THE CAPTIVE.
"Franci!" the Skipper called up the companion-way, when his visitor had
taken his departure.
"Señor!" said Franci, putting his beautiful head over the rail.
"Bring me here the child, hear thou!"
"Si, Señor," said Franci. He went forward, and pulling aside a pile of
canvas that lay carelessly heaped together in a corner of the deck,
disclosed the boy John, curled up in a ball, with one monkey in his
arms, and the other sitting on his shoulder.
"Here, you, Sir Schoolmaster, the Patron ask for you. I give you my hand
to hellup you up! I like to put a knife in you!" he added in Spanish,
with an adorable smile.
"You'd get one into yourself before you had time!" said Rento, getting
up from the spot where his length had been coiled, and speaking with a
slow drawl that lent emphasis to the words. "You ever lay a hand on that
boy, and it's the last you lay on anybody,--understand that?"
"Oh, yays!" said Franci, gently, as he pulled John out of the tangle of
canvas and ropes. "But I am 'most killed all my life with looking at
your ugly face, you old she monkey! A little more killing make not much
difference to me."
Rento advanced toward him with uplifted hand, and the agile Spaniard
slipped round the mast and disappeared.
"What was he saying?" asked John, vaguely feeling that something was
wrong.
"Nothin', nothin' at all," Rento said, quietly. "He was givin' me some
talk, that was all. It's all he has to give, seemin'ly; kind o' fool
person he is, Franci; don't ye take no heed what he says. There, go
'long, youngster! the Skipper's lookin' for ye."
At this moment the Skipper's head appeared over the rail, and John
became quite sure that he was awake. Dreams were so curious, sometimes,
one never knew what would happen in them; and this whole matter of
piracy had been so strange and unlooked for that all the while he had
been hidden under the sail (where he had retreated by the Skipper's
orders as soon as Mr. Bill Hen Pike appeared in the offing), he had been
trying to persuade himself that he was asleep, and that the monkeys were
dream-monkeys, very lively ones, and that by-and-by he would wake up
once more and find himself in bed at Mr. Scraper's.
But now there could be no more doubt! He could not dream Franci, nor the
queer things he said; he could not dream Rento, with his kind, ugly face
and drawling speech; least of all could he dream the Skipper, who was
now looking at him with an amused smile.
Certainly, he did not look in the least like a pirate! In the first
place, Malay pirates did not wear anything, except a kind of short
petticoat, and something that flew in the air behind them as they ran.
For in the geography-book pictures a Malay was always running amuck,
with a creese in his hand, and an expression of frantic rage on his
countenance. How _could_ this be a Malay? Perhaps he might have been in
fun! But John was not much used to fun, and it seemed hardly likely that
so grave a person as the Skipper would play at pirate. On the whole, the
little boy was sadly puzzled; and the Skipper's first words did not tend
to allay his anxiety.
"Ha! my prisoner!" he said. "That you come here, sir, and sit down by me
on the rail. The evening falls, and we will sit here and observe the
fairness of the night. Remark that I put no chains on you, Colorado, as
in the Malay seas we put them! You can swim, yes?"
John nodded. "I swam across the river last week," said he. "I was going
to--" He meant to say, "to rescue some people from pirates," but now
this did not seem polite; so he stopped short, but the Skipper took no
notice.
"You swim? That is good!" he said. "But Sir Scraper, he cannot swim, I
think, my son, so for you there is no rescue, since Rento has pulled in
the plank. Are you content, then, to be the captive of the 'Nautilus?'"
John looked up, still sorely puzzled; perhaps he was rather dull, this
little boy John, about some things, though he was good at his books. At
any rate, there could be no possible doubt of the kindness in the
Skipper's face; perhaps he was in fun, after all; and, anyhow, where
had he ever been so happy as here since the good mother died? So he
answered with right good-will,--
"I like to stay here more than anywhere else in the world. If--if I
didn't think Mr. Scraper would be angry and frightened about me, and not
know where I was, I should like to stay on board all my life."
"That is right!" said the Skipper, heartily. "That is the prisoner that
I like to have. I am not a cruel pirate, as some; I like to make happy
my captives. Franci, lemonade, on the after-deck here!" He spoke in
Spanish, and Franci replied in the same language, with a faint voice
expressive of acute suffering.
"I am very sick, Patron. I go to my bed in a desolated condition."
"Come here, and let me look at you!" said the Skipper, imperatively.
"Am I a dog, to fetch drink for this beggar brat?" was Franci's next
remark, in a more vigorous tone. "Was it for this that I left San Mateo?
Rento is a pig, let him do the pig things. I go to my bed."
He made a motion to go, but the Skipper reached out a long arm, and the
next moment the bold youth was dangling over the side of the vessel,
clutching at the air, and crying aloud to all the saints in the
calendar.
