Читать книгу The Expedition Of Captain Flick - Fergus Hume - Страница 7

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“Queen Venus was a merry dame,

Who ruled right well in heathen days;

She taught a lover how to claim

His lass in twenty different ways:

So I for one would kneel before her,

And with a thankful heart adore her,

For she hath shown me how to snare

The nymph Dorinda coy and fair.

Fa! la! la! I here proclaim,

Queen Venus is a merry dame.”

The above madrigal was composed by an Elizabethan ancestor of Harry’s, who was, like most men of his day, a gallant of amorous complexion and poetical gifts. It serves well to illustrate this chapter, which deals mainly with the lady of the song, though in a way not contemplated by Sir Peregrine Greenvile when he courted his Dorinda. As I copied the ditty from a yellow-leaved music-book, I wondered what the knight would have said had he known that his conceit was destined to head as fantastic a story as any imagined by the Euphuists of his day. Then—so ignorant were the times, and so greedy of marvels the generation—the narrative might have passed muster as sufficiently veracious; but I, infected with latter-day scepticism, inwardly laughed at Flick and his fables. How natural were my doubts can be judged from the ensuing conversation, which is faithfully reported; and if, afterwards, I changed my opinions, it was because my eyes convinced me that the seeming falsehood was only truth in disguise. But my recantation, and its reasons, will be set forth in due time.

That evening our symposium was not graced by the presence of the ladies, which was just as well, as Flick, wrapped up in the subject of his expedition, was in no mood for female society. Aunt Chrissy withdrew after dinner to her own room, on the plea of a headache; and, as she disliked solitude, Bertha also retired to bear her company. Thus, as there was but I to keep Harry within the bounds of reason, the astute Flick judged it an excellent opportunity to tell his story, and secure the co-operation of the lad. To this end he inveigled us to the smoking-room, and there recurred to the subject of Dosk’s behaviour by Raleigh’s Pool, which Harry had related earlier in the day. Even now, at the distance of many years, I can recall the scene of that decisive council: I, the least talkative of the three, seated in a deep armchair by the window; Flick, huge and burly, trumpeting forth his schemes with many gesticulations; and Harry, towering, a fair-haired Norse giant on the hearthrug, drinking in every word of that wild story. Flick had a kind of rough eloquence not without charm, and he was as powerful as the Ancient Mariner to hold his listener. Talk of Sir John Mandeville and his notable falsehoods: the knight was overshadowed by the glib tongue and brave imagination—as I then thought—of Roaring Tom.

At first the conversation was fragmentary, and dispersed between us three; when I held my peace, it dwindled to an argument, with Flick and Harry as opponents, and finally subsided into the solidity of a monologue spoken by the sea captain, with much power. After a few desultory remarks, Flick introduced the topic of the hour.

“When you touched the tattooing on Dosk’s chest,” said he, puffing at his cigar, “you insulted his religion.”

“So I thought from the way in which he behaved. I violated some taboo, no doubt. What does that signify?”

“Can you not guess?” was the counter-question.

“Let me try,” said I, before Harry could speak.

“The woman with the dove is meant for Aphrodite, and is worshipped on an island by negroes; these also adore the sidereal heavens.”

“That is a very good guess, Sir Denis,” replied Flick in some surprise. “Hey! I would not have given you credit for so much penetration. Ay, ay! there you have the gist of the matter, gentlemen both; but that you may fully understand its meaning, I must tell you of the island and its religion, as related to me by Dosk. He—”

“One moment,” interrupted Harry abruptly. “Who is Dosk?”

“An inhabitant of the island of Isk.”

“I never heard of it.”

“Egad! nor has any one else,” retorted Roaring Tom dryly. “So far as I know from Dosk’s story, it is an island in the Indian Ocean, unknown to our geographers.”

“If that is so, how did you drop across it?”

“I didn’t. But while bringing my boat up to Zanzibar, I picked up Dosk tossing about in an oarless and sailless boat. He pitched a yarn of having been blown out to sea from this island of Isk by a cyclone.”

“H’m” said I sceptically, “how did you understand the tongue of this unknown islander?”

“Hey, lad! I thought you’d make that objection. Why, because I know the lingo of some East African tribes, and, allowing for insular corruption, that nigger speaks the same dialect! When he came aboard I could catch the drift of his story, and now, after six months, I understand nigh every word he says.”

