The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

“Then perhaps you do not think you are obliged by my awakening you to life?” said I.

  “Yes, my friend, I am much obliged,” said he with vivacity. “Any fool can die. To live is the true business of life. Mark what you do: you make me know tobacco again, you enable me to eat and drink, and these things are pleasures which were denied me in that cabin there. You recall me to the enjoyment of my gains, nay, of more—of my own and the gains of our company. You make me, as you make yourself, a rich man; the world opens before me anew, and very brilliantly—to be sure, I am obliged.”

  “The world is certainly before you, as it is before me,” said I, “but that’s all; we have got to get there.”

  He flourished his pipe, and ’twas like the flight of Death through the gloomy fire-tinctured air.

  “That must come. We are two. Yesterday you were one, and I can understand your despair. But these arms—stupor has not wasted so much as the dark line of a finger-nail of muscle. You too are no girl. Courage! between us we shall manage. How long is it since you sailed from England?”

  “We sailed last month a year from the Thames for Callao.”

  “And what is the news?” said he, taking a pannikin of wine from the oven and sipping it. “Last year! ’Tis twelve years since I was in Paris and three years since we had news from Europe.”

  News! thought I; to tell this man the news, as he calls it, would oblige me to travel over fifty years of history.

  “Why, Mr. Tassard,” said I, “there’s plenty of things happening, you know, for Europe’s full of kings and queens, and two or more of them are nearly always at loggerheads; but sailors—merchantmen like myself—hear little of what goes on. We know the name of our own sovereign and what wages sailors are getting; that’s about it, sir. In fact, at this moment I could tell you more about Chili and Peru than England and France.”

  “Is there war between our nations?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said I.

  “Ha!” he cried, “I doubt if this time you will come off so easily. You have good men in Hawke and Anson; but Jonquière and St. George, hey? and Maçon, Cellie, Letenduer!”

  He shook his head knowingly, and an air of complacency, that would be indescribable but for the word French, overspread his face. I knew the name of Jonquière as an admiral who had fought us in 1748 or thereabouts; of the others I had never heard. But I held my peace, which I suppose he put down to good manners, for he changed the subject by asking if I was married. I answered, No, and inquired if he had a wife.

  “A wife!” cried he; “what should a man of my calling do with a wife? No, no! we gather such flowers as we want off the high seas, and wear them till the perfume palls. They prove stubborn though; our graces are not always relished. Trentanove reckoned himself the most killing among us, and by St. Barnabas he proved so, for three ladies—passengers of beauty and distinction—slew themselves for his sake. Do you understand me? They preferred the knife to his addresses. I,” said he, tapping his breast and grinning, “was always fortunate.”

  He looked a complete satyr as he thus spoke, with his hairy cap, grey beard, long nose, little cunning shining eyes, and broken fangs; and a chill of disgust came upon me. But I had already seen enough of him to understand that he was a man of a very formidable character, and that he had awakened after eight-and-forty years of insensibility as real a pirate at heart as ever he had been, and that it therefore behoved me to deal very warily with him, and above all not to let him suspect my thoughts. Yet he seemed a person superior to the calling he had adopted. His English was good, and his articulation indicated a quality of breeding. Whilst he smoked his pipe out he told me a story of an action between this schooner and a French Indiaman. I will not repeat it; it was mere butchery, with features of diabolic cruelty; but what affected me more violently than the horrors of the narrative was his cool and easy recital of his own and the deeds of his companions. You saw that he had no more conscience in him than the death’s head he puffed at, and that his idea was there was no true greatness to be met with out of enormity. Well, thought I, as I stepped to the corner for some coal, if I was afraid of this creature when he was dead, to what condition of mind shall I be reduced by his being alive?

  1 I can give the reader no better idea of the cold of the latitudes in which this schooner had lain, than by speaking of the brandy as being frozen. This may have happened through its having lost twenty or thirty percent of its Strength.—P. R.

