Chapter VII.
A Nameless Wife
A terrible gale was blowing up the Channel, and wise mariners made for port before it was too late, while wives shuddered at the howling whose menace they knew too well.
Off the South Coast a small French vessel was beating its way against the blast, and coast-guards looked with astonishment at its manoeuvers, finally shrugging their shoulders at the madness of the foreigner. Had they seen what was taking place on the deck they would have opened their eyes still wider.
The French skipper was holding to the rail, shouting orders, while a madman, without hat or coat, and with a set white face, was pointing a pistol at his head.
“I tell you, sir,” said the shaking seaman, “we dare not run in close to the shore, we shall be driven in onto the rocks. It is sheer madness.”
“Very well,” said Reckavile calmly “lower a boat and I will go ashore.”
The other made a gesture of despair. “It is impossible, no boat would live for five minutes. Why not let me run to shelter, or ride out the storm?”
“I tell you I will not wait, though all Hell were in the storm. You can choose, either you lower a boat for me, or I shoot you.” His calmness overawed the other.
“It is death, sir, for you, and perhaps for us too.”
“The first is my affair, and the other is in the hands of God or the Devil.”