CHAPTER XXII.
Elizabeth carried out her intention of accompanying him to Amsterdam, where she paid a visit of several days to the Garvloits, and the pleasure of the trip was only alloyed for her by the change which had come over Salvé's manner, and to which she had now to try and accustom herself as one does to a less brilliant light after having seen the sun.
They were on their way home again, sailing before a light breeze, and under a soft blue sky, out of the busy, shallow Zuyder Zee. Elizabeth was sitting on deck with little Gjert, blooming as a rose, and asking animated questions of the pilot, whom they had been compelled to take on board, about the various flat sandy islands and towns which came in sight from time to time, Salvé occasionally stopping in his walk to listen.
By Terschelling the channel from the Zuyder Zee to the North Sea is marked out like a narrow strait with black and red buoys; and even in that calm weather there were foaming breakers the whole way close to the ship on either side. "What must it be like," Elizabeth asked, in a sort of terror, "in a storm, when the whole sea was driving in?"
"That is a sight it's better not to see," replied the pilot.
"But you have to be out, storm or not, pilot?"
"It is my way of getting a living," he answered, shortly.
Salvé stood and listened, as the conversation took this turn.
"We have pilots in Norway, too," she said, "who don't mind a wet jacket either. It is a fine life!"
The Dutchman merely observed, coldly, in reply—
"In two successive years—it is three years ago now—they lost out here off Amland a total of fifty pilots."
"Still, it is a fine life!" she said; and Salvé resumed his walk.
A couple of evenings after, the Apollo was pitching out on the Doggerbank in the moonlight, with a reef in her topsails. Elizabeth had not yet gone below, and was sitting with her child warmly wrapped up on her lap, while Salvé paced the deck and looked at her from time to time. A little farther off, near the main-hatch, Nils Buvaagen (whom Salvé had met again at Notterö, and persuaded to take service with him) and a couple of the crew who were off duty were engaged in story-telling, the others lounging about near them to listen. Elizabeth, too, was listening.
They had crossed that day a long stretch of dead water, and the carpenter had several mysterious incidents, of which he declared he had been an eyewitness, to recount on the head of it. Meeting dead water like that out in the open sea generally meant that something was going to happen.
Nils Buvaagen, like all fjord peasants, had a strong leaning towards every kind of superstition; and in his many voyages across the North Sea, he had had more than one experience of the kind in question. He had sat quite silent so far.
"H'm!" he remarked now, thoughtfully taking a pull at his pipe. "I dare be sworn there's many a one out here on the Dogger. Where we are now, I tell you, is as it might be an old burial-ground."
With that he retired into himself, and began to pull away vigorously at his pipe, as if he had unintentionally said more than he exactly liked. But being pressed to go on, he was obliged to satisfy the curiosity he had excited, and resumed accordingly in a hushed tone, after cautiously looking round first.
"Do you know," he asked, mysteriously, "how all the old fish come by their deaths?"
None of his audience were able to give an answer to this unexpected question.
"You don't?" he continued; "nor no one else neither. But all the same, such myriads die every day that, if all was right, the whole surface of the sea would be covered with their white bellies—we should be sailing all day long through dead fish. It is a 'mystery,' the same as it is what becomes of all the old ships in the world." Coming from him, that word "mystery" had something very weird and uncanny about it.
"Yes, the Dogger can be ugly enough, and may be so perhaps before we are clear of it," he concluded, and leant back against the spar behind him to look up at the clouds. Some scud was driving at the moment across the full moon.
"But about the old fish and the old vessels, Nils?" said the carpenter, recalling him to the subject.
"Yes, it is here, to the Dogger Bank, that they resort for the most part, and to one or two other places perhaps in the world besides. That is the reason that there is always a sort of corpse sand in the water here, and so many noises and things that one can't explain."
There was a general start as he said this, and they looked at one another in silence; for it seemed as if the vessel had suddenly stopped with a shock in the middle of her course, and the spray from a heavy sea came pouring down over the deck.
"She heard it," said the carpenter, involuntarily; "she is an old craft, and doesn't like going over the churchyard."
Elizabeth thought that last proposition sounded so uncomfortable that she got up and went below to bed.
The sea ran high in the night, and the vessel kept pitching with dull thuds as if they were in very shoal water, which, however, the lead showed not to be the case. In the morning the chain-cable of the anchor was found tossed by the force of the sand-laden seas right over the deck, and arranged there with a certain regularity. To many of the crew it seemed clear that other than natural causes must have been at work; there were evidently "dead hands" upon the bank, and this was a warning. Nils shook his head and said nothing.
