by Eugène Sue
I thought all could be explained, all could be understood by this abominable interpretation.
I was seized with a horrible vertigo.
CHAPTER III.
THE DUEL.
I WROTE THE following hasty lines in answer to Lord Falmouth’s admirable letter.
I rang the bell and sent him the note. (The whole of this letter is carefully erased in the Journal of an Unknown.)
Just as it has always happened, no sooner was the letter gone than I came to my senses, and when I was able to think of the infamous outrage I had committed, I was overcome with horror.
What if I were mistaken?
I would have given my very life to have been able to recall those dreadful lines.
It was too late.
My cabin was only separated from Lord Falmouth’s by a slight partition.
Seized by the most frightful anxiety, I listened. When the servant who had taken my letter to Falmouth closed the door, there was a dead silence. Then suddenly an impetuous movement upset a chair, and I heard Falmouth start towards the door with heavy and uncertain steps, for he could scarcely walk as yet.
He was coming.
My heart beat as though it was going to break.
His heavy steps came nearer.
I felt that I was breaking into a cold perspiration.
I was afraid!
My door was suddenly opened. He entered holding himself up on his cane.
In all my life — no, never in all my life shall I forget the look of fiery rage that gleamed in his eyes. His face was like a marble mask lit up by two blazing eyeballs.
“Defend yourself!” cried he, in a voice that shook with indignation, and holding out my letter in his hand; “where is your weapon?”
A frightful remorse seized me, so violent was it that a cowardly retraction of my infamy was on my lips.
“Henry!” said I, in despair, pointing to my letter, “pardon!”
“Pardon! You don’t mean to fight?” cried Falmouth, in a fury.
The blood rushed to my face, the shame of being thought a coward exasperated me, and I answered, “Monsieur, I will fight with whatever weapon you choose.”
“Thanks for such extreme politeness. What weapon do you fight with? I have had enough of this,” repeated he, savagely.
I was almost bursting with rage, but remembering that Falmouth was on his own yacht, I controlled myself.
“Both you and I,” said I, “are too badly wounded to use our swords, — pistols would be the most suitable arm.”
“That is quite true,” said Falmouth, as he sank into an armchair.
He rang the bell.
One of his servants entered.
“Beg Mr. Williams to come below,” said Falmouth. The valet went out.
“Williams and Geordy will be our seconds,” said Falmouth, imperiously.
I gave a mechanical sign of assent, — I was annihilated.
Williams came down into the cabin.
“Where are we, Williams? What is the nearest land?”
“The wind has been from the north all the morning, my lord, and we are well on our way to Malta. If it keeps on at this rate, we will get there to-morrow evening.”
“Try, then, my brave fellow, to get us there as soon as possible, — and give me your arm to help me back to my own cabin.”
I was alone.
There is no need to say that I was plunged in despair.
Revived by a burning fever, my wound began to give me terrible pain.
Tossing every moment on the great waves that the north wind had raised up, and which were growing higher momentarily, the schooner leaped wildly forward.
This ploughing the sea caused me such agony that I could scarcely help screaming aloud. The doctor came to see how I was getting on, and from childish obstinacy I hid my suffering.
The man was paid for his services by Falmouth. I was determined to accept his services no longer.
What hours I passed! Great God, it was horrible!
The excitement that I had undergone, added to the fever, had raised my nervous sensibility to such a degree that, doubled up in bed, I hid my face in my hands, for the light was intolerable to me, and I wept bitterly. Usually tears were a relief to me, but these were bitter and scalding.
Then, when my despair was at its height, I contrasted it, in my usual way, with my sensations of only a few hours before. I compared that which was with that which had been, — that which might have been, — had I not with my own hand crushed, blighted, deliberately destroyed so many new opportunities for happiness!
Instead of hiding my shame in solitude and darkness, instead of these dreary and sad thoughts and this isolation which my own outrageous conduct had brought upon me, I should be tranquilly seated by my friend, — my heart filled with grateful affection.
This man who now hated and despised me, who eagerly awaited the hour when he should wipe out with my blood the insult he had received, would be still there at my side, kind and solicitous for my comfort. These groans, wrung from me by physical suffering and which I tried so hard to stifle, would have been answered by the pitying voice of a brother in his attempt to comfort me.
And to think, great God! I cried out, that the reality of my dream of friendship was so near! To think that once again in my life, by the most unheard-of combination of circumstances, I had only to accept the happiness that was offered to me!
To think that once again a fatal monomania bad forced me to exchange all these promises of felicity for the most fearful and lifelong remorse!
Then seeing that my grief was incurable, ideas of suicide came into my mind.
I reproached myself for being only a burden to myself and every one else. I asked myself, Of what use am I, and what have I done with the advantages that fortune had bestowed on me, — youth, health, strength, wealth, intelligence, and courage?
To what use had I put these precious gifts so far? To ruin all those who had loved me.
Thus I resolved that in this duel with Falmouth I would blindly expose my life and respect his.
I felt that in firing on him I should commit fratricide.
By a strange caprice I wished to read his letter once more.
