Читать книгу Wheels of Fortune - Coutts Brisbane - Страница 5

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"AIN'T Mr. Gilbert comin'?" asked Faro Lee as he stowed the basket of provisions and the big stoneware bottle of water in the after locker of the boat.

"No. He's busy with the steam carriage that Cornish fellow's building. It's a queer thing, Faro, how he'll work all day and half the night on that and never grumble, yet if anybody was to make him do half as much, even for good wages, he'd start making a noise at once," said Jim Vivian.

"Arrh!" Faro murmured. "It's along of his heart being in it, that's what. What the heart likes the hand does easy. When's the thing to be ready, Mr. Jim? They've been at it these three months now."

"Don't know, but not long now. D'you want to go for a ride on it, Faro?"

"I'd rather have a hoss any day, or this boat wi' a good breeze. It was Miss Ann that was asking. Met her down along by Farthing Copse. Reckon Mr. Gil ain't been meeting her so often lately. Told her he was mighty busy, I did, and the thing was most important, and she gave me a shilling. I s'pose it is important, in a way."

"Oh, Gil and the Cornishman think so, anyhow," muttered Jim, and stepping aboard the boat, shoved off as the gipsy lad cast loose the mooring line, then hoisted the lug.

They ran out of the bay before a light, fitful breeze, and some three miles ofd shore brought up near the tail of a submerged reef. As the boat drifted slowly before the breeze the boys got their lines out and began to fish.

The pair were oddly contrasted, for Jim was fair haired and grey eyed, while Faro was a typical Romany lad with raven black hair and eyes like sloes. Faro's father had fallen out with his people when he committed the unpardonable offence of living in a house. Old Squire Vivian had employed him as a gamekeeper, but he hadn't lived very long, leaving Faro an orphan when he was ten years old.

Faro was the faithful servant of the brothers most of the year, but when his gipsy kin were in the West Country he would disappear for a week or two, returning as suddenly as he had gone, to carry on with odd jobs till the wandering fit took him again.

He was clever with his hands, and Gilbert Vivian had offered to apprentice him to any craft he fancied. But Faro couldn't settle down to anything for very long. He wanted variety, and so remained a jack-of-all-trades, able to turn his hand to mending harness or a bit of carpentry, hammering out a horse-shoe or replacing a broken window pane.

"I s'pose a clever fellow might make machines to do most of the things we do by hand now?" Faro said after a long silence, during which they had each hauled in several good fish. "D'you think that steam thing t' Squire's making could send a boat along? It'd be good to be able to shove along wi'out rowing. Hey, look, Mr. Jim! Fog! Us had best be getting back."

Intent on fishing, they hadn't noticed that the haze above the land had thickened. Now a wall of fog was rolling down Channel, and a few moments later, even before the lines could be hauled in, it had wrapped them in its clammy folds and blotted out the shore.

"Well, we've got to row now, anyway," said Jim, and got out the oars.

The boat was heavy, the breeze was freshening, rowing was hard work. After half an hour's steady tugging, Jim lay on his oar.

"D'you hear surf yet?" he asked. "We ought to be close in under the head by now."

"We ain't. I don't hear anything," replied Faro. "You ain't allowed for the tide."

"It should be slackening by now," growled Jim, and they began to row again.

Another half-hour passed and still no sound of breakers came to them.

"We ought to have brought a compass," said Jim. "Don't let me forget next time. I believe the wind must have shifted round, and instead of rowing for shore we've been going up or down Channel. Well, best wait till it clears a bit. Let's eat."

There was nothing to worry about. They had often been out in wild weather. The boat was sound and seaworthy, and they had enough food and water for twenty-four hours at least.

"We'll get our bearings if it clears a bit overhead," said Jim. "The sun ought to be over there, and—Look out, Faro! She'll get us! Jump!"

It had happened in a few seconds. Out of the fog surged the tall, shadowy bulk of a ship, heaving over the swells. At one moment it towered above them, at the next the forefoot crashed down on the boat amidships, cutting her in two, even as Jim and Faro leaped up and hauled themselves into the bowsprit rigging, hanging on to the dolphin striker.

Above them they saw the white face of a carved figurehead, and heard next moment the bellow of a look-out.

"Boat ahead!" he roared. Then: "Been and run her down, sir," he added. "Two o' the crew coming aboard!"

Ropes' ends snaked down, the pair were hauled aboard over the fo'c'sle head and dumped on a white, well-scrubbed deck. Half a dozen men crowded round them.

