CHAPTER XXXIX
"JOHN DARBY"
Although it was snowing hard, it was not a dark night. There was a halfmoon hidden behind those thin, fleecy clouds, which carry the snow acrossthe North Sea and cast it noiselessly upon the low-lying coast, fromThanet to the Wash, which knows less rain and more snow than any inEngland.
A gale of wind was blowing from the north-east; not in itself a wildgale, but at short intervals a fresh burst of wind brought with it athicker fall of snow, and during these squalls the force of the storm wasterrific. A man, who had waited on the far shore of the river for a quietinterval, had at last made his way to the Farlingford side. He moored hisboat and stumbled heavily up the steps.
There was no one on the quay. The street was deserted, but the lightswithin the cottages glowed warmly through red blinds here and there. Themajority of windows were, however, secured with a shutter, screwed tightfrom within. The man trotted steadily up the street. He had anunmistakable air of discipline. It was only six o'clock, but night hadclosed in three hours ago. The coast-guard looked neither to one side northe other, but ran on at the pace of one who had run far and knows thathe cannot afford to lose his breath; for his night's work was only begun.
The coast-guard station stands on the left-hand side of the street, along, low house in a bare garden. In answer to the loud summons, ared-faced little man opened the door and let out into the night a smellof bloaters and tea--the smell that pervades all Farlingford at sixo'clock in the evening.
"Something on the Inner Curlo Bank," shouted the coast-guard in his face,and turning on his heel, he ran with the same slow, organised haste,leaving the red-faced man finishing a mouthful on the mat.
The next place of call was at River Andrew's, the little low cottage withrounded corners, below the church.
"Come out o' that," said the coast-guard, with a contemptuous glance ofsnow-rimmed eyes at River Andrew's comfortable tea-table. "Ring yer bell.Something on the Inner Curlo Bank."
River Andrew had never hurried in his life, and like all his fellows, helooked upon coast-guards as amateurs mindful, as all amateurs are, oftheir clothes.
"A'm now going," he answered, rising laboriously from his chair. Thecoast-guard glanced at his feet clad in the bright green carpet-slippers,dear to seafaring men. Then he turned to the side of the mantelpiece andtook the church keys from the nail. For everybody knows where everybodyelse keeps his keys in Farlingford. He forgot to shut the door behindhim, and River Andrew, pessimistically getting into his sea-boots, sworeat his retreating back.
"Likely as not, he'll getten howld o' the wrong roup," he muttered;though he knew that every boy in the village could point out the rope of"John Darby," as that which had a piece of faded scarlet flannel twistedthrough the strands.
In a few minutes the man, who hastened slowly, gave the call, whichevery man in Farlingford answered with an emotionless, mechanicalpromptitude. From each fireside some tired worker reached out his handtoward his most precious possession, his sea-boots, as his forefathershad done before him for two hundred years at the sound of "John Darby."The women crammed into the pockets of the men's stiff oilskins a piece ofbread, a half-filled bottle--knowing that, as often as not, theirhusbands must pass the night and half the next day on the beach, or outat sea, should the weather permit a launch through the surf.
There was no need of excitement, or even of comment. Did not "John Darby"call them from their firesides or their beds a dozen times every winter,to scramble out across the shingle? As often as not, there was nothing tobe done but drag the dead bodies from the surf; but sometimes the deadrevived--some fair-haired, mystic foreigner from the northern seas, whocame to and said, "T'ank you," and nothing else. And next day, rigged outin dry clothes and despatched toward Ipswich on the carrier's cart, hewould shake hands awkwardly with any standing near and bob his head andsay "T'ank you" again, and go away, monosyllabic, mystic, never to beheard of more. But the ocean, as it is called at Farlingford, seemed tohave an inexhaustible supply of such Titans to throw up on the rattlingshingle winter after winter. And, after all, they were seafaring men, andtherefore brothers. Farlingford turned out to a man, each seeking to befirst across the river every time "John Darby" called them, as if he hadnever called them before.
To-night none paused to finish the meal, and many a cup raised half-waywas set down again untasted. It is so easy to be too late.
