Dead Men Tell No Tales by E. W. Hornung (interesting novels in english TXT) 📕
- Author: E. W. Hornung
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“I am not dear, and I’m not yours,” she cries. “I’m only a school-girl - you have all but told me so before to-day! If I were a man - if I were you - I should tell Captain Harris what I thought of him!”
“Why? What has he done now?”
“Now? You know how rude he was to poor Mr. Ready this very afternoon!”
It was true. He had been very rude indeed. But Ready also had been at fault. It may be that I was always inclined to take an opposite view, but I felt bound to point this out, and at any cost.
“You mean when Ready asked him if we were out of our course? I must say I thought it was a silly question to put. It was the same the other evening about the cargo. If the skipper says we’re in ballast why not believe him? Why repeat steerage gossip, about mysterious cargoes, at the cuddy table? Captains are always touchy about that sort of thing. I wasn’t surprised at his letting out.”
My poor love stares at me in the starlight. Her great eyes flash their scorn. Then she gives a little smile - and then a little nod - more scornful than all the rest.
“You never are surprised, are you, Mr. Cole?” says she. “You were not surprised when the wretch used horrible language in front of me! You were not surprised when it was a - dying man - whom he abused!”
I try to soothe her. I agree heartily with her disgust at the epithets employed in her hearing, and towards an invalid, by the irate skipper. But I ask her to make allowances for a rough, uneducated man, rather clumsily touched upon his tender spot. I shall conciliate her presently; the divine pout (so childish it was!) is fading from her lips; the starlight is on the tulle and lace and roses of her pretty evening dress, with its festooned skirts and obsolete flounces; and I am watching her, ay, and worshipping her, though I do not know it yet. And as we stand there comes another snatch from the forecastle: -
“What will you do, love, when I am going. With white sail flowing, The seas beyond? What will you do, love - “
“They may make the most of that song,” says Miss Denison grimly; “it’s the last they’ll have from me. Get up as many more concerts as you like. I won’t sing at another unless it’s in the fo’c’sle. I’ll sing to the men, but not to Captain Harris. He didn’t put in an appearance tonight. He shall not have another chance of insulting me.”
Was it her vanity that was wounded after all? “You forget,” said I, “that you would not answer when he addressed you at dinner.”
“I should think I wouldn’t, after the way he spoke to Mr. Ready; and he too agitated to come to table, poor fellow!”
“Still, the captain felt the open slight.”
“Then he shouldn’t have used such language in front of me.”
“Your father felt it, too, Miss Denison.”
I hear nothing plainer than her low but quick reply:
“Mr. Cole, my father has been dead many; many years; he died before I can remember. That man only married my poor mother. He sympathizes with Captain Harris - against me; no father would do that. Look at them together now! And you take his side, too; oh! I have no patience with any of you - except poor Mr. Ready in his berth.”
“But you are not going.”
“Indeed I am. I am tired of you all.”
And she was gone with angry tears for which I blamed myself as I fell to pacing the weather side of the poop - and so often afterwards! So often, and with such unavailing bittertness !
Senhor Santos and the captain were in conversation by the weather rail. I fancied poor old Harris eyed me with suspicion, and I wished he had better cause. The Portuguese, however, saluted me with his customary courtesy, and I thought there was a grave twinkle in his steady eye.
“Are you in deesgrace also, friend Cole?” he inquired in his all but perfect English.
“More or less,” said I ruefully.
He gave the shrug of his country - that delicate gesture which is done almost entirely with the back - a subtlety beyond the power of British shoulders.
“The senhora is both weelful and pivish,” said he, mixing the two vowels which (with the aspirate) were his only trouble with our tongue. “It is great grif to me to see her growing so unlike her sainted mother!”
He sighed, and I saw his delicate fingers forsake the cigarette they were rolling to make the sacred sign upon his breast. He was always smoking one cigarette and making another; as he lit the new one the glow fell upon a strange pin that he wore, a pin with a tiny crucifix inlaid in mosaic. So the religious cast of Senhor Santos was brought twice home to me in the same moment, though, to be sure, I had often been struck by it before. And it depressed me to think that so sweet a child as Eva Denison should have spoken harshly of so good a man as her stepfather, simply because he had breadth enough to sympathize with a coarse old salt like Captain Harris.
I turned in, however, and I cannot say the matter kept me awake in the separate state-room which was one luxury of our empty saloon. Alas? I was a heavy sleeper then.