"A fine bright look-out you were keeping!" cried Jim angrily. "You shouldn't be carrying on in thick weather like this. What ship's this, anyhow? A Geordie brig cleaned up a bit?"

"You stow your gab, young 'un, and thank your stars you're not drownded!" growled a big fellow with a beard. "It ain't many as would come off as well as you has and not even a wet jacket. And, look 'ee, keep a civil tongue when you talks of his Majesty's sloop Swallow. Pipe down, now! Here comes the first loot!"

Out of the fog that shrouded the after part of the ship stalked an officer clad in oilskins. He fixed the boys with a steely glare.

"Any more in that boat?" he asked crisply.

"No, sir. Only we two. But if you'd have had a drum beating on the fo'c'sle we'd have heard it, and had time to go clear," said Jim.

"And if you'd had a bell going we'd have heard it and steered clear of you. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. What's your name? Where d'you come from?" barked the lieutenant.

"Jim Vivian, from Coombe Wester, sir."

"Brother of Gilbert Vivian? I've met him when I dined with the mess of the Westshires. I'm Lieutenant Doughty, second in command of this hooker." He changed in a flash from the chilly officer to a cheery good fellow. "Sorry about your boat, but accidents will happen. I'll put you ashore as soon as we can get our bearings. By dead reckoning we should be abreast of the Start in an hour or so, but—"

"Beg pardon, sir, but there's something over there on the weather bow," interrupted the man with the beard, who was the ship's bos'n. "Something big, by the loom of her."

"Aloft, there! Look out over the weather bow!" roared Doughty, cupping his hands for speaking trumpet. "It's clearing a little. It's lifting. It's—"

He said no more, for at that moment, as though it had been the curtain of a theatre, the fog thinned out and rose. The bright sunlight poured down upon a wide space of sparkling sea some three or four miles in diameter, an amphitheatre walled by fog all round. And less than a mile away to windward lay a heavy frigate under all plain sail. The colours at her peak fluttered out, and in a flash Jim Vivian recognized the tricolour, the ensign of France.

"My shinin' stars—a Frenchie!" exclaimed the bos'n. "And she've got us where she best likes havin' us, tucked neat and handy within range, and—"

"All hands! Beat to quarters!" roared Lieutenant Doughty. "Watch, stand by to go about. Man the starboard battery!"

He raced aft shouting orders. Jim and Faro followed and brought up at the foot of the mainmast while men ran to their stations; buckets were filled and set by the guns, round shot thumped on the deck as the guns were loaded, all in double quick time. A plump little man wearing the full uniform of a commander came out on the quarterdeck.

"Ready—about!" bawled Doughty, and the ship's head came round.

"Why, we're running away from the Frenchman!" exclaimed Jim.

"And seein' she's big enough to eat us, bones and all, we'll be lucky if we're let do it!" growled a hoarse voice at his elbow. It was the bos'n, who, one eye on the pennant high aloft, was giving the time to the men at the braces. "Now then, starboard haul!" he bellowed, and as the yards swung the sloop spun about as briskly as a small sailing boat.

"Make fast!" cried the bos'n, and turned to stare over the quarter at the French ship.

She too was going about, but slowly and clumsily, as though she had an untrained crew. Jim and Faro followed the bos'n's gaze. They saw the frigate lengthen out as she swung, till her broadside bore on the flying sloop.

"Now we'll get it!" rumbled the bos'n, and as though the words had been an order, the frigate was suddenly wreathed in white smoke clouds. She had fired her broadside of some eighteen guns at the Swallow!

A moment later there was a crash forward, the crackle of splintering wood, several heavy thuds like the blows of a mighty hammer, a tremendous splashing alongside and astern. Splinters flew, a dismal shriek rang along the deck from forward, while a shower of spray fell upon the quarterdeck. Most of the missiles had fallen wide of the ship.

"Forward, there! How many hit?" roared the little commander. "Get them below at once! How much damage done?"

"Beg pardon, sir, but it's Purser, the gunroom pig, sir!" shouted someone. "He's done for. No one else hurt. Only the sty wrecked, sir."

"Pork chops for the gunroom a bit sooner than expected!" laughed the commander. "Ready, starboard battery?"

"Ready, sir," replied the gunnery lieutenant, glancing along the line of guns. At each the Number Three stood with rammer held erect in token that his piece was loaded.

