``Get the ship round on the other tack.’’
The elderly seaman who was the master of the Amelia took a critical look before he gave the necessary orders; and the Amelia closed on her chase with her decks resounding to the piping of boatswain’s mates and the hoarse shout: ``Hands shorten sail. About ship.’’
Peyrol, lying on his back under the swinging tiller, heard the calls shrilling and dying away; he heard the ominous rush of Amelia’s bow wave as the sloop foamed within ten yards of the tartane’s stern; he even saw her upper yards coming down, and then everything vanished out of the clouded sky. There was nothing in his ears but the sound of the wind, the wash of the waves buffeting the little craft left without guidance, and the continuous thrashing of its foresail the sheet of which Michel had let go according to orders. The tartane began to roll heavily, but Peyrol’s right arm was sound and he managed to put it round a bollard to prevent himself from being flung about. A feeling of peace sank into him, not unmingled with pride. Everything he had planned had come to pass. He had meant to play that man a trick, and now the trick had been played. Played by him better than by any other old man on whom age had stolen, unnoticed, till the veil of peace was torn down by the touch of a sentiment unexpected like an intruder and cruel like an enemy.
Peyrol rolled his head to the left. All he could see were the legs of Citizen Scevola sliding nervelessly to and fro to the rolling of the vessel as if his body had been jammed somewhere. Dead, or only scared to death? And Michel? Was he dead or dying, that man without friends whom his pity had refused to leave behind marooned on the earth without even a dog for company? As to that, Peyrol felt no compunction; but he thought he would have liked to see Michel once more. He tried to utter his name, but his throat refused him even a whisper. He felt himself removed far away from that world of human sounds, in which Arlette had screamed at him: ``Peyrol, don’t you dare!’’ He would never hear anybody’s voice again! Under that grey sky there was nothing for him but the swish of breaking seas and the ceaseless furious beating of the tartane’s foresail. His play-thing was knocking about terribly under him, with her tiller flying madly to and fro just clear of his head, and solid lumps of water coming on board over his prostrate body. Suddenly, in a desperate lurch which brought the whole Mediterranean with a ferocious snarl level with the slope of the little deck, Peyrol saw the Amelia bearing right down upon the tartane. The fear, not of death but of failure, gripped his slowing-down heart. Was this blind Englishman going to run him down and sink the dispatches together with the craft? With a mighty effort of his ebbing strength Peyrol sat up and flung his arm round the shroud of the mainmast.
The Ameleia, whose way had carried her past the tartane for a quarter of a mile, before sail could be shortened and her yards swung on the other tack, was coming back to take possession of her chase. In the deepening dusk and amongst the foaming seas it was a matter of difficulty to make out the little craft. At the very moment when the master of the man-of-war, looking out anxiously from the forecastle-head, thought that she might perhaps have filled and gone down, he caught sight of her rolling in the trough of the sea, and so close that she seemed to be at the end of the Amelia’s jibboom. His heart flew in his mouth. ``Hard a starboard!’’ he yelled, his order being passed along the decks.
Peyrol, sinking back on the deck in another heavy lurch of his craft, saw for an instant the whole of the English corvette swing up into the clouds as if she meant to fling herself upon his very breast. A blown seatop flicked his face noisily, followed by a smooth interval, a silence of the waters. He beheld in a flash the days of his manhood, of strength and adventure. Suddenly an enormous voice like the roar of an angry sea-lion seemed to fill the whole of the empty sky in a mighty and commanding shout: ``Steady!”‘‘. . . And with the sound of that familiar English word ringing in his ears Peyrol smiled to his visions and died.
The Amelia, stripped down to her topsails and hove to, rose and fell easily while on her quarter about a cable’s length away Peyrol’s tartane tumbled like a lifeless corpse amongst the seas. Captain Vincent, in his favourite attitude of leaning over the rail, kept his eyes fastened on his prize. Mr. Bolt, who had been sent for, waited patiently till his commander turned round.
``Oh, here you are, Mr. Bolt. I have sent for you to go and take possession. You speak French, and there may still be somebody alive in her. If so, of course you will send him on board at once. I am sure there can be nobody unwounded there. It will anyhow be too dark to see much, but just have a good look round and secure everything in the way of papers you can lay your hands on. Haul aft the foresheet and sail her up to receive a tow line. I intend to take her along and ransack her thoroughly in the morning; tear down the cuddy linings and so on, should you not find at once what I expect. . . .’’ Captain Vincent, his white teeth gleaming in the dusk, gave some further orders in a lower tone, and Mr. Bolt departed in a hurry. Half an hour afterwards he was back on board, and the Amelia, with the tartane in tow, made sail to the eastward in search of the blockading fleet.