Already the flicker of lanterns on the sea-wall showed that the rectorywas astir. For Septimus Marvin, vaguely recalling some schoolboy instinctof fair-play, knew the place of the gentleman and the man of educationamong humbler men in moments of danger and hardship, which should,assuredly, never be at the back.
"Yonder's parson," some one muttered. "His head is clear now, I'llwarrant, when he hears 'John Darby.'"
"'Tis only on Sundays, when 'John' rings slow, 'tis misty," answered asharp-voiced woman, with a laugh. For half of Farlingford was already atthe quay, and three or four boats were bumping and splashing against thesteps. The tide was racing out, and the wind, whizzing slantwise acrossit, pushed it against the wooden piles of the quay, making them throb andtremble.
"Not less'n four to the oars!" shouted a gruff voice, at the foot of thesteps, where the salt water, splashing on the snow, had laid bare thegreen and slimy moss. Two or three volunteers stumbled down the steps,and the first boat got away, swinging down-stream at once, only to bebrought slowly back, head to wind. She hung motionless a few yards fromthe quay, each dip of the oars stirring the water into a whirl ofphosphorescence, and then forged slowly ahead.
Septimus Marvin was not alone, but was accompanied by a bulky man, notunknown in Farlingford--John Turner, of Ipswich, understood to live"foreign," but to return, after the manner of East Anglians, whenoccasion offered. The rector was in oilskins and sou'wester, like any oneelse, and the gleam of his spectacles under the snowy brim of hisheadgear seemed to strike no one as incongruous. His pockets bulged withbottles and bandages. Under his arm he carried a couple of blankethorse-cloths, useful for carrying the injured or the dead.
"The Curlo--the Inner Curlo--yes, yes!" he shouted in response toinformation volunteered on all sides. "Poor fellows! The Inner Curlo,dear, dear!"
And he groped his way down the steps, into the first boat he saw, with asimple haste. John Turner followed him. He had tied a silk handkerchiefover his soft felt hat and under his chin.
"No, no!" he said, as Septimus Marvin made room for him on theafter-thwart. "I'm too heavy for a passenger. Put my weight on an oar,"and he clambered forward to a vacant thwart.
"Mind you come back for us, River Andrew!" cried little Sep's thin voice,as the boat swirled down stream. His wavering bull's-eye lantern followedit, and showed River Andrew and another pulling stroke to John Turner'sbow, for the banker had been a famous oar on the Orwell in his boyhood.Then, with a smack like a box on the ear, another snow-squall swept infrom the sea, and forced all on the quay to turn their backs and crouch.Many went back to their homes, knowing that nothing could be known forsome hours. Others crouched on the landward side of an old coal-shed,peeping round the corner.
Miriam and Sep, and a few others, waited on the quay until River Andrewor another should return. It was an understood thing that the helpers,such as could man a boat or carry a drowned man, should go first. In afew minutes the squall was past, and by the light of the moon, now thinlycovered by clouds, the black forms of the first to reach the other shorecould be seen straggling across the marsh toward the great shingle-bankthat lies between the river and the sea. Two boats were moored at the farside, another was just making the jetty, while a fourth was returningtoward the quay. It was River Andrew, faithful to his own element, whopreferred to be first here, rather than obey orders on the open beach.
There were several ready to lend a helping hand against tide and wind,and Miriam and Sep were soon struggling across the shingle, in thefootsteps of those who had gone before. The north-east wind seared theirfaces like a hot iron, but the sn
ow had ceased falling. As they reachedthe summit of the shingle-bank, they could see in front of them the blackline of the sea, and on the beach, where the white of the snow and thewhite of the roaring surf merged together, a group of men.
One or two stragglers had left this group to search the beach, north orsouth; but it was known, from a long and grim experience, that anythingfloating in from the tail of the Inner Curlo Bank must reach the shore atone particular point. A few lanterns twinkled here and there, but nearthe group of watchers a bonfire of wreckage and tarry fragments and oldrope, brought hither for the purpose, had been kindled.
Two boats, hauled out of reach of a spring tide, were being leisurelyprepared for launching. There was no hurry; for it had been decided bythe older men that no boat could be put to sea through the surf thenrolling in. At the turn of the tide, in two hours' time, something mightbe done.
