by Eugène Sue
At this praise Geordy smiled modestly, cast down his eyes, blushed like a young girl, and went to join his brother Williams to prepare everything, for we were to set sail from the bay of Porquerolles the next morning at sunrise.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE VOYAGE.
IT WAS THREE days since we had left Prance; the wind, until then favourable, had become contrary ever since we sighted Sardinia.
Without being positively sure of being attacked by the mysterious ship whose departure had been so sudden and so hostile, Falmouth had recommended the captain of his yacht to be constantly upon his guard. The carronades of the Gazelle were loaded with grape-shot, the arms prepared on the false deck, and at night a sailor remained on watch to prevent any surprise.
I could not but admire the calmness and sweetness of the two young officers of the schooner, their silent activity, and the feeling full of tenderness which seemed to attach one to the other, and to put — if so it may be called — in their most indifferent actions a touching union.
I remarked, also, that when the management required that Williams or Geordy should give an order before Falmouth, their voices preserved a respectful accent for the lord as long as they were obliged to give orders in his presence. This shade seemed to me to be an exquisite tact, or rather the expression of a very refined nature.
Geordy obeyed his elder brother Williams with a joyous submission. Nothing could be more charming to observe than the mutual affection of these two brothers» constantly exchanging looks as they attended to the details of their service, with rare sagacity, or rather with marvellous congeniality.
I had the curiosity to inspect the forward cabin which they occupied.
I saw there two hammocks as white as snow, a small table, and a wash-stand shining like a mirror; two portraits, coarsely but naturally painted, — the one, their mother, with a grave, sweet face (both resembled her greatly), the other, their father, whose masculine and open countenance showed good humour and loyalty. Between these two portraits, and for ornament alone, their arms were fastened to the oaken wainscoting of their little room.
Often when the schooner, well under way, ploughed its furrow of white foam across the quiet waters of the Mediterranean, Williams and Geordy would seat themselves side by side upon a gun, and there, with locked arms, serious and pensive countenances, they piously read an old Bible with brass fastenings, resting it upon their knees, and only interrupting their reading to cast an occasional melancholy glance upon the broad and solitary horizon, — a distraction which was an act of homage to the greatness of God.
At other times, when this religious reading was finished, the two brothers would fall into long talks.
One day I had the curiosity to overhear one of their conversations. I seated myself near the cannon, where they usually sat, and, after exchanging a few words with them, I pretended to be asleep.
I heard them then exchanging innocent confidences of their hopes, recalling pleasant memories of their country, encouraging each other to serve Falmouth well, this noble protector of their family, for whom they showed this respectful, almost filial, attachment that is maintained sometimes among us for several successive generations by followers of the family (in the feudal acceptation of the word) [That if to say, forming part of the house, not considered as ferrants; pages, riding-masters, and esquires were domestics in this acceptation.] for the noble houses which patronise them.
When the two brothers spoke of the lord, it was always without irreverence, without envy, and, more than all, without any bitter and jealous reflection upon their own obscure and poor condition.
Once they related some particulars in the life of Falmouth which struck me with surprise. This man, whom I had believed so blasé as to all human feelings, had a thousand times manifested the most generous kindness, the most exquisite delicacy. Williams and Geordy spoke of it with admiration.
In proportion as I lived more intimately with Henry, my surprise increased.
Each day I discovered in him the noblest qualities, so opposite to the fictitious or real character under which I had known him before. His disposition was of a serenity without its equal; his penetration, his ingenuity, prodigious; his mind of a rare dignity.
Soon, in our long conversations, I noticed that his irony became less sharp, his observation less caustic, his scepticism less implacable; it might be said that little by little he put off pieces of armour which he recognised as useless.
It was with pleasure that I saw Falmouth’s character so completely transformed.
I felt touched by the cordial and touching persistency with which he sought my friendship. I enjoyed eagerly this lively and sincere feeling, whose consoling sweetness I experienced for the first time; no sacrifice could be too great to assure myself of this precious affection in the future, and as I experienced it generously, bravely, I felt worthy to inspire it.
Pleased with my confidence, it was with a tone of deepest gratitude that Falmouth thanked me for having believed in his friendship. In this way passing our life, the one well supported by the other, he told me, all one’s troubles could be defied; for the deceits of love, of pride, of ambition, always so painful because they are self-centred, would lose all their bitterness by being poured out into the heart of a friend.
The accents of his voice were so true, his features had an expression of such sincerity, that I had entirely forgotten my mistrust; I yielded with happiness to the impulse of an affection which I had never known before.
Then came the endless conversations, whose attractions I know not how to describe. Falmouth’s imagination was lively and brilliant, his wit well embellished. We both possessed quite varied and extended knowledge; we never for a moment felt wearied with one another, in spite of the long hours of the voyage.
In proportion as our intimacy increased, my faith in myself and in Falmouth increased. I felt happy and better, a new future opened before me; I had plenty of courage not to subject this happiness, so fresh and young, to a withering analysis. I gave myself up innocently to impressions which I found so pure and so refreshing.
