CHAPTER XVII
The Monks Cove raid was not an unmixed success. The bag was very slight and the ringleader got clear away. Mr. Carmichael’s impetuosity was responsible for this. The riding officer was annoyed with him; he wished he would go home to Ireland and get drowned in a bog. Had any other officer been in charge of the soldiers they would have made a fine coup; at the same time, he reflected that had any one else commanded, the soldiers would not have been there at all. There were two sides to it. He consoled himself with the thought that, although the material results were small, the morale of the Monks Cove Free Traders had suffered a severe jolt; at any rate, he hoped so. At the outset things had promised well. It was true that the cornet had only mustered thirty-one sabers instead of forty (and two of these managed to drop out between Penzance and Paul), but they had reached the cliff-top not more than fifty minutes behind schedule, to find the picket trussed up like a boiled chicken and all clear.
Carmichael led the way down the sheep-path; he insisted on it. “An officer’s place is at the head of his men,” he chanted. The sentiment is laudable, but he led altogether too fast. Seventeen and carrying nothing but his sword, he gamboled down the craggy path with the agility of a chamois. His troopers, mainly elderly heroes, full of beer (they had been dragged blaspheming out of taverns just as they were settling down to a comfortable evening) and burdened with accoutrements, followed with all the caution due to their years and condition. The result was that Carmichael arrived at the base alone.
He crouched behind the corner of the pilchard shed and listened. The place was alive. It was inky dark; he could see nothing, but he could hear well enough.
“He-ave, a’. Up she goes! Stan’ still, my beauty! Fast on that side, Jan? Lead on, you!”
“Bessie Kate, Bessie Kate, bring a hank o’ rope; this pack’s slippin’.”
“Whoa, mare, blast ’e! Come along wid that there lot, Zacky; want to be here all night, do ’e?”
“Next horse. Pass the word for more horses . . . ahoy there . . . horses.”
Grunts of men struggling with heavy objects, subdued exhortations, complaints, oaths, laughter, women’s chatter, hoof beats, the shrill ki-yi of a trampled dog. The darkness ahead was boiling with invisible people, smugglers all and engaged on their unlawful occupations.
Carmichael’s hackles stood on end. He gripped his sword.
“Is that all?” a voice called, louder, more authoritative than the rest. “Get them horses away then.”
The voice was referring to the boat-load, but the cornet thought the whole run was through. In a minute the last horse would be off and he would lose the capture. Without looking to see how many of his men had collected behind him he shouted “Huzza!” and plunged into the thick of it. Death! Glory!
He plunged head-first into Uncle Billy Clemo’s daughter-in-law, butting her over backwards. She clutched out to save herself, clutched him round the neck and took him with her. She lay on the ground, still grasping the cornet to her, and screamed her loudest. Mr. Carmichael struggled frantically; here was a pretty situation for a great military genius at the onset of his first battle! The woman had the hug of a she-bear, but his fury gave him the strength of ten. He broke her grip and plunged on, yelling to his men to fire. The only two who were present obeyed, but as he had neglected to tell them what to fire at they very prudently fired into the air.
The cornet plunged on, plunged into somebody, shouted to the somebody to stop or be hewn limb from limb. The somebody fled pursued by Carmichael, turned at bay opposite a lighted window and he saw it was a woman. Another woman! Death and damnation! Were there nothing but damnation women in this damnation maze?
He spun about and galloped back, crashed into something solid—a man at last!—launched out at him. His sword met steel, a sturdy wrist-snapping counter, and flipped out of his hand.
“S’render!” boomed the voice of his own servant. “Stand or I’ll carve your heart out, you . . . Oh, begging your pardon, sir, I’m sure.”
Carmichael cursed him, picked up his sword again and rushed on. By the sound of their feet and breathing he knew there were people, scores of them, scurrying hither and thither about him in the blank darkness, but though he challenged and clutched and smote with the flat of his sword he met with nothing—nothing but thin air. It was like playing blindman’s buff with ghosts. He heard two or three ragged volleys in the direction of the sea and galloped towards it, galloped into a cul-de-sac between two cottages, nearly splitting his head against a wall. He was three minutes fumbling his way out of that, blubbering with rage, but this time he came out on the sea-front.
Gun-flashes on the slip-head showed him where his men were (firing at a boat or something), and he ran towards them cheering, tripped across a spar and fell headlong over the cliff. It was only a miniature cliff, a bank of earth merely, not fifteen feet high, with mixed sand and bowlders beneath.
The cornet landed wallop on the sand and lay there for some minutes thinking he was dead and wondering what style of monument (if any) his parents would erect to his memory:—
“Hic jacet William Shine Carmichael, cornet of His Majesty’s Dragoons, killed while gallantly leading an attack on smugglers. Militavi non sine gloria. Aged 17.”
“Hic jacet William Shine Carmichael, cornet of His Majesty’s Dragoons, killed while gallantly leading an attack on smugglers. Militavi non sine gloria. Aged 17.”
Aged only seventeen; how sad! He shed a tear to think how young he was when he died and then slowly came to the conclusion that perhaps he wasn’t quite dead—only stunned—only half-stunned—hardly stunned at all.
