Chapter Eleven.
A Painful Scene.
The stricken sloop lay like a log on the ocean as the Swift stretched along into the Atlantic. In less than half an hour she had been struck down, maimed, and humbled by an enemy which she had treated with contempt.
“Why didn’t you sink her?” said Commins softly, coming to the side of Captain Pardoe, who stood with a dull flush in his face, fixedly regarding the labouring sloop. “You are fighting for the National Government. Why didn’t you sink her?”
Pardoe turned and regarded the man at his side under his brows for a moment. “What a devil you are, Commins!”
“Am I really?” remarked Commins imperturbably; “but, however flattering to my sagacity, that is scarcely an answer to my question. You have committed a blunder, Pardoe, and if the authorities at Rio were informed of it they might—I’m not saying they would, mind you—but they might court-martial you.”
“Court-martial me for smashing an enemy’s ship? You’re a fool, Commins!”
“Pardon me, but you have not smashed the enemy. There he goes leisurely on his way back to port after you had him in your power, and if either of us is to be called a fool I am inclined to think you are entitled to that honour. Take my advice: go back and sink that ship.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Certainly, in your own interests. The Brazilian Admiral would be the last man to suppose you had let the enemy escape from motives of humanity. And, then, you saved the life of that fiend, Juarez.”
“Juarez is my prisoner.”
“Yes, truly; but, observe how absurd your case would be when you say to the Admiral: ‘I let the warship escape, but I have brought you her Captain, who would have been assassinated by his own crew.’”
“I see you have already placed me on my trial,” said Pardoe dryly. “I presume you wish me to murder Juarez as well as to sink the ship?”
“You have a brutal way with you, Pardoe, as befits, no doubt, a brave sailor; but it jars. As for Juarez, it may give our friends some pleasure to dispose of him at Rio, though his presence on board will cause me a feeling of nausea; but it is necessary that you should do your work thoroughly, and for your safety, and the success of our mission, you must destroy that ship.”
“I must!” said the Captain, with a dark look.
“Well, there is no compulsion; but that is my opinion, and the opinion of Miss Laura de Anstrade.”
“You lie!”
Commins grew white to the lips, and his gloved fingers, resting on the bridge rail, trembled, but recovering himself, he said: “I will bring her here, and you shall receive the orders from her own lips,” then left the bridge.
Captain Pardoe flung himself round, took a hasty turn up and down the cramped bridge, then, with a stern and angry visage, faced Miss Anstrade.
She came swiftly, with a rustling of skirts, and a faint perfume that seemed strangely out of place, as much out of place as would be the inhuman order from her woman’s lips to destroy a helpless ship. Her large eyes glared with a feverish light, her breast heaved, and her hands were clutched in a sort of hysterical passion.
“Captain Pardoe,” she cried, in a thin, unnatural voice, “why have you let that ship escape?”
“Because, madam, I had not men enough to work her, and she would never have reached Rio.”
“No; but she can reach the bottom.”
“Good God!” he muttered, his face turning an ashen grey, “Miss Laura, you cannot mean that?”
“Yes; but I do!” she said, with a gasp.
“Then,” he said fiercely, “you must put someone else in command.”
“Oh, no, no!” she cried, “I never—”
“Be firm,” whispered Commins; “think how your case will be strengthened. If you can say you have destroyed one of the enemy’s ships. Remember your brother!”
Captain Pardoe noticed the action, and, pointing to Commins, he said bitterly: “Appoint that man your Captain, madam; he alone is capable of such an act, and perhaps Juarez would assist him.”
“It is policy,” whispered Commins.
The name of Juarez had a strange effect on the girl. She drew herself up, and in a hard voice called Lieutenant Webster.
He, seeing something unusual occurring, as, indeed, had all those on the main-deck, had drawn near.
“At your service, madam,” he said, with a hasty look at Captain Pardee’s dark face.
“I wish to appoint you Captain, Mr Webster.”
“Thank you, madam!”
Commins smiled as Pardoe threw his head up with a snort of indignant surprise.
“Mr Pardoe has refused to obey orders. I beg your pardon, what were you about to say?”
“I don’t think I wish to say anything, madam, and I’d rather not hear anything more;” saying which, Webster, with a distressed look on his frank face, stepped by, and stood beside Captain Pardoe.
