Neither of the Girdlestones appeared inclined to enlighten him upon the point.
“What’s the town?” asked Ezra.
“Eastbourne,” the fisherman answered shortly, and lounged away into the bows, while his son remained at the tiller.
The two fugitives had their breakfast; but as it consisted of nothing more appetising than tinned corned-beef and ships’ biscuits, and as neither of them had much inclination for food, it was not a very lengthy meal. Then they sat in the sheets once more, watching the grand panorama of green woodland and swelling down and towering cliff, which passed before them on the one side while on the other the great ocean highway was dotted with every variety of vessel, from the Portland ketch or the Sunderland brig, with its cargo of coals, to the majestic four-masted liner which swept past, with the green waves swirling round her forefoot and breaking away into a fork of eddying waters in her wake.
Ezra cautioned his father to sit down, for he observed a row of curious faces gazing at them over the quarter of one great vessel.
“Our dress isn’t quite what you would expect to see in a fishing-boat,” he said. “There is no use setting tongues wagging.” There was still a fresh breeze, and the little boat continued to fly before it at the rate of six or eight knots. “This wind is a lucky chance,” Ezra remarked, rather to himself than to his companion.
“It is the working of Providence,” answered John Girdlestone, with an earnestness which showed that his mind still retained its habitual peculiarity.
By ten o’clock they were abreast of the long stone terraces of Hastings; at half-past eleven they saw the masts of the fishing-smacks of Winchelsea. By one they were rounding the sharp bold promontory of Dungeness. They kept further to sea after that, so that the long white wall and the spires of Folkestone and of Dover lay far on the horizon. On the other side a dim haze upon the blue water marked the position of the French coast. It was nearly five, and the sun was beginning to sink down again in the west, when the fisherman, after gazing steadily ahead for some time, with his horny hand shading his eyes, touched Ezra on the sleeve.
“See them breakers over there,” he said, pointing over the starboard bow. Far away Ezra could see a long roll of foam breaking the monotony of the broad stretch of ocean. “Them’s the Goodwins,” he went on; “and them craft ahead is at anchor in the Downs.”
The vessels in question were miles away, but Ezra brightened up at the sight of their destination, and he once again arranged his toilet and that of his father.
“Thank goodness!” he muttered, with a long sigh of relief as he peered at the ships, which were growing clearer and larger every moment. “That outer one is the Black Eagle, or I am much mistaken. He’s not gone yet!”
“That is the Black Eagle,” his father said with confidence. “I know her by the cut of her stern and the rake of her masts.”
As they came nearer still, any lingering doubt was finally dispelled.
“There’s the white paint line,” said Ezra. “It’s certainly her.
Take us alongside that ship which is lying to the outside there,
Sampson.”
The fisherman looked ahead once more. “To the barque which has just got her anchor up?” he said. “Why, we won’t be in time to catch her.”
“Her anchor up!” screamed Ezra. “You don’t mean to tell me she’s off!”
“Look at that!” the man answered.
As he spoke they saw first one great square of canvas appear above the vessel, and then another, until she had spread her white wings to their fullest extent.
“Don’t say we can’t catch her!” cried Ezra, with a furious oath.
“I tell you, man, that we must catch her. Everything depends on that.”
“She must take three short tacks before she’s out from the Goodwins. If we run right on as we are going, we may get near her before she’s free.”
“For God’s sake! clap on all the sail you can! Get these reefs out!” With trembling fingers Ezra let out the sail, and the boat lay over further under the increased pressure. “Is there no other sail that we could put up?”
“If we were running, we could rig up a spinnaker,” the fisherman answered; “but the wind has come round three points. We can do no more.”
“I think we are catching her,” John Girdlestone cried, keeping his eyes fixed upon the barque, which was about a mile and a half ahead.
“Yes, we are now, but she hain’t got her way on yet. She’ll draw ahead presently; won’t she, Jarge?”
The fisherman’s son nodded, and burst into hoarse merriment.
“It’s better’n a race,” he cried.