A stray shot went wailing eerily out to sea. His men were in action; he must go to them. He tried to get up, but found his left leg was jammed between two bowlders, and, tug as he might, he could not dislodge it. He shouted for help. Nobody took any notice. Again and again he shouted. No response. He laid his curly head down on the wet sand and with his tears wetted it still further. When at length (a couple of hours later) he was liberated it was by two of the smuggler ladies. They were most sympathetic, bandaged his sprained ankle, gave him a hot drink to revive his circulation and vowed it was a shame to send pretty boys of his age out so late.
Poor Mr. Carmichael!
Eli and Bohenna were the first to load, and consequently led the pack-train which was strung out for a quarter of a mile up the valley waiting for Ortho. When they heard the shots go off in the Cove they remembered King Nick’s standing orders and scattered helter-skelter up the western slope. There were only three side-tracks and thirty-two horses to be got up. This caused jamming and delay.
The sergeant at the track-head heard the volleys as well, and, not having the least regard for Mr. Carmichael’s commandments, pushed on to see the fun. Fortunately for the leaders the chaotic state of the track prevented him from pushing fast. As it was he very nearly blundered into the tail end of the train. A mule had jibbed and stuck in the bushes, refusing to move either way. Eli and two young Hernes tugged, pushed and whacked at it. Suddenly, close beside, they heard the wild slither of iron on stone, a splash and the voice of a man calling on Heaven to condemn various portions of his anatomy. It was the sergeant; his horse had slipped up, depositing him in a puddle. He remounted and floundered on with his squad, little knowing that in the bushes that actually brushed his knee was standing a loaded mule with three tense boys clinging to its ears, nose and tail to keep it quiet. It was a close call.
Eli took charge of the pack train. He was terribly anxious about Ortho, but hanging about and letting the train be taken would only make bad worse, and Ortho had an uncanny knack of slipping out of trouble. He felt sure that if anybody was arrested it would not be his brother.
King Nick had thought of everything. In case of a raid by mounted men who could pursue it would be folly to go on to St. Just. They were to hide their goods at some preordained spot, hasten home and lie doggo.
The preordained spot was the “Fou-gou,” an ancient British dwelling hidden in a tangle of bracken a mile to the northwest, a subterranean passage roofed with massive slabs of granite, lined with moss and dripping with damp, the haunt of badgers, foxes and bats. By midnight Eli had his cargo stowed away in that dark receptacle thoughtfully provided by the rude architects of the Stone Age, and by one o’clock he was at home in bed prepared to prove he had never left it. But he did not sleep, tired as he was. Two horses had not materialized, and where was Ortho? If he had escaped he should have been home by now . . . long ago. The gale made a terrific noise, moaning and buffeting round the house; it must be awful at sea.
WherewasOrtho?
Eli might just as well have taken his goods through to St. Just for all the Dragoons cared. Had the French landed that night they would have made no protest. They would have drunk their very good healths.
When the sergeant and his detachment, the snow at their backs, finally stumbled into Monks Cove it was very far from a scene of battle and carnage that met their gaze. “Homely” would better describe it. The cottages were lit up and in them lounged the troopers, attended by the genial fisher-folk in artisticdéshabillé, in the clothes in which they, at that moment, had arisen from bed (so they declared). The warriors toasted their spurs at the hearths and drank to everybody’s everlasting prosperity.
The sergeant made inquiries. What luck?
None to speak of. Four fifths of the train was up the valley when they broke in, and got away easily. That little whelp Carmichael had queered the show, charging and yapping. Where was he now? Oh, lying bleating under the cliff somewhere. Pshaw! Let him lie a bit and learn wisdom, plaguy little louse! Have a drink, God bless us.
They caught nothing then?
Why, yes, certainly they had. Four prisoners and two horses. Two of the prisoners had since escaped, but no matter, the horses hadn’t, and they carried the right old stuff—gin and brandy. That was what they were drinking now. Mixed, it was a lotion fit to purge the gullet of the Great Mogul. Have a drink, Lord love you!
The sergeant was agreeable.
It was not before dawn that these stalwarts would consent to be mustered. They clattered back to Penzance in high fettle, joking and singing. Some of the younger heads (recruits only) were beginning to ache, but the general verdict was that it had been a very pleasant outing.
Mr. Carmichael rode at their head. His fettle was not high. His ankle was most painful and so were his thoughts. Fancy being rescued by a pair of damnation girls! Moreover, two or three horses were going lame; what would Jope say to him when he returned—and Hambro? Brrh! Soldiering wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Mr. Curral rode at the tail of the column. He too was a dejected man. That silly little fool of a Carmichael had bungled the haul of the year, but he didn’t expect the Collector would believe it; he was sure to get the blame. He and his poacher had captured two horses to have them taken from them by the troopers, the tubs broached and the horses let go. Dragoons!—they had known what discipline was in the Horse Guards! It was too late to go to Bosula or the gypsy camp now; all tracks would have been covered up, no evidence. The prisoners had by this time dwindled to a solitary youth whom Curral suspected of being a half-wit and who would most assuredly be acquitted by a Cornish jury. He sighed and sucked the head of his whip. It was a hard life.
Phineas Eva, parish clerk of St. Gwithian, came to call on Teresa one afternoon shortly after the catastrophe. He was dressed in his best, which was not very good, but signified that it was a visit of importance.
He twittered some platitudes about the weather, local and foreign affairs—the American colonists were on the point of armed rebellion, he was creditably informed—tut, tut! But meeting with no encouragement from his hostess he dwindled into silence and sat perched on the edge of the settle, blinking his pale eyes and twitching his hat in his rheumatic claws. Teresa seemed unaware of his presence. She crouched motionless in her chair, chin propped on knuckles, a somber, brooding figure.