“Ah!” cried Miss Anstrade, “you desert me for him. Let it be so. I would rather know at once whom I may trust.” The weakness and hesitation which at first she had shown disappeared, giving place to a feeling of wounded pride. She drew herself up, and regarded the two officers scornfully, forgetting, as only an angry woman can, the services they had already performed.
“I will have you placed on board yonder ship with that defeated crew, and perhaps then, when they turn their fury on you, you will repent your ingratitude. Once before I had to turn to these gallant sailors in order to shame you into doing your duty, and now, with confidence, I will appeal to them once more.” Her voice rang out clear and loud, and, charmed herself by the sound, she dwelt on her words. The men edged up, looking at the group on the bridge; and, if she had not been carried away by the confidence of her tone, she would have seen that their aspect was not friendly to her or to the man at her side. Hot, and most of them bleeding from a fight into which they had been led with courage and skill by their officers, it was not to be thought that they would, on the bidding of a woman, turn their backs upon their leaders. Commins was quick to note their bearing, and so was Hume, who stood by, amazed at the scene.
As she stood there with a proud smile on her lips, Frank swung himself up, unceremoniously shouldered Commins away, and stood by her side.
“Men,” he said, “it is a fine custom after a fight for the Captain to thank his officers and men, and one that should be kept up by us. This lady is our commander, and she wishes to thank you all for the splendid courage with which you have fought at this engagement against a foe of double our strength.”
“Sir,” she said, recovering from the shock of surprise, “what is the meaning of this insolence?”
“For Heaven’s sake,” whispered Commins, “let him speak. Don’t you see the men side with them?”
She flashed a startled look over the upturned faces, then, with a motion of her hand, signified to Frank to continue.
“Say a word to them, madam, yourself.”
“Do you command me?” she asked haughtily.
“No, madam, I implore.”
With a terrible look at Commins she went forward, and with a smiling face, though her hands were clenched, she thanked them.
The men touched their caps, but they lingered, casting puzzled glances at the Captain and Lieutenant.
“If so please you, mam,” said the big Quartermaster in deep tones, “we’d like to know what’s been said by way of thanks to the Captain for the handsome way he took the ship into action, and to the Lieutenant for the way he worked ‘The Ghost’ Isn’t it so, mates?”
There was a deep growl of assent.
“My men,” said the Captain, in a deep bass that had a thrilling touch of emotion in it, “I am pleased with you, and I think you are satisfied with me and with the ship. And all of us are proud of the young lady, who, trusting herself fully in our keeping, has so bravely shared our dangers.”
“Three cheers for the lady,” sang out Dick the Owl; and “God bless her!” chimed in the Quartermaster.
The ship rang again to the shouts of the men, and Commins slipped below.
Miss Laura coloured, then grew white, but the Captain was too experienced a man to show his triumph, though he could not forbear one shot:
“If you will allow me, madam, I will go to my cabin, for I have been on the bridge all night.”
“All night! you are cruel to remind me of it, Captain.”
“Am I Captain again, then?”
“Go to your room, sir,” she said, with a frown, “and consider yourself under arrest till eight bells. Now, Mr Webster,” she continued, with a sudden change of manner, “you will show me over the ship, and explain to me all about the action. I see you are wounded.”
“Merely a scratch, madam, from a flying link from the anchor chain.”
He led the way down, and Hume and the Captain, lingering on the bridge, saw her chatting with the men, and examining the damage done aft, where a flight of missiles had struck the deck.
“That was a timely speech of yours, Hume,” said the Captain, “and saved us from an awkward fix, for had the men once got the notion that they had done me an obligation, there would have been an end to discipline, tried men as they are. I am not satisfied that we have a plain course before us, for we have to reckon with that man Commins, and the whims of a young lady.”
“She appears to be quite reconciled now,” remarked Hume.
“Maybe, and I hope so, but a woman can sail under false colours and dummy portholes without a sign of her real feelings. See the way she’s smoothing down Black Henderson. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s scheming to gain the men over in preparation for the next mad-brained jamboree.”
“What relation does Mr Commins hold to her?”
