“Mucky ship!” she cried.
She ran from the window. The Queen, blinking and no more than half awake, was seized by the arms and pulled out of bed. Kalliope was the least conventional of lady’s-maids. She loved, even worshipped and adored, her mistress, but she had no idea whatever of propriety of behaviour. Bedclothes were scattered on the floor. The Queen, staggering to her feet, was dragged across the room to the window. Kalliope pointed to the harbour with a finger which trembled with excitement.
“Mucky ship,” she said.
Kalliope’s English was improving in quality. The Queen had forbidden her to say “damn” or “bloody” but about “mucky” she had received no instructions. It still seemed to her a proper epithet for any ship. In this case it was unsuitable. The ship, a small steamer, which lay at anchor in the harbour, looked more like a yacht than a cargo boat. Her paint was fresh. Her hull had fine lines. Her two masts and high yellow funnel raked sharply aft. The brasswork on her bridge glittered in the sunlight. But Kalliope stuck to her epithet.
“Mucky ship,” she said, “once more.”
“Once more” was a recent addition to her English. She had picked the phrase up in the Queen’s school, where indeed it was in constant use. She knew what it meant; but it was not clear why she used it about the steamer.
The Queen was excited, almost as much excited as Kalliope. Even to dwellers in seaport towns there must, I think, always come a certain thrill when a ship arrives from the sea. In Salissa, where ships rarely come, where no steamer had been seen since the Ida sailed, the sudden coming of a strange craft was a moving event. And the manner of her coming stirred the imagination. A ship which sails in by day is sighted far off. Her shape is seen, her flag is read, perhaps, long before she reaches the harbour. Half the interest of her coming disappears as she slips slowly in, gazed at by all eyes, speculated on, discussed by every tongue. But a ship which arrives by night is full of wonder. At sunset she is not there. In the darkness she steals in. No one sees her approach. She is there, rich in possibilities of romance, to greet eyes opening on a new day.
The Queen and Kalliope had no morning swim that day. They were eager to dress, to go out, to row across to the strange ship. They had no time to waste in bathing. As they dressed they ran to and fro about the room, never willing to take their eyes off the steamer for very long. It was interesting to watch her. Men were busy about her decks and a tall officer could be seen on her bridge. A boat was swung out and lowered from the davits. She was manned by four rowers. The anchor cable of the steamer was hove short. A warp was passed down to the boat and made fast in her stern. Then the anchor was weighed and hung dripping just clear of the water. The rowers pulled at their oars. The boat shot ahead of the steamer. The warp was paid out for awhile and then made fast on board the steamer. The work of towing began. The boat, moving slowly in short jerks, headed for the shore. The officer on the steamer’s bridge directed the rowers, shouting. They made for the entrance of the great cave. Close under the cliffs the steamer’s anchor was dropped again. Another anchor was run out by the attendant boat, then another, and a fourth. At last the steamer lay, moored bow and stern, broadside on to the cliff, a few yards from the mouth of the cave.
The Queen, fully dressed at last, ran to her father’s room. Kalliope was at her heels. Donovan was in bed and still asleep. At that hour Smith had not even brought him his cup of coffee or his shaving water. The Queen was less ruthless than Kalliope had been. She did not pull her father out of bed; but she wakened him without pity.
“Father,” she said, “a steamer has arrived. She came during the night. She looks like a yacht. Do you think she can be a yacht? I wonder who’s on board of her.”