"Us cannot see anything," a bystander said to Miriam. "It is just there,where I am pointing. Sea Andrew saw something a while back--says itlooked like a schooner."
The man stood pointing out to sea to the southward. He carried anunlighted torch--a flare, roughly made, of tarred rope, bound round astick. At times, one or another would ignite his flare, and go down thebeach holding it above his head, while he stood knee deep in the churningfoam to peer out to sea. He would presently return, without comment, tobeat out his flare against his foot and take his place among the silentwatchers. No one spoke; but if any turned his head sharply to one side orother, all the rest wheeled, like one man, in the same direction andafter staring at the tumbled sea would turn reproachful glances on thefalse alarmist.
Suddenly, after a long wait, four men rushed without a word into thesurf; their silent fury suggesting oddly the rush of hounds upon a fox.They had simultaneously caught sight of something dark, half sunk in theshallow water. In a moment they were struggling up the shingle slopetoward the fire, carrying a heavy weight. They laid their burden by thefire, where the snow had melted away, and it was a man. He was inoilskins, and some one cut the tape that tied his sou'wester. His facewas covered with blood.
"'Tis warm," said the man who had cut away the oilskin cap, and with hishand he wiped the blood away from the eyes and mouth. Some one in thebackground drew a cork, with his teeth, and a bottle was handed down tothose kneeling on the ground.
Suddenly the man sat up--and coughed.
"Shipmets," he said, with a splutter, and lay down again.
Some one held the bottle to his lips and wiped the blood away from hisface again.
"My God!" shouted a bystander, gruffly. "'Tis William Brooke, of theCottages."
"Yes. 'Tis me," said the man, sitting up again. "Not that arm, mate;don't ye touch it. 'Tis bruk. Yes; 'tis me. And 'The Last Hope' is on thetail of the Inner Curlo--and the spar that knocked me overboard fell onthe old man, and must have half killed him. But Loo Barebone's aboard."
He rose to his knees, with one arm hanging straight and piteous from hisshoulder, then slowly to his feet. He stood wavering for a moment, andwiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spluttered. Then, lookingstraight in front of him, with that strange air of a whipped dog whichhumble men wear when the hand of Heaven is upon them, he staggered up thebeach toward the river and Farlingford.
"Where are ye goin'?" some one asked.
"Over to mine," was the reply. "A'm going to my old woman, shipmets."
And he staggered away in the darkness.
CHAPTER XL
FARLINGFORD ONCE MOREAfter a hurried consultation, Septimus Marvin was deputed to follow theinjured man and take him home, seeing that he had as yet but halfrecovered his senses. This good Samaritan had scarcely disappeared when ashout from the beach drew the attention of all in another direction.
One of the outposts was running toward the fire, waving his lantern andshouting incoherently. It was a coast-guard.
"Comin' ashore in their own boat," he cried. "They're coming in in theirown boat!"
"There she rides--there she rides!" added Sea Andrew, almost immediately,and he pointed to the south.
Quite close in, just outside the line of breakers, a black shadow wasrising and falling on the water. It seemed to make scarcely any way atall, and each sea that curled underneath the boat and roared toward thebeach was a new danger.
"They're going to run her in here," said Sea Andrew. "There's more lefton board; that's what that means, and they're goin' back for 'em. If'twasn't so they'd run in anywheres and let her break."
For one sailor will always tell what another is about, however great thedistance intervening.
Slowly the boat came on, rolling tremendously on the curve of thebreakers, between the broken water of the tideway and the spume of thesurf.
"That's Loo at the hellum," said Sea Andrew--the keenest eyes inFarlingford.
And suddenly Miriam swayed sideways against John Turner, who was perhapswatching her, for he gripped her arm and stood firm. No one spoke. Thewatchers on the beach stared open-mouthed, making unconscious grimaces asthe boat rose and fell. All had been ready for some minutes; everypreparation made according to the time-honoured use of these coasts: fourmen with life-lines round them standing knee-deep waiting to dash indeeper, others behind them grouped in two files, some holding the slackof the life-lines, forming a double rank from the shore to the fire,giving the steersman his course. There was no need to wave a torch orshout an order. They were Farlingford men on the shore and Farlingfordmen in the boat.