"Shall I let go?" asked the Skipper, in his quiet tone.
"Ah! no, distinguished Patron!" cried Franci. "Let me not go! This water
is abominable. Release me, and I will get the lemonade. It is my wish
that you may both be drowned in it, but I will get it,--oh, yes,
assuredly!"
He was set down, and vanished into the cabin; the Skipper, as if this
were the most ordinary occurrence in the world, led the way to the
after-rail, and seated himself, motioning to John to take a place beside
him.
"What is the matter with him?" asked the boy, looking after Franci.
"I think him slightly a fool," was the reply, as the Skipper puffed
leisurely at his cigar. "His parents, worthy people, desired him to be a
sailor, but that he can never be. The best sailor is one born for that,
and for no other thing; also, a sailor can be made, though not of so
fine quality; but of Franci, no. I return him after this voyage, with
compliments, and he sails no more in the 'Nautilus.' And you, Colorado?
How is it with you? You love not at all a vessel, I think?"
There certainly could be no doubt this time that the Skipper was making
fun; his face was alive with it, and John could have laughed outright
for pleasure.
"I don't believe you are a Malay, one bit!" said the child. "I'm not
sure that you are a pirate at all, but I know you aren't a Malay."
"Why that, my son?" asked the Skipper, waving the smoke aside, that he
might see the child's face the clearer. "Why do you think that? I am not
dark enough for a Malay, is it that?"
"No, not that," John admitted. "But--well, you have no creese, and you
are not wild, nor--nor fierce, nor cruel."
"But I have the creese!" the Skipper protested. "The creese, would you
see it? It is in the cabin, behind the door, with other arms of piracy.
Still, Colorado, it is of a fact that I was not born in Polynesia, no.
As to the fierceness and the cruelty, we shall see, my son, we shall
see. If I kept you here on the 'Nautilus' always, took you with me away,
suffered you no more to live with your gentle Sir Scraper, that would be
cruelty, do you think it? That would be a fierce pirate, and a cruel
one, who would do that?"
John raised his head, and looked long and earnestly in his friend's
face. "Of course, I know you are only in fun," he said, at last,
"because dreams don't really come true; but--but that _was_ my dream,
you know! I think I've dreamed you all my life. At least--well, I never
knew just what you looked like, or how you would come; but I always
dreamed that some one would come from the sea, and that I should hear
about the shells, and know what they were saying when they talk; and--"
he paused; but the Skipper patted his shoulder gently, in sign that he
understood.
"And--what else, Juan Colorado?" he asked, in what seemed the kindest
voice in the world. But the boy John hung his head, and seemed loth to
go on.
"There--there was another part to what I dreamed," he said at last. "I
guess I won't tell that, please, 'cause, of course, you were only in
fun."
"And what the harm to tell it," said the Skipper, lightly, "even if it
come not true? Dreams are pretty things; my faith, I love to dream mine
self. Tell thy friend, Colorado! tell the dream, all the wholeness of
it."
There was no resisting the deep, sweet voice. The little boy raised his
head again, and looked frankly into the kind, dark eyes.
"I used to dream that I was taken away!" he said, in a low voice.
"Away? Good!" the Skipper repeated.
"Away," the boy murmured, and his voice grew soft and dreamy. "Away from
the land, and the fields where the grass dries up so soon, and winter
comes before you are ready to be cold. Some one would come and take me
in a ship, and I should live always on the water, and it would rock me
like a cradle, and I should feel as if I had always lived there. And I
should see the flying-fish and dolphins, and know how the corals grow,
and see things under the sea. And nobody would beat me then, and I
should not have to split wood when it makes my back ache. That was the
other part of my dream."
The Skipper laid his hand lightly on the child's head and smoothed back
the red curls. "Who knows?" he said, with a smile. "Who knows what may
come of dreams, Colorado? Here the one-half is come true, already at
this time. Why not the other?" He turned away as if to change the
subject, and took up a piece of the white branching coral that lay at
his elbow. "When I gather this," he said in a lighter tone, "it was a
day in the last year; I remember well that day! A storm had been, and
still the sea was rough a little, but that was of no matter. Along the
island shore we were cruising, and I saw through the water, there very
clear, fine trees."
"Trees?" repeated the wondering child.
"Of coral, naturally!" said the Skipper. "Coral trees, Juan, shining
bright, bright, through the green water.
"'Hola, you! lower anchor!'
