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Chapter 1 A Mysterious Letter

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“A fool is he, who cares to be,

A stay-at-home at five-and-twenty;

When limbs are old, and blood is cold,

And all the tales of life are told,

There’s time enough for peace and plenty.”

Were it not the end of this notoriously sceptical century, I should have no hesitation in setting forth this narrative without apology; the more so as there are two witnesses who can testify to its veracity. Nevertheless, I feel bound (bearing in mind the extraordinary events which are herein related), to preface the same with the assertion that it is true. At the risk of being dubbed a liar, and dismissed to the company of Marco Polo and Sir John Mandeville, I declare that I shared in the deadly perils which beset our ship’s company in the island of Isk; and furthermore, that I saw with my own eyes the manifold iniquities of those who dwelt thereon, heathens and barbarians. If the tale savour of “The Thousand and one Nights”—as it assuredly does—the fault lies not with the teller; for I have neither taken from, nor added to, but have set forth to the best of my ability—which I admit is small—the story of that strange expedition, into which Harry Greenvile and I were cozened by Captain Flick, more commonly called “Roaring Tom.” For all shortcomings in the matter of style and literary worth, I would ask the indulgence of those who read; and would also beseech them to abate their scepticism, when they remember in what terra incognita these doings occurred. Having thus much protected myself from scoff and doubt, I will proceed to the events.

This story begins on a May morning of 18—, when I was staying with Harry at his demesne of Bucksford, in the fair county of Devon. The Court, with its appurtenances of meadow and moor and wood, overlooks Barnstaple Bay above the town; and it came to Harry, as heir, a twelvemonth before the arrival of Captain Flick. With him dwelt his sister Bertha—fairest of Devonian maids, and my promised wife; also Mrs. Barber, commonly known as Aunt Chrissy—whose domestic rule dated from the passing of her sister-in-law, Mrs. Greenvile, ten years before. The rents of Bucksford, and of divers London properties, ran up to some ten thousand a year; so Harry entered into his kingdom with as good a chance of happiness as ever fell to the lot of a young man. He had not yet turned his thoughts to matrimony, being full of fire and adventure; but Bertha, who was close on her majority, had consented to become my wife; and to take up her abode in Shropshire as Lady Evans.

Our marriage had been stayed unexpectedly by the death of her father, but in three months I was to lead her to the altar; and latterly I had come to Bucksford to consult with Harry touching settlements on my part, and a disposition of Bertha’s share of certain monies on his. Time had assuaged the grief of us all for the death of Maxwell Greenvile, and we were as merry a quartette as could be found in the three kingdoms. I would that Captain Flick had not come to spoil our mirth and break up our party; but come he did, and dearly did we pay for falling in with his mad humours.

On that morning—which I remember well as dating the first intimation of what was intended us by Fortune—I had spent more time over my toilet than I care to confess, though, to be sure, such vanity stands excused to a lover; and I descended in the expectation of finding breakfast at an end. But the meal was untouched, the room empty; and I heard Bertha singing, as she paced the lawn before the house. Outside I went, nothing loath for a matutinal chat, and here I was greeted with a reproving smile and an uplifted forefinger.

“It is close on ten, Denis,” said she, offering her cheek. “At what hour do you think we breakfast?”

“Faith, that is more than I can say,” was my answer. “Breakfast at Bucksford is like Easter, a movable feast. But, if I am late, others are later. Mrs. Barber and Harry, for instance.”

“Aunt Chrissy is not coming down this morning, as she has a bad headache; but Harry has been up and away to Bideford these four hours.”

“He can do with less sleep than I, then. We talked till midnight.”

“The subject of conversation must have been interesting.”

“Very!” said I, smiling. “It was about a young lady, called Bertha Greenvile, who—”

“No compliments before breakfast,” she replied, tapping my cheek. “Be sensible, or I shall leave you. Let us wait here for Harry, and admire the view.”

It was well worth admiring, but I looked less at the scene before me than at her who was to be my wife. The glimpse of slate roofs below the trees skirting the park; the shining streak of the Taw uncoiling like a snake seaward; the lengthy bulk of Lundy, frowning between sapphire sky and turquoise sea; I had seen them a hundred times, so I wasted no glances there which were better bestowed on Bertha. She was as beautiful a maid as ever saw light in Devon; and that being a county of fair women, the comparison is no mean compliment. But, putting aside a lover’s partiality, she was a very Venus for looks, a Juno for dignity, and a Hebe for girlish grace. That, I take it, is a desirable trinity from Lemprière.