Phineas noted that her cheeks and eyelids were swollen, her raven hair hanging in untidy coils, and feared she had been roistering again. If so she would be in an evil mood. She was a big, strong woman, he a small, weak man. He trembled for his skin. Still he must out with it somehow, come what might. There was his wife to face at the other end, and he was no less terrified of his wife. He must out with it. Of the two it is better to propitiate the devil you live with than the devil you don’t. He hummed and hawed, squirmed on his perch, and then with a gulp and a splutter came out with it.
His daughter Tamsin was in trouble, and Ortho was the cause. He had to repeat himself twice before Teresa would take any notice, and then all she did was to nod her head.
Phineas took courage; she had neither sworn nor pounced at him. He spoke his piece. Of course Ortho would do the right thing by Tamsin; she was a good girl, a very good girl, docile and domestic, would make him an excellent wife. Ortho was under a cloud at present, but that would blow over—King Nick had powerful influence and stood by his own. Parson Coverdale of St. Just was always friendly to the Free Traders; he would marry them without question. He understood Ortho was in hiding among the St. Just tinners; it would be most convenient. He . . . Teresa shook her head slowly.
Not at St. Just? Then he had been blown over to Scilly after all. Oh, well, as soon as he could get back Parson Coverdale would . . . Again Teresa shook her head.
Not at Scilly! Then where was he? Up country?
Teresa rose out of her chair and looked Phineas full in the face, stood over him, hair hanging loose, puffy, obese yet withal majestic, tragic beyond words. Something in her swollen eyes made him quail, but not for his own skin, not for himself.
“A Fowey Newfoundlander put into Newlyn Pools morning,” she said, and her voice had a husky burr. “Ten leagues sou’west of the Bishop they found theGamecockof Monks Cove—bottom up.”
Phineas gripped the edge of the settle and sagged forward. “Then . . .!”
“Yes,” said Teresa. “Drowned. Go home and tellthatto your daughter. An’ tell her she’ve got next to her heart the only li’l’ livin’ spark of my lovely boy that’s left in this world. She’m luckier nor I.”
CHAPTER XVIII
But Ortho was not drowned. Dawn found theGamecockstill afloat, still scudding like a mad thing in the run of the seas. There was no definite dawn, no visible up-rising of the sun; black night slowly changed into leaden day, that was all.
Ortho looked around him. There was nothing to be seen but a toss of waters, breakers rushing foam-lipped before, beside him, roaring in his wake. The boat might have been a hind racing among a pack of wild hounds intent on overwhelming her and dragging her under. There was nothing in sight. He had missed the Scillies altogether, as he had long suspected.
After passing the Runnelstone he had kept his eyes skinned for the coal-fire beacon on St. Agnes (the sole light on the Islands), but not a flicker of it had he seen. He must have passed the wrong side of the Wolf and have missed the mark by miles and miles. As far as he could get his direction by dawn, the wind had gone back and he was running due south now. South—whither? He did not know and cared little.
Anson was dead, sitting up, wedged in the angle of the bows. He had died about an hour before dawn, Ortho thought, after a dreadful paroxysm of choking. Ortho had cried out to him, but got no answer beyond a long-drawn sigh, a sigh of relief, the sigh of a man whose troubles are over. Anson was dead, leaving a widow and three young children. His old friend was dead, had died in agony, shot through the lungs, and left to choke his life out in an open boat in mid-winter. Hatred surged through Ortho, hatred for the Preventive. If he ever got ashore again he’d search out the man that fired that shot and serve him likewise, and while he was choking he’d sit beside him and tell him about Anson in the open boat. As a matter of fact, the man who fired the shot was a recruit who let off his piece through sheer nerves and congratulated himself on having hit nobody—but Ortho did not know that.
All they had been trying to do was to make a little money—and then to come shooting and murdering people . . . ! Smuggling was against the law, granted—but there should have been some sort of warning. For two winters they had been running cargoes and not a soul seemed to care a fig; then, all of a sudden, crash! The crash had come so suddenly that Ortho wondered for a fuddled moment if it had come, if this were not some ghastly nightmare and presently he would wake up and find himself in bed at Bosula and all well. A cold dollop of spray hit him in the middle of the back, drenching him, and there was Anson sitting up in the bows, the whole front of his smock deluged in blood; blood mingled with sea water washed about on the bottom of the boat. It was no dream. He didn’t care where he was going or what happened. He was soaked to the skin, famished, numb, body and soul, and utterly without hope—but mechanically he kept the boat scudding.
The clouds were down very low and heavy bellied. One or two snow squalls swept over. Towards noon a few pale shafts of sunshine penetrated the cloud-wrack, casting patches of silver on the dreary waters. They brought no warmth, but the very sight of them put a little heart into the castaway. He fumbled in the locker under his seat and found a few scraps of stinking fish, intended for bait. These he ate, bones and all, and afterwards baled the boat out, hauled his sheet a trifle and put his helm to starboard with a hazy idea of hitting off the French coast somewhere about Brest, but the gig promptly shipped a sea, so he had to let her away and bale again.
