Читать книгу The Golden Rock - Glanville Ernest - Страница 11

Hume had been to the Cape and back; he had also tossed about off the Bristol Channel in a small yacht; but before morning he learnt that the ocean could play more tricks with a ship than he had ever dreamt of in the wildest tossing. He was sleeping on the top bunk, for the sake of the breeze from the open port, and was early awakened by a dream, in which, with the thunder of waters in his ears, he had gone head foremost down a cascade.

Had it been a dream? He sat up, knocking his head against the roof, and in his ears there was the same terrific roar, with a splashing sound, and an unmistakable feeling of dampness. A desperate lurch made him cling to the brass rail; then, as the port dipped, he saw the sky-line obscured by a moving wall, and was almost washed away by a belching funnel of cold water that boomed on to the floor, and rushed over his cabin, taking with it every movable object. As the ship heeled over he struggled, soaked and shivering, with the brass hinge of the port-window, which he thrust in and held there until the ship rolled under again. With the backward swing he worked the screw in, then lurched out from his sodden bed to the floor, inches deep in water, when he groped for the switch and turned on the electric light. His portmanteau coming swiftly out from under the lower bunk, carried him off his feet, and then bounded over his body, while his gun-case rammed him viciously in the ribs.

Staggering up, he clambered into the lower bunk, and spent an awful hour of misery with a babel of sounds racking his brain, and every possible motion threatening dislocation to his body. The small bunk was too large for him. He could not brace himself tight; but, like a pea in a drum, was rattled from side to side and top to bottom, his head at one time threatening to fly off as the bows dipped; his body sinking with the most sickening desire to part with his head as the stern went under, and his arms, legs, and head flopping about hopelessly to each dizzy roll.

Then between, and coming through every motion, was the jarring of the screw as the stern was lifted up—a most soul-disturbing sensation, enough in itself to unsettle the innermost lashings, the smallest nerves and sinews of the body.

“What the devil possesses the ship?” thought Frank, in a state of feeble protest against this indignity of sea-sickness that held him in its clammy grasp. “Hulloa!” he groaned, as he heard someone staggering along the alley-way.

The door was opened, and the new-comer dived in to the roll of the ship as though he were violently impelled from the rear, ending up by stumbling over the gun-case.

“That’s the fifty-seventh time I’ve been knocked off my pins within an hour by this infernal buck-jumper. What have you been doing, messmate; taking a shower-bath?” And Mr Webster, the speaker, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, sat down on the edge of the bunk and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

Frank turned his head with a look of disgust, but the ship, pitching and rolling at the same moment, sent him and his bedclothes in a heap to one end of the bunk.

“God forgive me,” said the officer, making futile attempts to keep his feet out of the water; “but you’re a most dismal object.”

“What’s the matter with the ship?” growled Frank.

Webster opened his mouth to laugh, but a vicious lurch banged his head against the iron side of the cabin.

“Ship, do you call it?” he cried. “Why, ’tis nothing but a steel tube with an engine in it, and there’s not a ship afloat that would not ride over this sea without a heave.”

“Isn’t it rough, then?”

“Man, we’re just in the Channel, with a cross current and the apology for a ripple, but this devil of a sawn-off scaffold-pole just wallows in it like a porpoise. Come up on deck, and you’ll blush with shame to think you should have gone under to such little waves, scarce big enough to wet the frills of a Brighton beach-wader.”

As if to belie this imputation of mildness, a sea came on board with a crash and rushed along the deck with an angry swirl, making noise enough to spur Frank on to make an effort.

“That’s right,” said Webster, taking him by the arm. “Now come and have a nip and a bite.” Together they rolled out of the cabin and down the alley to the officers’ box, where Hume duly swallowed a stiff glass of grog, and was suited with a shiny covering of oilskin overalls. Then, holding on to anything that came handy, they clambered on deck, where the keen morning air very soon dispelled the nausea contracted in the stuffy cabin.

It was a brilliant morning, with wisps of wind-lashed clouds scurrying across the clear blue sky, and a buoyant property in the salt-laden air that brightened the eyes. It had brought a flush to the cheeks of the lady, whose figure, clad in oils, had been the first thing to catch and hold Frank’s gaze. She stood on the low bridge, holding with both hands to the rail, her feet braced and her body bending to the dips and roll of the steamer with a grace that even the heavy tarpaulin could not hide. The spray which came aft in a white and gleaming drizzle glistened on her covering, and ever and again with a low laugh she would bend her head to an unusually heavy gust of wet tossed up by the plunging bows of the steamer.

“Isn’t she a beauty!” growled Webster, brushing his hand across his eyes to wipe away the drops.

“She is, indeed!” murmured Frank. “May I ask who she is?”

Webster followed his companion’s gaze, and led him forward. “I’m not talking of her,” he said, dropping his voice; “and you’d best leave her out of your thoughts, young fellow. It’s this craft I mean; this narrow-gutted rib of a steel monument, that’s fit for nothing but to be stuck on end with a lamp in its stern, when it would make a good lighthouse. Ugh! the brute. See her bury her nose in that sea like a pig in a mash-tub.”