Yet it were fitter to compare her with Brunhild and Gundrun than with Hellenic deities; for although the Greenviles of Bucksford claim kindred with that famous Bideford family which gave Sir Richard to the last Tudor, and Sir Bevil to the second Stuart (and truly I discern in Harry many notable traits of Elizabethan and Carolian ancestors), I concluded, from the physical splendour which distinguished brother and sister, that there was Norse blood in their veins. Bertha was a stately and tranquil maiden, clear skinned, and golden haired, with that serene beauty of countenance which pertains to the heroines of the north. I first saw her when Harry brought me as his college chum from Oxford, and must own that I then felt a trifle abashed by her majestic purity. But that awe wore off when I learned to know her better, for she was merry at heart, and could unbend to her friends, though sufficiently imperious to the outside world. My feelings quickened, through months of intercourse, from admiration to love, and I was blessed beyond my deserts by finding that she inclined kindly towards me. Thereupon I asked her for heart and hand, to which she consented, and being of a good Shropshire family, titled and wealthy, I had no difficulty in obtaining the approval and blessing of Mr. Greenvile. So, in this wise, it came about that I paced the lawn by her side, affianced lover and promised husband.

While thus strolling, we talked of divers things touching our future, but principally we conversed of him for whom we waited breakfast. Harry had a passion for sea travel and adventure—inherited no doubt with his Norse blood—and he was only happy when sailing his yacht, the Carmen, in perilous seas. Of this Bertha, who was a true stay-at-home housewife, did not approve, and so spoke her mind on the subject. “If he would only settle down and marry,” she said, referring to her brother, “it would be so much better for him; but he is always longing for travel.”

“Where is the Carmen now?”

“At Plymouth, where she is being overhauled for a long voyage. Harry intends to start as soon as our marriage takes place.”

“Well, that won’t be for three months, Bertha; so you will have him with you for some time yet. Where does he intend to go?”

“I don’t know. He has been in all four quarters of the world, so—”

“Save the South Seas, Bertha,” said a gay voice at her elbow, and we turned to find Harry, booted and spurred, beside us.

My friend always reminded me of the hero of “Westward Ho”—surely one of the noblest books in our English tongue—for he was a fair-haired giant, all bone and muscle and genial good humour. His steady blue eyes, and firm lips, showed that he was prudent as daring; and, indeed, in many ways he was wise beyond his years. Less a scholar than an athlete, he had been renowned at Oxford for all physical exercises; and he was as fine a specimen of English youth as the most fastidious could desire. Never was there a more splendid young man. That lean frame was inured to fatigue, those brawny arms could smite to some purpose; and a quick eye and cool head enhanced the advantages of his physique. He was unfit for social gatherings and club dawdlings, and looked out of place amid the tame surroundings of civilization. The lad was a born adventurer, destined to be foremost among those pioneers who carry the flag of England into unknown regions. Quick-witted, resourceful, prudent, dauntless, Harry Greenvile was a modern type of those Elizabethans who first widened our bounds of empire. Those croakers who lament the decay of English physique would change their note did they see this lad of Devon.

It was small wonder that one so overflowing with health and vitality and desire for adventure should find irksome the quiet country life to which, by his landed interests, he was condemned. Riding and shooting, swimming and rowing, were all very well in their way; but they lacked the danger which alone gave zest to life in Harry’s opinion. Whenever it was possible he turned the nose of the Carmen towards trackless oceans and unknown lands; and although his father had been dead only twelve months, he had already accomplished a voyage to the Sea of Okotsk, from whence he had reluctantly returned to grace our wedding. It was true that there was yet three months to spare, but the delay was caused by Bertha, who further postponed the ceremony for six weeks; and great was the wrath of Harry when he found that he could have stayed away longer without difficulty.

As yet he had never been in love; and he preferred the excitement of danger and travel to the smiles of beauty. He was as wedded to the sea as Venice, and cared more for masculine company than for that of women, though he did not set up for a Sir Galahad of purity. A good comrade, an honourable man, a venturesome explorer, he was a fine creature in all respects, and I was as proud that he should be my brother-in-law, as that Bertha should be Lady Evans.

“Hallo, you two!” said he brusquely, “I must apologize for being late. I suppose breakfast is over?”

“It ought to be, but is not,” replied his sister, kissing him. “I waited for Denis.”

“Just out of bed, I suppose,” growled Harry genially, poking me in the ribs with his riding-whip. “What indolence! Why, I’ve been up since sunrise, and had a glorious gallop to Bideford on Black Dick.”

“Those who ride early brag all the morning and sleep all the afternoon,” said I, pointedly.

“Egad, not I!” retorted Harry, following his sister into the house. “I’m off to town by the midday train.”

“Again!” expostulated Bertha, as she seated herself at the table. “You only came back two days ago. What is the attraction in London?”

“I have to see about stores for the Carmen. Besides, you and Denis can do your billing and cooing without my assistance.”

“Come now, Hal! We don’t make ourselves objectionable in that way.”

Bertha laughingly supported my contention, and we both waited for Harry to make some jesting reply. In place of doing so, he looked silently at a letter he had just picked up, and the colour left his sunburnt cheeks.

“What is the matter, Harry?” asked his sister anxiously; “no bad news, I hope.”

Harry forced a laugh, and opened the letter in a leisurely fashion.

“No. But this letter is addressed to father, and so gave me a shock.”

“To father!” said Bertha in a low voice. “That is strange. “Surely all our friends know that he is gone.”

“One does not, my dear sister—Captain Thomas Flick.”

“Flick! What an odd name!”