“With our necks for a prize,” Ezra muttered to himself.
“It’s a little too exciting to be pleasant. We are still gaining.”
They had a clear view of the dark hull and towering canvas of the barque as she swept along in front of them, intending evidently to take advantage of the wind in order to get outside the Goodwins before beating up Channel.
“She’s going about,” Sampson remarked. As he spoke the snow-white pile lay over in the opposite direction, and the whole broadside of the vessel became visible to them, every sail standing out as though carved from ivory against the cold blue sky. “If we don’t catch her on this tack we won’t get her at all,” the fisherman observed. “When they put about next they’ll reach right out into the Channel.”
“Where’s something white?” said Ezra excitedly. He dived into the cabin and reappeared with a dirty table-cloth. “Stand up here, father! Now keep on waving it! They may see you.”
“I think as we are overhaulin’ of them,” remarked the boy.
“We’re doing that,” his father answered. “The question is, will we get near enough to stop ‘em afore they gets off on the next tack?”
The old merchant was standing in the bows waving the signal in the air. His son sprang up beside him and flourished his handkerchief. “They don’t look more than half a mile off. Let us shout together.” The two blended their voices in a hoarse roar, which was taken up by the boatman and his son. “Once again!” cried Ezra; and again their shout resounded over the sea — a long-drawn cry it was, with a ring of despair and of sorrow. Still the barque kept steadily on her way.
“If they don’t go about we shall catch them,” the fisherman said.
“If they keep on another five minutes we are right.”
“Do you hear that?” Ezra cried to his father; and they both shouted with new energy and waved their signals.
“They’re goin’ about,” George burst in. “It’s all up.” Girdlestone groaned as he saw the mainyard swing back. They all strained their eyes, waiting for the other to follow. It remained stationary.
“They have seen us!” cried the fisherman. “They are waitin’ to pick us up!”
“Then we are saved!” said Ezra, stepping down and wiping the perspiration which poured from his forehead. “Go down into the cabin, father, and put yourself straight. You look like a ghost.”
Captain Hamilton Miggs had found the liquor of the Cock and Cowslip so very much to his taste, in spite of its vitriolic peculiarities recorded in a preceding chapter, that he rejoined his ship in a very shaky and demoralised condition. He was a devout believer in the homoeopathic revelation that like may be cured by like, so he forthwith proceeded to set himself straight by the consumption of an unlimited quantity of ship’s rum. “What’s the good of having a pilot aboard if I am to keep sober?” he hiccoughed to his mate McPherson. After which piece of logic he shut himself up in his cabin and roared comic songs all the way from London to Gravesend. He was so exhausted by his performance that he fell fast asleep, and snored stertorously for fifteen hours, at the end of which time he came on deck and found that the Black Eagle was lying off Deal, and that her anchor was just being hoisted for a start up Channel.
Captain Hamilton Miggs watched the sail-setting with his hands in his pockets, and swore promiscuously at every one, from the ma
te downwards, in a hearty comprehensive way, which showed a mind that was superior to petty distinctions. Having run over all the oaths that he could think of, he dived below and helped himself from the rum bottle, a process which appeared to aid his memory or his invention, for he reappeared upon deck and evolved a new many-jointed expletive at the man at the wheel. He then strode in gloomy majesty up and down the quarter-deck, casting his eyes at the sails and at the clouds in a critical way calculated to impress the crew generally with a sense of their captain’s extraordinary sagacity.
The Blank Eagle had gone about for the second time, and was just about to free herself from the Goodwins and reach out into the Channel, when Miggs’ eye happened to fall upon the fishing boat in pursuit and the white flutter in her bows. He examined her with his glass, steadying it as well as he could by leaning it across the rail, as his hand was very shaky. After a short inspection, a look of astonishment, followed by one of resignation, stole over his features.
“I’ve got them again, Mac,” he remarked to the mate.
“Got what, sir?”
“The diddleums, the jumps, the visions. It’s the change of air as has done it.”
“You look all right,” remarked the mate in a sympathetic voice.
