THE GALLEYS AND THE FRIGATE.
_I.--The Frigate._
The _Merry Maid_ had left the Texel by the narrow gut called
De Witt's Diep, with her convoy following in line and in
admirable order. The breeze was fair for England. A full round
moon rose over the sandbanks behind them as Captain Barker sent the
pilots ashore and stood easily out to sea, for the most of his
merchant-ships were sluggish sailers, and not a few overladen.
So clear was the night that, as he paced the quarter-deck with the
dew falling steadily around him, he could not only count their
thirty-six lanterns, but even discern their piled canvas glimmering
as they stole like ghosts in his wake.
That night he left his watch for an hour only, when shortly before
dawn Captain Runacles came to relieve him, threatening mutiny unless
he retired to snatch a little slumber. But the sun was scarce up
before the little man reappeared. The pride of his old profession
was working like yeast within him. His breast swelled and his chin
lifted as he found the convoy still sailing in close order, obeying
his signals smoothly and intelligently as a trained pack obeys its
huntsman. He was delighted with the frigate and her crew, who were
English to a man. To be sure there was a fair sprinkling of Dutchmen
among the soldiers; but his heart had begun to warm somewhat towards
that nation. As he shambled to and fro, jerking out from time to
time some necessary orders, he saw that he had the respect of all
these fellows, even while they smiled at him. They felt that this
distorted little framework held a man. He divined this with the
quick sensibility that marks all deformed people. His green eyes
kindled. In the pride of his soul he had almost forgotten Tristram.
The sight of the English coast, dim and purple beneath the declining
sun, brought it back to him with a pang. After all, Tristram was
still lost, and his journey to Holland had been a failure therefore.
With a sudden contempt for all that a moment before he had been
enjoying, he turned to his friend and asked him to take charge for a
while.
Nothing more was said, but Captain Runacles guessed what drove the
little man below like a wounded beast, and began to pace the deck
gloomily.
"He'll never take it up again," he muttered. "It's all very well,
and he thinks he's getting comfort out of it. But it won't do."
He paused for a moment, contemplated the distant coast and resumed
his tread, repeating: "It won't do, Jack; it won't do a bit, my boy."
Captain Barker sat in his cabin alone, staring at a knot of wood on
the table before him. There were traces of tears on his cheeks.
Somebody tapped at the door.
"What is it?"
"The devil," answered Captain Runacles' voice, coolly. "Six galleys
to the south, between us and the Thames!"
Captain Barker sprang up and hurried up on deck.
"So those are the craft I've heard so much about," he remarked,
taking down the glass through which he had been eyeing them for a
couple of minutes.
"What do you propose, Jack?"
"Propose? Why, propose to do what I'm here for--to save the convoy."
"That's very pretty. But do you know how fast those sharks can
move?"
"No, I don't. But I know they can outpace us. Nevertheless, I'll
save the convoy."
"How?"
"There's only one way."
"And that is--"
"By losing the frigate."
Captain Runacles looked at him for a second, and then placed a hand
on his shoulder. This simple gesture expressed all his heart.
Captain Barker turned briskly.
"Signal the convoy," he shouted, "to make all sail and run for the
Thames!"
_II--The Galleys._
M. de la Pailletine was in some respects a weak man. He was
impatient. Up to this moment his behaviour in an extremely galling
position had been perfect. He had been content to bide his time and
had furthered every order issued by his rival with the cheerfullest
alacrity.
But when the man at the masthead announced the advance of the
merchant fleet, he allowed himself to be tempted and turned to
Captain Salt who stood beside him.
"You will follow them, of course?"
"Of course I shall do nothing of the sort. On the contrary, I intend
to steer to the south, out of their sight."
"You will fling away this splendid prize?"
"Let me remind you, monsieur, that we are bound for Harwich."
"But this is folly, Captain Salt! Harwich will remain where it is,
and we can ravage it at any time. Never again may we have so fine an
opportunity of capturing thirty-six merchantmen and a British frigate
almost without a blow."
"Excuse me, M. de la Pailletine, but I do not allow my orders to be
criticised."
"Then listen to me, sir," retorted the Commodore, his face red with
fury, as he drew from his coat the orders which the King had
addressed to him. "You see this paper? Very well; I destroy it."
He tore it into shreds, and let the pieces flutter over the galley's
side.
"Are you aware of what that action means?" Captain Salt was white to
the lips.
"I am, sir."
"It is treason."
"You think so, perhaps. But a Frenchman should best know what is due
to the King of France. Nevertheless, I shall summon the captains to
confirm my action. Will you attend them in my cabin?"
"Thank you; no, sir. I am quite sure that they will support you.
It remains to see what his Majesty will say when I report your
contempt of his orders."