  2 So in Mr. Rodney’s MS.

  THE FROZEN PIRATE, by W. Clark Russell (Part 2)

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE TREASURE

  When his pipe was out he rose and made several strides about the cook-room, then took the lanthorn, and entering the cabin stood awhile surveying the place.

  “So this would have been my coffin but for you, Mr. Rodney?” said he. “I was in good company, though,” pointing over his shoulder at the crucifix with his thumb. “Lord, how the rogues prayed and cursed in this same cabin! In fine weather, and when all was well, the sharks in our wake had more religion than they; but the instant they were in danger, down they tumbled upon their quivering knees, and if heaven was twice as big as it is, it could not have held saints enough for those varlets to petition.”

  “You were nearly all Spaniards?”

  “Ay; the worst class of men a ship could enter these seas with. But for our calling they are the fittest of all the nations in the world; better even than the Portuguese, and with truer trade instincts than the trained mulatto—nimbler artists in roguery than ever a one of them. I despise their superstition, but they are the better pirates for it. They carry it as a man might a feather bed; it enables them to fall soft. D’ye take me?” He gave one of his short loud laughs, and said, “I hope this slope won’t increase. The angle’s stiff enough as it is. ’Twill be like living on the roof of a house. I have a mind to see how she lies. What d’ye say, Mr. Rodney? shall I venture into the open?”

  “Why not?” said I. “You can move briskly. You have as much life as ever you had.”

  “Let’s go, then,” he exclaimed, and climbing the ladder he pushed open the companion-door and stepped on to the deck. I followed with but little solicitude, as you may suppose, as to what might attend his exposure. The blast of the gale though it was broken into downwards eddying dartings by the rocks, made him bawl out with the sting of it, and for some moments he could think of nothing but the cold, stamping the deck, and beating his hands.

  “Ha!” cried he, grinning to the smart of his cheeks, “this is not the cook-room, eh? Great thunder, you will not have it that this ice has been drifting north? Why, man, ’tis icier by twenty degrees than when we were first locked up.”

  “I hope not,” said I; “and I think not. Your blood doesn’t course strong yet, and you are fresh from the furnace. Besides, it is blowing a bitter cold gale. Look at that sky and listen to the thunder of the sea!”

  The commotion was indeed terribly uproarious. The spume as before was blowing in clouds of snow over the ice, and fled in very startling flashes of whiteness under the livid drapery of the sky. The wind itself sounded like the prolonged echo of a discharge of monster ordnance, and it screeched and whistled hideously where it struck the peaks and edges of the cliffs and swept through the schooner’s masts. The rending noises of the ice in all directions were distinct and fearful. The Frenchman looked about him with consternation, and to my surprise crossed himself.

  “May the blessed Virgin preserve us!” he said. “Do you say we have drifted north? If this is not the very heart of the south pole you shall persuade me we are on the equator.”

  “It cannot storm too terribly for us, as you just now said,” I replied. “I want this island to go to pieces.”

  As I said this a solid pillar of ice just beyond the brow of the hill on the starboard side was dislodged or blown down; it fell with a mighty crash, and filled the air with crystal splinters. Tassard started back with a faint cry of “Bon Dieu!”

  “Judge for yourself
how the ship lies,” said I; “this is freezing work.”

  He went aft and looked over the stern, then walked to the larboard rail and peered over the side.

  “Is there ice beyond that opening?” he asked, pointing over the taffrail.

  “No,” I answered; “that goes to the sea. There is a low cliff beyond. Mark that cloud of white; it is the spray hurled athwart the mouth of this hollow.”

  “Good,” he mumbled with his teeth chattering. “The change is marvellous. There was ice for a quarter of a mile where that slope ends. ’Tis too cold to converse here.”

  “There are your companions,” said I, pointing to the two bodies lying a little distance before the mainmast.

  He marched up to them, and exclaimed, “Yes, this is Trentanove and that is Barros. Both were blind, but they are blinder now. Would they thank you to arouse them out of their comfortable sleep and force them to feel as I do, this cold to which they are now as insensible as I was? By heaven, for my part, I can stand it no longer;” and with that he ran briskly to the hatch.

