Читать книгу Joan of the Pilchard - Mary Gaunt - Страница 7

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'Oh that my grief were thoroughly weighed, and my calamity laid in the balances together. For now it would be heavier than the sand of the sea.'

The press gang went straight to Looe to the coast-guard station, turned their prisoners into a room with heavily barred windows, and, making sure there was no possibility of escape, locked the door and left them. No officer came near them. In truth that gentleman felt that the less he knew about the capture of the press gang the simpler for him.

All the livelong night Reynell hoped and Trevenick, being a kindly soul, roused himself from his slumbers again and again to speak a word of comfort.

'But if Joan had seen your father,' said Reynell gloomily, 'he'd have been here by now.'

'Not he,' said Bob cheerfully, against his own convictions. 'The old boy'll spend the night comfortably in the parsonage. No good routing out a naval captain till he has to. It'll be simpler to interview him as he's interviewing us.'

'But if he spoke to the officer of the coast-guard here——'

'And how the dickens is he to know we're at the coast-guard? Joan would tell him Talland Church and he'd know better than to go there.'

Reynell dropped into an uneasy sleep at last, for he was very weary. Hardly had his eyes closed it seemed to him when Thompson the bos'un roused them out again. They were embarked in the pinnace, and just as the sullen winter's dawn was breaking, they were passed on board the Alert.

Reynell looked round eagerly. Where was Parson Trevenick? The ship's lanterns struggled with the gloomy daylight. One glance showed no one there who had not business on board.

'He's below,' said Trevenick, hopeful to the last.

But Reynell knew he was not below. Joan had failed him. He had known she would. He cursed—not her—she was too slight a thing in his mind to curse—but his own evil fate.

His comrade, seeing in the dim light his strained face, knew he was taking it worse than even he had expected. Truly he was in the depths of despair.

But Trevenick was wrong. Reynell still hoped. There lay the pain. It is when we have nothing to hope for that turmoil ceases.

'See the captain,' urged Bob. 'Quested knows all about you, and he's a very decent chap, though you've never done him justice?'

He might have been a decent chap—he was in fact—but he had no mind to see the Polperro men in the toils. He was making the most of an attack of fever. His senior officer—on leave—very obligingly undertook to take the Alert round to Portsmouth. It was he—roused out from his sleep—who received the pressed men.

Nothing was said about the dead man, dead and buried in Talland churchyard. He looked at the three stalwart young men, in the prime of their manhood, with satisfied eyes.

'Only three,' he said. 'Bligh wanted another man. However, we must manage. Now, my lads, you've got to obey orders, serve the King and——'

'Sir,' said Reynell angrily, 'I protest. I am Daniel Reynell, skipper and owner of the Reaper. I must protest——'

'Oh you protest, do you?' Captain Maitland pushed back his wig and rubbed his forehead to assist thought. It didn't help him much so he turned to the paper in his hand.

'Robert Trevenick, resigned and willing, George Simpson, the same wants his pay sent to Kitty Simpson, opposite the town pump, Polruan. All right, George Simpson. We'll make a man of you. Amos Garrett, discontented, very troublesome and anxious to escape. All right, Amos Garrett, we will curb that little desire on your part and see if we cannot induce a serene content. Take Amos Garrett to the fo'c'sle, lash him in his hammock there and keep him there till he's in a more reasonable frame of mind—or, hold on, shove him in the forepeak and put him one leg in irons. He'll have time to cool there, and we'll let Captain Bligh settle his little difficulties for him. I guess it'll interest both him and Amos Garrett more than it does me. I'll put his name on the list, and his wife shall have half his pay. The King is ever considerate to his servants—willing or unwilling.'

'I am Daniel Reynell,' shouted the unlucky captive, struggling with might and main, and dragging four sailors across the bulwarks in a wild struggle to throw himself overboard, 'you have no more right to take me than you have to take the King himself. Let go, I say, damn you, let go. I would rather be dead than go now.'

'The young cock's mighty anxious to part with his life,' panted the bos'un, 'an' ater all we yerd about this wife of his, too. Come quiet, my lad, come quiet now, for come you must. There ain't no gainsaying the skipper when he gives an order. Into the forepeak you're goin' an' ironed you'll be. Speak to Trevenick and get him to send a message.'

It was wisdom. All he could hope for now was to send a message to Raphiel Farm. His heart was sick and cold within him. Since he must stay—and he knew he must—it was no good incensing these men against him. The thought stayed his hand as he was about to hit a sailor in the face.