"That is for the future to decide. Meanwhile be good enough to
recollect that I command the squadron from this moment. Should you
choose to volunteer, well and good. If not, my cabin is at your
disposal as soon as the captains have left it."
He bowed and turned away to summon the captains.
They came in haste, and were, of course, unanimous; though it is
difficult to say how far they were influenced by sound argument and
how far by pique and a desire to thwart the Englishman. While they
sat, Captain Salt remained on deck cursing quietly and examining the
approaching enemy with no pleasant stare.
Orders were issued to all the six galleys to attack the fleet.
Four were told off against the merchantmen and commanded to make all
speed to get between them and the Thames; while _L'Heureuse_ herself
and _La Merveille_ (commanded by the Chevalier de Sainte-Croix) were
to attack and take possession of the frigate.
Immediately they began to make all possible haste with sails and
oars. Captain Salt withdrew to the cabin in dudgeon and M. de la
Pailletine took his place. From their benches below the slaves heard
his voice shouting out orders right and left, and at once they had to
catch up their oars and row. The English fleet when first spied was
coming right across their course, and still held on its way when it
perceived the Frenchman's intent. In pursuance of this intent the
four galleys made off with all speed to place themselves between the
merchantmen and the coast, while the Commodore and the Chevalier de
Sainte-Croix bore down on the frigate, straight as an arrow.
And now began a hard time for Tristram and his companions below.
They tugged and sweated, and presently _L'Heureuse_ began to leap
through the water. Above the swish of the long sweeps rose a tumult
of oaths, imprecations, outcries, sobs, as the overseers plied their
whips, not caring where they struck. Overhead they heard the guns
running out, the rolling of shot and trampling of feet, the shouts
and replies of officers and men. They could see nothing of the
frigate for which they were bound, but from the confusion and hurry
expected every moment to feel the shock as the galley's beak drove
into her.
Then for a second or two all the noise ceased.
The reason was this. For some little while the frigate held on
her course for the mouth of the Thames. Not a sail more did she
carry than when she first came in sight. It almost seemed as
if her captain had not seen the enemy sweeping to destroy him.
For thirty-five minutes she held quietly on beside her convoy.
And then the helm was shifted, and she came down straight into the
Frenchman's teeth.
It was a gallant stroke, and a subtle--so subtle that M. de la
Pailletine mistook its meaning and gave a great shout of joy.
He fancied he saw the English delivered into his hand. But his
rejoicing was premature.
To begin with, he perceived the next moment that the frigate, by
hastening the attack, had caught his galley alone. Into this
trap he had been led partly by the excellence of his crew.
Not only was his the fleetest vessel of the six, but he had always
been jealous to choose the strongest _forcats_ to man it.
Moreover, M. de Sainte-Croix had been slow in starting, and by this
time _La Merveille_ was a league or more behind her consort.
Still the Commodore was in no way disturbed. He admitted to his
lieutenant beside him that the frigate was showing desperate
gallantry; but he never doubted for a moment that his galley alone,
with two hundred fighting-men aboard, would be more than a match for
her.
Down came the _Merry Maid_, closer and closer, her red-crossed flag
fluttering bravely at the peak; and on rushed the galley, until the
two were within cannon-shot. M. de la Pailletine gave the order, and
sent a shot to meet her from one of the four guns in the prow.
As the thunder of it died away and the smoke cleared, he waited for
the Englishman's reply. There was none. The frigate held on her
course, silent as death.
_III.--The Frigate._
The two English captains stood on the quarterdeck, side by side,
the tall man and the dwarf. Beyond issuing an order or two, neither
had spoken a word for twenty minutes. Once Captain Barker glanced
over his shoulder to see how the merchantmen were faring, and
calculated that within half an hour their enemies would intercept
them. Then he looked down on his men, who stood ready by the guns,
motionless, with lips set, repressing the fury of battle; and beyond
them to the galley as she came, churning the sea, her oars rising and
falling like the strong wings of a bird.
"My God!" he said softly, "if only Tristram were here to see!"
_IV--The Galleys._
When the frigate failed to answer his salute, M. de la Pailletine
jumped to a fresh conclusion.
"_Mordieu!_" he cried, "here is another English captain who,
like our friend Salt, is weary of carrying his Sovereign's colours.
He doesn't mean to strike a blow. A minute and we shall see his flag
hauled down."
But the minute passed, and another, and yet a third, and the English
flag still flew.
By this time they were within musket-shot. One by one the four guns
had spoken from the galley's prow and still there was no answer.
On the brink of the tragedy there was silence for an instant.
Then a few of the French musketeers seemed to find this intolerable
and fired without receiving the order. Followed a silence again, and
still the _Merry Maid_ came on as if to impale herself on the
galley's beak.