  I followed him to the cook-room and he crept so close to the furnace that I thought he had a mind to roast himself. No doubt, newly come to life as he was, the cold hurt him more than me, and maybe the tide of those animal spirits which had in his former existence furnished him with a brute courage had not yet flowed full to his mind; still I questioned even in his heydey if there had ever been much more than the swashbuckler in him, which opinion, however, could only increase the anxiety his companionship was like to cause me by obliging me to understand that I must prepare myself for treachery, and on no account whatever to suppose for a moment that he was capable of the least degree of gratitude or was to be swerved from any design he might form by considerations of my claim upon him as his preserver.

  It is among the wonders of human nature that antagonisms should be found to flourish under such conditions of hopelessness, misery, and anguish as make those who languish under them the most pitiful wretches under God’s eye. But so it has been, so it is, so it will ever be. Two men in an open boat at sea, their lips frothing with thirst, their eyes burning with famine, shall fall upon each other and fight to the death. Two men on an island, two miserable castaways whose dismal end can only be a matter of a week or two, eye each other morosely, give each other injurious words, break away and sullenly live, each man by himself, on opposite sides of their desert prison. Beasts do not act thus, nor birds, nor reptiles—only man. What was in the Frenchman Tassard’s mind I do not know; in mine was fear, dislike, profound distrust, a great uneasiness, albeit we were alone, we were brothers in affliction and distress, as completely sundered from the world to which we belonged as if we lay stranded in the icy moon, speaking in the same tongue and believing in the same God!

  The heat comforted him presently, and he put a lump of wine into the oven to melt, and this comforted him also.

  “I can converse now,” said he. “Perhaps after all the danger lies more in the imagination than in the fact. But it is a hideous naked scene, and needs no such colouring as the roaring of wind, the rushing of seas, and the crashing falls of masses of ice to render it frightful.”

  “You tell me,” said I, “that when you fell asleep”—I would sometimes express his frozen state thus—”there was a quarter of a mile of ice beyond the schooner’s stern.”

  “At least a quarter of a mile,” he answered. “Day after day it would be built up till it came to a face of that extent.”

  I thought to myself if it has taken forty-eight years of the wear and tear of storm and surge to extinguish a quarter of a mile, how long a time must elapse before this island splits up? But then I reflected that during the greater part of those years this seat of ice had been stuck very low south where the cold was so extreme as to make it defy dissolution; that since then, it was come away from the main and stealing north, so that what might have taken thirty years to accomplish in seventy degrees of south latitude, might be performed in a day on the parallel of sixty degrees in the summer season in these seas.

  Tassard continued speaking with the pannikin in his hand, and his eyes shut as if to get the picture of the schooner’s position fair before his mind’s vision: “There was a quarter of a mile of ice beyond the ship: I have it very plain in my sight: it was a great muddle of hillocks, for the ice pressed thick and hard, and raised us and vomited up peaks and rocks to the squeeze. Suppose I have been asleep a week?” Here he opened his eyes and gazed at me.

  “Well?” said I.

  “I say,” he continued in the tone of one easily excited into passion, “a week. It will not have been more. It is impossible. Never mind about your eighteen hundred and one,” showing his fangs in a sarcastic grin; “a week is long enough, friend. Then this is what I mean to say: that the breaking away of a quarter of a mile of ice in a week is fine work, full of grand promise: the next wrench—which might come now as I speak, or tomorrow, or in a week—the next wrench may bring away the rock on which we are lodged, and the rest is a matter of patience—which we can afford, hey? for we are but two—there is plenty of meat and liquor and the reward afterwards is a princely independence, Mr. Paul Rodney.”

  I was struck with the notion of the bed of ice on which the schooner lay going afloat, and said, “Are sea and wind to be helped, think you? If the block on which we lie could be detached, it might beat a bit against its parent stock, but would not unite again. The schooner’s canvas might be made to help it along—though suppose it capsized!”

