Chapter Eleven.
How the Miséricorde changed her Crew.
We were, I reckon, somewhere off the Yorkshire coast; for we had been sailing a week, for the most part against foul winds. To-night, as I said, the light breeze had backed to the south and was sending us forward quietly at some six or seven knots an hour. All seemed to promise a speedy end to our voyage; and yet, as I stood there, drinking in the beauty of the evening, and rejoicing in my recovered strength, I would as soon we had been bound on a voyage ten times as long.
I was standing idly near the foremast. On the high poop behind sat the maiden, singing beside her old nurse, who, like me, was enjoying the air for the first time to-night. Ludar lolled near me, on a coil of rope, watching the sun dip as he listened to the singing, and betwixt whiles unravelling the tangles of a fishing line. On the forecastle, the French seamen sat and whispered, scowling sometimes our way, and sometimes laughing at the poet who strutted near them, intent on the sunset and big with some notable verses thereupon, which were hatching in his brain. An English fellow was at the helm, half asleep; while the captain, grumbling at the slackness of the breeze, paced to and fro, with an oath betwixt his lips and an ugly frown on his brow.
Suddenly I seemed to detect among the Frenchmen a stir, as if something had just been said or resolved upon in their whisperings. The captain at that instant was near them, turning in his walk; when, without warning, two of their number sprang out upon him. There was a shout, a struggle, the gleam of a knife, and then a dead man lay on the deck. All was so quick and sudden that the murder was done under my very eyes before I knew what was happening. Then, in a twinkling, the whole ship became the scene of a deadly fight. Three of the traitors threw themselves on Ludar; the poet reeled in the grip of another; two others made for me.
“Back, back!” shouted Ludar, in a voice of thunder, as he began his struggle.
’Twas well I obeyed him; for the two who had made an end of the captain were already rushing in the direction of the women, and had I reached the ladder a moment later, all might have been lost.
The men, I think, in laying their wicked plan, had scarcely taken me (who late was so weak), into account as a fighting man. They had reckoned to carry the poop, where lay the supposed treasure and the arms, without a blow; and once there, the ship would be theirs. It staggered them, therefore, to find me standing in the way and laying about me. The two women, as I said, were on the upper deck which formed the roof of the poop house. To that there was no access save by the small ladder, which I accordingly wrenched from its place and swung round with all my might at my assailants. The blow knocked over two of them; and before they could regain their feet, I had struck another a blow with my fist, which needed no second. The fourth varlet did not wait for me, but closed on me with his knife. Luckily the blade missed its mark, grazing only my ribs, and before he could strike again I had him by the wrist, and the blow he meant for me went home in his own neck. After that, ’twas easy work to hold off the other two, one of whom was the drunken fool who had blabbed his secret days ago, had I only heeded it, in my sick cabin. Finding me stubborn, and further passage barred, they sheered off with a curse and hastened forward. I durst not follow them; for it might be a feint to decoy me from my post. So, with all the haste I could, I threw up an out-work of lumber, sails, spars, and boxes across the deck some distance in front of the poop, and, relieving my two fallen assailants of their knives, I stood ready for whatever next might betide.
“Humphrey,” called the maiden from above, “put up the ladder quickly and let me down.”
“Nay,” said I, “’tis no place for you, maiden. You are safe there. Stay.”
“Obey me, Humphrey,” said she in so commanding a voice that I fetched the ladder at once.
She looked pale and stern; but otherwise was cool and collected as she descended.
“Now,” said she, as she stood beside me, “go and bring down my nurse. Give me that knife; I will mount guard here till you are done.”
I durst not waste time by arguing; she took the knife from me and motioned me to my task. The poor old lady, more dead than alive, was hard to move; nor was it till I wickedly threatened to cast her overboard, that she consented to come at all. As I was catching her in my arms, the man at the helm, whom I had all this time clean forgotten, sprang suddenly on me from behind with a pole which, had it been better aimed, would have ended my troubles then and there. As it was, the timber fell on my shoulder, almost cracking the blade. But I was in with him in a twinkling, and had him by the throat before he could strike again. Next moment, the wretch (woe to us that he was an Englishman!) was over the board, and the Lord have mercy on his soul!
The delay was pitiable for the old woman, whom, when I came to her again, I found to have swooned away. It was all I could do with my bruised arm to lift her and bring her to the ladder. How I got her down and into her cabin I know not; but when I came out again to my lady’s side, the ship seemed to swim before my eyes. I remember a vision of Ludar, bloody and gasping, reeling across the deck towards us, fighting his way, foot by foot, with four or five savage devils who followed yelling at his back.
Then for a time all seemed dim and horrible. I knew that we were fighting desperately for our lives; that men fell heavily and with a groan on to the deck; that the maiden stood by us, undaunted; that presently there was a report of a pistol, followed by a hideous shouting and shrieking. After that, all seemed to grow still of a sudden, and Ludar shouted, “Look to Humphrey.”