And then, suddenly, when in five minutes the vessels must have
collided, round flew the frigate's wheel. For a minute and a half
she fetched up as if awaking to the consequences of her folly;
shuddered and shook against the wind; and, as her sails filled again,
fetched away on the westerly tack for her life.
For a full two minutes the French were taken aback.
"Fools, fools!" shouted M. de la Pailletine, beside himself with joy.
The order flew for the slaves on the larboard benches to hold water
for a minute and the galley's head came round. Nothing gives more
spirit than a flying enemy. From mouth to mouth ran the whisper that
the English were showing their heels; and in a moment these poor
devils, who owed all their misery to France, were pulling like
madmen. Jeers rose from the deck.
"If Monsieur the Englishman does not strike within two minutes, down
he goes to the bottom."
"The idiot, to expose his stern!"
"On the whole, it is just as well that _La Merveille_ is so far
behind. We shall have all the glory to ourselves--eh, my children?"
On board the frigate Captain Barker said four words only:
"Take the wheel, Jemmy."
Captain Runacles stepped to it and the steersman gave place.
In truth the hunchback, though this was his first acquaintance with a
galley, knew well enough that she would strike for the frigate's
stern as the weakest point. This was precisely what he wished her to
do.
Captain Runacles stood with his hand on the wheel and waited,
glancing back over his shoulder.
Captain Barker stood by the taffrail with one eye upon the galley and
his face turned in profile to his friend. His right hand was lifted.
The Commodore had made all his dispositions. The galley was to
plunge her beak straight into the _Merry Maid's_ stern, and its crew,
after one discharge of cannon to clear the frigate's poop, were to
board at once. The men stood ready with their hatchets and cutlasses
and set up a wild yell as they drove straight for her. From below
the slaves echoed it with a melancholy wail.
On they tore. As they yelled again, _L'Heureuse's_ beak was but
thirty yards from her prey. A few more leaps and it would strike.
"One--two--"
The little man looked back in their faces and smiled.
"Three--four--five--"
He dropped his hand. Quick as lightning Captain Jerry spun the wheel
round. The stern swung sharply off, her sea-way gauged to a nicety.
The next moment the galley flew past. Her beak, missing the stern,
rushed on, tearing great splinters out of the _Merry Maid's_ flank.
Her starboard oars snapped like matchwood, hurling the slaves
backwards on their benches and killing a dozen on the spot. Then she
brought up, helplessly disabled, right under the frigate's side.
And then at length the English cheer rang forth. In an instant the
grappling-irons were out and the frigate held her foe, clasped,
strained close against her ribs, close under her depressed guns.
And at length, too, with a blinding flash and a roar, those English
guns spoke. A minute had done it all. Sixty seconds before the
gallant vessel had lain apparently at the Frenchman's mercy. Now the
Frenchman was fastened inextricably, while the crowd upon deck stood
as much exposed as if the galley were a raft.
Down swept the grape-shot, tearing ghastly passages through them.
They were near enough to be scorched by the flame of it. Down and
across it rent them, as they crouched and fought with each other to
get away and hide. There was no hiding. Before the breath of it
they went down in rows, strewing the deck horribly, mangled, riddled,
blown in miserable pieces.
In a trice, too, the English masts and rigging were swarming with
musketeers and sailors who poured hand-grenades among them like hail,
scattering wounds and death. The Frenchmen no longer thought of
attacking. Such was the panic among officers as well as common men
that they were incapable even of resistance. Scores who were neither
killed nor wounded lay flat on their faces, counterfeiting death and
hoping to find safety.
This carnage lasted, perhaps, for less than five minutes.
_L'Heureuse's_ consort was still near upon a league behind, and the
other four galleys were still busily chasing the merchantmen.
Captain Barker looked and was well content. But he had much work
still before him, and to do it properly he must husband his
ammunition.
He gave the order to board. Forty or fifty men dropped over the
_Merry Maid's_ side, cutlass in mouth, and rushed along the galley's
deck, hewing down all who ventured to oppose them and sparing only
the slaves, who made no resistance. At last, and merely by the
weight of numbers, they were driven back. But this did the Frenchmen
no good. Instantly the frigate opened fire again and murdered them
by scores.
It was in this extremity that M. de la Pailletine cast his eyes
around and found himself forced to do what Captain Barker from the
first had meant him to do. The four galleys that had started after
the convoy were by this time sweeping along on the full tide of
success. In another five minutes the pathway to the Thames would be
blocked and all the merchant vessels at their mercy.
M. de la Pailletine hoisted the flag of distress. He called them to
his help.
A wild hurrah broke out from the crew of the frigate. The order
meant their destruction: for how could the _Merry Maid_ contend
against six galleys? Yet they cheered, for they had guessed what
their captain had in his mind. And the little man's greenish eyes
sparkled as he heard.
"Good boys!" he said briefly, turning to his friend. "The convoy is
saved, my lad: and O! but Jemmy, you did it prettily!"