“So I may; but I’ve got ‘em. It’s usually rats — rats, and sometimes cockroaches; but it’s worse than that this time. As I’m a livin’ man, I looked through the glass at that fishing-boat astern of us, and I saw young Muster Ezra Girdlestone in it, and the old boss standin’ up wi’ a yachtin’-cap at the side of his head and waving a towel. This is the smartest bout that ever I have had. I’ll take some of the medicine left from my last touch and I’ll turn in.” He vanished down the companion, and having taken a strong dose of bromide of potassium, tumbled into his bunk, cursing loudly at his ill luck.
The astonishment of McPherson upon deck was as great as that of Captain Miggs, when, on looking through the glass, he ascertained beyond all doubt that both of his employers were in the fishing-boat. He at once ordered the mainyard to be hauled back and awaited their arrival. In a few minutes the boat was alongside, a ladder thrown down, and the two Girdlestones were on the deck of their own ship.
“Where’s the captain?” asked the head of the firm.
“He’s below, sir. He’s no very salubrious.” The mate’s love of long words rose superior to any personal emotion.
“You can square the yard,” said Ezra. “We are going with you.”
“Ay, ay, sir. Square away that yard there!” It swung round into position, and the Black Eagle resumed her voyage.
“There is some business to be looked after in Spain,” Girdlestone remarked to McPherson. “It came up suddenly or we should have given you notice. It was absolutely necessary that we should be there personally. It was more convenient to go in our own vessel than to wait for a passenger ship.”
“Where will you sleep, sir?” asked the mate. “I doubt the accommodation’s no very munificent.”
“There are two settees in the cabin. We can do on them very well. I think we can’t do better than go down there at once, for we have had a long and tiring journey.”
After they had disappeared into the cabin, McPherson trod the deck for the remainder of his watch with a grave and a thoughtful face. Like most of his countrymen he was shrewd and long-headed. It struck him that it was a very strange thing for the two partners to be absent at the same time from their business. Again, where was their luggage? Grave misgivings arose in his mind as to the reason of it all. He kept them to himself, however, and contented himself with remarking to the carpenter that in all his experience he had never met with a more “monumentous episode.”
CHAPTER XLIX.
A VOYAGE IN A COFFIN SHIP.
The early part of the voyage of the Black Eagle was extremely fortunate. The wind came round to the eastward, and wafted them steadily down Channel, until on the third day they saw the Isle of Ushant lying low upon the sky-line. No inquisitive gunboat or lurking police launch came within sight of them, though whenever any vessel’s course brought her in their direction the heart of Ezra Girdlestone sank within him. On one occasion a small brig signalled to them, and the wretched fugitives, when they saw the flags run up, thought that all was lost. It proved, however, to be merely some trivial message, and the two owners breathed again.
The wind fell away on the day that they cleared the Channel, and the whole surface of the sea was like a great expanse of quicksilver, which shimmered in the rays of the wintry sun. There was still a considerable swell after the recent gale, and the Black Eagle lay rolling about as though she had learned habits of inebriation from her skipper. The sky was very clear above, but all round the horizon a low haze lay upon the water. So silent was it that the creaking of the boats as they swung at the davits, and the straining of the shrouds as the ship rolled, sounded loud and clear, as did the raucous cries of a couple of gulls which hovered round the poop. Every now and then a rumbling noise ending in a thud down below showed that the swing of the ship had caused something to come down with a run. Underlying all other sounds, however, was a muffled clank, clank, which might almost make one forget that this was a sailing ship, it sounded so like the chipping of a propeller.
“What is that noise, Captain Miggs?” asked John Girdlestone as he stood leaning over the quarter rail, while the old sea-dog, sextant in hand, was taking his midday observations. The captain had been on his good behaviour since the unexpected advent of his employers, and he was now in a wonderful and unprecedented state of sobriety.
“Them’s the pumps a-goin’,” Miggs answered, packing his sextant away in its case.
“The pumps! I thought they were only used when a ship was in danger?”
Ezra came along the deck at this moment, and listened with interest to the conversation.