When I came to, we were still on the deck. The maiden was bathing my brow with water. Ludar, pale and blood-stained, stood gloomily by. Of the enemy not a man stirred. My swoon could not have lasted long, for the hues of the sunset lingered yet in the sky. I tried to gather myself together, but the maiden gently restrained me. “No, Humphrey,” said she, “lie still. There is no more work to be done. Thank God you are safe, as we are.”
’Twas sorely tempting to lie thus, so sweetly tended; but the sight of Ludar shamed me into energy. I struggled to my feet. My arm hung limp at my side and my head throbbed; but for that, I was sound and able to stand upright.
Ludar, when I came to look at him, was in a worse plight than I. He was bleeding from a gash on his face, and another on his leg; while the jacket he wore was torn in shreds on his back. He came and took my arm, and then motioned with his head to the ghastly heap of dead men on the deck.
“Take her within,” said he, “and then come and help me.”
“Maiden,” said I, “thank Heaven you are safe, and that we are alive to guard you. Your old nurse I fear is more in need of help than we. I left her senseless. Will you not go to her?”
I think she guessed what we meant; for she said nothing, but went quickly within.
Then Ludar and I went out to our task. Of the seven Frenchmen who had set on us, not one lived. Beside these lay the captain, the maiden’s waiting man (who, Ludar said, had taken side with the traitors), and one other of the English sailors who had fought for us.
“What of the poet?” said I, when after much labour the ship had been lightened of all that was not living.
“He is safe at the mast-head,” said Ludar.
There, sure enough, when I looked up, clung the poor gallant; peering down at us with pasty face, and hugging the mast with arms and legs.
“Let him bide there a while,” said Ludar. “He is safe and out of the way. He skipped up at the first assault, and wisely cut the rope ladder behind him, so that no man could pursue him. But tell me, how do you fare?”
“I am less hurt than you,” said I. “Only my arm is numbed by the whack the English knave gave me; while you, Ludar, are bleeding, head and foot.”
“I was scratched,” said he. “The villains who set on me were too quick, as you saw, and had me down before I could shut my fist. Why they did not despatch me then and there I know not; but in seizing me they carried their blades in their teeth, the better to use their hands, so that I was able to snatch one for my own use as I fell. It served only to rid me of one of the company. Yet I got my feet again under me, when the other two made at me, as well as the two who had fled from you. Among them all I got these scratches. When the fifth came, who had seen the poet aloft, I knew I could hold ground no longer; so I gave way, as you saw, and made for your barrier. After that you know, and how the maiden stood by us all through, and in the end fetched the pistol which finished the business. Had these villains but been armed, it is they who would have buried us. But come in now, Humphrey, and take counsel.”
’Twas a strange ship’s company that met that evening in the dead captain’s cabin. The maiden, Ludar, I, and one of the English fellows, who had been sleeping below and knew naught of the fight till all was over. As for the poet, Ludar still refused to have him down till our conference was over.
Of all our party the maiden was, I think, the most hopeful. “God and His saints,” said she, “have ordered this to try us, and see of what mettle we be. Shall we despair, Sir Ludar, when He has proved His goodness to us? The past is done, the future is all before us. You are our captain now, and Humphrey and I and this brave sailor here, ay and our poor poet aloft there, are your crew to follow where you lead. I can man a gun and haul a rope, as you shall see. Come, Humphrey, what say you?”
“I have vowed,” said I, “to follow my master to the death. Nor can I think heaven will desert us while you who belong there, are aboard.”
She blushed at this and turned it off.
“Nay, my friend, it depends on how we do the duty that lies to our hand whether we belong there or not.”
Here Ludar broke in abruptly.
“Seaman, where be we now?”
The sailor got up and went out to ascertain our bearings.
“Maiden,” said Ludar, then, more grave than I had ever seen him, “I can make no fine speeches, such as Humphrey here or yonder monkey at the mast-head; but I accept you as one of this crew with a prouder heart than if I were offered my father’s castle.”
Then he held out his great hand, and she lay her little hand in it, and her true eyes flashed up to meet his. And I who stood by knew that the compact I witnessed then was for a longer voyage than from here to Leith.
I was glad when presently the man came in and reported.
“By your leave, captain, we be eight leagues east of Flamboro’ with a southerly breeze falling fast. The ship lies in the wind and the tiller is swinging.”
“Take the helm, master, and keep her head straight. Humphrey, fetch down the poet. He and I will mount the first watch to-night. Maiden, do you get what rest you may, ere your turn comes in the morning.”
“Ay, ay, my captain,” said she cheerily, and went.
“Humphrey,” said Ludar, calling me back, when she had gone, “do you wonder that I love that maiden?”
“I do not,” said I.
