"Oh, I say, Uncle Paul, isn't it horrible?" cried Rodd the next morning.
Breakfast was just over, and Captain Chubb had gone on deck, while the
wind was howling furiously as if in a rage to find its playthings, some
two or three hundred vessels of different tonnage, safely moored in the
shelter of the harbour, and out of its power to toss here and there and
pitch so many helpless ruins to be beaten to pieces upon the shore.
Down it kept coming right in amongst them, making them check at their
mooring cables and chains, but in vain, for their crews had been too
busy, and the only satisfaction that the tempest could obtain, was to
hearken to the miserable dreary groans that were here and there emitted
as some of the least fortunate and worst secured ground against each
other.
"Isn't it horrible, uncle?" shouted Rodd, for the rain just then was
mingled with good-sized hailstones, and was rattling down upon the deck
and skylight in a way that half-drowned the lad's voice.
"Miserable weather, Pickle; but never mind. We must settle down to a
good morning's work in the laboratory."
"Oh no, not yet, uncle; we don't seem to have started. It will only be
a makeshift."
"But we might put things a little more straight, boy."
"Oh no, uncle; they are too straight now, and I want to go on deck."
"Bah! It isn't fit. Wait till the weather holds up."
"Oh, I shall dress up accordingly, uncle. But I say, where does all the
rain come from? It must be falling in millions of tons everywhere."
"Ah, you might as well ask me where the wind comes from. Study up some
book on meteorology."
"Oh yes, I will, uncle; but not yet."
"Very well; be off."
Rodd hurried out of the cabin, and five minutes later came back rattling
and crackling, to present himself before his uncle, who thrust up his
spectacles upon his forehead and stared.
"There," cried Rodd; "don't think I shall get wet. I wish I'd had it
the other night. It's splendid, uncle, and so stiff that if I like to
stoop down a little and spread my arms, I can almost rest in it. I say,
don't I look like a dried haddock?"
"Humph! Well, yes, you do look about the same colour," grumbled the
doctor, for the boy was buttoned up in a glistening oilskin coat of a
buff yellow tint; the turned-up collar just revealed the tips of his
ears, and he was crowned by a sou'-wester securely tied beneath his
chin.
"I say, this will do, won't it?"
"Yes, you look a beauty!" grunted the doctor; "but there, be off; I want
to write a letter or two."
Rodd went crackling up the cabin stairs, clump, clump, clump, for he was
wearing a heavy pair of fisherman's boots that had been made waterproof
by many applications of oil--a pair specially prepared for fishing
purposes and future wading amongst the wonders of coral reef and strand.
The deck was almost deserted, the only two personages of the schooner's
crew being the captain and Joe Cross, both costumed so as to match
exactly with the boy, who now joined them, to begin streaming with water
to the same extent as they.
They both looked at him in turn, Cross grinning and just showing a glint
of his white teeth where the collar of his oilskin joined, while his
companion scowled, or seemed to, and emitted a low grumbling sound that
might have meant welcome or the finding of fault, which of the two Rodd
did not grasp, for the skipper turned his back and rolled slowly away as
if he were bobbing like a vessel through the flood which covered the
deck and was streaming away from the scuppers.
As the skipper went right forward and stood by the bowsprit, looking
straight ahead through the haze formed by the streaming rain, Rodd was
thrown back upon Joe Cross, with whom, almost from the day when the man
had joined, he had begun to grow intimate; and as he went close up to
him, the sailor gave his head a toss to distribute some of the rain that
was splashing down upon his sou'-wester, and grinning visibly now, he
cried--
"Why, Mr Rodd, sir, you've forgot your umbrella."
"Get out!" cried Rodd good-humouredly. "But I say, Joe, how long is
this rain going to last?"
"Looks as if it means to go on for months, sir, but may leave off
to-night. I say, though, that's a splendid fit, sir. You do look fine!
Are you comfortable in there?"