“Wake up, Cole! The ship’s on fire!”
It was young Ready’s hollow voice, as cool, however, as though he were telling me I was late for breakfast. I started up and sought him wildly in the darkness.
“You’re joking,” was my first thought and utterance; for now he was lighting my candle, and blowing out the match with a care that seemed in itself a contradiction.
“I wish I were,” he answered. “Listen to that!”
He pointed to my cabin ceiling; it quivered and creaked; and all at once I was as a deaf man healed.
One gets inured to noise at sea, but to this day it passes me how even I could have slept an instant in the abnormal din which I now heard raging above my head. Sea-boots stamped; bare feet pattered; men bawled; women shrieked; shouts of terror drowned the roar of command.
“Have we long to last?” I asked, as I leaped for my clothes.
“Long enough for you to dress comfortably. Steady, old man! It’s only just been discovered; they may get it under. The panic’s the worst part at present, and we’re out of that.”
But was Eva Denison? Breathlessly I put the question; his answer was reassuring. Miss Denison was with her stepfather on the poop. “And both of ‘em as cool as cucumbers,” added Ready.
They could not have been cooler than this young man, with death at the bottom of his bright and sunken eyes. He was of the type which is all muscle and no constitution; athletes one year, dead men the next; but until this moment the athlete had been to me a mere and incredible tradition. In the afternoon I had seen his lean knees totter under the captain’s fire. Now, at midnight - the exact time by my watch - it was as if his shrunken limbs had expanded in his clothes; he seemed hardly to know his own flushed face, as he caught sight of it in my mirror.
“By Jove!” said he, “this has put me in a fine old fever; but I don’t know when I felt in better fettle. If only they get it under! I’ve not looked like this all the voyage.”
And he admired himself while I dressed in hot haste: a fine young fellow; not at all the natural egotist, but cast for death by the doctors, and keenly incredulous in his bag of skin. It revived one’s confidence to hear him talk. But he forgot himself in an instant, and gave me a lead through the saloon with a boyish eagerness that made me actually suspicious as I ran. We were nearing the Line. I recalled the excesses of my last crossing, and I prepared for some vast hoax at the last moment. It was only when we plunged upon the crowded quarter-deck, and my own eyes read lust of life and dread of death in the starting eyes of others, that such lust and such dread consumed me in my turn, so that my veins seemed filled with fire and ice.
To be fair to those others, I think that the first wild panic was subsiding even then; at least there was a lull, and even a reaction in the right direction on the part of the males in the second class and steerage. A huge Irishman at their head, they were passing buckets towards the after-hold; the press of people hid the hatchway from us until we gained the poop; but we heard the buckets spitting and a hose-pipe hissing into the flames below; and we saw the column of white vapor rising steadily from their midst.
At the break of the poop stood Captain Harris, his legs planted wide apart, very vigorous, very decisive, very profane. And I must confess that the shocking oaths which had brought us round the Horn inspired a kind of confidence in me now. Besides, even from the poop I could see no flames. But the night was as beautiful as it had been an hour or two back; the stars as brilliant, the breeze even more balmy, the sea even more calm; and we were hove-to already, against the worst.
In this hour of peril the poop was very properly invaded by all classes of passengers, in all manner of incongruous apparel, in all stages of fear, rage, grief and hysteria; as we made our way among this motley nightmare throng, I took Ready by the arm.
“The skipper’s a brute,” said I, “but he’s the right brute in the right place tonight, Ready !”
“I hope he may be,” was the reply. “But we were off our course this afternoon; and we were off it again during the concert, as sure as we’re not on it now.”
His tone made me draw him to the rail.
“But how do you know? You didn’t have another look, did you?”
“Lots of looks-at the stars. He couldn’t keep me from consulting them; and I’m just as certain of it as I’m certain that we’ve a cargo aboard which we’re none of us supposed to know anything about.”
The latter piece of gossip was, indeed, all over the ship; but this allusion to it struck me as foolishly irrelevant and frivolous. As to the other matter, I suggested that the officers would have had more to say about it than Ready, if there had been anything in it.
“Officers be damned!” cried our consumptive, with a sound man’s vigor. “They’re ordinary seamen dressed up; I don’t believe they’ve a second mate’s certificate between them, and they’re frightened out of their souls.”
“Well, anyhow, the skipper isn’t that.”
“No; he’s drunk; he can shout straight, but you should hear him try to speak.”
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