“That is no business of ours,” said the Captain gruffly, “and harkee, my lad, remember that you are sailing under her orders, and that you have to stand by her, and not me.” With that he swung down below, leaving Frank to his own reflections, which were not of the brightest. He noticed that Miss Anstrade had ignored his presence, and wondered whether she was displeased at his interference, then dwelt on the influence which Mr Commins undoubtedly exercised over her, and finally blamed himself for having committed himself to this mad venture. His thoughts went back to his uncle, and to the promise which he had given to search for that impossible Golden Rock, and he asked himself if he would not have been happier had he started on that forlorn enterprise; but, even as he thought, his mental image of that imaginary rock faded away before the visible presence of the wayward, passionate girl whose beauty had already beguiled him.
She had parted from Webster, who was busy with the men, and came slowly picking her way over the litter of coal scattered from the bags by a shell which had ripped up the whole row on the port side, her one hand stretched gracefully to its full length at her side to hold up her skirts, the other at her throat holding a black mantilla which framed her face. Passing up to the bridge, she leant forward with her elbows on the rails, the wide lace on her sleeves falling back and disclosing shapely arms, and, with her chin in her hands, looked dreamily over the grey sea to a faint blur which marked the toiling sloop. She had not noticed him by so much as a glance, and, accepting this as a hint, he put the length of the bridge between him and her.
“Mr Hume.”
He turned, but she was still absorbed in watching the sloop.
“Must I call twice?” she said in her low, rich tones; and he was by her side.
“I feared I had offended you by my interference.”
“And would my displeasure disturb you?” she asked, reclining her head until she could look at him, and so keeping it.
Frank thought of Captain Pardoe, and wondered if she could be acting a part.
“Why do you look at me so? Tell me, what do you think of me?”
“I think you are very beautiful,” he said daringly, carried away by her beauty, and forgetting the part she had just played.
“Don’t. This is no ball-room interlude, and such a vapid compliment is out of place here. Be frank. Come, tell me.” She nestled her face more comfortably in her supporting palm, and looked at him with a faint smile that parted her lips.
“Don’t,” he murmured, repeating her word; “I am only human.”
“And I am not. Is that it? Well, perhaps you are right.”
“I did not say so. What I meant was, that if you look at me so—”
“Spare me! I detest explanations. Do you see that ship?” she turned her face to the labouring sloop. “It carries many souls—men who have friends waiting for them in some far-off hacienda, gleaming white in the bright sun, wives, mothers, and others as dear, who would grieve were they lost. You know, I had it in my head to sink that ship and all on board. What do you think of me? I would like to know.”
“It was a horrible fancy,” he said a little sternly; “but I do not believe you meant to carry it out.”
“Ah! you do not know me,” she whispered, with a shudder; “I am sometimes afraid of myself.”
“You brood too much over your sorrows. Why not come up here more often and talk with us?” he said, with a jealous thought of Commins.
“That is very good of you,” she answered demurely, with a swift change of expression; “and I appreciate the invitation all the more because of the evident implication that I alone am to benefit from it.”
“You misunderstand me,” he said hastily; “what I meant—”
“Yes, yes; how dull you are, Mr Hume!”
“I am sorry you should think so, madam,” he answered stiffly.
“Now go off in a pet, and leave me to my own thoughts, which, of course, are very pleasant company for a lonely girl among a lot of morose and fiery men, who cannot see that the strain upon her is almost too much.” She said this with a smile, but Hume noticed that the lips trembled while they smiled, and that in the eyes there was a worn, almost wild, look.
“Take my arm, Miss Laura,” he said gently. “Let me tell you my story; it may interest you.”
She took his arm with almost a convulsive grasp, and for a moment she bent her head; then with a soft and womanly look she asked him to talk and not to heed her silence. So they paced up and down, six paces one way, six another, and were necessarily thrown together by the narrowness of the passage. He talked of his uncle, the tough old hunter, of the simple life he led, of his sacrifice and quiet death, and a sweeter look stole into her face.
“And so,” she said, “you have put aside the quest entrusted to you by that good old man and thrown in your lot with me? I thank you, but you must find the Golden Rock.”
“If it is there,” he said, smiling at her eagerness.
“Oh, it exists; I am sure of it. I can see the gleam of it now;” and she shaded her eyes with her hand.
“But it is not on the sea,” he said laughingly.
“I am looking beyond the sea, among your African mountains, to a flame that glows under the rays of the morning sun, and there is a ring of red around the flame. Ah! you will encounter many dangers.”
“What will it matter,” he said, “since I am alone in the world?”
“It may matter,” she whispered, and then withdrew her arm, and hastily quitted the bridge, after one anxious look at the sloop, and a murmured prayer that it would safely reach port.