'Bob,' he called, 'Bob, send a message for me. If you don't care yourself at least remember——'

The light was growing. Through the pouring rain they could see a boat approaching. It might, thought Reynell, be Quested.

'Bos'un,' came the angry order, 'remove the prisoner. Take the others to the fo'c'sle.'

Maitland knew well enough if this man's story was true he had no right to take him. But pressed men told all sorts of lies. They all settled down in the end. To do him justice, he did not think he was doing him any particular harm. And he was just the sort of man Bligh would be glad of. A merchant skipper and owner! He was dressed as a fisherman! Let Bligh do the investigating. When Amos Garrett came back from the West Indies three years hence Amos Garrett would have quietly settled into his place—risen to be a warrant officer probably—he knew a good seamen when he saw him—and would have forgotten any unpleasantness at the beginning of his career. As for the girl he wanted to marry—well, Captain Maitland was married himself to the best little woman in the world but—if any one had had the foresight to send him to sea on a three years' cruise a fortnight before his wedding day he knew very well he would have had a better chance of——Oh well, he wasn't doing this man any great harm even if his story was true. And having seen his recruits disposed of so that no messages could possibly be sent, he, with the comfortable feeling that he had nobly done his duty, turned to meet the newcomer.

'Let me stay on deck,' pleaded Reynell, feeling keenly the mistake he had made. Had he come quietly he had had a better chance to get a message off—to speak to this man who was coming on board. 'I'll stay quiet on deck.'

'You should have thought on that afore, me lad,' said the bo'sun laughing. ''Tis three dozen for disobeying of orders, an' no questions asted. Come along.'

There was nothing else for it. He went. They pushed him into a small dark forepeak on to a pile of spare rope and canvas, dragged him along and soon had his leg secured to the bar.

'Remind Trevenick, for God's sake, remind Trevenick,' pleaded Reynell, and he was not accustomed to plead, 'to send a message for me.'

'I will, my lad, I will that,' said the bo'sun, relieved to find his unruly prisoner quiet at last. Then they shoved on the hatch and he was in darkness.

For a moment he was tempted to shout for assistance, to shout to whoever was this man coming on board, Quested perhaps, that he would be taking a mean advantage of him if he left him to be carried to sea there against his will. But resistance had not served him well as yet, so he reversed his policy just when shouting and calling attention to his wrongs would have brought an investigation. Truly the Fates were against the union of Daniel Reynell and Loveday Corthew.

He sat down on a corner of rope, putting strong pressure upon himself and waited. It could not be long. They were putting to sea at once. Some one would come for him in a moment. When the man he had seen coming on board heard the story he would surely send for him and ask a few pertinent questions. All naval officers were not as callous as Captain Maitland.

The time was not really long—it only seemed long to him because he was so desperately anxious, because he was here in the dark, and so very much depended on his getting away.

It was pitchy dark. He could not see a gleam of light. He could hear the vague sea noises; the grinding of a boat against the cutter's side; the rattle of ropes; the tramp of bare feet overhead, and the inevitable bustle and confusion attendant on a ship just about to go to sea.

But no one came to him. He waited. Then he fell into a panic. Suppose this last chance should fail. And he was tied by the leg—literally.

'Lieutenant Quested!' he shouted, raising his voice to the utmost, 'Lieutenant Quested!' It must be Quested. But his voice died away. It was lost among other sounds. He paused for a moment listening painfully. Surely—surely——Trevenick would get a message through and that officer—whoever he was—would send for him. It was his last chance—his very last chance. He grew hot and cold and sick with anxiety as he found himself here helpless and it slipping away from him.

'Shove off, for'ard.'

The order rang out clear. He heard the rattle of the boat-hooks along the cutter's side, and knew that the other naval man, Quested, or not Quested, was gone—gone without seeing him. He shouted aloud and dashed himself against the side. This thing could not happen—it could not—it could not. But it was happening. He felt the Alert moving, slipping along through the water. His last hope died.

All now depended on the captain of the Bounty. And what consideration could he expect from a man already short handed and anxious to get to sea?

Oh, Loveday! Loveday! He went over their time together. He had known her as a little child. He had slipped into being her lover, when he could hardly have told. Had he ever made her understand how much she was to him? There were a thousand things he might have said, a thousand things he had left unsaid. He had always thought—I can tell her when we are wed.

His house was ready. The Reaper was all prepared. There were the bunks in the cabin—the little fireplace in the cuddy—the carpet that her dainty feet might not be cold. His wife would come to sea with him oftener than not.