“Is she you love as fair, as brave, as noble?”
“She is,” I answered, “every whit as fair, every whit as brave, every whit as noble.”
“Then why,” he asked, looking hard at me, “are you sad when you speak of her?”
“Alas,” said I, “she loves me not. Ludar, talk not to me of her; I will go fetch the poet.”
The poor fellow was by this time well-nigh at the end of his patience. For, though he had fixed himself cunningly in the rigging of the foremast, seating himself on the royal yard, and hugging the mast lovingly with his arms and legs, he found himself unable to budge, or even see what was going on below, by reason of the dizziness which afflicted him. How he had got up so far, and managed to cut the ropes behind him, he never could explain. But a man will do desperate feats for his life’s sake.
It was no light task to dislodge him. With my maimed arm I could not haul myself up the rigging even to the lower top-yard, much less carry up to him his dangling ladder. All I could do was to hail him and bid him be of good cheer till we had him down.
“Cheer,” he cried, “cometh not in a voice from the void, neither is there help in empty breath. Come up, for I am weary of my perch; and verily, if the mountain come not to Mahomet, the prophet must abase himself to the mountain. In short, my man, I am near tumbling.”
“Hold on,” cried I. “I shall fetch help and all will be safe.”
“Oh, that the giants would pile Pelion on Ossa and get me out of this heaven!” I heard him say. Methought, however, the fellow could not yet be in desperate straits to talk thus.
At last the seaman scrambled up and fetched him down, not without many protestations and caveats by the way. Once down, however, he shook his fluttered plumes, and crowed like any chanticleer.
“Facilis descensus Averni, as our Maro hath it. As the muse droppeth from the heights, and the golden shower descendeth, so visit I once more the Arcadian plains. Which remindeth me, where is my Danae, and how fareth she? Apprise her, I pray you, of my return. And, by the way,” added he, puffing himself valiantly, “where is the varlet that late sought my life. He and I must settle scores before this night be an hour older. Fetch him hither and by my—”
“See here, Sir Popinjay,” said Ludar, coming forward impatiently, and cutting the speech in twain, “the time is gone past for this fooling. If you be a man, you may prove it now. If not, on my soul, you shall go aloft again. Come, you share this watch with me. Put some food into your body, and then keep sharp look-out ahead. You see the entire crew of this vessel, save the two women; therefore, cease to be half a man and make yourself two.”
The fellow turned pale at this news, and cast a glance up and down the empty ship. Then, without a word, he took up half a loaf and a mug of beer from the cabin table and walked forward.
“Humphrey,” said Ludar, “get to bed, your turn will come.”
But to bed I could not go; and Ludar for once, I found, was not hard to persuade.
There was in truth much to be done before we could think of rest. Together we overhauled the ship’s rations, and found what would last us for long enough yet. We examined, too, our ordnance, which was but meagre and ill-fashioned; we had three pieces on either side, besides a small swivel gun on poop and forecastle. The ammunition was sufficient for these and for the few pistols and muskets which we found in the Frenchman’s cabin. Further, we looked long and hard at our charts, which seemed well marked for the passage we were bound on. The English fellow, we discovered, had been several times that way; and, though he was no pilot, he said he yet knew the Bass Rock from a mud bank, and, provided we fell in with neither pirates, tempest, nor the Spaniard, could put us into Leith Roads right side uppermost as well as any man. Whereat we felt easier in our minds than we had been.
By the time all these consultations were ended, the watch was half spent. Ludar therefore ordered me below, whether I would or no, to rest. In truth I was ready for it, and fell asleep almost before my head touched my pillow.
When I awoke, Ludar stood beside me.
“Up!” said he, “all goes well, and your watch-partner awaits you.”
“Ludar,” said I, springing up. “Why do you give me the partner who belongs of right to you?”
“’Tis a time for work,” said he, with a smile, “not for play. Am I not captain here? To your watch, Humphrey.”
I went on board. There stood she on the forecastle, looking ahead and singing softly to herself.
I left her and went aft. The sailor was still at the helm, having volunteered a double watch to see us through the night. All behind was ship-shape and trim. Ludar had been busy, clearing the decks and bringing back to order the confusion left by the late battle. There was nothing for me to do. Therefore, with beating heart I walked forward once more.
She turned at my coming and greeted me frankly.
“Welcome, messmate,” said she. “Is all well?”
“All is well,” said I. “The Captain has done the work of ten men, and nought is left for me and you but to look ahead.”
“And he is resting?” asked she. “Think you his wounds were dressed?”
“I helped him tend them before I went below,” said I. “They were but scratches.”
“And your arm,” said she; “it still hangs heavy. May I not bind it for you, Humphrey?”
I wished I was the heathen Briareus then, with an hundred arms. There was magic in her touch; and no charm of witch or fairy could have mended my bruised limb as did she.