Anson was getting on his nerves. The dead man’s jaw lolled in an idiotic grin and his eyes were turned up so that they were fixed directly on Ortho. Every time he looked up there were the eyes on him. It was more than he could stand. He left the tiller with the intention of turning Anson over on his face, but the gig showed a tendency to jibe and he had to spring back again. When he looked up the grin seemed more pronounced than ever.
“Grizzling because you’re out of it and I ain’t, eh?” he shouted, and was immediately ashamed of himself. He tried not to look at Anson, but there was a horrid magnetism about those eyes.
“I shall go light-headed soon,” he said to himself, and rummaged afresh in the locker, found a couple of decayed sand-eels and ate them.
The afternoon wore on. It would be sunset soon and then night again. He wondered where next morning would see him, if it would see him at all. He thought not.
“Can’t go on forever,” he muttered; “must sleep soon—then I’ll be drowned or froze.” He didn’t care. His sodden clothes would take him straight down and he was too tired to fight. It would be all over in a minute, finished and done with. At home, at the Owls’ House now, Wany would be bringing the cows in. Bohenna would be coming down the hill from work, driving the plow oxen before him. There would be a grand fire on the hearth and the black pot bubbling. He could see Martha fussing about like an old hen, getting supper ready, bent double with rheumatism—and Eli, Eli . . . He wondered if the owls would hoot for him as they had for his father.
He didn’t know why he’d kept the boat going; it was only prolonging the misery. Might as well let her broach and have done with it. Over with her—now! But his hand remained steadfast and the boat raced on.
The west was barred with a yellow strip—sunset. Presently it would be night, and under cover of night Fate was waiting for him crouched like a footpad.
He did not see the vessel’s approach till she was upon him. She must have been in sight for some time, but he had been keeping his eyes ahead and did not look round till she hailed.
She was right on him, coming up hand over fist. Ortho was so surprised he nearly jumped out of his clothes. He stood up in the stern sheets, goggling at her foolishly. Was it a mirage? Had he gone light-headed already? He heard the creak of her yards and blocks as she yawed to starboard, the hiss of her cut-water shearing into a sea, and then a guttural voice shouting unintelligibly. She was real enough and she was yawing to pick him up! A flood of joy went through him; he was going to live after all! Not for nothing had he kept theGamecockrunning. She was on top of him. The short bowsprit and gilded beak stabbed past; then came shouts, the roar of sundered water, a rope hurtling out of reach; a thump and over went theGamecock, run down. Ortho gripped the gunnel, vaulted onto the boat side as it rolled under, and jumped.
The vessel was wallowing deep in a trough at the time. He caught the fore-mast chains with both hands and hung trailing up to the knees in bubbling brine. Something bumped his knee. It was Anson; his leer seemed more pronounced than ever; then he went out of sight. Men in the channels gripped Ortho’s wrists and hoisted him clear. He lay where they threw him, panting and shivering, water dribbling from his clothes to the deck.
Aft on the poop a couple of men, officers evidently, were staring at theGamecockdrifting astern, bottom up. They did not consider her worth the trouble of going after. A negro gave Ortho a kick with his bare foot, handed him a bowl of hot gruel and a crust of bread. Ortho gulped these and then dragged himself to his feet, leaned against the main-jeers and took stock of his surroundings.
It was quite a small vessel, rigged in a bastard fashion he had never seen before, square on the main mast, exaggerated lugs on the fore and mizzen. She had low sharp entry, but was built up aft with quarter-deck and poop; she was armed like a frigate and swarming with men.
Ortho could not think where she housed them all—and such men, brown, yellow, white and black, with and without beards. Some wore pointed red caps, some wisps of dirty linen wound about their scalps, and others were bare-headed and shorn to the skin but for a lock of oily hair. They wore loose garments of many colors, chocolate, saffron, salmon and blue, but the majority were of a soiled white. They drew these close about their lean bodies and squatted, bare toes protruding, under the break of the quarter-deck, in the lee of scuttle butts, boats, masts—anywhere out of the wind. They paid no attention to him whatever, but chatted and spat and laughed, their teeth gleaming white in their dark faces, for all the world like a tribe of squatting baboons. One of them produced a crude two-stringed guitar and sang a melancholy dirge to the accompaniment of creaking blocks and hissing bow-wave. The sunset was but a chink of yellow light between leaden cloud and leaden sea.
There was a flash away in the dusk to port followed by the slam of a gun.
A gigantic old man came to the quarter-deck rail and bellowed across the decks. Ortho thought he looked like the pictures of Biblical patriarchs—Moses, for instance—with his long white beard and mantle blowing in the wind.
At his first roar every black and brown ape on deck pulled his hood up and went down on his forehead, jabbering incoherently. They seemed to be making some sort of prayer towards the east. The old man’s declamation finished off in a long-drawn wail; he returned whence he had come, and the apes sat up again. The guitar player picked up his instrument and sang on.
A boy, twirling a naming piece of tow, ran up the ladders and lit the two poop lanterns.
Away to port other points of light twinkled, appearing and disappearing.
The negro who had given him the broth touched him on the shoulder, signed to him to follow, and led the way below. It was dark on the main deck—all the light there was came from a single lantern swinging from a beam—but Ortho could see that it was also packed with men. They lay on mats beside the hatch coamings, between the lashed carriage-guns, everywhere; it was difficult to walk without treading on them. Some of them appeared to be wounded.