Mr. Bolt, introduced into a cabin strongly lighted by a swinging lamp, tendered to his captain across the table a sail-cloth package corded and scaled, and a piece of paper folded in four, which, he explained, seemed to be a certificate of registry, strangely enough mentioning no name. Captain Vincent seized the grey canvas package eagerly.
``This looks like the very thing, Bolt,’’ he said, turning it over in his hands. ``What else did you find on board?’’
Bolt said that he had found three dead men, two on the after-deck and one lying at the bottom of the open hold with the bare end of the foresheet in his hand — -``shot down, I suppose, just as he had let it go,’’ he commented. He described the appearance of the bodies and reported that he had disposed of them according to orders. In the tartane’s cabin there was half a demijohn of wine and a loaf of bread in a locker; also, on the floor, a leather valise containing an officer’s uniform coat and a change of clothing. He had lighted the lamp and saw that the linen was marked ``E. Ral.’’ An officer’s sword on a broad shoulder-belt was also lying on the floor. These things could not have belonged to the old chap with the white hair, who was a big man. ``Looks as if somebody had tumbled overboard,’’ commented Bolt. Two of the bodies looked nondescript, but there was no doubt about that fine old fellow being a seaman.
``By Heavens!’’ said Captain Vincent, ``he was that! Do you know, Bolt, that he nearly managed to escape us? Another twenty minutes would have done it. How many wounds had he?’’
``Three I think, sir. I did not look closely,’’ said Bolt.
``I hated the necessity of shooting brave men like dogs,’’ said Captain Vincent. ``Still, it was the only way; and there may be something here,’’ he went on, slapping the package with his open palm, ``that will justify me in my own eyes. You may go now.’’
Captain Vincent did not turn in but only lay down fully dressed on the couch till the officer of the watch, appearing at the door, told him that a ship of the fleet was in sight away to windward. Captain Vincent ordered the private night signal to be made. When he came on deck the towering shadow of a line-of-battle ship that seemed to reach to the very clouds was well within hail and a voice bellowed from her through a speaking trumpet:
``What ship is that?’’
``His Majesty’s sloop Amelia,’’ hailed back Captain Vincent. ``What ship is that, pray?’’
Instead of the usual answer there was a short pause and another voice spoke boisterously through the trumpet:
``Is that you, Vincent? Don’t you know the Superb when you see her?’’
``Not in the dark, Keats. How are you? I am in a hurry to speak the Admiral.’’
``The fleet is lying by,’’ came the voice now with painstaking distinctness across the murmurs, whispers and splashes of the black lane of water dividing the two ships. ``The Admiral bears S.S.E. If you stretch on till daylight as you are, you will fetch him on the other tack in time for breakfast on
board the Victory. Is anything up?’’
At every slight roll the sails of the Amelia, becalmed by the bulk of the seventy-four, flapped gently against the masts.
``Not much,’’ hailed Captain Vincent. ``I made a prize.’’
``Have you been in action?’’ came the swift inquiry.
``No, no. Piece of luck.’’
``Where’s your prize?’’ roared the speaking trumpet with interest.
``In my desk,’’ roared Captain Vincent in reply. . . . ``Enemy dispatches. . . . I say, Keats, fill on your ship. Fill on her, I say, or you will be falling on board of me.’’ He stamped his foot impatiently. ``Clap some hands at once on the tow-line and run that tartane close under our stern,’’ he called to the officer of the watch, ``or else the old Superb will walk over her without ever knowing anything about it.’’
When Captain Vincent presented himself on board the Victory it was too late for him to be invited to share the Admiral’s breakfast. He was told that Lord Nelson had not been seen on deck yet, that morning; and presently word came that he wished to see Captain Vincent at once in his cabin. Being introduced, the captain of the Amelia, in undress uniform, with a sword by his side and his hat under his arm, was received kindly, made his bow and with a few words of explanation laid the packet on the big round table at which sat a silent secretary in black clothes, who had been obviously writing a letter from his lordship’s dictation. The Admiral had been walking up and down, and after he had greeted Captain Vincent he resumed his pacing of a nervous man. His empty sleeve had not yet been pinned on his breast and swung slightly every time he turned in his walk. His thin locks fell lank against the pale cheeks, and the whole face in repose had an expression of suffering with which the fire of his one eye presented a startling contrast. He stopped short and exclaimed while Captain Vincent towered over him in a respectful attitude:
``A tartane! Captured on board a tartane! How on earth did you pitch upon that one out of the hundreds you must see every month?’’