“No odder than some of your Devonian appellations,” said I dryly. “Coffin, for instance.”

“Now then, old Evans,” retorted Harry, who had recovered his spirits, “don’t asperse the West country. Coffin’s as good a name as Howard or Hamilton, and—”

“What about Captain Flick?” interrupted Bertha, anxious for information; “who is he?”

“If this letter is to be believed, he was a schoolfellow of our poor father’s.”

“So Aunt Chrissy says, Harry.”

“No doubt she is right,” retorted her brother; “he must have known father well, to make so cool a request as is herein contained.”

“Read the letter, and let us judge,” suggested I, seeing Bertha rather affected by the mention of her father.

“Read it yourself, Denis,” replied Harry, passing it to me. “I wish to eat my breakfast; and, moreover, the ancient mariner writes so crabbed a hand, that I can only grasp the drift of his epistle. You are a bookish man, old Evans, so expound.”

The calligraphy of Captain Flick was indeed in need of improvement, and I saw that he could handle a rope better than a pen; but my studies had given me some skill in deciphering crabbed text, so with a trifle of difficulty I succeeded in reading aloud the following epistle:-.

“143, Quarral Street, W.

“Dear Maxwell,

“Have you forgotten Tom Flick who used to thrash you at Eton some fifty years ago? Lord, how time flies! If you have not, I am anxious to run down to Bucksford, and renew my acquaintance with you. I have given up the merchant service these many years, and have been knocking about the world in a craft of my own. But she has been wrecked—confound all cyclones!—and being too poor to buy another I wish to borrow the Carmen. I saw her some years ago at Plymouth, and learned that she belonged to you. It will be worth your while to let me have her for twelve months or so, as I wish to use her for an expedition, which means money to us both. You were always a stay-at-home, so I suppose you will not care to come with me on a perilous voyage, the like of which has not been heard of this century. I’ll pitch my yarn when we meet; so, if you are inclined to oblige an old friend, send an invitation to the above address, and I’ll hoist sail for Devon in twenty-four hours. “Yours as ever, “Tom Flick.”

I could hardly finish this extraordinary epistle for laughter, and Harry choked and sputtered over his breakfast in a most disgraceful manner. Bertha alone looked rather vexed. The brusque tone of the communication was not to her taste.

“What a rude letter,” she said with calm disapproval. “He has not seen papa for nearly forty years, yet he proposes to call and borrow the Carmen..”

“Tom Flick is a character, Hal,” said I, smiling; “you should certainly see him.”

“Egad, I wouldn’t miss him for a thousand pounds. I’ll call at Quarral Street when I’m in town, and, if I like him sufficiently, I’ll bring him down here. You won’t mind, Bertha?”

“Not at all. But Aunt Chrissy might. Now I come to think of it, I believe I can identify the gentleman as a friend of hers before she was married.”

“All the more reason she should be glad to see him,” said Harry blandly, slyly aware of his aunt’s sentimentalism.

“I’m not so sure of that, Harry. It is my belief that this gentleman is a rejected lover.”

“Pooh! Aunt Chrissy must have got over all that sort of thing in forty years. I expect she’ll renew the flirtation.”

“Not if Captain Flick’s speech is as uncultivated as his letter.”

“It’s a novelty in the way of letters,” said Harry, with a broad grin; “he’s so cock-sure of getting what he asks for.”

“Will you lend him the boat, Hal?”

“My dear old chap, I can’t say till I see him. I might.”

“Then he’ll wreck her, as he did his own yacht,” said Bertha severely.

“Oh no, he won’t! I’ll be there myself to look after things.”

“Harry! A perilous journey.”

“That’s just what I like, Bertha!” said the young man cheerfully. “If Flick can perform all he promises, I shall certainly let him have the Carmen to further his ends; but I must go too. I wonder what he’s after,” concluded Harry reflectively.

“It hints at buried treasure,” said I, glancing again at the letter. “Spanish doubloons and treasureships of the Dons. I can conjecture no other reason for his mention of money.”

“H’m, perhaps! However, he wants to sail the boat into strange waters. That is enough for me. I’d follow him to Prester John’s kingdom, if there’s fighting to do.”

“But, Harry,” expostulated Bertha, as her brother arose, “you had better speak to Aunt Chrissy. She may not like the idea.”

“Well, I’ll go up to her room now, and lay the proposal before her. If she disapproves, I can see Flick in town. But,” added Harry, turning as he was leaving the room, “if Flick is at all a decent sort of chap, and can propose something worth thinking about, I’ll go off with him. Timbuctoo, Manoa, or the Fortunate Isles. It’s all one to me—provided there are adventures ahead.”

“You may never come back.”

“My dear Bertha, I’m not born to be drowned, or scalped, or roasted. I’ll come back as full of lies as Baron Munchausen.”

And so he walked out of the room, leaving Bertha and myself to finish our breakfast in peace. Although none of us knew it, this was the first step which involved all three in a series of surprising adventures, the like of which have not occurred since Drake went picarooning on the Spanish main. And so do I start this strange and eventful history.

The Expedition Of Captain Flick

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