The negro unhooked the lantern, let fall a rope ladder into the hold and pushed Ortho towards it. He descended a few feet and found himself standing on the cargo, bales of mixed merchandise apparently. In the darkness around him he could hear voices conversing, calling out. The negro dropped after him and he saw that the hold was full of people—Europeans from what he could see—lying on top of the cargo. They shouted to him, but he was too dazed to answer. His guide propelled him towards the after bulkhead and suddenly tripped him. He fell on his back on a bale and lay still while the negro shackled his feet together, picked up the lantern and was gone.
“Englishman?” said a voice beside him.
“Aye.”
“Where did you drop from?”
“Picked up—I was blown off-shore.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, all but my mate, and he’s dead. What craft is this?”
“TheGhezala, xebec of Sallee.”
“Where are we bound for?”
“Sallee, on the coasts of Barbary, of course; to be sold as a slave among the heathen infidels. Where did you think you was bound for? Fortunate Isles with rings on your fingers to splice a golden queen—eh?”
“Barbary—infidels—slave,” Ortho repeated stupidly. No wonder Anson had leered as he went down!
He turned, sighing, over on his face. “Slaves—infidels—Barb . . .” and was asleep.
CHAPTER XIX
He woke up eighteen hours later, at about noon—or so his neighbor told him; it was impossible to distinguish night from day down there. The hold was shallow and three parts full; this brought them within a few feet of the deck beams and made the atmosphere so thick it was difficult to breathe, congested as they were. Added to which, the rats and cockroaches were very active and the stale bilge water, washing to and fro under the floor, reeked abominably.
The other prisoners were not talkative. Now and again one would shout across to a friend and a short conversation would ensue, but most of the time they kept silence, as though steeped in melancholy. The majority sounded like foreigners.
Ortho sat up, tried to stretch his legs, and found they were shackled to a chain running fore and aft over the cargo.
His left-hand neighbor spoke: “Woke up, have you? Well, how d’you fancy it?”
Ortho grunted.
“Oh, well, mayn’t be so bad. You’m a likely lad; you’ll fetch a good price, mayhap, and get a good master. ’Tain’t the strong mule catches the whip; ’tis the old uns—y’understan’? To-morrow’s the best day for hard work over there and the climate’s prime; better nor England by a long hawse, and that’s the Gospel truth, y’understan’?”
“How do you know?” Ortho inquired.
The man snorted. “Know? Ain’t I been there nine year?”
“In Sallee?”
“No—Algiers . . . but it’s the same, see what I mean? Nine years a slave with old Abd-el-Hamri in Sidi-Okbar Street. Only exchanged last summer, and now, dang my tripes, if I ain’t took again!”
“Where did they catch you?”
“Off Prawle Point on Tuesday in theHarvest, yawl of Brixham—I’m a Brixham man, y’understan’? Puddicombe by name. I did swere and vow once I was ashore I would never set foot afloat no more. Then my sister Johanna’s George took sick with a flux and I went in his place just for a day—and now here we are again—hey, hey!”
“Who are all these foreigners?” asked Ortho.
“Hollanders, took off a Dutch East Indiaman. This be her freight we’m lyin’ on now, see what I mean? They got it split up between the three on ’em. There’s three on ’em, y’understan’;wasfour, but the Hollander sank one before she was carried, so they say, and tore up t’other two cruel. The oldreis—admiral that is—he’s lost his mainmast. You can hear he banging away at night to keep his consorts close; scared, y’understan’? Howsombeit they done well enough. Only been out two months and they’ve got the cream of an Indies freight, not to speak of three or four coasters and a couple of hundred poor sailors that should fetch from thirty to fifty ducats apiece in thesoko. And then there’s the ransoms too, see what I mean?”
“Ransoms?” Ortho echoed. Was that a way home? Was it possible to be ransomed? He had money.
“Aye, ransoms,” said Puddicombe. “You can thank your God on bended knees, young man, you ain’t nothin’ but a poor fisher lad with no money at your back, see what I mean?”
“No, I don’t—why?”
“Why—’cos the more they tortured you the more you’d squeal and the more your family would pay to get you out of it, y’understan’? There was a dozen fat Mynheer merchants took on that Indiaman, and if they poor souls knew what they’re going through they’d take the first chance overboard—sharks is a sweet death to what these heathen serve you. I’ve seen some of it in Algiers city—see what I mean? Understan’?”
Ortho did not answer; he had suddenly realized that he had never told Eli where the money was hidden—over seven hundred pounds—and how was he ever going to tell himnow? He lay back on the bales and abandoned himself to unprofitable regrets.
Mr. Puddicombe, getting no response to his chatter, cracked his finger joints, his method of whiling away the time. The afternoon wore on, wore out. At sundown they were given a pittance of dry bread and stale water. Later on a man came down, knocked Ortho’s shackles off and signed him to follow.
“You’re to be questioned,” the ex-slave whispered. “Be careful now, y’understan’?”
The Moors were at their evening meal, squatting, tight-packed round big pots, dipping for morsels with their bare hands, gobbling and gabbling. The galley was between decks, a brick structure built athwart-ship. As Ortho passed he caught a glimpse of the interior. It was a blaze of light from the fires before which a couple of negroes toiled, stripped to the waist, stirring up steaming caldrons; the sweat glistened like varnish on their muscular bodies.
His guide led him to the upper deck. The night breeze blew in his face, deliciously chill after the foul air below. He filled his lungs with draughts of it. On the port quarter tossed a galaxy of twinkling lights—the admiral and the third ship. Below in their rat-run holds were scores of people in no better plight than himself, Ortho reflected, in some cases worse, for many of the Dutchmen were wounded. A merry world!