We had been at sea five days.
One evening, quite late, towards eleven o’clock, having left Falmouth in the saloon, I ascended to the deck to enjoy the freshness of the night, and seated myself in a yawl suspended in the stern of the schooner.
I had been some time absorbed in my dreams, when the sailor on watch hailed an approaching ship.
I arose.
The watch hailed a second time.
Almost immediately I saw sailing silently towards us, and at a very short distance from us, a ship, whose immense sails I recognised as those of the Sardinian boat of the bay of Porquerolles.
The night was clear, the boat sailing rather fast; upon the deck of this long, narrow ship a great number of men were crowding against one another. From the mast was hung a ship’s lantern. Lighted by its red, uncertain reflection, I distinguished at the helm, and holding the tiller, the man with the black cowl that I had already noticed during the approach of the longboat.
Strange encounter, the consequences of which were to be still more strange!
The mystic withdrew; the noise of its track died away.
For a few minutes I could follow it with my eye, thanks to its white sails; then they became less distinct, and, finally, altogether effaced, until I could see only a luminous point in the darkness, which in time disappeared with the play of the ship’s sails, like a star under a cloud.
Upon the appearance of this suspicious boat, Williams had ordered his brother to look for Falmouth.
“Well, Williams,” said the latter, mounting the bridge, “we are again meeting our ugly acquaintance of Porquerolles?”
“The mystic has just passed athwart us, my lord.”
“And what do you advise?”
“Save for the order of your Grace, my advice would be to put ourselves at once on defence, for I think that this pirate, held like ourselves in these quarters by the contrar
y winds, will attack us, not believing us ready to receive it, and reckoning, moreover, upon the number of its crew.”
“Let us prove, then, to these pirates, that they are mistaken, my brave Williams, and that forty John Bulls are worth more than this gang of scoundrels, than this cosmopolitan specimen of gallows-game. Ah, well,” added Falmouth, seeing me, “here, my friend, is something which works admirably; this adventure delights me. It is an excellent introduction to our frolic with Canaris; it is the overture of our opera!”
“In truth dilettanti,” I replied, “let us prepare to do our part, and seek for our arms.”
I descended to my room.
Falmouth entered almost as soon as I.
Inasmuch as he had appeared to me pleased and resolute on deck, so now I found him with an air sad and troubled.
He took my hands with emotion, and said: “Arthur, I am now in despair with this folly!”
“Of what folly do you speak?”
“If you should be wounded, dangerously wounded,” casting upon me an affectionate glance, “I should never forgive myself.”
“And do you not run the same risks?”
“Without doubt; but that you, you should suffer the consequences of my mad freak, — it is that which I find horrible!”
“What an idea! Are we not making this voyage I Dutch treat?’ Ought we not to share all? Why, this is an accident on the way, — nothing more. Were we not agreed to seek adventures like veritable knights-errants? And finally, had not you, yourself, just now the air of one well pleased with this meeting?”
“I was then before my people, and I did not wish them to guess my thought, — but to you I can say all.’ Ah, well! now I am in despair with all this; and instead of amusing ourselves with vain boasting, I wish very much to profit by the speed of my schooner to—”
“Do not think of it,” I cried. “What would they say at the Yacht Club? That one of its members had run before a pirate! And then, my dear Henry,” said I, laughing, “remember that your fears are not very flattering to my honour.”
“Ah, stop, — that is dreadful! For the first time in my life, I find a friend such as I have dreamed of, and through my own fault I risk losing him,” cried Falmouth, throwing himself on a chair and burying his head in both hands.
“My dear Henry,” I replied, deeply touched by his tone, “on the contrary, let us thank this chance which has furnished us this proof. Does not the emotion that we both feel show us that this friendship is already first in our hearts? Could we have found a similar revelation in the ordinary uniform life of the world? Believe me, we see in this a good fortune; let us bless it and profit by it. It is by fire that pure gold is proved.”
A sailor descending precipitately, came to beg Falmouth to ascend to the deck.
When he had gone, Henry threw himself into my arms with effusion, and said: “You have a noble heart, — my instinct has not deceived me.”
I remained alone.
If Falmouth feared the chances of this combat for me, I also feared them keenly for him.
This uneasiness revealed to me all the strength of the affection I bore him.
By what miracle had this friendship so suddenly developed? How came its roots to be already so deep, in spite of my distrust, in spite of my habitual incredulity?
I do not know, but it was so, and we had travelled together scarcely one month.
Perhaps this rapid progress would seem less surprising, if one considered the secret instinct which had attracted us to each other before our departure.
I took up my arms.
I had then a moment of frightful agony.
In thinking of the danger we were to run, I feared being cowardly, or, rather, that my courage might not reach the height of a noble sacrifice; I asked myself if, in supreme danger, I could sacrifice my life to save Falmouth’s, and, I confess to my shame, I dared not reply with certainty.
