Chapter Ten.
How we sailed with a Poet of the First Water.
Ludar told me, when presently I had revived enough to hear his story, that when the tide turned and I did not appear, the Frenchman laughed and bade them haul the anchor and thank Heaven they were rid of a thief. “Whereat,” said Ludar, “we came to words, and the maiden took your part and besought the fellow to wait a half-hour. But he would hear none of it. He said he was master here, and, if we liked not the ship, we might go out of it. Indeed,” added he, “he had a mind, he said, to put us all out and be rid of so ill a company. Then there was nothing left but to let him have his will, and we sailed. Yet I was not surprised to see you back.”
“And she—she did not deem me a traitor?” I asked.
“That maiden,” said Ludar, gravely, “knows not what traitor means.”
Whereat I felt partly humbled, partly comforted.
“Yes,” said Ludar, “I am glad to have you back, Humphrey, for this voyage bodes uneasily.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Our messmates,” said he (and then I noticed that he wore a sailor’s jacket), “are a scurvy crew, as you will presently discover. The captain already repents that he has taken us. The old nurse is hard to please.” Here he sighed. “The serving man is a fool. And the stranger—”
“Ay, what of him? Who is he?”
“He is a half-witted spark, a fugitive from justice, and, to boot, an impudent coxcomb whom I have had ten minds already to pitch over the ship’s side. He was hidden here on board before we came, having killed a man at Court, he brags, and seeking shelter in Scotland till the storm be past. But here he is.”
The stranger was a slim, well-shaped youth, with a simpering lip, and dainty ringlets descending to his shoulders. He was dressed extravagantly even for the land, and for the sea ridiculously. His doublet was of satin, bravely slashed and laced, and puffed to the size of a globe on either thigh. His hose were of crimson silk, gaily tied with points and knots. His shirt was of the same hue, with a short taffeta cloak over, bound at the neck by a monstrous ruff, out of which his face looked like a calf’s head from a dish of trimmings. To crown all, a white plume waved in his hat, while the rapier at his waist was caught up jauntily behind him, so that the point and the hilt lay on a level at either hip. His face was both cheerful and weak; and, as he strutted up to where Ludar and I stood, his gait reminded me much of a chanticleer amidst his spouses.
He was delivering himself of some poetic rapture, addressed, as it seemed, to the mud banks of the Essex shore, and feigned to perceive neither Ludar nor me till he came upon us.
“So,” said he then, eyeing me, “here is our Flying Dutchman, our bolt out of the blue, our dragon’s tooth turned to man. And, by my sword, a pretty fellow too. Count me as thy patron, my Hollander, and if, as I judge by thy face, thou hast a tooth for the honey of Parnassus his garden, and the dainty apples of the Muses’ orchard, thou shalt not starve verily. To be brief, I favour thee therefore, thy fortune is made.”
I was bewildered enough by this speech, not a tithe of which could I understand. I took it ill to be called Dutchman, and dragon’s tooth; nor, albeit I was a printer’s ’prentice, did I know what he meant by Parnassus. Still, as he seemed friendly disposed, I answered:
“I thank you.”
“Thank not me,” said he, raising his hand. “Let not the groping man thank the lamp, nor the briar the brook. Thank the sun whence the lamp hath his light, and the ocean to whom the brook oweth his waters. Thank that incomparable paragon, that consummate swan, that pearl of all perfection, my mistress, of whose brightness I am but the mirror and medium.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said I, feeling very foolish to comprehend not a word of his fine talk, “if you have anything to tell me, pray, say so; but, for the life of me, I cannot discover what you mean by all this.”
“I mean,” said he, “that she, my lady, the Aphrodite who rules these waves, the star who guides our course, the nymph who suns her locks on this poor ship, the same condescends to call you her servant; wherefore, owe it to her, that thou mayest also call me thy master.”
I began to weary of this jargon. Moreover, the fellow now seemed to be talking about matters which he had better leave to Ludar and me. So I said:
“You are none of my master. I have a better.”
He looked a little hurt at this, I thought, and said:
“Can an ass call the horse its master when a man claimeth both? Who is this mortal, sirrah, that I may scorn him?”
“This gentleman is my master,” said I, growing very hot, and laying my hand on Ludar’s arm.
The gallant laughed.
“Pretty, on my life! The dog hath its parasites, the scullion his menial, the earthen pot his mug, and each puffeth himself into a gentleman thereby. And who may you be, forsooth?”
“Ludar McSomhairle Buidhe McDonnell of the Glyns,” said Ludar, solemnly.
The fellow laughed outright.