His guide ran up the quarter-deck ladder. The officer of the watch, a dark silhouette lounging against a swivel mounted on the poop, snapped out a challenge in Arabic to which the guide replied. He opened the door of the poop cabin and thrust Ortho within.
It was a small place, with the exception of a couple of brass-bound chests, a table and a chair, quite unfurnished, but it was luxurious after a fashion and, compared with the squalor of the hold, paradise.
Mattresses were laid on the floor all round the walls, and on these were heaped a profusion of cushions, cushions of soft leather and of green and crimson velvet. The walls were draped with hangings worked with the same colors, and a lamp of fretted brass-work, with six burners, hung by chains from the ceiling. The gigantic Moor who had called the crew to prayers sat on the cushions in a corner, his feet drawn up under him, a pyramid of snowy draperies. He was running a chain of beads through his fingers, his lips moved in silence. More than ever did he look like a Bible patriarch. On the port side a tall Berber lay outstretched, his face to the wall; a watch-keeper taking his rest. At the table, his back to the ornamented rudder-casing, sat a stout little man with a cropped head, scarlet face and bright blue eyes. Ortho saw to his surprise that he did not wear Moorish dress but the heavy blue sea-coat of an English sailor, a canary muffler and knee-breeches.
The little man’s unflinching bright eyes ran all over him.
“Cornishman?” he inquired in perfect English.
“Yes, sir.”
“Fisherman?” apprising the boy’s canvas smock, apron and boots.
“Yes, sir.”
“Blown off-shore—eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where from? Isles of Scilly?”
“No, sir; Monks Cove.”
“Where’s that?”
“Sou’west corner of Mount’s Bay, sir, near Penzance.”
“Penzance, ah-ha! Penzance,” the captain repeated. “Now what do I know of Penzance?” He screwed his eyes up, rubbed the back of his head, puzzling. “Penzance!”
Then he banged his fist on the table. “Damme, of course!”
He turned to Ortho again. “Got any property in this Cove—houses, boats or belike?”
“No, sir.”
“Father? . . . Brothers? . . . Relations?”
“Only a widowed mother, sir, and a brother.”
“They got any property?”
“No, sir.”
“What does your brother do?”
“Works on a farm, sir.”
“Hum, yes, thought as much; couple of nets and an old boat stopped up with tar—huh! Never mind, you’re healthy; you’ll sell.”
He said something in Arabic to the old Moor, who wagged his flowing beard and went on with his beads.
“You can go!” said the captain, motioning to the guide; then as Ortho neared the door he called out, “Avast a minute!” Ortho turned about.
“You say you come from near Penzance. Well, did you run athwart a person by the name of Gish by any chance? Captain Jeremiah Gish? He was a Penzance man, I remember. Made a mint o’ money shipping ‘black-birds’ to the Plate River and retired home to Penzance, or so I’ve heard. Gish is the name, Jerry Gish.”
Ortho gaped. Gish—Captain Jerry—he should think he did know him. He had been one of Teresa’s most ardent suitors at one time, and still hung after her, admired her gift of vituperation; had been in the Star Inn that night he had robbed her of the hundred pounds. Captain Jerry! They were always meeting at races and such-like; had made several disastrous bets with him. Old Jerry Gish! It sounded strange to hear that familiar name here among all these wild infidels, gave him an acute twinge of homesickness.
“Well,” said the corsair captain, “never heard of him, I suppose?”
Ortho recovered himself. “Indeed, sir, I know him very well.”
The captain sat up. “You do?” Then with a snap: “How?”
It flashed on Ortho that he must be careful. To disclose the circumstances under which he had hob-nobbed with Jerry Gish would be to give himself away.
“How?”
Ortho licked his lips. “He used to come to Cove a lot, sir. Was friendly like with the inn-keeper there. Was very gentlemanly with his money of an evening.”
The captain sank back, his suspicions lulled. He laughed.
“Free with the drink, mean you? Aye, I warrant old Jerry would be that—ha, ha!” He sat smiling at recollections, drumming his short fingers on the table.
Some flying spray heads rattled on the stern windows. The brass lamp swung back and forth, its shadow swimming with it up and down the floor. The watchkeeper muttered in his sleep. Outside the wind moaned. The captain looked up. “Used to be a shipmate of mine, Jerry—when we were boys. Many a game we’ve played. Did y’ ever hear him tell a story?”
“Often, sir.”
“You did, did you—spins a good yarn, Jerry—none better. Ever hear him tell of what we did to that old nigger woman in Port o’ Spain? MacBride’s my name, Ben MacBride. Ever hear it?”
“Yes, I believe I did, sir.”
“That’s a good yarn that, eh? My God, she screeched, ha, ha!” Tears trickled out of his eyes at the memory.
“Told you a good few yarns, I expect?”
“Yes, sir, many.”
“Remember ’em?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Do you? Hum-hurr!” He looked at Ortho again, seemed to be considering.
“Do you?—ah, hem! Yes, very good. Well, you must go now. Time to snug down. Ahmed!”
The guide stood to attention, received some instructions in Arabic and led Ortho away. At the galley door he stopped, went inside, and came out bearing a lump of meat and a small cake which he thrust on Ortho, and made motions to show that it was by the captain’s orders.