_V.--The Galley (in the hold)._
Let us go back for a minute or two to Tristram.
The oar at which he tugged was one of the starboard tier; and when
_L'Heureuse_ missed her stroke, as we have told, it went like a
sugar-stick, flinging him and his companions back across the bench.
Farther than this they could not fly, because the stout chains which
fastened them were but ten feet long. Tristram, indeed, was hurled
scarcely so far as the rest, for his seat was the inmost from the
gangway, and right against the galley's side; so that he got the
shortest swing of the oar.
They scrambled up just as the fire of grape-shot opened. And then
Tristram made an appalling discovery.
The hole through which their oar was worked had been split wider by
the crash; and now, looking out, he saw that it lay just opposite the
mouth of an English cannon. In this position they had been brought
up by the frigate's grappling-irons.
It took him but an instant to see also that the cannon, as it stared
him in the face, was loaded.
The two vessels, moreover, lay so close that by reaching up with his
hand he could have laid his hand on its muzzle.
It was a horrible moment. There were four Frenchmen and a Turk
ranged along the bench beside him. He looked into their faces. They
were ashen grey to the lips. No one could move to get out of the
way: the chains prevented that. The Huguenot was praying wildly.
Only the Turk preserved his composure, and even he had turned pale
under his bronze skin.
Somebody cried: "Lie flat!"
In a second every one of Tristram's companions had flung himself flat
on the bench. Tristram glanced again at the gun. Even at that
moment he had enough presence of mind to note that it was pointed
downwards, and at such an angle that those who lay flat must
infallibly receive all its contents. He noted this even while it
seemed that every one of his faculties was frozen up. He felt that
he could move neither hand nor foot; and somehow he knew that since,
because of the chain, he could not leave the bench, he must sit
upright. And so he stiffened his back, laid his hands on his lap,
and waited with his eyes on the gun.
Through the port-hole he could see the English gunner. He saw the
fuse in his hand. He counted the seconds; wondered, even, how the
fellow could be so deliberate. He heard the explosions all around,
and speculated. Would the next be his turn? Or the next? Would it
be painful? What was the next world like? And would his body be
badly mangled?
The gunner had the match ready, when the lad's lips moved and a cry
broke from them--a cry which astonished him as he uttered it, for he
had no notion that his brain was busy with such matters.
"O! my Father, have pity on my poor soul! I have loved all men and
one woman. Give comfort to her, and have mercy on my poor soul!"
As the last word dropped from his lips, a great calm fell upon him
and his eyes rested quietly on the gunner's hand as the man set the
lighted match to the touch-hole of the gun.
It was night when Tristram opened his eyes again. A pale ray of
moonlight slanted across his face. His head was pillowed on
something soft and warm. He lay for awhile and stared at the
moonlight; and by degrees he made out that it was pouring through a
rent in the galley's side. Then he turned his head and lifted
himself a little to see what it was on which his head rested. It was
the dead body of one of the three overseers, who had been killed
almost by the first shot fired by the frigate.
He pulled himself up and crept towards the bench; then put a hand
down to his feet. The ring was there, but no chain. Next he felt
along the bench with a wish--quite stupid--to get back to his seat.
His comrades were still lying on their faces. He imagined for a
moment that their foolish fears still held them there and he laughed
feebly. He was weak, but felt no pain from any wound, nor suspected
that he was hurt.
Then he began to eye the fellows roguishly, taking a malicious
pleasure in the continuance of their terror. He tittered again and
suddenly found himself out of patience with them.
"Come, get up--get up! The danger's all over long ago."
He received no answer and put out his hand towards the nearest.
It was the Turk--a fellow who had been a janizary, and had the
reputation of not knowing what fear was.
"Hullo, Ysouf! Get up, for shame--get up, man! And you--that we
called so brave!"
Ysouf lay still. Tristram bent forward and took his hand.
The hand came away from the body. It was icy cold.
Still holding it, Tristram leant back and stared; and as he stared
a pettish anger took him. He tossed the hand back on the body.
And now for the first time he began to hear; and as this lost sense
crept back to him he knew that the place was full of moaning, and
that somewhere close feet were trampling to and fro. The noise
caused him agony, and he put his two hands to his ears.
He was sitting in this posture when he felt something warm and moist
trickle down his body, which was naked to the waist. He took a hand
from his ear and put it to his breast. It was all wet, but in the
darkness nothing could be distinguished. Suspecting, however, that
it must be blood from some wound, and following the smear with his
fingers, he found that his shoulder, near the clavicle was pierced
right through. There was no pain.
Then he began to feel himself all over, and found another gash in the
left leg, below the knee. He searched no more, feeling that it was
useless, as he was bound to die in a little while. The men before
him and behind him were dead. Of eighteen men on the three benches
he--who had been blown the full length of the coursier--was the only
one left; and all owing to the explosion of one cannon only.