Rodd did not answer, for he was trying to pierce the streaming haze and
make out whether the brig was visible.
For a few moments he could not make it out, but there it was, looking
faint and strange, about a hundred yards away.
"That's the brig, isn't it, yonder?" he said at last.
"Yes, sir, that's she, and they seem to have got her fast now; but she
wouldn't hurt us if she broke from her moorings, for the wind's veered a
point or two, and it would take her clear away."
Rodd remained silent as he stood thinking, he did not know why, unless
it was that the vessel with the tall, dimly-seen tapering spars bore a
French name, and somehow--again he could not tell why, only that it
seemed to him very ridiculous--the shadowy vessel associated itself with
the two French officers he had encountered in the darkness of the
previous night, when he heard one of them after brushing against him
murmur the word "Pardon!" And he found himself thinking that if the
vessel had been swept up against the schooner when her anchor was
dragging, it would have been no use for her crew to cry "Pardon!" as
that would not have cured the damage.
"Well, sir, what do you make of her?" cried the sailor, putting an end
to the lad's musings.
"Can't see much," said Rodd, "for the rain, but she seems beautifully
rigged."
"Yes, sir, and she can sail well too--for a brig--but I should set her
down as being too heavily sparred, and likely to be top-heavy. If she
was going along full sail, and was caught in such a squall as we had
yesterday, and laid flat like the schooner, I don't believe she'd lift
again. Anyhow, I shouldn't like to be aboard."
"No, it wouldn't be pleasant," said Rodd; "but I say, I can't see
anything of that long gun you talked about."
"No wonder, sir. You want that there long water-glass, as you called
it--that there one you showed me as you was unpacking it. Don't you
remember? Like a big pipe with panes of glass in it as you said you
could stick down into the sea and make out what was on the bottom. You
want that now."
The man passed his hand along the brow edge of his sou'-wester to sweep
away the drops, and then took a long look at the deck of the brig.
"No, sir; can't make it out now; but I see it plainly enough this
morning, covered with a lashed down tarpaulin as if to hide it, and I
knew at once. I can almost tell a big gun by the smell--I mean feel it
like, if it's there."
"But do you still think she's a privateer?"
"Well, I don't say she is, sir, for that's a thing you can't tell for
sartain unless you see a ship's papers; but she is something of that
kind, I should say, and--Ay, ay, sir!--There's the skipper hailed me,
sir. I say, Mr Rodd, sir, do mind you don't get wet!"
This was as the man rolled away sailor fashion, and emitting a crackling
whishing sound as he made for the vessel's bows, where he received some
order from his captain which sent him to the covered-in hatchway of the
forecastle, where he slowly disappeared into a kind of haze, half water,
half smoke, for several of the water-bound crew had given up the chewing
of their tobacco to indulge in pipes.
But Rodd was in a talkative humour, and made his way to the skipper,
saluting him with--
"I say, Captain Chubb, how do you manage to do it?"
"Do what, my lad?"
"Why, say for certain what the weather's going to be."
There was a low chuckling sound such as might have been emitted by a
good-humoured porpoise which had just ended one of its underwater
curves, and thrust its head above the surface to take a good deep breath
before it turned itself over and dived down again.
"Second natur', youngster, and that's use. Takes a long time to learn,
and when you have larnt your lesson perfect as you think, you find that
you don't know it a bit."
"But you did know it," said Rodd. "You said that the storm would come
on again, when it was beautiful and fine yesterday evening; and here it
is."
"Well, yes, my lad, if you goes on for years trying to hit something you
must get a lucky shot sometimes."
"Oh yes, but there's something more than that," said Rodd. "When I have
been amongst the fishermen in Plymouth, and over in Saltash, I have
wondered to find how exact they were about the weather, and how whenever
they wouldn't take us out fishing they were always right. They seemed
to know that bad weather was coming on."
"Oh, of course," said the skipper. "Why, my lad, if you got your living
by going out in your boat, don't you think the first thing you would try
to learn would be to make it your living?"
