
a pilgrim to Compostella, bareheaded, barefooted, with nothing but a
coat of mail on his naked skin, if St. James would save him. Others
invoked Thomas, Dominic, Denys, and, above all, Catherine of Sienna.
Two petty Neapolitan traders stood shivering.
One shouted at the top of his voice, "I vow to St. Christopher at Paris
a waxen image of his own weight, if I win safe to land."
On this the other nudged him, and said, "Brother, brother, take heed
what you vow. Why, if you sell all you have in the world by public
auction, 'twill not buy his weight in wax."
"Hold your tongue, you fool," said the vociferator. Then in a whisper,
"Think ye I am in earnest? Let me but win safe to land, I'll not give
him a rush dip."
Others lay flat and prayed to the sea. "O most merciful sea! O sea most
generous! O bountiful sea! O beautiful sea! be gentle, be kind, preserve
us in this hour of peril."
And others wailed and moaned in mere animal terror each time the
ill-fated ship rolled or pitched more terribly than usual; and she was
now a mere plaything in the arms of the tremendous waves.
A Roman woman of the humbler class sat with her child at her half-bared
breast, silent amid that wailing throng: her cheek ashy pale; her eye
calm; and her lips moved at times in silent prayer, but she neither
wept, nor lamented, nor bargained with the gods. Whenever the ship
seemed really gone under their feet, and bearded men squeaked, she
kissed her child; but that was all. And so she sat patient, and suckled
him in death's jaws; for why should he lose any joy she could give him;
moribundo? Ay, there I do believe, sat Antiquity among those mediævals.
Sixteen hundred years had not tainted the old Roman blood in her veins;
and the instinct of a race she had perhaps scarce heard of taught her to
die with decent dignity.
A gigantic friar stood on the poop with feet apart, like the Colossus of
Rhodes, not so much defying, as ignoring, the peril that surrounded him.
He recited verses from the canticles with a loud, unwavering voice; and
invited the passengers to confess to him. Some did so on their knees,
and he heard them, and laid his hands on them, and absolved them as if
he had been in a snug sacristy, instead of a perishing ship. Gerard got
nearer and nearer to him, by the instinct that takes the wavering to the
side of the impregnable. And, in truth, the courage of heroes facing
fleshly odds might have paled by the side of that gigantic friar, and
his still more gigantic composure. Thus, even here, two were found who
maintained the dignity of our race: a woman, tender, yet heroic, and a
monk steeled by religion against mortal fears.
And now, the sail being gone, the sailors cut down the useless mast a
foot above the board, and it fell with its remaining hamper over the
ship's side. This seemed to relieve her a little.
But now the hull, no longer impelled by canvas, could not keep ahead of
the sea. It struck her again and again on the poop, and the tremendous
blows seemed given by a rocky mountain, not by a liquid.
The captain left the helm and came amidships pale as death. "Lighten
her," he cried. "Fling all overboard, or we shall founder ere we strike,
and lose the one little chance we have of life." While the sailors were
executing this order, the captain, pale himself, and surrounded by pale
faces that demanded to know their fate, was talking as unlike an English
skipper in like peril as can well be imagined. "Friends," said he, "last
night, when all was fair, too fair, alas! there came a globe of fire
close to the ship. When a pair of them come it is good luck, and nought
can drown her that voyage. We mariners call these fiery globes Castor
and Pollux. But if Castor come without Pollux, or Pollux without
Castor, she is doomed. Therefore, like good Christians, prepare to die."
These words were received with a loud wail.
To a trembling inquiry how long they had to prepare, the captain
replied, "She may, or may not, last half an hour; over that, impossible;
she leaks like a sieve; bustle, men, lighten her."
The poor passengers seized on everything that was on deck and flung it
overboard. Presently they laid hold of a heavy sack; an old man was
lying on it, sea sick. They lugged it from under him. It rattled. Two of
them drew it to the side; up started the owner, and, with an unearthly
shriek, pounced on it. "Holy Moses! what would you do? 'Tis my all; 'tis
the whole fruits of my journey; silver candlesticks, silver plates,
brooches, hanaps--"
"Let go, thou hoary villain," cried the others, "shall all our lives be
lost for thy ill-gotten gear?" "Fling him in with it," cried one; "'tis
this Ebrew we Christian men are drowned for." Numbers soon wrenched it
from him and heaved it over the side. It splashed into the waves. Then
its owner uttered one cry of anguish, and stood glaring, his white hair
streaming in the wind, and was going to leap after it, and would, had it
floated. But it sank, and was gone for ever; and he staggered to and
fro, tearing his hair, and cursed them and the ship, and the sea, and
all the powers of heaven and hell alike.