But such was the manner of grape-shot: after the cartouche of powder,
a long tin box of musket-balls rammed in; and as the box breaks,
destruction right and left.
As he sat, waiting listlessly for death, the sense of pain came
suddenly upon Tristram; and then he swooned away.
_VI--The Frigate._
As soon as the galleys saw M. de la Pailletine's signal and turned
reluctantly back from their chase, the capture of the _Merry Maid_
became but a question of time. _La Merveille_ was the first to come
up, and, striking fairly at her stern, riddled her windows with a
gust of artillery and prepared to board: a feat that was thrice
prevented by Captain Runacles and a couple of dozen marines, English
and Dutch. Then followed Captain Denoyre with the _Sanspareil_, who
approached from the starboard side and lost both his masts as he did
so. In fact, the execution done upon his galley was only second to
that suffered by _L'Heureuse_. But as _Le Paon_ followed from the
same quarter, with the _Nymphe_ and the _Belle Julie_ heading down as
fast as oars could take them, Captain Barker cast a look back and
touched his old friend's arm.
The first of the merchantmen was entering the Thames.
"Better get back to the fo'c's'le, Jemmy, and entrench yourself."
Captain Runacles nodded. "And you?" he asked.
"Oh, I'm going down to the cabin--first of all." Captain Runacles
nodded again. They looked straight into each other's eyes, shook
hands, and parted.
It was obvious that the men of the _Merry Maid_ could no longer keep
the deck. She was hemmed in on every side and it only remained to
board her.
Twenty-five grenadiers from each galley were ordered upon this
service. Those of _La Merveille_ were the first to start and they
swarmed over the stern without opposition. But no sooner were they
crowded upon the frigate's deck than a volley of musketry mowed them
down. Captain Runacles and his heroes then ran back and entrenched
themselves in the forecastle; and to advance to close the hatchway
was certain death. Nor were they forced to surrender until long
after the English flag was hauled down: and, indeed, were only
silenced when M. de la Pailletine hit on the happy idea of setting
fifty men to work with axes to lay open the frigate's deck. A score
and a half of men were lost over this piece of work. However, the
forecastle was carried at last by means of it; and the prisoners were
brought on deck--among them Captain Runacles, with his right hand
disabled.
"Are you the gallant captain of this frigate?" asked M. de la
Pailletine, doffing his hat; for as yet he had received no sword in
token of the _Merry Maid's_ surrender.
"No, sir," Captain Runacles answered; "I have the honour to be his
lieutenant."
"He is killed, perhaps?"
"I fancy not."
"Then where is he?"
"Excuse me, monsieur, it strikes me he has yet to be taken."
"But the ship is ours!"
"Well, monsieur, you have hauled down our colours and I can't deny
it. But as for the frigate, I doubt if you can call it yours just
yet."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Why, simply that you have not yet taken Captain Barker; and excuse
me if, knowing Captain Barker better than you can possibly do, I warn
you that that part of the ship which he sees fit to occupy at this
moment will probably be dangerous for some time to come."
As if to corroborate his words, at this moment the hush which had
fallen upon the frigate's deck was broken by the report of a firearm,
and two French grenadiers rushed upon deck from below and came
forward hurriedly, one with a hand clapped to a wound in his
shoulder.
"That," said Captain Runacles, "is probably Captain Barker. There is
a shutter to his cabin door."
"But this is trivial," exclaimed the French Commodore, frowning.
"If Monsieur will excuse me, it is scarcely so trivial as it
looks. Captain Barker is within ten paces of the powder-magazine.
Moreover, between him and the powder-magazine there is a door."
M. de la Pailletine jumped in his shoes. He rushed aft to the
companion leading to the captain's cabin and called on him to
surrender.
"Go away!" answered a very ill-tempered voice from below.
"But, sir, consider. Your ship is in our hands--"
"Then come and take it."
"--Your gallant officers have surrendered. You have behaved like a
hero and there is not one of your enemies but honours you. Monsieur,
it is magnificent--but come out!"
"I shan't."
"Monsieur, even this noble obstinacy extorts my veneration; but
permit me to inquire: How can you help it?"
"Very simply, sir. Time is of no concern to me. I have plenty of
victuals and ammunition down here; and if any man comes to take my
sword I shall kill him."
"You cannot kill five or six hundred men."
"No; when I am bored, I shall fire the powder-magazine."
"Monsieur--"
There was no answer but the sound of a man blowing his nose violently
and the ring of a ramrod as it was thrust home. It was absurd that
one man should hold a ship against hundreds. Nevertheless, it was
so, and the Commodore did not see his way out of it.