The commander nodded and turned his telescope upon the enemy. Disappointed by the results of the broadside, which, if it had been better aimed, would have left the sloop a wreck, the French captain was crowding on sail. He wanted to get within close range before firing again, and so make certain of his prey. But he would have to be quick, for if the Swallow could reach the shelter of the fog bank she might yet get away.

"Aren't we going to fire at her?" Jim asked the bos'n. "Are we going to let them do it all?"

Lieutenant Doughty caught the words and grinned.

"Come here, my young fire-eater!" he said. "Now take a look at the Frenchie over yonder. I know that vessel. She's La Belle Bretagne, and carries thirty-six long thirty-two-pounders, and a crew of over three hundred men. This hooker carries eighteen six-pounder popguns and a hundred and twenty men. Not quite an even match, is it?"

"N-no, sir," replied Jim.

"Our duty is to fight the King's enemies, but not to lose the King's ship by running our heads against a stone wall. The odds are very much against us, for if that ship's crew were up to their work she should blow us out of the water. She probably will, at all events, if we don't have luck. Can you suggest anything?"

"N-no, sir—except we can wing her," replied Jim.

"Quite so-o," drawled Doughty. "She's closing up, but she's still at long range for our poppers. But we've got to keep her off if we can, so—have you ever fired a ship's gun?"

"No, sir."

"Then go to Number One gun on the starboard quarter, and try your luck!"

"Eh? Fire the gun, sir?" gasped Jim.

"That's what I said. Try your beginner's luck, for only luck will get us out of this hobble," said Doughty, still with the same grim smile. "Come along!"

Almost Jim felt as though he were dreaming. He bent over the gun and peeped along the barrel at the frigate, which was bowling along at a fine rate and rapidly gaining on the little sloop. He could see the white feather of spray at the sharp forefoot, catch the glint of steel as a group of small arms men gathered on the fo'c'sle head.

He measured the distance with his eye. It seemed to him no more than eight or nine hundred yards at most, but it would do no good to plump a six-pound shot into the frigate's tough timbers. If he was going to score at all it must be in the rigging.

"Put her nose up a bit, please," he asked the captain of the gun. "To throw about a couple of hundred yards farther."

Doughty nodded. The gunner whacked one of the wedges under the breach of the gun, loosening it. The muzzle rose a little.

"That's enough," said Jim, and almost lying on the gun, squinted along the sights.

The ship rose upon a swell. For a moment Jim saw the foresight clear against the Bretagne's fore-royal.

"Good enough!" he grunted, grabbed the lanyard, and waited.

The ship rose upon a swell.

Ten seconds, twenty! Again the sloop rose on a following swell. Jim jerked the lanyard smartly, the gun crashed and came leaping back in recoil—and Jim was lugged aside, just in time, by the watchful gunner.

There was a moment's breathless suspense, then a cheer rang out fore and aft as the frigate's fore-top-gallant mast swayed forward and fell amidst the billowing folds of the top-gallant and royal sails. Jim had had amazing luck! Nor was this all, for as the frigate came up into the wind her jib and jib foresail came down with a run.

"Good lad!" Lieutenant Doughty nearly knocked Jim down with a thump on the back. "Shall we let her have the rest of them, sir?" he called to the commander.

"Yes. Follow the boy's example, men. Ready Fire!"

The guns crashed, but even as they were fired the Frenchman's broadside belched again, and this time with better aim. Three round shot smashed through the bulwarks amidships, putting two guns out of action, and bowling over half a dozen men and wrecking the galley.

From aloft came an ominous crackling and splintering, and down came the main royal, shot away in the slings. It fouled the topgallant sail, while a shower of splinters and a block or two fell to the deck.

Jim felt a sharp pain as a jagged fragment grazed his cheek.

"Come aft here, you boys!" called the commander. "Bos'n, clear away that royal. Carpenter, inspect damage below. Mr. Doughty, keep up fire on enemy's bows to hinder his working party. If we can hold our distance for another quarter hour we may get away. He can't bear up and follow us without his headsail. D'you see, my lads?" he added as Jim and Faro ran up the poop ladder and halted beside him. "Hallo! wounded?"

"Yes, sir," replied Jim, dabbing his cheek, which was bleeding freely. "It's nothing though, only a scratch."

"Go below to the cabin. Ask the surgeon to clap a bit of plaster on your cheek, and bring me word about those wounded who were taken down just now."

"Ay, ay, sir!" replied Jim and hastened to obey.