All the morning they were enveloped in a thick sea fog that surrounded them like a wall; but towards noon the sun began to appear like a sickly gleam above them, and by dinner-time they were sailing under a clear sky, and in a fresh green breezy sea, with sails on every side.
It was an exhilarating sight, and reminded Elizabeth of the days of her childhood. She called Salvé over to share her enjoyment of it.
Of all the vessels in sight, the handsomest, without comparison, was the North Star, a Norwegian corvette, well known along the coast of Norway, and which had often aroused Elizabeth's enthusiasm in earlier days. She was crossing their course, and standing under full sail for the Channel. Elizabeth recognised her at once, and exclaimed decisively—
"That is the North Star—isn't she a magnificent ship, Salvé! See, they are taking in the topsails; they look like a flock of birds up there on the yard among those beautiful big sails. Did you ever see anything so grand as her shape? and how majestically she ploughs through the sea! When she has all her canvas spread like that, I could fancy Tordenskjold himself on board of her in full chase."
Salvé looked straight before him and didn't answer. He knew, what Elizabeth had not the faintest suspicion of, that Lieutenant Beck was on board the North Star, as third in command for that year's cruise in the Mediterranean, whither she was now bound; and a host of unpleasant associations were raised by Elizabeth's innocent admiration of her.
"It was the North Star," she continued, "that beat through the straits of Gibraltar against the current when none of the others could." The North Star had long ago taken the place of the Naiad as her heroine ship, and she related the performance with a certain pride.
"How would you like to be in command of a ship like that, Salvé?" she asked, determined to wake him up and get an answer.
"It would be a very different thing from having such an old tub as the Apollo under one—there's no disputing that," he replied bitterly; and quitted her side abruptly, as if to give orders to the crew.
Elizabeth remained standing where she was, utterly puzzled. What could there possibly have been in what she had said to offend him? and offended he certainly was by the tone of voice in which he was giving his orders, and the expression of his face as he stood there by the wheel with his hand in the breast of his pea-jacket—she felt certain it was clenched there. It was really too unreasonable—the idea of his being jealous of a ship! This uncertainty about every word she spoke now was getting absolutely insupportable, and with a toss of her head she determined that she would stand it no longer, but would speak her mind to him once for all, whether it should lead to a scene or not.
No opportunity, however, for carrying out her intention occurred during the remainder of the afternoon. There appeared to be bad weather coming up, and many of the sails had to be taken in; and afterwards he paced up and down by the round-house forward for a couple of hours, purposely, as she could see, avoiding her. The crew apparently had an impression, too, that it was as well to keep out of his way, as they left him that side of the deck to himself, and stood talking in knots about the capstan, with their oilskin coats and sou'westers on, in anticipation of dirty weather, and casting anxious glances from time to time at the banks of cloud that were rolling up darkly from the horizon to leeward, and sending already a whine through the old rigging above them. They waited impatiently for the word to take in more sail, as it was obvious that they must go with storm sails only for the night.
It was only at the last moment apparently that Salvé made up his mind, for when he suddenly shouted over to them to take in topsails and put a couple of reefs in the mainsail, the storm was already upon them. He sprang aft at the same time and seized the trumpet, saying shortly and harshly to Elizabeth as he passed her hurriedly, and almost without looking at her—
"This is not weather for sitting up on deck, Elizabeth. You had better take the child below and lie down."
Elizabeth saw that he was right, and went; but there was a look of pained surprise in her face as she lingered for a moment and looked after him. He had never spoken to her like that before.
The crew had supposed that he would of course keep away and run before the gale, and not strain the old brig by beating to windward in such a night as they saw before them; and it was under mute protest, therefore, that they proceeded to carry out his orders to clap on preventer braces on the rags of sail which they were carrying. The old blocks creaked and screamed in the increasing darkness above the rattle of the hail squalls, and the vessel careened over and went plunging into the head seas with successive shocks that seemed likely very soon to shake her to pieces.
Nils Buvaagen was standing in moody silence, with another, at the wheel, and he could see by the light from the binnacle, which occasionally fell upon Salvé's face as he walked up and down near them to leeward, that he was ashy pale. He would have liked to say something, but it didn't seem advisable.
"Topsail's flapping!" came from forward, "she'll be taken aback!"
"She's an old craft, captain—her topmasts'll not bear a great deal,"
Nils ventured to observe.
"I'll show you that I can make the old tub go," muttered Salvé between his teeth, affecting not to have heard what was said.
"Keep her away, Nils—she must have more way—and so over on a new tack," was his reply in a peremptory tone.
"Stand by to 'bout ship!"