"Permit me, sir," said Captain Runacles, stepping forward, "to add my
assurance, if such be needed, that Captain Barker is a man of his
word."
The Commodore essayed gentler tactics.
"Listen, monsieur!" he called down.
"Go away!"
"I have the pleasure to announce to you that you shall meet only with
such treatment as your bravery deserves. Dismiss all apprehension of
imprisonment--"
At this point he skipped backwards with such violence as to knock a
couple of sailors sprawling. A bullet had embedded itself in the
timbers at his feet.
He determined to use summary measures, and ordered twelve grenadiers,
with fixed bayonets, to advance to the cabin door, break it open, and
overpower the Englishman.
The twelve men advanced as they were bidden. The sergeant was
half-way down the ladder, with his detachment at his heels, when the
report of a musket was heard and down he dropped with a ball in his
leg. The grenadiers hesitated. Another shot followed. It was
pretty clear that the besieged man had plenty of firearms loaded and
ready. They scrambled up the steps again. "It was all very well,"
they said; "but as they could only advance in single file, exposing
their legs before they could use their arms, the Englishman from
behind his barricade could shoot them down like sheep."
M. de la Pailletine stamped and swore, upbraiding them for their
cowardice. He was about to order them down again when a diversion
occurred.
A door slammed below, a wheezing cough was heard, and Captain
Barker's head appeared at the top of the ladder.
"Which of you is the French captain?"
M. de la Pailletine lifted his hat.
"H'mph!"
He stepped up on deck and the French officers drew back in sheer
amazement. They looked at this man who had defied them for pretty
near an hour. They had expected to see a giant. Instead they saw a
tiny man, hump-backed, wry-necked, pale of face, with a twisted
smile, and glaring green eyes, that surveyed them with a malicious
twinkle. His wig was off, and his bandaged scalp, as well as his
face, was smeared black with powder; and it appeared that he could
not even walk like other men, for he moved across the deck with a
gait that was something between a trot and a shamble and
indescribably ludicrous.
Yet all this abated his dignity no whit. He trotted straight up to
M. de la Pailletine (whose astonishment mastered his manners for the
moment, so that he stared and drew back), and working his jaw, as a
man who has to swallow a bitter pill which sticks in his mouth, he
held out his sword without ceremony.
"Here you are," he said: "I've done with it; can't waste words."
"Sir," the Commodore answered, bowing, "believe me, I receive it with
little gratification. The victory is ours, no doubt; but the honour
of it you have wrested from us. Sir, I am a Frenchman; but I am a
sailor, too; and my heart swells over such a feat as yours.
Suffer me, then, to remind you that your present captivity is but the
fortune of war, against which you have struggled heroically; that
your self-sacrifice has saved your fleet; and that, as France knows
how to appreciate gallantry in her adversaries, your bondage shall be
merely nominal."
"H'mph," said the little man, "fine talk, sir, fine talk! As for the
ships, I saw the last of 'em slip into the Thames ten minutes since,
from my cabin window. Sorry to keep you parleying so long, but
couldn't come out before."
He blew his nose violently, cocked his head on one side, and added--
". . . though, to be sure, sir, your words are devilish kind--
devilish kind, 'pon my soul!"
M. de la Pailletine, with a pleasant smile, held out his sword to
him.
"Take it back, monsieur--take back a weapon no man better deserves to
wear. Forget that you are my prisoner: and, if I may beg it,
remember rather that you are my friend."
The face of the little hunchback flushed crimson. He hesitated, took
back the sword clumsily, hesitated again, then swiftly held out his
hand to M. de la Pailletine, with a smile as beautiful as his body
was deformed.
"Sir, you have beaten me. I fought your men for awhile, but I can't
stand up against this."
_VII.--The Galley._
There was one man, however, who soon had reason to repent that the
little man had been given his sword again.
Dark had fallen when M. de la Pailletine conducted him courteously
over the frigate's side and across the deck of _L'Heureuse_ towards
his own cabin. Flinging the door open, he bowed, motioning Captain
Barker to precede him.
As the hunchback entered, a figure rose from beside the table under
the swinging-lamp. It was Roderick Salt, who had been sitting there
and sulking since the engagement began.
Captain Barker jumped back a foot and stared.
"_You!_"
Captain Salt had been expecting the Commodore, and was waiting to pay
him a dozen satirical compliments on the issue of the engagement.
Triumph shone in his eyes. It went out like a candle-flame before a
puff of wind.
"YOU!"
In a flash the hunchback was running on him with drawn sword.
M. de la Pailletine, in a trice, interposing, knocked the blade up
and out of his hand. But he rushed on, and, dealing the traitor a
sound blow on the face with his fist, began to kick and cuff and
pummel him without mercy.
"Take him off--take him off!" gasped Captain Salt, but offered not
the least resistance.
The Commodore, amused and secretly pleased, caught the little man in
his arms and dragged him away by main force.