"It is done. I put on the diving dress. I take a rope about my waist, I
descend. There a forest I find; very beautiful thing to see. Here we see
green trees, and in your north, in fall of year, bright colours, but
there colours of rainbow all the year round. In one place bright yellow,
branch and twig of gold purely; the next, purple of a king's garment,
colour of roses, colour of peach-blossom in the spring. Past me, as I
descend, float fans of the fan-coral, lilac, spreading a vine-work,
trellis, as your word is. On the one side are cliffs of mountains, with
caves in their sides, and from these caves I see come out many
creatures; the band-fish, a long ribbon of silver with rose shining
through; the Isabelle fish, it is violet and green and gold, like a
queen. Under my feet, see, Colorado! sand white like the snow of your
winter, fine, shining with many bright sparks. And this is a garden; for
all on every hand flowers are growing. You have seen a cactus, that some
lady keeps very careful in her window, tending that it die not? Yes!
Here is the white ground covered with these flowers completely, only of
more size hugely, crimson, pale, the heart of a rose, the heart of a
young maiden. Sea-anemones are these, Colorado, many, many kinds, all
very fine to see. And here, too, on the ground are my shells, not as
here, when of their brightness the half is gone for want of the life
and the water, but full of gleams very glorious, telling of greatness in
their making. Here above the water, my little child, I find persons many
who doubt of a great God who maketh all things for good, and to grow in
the end better; but to have been under the sea, that is to know that it
cannot be otherwise; a true sailor learns many things that are not fully
known upon the land, where one sees not so largely His mercy."
He was silent for a moment, and then went on, the child sitting rapt,
gazing at him with eyes which saw all the wonders of which he told.
"All these things I saw through the clear water, as if through purest
glass I looked. I broke the branches, which now you see white and
cleaned, but then all splendid with these colours whereof I tell you.
Many branches I broke, putting them in pouches about my waist and
shoulders. At once, I see a waving in the water, over my head; I look up
to see a shark swim slowly round and round, just having seen me, and
making his preparations. I have my knife ready, for often have I met
this gentleman before. I slip behind the coral tree, and wait; but he is
a stupid beast, the shark, and knows not what to do when I come not out.
So up I quickly climb through the branches, with care not to tangle the
rope; he still looking for me at the spot where first he saw me. I gain
the top, and with a few pulls of my good Rento on the rope, I am in the
boat, and Sir Shark is snapping his teeth alone, very hungry, but not
invited to dinner."
"Do you think he was stronger than you?" asked the little boy. "You're
very strong, aren't you? I should think you were as strong as sharks,
and 'most as strong as whales."
The Skipper laughed. "Sir Shark is ten times so strong as any man, let
him be of the best, my friend; but he has not the strength of head, you
understand; that makes the difference. And you, could you do that, too?
Could you keep yourself from fear, when the sea-creatures come about
you, if you should ever be a sailor? What think you?"
The child pondered.
"I think I could!" he said at last.
"I never saw any such things, of course, but I'm not afraid of anything
that I know about, here on shore. There was a snake," he went on,
lowering his voice, "last summer there was a snake that lived in a hole
by the school-house, and he was a poison snake, an adder. One day he
crept out of his hole and came into the school-house, and scared them
all 'most to death. The teacher fainted away, and all the children got
up into a corner on the table, and the snake had the whole floor to
himself. But it looked funny to see them all that way over a little
beast that wasn't more than two foot long; so I thought about it, and
then I went to the wood-box (we were burning brushwood then) and got a
stick with a little fork at the end, and I came up quick behind the
snake, and clapped that down over his neck, so he couldn't turn his head
round, and then I took another stick and killed him. That's only a
little thing, but I wasn't afraid at all, and I thought perhaps it would
show whether I would be good for anything when there were real things
to be afraid of."
The Skipper nodded in his pleasant, understanding way. "I think so, too,
Colorado," he said. "I think so, too! That was like my boy Rento, but
not like Franci. Franci dies every time he see a snake, and come to life
only to find out if somebody else is killed. See, my son, how beautiful
the moon on the water! Let us look for a few moments, to take the beauty
into us, and then I must send my little friend to his bed, that nothing
harmful comes to him."
So they sat hand in hand for awhile, gazing their fill, saying nothing;
there was the same look in the two faces, so widely different. The
little boy, with his clear brow, his blue eyes limpid as a mountain
pool, shining with the heavens reflected in them; the dark Spaniard (if
he were a Spaniard!) with lines of sadness, shadows of thought and of
bitter experience, making his bronze face still darker; what was there
alike in these two, who had come together from the ends of the earth?
The thought was one, in both hearts, and the look of it shone in the
eyes of both as they sat in the moonlight white and clear. What was the
thought? Look into the face of your child as it kneels to pray at close
of day! Look into the face of any good and true man when he is lifted
above the things of to-day, and sees the beauty and the mystery, and
hears the eternal voices sounding!
"'Morning, evening, noon and night,
Praise God!' sang Theocrite."