He could not bear it. It was more than mortal man could stand. The unshed tears burned hot beneath his eyelids. And three long dreary years at the very least must pass before he saw her again.

Oh, Loveday! Loveday!

By and by a man brought him some dinner. He hung up a little horn lantern on a nail so that he might have some light by which to eat it. But he knew nothing, or pretended to know nothing, save that they expected to be alongside the Bounty a little after six, and that the prisoners were to be handed over then. He came back for the light after a time.

In darkness the wretched man spent the rest of the afternoon calculating his chances of making Captain Bligh understand the situation and, because there was just still the slenderest chance, it was agonizing work.

It seemed as if he had been there years when the hatch was lifted off, a light was flashed in his face, and, while he sat there blinking, the padlock was taken off the irons and he was told to follow his guide to the upper deck. It was pouring with rain, pitch dark, icy cold. The lanterns gleamed on the black sides of a ship, the Bounty of course. He saw Trevenick and the Polruan man ahead of him. But when he would have spoken the sailors held him back. He watched them clamber up the dangling rope ladder. Then his turn came. Every precaution was taken that he should not throw himself overboard.

Once on the Bounty's deck he was painfully aware that his character had preceded him. He was received by the master-at-arms and three bluejackets. Not an officer was in sight. He was hustled forward into the fo'c'sle.

'I want to see the captain,' protested Reynell.

'Captain!' said the ship's corporal, grinning, 'Not so much of your chin music, mate. The captain sees request men on Fridays, same as all other ships. The forepeak's your slinging billet for a bit, matey.'

He gave up hope then. Gave it up utterly. Nothing short of a miracle could save him now. No good fighting them. The end was a foregone conclusion. He was done. He had toiled; he had fought; and then he had hoped. Perhaps the vain hoping had been the most wearing.

He was replaced in irons. It might have been the Alert over again. They put on the hatch and left him to his own reflections.

It seemed to him he had been thinking for ages, going over and over again all his chances, and now there were no chances save the possibility of the Bounty being wrecked on the Cornish coast. It did not want a fortnight to his wedding day. Loveday had said nothing could happen in a fortnight. Loveday would wait, he knew she would wait, he never doubted that for a moment, but was it fair to ask a girl to wait for him for three long years. Besides, when she had waited the years he might never come back, none knew that better than he. He knew the dangers of the seas round the English coast, and he was bound to unknown parts where the dangers were trebled.

A letter—well he had small chance of posting a letter, and if it were posted there was no trusting the mails in these unknown parts.

No; there was nothing to depend on but the message he had sent through Joan of the Pilchard. It added to his torment that he could not remember exactly what he had said; that he could only think how much better he might have said it. If only the time were to come over again——

There came the sound of the working of the cables right over his head.

He had expected no less; yet it was like executing the sentence.

Now there really was no hope.

The bustle on deck increased. He heard the sobbing of a woman, and guessed one of the wives had transgressed orders and come down in the miserable cold December darkness to bid her husband farewell. If he might only have had a last word!

Commands came thick and fast. At last he heard the order given to man the capstan. That meant they were just about to start. He heard the capstan manned and the song of the men as they put their weight on the bars. They didn't usually sing chanties in the navy, but the Bounty was an exception. Bligh felt his men required all the cheering they could get.

'Come rise up Jack, let John sit down,

For you're outward bound, you're outward bound.'

Possibly the only man on board who really wanted to go was the captain, that is among the regular seamen. There was no enthusiasm among the sailors, and their mournful chanty floated drearily over the water of the harbour, telling the watching wives they must be widows for three long years.

To the prisoner in the forepeak it sounded a death knell. The good ship Bounty was fairly on her way. She had made many starts, but this was not likely to be a false one. He heard the sharp orders to the helmsman, and then again the chanty of the men as they manned the yards and loosened the sails. There is always a sad ring about a sailors' chanty, and these were going into unknown lands and might never return. Very hopeless it sounded in the ears of the unwilling member of the crew, a prisoner in the forepeak. His very life was going from him. It was no good then, it was no good. He must resign himself to his fate.

Suddenly he felt that he was very weary. He had compressed the emotions of a life-time into the last thirty-six hours. It was no good trying to keep up any longer. It was all over. There was nothing left for which to hope. He felt he should never see Loveday again.

All he wanted now was a little air—a little air. He was suffocating down here in this cold and darkness.

A little air!

The ship gave a sudden lurch as the wind caught her sails. Falling forward, he remembered no more.

A few minutes later the ship's corporal came to release him. He found his prisoner insensible on the deck.