"Messieurs," he said, slipping between them, and still panting with
the effort, "circumstances compel me to leave you together for a
while. But before I go, I must exact a _parole_ from both of you
that you will keep the peace towards each other."
"But, monsieur," Captain Barker exclaimed, "I want to kill him!"
"Doubtless; but if, sir, you have that consideration for me which you
professed by shaking hands with me just now, you will refrain.
Captain Salt will tell you, sir, that we have a small affair to
discuss together as soon as we reach France again. When that
discussion is over, no doubt he will be at your service."
The pair gave their promise reluctantly, and, as the Commodore left
the cabin, sat down, facing each other across the table--Captain Salt
with his back to the shattered stern-windows, which, a week or two
before Tristram had touched up with fresh paint and simple
enthusiasm.
They knew nothing of this. Yet the first question asked by Captain
Barker, after he had glared at his enemy in silence for twenty
minutes, was:
"Where is Tristram?"
"Tristram?"
"Ay; your son. You have seen him and have been with him."
"I do not know. I lost him."
"When? Where?"
"Two months since. We were travelling south together--"
"What right had you--"
"Excuse me, I was about to put a similar question. To begin with,
you do not deny, I suppose, that the lad is my son?" He paused a
second or two, and listened; for a sudden shout had gone up from the
galley's deck above them. He continued, "Secondly, the boy is heir
to considerable estates; thirdly, he has been so for many years;
fourthly, I am legally an administrator of those estates; fifthly,
you knew that I was alive--what the devil is that noise?"
"Never mind the noise. Proceed with your remarks."
"I have simply to say that you, Captain Barker, together with your
friend Runacles, have for years been playing off a fraud on the law,
and that I am going to exact my rights to the last farthing."
"Really, you must excuse me; but do you--a traitor, on board a French
ship--imagine that you possess any rights in England?"
There was certainly a loud trampling of feet on the galley's deck at
this moment. But Captain Barker knew that the French would make
haste to clear their dead at once and get into motion with their
prize, for the merchantmen must, before this, have given the alarm,
and the coast was continually patrolled by British cruisers.
"You have a very imperfect knowledge of my position, Captain Barker;
and it naturally leads you to jump to very wrong conclusions.
To begin with, you imagine me a traitor."
"I do."
"To whom? To King William, I suppose?"
"Well, as William is the king whose law seems most likely to
interfere with your present threats, I will instance King William."
"You are mistaken. Until you came into sight this squadron was
advancing on Harwich under my command. You understand? Well, before
it started I had sent word to William of its intention. In other
words, from first to last I designed the whole expedition in his
interests. Had we gone on, by this time half a dozen British
frigates would have been upon us."
"_My God! And they are here!_"
As Captain Barker yelled it out, a broad flame illumined the cabin,
and the crash of broken glass and rending timbers mingled with a roar
that shook the seas for miles.
And in the light of this thunderous broadside Captain Salt rose
slowly, lifted his arms, swayed and dropped forward, striking the
table with his brow; then slid down upon the floor, stone-dead.
_VIII--The Galley (in the hold)._
From his second swoon Tristram awoke to find the light of a lantern
flashing in his face.
The _Merry Maid's_ flag had scarcely been hauled down before night
fell; and almost with its falling, while the men of the other galleys
were helping to clear _L'Heureuse's_ decks, they perceived lights
twinkling off the mouth of the Thames.
At once concluding that these were the lights of English men-of-war
sent to pursue them, they used the utmost dispatch. Their first
concern was to throw the dead overboard and stow the wounded in the
hold. But so closely they were pressed by the fear of losing their
prize and being made prisoners, that it is to be feared as many of
the living were thrown over for dead as of those who were dead in
reality.
This, at any rate, came near to being Tristram's fate. For when the
keeper came to unchain the killed and wounded of his seat he was
still without consciousness lying among the corpses, bathed in their
blood and his own.
"A clean sweep of this bench," said the keeper.
He and his fellows, therefore, without further examination, did but
unchain the slaves and then fling them over. It was sufficient that
the body neither spoke nor cried.
Tristram's comrades, it is true, were in no doubtful plight.
The hand of death had impressed them beyond chance of mistake.
They were thrown over limb by limb.
Tristram's was the only body that remained entire, and to all
appearance he too was dead. Now, he had been chained by the left
leg, in which (as we have said) he was severely wounded. The keeper,
not knowing that the chain had been blown away, grasped this leg in
his hand, felt for the ring and tried to wrench it open.
Fortunately he tugged so lustily and inflicted so sharp a pang in the
wounded limb that Tristram opened his eyes and sobbed with the
anguish of it. The fellow let go his grasp.
Then, suddenly perceiving what their intention had been, the poor
youth screamed out at the top of his voice:
"Please do not throw me over. I'm not dead yet!"