It is true, I knew myself to be brave, with a cool, stubborn bravery. I had had a duel in which my calm energy had done me honour; but was that true courage? Can a man, well born, refuse a duel? Can he bear himself becomingly, except through good breeding or pride?
I did not know, therefore, if I should have the thoughtless, fulgurating courage which turns to danger as steel to the magnet, which exalts itself still more in a bloody conflict, and which, hovering above all danger, directs its blows with a sure hand, choosing its victims.
I believed I felt, in a word, the cool and inert bravery of the artillery man, who, near his battery, awaits a bullet without turning pale, but not the excited intrepidity of the partisan who, sword in hand, throws himself, with ferocious zeal, into the midst of the carnage.
And, nevertheless, it was doubtless into a hand-to-hand combat in the boarding of a ship that we were to defend our lives. And if I failed, — and if before these foreigners, if before Falmouth, I should appear cowardly, or weak! If my instinct of self-preservation should make me stupid!
No, I could not say what dreadful thing I might bring upon myself in this moment of hesitation and uncertainty. But I confess that which I feared most was, that in case Falmouth’s life might absolutely depend upon my courage, I might find myself unequal to this noble duly.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE COMBAT.
I AGAIN ASCENDED to the deck.
I had taken a double-barrelled carbine, and a heavy Turkish damaskeened battle-axe, formerly bought as an object of curiosity, and which, under these circumstances, became an excellent weapon, for, besides its heavy blade, it ended in a very sharp iron spear.
I tried to discover the pirate, but whether because the ship had put out its light, or because it had greatly prolonged its tack, I could no longer see it. The yacht’s crew had been promptly armed.
By the glimmer of some gun-lighters, fixed by their iron points in some buckets filled with water, we saw the sailors placed in charge of the guns, standing near the carronades; others, placed on either side of the schooner, were loading their guns, while an old gray-haired boatswain had just taken the tiller from the hands of one of his much younger comrades, whose experience was, doubtless, not sufficient to enable him to take this important post, during the combat.
All this took place in profound silence; one could hear only the dull noise of the ramrods on the wads, or the sound of the butt end of the muskets on the bridge. Williams, at the stern, stood on his quarter-deck, giving the last order. Geordy, charged with the direction of the gunners, superintended this part of the service.
Falmouth stood on the bridge. He had again put on his mask of habitual indifference.
“All is ready, my lord,” said Williams to him. “Does your Grace wish to fight this pirate under sail or shall we board her?”
“Which do you prefer, a fight on board or a fight under sail?” Falmouth asked me, as if he were asking me to choose between Bordeaux or Madeira wine.
“I am absolutely indifferent,” I replied, smiling; “let us act without ceremony; trust to the judgment of Williams, it is safer.”
“What do you think, Williams?” demanded Falmouth.
“That we keep under sail. With the artillery of your Grace’s yacht we can destroy this pirate without its being able to approach us, or do us much harm; for I do not suppose it could have taken artillery aboard.”
“And the boarding?” asked Falmouth.
“I believe my lord knows the crew of the yacht well enough to be certain that, after a good contest, the pirates will be repulsed, or perhaps that their boat will remain in our power. But,” suddenly cried Williams, pointing to a white spot with the end of his spy-glass, “the ship has put about; here it is returning upon us, my lord.”
In fact, I soon saw its white sails appear in the darkness as it rapidly approached.
I loaded my carbine, put my axe near me, and waited.
I remember perfectly what I saw in my radius of action, not having had, I confess, the courage to isolate myself enough from my personal preoccupations to comprehend
this bloody scene.
I was standing at the stern and off the side of the yacht.
A few feet in front of me, at the foot of the mizzenmast, with his back to me, an old sailor worked the helm.
Williams, on his quarter-deck, was giving some orders to a boatswain, who listened hat in hand. Falmouth, mounted on a cannon, holding to the shrouds with one hand, his gun in the other, was looking in the direction of the mystic.
The most profound silence reigned on board the yacht; this was a moment of grave and solemn expectation.
As for me, that which I felt reminded me very much, if I may be excused this childish comparison, of the uneasy emotion that I felt in my childhood when I was waiting minute by minute the shot from a gun fired in the scene of a play.
Then, must I acknowledge another weakness in my character? I had never faced any danger without imagining immediately all its fatal risks for myself. As in the duel of which I have spoken, a maddening duel, I thought not of death, but of the hideous mutilation which might result from a wound. At the moment of the boarding of this vessel, I had the same preoccupation. I saw myself with horror deprived of an arm or a leg, and thus made a repulsive object of pity to every one.
A light touch on the shoulder aroused me from my reflections.
I turned around; Falmouth, without interrupting the “Rule Britannia” which he whistled between his teeth, showed me with the end of his gun something white on the horizon which was gradually approaching us.
I began to distinguish perfectly the mystic.
Suddenly, I was dazzled by a sheet of light which for a moment illuminated the horizon, the sea, and all that I saw of the yacht. At the same time I heard the successive detonation of many firearms and the whistling of bullets passing near me.