  “We must consider,” said he; “there is no need to hurry. When the wind falls we will survey the ice.”

  He warmed himself afresh, and after remaining silent with the air of one turning many thoughts over in his mind, he suddenly cried, “D’ye know I have a mind to view the plate and money below. What say you?”

  His little eyes seemed to sparkle with suspicion as he directed them at me. I was confident he suspected I had lied in saying I knew nothing of this treasure and that he wanted to see if I had meddled with those chests. One of the penalties attached to a man being forced to keep the company of liars is, he himself is never believed by them. I answered instantly, “Certainly; I should like to see this wonderful booty. It is right that we should find out at once if it is there; for supposing it vanished we should be no better than madmen to sit talking here of the fine lives we shall live if ever we get home.”

  He picked up the lanthorn and said, “I must go to your cabin: it was the captain’s. The keys of the chests should be in one of his boxes.”

  He marched off, and was so long gone that I was almost of belief he had tumbled down in a fit. However, I had made up my mind to act a very wary part; and particularly never to let him think I distrusted him, and so I would not go to see what he was about. But what I did was this: the arms-room was next door: I lighted a candle, entered it, and swiftly armed myself with a sort of dagger, a kind of boarding-knife, a very murderous little two-edged sword, the blade about seven inches long, and the haft of brass. There were some fifty of these weapons, and I took the first that came to my hand and dropped it into the deep side pocket of my coat and returned to the cook-room. It was not that I was afraid of going unarmed with this man into the hold: there was no more danger to me there than here: should he ever design to despatch me, one place was the same as another, for the dead above could not testify: there were no witnesses in this white and desolate kingdom. What resolved me to go armed was the fear that should the treasure be missing—and who was to swear that the schooner had never been visited once in eight-and-forty years?—the Frenchman, who was persuaded his stupor had not lasted above a week, and who was doubtless satisfied the chests were in the hold down to the period when he lost recollection, would suspect me of foul play, and in the barbarous rage of a pirate fall upon and endeavour to kill me. Thus you will see that I had no very high opinion of the morals and character of the man I had given life to; and indeed, after I had armed myself and was seated again before the furnace, I felt e
xtremely melancholy, and underwent the severest dejection of spirits that had yet visited me, fearing that my humanity had achieved nothing more than to bring me into the society of a devil, who would prove a fixed source of anxiety and misery to me. Was it conceivable that the others should be worse than, or even as bad as, this creature? His hair showed him hoary in vice. The Italian was a handsome man, and let him have been as profligate as he would, as cruel and fierce a pirate as Tassard had painted him, he would at all events have proved a sightly companion, and harmless as being blind, though to be sure for that reason of no use to me. Yet though his blindness would have made him a burden, I had rather have thawed him into life than the Frenchman.

  The mere thought of feeling under an obligation to arm myself filled me with such vindictive passions that I protest as I sat alone waiting for him. I felt as if it were a duty I owed myself to return him to the condition in which I found him, which was to be easily contrived by my binding him in his sleep and dragging him to the deck and leaving him to stupefy alongside the body of the giant Joam Barros. “Peace!” cried I to myself with a shiver; “villain that thou art to harbor such thoughts! Thou art a hundred-fold worse than the wretch against whom Satan is setting thee plotting to think thus vilely.” I gulped down this bolus of conscience with the help of a draught of wine, and it did me good. Lord, how dangerous is loneliness to a man! Depend upon it, your seeker after solitude is only hunting for the road that leads to Bedlam.

  It might be that he was long because of having to seek for the keys; but my own conviction was that he found the keys easily and stayed to rummage the boxes for such jewels and articles of value as he might there find. I think he was gone near half an hour; he then returned to the cook-house, saying briefly, “I have the keys,” and jingling them, and after warming himself, said, “Let us go.”

  I was moving towards the forecastle.

  “Not that way for the run,” cried he.