Upon this they carried him to a small chamber in the hold and tossed
him down among a heap of groaning wounded, upon a cable made up into
a _rouleau_, perhaps the hardest bed on which a sick man can lie.
About him were stretched indiscriminately petty officers, sailors,
soldiers, and slaves. The air could reach this den only through a
scuttle about two feet square, and the heat and stench were therefore
something intolerable. A surgeon was at work among the sufferers.
Reaching Tristram at length, he stopped the bleeding of his wounds
with a little spirits of wine. He had no bandages; nor did he come
again to see if his patient were dead or alive.
But, indeed, our hero was past caring for this, and when he regained
consciousness after a third swoon it was to find himself in other
hands.
For the pursuing English, aided by the wind (which had shifted a
little farther to the northward), had swept down upon the galleys and
taken them, with their prize, and were now towing them triumphantly
into Sheerness.
_IX.--At Sheerness._
At ten o'clock next morning, after a prodigious breakfast at
Sheerness, Captain Barker and Captain Runacles (whose wounded arm
was slung in a silk kerchief) strolled down to the waterside to have
a look at the strange vessels they had so obstinately defied.
They explored with especial care the unfortunate _L'Heureuse_,
visiting first the Commodore's cabin, upon the boards of which the
blood of Roderick Salt was hardly dry. It cannot be said that they
felt much sorrow for his fate; for to pity a traitor was a height to
which the faith of this pair of imperfect Christians did not soar.
But they uttered no word of exultation, and quickly resumed their
examination of the deck and hold, discussing this or that rent,
debating over every splinter, proving that such and such a groove was
ploughed by a ball from such and such an angle, and so on.
From the deck they descended to the long chamber where now row upon
row of battered and deserted benches told of a tragedy more pitiful
than any that can befall men who are free to stand up and fight for
their lives.
"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed the little hunchback, standing with
his arms folded and gloomily conjuring up the scene of yesterday;
"Jemmy, we must have mown the poor brutes down like swathes of meadow
grass. See here--"
He bent to examine a bench along which a broadening groove ran from
end to end, telling a frightful tale.
But Captain Runacles did not answer. He was standing by a battered
hole in the galley's starboard side and looking down at the floor.
A sunbeam fell through the hole and slanted along the planks of the
flooring. His eyes were following this sunbeam, and his face was
like a ghost's.
"Jemmy; come and look--here's a whole benchful accounted for at one
swoop." Still Jemmy did not reply. The sunbeam drifting between the
benches before him fell on a little patch of earth--a patch collected
by one of the slaves whose comrades, humouring his whim, had brought
him a handful or two in their pockets whenever they returned from
shore. Upon this patch of earth were sunk the prints of a pair of
feet, far apart; and between these footprints glimmered two lines of
green, with two other lines uniting them.
They were two lines of pepper-cress, unharmed and fresh as if they
grew in some sheltered garden, open only to the sun and rain. And as
Captain Jemmy looked, the two green lines resolved themselves into
two words; thus bracketed:
SOPHIA TRISTRAM
"Jemmy--Jemmy, confound you! Do you hear?"
"Yes, yes." Captain Runacles turned suddenly and took his friend by
the arm. "Yes--I see--very curious. Now let's go."
"You're in a great hurry."
"Yes, I want to go up and have a look at the wounded in hospital."
"Why, what's taken you? We haven't looked at the beak yet; and
that's the most important of all."
"Very well, come along, and examine it while I run up to the
hospital. Come"--he took the little man's arm--"I won't be gone ten
minutes."
"Now, why on earth you've taken this fancy--" began Captain Barker as
he regained the deck. And then he put his hands behind him and
stared; for Captain Jemmy was already hurrying away for his life.
It was fifteen minutes before he returned, and the little man was
hanging over the bows with half his body over the bulwarks and his
head twisted to get a better view of the formidable beak.
"Jack!"
"Oh, you're back. I say, just lean over here--"
"Jack!" Captain Runacles caught him by the coat-tails, and tore him
back. "Now listen; you're not to speak; you're not to ask questions;
you're not to open your mouth. You've just to come--that's all."
He took the little man and hurried him ashore. He was breathless;
but he ran Captain Barker over the gang-plank like a charging bull.
"One moment, Jemmy--Jemmy! Damme I _will_ ask--!"
"Ask away, then--and wait for the answer!"
And so it happened that Tristram, stretched in the hospital at
Sheerness, with his head to the wall, and thirty wounded men on
either side of him, heard in his painless dose a sharp cry, and then
a voice that seemed to call him across miles of empty space.
"O! my dear God! Tristram--my son, my son!"
He opened his eyes feebly, smiled, and whispering one word--"Dad!"--
sank back into a dreamless slumber.