“I do remember,” said he, “a pretty jest of Dan Aesopus about a jackdaw who thought himself a peacock because he had a monstrous long feather to his tail. Prithee, thou silly son of Neptune, knowest thou not that if I did bid thee carry me my box from the fore-deck there to the poop, thou must crawl with it like my jack-porter? And, by my soul, I have named the very service that brought me hither. Therefore, my lord Sir Ludar McSorley Boy McNeptune McMalapert McDonnell of the Glyns, fetch my box below. And should the burden be too heavy for thy dainty fingers, pray thy serving gentleman here to lend thee a hand.”
Ludar, who was leaning against the mast, yawned; whereat, the gallant dropping his fine speeches, turned as red as a lobster, and with a loud French oath, drew out his rapier and flourished it.
Ludar watched him contemptuously for a while, until the blade, getting courage at every pass, ventured a modest prick. Then he leapt out like a cat on a mouse, and caught the silly fellow such a grip of the wrist as sent his sword spinning on the deck. Picking it up, he quietly broke it over his knee into three pieces, which he pitched one after the other overboard.
“Now, master jackanapes,” said he, returning to his adversary, and catching him by his starched ruff. “You shall follow your sword.”
Then the poor fellow, scared out of his wits, let go a string of oaths, and vowed to heaven he did but jest, and loved us both like his own brothers, and, would Ludar but unhand him, he might count on him as a friend for life, and so forth. Even Ludar could not help laughing at the figure he made; and having lifted him a little on to the gunwale, let him down again with a “get you gone then.”
’Twas wonderful how the gallant’s courage came back as soon as he stood free.
“By my soul,” said he, with a gay laugh, “thou’rt a brave lad, and I like thee for ’t. A jest is like marrow in a dog’s bone, and life without sport is a camel’s track. Come, thou and I shall be friends, I see; and crack more jokes than one ere this voyage be over. And, in sooth, Achilles doth well to make proof now and again of the strength of Hercules. Why, my Hercules, I warrant thou couldest lift that box of mine with thy finger and thumb. I pray thee, for my admiration, see if thou couldest so carry it from where it now lies to my cabin in the poop; and our flying Dutchman here shall be judge that the feat be fairly done.”
Ludar, with a grim smile, owned that he had the worst of this encounter, and made the fellow happy by carrying his box in one hand; although he alarmed him not a little by offering to carry him in the other.
When this little jest was over, the captain came to us with orders to join the crew in making all things ready for presently meeting the sea breezes at the river’s mouth; so we had no more time just then to think of Master Coxcomb.
It moved my admiration to see with what a will Ludar worked at his task. He made no question of the Frenchman’s right to order his services; and methought, as he hauled away cheerily among his ill-favoured messmates, he looked as noble as had he been marching at the head of an army. The ship’s crew was, to tell the truth, a scurvy company. Not counting us, there were but eleven of them, mostly French, who talked and cursed while they worked and three English, who sulked and grumbled. They stared in no friendly way at Ludar and me when we joined them; nor did they like us the better that, without much knowledge or seamanship, we yet put our backs into what we did, and bade them do the same. Ludar, indeed, born to command, was not sparing in his abuse of their laziness; and it vexed me a little to see how he thereby made himself an enemy of every man among them.
Towards nightfall we were all ship-shape, and the watch being set—of which Ludar was one—I had leisure to go below to seek the sleep I sorely needed. I would fain, before doing so, have visited the maiden to satisfy myself that all went well with her. But I durst hardly venture so far without her bidding. I sought my berth below, therefore—and a vile, foul corner of the hold it was—and laid myself down, wondering what would be the end of all this journeying.
There was a sailor—one of the Frenchmen—down beside me, who, when he saw who I was, sat up and began to talk. In a foolish moment I betrayed that I understood some of his French lingo, whereat he—being more than half drunken—waxed civil, and his tongue loosed itself still more.
“Who is she?” he whispered presently, in his foreign tongue.
“A lady,” said I, shortly.
“So! and monstrous rich, by our lady! Comrade,” said he, “I helped carry her box on board. Do you take me for a fool? There is something weighs more in that than a maiden’s frocks—eh, my friend?”
“You are a fool,” said I.
“A fool? Ha! ha! ’Tis well. And I am fool enough to— you be her man, they say? and an honest fellow? Ha! ha!”
“Ay, ay,” said I, drowsily enough, “let me go to sleep.”
“Ay, ay,” said he, “even if it be silver pieces and not gold, ’twill be enough to make men of thee and me. Dost hear, sluggard? Thee and me, and no more planks and ropes, and—”
I had ceased to hear his maunderings, and was sound asleep.