Nils sighed: such sailing was quite indefensible; and there was not one of the crew who had not the same feeling.
Through the darkness and the blinding dash of the seas came then at intervals—
"Haul in the boom—hard a-lee—brace forward—brace aft!" and here there was a longer interval, for one of the ropes on the foremast had apparently got foul, and there was a difficulty in bracing the yard, the sail flapping with a dull noise above and making the whole mast tremble. One of the crew had to mount the old rigging at the risk of his life, and feel over the unsteady yard in the dark for the rope and disentangle it, with the white tops of the seas breaking not far under his feet.
"Sharp up aft—sharp forward!" came then again. "Haul the jib-sheet!" but no sooner was the jib hauled taut and made fast, than it broke loose and hung fluttering wildly about the stay until it gradually twisted itself up into a tangle.
The sails filled on the new tack; but they were not much better off than before, the sea breaking over them with such violence that the deck, from amidships forward, was only passable with the greatest difficulty and danger. The crew began to think the captain must have taken leave of his senses; and, in fact, Salvé was not himself that night. He was sailing in this reckless way in a mere fit of temper intensified by the consciousness of his own unreasonableness. Elizabeth made a mistake, he told himself by way of justification, if she thought that he on board his poor brig gave in to any officer in the navy, let him be who he might. She should see that he, too, was a man who could beat—he required no North Star under him, he would perform the same feat in a leaky old barge.
A couple of times when the cook, who looked after Elizabeth's wants, came up the cabin stairs, Salvé inquired how she was getting on, and heard each time that she was sitting up not yet undressed. The last time the good-natured cook had added—
"She wants badly to see you, captain—she isn't accustomed to this sort of thing."
He made no reply further than a scornful contraction of his features which was not visible to the other, and resumed his staggering walk to leeward, between the companion and the wheel.
Elizabeth meanwhile had been sitting a prey to most distracted thoughts. When she went below with her child, she had a dull feeling at her heart that some great sorrow had come or was coming over her, and she had sat for some time almost without the power to think. He had never treated her like that before.
She set about putting the child to bed then in her usual way, as if she had been a mere machine. For him the rolling berth was only a rocking cradle, and he was soon sleeping quietly without an idea of danger. She stood with her arm leaning over the edge of the berth, supporting him, and gazing on his dimpled face; the lamp that swung to and fro under the beam, shedding a dim light over the narrow cabin, with its small table, and pegs full of seamen's clothes, moving solemnly backwards and forwards on the wall. Between the creaking of the ship's timbers and the noise of ropes being dragged across the deck, Salvé's voice could be heard in harsh tones of command, and every now and then there would be a sudden concussion that would make the whole vessel shake, and the floor would seem to go from under her feet, so that she had to hold on by the rail of the berth, and keep the child from falling out as best she could at the same time. Whenever they had had such weather before, Salvé had always come down from time to time to see her. Now—she didn't know what to think. From what the cook had told her, she gathered that they were beating with unjustifiable recklessness, and from the tone of Salvé's voice she knew that he was in a savagely defiant mood, and that she, for some reason or other, was the cause of it. Her expression gradually changed to one of deeper and deeper anxiety of soul.
"But what have I done to him?" she exclaimed impetuously, and buried her face in the bedclothes.
"What have I done to him?" she repeated. "What can he believe?—what can he possibly think?" she asked herself, as she stood now like a statue almost, lost in conjecture, until the thought which she had always tried to keep away came up before her in full, heavy, unmistakable clearness.
"He doesn't trust me!" she whispered to herself, in despair. "He has no faith in me;" and she laid her head—her beautiful head—down upon her arm, just as her own child might have done, in an inconsolable fit of crying. But to her no tears would come, and she seemed to see an abyss of suspicion and distrust before her in which Salvé's love for her was going to disappear.
She heard no longer the creaking and the noise on deck—no longer cared about the lurching and the thuds against the head-seas—although she had often to hold on to the berth with all her strength. All the energy of her soul was now occupied with this one awful terror which had taken possession of her. All her defiance was gone. Her only source of courage now was to do anything or everything to keep his love. She felt ready for any sacrifice whatever—ready, without a sigh, to bear the burden of his suspicions all her life through if she might only keep his love. It was she who had made him distrustful, and it was upon her the punishment should fall, if she could not by persistent love bring him back to a healthy condition of mind again.
Her instinct at once suggested to her how she should begin. He should see that she on her side had entire confidence in him—confidence as absolute as the child's there who was sleeping before her. And with a sickly smile upon her lips, she undressed and laid herself down beside little Gjert.