The big cabin aft, usually reserved by the captain for his own use, was doing duty as a hospital or sick bay now. One of the wounded men, his hurts bandaged, was being lifted off the table as Jim entered. Another took his place. Jim stood aside to wait his turn.

Hammocks had been rigged to receive the wounded till the action was over. Beyond them, seated in a corner, sat an odd figure, a man clad in blue clothes of a foreign cut, wearing high riding-boots with spurs, which looked very strange aboard ship, and a cocked hat with a lot of gold braid upon it. Quite regardless of what was going on in the cabin, he was reading a little book and sipping rum from a tall glass.

"There you are, m'lad! You'll be fit again in a fortnight," said the surgeon cheerily as he made fast a sling. "Report for dressing to-morrow morning. Now, m'boy, what's for you?"

"A strip of plaster, please, and the captain wants to know about the wounded," Jim said. "How many?"

"One serious, three slightly hurt—and yourself with a scratch," replied the doctor as he bathed the wound and plastered it. "We're up against a big 'un, eh?"

"Thirty-six-gun frigate—but we're getting away from her, I think," said Jim. "I say, who's that bird in the corner?"

"Show proper respect for the high and well-born, m' boy." The doctor spoke in a high, nasal voice. "That's His Gracious Nibs, the Baron Hermann von Koeffner, coming all the way from Hanover to England on a special mission. Something to do with raising cavalry, I believe, or remounts—or something very important. Anyone below the rank of our first loot is beneath his lordly notice. See? That didn't draw him, though he understands well enough." The doctor finished in a lower tone. "I wish he'd get a scratch like yours. Wouldn't I make the beggar dance."

"Seems to me you don't like him," chuckled Jim. "I've heard that the Germans haven't very good manners."

"This one has none at all," grunted the doctor. "Well, get back to the captain. Tell him I hope there will be no more casualties to report."

As he went out, Jim cast one last glance at the German baron. He was still reading, or pretending to read, his book, but the tumbler of rum was nearly empty, while the hand that held it trembled a little as the guns roared again.

"Golly, is he scared or has he drunk too much?" Jim asked himself as he scuttled back to the quarter-deck. A round shot plunging alongside sprayed the deck as Jim repeated what the surgeon had told him. But no more came on board, and presently the Frenchman ceased firing. More men swarmed in her fore rigging. The commander chuckled as he watched, then gave orders to cease fire.

"We're safe enough now, I reckon. He'll make and mend as quickly as he can for fear one of our heavy cruisers may come out and catch 'em With a broken wing. The sound of firing anywhere along here will bring our ships out like bees to a sugar pot—and the fog is lifting."

The fog was thinning. It rose higher and presently blew away. The Swallow was by then some five or six miles from La Belle Bretagne and no more than a mile and a half from the shore. Jim recognized the bay beyond the nearest headland.

"That's Wester Bay, sir, and the cove, and that house up there is Coombe Wester, my brother's place. Could you set us ashore in the bay, sir?" Jim asked.

"Why, seeing we ran you down, and your lucky shot got us out of trouble—why, it can be done. Especially as something big seems to be coming down Channel to speak with our French friend. Look yonder!"

Away to the eastward the sun lit the topsails of a big vessel still below the horizon, but rising fast, while to the south-west La Belle Bretagne was crowding on everything she could carry as she fled down the wind towards the shelter of a home port.

"Have your brother put in a claim for the value of the boat, and I will confirm it," said the commander as Jim and Faro stepped into the boat a few minutes later. "Thanks again for your lucky shot."

A head appeared at one of the cabin windows, blurred blue eyes blinked as they stared at the pair. Baron von Koeffner might have been gazing at horned cattle for all the interest his blank face showed. None the less, there was something in that glassy, ox-like stare that stirred Jim's bile.

"How I'd like to punch that ugly mug! he exclaimed.

"D'you feel that way, too?" said the midshipman in charge of the boat. "So do all of us on board. We're taking him to Dartmouth, and I believe he's going to work through the west country, so you may see him again. If you get a chance, drop a brickbat on his crumpet."

"No such luck will come my way. But come and see me if you happen along near Coombe Wester, and maybe we can give you some sport. Plenty of trout in the river and partridges in season."

They parted at the boat-landing in the cove. Jim and Faro drew a long breath as they turned towards the house. The gipsy boy glanced at the sun. It was not yet noon, so they had been away little more than four hours—but half that time had been packed full of sensations, they had experienced something of the thrill of battle and risked sudden death.