At last, after breathless moments of suspense, the boat turned, and camespinning in on the top of a breaker, with the useless oars sticking outlike the legs of some huge insect. For a few seconds it was impossible todistinguish anything. The moment the boat touched ground, the wavesbeating on it enveloped all near it in a whirl of spray, and the blackforms seemed to be tumbling over each other in confusion.
"You see," said Turner to Miriam, "he has come back to you after all."
She did not answer but stood, her two hands clasped together on herbreast, seeking to disentangle the confused group, half in half out ofthe water.
Then they heard Loo Barebone's voice, cheerful and energetic, almostlaughing. Before they could understand what was taking place his voicewas audible again, giving a sharp, clear order, and all the black formsrushed together down into the surf. A moment later the boat danced outover the crest of a breaker, splashing into the next and throwing up afan of spray.
"She's through, she's through!" cried some one. And the boat rode for abrief minute head to wind before she turned southward. There were onlythree on the thwarts--Loo Barebone and two others.
The group now broke up and straggled up toward the fire. One man wasbeing supported, and could scarcely walk. It was Captain Clubbe, hatless,his grey hair plastered across his head by salt water.
He did not heed any one, but sat down heavily on the shingle and felt hisleg with one hand, the other arm hung limply.
"Leave me here," he said, gruffly, to two or three who were spreading outa horse-cloth and preparing to carry him. "Here I stay till all areashore."
Behind him were several new-comers, one of them a little man talkingexcitedly to his companion.
"But it is a folly," he was saying in French, "to go back in such a seaas that."
It was the Marquis de Gemosac, and no one was taking any notice of him.Dormer Colville, stumbling over the shingle beside him, recognised Miriamin the firelight and turned again to look at her companion as if scarcelybelieving the evidence of his own eyes.
"Is that you, Turner?" he said. "We are all here,--the Marquis, Barebone,and I. Clubbe took us on board one dark night in the Gironde and broughtus home."
"Are you hurt?" asked Turner, curtly.
"Oh, no. But Clubbe's collar-bone is broken and his leg is crushed. Wehad to leave four on board; not room for them in the boat. That foolBarebone has gone back for them. He promised them he would. The sea outthere is awful!"
He knelt down and held his shaking hands to the flames. Some one
handedhim a bottle, but he turned first and gave it the Marquis de Gemosac, whowas shaking all over like one far gone in a palsy.
Sea Andrew and the coast-guard captain were persuading Captain Clubbe toquit the beach, but he only answered them roughly in monosyllables.
"My place is here till all are safe," he said. "Let me lie."
And with a groan of pain he lay back on the beach. Miriam folded ablanket and placed it under his head. He looked round, recognised her andnodded.
"No place for you, miss," he said, and closed his eyes. After a moment heraised himself on his elbow and looked into the faces peering down athim.
"Loo will beach her anywhere he can. Keep a bright lookout for him," hesaid. Then he was silent, and all turned their faces toward the sea.
Another snow-squall swept in with a rush from the eastward, and half ofthe fire was blown away--a trail of sparks hissing on the snow. Theybuilt up the fire again and waited, crouching low over the embers. Theycould see nothing out to sea. There was nothing to be done but to wait.Some had gone along the shore to the south, keeping pace with thesupposed progress of the boat, ready to help should she be thrown ashore.
Suddenly the Marquis de Gemosac, shivering over the fire, raised hisvoice querulously. His emotions always found vent in speech.
"It is a folly," he repeated, "that he has committed. I do notunderstand, gentlemen, how he was permitted to do such a thing--he whoselife is of value to millions."
He turned his head to glance sharply at Captain Clubbe, at Colville, atTurner, who listened with that half-contemptuous silence which Englishmenoppose to unnecessary or inopportune speech.
"Ah!" he said, "you do not understand--you Englishmen--or you do notbelieve, perhaps, that he is the King. You would demand proofs which youknow cannot be produced. I demand no proofs, for I know. I know withoutany proof at all but his face, his manner, his whole being. I knew atonce when I saw him step out of his boat here in this sad village, and Ihave lived with him almost daily ever since--only to be more sure than atfirst."