Upon deck Salvé had wanted the night-glass, which was down in the cabin. The look-out man had fancied that he had caught a glimpse for a moment of a light, in which case, against Salvé's calculations, they must be under Jutland. His pride, however, would not allow him to send any one else to fetch the glass, and he couldn't make up his mind to go down himself. At last it became absolutely necessary, and he went hurriedly down the stair.
When he opened the cabin door he stood still for a moment in surprise, and looked about him. He had expected to find Elizabeth sitting up, with the child on her lap, and looking frightened. In place of that all was quiet, and the lamp was nearly out. He strode on and took the glass from the wall; and after a couple of attempts, managed to light a match, in spite of the damp, and held it to the barometer. He remained then standing with it in his hand, and listened to hear whether she was asleep or not. Involuntarily he approached the berth, and looked into it.
"Elizabeth," he whispered, softly, as if he was afraid of waking her.
"Is that you, Salvé?" was the reply, in a perfectly calm voice.
"I thought you would be sitting up with the boy in this gale. She rolls so; and I—I haven't been down to see you," he said.
"I knew I had you on deck, Salvé," she replied. "The rest we must only leave to God. You have not had time to come down, poor fellow," she added, "you have been so busy."
"Elizabeth!" he exclaimed, with a sudden pang of passionate remorse, and reached over impetuously into the berth to embrace her with his wet clothes.
At that moment a crash was heard, accompanied by a violent trembling of the ship, and loud cries on deck. Something had evidently given way.
With the same movement with which he had intended to embrace her, he lifted her quickly out of the berth, and told her to dress herself and the child, and come up to the top of the cabin stairs. The words were hardly out of his mouth when the vessel heeled over, and didn't right herself again.
"Fore-topmast gone, captain; rigging hanging!" bawled Nils Buvaagen down the stair.
Salvé turned to her for a moment with a face full of mute, crushing self-reproach, and sprang up on deck.
"Keep her away, if she'll answer her helm!" he shouted to the man at the wheel. "To the axes, men!"
The brig lay over on one side, with her brittle rigging at the mercy of the wind and sea, the waves making a clean breach over her. Salvé himself went up and cut away the topmast, which went over the side to leeward; and as the first grey light of dawn appeared, and made the figures of the crew dimly distinguishable, the axes were still being feverishly plied in strong hands among the stays, backstays, and topmast rigging. While the work was going on the fearful rolling caused first the main-topgallant sail to go, and then the topsail, with the yards and all belonging to it. The forestay snapped, the mainsail split, and the lower yards and foremast were damaged. And when at last, after desperate efforts, they had succeeded in freeing the ship from the encumbrance of the fallen rigging, she lay there more than half a wreck, and scarcely capable of doing more than run before the wind.
They had only the boom-mainsail now, and the forecourse, left; and with these Salvé kept her away—it was the only thing now to be done—until the growing light should show them whether they had sea-room, or the dreaded Jutland coast before them. The last, with this westerly gale blowing, would mean pretty nearly for a certainty stranding upon the sandbanks and the vessel becoming a wreck.
When it was clear day, they made out Horn's Reef far down to the south-east; they lay about off Ringkjobing's Fjord, and would require now to do their utmost to clear the coast. With some difficulty they succeeded in rigging up a jury-mast, and managed by that means to keep up a little closer in the wind. But their only chance was that the wind might go down, or shift a little to the southward, or in the current, which generally takes a northerly direction here, unless it should set them in too much under land.
Salvé paced restlessly up and down his dismantled deck, where a great part of the bulwarks and the round-house forward were stove in, whilst the crew relieved each other two and two at the pumps. They had evidently sprung a serious leak, which was the more cause for anxiety that they were returning in ballast, and had no timber cargo to keep them afloat. He had confided their situation to Elizabeth.
"I am afraid we may be obliged to beach her at some convenient spot," he said, adding, with a slight quiver in his voice, "we shall lose the brig."
He laid emphasis upon this, because he didn't wish to tell her the worst—namely, that this convenient spot was not to be found upon the whole coast, and that their lives were unmistakably in danger.
Whatever happened, it seemed sufficient for Elizabeth that he was near her, and there was a look of quiet trust in her face as she turned towards him that went to his heart; he could not bear it, and turned away.
The brig and its possible loss did not occupy much of Elizabeth's thoughts. In the midst of their danger she was absolutely glad at heart at the thought that by her display of implicit confidence she had succeeded in winning a great victory with Salvé. After what she had gone through that night, this was everything to her.
There was a fine energetic look of determination in her face, and her eyes were moist with tears as she bent over the child in her lap and whispered—
"If he cannot trust us, we two must teach him—mustn't we, Gjert?"