"Why, of course," cried Rodd.
"Ah, you don't mean the same as I do. I mean, make it your living and
not your dying."
"Oh, I see."
"You wouldn't want," continued the skipper, "to go out at times that
might mean having them as you left at home standing on the shore looking
out to sea for a boat as would never come back."
"No," said the boy, with something like a sigh. "I know what you mean.
Ah, it has been very horrible sometimes, and all those little
churchyards at the different villages about the coast with that regular
`Drowned at sea' over and over and over again."
"Right, my lad. Things go wrong sometimes; but that's what makes
sailors and fishermen get to learn what the moon says and the sun and
the clouds, and the bit of haze that gathers sometimes off the coast
means. Why, if you'd looked out yesterday afternoon when the wind went
down and the glint of sunshine come out, there was a nasty dirty look in
the sky. You wait a bit and keep your eyes open, and put that and that
together, and as you grow up you'll find that it isn't so hard as you'd
think to say what the weather is going to be to-morrow. You'll often be
wrong, same as I am."
"Ah! then I shall begin at once," cried Rodd eagerly, as he looked
sharply round. "Well, it can't go on pelting down like this with hail
coming now and then in showers. Showers come and go."
"Right!" said the skipper, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Oh!" cried Rodd sharply.
"Hullo! Why, you don't mean to say that hurt?"
"Hurt! No," cried Rodd, shaking his head violently. "You shot a lot of
cold water right up into my ear."
"Oh, that will soon dry up. Well, what do you say the weather's going
to be?"
"The storm soon over, and a fine day to-morrow."
"Done?" asked the skipper.
"Oh yes; but mind, that's only a try."
"Then it's my turn now, youngster, so here goes. I say we shall have
worse weather to-morrow than we have got to-day."
"Oh, it can't be!" cried Rodd.
"Well," cried the skipper, chuckling, "we shall see who's right."
"Oh, but I don't want for us to have to stop here in this French port."
"More don't I, my lad, so we think the same there. You going to stop on
deck?"
"Yes, till dinner-time," cried Rodd, and just then the haze of rain out
seaward opened a little, revealing the brig with its tall spars and web
of rigging.
This somehow set the boy thinking about the escape from accident when
they came into port, and then of the encounter ashore, and he began
talking.
"It's no use to go down below. It's so stuffy, and I want to chat. I
say, captain, what do you think of that brig?"
"Very smartly built craft indeed, my lad--one as I should like to sail
if I could do as I liked."
"Do as you liked?" asked Rodd.
"Yes; alter her rig--make a schooner of her. But as she is she's as
pretty a vessel as I ever see--for a brig. Frenchmen don't often turn
out a boat like that."
"What should you think she is?" asked Rodd. "A merchantman?"
"No, my lad; I should say she was something of a dispatch boat, though
she aren't a man-of-war. I don't quite make her out. She's got a very
smart crew, and I saw two of her officers go aboard in some sort of
uniform, though it was too dark to quite make it out."
"But if she's a man-of-war she would carry guns, wouldn't she?" asked
Rodd.
"Well, I don't think she's a man-of-war, my lad," replied the skipper;
"but she do carry guns, and one of them's a big swivel I just saw
amidships. But men-of-war, merchantmen, and coasters, we're all alike
in a storm, and glad to get into shelter."
"Yes, it is a fine-looking brig. Is she likely to be a privateer?"
"Eh? What do you know about privateers?"
"Oh, not much," said Rodd. "But going about at Plymouth and talking to
the sailors, of course I used to hear something about them."
"Well, yes, of course," said the skipper thoughtfully, as he too swept
the drops from the front of his sou'-wester, and tried to pierce the
falling rain. "She might be a French privateer out of work, as you may
say, for their game's at an end now that the war's over. Yes, a very
smart craft."
"But do you think she's here for any particular purpose?"