This wave was a gentle swell of dull green, covered with a lace-like tracing of air bubbles in round patches of white, and the top of it fringed with a line of hissing foam. A lumbering coal-ship would have ridden over it without wetting her eye-holes, but this strange craft, with a snort, leapt into the very heart of it, tossing up a column of spray, while the divided sea swelled up to the gunwales and foamed along the side with ripping noise, and went aft in a swirl of eddying whirlpools.

“Tell me,” said Webster, flicking the wet from his sou’wester, “what sort of a ship she is.”

Frank, standing wide on the slippery deck, cast his eyes fore and aft with growing wonder at the long, narrow shape of her, at the inward slope of her heavy bulwarks, at the wide, short funnels and sharp bows.

“I can’t liken her to anything but a wasp or a shark,” said he, “there’s such a vicious air about her.”

“Ay, she carries a sting in her tail and a devilish set of teeth. She’s ugly as a shark, and as narrow and vicious as a wasp. Well, what is she?”

“She’s a deuced bad sea boat, anyhow,” said Frank, as the deck suddenly sloped away at a fearful angle. “Is she a yacht?”

“You’ve hit it first shot. She’s a yacht—that’s what she is—a nice pleasure-boat for ladies and children, with engines strong enough to get twenty-seven knots out of her, and steel frame like a man-o’-war. What’s that you’re leaning against?”

“A ship’s boat, I suppose, covered with tarpaulin.”

“Right again, sir; that’s the yacht’s dinghy, fitted with velvet cushions. Take a peep.”

Frank looked under the tarpaulin, and saw the vast butt and machinery of a gun.

“That’s the yacht’s popgun, a four-inch quick-firing toy,” and Webster’s jolly face broke into a grin.

“She’s not a yacht, then?”

“Lord, how fresh you are! She’s no more a yacht than a bull-terrier is a pet pug—she’s a torpedo-catcher. Do you mean to say you had no suspicion when that ironclad opened fire on us last night?”

“I knew there was something dark afoot. A torpedo-catcher! Is this the Swift, the boat that was seized by the Customs authorities last week, on the suspicion that she had been bought for the rebel fleet at Rio de Janeiro?”

“The same, my boy; and seeing that you took an active part in her escape, it wouldn’t be safe for you to talk about this adventure. You’ve committed high treason, or some offence as bad, and would to a dead certainty be drawn and quartered.” Here Webster broke into another fit of laughter, ending up by smacking Frank on the back. “You’re in the same boat as we are, and if she doesn’t drown you, or roll you overboard, or knock your brains out, you may live to be shot.”

“Many thanks,” said Frank, with an answering smile. “And what fate is reserved for you?”

“Oh, as for me, I’ll die of a falling chimney. You feel better now, don’t you?”

“Thanks to your cheerful predictions.”

“Then come and report yourself to our chief, and harkee, you’ll be offered a billet as captain of the cook’s galley. Take my advice, and accept it; it’s comforting, sustaining, and by far the safest place in the ship.”

They went aft, now breasting the slanting deck as the bows dipped, now bending back to the answering lift, and came up to the bridge, where the Captain gave them a surly nod, and the lady flashed a smile on them.

“The new hand, mam, come to report himself. I found him afloat in his cabin with a feeling that he was an empty nothing, but he is better now,” and Webster turned a perfectly grave face upon Hume, his voice expressing the deepest sympathy.

“I am indebted to Mr Webster for his kindness, but he is premature in classing me as a new hand.”

“If you will come up here, Mr —”

“Hume,” said Frank briefly, filling up the pause.

“Mr Hume, you may talk with less discomfort.”

Webster, with a whispered word to Frank to “come off his stilts,” lurched to the chart-room, and Frank, with a feeling of resentment at the girl’s cold speech, mounted the steps to the bridge, where he waited with what patience he could muster until she chose to take her gaze off the sea, which she did presently, turning her magnificent eyes, and letting them dwell on his face in a calm scrutiny.

“Did Mr Webster tell you,” she asked in slow, formal speech, “that I had an offer to make?”

“He did suggest that I might hope for a berth in the cook’s galley.”

She did not smile at this as a man would have done, but frowned slightly. “I am—rather, the ship is—short-handed, and I wish you to take your turn in the officers’ watch.”

“But, Miss—” Here he paused with an inquiring look at her.

“You can call me madam,” she said.

He bowed, with a smile at her composure. “I am obliged for your confidence in me; but I am not competent to fill a responsible place.”

“You showed yourself last night equal to an emergency,” was the quick reply.

“Anyone could have done as well. But, madam, even if I were competent, I am not sure I could give my services unless I were satisfied as to the nature of the enterprise upon which this warship is embarked.”

She threw her head back with a haughty toss, and with a ring in her voice, replied: “I am not at liberty to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Pardon me,” he continued quietly, though his cheeks flushed, “I do not wish to pry into your secrets, but it is impossible for me to act in this matter blindfold, especially as I am not here of my own free will.”

“Then you refuse to help me?”

“I would help you willingly,” he replied eagerly, “if you tell me I can do so without hurt to my conscience or my country.”

“I will give you no assurance whatever. Do you, or do you not, accept my offer?” she said imperiously.

“No, madam, I cannot.”

“Then go back to your cabin; I will take the watch myself.” She turned away with an angry glow in her dark eyes, and he, after pausing awhile, slowly descended to the deck.