When I awoke, it was to hear the thundering crash of a wave on the deck overhead, and I knew we were at last on the open sea. Alas! when I turned over to recover my sleep, I fell into so horrible a fit of shuddering and sickness that I believed the hour of my departure was come. The ship rolled heavily through the uneasy water, and at every lurch my heart sunk—I know not whither. I could hear the shuffling of steps overhead, and the dash of the waves against the ship’s side, and the voice of the sailors at their posts. Little recked they of the comrade who was dying below!
Presently a call came for the new watch to turn up on deck. I was helpless to obey, and lay groaning there, not caring if the next lurch took us down to the bottom. At last, after much shouting, the captain himself came down and shook me roughly.
“Leave me,” said I, “to die in peace.”
“Die!” cried he, “thou sickly lubber. If you rise not in a minute’s time, we will see what a rope’s end can do to ’liven thee. Come, get up.”
I struggled to my feet, but in that posture my sickness came back with double violence, so that I tumbled again to the floor, and vowed he might use every rope in the ship to me, but up I could not get.
I do not well recall what happened those next few days. I believe I staggered upon deck and went miserably through the form of work, jeered at by my fellow sailors, despised by my captain, and wondered at by Ludar. But when, after the sickness gave way, I one day found myself in a fever, with my strength all gone, I was let go below and lie there without more to do. I know not how it came to pass, but ill I was for a day or two; perhaps it was the vexations of the last few weeks, or the weakness left by the sickness, or a visitation of the colic from heaven; however it was, I lay there, humbled and ashamed of my weakness, and wishing myself safe back outside Temple Bar.
At these times, Ludar was a brother to me. He came often to see me, and talked so cheerily, that I almost forgot how solemn his looks used to be. More than that, he fetched me dainties to eat, without which I might have starved; for, while the fever lasted, I could not stomach the strong ship’s fare. And I suspected more than once that he had secured my peace from the captain by offering himself to do a good piece of my work as well as his own.
He spoke little enough about the maiden, though I longed to hear of her. Once, when I asked him, his face grew overcast.
“That maiden,” said he, “is never so merry as when the waves are breaking over the deck. Yet I see her little, for, in sooth, the old nurse has been nearer death than you, and will allow no one to go near her but her young mistress. Nor dare I offer myself where I am not bidden. Humphrey,” added he, “I prefer to talk of something else.”
Now, I must tell you that, to my surprise, I found I had another friend in these dark days; I mean the poet. Contemptible as was my plight, and mean as was the cabin I hid in, when he heard I was ill, he came more than once to see me. It suited him to make a mighty to do about it, as if his condescension must heal me on the spot. Yet the kindness that was in him, and the wonder he afforded me, made up for all these airs and graces.
“Alack and well a day!” exclaimed he, when he first came. “Vulcan hath fallen from the clouds and lieth halting below. The apple which was rosy is become green, and the Dutchman who of late flew is now become ship’s ballast. Nay, my poor ruin, thank me not for coming; ’tis the common debt the high oweth to the low, the sound to the broken, the poem to the prose; nay, ’tis the duty a knight oweth to his lady’s humblest menial.”
“And how is the lady?” said I; for I wearied to hear of her, even from any lips.
“Hast thou seen the swan with wings new dressed float on the summer tide? Hast thou heard the thrush, full-throated, call his mate across the lea? Hast thou watched the moon soar up the heavens, sweeping aside the clouds, and defying the mists of earth? Hast thou marked, my Dutchman, the summer laughter on a field of golden corn? Hast thou tracked the merry breeze along the ripples of a dazzled ocean?—”
“Yes, yes,” said I, “but what has that to do with the maiden we speak of?”
He smiled on me pityingly.
“Such, poor youth, is she; and such, methinks, am I become, who sit at her feet and sun myself in her light—”
“’Tis dark down here,” I said, “but you seem to me neither swan, nor thrush, nor moon, nor a corn field, nor an ocean. But I thank you, even as you are, for coming.”
“’Tis a sign of a sound mind,” said he, “when gratitude answereth to graciousness. And now, prithee, how do you do?”
I told him I was better, and that I might not have mended so far, but for my dear master, Sir Ludar.
Then he bridled up and his cheeks coloured.
“Ah, Hercules is a good sailor, and a strong animal. ’Tis fit he should wait upon you, since you be in my present favour. Moreover, like cureth like, as it is said; therefore he is better here tending you, than casting sheep’s eyes on one who is as the sun above his head. I have had a mind to admonish him to remove the offence of his visage from her purview, for I perceived, by my own mislike of it, that it was a weariness to her. The pure glass is dimmed by the breath of the beholder, and a face at the window darkeneth a chamber.”
“Sir Ludar will be here soon,” said I; “I pray you stay and tell him this.”
“No,” said he, looking, I thought, a little alarmed. “If the cloud withdraw not from the sun’s path of his own motion, neither will he scatter for our bidding. Therefore, let him be. And, indeed, I stay here too long, my Dutchman. Who shall say but the dove sigheth already for her truant mate? So farewell; and count me thy patron.”