And now the captain cried out: "See, there is a church in sight. Steer
for that church, mate, and you, friends, pray to the saint, who'er he
be."
So they steered for the church and prayed to the unknown god it was
named after. A tremendous sea pooped them, broke the rudder, and jammed
it immovable, and flooded the deck.
Then wild with superstitious terror some of them came round Gerard.
"Here is the cause of all," they cried. "He has never invoked a single
saint. He is a heathen; here is a pagan aboard."
"Alas, good friends, say not so," said Gerard, his teeth chattering with
cold and fear. "Rather call these heathens, that lie a praying to the
sea. Friends, I do honour the saints,--but I dare not pray to them
now,--there is no time--(oh!) what avail me Dominic, and Thomas and
Catherine? Nearer God's throne than these St. Peter sitteth; and, if I
pray to him, it's odd, but I shall be drowned ere he has time to plead
my cause with God. Oh! oh! oh! I must need go straight to him that made
the sea, and the saints, and me. Our father, which art in heaven, save
these poor souls and me that cry for the bare life! Oh sweet Jesus,
pitiful Jesus, that didst walk Genezaret when Peter sank, and wept for
Lazarus dead when the apostles' eyes were dry, oh save poor Gerard--for
dear Margaret's sake!"
At this moment the sailors were seen preparing to desert the sinking
ship in the little boat, which even at that epoch every ship carried;
then there was a rush of egotists; and thirty souls crowded into it.
Remained behind three who were bewildered, and two who were paralyzed,
with terror. The paralyzed sat like heaps of wet rags, the bewildered
ones ran to and fro, and saw the thirty egotists put off, but made no
attempt to join them: only kept running to and fro, and wringing their
hands. Besides these there was one on his knees praying over the wooden
statue of the Virgin Mary, as large as life, which the sailors had
reverently detached from the mast. It washed about the deck, as the
water came slushing in from the sea, and pouring out at the scuppers;
and this poor soul kept following it on his knees, with his hands
clasped at it, and the water playing with it, And there was the Jew,
palsied, but not by fear. He was no longer capable of so petty a
passion. He sat cross-legged, bemoaning his bag, and, whenever the spray
lashed him, shook his fist at where it came from, and cursed the
Nazarenes, and their gods, and their devils, and their ships, and their
waters, to all eternity.
And the gigantic Dominican, having shriven the whole ship, stood calmly
communing with his own spirit. And the Roman woman sat pale and patient,
only drawing her child closer to her bosom as death came nearer.
Gerard saw this and it awakened his manhood. "See! see!" he said, "they
have ta'en the boat and left the poor woman and her child to perish."
His heart soon set his wit working.
"Wife, I'll save thee yet, please God." And he ran to find a cask or a
plank to float her. There was none.
Then his eye fell on the wooden image of the Virgin. He caught it up in
his arms, and, heedless of a wail that issued from its worshipper, like
a child robbed of its toy, ran aft with it. "Come, wife," he cried.
"I'll lash thee and the child to this. 'Tis sore worm eaten; but 'twill
serve."
She turned her great dark eye on him and said a single word:
"Thyself?"
But with wonderful magnanimity and tenderness.
"I am a man, and have no child to take care of."
"Ah!" said she, and his words seemed to animate her face with a desire
to live. He lashed the image to her side. Then with the hope of life she
lost something of her heroic calm; not much: her body trembled a little,
but not her eye.
The ship was now so low in the water that by using an oar as a lever he
could slide her into the waves.
"Come," said he, "while yet there is time."
She turned her great Roman eyes, wet now, upon him. "Poor youth!--God
forgive me!--My child!" And he launched her on the surge, and with his
oar kept her from being battered against the ship.
A heavy hand fell on him; a deep sonorous voice sounded in his ear:
"'Tis well. Now come with me."
It was the gigantic friar.
Gerard turned, and the friar took two strides, and laid hold of the
broken mast. Gerard did the same, obeying him instinctively. Between
them, after a prodigious effort, they hoisted up the remainder of the
mast, and carried it off. "Fling it in," said the friar, "and follow
it." They flung it in; but one of the bewildered passengers had run
after them, and jumped first and got on one end. Gerard seized the
other, the friar the middle.
It was a terrible situation. The mast rose and plunged with each wave
like a kicking horse, and the spray flogged their faces mercilessly, and
blinded them; to help knock them off.