“Then this insular race is an offshoot of some East African tribe?”

“Philologically speaking, there can be no doubt of it,” replied Flick after a pause. “Some thousands of years ago these niggers emigrated to the island of Isk, wherever that may be.”

“How can you fix the period of their migration, captain?”

“How? By the evidence of Dosk, and the facts of Grecian history. Now then, gentlemen, can you tell me when Praxiteles, the sculptor, lived?”

Harry shook his head hopelessly, but I, whose brain was better stocked with stray facts of classical lore, made a weak attempt to answer this most extraordinary question.

“He lived a few hundred years before Christ, didn’t he, captain?”

“Three hundred years before Christ,” corrected Flick, giving the exact date; “and thereby I know, in a fashion, when the island of Isk was peopled.”

“It pleases you to be mysterious, sir,” said Harry, with a heave of his mighty shoulders. “What has an East African tribe, isolated in the Indian Seas, to do with a Greek sculptor?”

“That, my boy, is the whole point of the story.”

“As how?”

“The inhabitants of this island,” continued Flick slowly, “worship a statue of Aphrodite which was fashioned by Praxiteles for her temple at Cythera. Now, as Praxiteles lived 300 B.C., and this is the nineteenth century, I take it that Dosk’s people must have populated Isk for over two thousand years.”

To this daring announcement there succeeded a silence, and we looked at Captain Flick with astonishment, not unmixed with scorn. That he should attempt to palm off as true so mad a fable on two common-sense men, seemed as impudent as it was ridiculous. In my own mind I at once rejected the whole story as incredible; but Harry more impressionable and trustful than I, gave Flick the benefit of the doubt, and without expressing his disbelief, demanded of him if it were true.

“True, sir?” echoed Flick, with a burst of wrath. “D’ye think I’d waste my time, or your own, in telling a cock-and-bull story? Of course it is true. Egad! that monkey of a Dosk hasn’t the brain to invent so strange a story, and so—”

“You forget, captain,” interjected I mildly, “we have not yet heard the story.”

“Then you shall hear it now, and can believe or disbelieve as you think fit. I heard it from Dosk, and he says ’tis preserved in the annals of the island.”

“Annals!” cried Harry, taking a seat. “Then these negroes are civilized?”

“Not having been to Isk, I cannot answer that question. They must have some kind of a civilization, judging from the legend.”

“The appearance and brain-power of Dosk are against that.”

“Dosk, sir? Pooh, pooh! A poor fisher-lad—one of the plebs, sir. But on the island of Isk there are cities and temples. The negroes are ruled by a white king, and there is a band of priestesses who minister at the shrine of Aphrodite.”

“This is getting interesting,” said I ironically. “Go on, captain, and let us hear more marvels.”

“You don’t believe me, sir?”

“Oh yes I do. Only I think Dosk might have imposed on—”

“Imposed on—imposed on!” roared Flick, thumping the table. “There isn’t a man born can impose on Roaring Tom. But I don’t wonder you doubt me,” he added in a lower tone, “for the yarn is as queer a one as was ever told.”

“Go on, captain; go on,” cried Harry, rubbing his hands. “How did the statue get from Cythera to so outlandish a place as Isk?”

“That’s a long story,” said Flick, relighting his cigar. “As I said before, I heard it from Dosk, who was picked up by me some hundred miles south of Capricorn. He told of the island of Isk, of its temples and cities, and white rulers, and barbaric civilization; and so raised my curiosity that I would then and there have headed the yacht for it. But provisions were low, and the boat short—handed, so I judged it wiser to keep straight on for Zanzibar, there to get things ship—shape. Unfortunately, we were caught in a cyclone, and sprang a leak. After twenty-four hours at the pumps, we took to the boats, and I saw my ship go down before my eyes. She was a good craft,” he added with some emotion, “and swam like a duck; but no ship that was ever launched could have outlasted that storm. When she went under we headed for Zanzibar, and thence I managed to get to London with Dosk; pretty well on my beam ends for cash. However, I have an annuity, which, though small, is enough to keep me going; but I was not rich enough to build, or buy, or hire another yacht, so I despaired of ever being able to reach Isk. Then I remembered that my old schoolfellow, Maxwell Greenvile, owned the Carmen, which I saw at Plymouth some years ago; so I wrote to him, as you know. Having been abroad for the last twenty—four months, I had not heard of his death; but you see—” Here the captain broke off with a gesture of regret; and added slowly, “But if he had lived, he would not have refused me the use of his yacht.”