“This ship is in danger,” Miggs remarked calmly.
“In danger!” cried Ezra, looking round the clear sky and placid sea.
“Where is the danger? I did not think you were such an old woman,
Miggs.”
“We will see about that,” the seaman answered angrily. “If a ship’s got no bottom in her she’s bound to be in danger, be the weather fair or foul.”
“Do you mean to tell me this ship has no bottom?”
“I mean to tell you that there are places where you could put your fingers through her seams. It’s only the pumpin’ that keeps her afloat.”
“This is a pretty state of things,” said Girdlestone. “How is it that I have not been informed of it before! It is most dangerous.”
“Informed!” cried Miggs. “Informed of it! Has there been a v’yage yet that I haven’t come to ye, Muster Girdlestone, and told ye I was surprised ever to find myself back in Lunnon? A year agone I told ye how this ship was, and ye laughed at me, ye did. It’s only when ye find yourselves on her in the middle o’ the broad sea that ye understan’ what it is that sailor folk have to put up wi’.”
Girdlestone was about to make some angry reply to this address, but his son put his hand on his arm to restrain him. It would never do to quarrel with Hamilton Miggs before they reached their port of refuge. They were too completely in his power.
“What the captain says has a great deal of truth in it,” he remarked, with a laugh. “You don’t realise a thing until you’ve had to experience it. The Black Eagle shall certainly have an overhauling next time, and we’ll see if we can’t give her captain an increase at the same time.”
Miggs gave a grunt which, might be taken as expressing thanks or as signifying doubt. Perhaps there was a mixture of both in his mind.
“I presume,” Girdlestone said, in a conciliatory voice, “that there would be no real danger as long as the weather was fine?”
“It won’t be fine long,” the captain answered gruffly. “The glass was well under thirty when I come up, and it is fallin’ fast. I’ve been about here before at this time o’ year in a calm, with a ground swell and a sinkin’
glass. No good ever came of it. Look there at the norrard. What d’ye make o’ that, Sandy?”
“In conjunction wi’ the descending glass, it has an ominous appairance,” the Scotchman answered, with much stress on the first syllable of the adjective.
The phenomenon which had attracted their professional attention did not appear to either of the Girdlestones to be a very important one. The haze on the horizon to the north was rather thicker than elsewhere, and a few thin streaky clouds straggled upwards across the clear cold heaven, like the feelers of some giant octopus which lay behind the fog bank. At the same time the sea changed in places from the appearance of quicksilver to that of grained glass.
“There’s the wind,” Miggs said confidently. “I’d furl the top-gallant sails and get her stay-sails down, Mr. McPherson.” Whenever he gave an order he was careful to give the mate his full title, though at other times he called him indiscriminately Sandy or Mac.
The mate gave the necessary commands, while Miggs dived down into the cabin. He came up again looking even graver than when he left the deck.
“The glass is nearly down to twenty-eight,” he said. “I never seed it as low since I’ve been at sea. Take in the mains’l, Mr. McPherson, and have the topsails reefed down!”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
There was no lack of noise now as the men hauled at the halliards with their shrill strange cries, which sounded like the piping of innumerable sea-birds. Half a dozen lay out on the yard above, tucking away the great sail and making all snug.
“Take a reef in the fores’l!” the mate roared, “and look alive about it!”
“Hurry up, ye swabs!” Miggs bellowed. “You’ll be blown away, every mother’s son of ye, if you don’t stir yourselves!”
Even the two landsmen could see now that the danger was no imaginary one, and that a storm was about to burst over them. The long black lines of vapour had lengthened and coalesced, until now the whole northern heaven was one great rolling black cloud, with an angry, ragged fringe which bespoke the violence of the wind that drove it. Here and there against the deep black background a small whitish or sulphur-coloured wreath stood clearly out, looking livid and dangerous. The whole great mass was sweeping onwards with prodigious and majestic rapidity, darkening the ocean beneath it, and emitting a dull, moaning, muttering sound, which was indescribably menacing and mournful.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 533