He came often after this, always with the same brave talk.
One day, however, he seemed more like a plain man and said: “’Tis time thou wert up, my Hollander. There is thunder in the air, the horizon is big with clouds, the dull sea rustleth with the coming storm, and I smell the wind afar off.”
“Why,” said I, starting up, “Ludar told me but just now the weather was fair and settled, and that the breeze was shifting to the south.”
“I spoke not of the weather,” said he. “Let it be. The thunder may hide beneath a brow, the lightning may flash from out two eyelids, and the storm may break in a man’s breast.”
“For Heaven’s sake, speak plain,” said I. “What do you mean?”
“Wait and see,” said he, “I like not these French dogs. Only let thy eye be keen, thy ear quick, and thy hand ready, my Hollander, and stand by me when I call on thee.”
More I could not get out of him. When I spoke of it to Ludar afterwards, he said:
“Maybe the little antic is right. Yet they are too sorry a crew, and too small to do mischief. They suspect us of carrying treasure aboard, and your friend the captain, I take it, is the roundest villain of them all.”
I vowed the captain was no friend of mine; yet I believed him honest. But as for the crew, it came to my mind then what the drunken fellow had blabbed out the first night; and I said it was like enough to be true.
That afternoon I rose from my sick-bed and came on deck. I remember to this hour the joy of that afternoon.
The day was bright and fair; land was nowhere to be seen; only a stretch of blue-green water through which the Miséricorde spanked with a light breeze at her stern. The white sails shone out in the sunlight, and the happy gulls called to one another above our heads. As I faced round and drank in mouthful after mouthful of the fresh salt air, my life seemed to revive within me, and I felt the strength rush back into my thews. But the greatest joy of all was that the maiden, seeing me stand there, came up and bade me a joyous welcome to the upper air once more.
“Alas,” said she, laughing, “it has been dull times while you have been below, Humphrey. My good old nurse has not ceased to cry out that she was dying since we took our first lurch into the free sea. Your Knight of the Rueful Countenance flies from me whenever he sees me afar; your French captain might be an Englishman, he is so sulky; and as for your English paragon there,”—and she pointed to the gallant who was strutting on the forward deck—“he frightens me with his frenzies and raptures. Do you all make love that way in England?”
“No,” said I, “I think not.”
“Why, Humphrey, you talk as if you knew not; I would have vowed you had a sweetheart of your own, with the rest of them.”
“Maybe I have,” said I.
Just then to my relief, Ludar came up.
“Sir Ludar,” I said, “this lady complains that you, who are so brave, run away whenever she looks your way.”
Neither the maiden nor Ludar liked my clumsy speech.
“Nay, Sir Malapert,” said she, “I complain not of what contents me. Besides, Sir Ludar has been better employed in nursing you.”
“If I be a coward,” said Ludar, “it’s because I dread a frown more than a battle-axe.”
The maiden looked up at him, with the gentle light in her eyes which I had marked before now.
“If you dread frowns,” said she, laughing, “never look in your mirror, Sir Ludar; for, by my faith, you glare at me now as if I were an English poet, such as now approacheth.” We looked up and there was our gallant at our elbows.
“As the loadstone to his star, as the compass to the pole, as the river to the sea, so come I, fair tyrant of my heart. For thy sake, I even salute these thy satellites, O moon of my vision! who derive from thee their lustre.”
“Witness Sir Ludar’s countenance,” said the maiden. “But now that the sun has come on the horizon, Sir Poet, shall not we lesser lights all pale? Pray, did you catch any fish to-day?”
“Nay, mistress mine, how should the silly fish, dazzled by thy heavenly brightness, see the humble bait of a mortal?”
“I know not,” said the maiden, “but I saw one sailor, an hour ago, catch three.”
“Is it a wonder, since you watched the quivering line? Mark you, my humble friends,” said he, turning to Ludar and me. “I relieve you of your further attendance on me and this lady. I thank you, and so farewell, till we summon you further.”
“Nay, Sir Poet,” said the maiden, “if you must be gone, adieu. As for me, Sir Ludar is about to teach me the mystery of the angle, and Humphrey waits on Sir Ludar. Therefore, concern yourself not for me; I am well attended.”
“Oh,” said he, rather chapfallen, “your condescension is a lesson for angels. When the planet deigns to shine into the humble pool, shall the star not do the same? I will even abide at your side, and be gracious too.”
But his brave intention was thwarted. For a call came just then from the old nurse, which carried the maiden off to her side; while Ludar and I, receiving a summons from the captain, went forward, and so left the poet to his own devices.
A sterner summons was not far off, as you shall hear.