Presently was heard a long grating noise ahead. The ship had struck: and
soon after, she being stationary now, they were hurled against her with
tremendous force. Their companion's head struck against the upper part
of the broken rudder with a horrible crack, and was smashed like a
cocoa-nut by a sledge-hammer. He sunk directly, leaving no trace but a
red stain on the water, and a white clot on the jagged rudder, and a
death cry ringing in their ears, as they drifted clear under the lee of
the black hull. The friar uttered a short Latin prayer for the safety of
his soul, and took his place composedly. They rolled along [Greek:
hyp' ek thanatoio]; one moment they saw nothing, and seemed down in a
mere basin of watery hills: the next they caught glimpses of the shore
speckled bright with people, who kept throwing up their arms with wild
Italian gestures to encourage them, and the black boat driving bottom
upwards, and between it and them the woman rising and falling like
themselves. She had come across a paddle, and was holding her child
tight with her left arm, and paddling gallantly with her right.
[Illustration: THE BLACK BOAT DRIVING BOTTOM UPWARD]
When they had tumbled along thus a long time, suddenly the friar said
quietly: "I touched the ground."
"Impossible, father," said Gerard, "we are more than a hundred yards
from shore. Prithee, prithee, leave not our faithful mast."
"My son," said the friar, "you speak prudently. But know that I have
business of holy Church on hand, and may not waste time floating when I
can walk, in her service. There, I felt it with my toes again; see the
benefit of wearing sandals, and not shoon. Again: and sandy. Thy stature
is less than mine: keep to the mast! I walk." He left the mast
accordingly, and extending his powerful arms, rushed through the water.
Gerard soon followed him. At each overpowering wave the monk stood like
a tower, and, closing his mouth, threw his head back to encounter it,
and was entirely lost under it awhile: then emerged and ploughed lustily
on. At last they came close to the shore; but the suction outward
baffled all their attempts to land. Then the natives sent stout
fishermen into the sea, holding by long spears in a triple chain: and so
dragged them ashore.
The friar shook himself, bestowed a short paternal benediction on the
natives, and went on to Rome, with eyes bent on earth, according to his
rule, and without pausing. He did not even cast a glance back upon that
sea, which had so nearly engulfed him, but had no power to harm him,
without his master's leave.
While he stalks on alone to Rome without looking back, I who am not in
the service of holy Church, stop a moment to say that the reader and I
were within six inches of this giant once before: but we escaped him
that time. Now, I fear, we are in for him. Gerard grasped every hand
upon the beach. They brought him to an enormous fire and with a delicacy
he would hardly have encountered in the north, left him to dry himself
alone: on this he took out of his bosom a parchment, and a paper, and
dried them carefully. When this was done to his mind, and not till then,
he consented to put on a fisherman's dress and leave his own by the
fire, and went down to the beach. What he saw may be briefly related.
The captain stuck by the ship, not so much from gallantry, as from a
conviction that it was idle to resist Castor or Pollux, whichever it was
that had come for him in a ball of fire.
Nevertheless the sea broke up the ship and swept the poop, captain and
all, clear of the rest, and took him safe ashore. Gerard had a principal
hand in pulling him out of the water. The disconsolate Hebrew landed on
another fragment, and on touching earth offered a reward for his bag,
which excited little sympathy, but some amusement. Two more were saved
on pieces of the wreck. The thirty egotists came ashore, but one at a
time, and dead; one breathed still. Him the natives, with excellent
intentions, took to a hot fire. So then he too retired from this
shifting scene.
As Gerard stood by the sea, watching, with horror and curiosity mixed,
his late companions washed ashore, a hand was laid lightly on his
shoulder. He turned. It was the Roman matron, burning with womanly
gratitude. She took his hand gently, and raising it slowly to her lips,
kissed it; but so nobly, she seemed to be conferring an honour on one
deserving hand. Then, with face all beaming and moist eyes, she held her
child up and made him kiss his preserver.
Gerard kissed the child: more than once. He was fond of children. But he
said nothing. He was much moved; for she did not speak at all, except
with her eyes, and glowing cheeks, and noble antique gesture, so large
and stately. Perhaps she was right. Gratitude is not a thing of words.
It was an ancient Roman matron thanking a modern from her heart of
hearts.
Next day, towards afternoon, Gerard--twice as old as last year, thrice
as learned in human ways, a boy no more, but a man who had shed blood in
self-defense, and grazed the grave by land and sea--reached the eternal
city; _post tot naufragia tutus_.