After that, we sat silent awhile, looking out to sea. The soft light was spreading on the east, heralding the coming day. The slack breeze flapped lazily in the sails overhead and scarce ruffled the drowsy ocean. The stars one by one put out their little lights and vanished into the blue. There was no sound but the creaking of the yards and the gentle plash of the water on the hull; only these and the music of a maiden’s song. It went hard with me, that night. For a while, as I sat there, gazing into her face and listening to her music and feeling the touch of her hand on my arm, I was fool enough to think all this—all this peace, all this beauty of the ocean dawn, all this lulling of the breeze, all this music, this gentle smile, this tender touch, spelt love; and there came a voice from the tempter that I should tell her as much then and there. What hindered me, I know not. ’Twas not alone the thought of Ludar, or the remembrance of my own honour, or the fear of her contempt. Be it what it may, I was helped by Heaven that night to be a man, and with a mighty effort to shake off the spell that was on me. So I rose to my feet and walked abaft. Many a time I paced to and fro cooling my fevered brow ere I ventured to return. But when at last I did, I was safe. She stood there motionless, radiant with the first beams of the royal sun as he leapt up from the sea.
“Look, Humphrey,” she cried. “Is not that worth keeping watch for?” Then she broke again into song.
“Is that an Irish song you sing?” I asked.
“It is. How knew you that?”
“I guessed it. What does it mean?”
She blushed.
“’Tis a song the maidens sing at home—an old, old song,” said she, “that I learned from my nurse.”
“I pray you, sing it again,” said I.
She turned her face to the rising sun, and sang, in English words, as follows:
Who cometh from the mountain like the sun for brightness?
Whose voice ringeth like the wave on the shingle?
Who runneth from the east like the roe?
Who cometh?
Is it the wind that kisses my tresses?
Or is it the harp of Innis thrilling my ear?
Or is it the dawn on Ramore that dims my eyes?
Who cometh?
Is he far? Is he near? Whence comes he riding?
Dazzling in armour and white of brow?
Is it for me that he filleth the mountains with music?
Who waiteth?
Who cometh?
“’Tis a wild song, full of riddles,” said I. “Maybe there is a song somewhere which has the answers.”
“I know it not,” said she.
“Not yet,” said I.
She looked up at me quickly as if she doubted my meaning. But I looked out seaward and asked:
“Where in Ireland is your home, maiden? Is it near Ludar’s castle on the sea?”
“Hard by,” said she. “The McDonnells and O’Neills are neighbours and foes.” And her brow clouded. “My father, Humphrey, is the bravest of the O’Neills as Ludar’s father is the bravest of the McDonnells.”
“And does your father hold Dunluce?” asked I.
“I know not,” said she. “I have never seen my father, Turlogh Luinech O’Neill, though I love him as my life. At two years I was sent away to England with my English mother, who was but a hand-fast bride to the O’Neill.”
“And what may that be?” I asked.
“’Tis a custom with us,” said she, “for the chiefs to take wives who are theirs only so long as a better does not present herself. My mother, Alice Syngleton, the daughter of my father’s English ally and preserver, Captain Syngleton, was thus wedded, and when I was two years old—so my old nurse tells me—he married the great Lady Cantire of the Isles. Wherefore my mother was sent home to England with me, and there we lived till she died three years ago; since when I have pined in a convent, and am now, in obedience to my father’s summons, on my way to my unknown home. My father, being, as I understand, allied to the English, who have dispossessed the McDonnells, I was to come over under the escort of an English officer of Sir William Carleton’s choosing, who was my mother’s kinsman. You know what peril that brought me to, and how, thanks to you, I am now making a safer journey, and a happier. Humphrey,” said she, “till I met you and Sir Ludar, I had thought all men base; ’twas the one lesson they taught us at the convent. I have unlearned the lesson since.”
“Pray Heaven you never have to relearn it,” said I, groaning inwardly to think how near I had been to giving her cause.
Thus we talked that morning. At every word, what little hope I had once had of her love faded like the stars above our heads. Yet, instead of it came the promise of an almost sisterly friendship, which at the time seemed poor enough exchange, but which was yet a prize worth any man’s having. She bade me tell her about myself, and heard me so gently, and concerned herself so honestly in all that touched me, and praised and chid me so prettily for what I had done well and ill, that I would my story had been twice as long and twice as pitiful. The only secret I did not tell her, you may guess. She did not. But she heard me greedily when I came to tell of my meeting with Ludar and of our adventures near Oxford; and for his sake, as much as for my own, she thought kindly of me and promised me her friendship.
Our watch was ended, and we were in the act of quitting our post, when the maiden, taking one last look seaward, cried: “Is not that a sail away there?”
Sure enough it was, sparkling on the westward horizon, some two leagues to the larboard.
“Who cometh?” said I to myself, echoing the maiden’s song.