His hearers made no answer. They listened tolerantly enough, as onelistens to a child or to any other incapable of keeping to the businessin hand.
"Oh. I know more than you suspect," said the Marquis, suddenly. "Thereare some even in our own party who have doubts, who are not quite sure. Iknow that there was a doubt as to that portrait of the Queen," he halfglanced toward Dormer Colville. "Some say one thing, some another. I havebeen told that, when the child--Monsieur de Bourbon's father--landedhere, there were two portraits among his few possessions--the miniatureand a larger print, an engraving. Where is that engraving, one wouldask?"
"I have it in my safe in Paris," said a thick voice in the darkness."Thought it was better in my possession than anywhere else."
"Indeed! And now, Monsieur Turner--" the Marquis raised himself on hisknees and pointed in his eager way a thin finger in the direction of thebanker--"tell me this. Those portraits to which some would attachimportance--they are of the Duchess de Guiche. Admitted? Good! If youyourself--who have the reputation of being a man of wit--desired tosecure the escape of a child and his nurse, would you content yourselfwith the mere precaution of concealing the child's identity? Would younot go farther and provide the nurse with a subterfuge, a blind,something for the woman to produce and say, 'This is not the littleDauphin. This is so-and-so. See, here is the portrait of his mother?'What so effective, I ask you? What so likely to be believed as a scandaldirected against the hated aristocrats? Can you advance anything againstthat theory?"
"No, Monsieur," replied Turner.
"But Monsieur de Bourbon knows of these doubts," went on the Marquis."They have even touched his own mind, I know that. But he has continuedto fight undaunted. He has made sacrifices--any looking at his face cansee that. It was not in France that he looked for happiness, butelsewhere. He was not heart-whole--I who have seen him with the mostbeautiful women in France paying court to him know that. But thissacrifice, also, he made for the sake of France. Or perhaps some woman ofwhom we know nothing stepped back and bade him go forward alone, for thesake of his own greatness--who can tell?"
Again no one answered him. He had not perceived Miriam, and John Turner,with that light step which sometimes goes with a vast bulk, had placedhimself between her and the firelight. Monsieur de Gemosac rose to hisfeet and stood looking seaward. The snow-clouds were rolling away to thewest, and the moon, breaking through, was beginning to illumine the wildsky.
"Gentlemen," said the Marquis, "they have been gone a long time?"
Captain Clubbe moved restlessly, but he made no answer. The Marquis had,of course, spoken in French, and the Captain had no use for thatlanguage.
The group round the fire had dwindled until only half a dozen remained.One after another the watchers had moved away uneasily toward the beach.The Marquis was right--the boat had been gone too long.
At last the moon broke through, and the snowy scene was almost as lightas day.
John Turner was looking along the beach to the south, and one afteranother the watchers by the fire turned their anxious eyes in the samedirection. The sea, whipped white, was bare of any wreck. "The Last Hope"of Farlingford was gone. She had broken up or rolled into deep water.
A number of men were coming up the shingle in silence. Sea Andrew,dragging his feet wearily, approached in advance of them.
"Boat's thrown up on the beach," he said to Captain Clubbe. "Stove in bya sea. We've found them."
He stood back and the others, coming slowly into the light, depositedtheir burdens side by side near the fire. The Marquis, who had understoodnothing, took a torch from the hand of a bystander and held it downtoward the face of the man they had brought last.
It was Loo Barebone, and the clean-cut, royal features seemed to wear areflective smile.
Miriam had come forward toward the fire, and by chance or by some vagueinstinct the bearers had laid their burden at her feet. After all, asJohn Turner had said, Loo Barebone had come back to her. She had deniedhim twice, and the third time he would take no denial. The taciturnsailors laid him there and stepped back--as if he was hers and this wasthe inevitable end of his short and stormy voyage.
She looked down at him with tired eyes. She had done the right, and thiswas the end. There are some who may say that she had done what shethought was right, and this only seemed to be the end. It may be so.
The Marquis de Gemosac was dumb for once. He looked round him with ahalf-defiant question in his eyes. Then he pointed a lean finger downtoward the dead man's face.
"Others may question," he said, "but I know--I _know_."
THE END
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