Inexplicable fatality! for the first time I understood its greatness, — its imposing generosity.
Then it was that I finally understood the irreparable, tremendous loss I had sustained. But alas, alas! it was now too late, all was over, the end had come.
CHAPTER IV.
THE PILOT.
FOR THE LAST few moments, the plunging of the yacht had become worse and worse. I could hear a continuous roaring, which became constantly more violent. Very soon there were flashes of lightning, followed by the deep rolling of distant thunder.
Sometimes I heard the hurried steps of the sailors overhead, then again the sound was hushed, and I heard the loud voice of Williams, giving orders.
I could no longer doubt of it; we were overtaken by a tempest. I could no longer remain inactive.
Feeble as I was, I tried to get up, hoping that the fresh air would do me good. I rang the bell, and, with the aid of my valet de chambre, succeeded in dressing.
I had almost completely lost the use of my left arm.
I went up on deck. Falmouth was not there.
The waves were furious.
Though it was only four o’clock, it was so dark that I could scarcely see.
On the horizon, the immense undulations of the waves were outlined against a band of gleaming light, the colour of red-hot iron.
Above this strip of blazing sky, the clouds were piled in heavy masses of ochre and black; the vault of the firmament was reflected in the sea, and the waves seemed to have lost their azure or emerald transparency, and looked like solid mountains streaked with foam.
The wind whistled through the ropes loudly and furiously. Though blowing a gale, the wind was hot, and the water that it raised up in solid sheets, and dashed over the deck of the yacht, was warm.
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Very soon the doctor came up on deck. “You are very imprudent,” said he to me, “to leave your cabin.”
“I was stifling down there, doctor, the motion of the ship made me almost crazy. I feel better up here.”
“What frightful weather!” said the doctor. “If we can only get to Malta to anchor before night!”
“Are we not some distance off yet from that island?”
“We are very near, but that heavy cloud prevents our seeing land. In about an hour the yacht will put up a signal for a pilot, provided that in such a storm they can hear our cannon and see our signal.”
An hour afterwards the sky became more clear.
We saw ahead of us, on the horizon, high hills, which were still covered with clouds; Williams said this was Cape Harrach, the northern point of the island of Malta, on the height of which was built the tower of Espinasse, which was used as a lookout. Williams then brought the yacht to, and fired several shots to call for a pilot.
“The wind is so strong,” said the doctor, “that the pilots of Harrach don’t dare to put out to sea.”
In spite of which, after several salvos from the ship, we saw appear and disappear on the crest and in the trough of the waves a little lateen sail which was skilfully managed.
“Those Maltese must be intrepid sailors,” said the doctor, “for, in spite of this tremendous sea, they are coming right out in the teeth of the wind.”
The pilot-boat approached nearer and nearer, but as it was sometimes hidden by the high waves, and only reappeared after a long interval, at each one of its progressive appearances on the wave’s crest it would seem to become unaccountably larger. This was a very natural circumstance, but it struck me as unnatural and ominous, At length the boat was only about a gunshot off from the yacht By Williams’s orders, a rope was thrown to it.
I leaned over the rail to get a better view of these hardy mariners.
There were five of them; four were busy managing the sails, while one held the rudder. After having very cleverly run alongside the yacht to catch the rope that had been thrown to them, the man who was steering, profiting by the moment when a great wave lifted up his boat almost to the deck of the yacht, leaped on board and clung to the shrouds.
The pilot, after saluting Williams, walked along the deck with a perfectly sure footing, in spite of the plunging of the yacht. One could see that he was an experienced navigator. Very soon he stopped, raised his head, and gave a connoisseur’s look at the appointments of the yacht; they seemed to please him, for he gave a mute sign of approbation.
In spite of the tempest, and the dangers that the yacht was in, for night was coming on and the wind showed no signs of going down, this man was so calm and secure that the sailors of the yacht, who were beginning to show signs of anxiety, brightened up and were quite cheerful again. It was as if the pilot had brought with him this sudden sense of security, as the arrival of the family physician brings confidence and hope to an anxious mother.
As I stood near the bulwarks on which I had been leaning so as not to be thrown down by the plunging of the ship, I had not yet had a good look at the pilot, but he soon came near me.
The man was apparently about forty. He was tall, thin, and bony; his face very sunburnt, his cheeks hollow; his eyes were green, and his hair black and very thick. He wore a Scotch cap of red and blue plaid woollen stuff,’ which was pulled down to his eyebrows.
A cape of heavy brown cloth, dripping with salt water, hung down to the tops of his great fisherman’s boots, and completed his costume.
It seemed to me that I had met this man before. I had a vague remembrance of just such a sinister face, though I found it impossible to recall the circumstances or place of our meeting; but there came over me an uncomfortable feeling which I attributed to my feverish condition.
“Can we get in to anchor at Malta to-night, pilot?” said Williams to him.
After having looked at the compass and questioned the state of the sky, the sea, and the wind, the pilot answered in very good English: “We might get to an island to-night, but not to the island of Malta, sir.”
“No!” cried Williams; “and why not?”
“Because you can’t, it is impossible,” said the pilot, carelessly.