Three minutes later he was shackled down again.
“How did you fare?” the Brixham man grunted drowsily.
“Not so bad,” said Ortho.
He waited till the other had gone to sleep, and then ate his cake and meat; he was ravenous and didn’t want to share it.
Black day succeeded black night down in the hold, changing places imperceptibly. Once every twenty-four hours the prisoners were taken on deck for a few minutes; in the morning and evening they were fed. Nothing else served to break the stifling monotony. It seemed to Ortho that he had been chained up in blank gloom for untold years, gloom peopled with disembodied voices that became loquacious only in sleep. Courage gagged their waking hours, but when they slept, and no longer had control of themselves, they talked, muttered, groaned and cried aloud for lost places and lost loves. At night that hold was an inferno, a dark cavern filled with damned souls wailing. Two Biscayners did actually fight once, but they didn’t fight for long, hadn’t spirit enough. It was over a few crumbs of bread that they fell out. The man on Ortho’s right, an old German seaman, never uttered a word. One morning when they came round with food he didn’t put his hand out for his portion and they found that he was dead—a fact the rats had discovered some hours before. The only person who was not depressed was Mr. Puddicombe, late of Brixham and Algiers. He had the advantage of knowing what he was called upon to face, combined with a strong strain of natural philosophy.
England, viewed from Algiers, had seemed a green land of plenty, of perennial beer and skittles. When he got home he found he had to work harder than ever he had done in Africa and, after nine years of sub-tropics, the northern winter had bitten him to the bone. Provided he did not become a Government slave (which he thought unlikely, being too old) he was not sure but that all was for the best. He was a good tailor and carpenter and generally useful about the house, a valuable possession in short. He would be well treated. He would try to get a letter through to his old master, he said, and see if an exchange could be worked. He had been quite happy in Sidi Okbar Street. The notary had treated him more as a friend than a servant; they used to play “The King’s Game” (a form of chess) together of an evening. He thought Abd-el-Hamri, being a notary, a man of means, could easily effect the exchange, and then, once comfortably settled down to slavery in Algiers, nothing on earth should tempt him to take any more silly chances with freedom, he assured Ortho. He also gave him a lot of advice concerning his future conduct.
“I’ve taken a fancy to you, my lad,” he said one evening, “an’ I’m givin’ you advice others would pay ducats and golden pistoles to get, y’understan’?”
Ortho was duly grateful.
“Are you a professed Catholic by any chance?”
“No, Protestant.”
“Well, if you was a Catholic professed I should tell you to hold by it for a bit and see if the Redemptionist Fathers could help you, but if you be a Protestant nobody won’t do nothin’ for you, so you’d best turnRenegadoand turn sharp—like I done; see what I mean?”
“Renegado?”
“Turn Moslem. Sing out night and mornin’ that there’s only one Allah and nobody like him. After that they got to treat you kinder. If you’m aKafir—Christian, so to speak—they’re doin’ this here Allah a favor by peltin’ stones at you. If you’re a Mohammedan you’re one of Allah’s own and they got to love you; see what I mean? Mind you, there’s drawbacks. You ain’t supposed to touch liquor, but that needn’t lie on your mind. God knows when the corsairs came home full to the hatches and business was brisk there was mighty few of usRenegadosin Algiers city went sober to bed, y’understan’? Then there’s Ramadan. That means you got to close-reef your belt from sunrise to sunset for thirty mortal days. If they catch you as much as sucking a lemon they’ll beat your innards out. I don’t say it can’t be done, but don’t let ’em catch you; see what I mean? Leaving aside his views on liquor and this here Ramadan, I ain’t got nothin’ against the Prophet.
“When you get as old and clever as me you’ll find that religions is much like clo’es, wear what the others is wearin’ and you can do what you like. You take my advice, my son, and as soon as you land holla out that there’s only one Allah and keep on hollaing; understan’?”
Ortho understood and determined to do likewise; essentially an opportunist, he would have cheerfully subscribed to devil worship had it been fashionable.
One morning they were taken on deck and kept there till noon. Puddicombe said the officers were in the hold valuing the cargo; they were nearing the journey’s end.
It was clear weather, full of sunshine. Packs of chubby cloud trailed across a sky of pale azure. The three ships were in close company, line ahead, the lame flagship leading, her lateens wing and wing. The gingerbread work on her high stern was one glitter of gilt and her quarters were carved with stars and crescent moons interwoven with Arabic scrolls. The ship astern was no less fancifully embellished. All three were decked out as for holiday, flying long coach-whip pennants from trucks and lateen peaks, and each had a big green banner at a jack-staff on the poop.
No land was in sight, but there were signs of it. A multitude of gulls swooped and cried among the rippling pennants; a bundle of cut bamboos drifted by and a broken basket.
MacBride, a telescope under his arm, a fur cap cocked on the back of his head, strutted the poop. Presently he came down the upper deck and walked along the line of prisoners, inspecting them closely. He gave Ortho no sign of recognition, but later on sent for him.
“Did Jerry Gish ever tell you the yarn of how him and me shaved that old Jew junk dealer in Derry and then got him pressed?”
“No, sir.”
MacBride related the story and Ortho laughed with great heartiness.
“Good yarn, ain’t it?” said the captain.
Ortho vowed it was the best he had ever heard.