“Nor will his son refuse you, captain,” said Harry heartily. “The boat is at your service, Flick, on condition that you let me accompany your expedition.”

“I ask for nothing better, lad, and there’s my hand on it. You’re just the kind of comrade I want ’longside of me, for I won’t disguise from you that there are perils ahead. These islanders are very jealous of their statue, and won’t let a soul land on Isk if they can help it; though, as the island isn’t known to the civilized world, there isn’t much chance of that.”

“So I should think,” said I dryly. “You offer a charming conclusion to a pleasure trip, captain—the chance of being killed by misanthropic savages. But all you have told us is, I presume, the prologue to your story. What of the statue?”

“It was carved by Praxiteles for the temple at Cythera,” said Flick quietly, “and thence was stolen by a youth called Hesperus. He fell in love with a priestess of the goddess, and fled south from the vengeance of the people, taking with him his beloved and the statue of Praxiteles. The trio of lovers and statue were wrecked on the island of Isk in the Indian Seas. They must have chartered a fair-sized craft,” added Flick dryly, “for a life-sized marble statue can’t weigh less than six hundred weight.”

“But how did they get themselves and the statue to Isk?” demanded Harry.

“Faith, lads, that’s more than I can say. Geography wasn’t much of a science in those days. They might have sailed through the Pillars of Hercules, drifted south to the Cape, and by skirting it have gained the Indian Seas. Or they might have crossed the Isthmus of Suez, where the canal now is, and have picked up a ship in the Red Sea to continue their journey. Or, again, they might have sailed up the Nile, and struck off overland to the coast. These are the only possible routes they could have taken, so take which one you think most feasible. At any rate, however, they got out of the Mediterranean—their ship was wrecked on Isk.”

“And the statue?”

“Oh, they held tight by that in all their wanderings. The people of Isk, as you can see by Dosk, are a particularly ugly race of black dwarfs. Struck by the stature and beauty of the white strangers, they worshipped them as gods; so Hesperus and his wife, seeing no chance of returning to their own country, built a temple, enshrined the statue therein, and instructed the negroes in the cult of Venus. The woman ministered to the goddess, and the man ruled the negroes as king.”

“And now their descendants do likewise?”

“Yes and no,” replied Flick ambiguously. “Hesperus made a law that when the king required a wife she was to be sought for in Greece.”

“In Greece,” we echoed, beginning to see daylight.

“Or rather I should say in Cythera,” said Flick, correcting himself. “When a queen is wanted, a band of negroes repair there and persuade, or buy, or steal the most beautiful woman they can find. Then she is taken to the island and married to the king.”

“But there must be plenty of possible brides on Isk.”

“No. All the female children of the royal pair are made priestesses of Venus, and cannot be married.”

“That is directly opposed to the cult of Aphrodite,” said I hastily. “I hardly think the goddess would approve of such celibacy. But what of the male children?”

“Three are kept alive, so as to ensure the succession to the sovereignty. The rest are killed.”

“What a bloodthirsty race,” said Harry in disgust.

“Eh! why not?” replied Flick equably. “No doubt the Hellenic cult has been grafted on some debased African superstition. As a matter of fact, it is so, for before the arrival of Hesperus, the negroes worshipped the Pole Star and a sacred serpent.”

“Extremes meet,” I murmured; “and no doubt the Greek blended the two religions into one. He gave them Venus, and retained star and snake.”

“That’s so, Sir Denis! But now, lads, you know as much as I do. What do you say to searching for Isk!”

“I cannot come, captain, being detained by Cupid; but Harry—”

“Oh, I’ll go!” cried Harry in an excited tone. “I wouldn’t be out of it for the crown of England. But,” added he in a perplexed tone, “I don’t clearly see the reason of your expedition.”

“The reason!” said Flick blandly, “is to restore to civilization the statue of Aphrodite, carved by Praxiteles for the Temple of Cythera.”