“But,” continued Williams, “though the wind is very strong, and blowing from the north, it is not strong enough to send us ashore. The yacht sails beautifully, she rises with every wave.”
“Could she resist a current that runs seven or eight knots an hour, sir, and that driving us right ashore the same way the wind is doing?”
“I tell you, pilot,” replied Williams, “that two years ago I ran into the harbour of Malta in a worse storm than this.”
“But not worse than what we are to have to-night,” said the pilot.
“To-night?” replied Williams, incredulously.
“Yes, to-night,” replied the pilot, firmly.
“How do you know that we will have a bad night, pilot?”
“The point of Tamea and the rocks of Kamich are all under water at sundown, and that is the sign of a terrible storm.”
“That is all superstition and old women’s tales!” exclaimed Williams.
The pilot gave him a look oat of his piercing green eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. When the man smiled, I felt as though I had the nightmare, or an oppressive dream, for I recognised the sharp, white, pointed teeth of the pirate with whom I had struggled hand to hand when the yacht had been attacked.
My astonishment was so great, that I strode forward and stared at the pilot in a state of stupefaction; but he withstood my gaze with perfect indifference, and it was I who lowered my eyes, all abashed by the calm, unconcerned look he gave me.
Williams, who was impatient at the pilot’s silence, and had noticed my astonishment, said to him, “But then, what do you propose to do?”
“If the weather continues to grow heavier, which I have no doubt of, sir, instead of running the risk of having your yacht driven ashore by the wind and the currents before it gets into the port of Malta, I advise you to double Point Harrach, and, instead of going ashore on the northern side of the island, to land on the southern coast in the little harbour of Marsa-Siroco, where you will find good anchorage. If, as you say, your yacht rises well to the wind, there will be nothing to prevent her manoeuvring when she is once under shelter of the island, and, in case the storm grows worse, she will run no risk of being dashed ashore, because she will have before her the hundred leagues that separate Malta from the north coast of Africa.”
“That proposition is a cowardly one, pilot,” cried out Williams; “a Flemish tub would do better than that. My lord wishes positively to anchor in the port of Malta to-night, and I say it can be done.”
“Then you must take the wheel yourself, sir,” replied the pilot, with his independent air; then going astern, he called in English to the sailors who had remained in his sailboat, “Hello! Hello, there; get ready to cast off, we are going back to Harrach.”
When I heard the clear and penetrating voice of the pilot, except the different language, it surely sounded like the voice and accent of the man in the black hood, who, a moment before the boarding of the yacht, cried out to his pirate crew, “Don’t fire! Board her!”
Williams, seeing that the pilot was really getting ready to leave, told him to wait a moment, and he would go and consult with my lord; then he disappeared.
I remained on deck in a state of the greatest perplexity.
I was almost sure that I recognised the voice and the peculiar teeth of this man, but could not this be a remarkable case of similarity? What chance was there that a man who had been wounded and thrown into the sea, barely eight days ago, should be this Maltese pilot, so vigorous and strong?
I continued to watch the pilot steadily; he never changed countenance. Tired, no doubt, of being so fixedly stared at, he advanced towards me, and said, boldly:
“What have you got to say to me, monsieur?”
“Have you been a pilot at Malta any length of time?” I asked him.
“For the last seven years, monsieur,” and he showed me his large silver medal, hung on a long chain of the same metal, which he wore under his cape.
On the medal I read the name Joseph Belmont, royal pilot, No. 18. On the other side of the medal were the royal arms of England.
“But you are a Frenchman,” said I to him, speaking French.
“Oui, monsieur,” he replied.
I was more astonished even than before.
Williams now appeared on deck, and, addressing the pilot, said:
“Go ahead, do as you think best My lord has given his consent.”
“The sea is getting so rough,” said the pilot to Williams, “that I am going to tell my sailors to heave off the tow-rope, and follow us a little ways off.” So the sailboat, abandoning the tow-rope, continued to follow in our wake.
Night was coming on.
According to the usual custom, Williams handed his speaking-trumpet, the sign of command, to the pilot The predictions of the latter as to the weather were soon realised, for though the new direction we had taken put us, in a short time, under the lee of the island, and in a sheltered position, the tempest augmented in violence.
The pilot, standing at the helm, gave his orders with perfect calmness, and Williams admitted that he managed the ship with rare ability and coolness.
While waiting for the moon to rise, which would facilitate our coming to anchor, we were skirting along the coast, parallel to the southern shore of the island of Malta.
The night was very dark.
The lamps of the compasses, shut up in their copper boxes, shone in a pale circle on the deck, at the foot of the mainmast.
This light shone only on the pilot and the helmsman, while the rest of the yacht remained plunged in an obscurity that the contrasting luminous circle only made darker. Lit up from below, as actors are by the footlights of the theatre, the features of the pilot had a peculiar expression of audacity, deceit, and wickedness.
Although the sea was tremendous, so that the prow of the yacht was almost constantly covered by the furious waves, from time to time I could see the pilot rub his hands with savage satisfaction, and laugh in a way that showed his white, sharp, and wide-apart teeth.