“Of course you knowing old Jerry would appreciate it—these others—!” The captain made the gesture of one whose pearls of reminiscence have been cast before swine.
Ortho took his courage in both hands and told a story of how Captain Gish had got hold of a gypsy’s bear, dressed it up in a skirt, cloak and bonnet and let it loose in the Quakers’ meeting house in Penzance. As a matter of fact, it was not the inimitable Jerry who had done it at all, but a party of young squires; however, it served Ortho’s purpose to credit the exploit to Captain Gish. Captain Gish, as Ortho remembered him, was a dull old gentleman with theories of his own on the lost tribes of Israel which he was never tired of disclosing, but the Jerry Gish that MacBride remembered and delighted in was evidently a very different person—a spark, a blood, a devil of a fellow. Jeremiah must be maintained in the latter rôle at all costs. Ever since his visit to the cabin Ortho had been thinking of all boisterous jests he had ever heard and tailoring them to fit Jerry against such a chance as this. His repertoire was now extensive.
The captain laughed most heartily at the episode of “good old Jerry” and the bear. Ortho knew how to tell a story; he had caught the trick from Pyramus. Encouraged, he was on the point of relating another when there came a long-drawn cry from aloft. The effect on the Arab crew was magical.
“Moghreb!” they cried. “Moghreb!” and, dropping whatever they had in hand, raced for the main ratlines. Captain MacBride, however, was before them. He kicked one chocolate mariner in the stomach, planted his fist in the face of another, whacked yet another over the knuckles with his telescope, hoisted himself to the fife rail, and from that eminence distributed scalding admonitions to all and sundry. That done, he went hand over fist in a dignified manner up to the topgallant yard.
The prisoners were sent below, but to the tween-decks this time instead of the hold.
Land was in sight, the Brixham man informed Ortho. They had hit the mark off very neatly, at a town called Mehdia a few miles above Sallee, or so he understood. If they could catch the tide they should be in by evening. The admiral was lacing bonnets on. The gun ports being closed, they could not see how they were progressing, but the Arabs were in a high state of elation; cheer after cheer rang out from overhead as they picked up familiar land-marks along the coast. Even the wounded men dragged themselves to the upper deck. The afternoon drew on. Puddicombe was of the opinion that they would miss the tide and anchor outside, in which case they were in for another night’s pitching and rolling. Ortho devoutly trusted not; what with the vermin and rats in that hold he was nearly eaten alive. He was just beginning to give up hope when there came a sudden bark of orders from above, the scamper of bare feet, the chant of men hauling on braces and the creak of yards as they came over.
“She’s come up,” said he of Brixham. “They’re stowing the square sails and going in under lateens. Whoop, there she goes! Over the bar!”
“Crash-oom!” went a gun. “Crash-oom!” went a second, a third and a fourth.
“They’re firing at us!” said Ortho.
Puddicombe snorted. “Aye—powder! That’s rejoicements, that is. You don’t know these Arabs; when the cow calves they fire a gun; that’s their way o’ laughing. Why, I’ve seen the corsairs come home to Algiers with all the forts blazin’ like as if there was a bombardment on. You wait, we’ll open up in a minute. Ah, there you are!”
“Crash-oom!” bellowed the flagship ahead. “Zang! Zang!” thundered their own bow-chasers. “Crash-oom!” roared the ship astern, and the forts on either hand replied with deafening volleys. “Crack-wang! Crack-wang!” sang the little swivels. “Pop-pop-pop!” snapped the muskets ashore. In the lull came the noise of far cheering and the throb of drums and then the stunning explosions of the guns again.
“They’ve dowsed the mizzen,” said Puddicombe. “Foresail next and let go. We’m most there, son; see what I mean?”
They were taken off at dusk in a ferry float. The three ships were moored head and stern in a small river with walled towns on either hand, a town built upon red cliffs to the south, a town built upon a flat shore to the north. To the east lay marshes and low hills beyond, with the full moon rising over them.
The xebecs were surrounded by a mob of skiffs full of natives, all yelling and laughing and occasionally letting off a musket. One grossly overloaded boat, suddenly feeling its burden too great to bear, sank with all hands.
Its occupants did not mind in the least; they splashed about, bubbling with laughter, baled the craft out and climbed in again. The ferry deposited its freight of captives on the spit to the north, where they were joined by the prisoners from the other ships, including some women taken on the Dutch Indiaman. They were then marched over the sand flats towards the town, and all the way the native women alternately shrieked for joy or cursed them. They lined the track up to the town, shapeless bundles of white drapery, and hurled sand and abuse. One old hag left her long nail marks down Ortho’s cheek, another lifted her veil for a second and sprayed him with spittle.
“Kafir-b-Illah was rasool!” they screamed at the hated Christians. Then: “Zahrit! Zahrit! Zahrit!” would go the shrill joy cries.
Small boys with shorn heads and pigtails gamboled alongside, poking them with canes and egging their curs on to bite them, and in front of the procession a naked black wild man of the mountains went leaping, shaking his long hair, whooping and banging a goat-skin tambourine.
They passed under a big horseshoe arch and were within the walls. Ortho got an impression of huddled flat houses gleaming white under the moon; of men and women in flowing white; donkeys, camels, children, naked negroes and renegade seamen jostling together in clamorous alleys; of muskets popping, tom-toms thumping, pipes squeaking; of laughter, singing and screams, while in his nostrils two predominant scents struggled for mastery—dung and orange blossom.