"And all the time old Vials was going on working quiet and peaceful," said Faro softly as the pair passed the end of the kitchen garden, where the old gardener was busy amongst the vegetables. "Are you going to tell Mr. Gilbert?"

"Of course; he'll wish he'd come out with us."

"Will he, now? I wonder?" muttered Faro, and fell a little behind as they neared the workshop beside the old water mill.

The wheel was not working, but from the shed came the squeaking of a file, then the voice of the Cornishman, Dick Trevallion:

"There we are. Reckon that fits snugly, squire. We've broke the back of the heavy work, and if so be the carrier brings the brass castings to-morrow, as was promised, we'll soon be taking the road."

"What pace could we make, Trevallion?" Gilbert Vivian asked. "Ten miles an hour, d'you think?"

"With good roads, double that, twenty-three or four," declared the Cornishman. "The turnpike is none so bad up past the turning into Kettley House. There's a level five miles that would serve us."

"But aren't you too hopeful, Trevallion? After all, a coach seldom makes more than twelve miles in an hour with fresh cattle, and—"

"Ours isn't depending on beasts that tire, so, by your leave, I'll stick to my notion. Mind you, though we're putting in good springs it'll be bumpy, so—But here's Master Jim. Why, whatever have you been doing to your face, young sir?"

"Faro and I went out in the boat," began Jim, and told the story.

Gilbert listened almost indifferently. It was plain that he was thinking more about the steam coach than the skirmish in the Channel. He leaned closer to look at Jim's cheek, then, satisfied that the wound was but slight, nodded cheerily. "So all's well that ends well, and you've come well through it, Jim, my lad," he said affectionately, and patted his brother's shoulder. "Remind me to write a claim for the boat."

"Please, Gil, I'd rather not. The boat was old anyhow, and the fog was thick, and the look-out might get into trouble," Jim pleaded.

"Then we'll forget about the boat and see about buying another. Oh, and ride over to Tanner's this afternoon and have him send down two or three hundredweight of charcoal."

"For the steam coach, eh?" Jim turned to inspect the famous wagon, already complete so far as frame, wheels, and boiler were concerned. "She's a dandy!" he pronounced. "Have you thought of a name for her yet, Trevallion?"

"There's Ariel, the fairy in the old play called The Tempest. He could go from one place to another in mighty quick time. So I think the name would fit."

"This isn't quite so dainty," said Jim with a chuckle. "But it'll do as well as any other. And now I remember seeing a coach called Ariel when we were in London. It ran to York. It did the trip in less than a couple of days in summer. That'll need beating."

"My Ariel'll beat it, Master Jim, you'll see," said Trevallion confidently, "and do the journey cheaper, too. The cost will be only a few shillings for coal and a pint or two of oil, against feed and shoes for a couple of score horses."

"Let's hope it comes soon then," Jim replied. "I'd like to see York. But the roads will scarce be hard enough so far north as yet. And if we wait till summer we'll be smothered with dust."

"We'll go easily. A few miles will show Ariel's paces well enough. And then..." Gilbert paused. He hadn't thought of what he would do if the steam carriage proved as successful as he hoped it would.

"Then you'll have every horse breeder in the country howling for your head and Trevallion's," said Jim. "You've got a tough time coming, Gil. But never fear. I'm with you—a tried shot with the six-pounder."

And Jim strutted out with mock heroic strides and made for the house. Midway he overtook Faro, who, having overheard most of what had been said, had started back before him.

"I be mortal hungry, Master Jim," he explained. "And that talk seemed to be nonsense, except the bit you said. That's true enough. There's plenty will want to be hanging squire if so be the steam wagon's only half as good as he thinks it'll be."

"Perhaps," agreed Jim. "But anyway he's a mighty good brother to me and a mighty good friend to you, Faro, so I'm backing him up whatever he wants to do."

"Me, too," said Faro. "But just now I want to meet up wi' a pasty."

A minute or two later the pair were busy in the big old kitchen. Between mouthfuls they told the story of the morning's adventures.

"Lor'!" exclaimed old Capper. "This German fella now, this Baron, will be the very man I heard tell about over t'Exeter. Something about settin' cavalry along the shore for to give warning if enemy ships was seen tryin' for to land. He's to have the job of fixing the spots for the posts. He has been sent over on purpose, they say."

"I heard a different tale aboard the Swallow. Most likely it's something else," said Jim comfortably, little thinking of the influence that morning's work would have upon his own and Gilbert's fortunes. "He was only a starchy high German anyhow. I don't suppose anything will come of it."