"Yes, my lad; a very particular purpose."
"Ah!" cried the boy rather excitedly. "What?"
"To take care of herself and keep in harbour till the weather turns
right. Why? What were you thinking?"
"I was wondering why she came in so close after us, and then anchored
where she is."
"Oh, I can tell you that," said the skipper, chuckling. "It was because
she couldn't help herself."
"Then you don't think she was watching us?"
"No-o! What should she want to watch us for?"
"Why, to take us as a prize, seeing what a beautiful little schooner it
is."
"Bah! She'd better not try," said the skipper grimly. "Why, what stuff
have you got in your head, boy? We are not at war with France."
"No-o," said Rodd thoughtfully; "but her captain might have taken a
fancy to the _Maid of Salcombe_, and I've read that privateers are not
very particular when they get a chance. And the war's only just over."
"No. But then, you see, my lad, even if you were right, that brig
wouldn't have a chance."
"Why, suppose she waited till we had sailed, and followed till she
thought it was a good opportunity, and then her captain led his men
aboard and took her?"
"Oh, I see," said the skipper dryly. "Well, my lad, as I say, she
wouldn't have a chance. First, because she couldn't catch us, for give
me sea room I could sail right round her."
"Ah, but suppose it was a calm, and she sent her boats full of men on
board to take us?"
"Well, what then?"
"What then? Why, wouldn't that be very awkward?" asked Rodd.
"Very, for them," said the skipper grimly. "What would my boys be
about?"
"Why, they'd be taken prisoners."
"I should just like to see her try," said the skipper. "If the boats'
crews of that brig were to get a lodgment aboard my craft, how long do
you think it would take our lads to clear them off?"
"Oh, I am sure our crew would be very brave, but I should say that
brig's got twice as many men as we have."
"What of that?" said the skipper contemptuously.
"Well, then," said Rodd argumentatively, "she's got her guns, and might
sink us."
"And we've got our guns, and might sink her," growled the skipper.
"Look here, my lad; why did I give my lads gun drill and cutlass and
pike drill, while you and the doctor were taking in your tackle and bags
of tricks?"
"Why, to defend the schooner against any savages who might attack us
when we are off the West Coast or among the islands."
"Right, my lad. Well, as Pat would say, by the same token couldn't they
just as well fight a pack of Frenchies as a tribe of niggers? Bah!
You're all wrong. It's quite like enough that yon brig may have been
fitted out for a privateer, though I rather think she wouldn't be fast
enough. But that game's all over, and we are all going to be at peace
now we have put Bony away like a wild beast in a cage and he can't do
anybody any hurt. There, you needn't fidget yourself about that. All
the same, I don't quite understand why a craft that isn't a man-of-war,
but carries a long gun amidships and has officers in uniform aboard,
should be taking refuge in this port. I dunno. She looks too smart and
clean, but it might mean that she's going to the West Coast,
blackbirding."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Rodd. "Why, that's what you thought about us,
Captain Chubb."
"So I did; so I did, my lad," said the skipper good-humouredly. "You
see, I am like other men--think I am very wise, but I do stupid things
sometimes. Well, I'll be safe this time, and say I don't know what she
is, and I don't much care. But I am pretty sure that she aren't after
us, and I dare say, if the truth's known, she don't think we are after
her. There, squint out yonder to windward. That don't look like fine
weather, does it?"
"No; worse than ever!" cried Rodd.
"That's so, my lad, and you may take this for certain; we shan't sail
to-day, and you won't see another vessel put out to sea. Take my word
for it."
"That I will, Captain Chubb!" cried the boy earnestly, and the skipper
nodded his head so quickly that the water flew off in a shower.
But, as some wag once said, the wisest way is to wait till after
something has happened before you begin to prophesy about it.
Captain Chubb had probably never heard about the wisdom of this
proceeding in foretelling events, for it so happened that in spite of
the storm increasing in violence for many hours, his words proved to be
entirely wrong.