``I must confess that I got hold accidentally of some curious information,’’ said Captain Vincent. ``It was all a piece of luck.’’
While the secretary was ripping open with a pen-knife the cover of the dispatches Lord Nelson took Captain Vincent out into the stern gallery. The quiet and sunshiny morning had the added charm of a cool, light breeze; and the Victory, under her three topsails and lower staysails, was moving slowly to the southward in the midst of the scattered fleet carrying for the most part the same sail as the Admiral. Only far away two or three ships could be seen covered with canvas trying to close with the flag. Captain Vincent noted with satisfaction that the first lieutenant of the Amelia had been obliged to brace by his afteryards in order not to overrun the Admiral’s quarter.
``Why!’’ exclaimed Lord Nelson suddenly, after looking at the sloop for a moment, ``you have that tartane in tow!’’
``I thought that your lordship would perhaps like to see a 40-ton lateen craft which has led such a chase to, I daresay, the fastest sloop in his Majesty’s service.’’
``How did it all begin?’’ asked the Admiral, continuing to look at the Amelia.
``As I have already hinted to your lordship, certain information came in my way,’’ began Captain Vincent, who did not think it necessary to enlarge upon that part of the story. ``This tartane, which is not very different to look at from the other tartanes along the coast between Cette and Genoa, had started from a cove on the Giens Peninsula. An old man with a white head of hair was entrusted with the service and really they could have found nobody better. He came round Cape Esterel intending to pass through the Hyres roadstead. Apparently he did not expect to find the Amelia in his way. And it was there that he made his only mistake. If he had kept on his course I would probably have taken no more notice of him than of two other craft that were in sight then. But he acted suspiciously by hauling up for the battery on Porquerolles. This manuvre in connection with the information of which I spoke decided me to overhaul him and see what he had on board.’’ Captain Vincent then related concisely the episodes of the chase. ``I assure your lordship that I never gave an order with greater reluctance than to open musketry fire on that craft; but the old man had given such proofs of his seamanship and determination that there was nothing else for it. Why! at the very moment he had the Amelia alongside of him he still made a most clever attempt to prolong the chase. There were only a few minutes of daylight left, and in the darkness we might very well have lost him. Considering that they all could have saved their lives simply by striking their sails on deck, I can not refuse them my admiration and especially to the white-haired man.’’
The Admiral, who had been all the time looking absently at the Amelia keeping her station with the tartane in tow, said:
``You have a very smart little ship, Vincent. Very fit for the work I have given you to do. French built, isn’t she?’’
``Yes, my lord. They are great shipbuilders.’’
``You don’t seem to hate the French, Vincent,’’ said the Admiral, smiling faintly.
``Not that kind, my lord,’’ said Captain Vincent with a bow. ``I detest their political principles and the characters of their public men, but your lordship will admit that for courage and determination we could not have found worthier adversaries anywhere on this globe.’’
``I never said that they were to be despised,’’ said Lord Nelson. ``Resource, courage, yes. . . . If that Toulon fleet gives me the slip, all our squadrons from Gibraltar to Brest will be in jeopardy. Why don’t they come out and be done with it? Don’t I keep far enough out of their way?’’ he cried.
Vincent remarked the nervous agitation of the frail figure with a concern augmented by a fit of coughing which came on the Admiral. He was quite alarmed by its violence. He watched the Commander-in-Chief in the Mediterranean choking and gasping so helplessly that he felt compelled to turn his eyes away from the painful spectacle; but he noticed also how quickly Lord Nelson recovered from the subsequent exhaustion.
``This is anxious work, Vincent,’’ he said. ``It is killing me. I aspire to repose somewhere in the country, in the midst of fields, out of reach of the sea and the Admiralty and dispatches and orders, and responsibility too. I have been just finishing a letter to tell them at home I have hardly enough breath in my body to carry me on from day to day. . . . But I am like that white-headed man you admire so much, Vincent,’’ he pursued, with a weary smile, ``I will stick to my task till perhaps some shot from the enemy puts an end to everything. . . . Let us see what there may be in those papers you have brought on board.’’
The secretary in the cabin had arranged them in separate piles.
``What is it all about?’’ asked the Admiral, beginning again to pace restlessly up and down the cabin.
``At the first glance the most important, my lord, are the orders for marine authorities in Corsica and Naples to make certain dispositions in view of an expedition to Egypt.’’
``I always thought so,’’ said the Admiral, his eye gleaming at the attentive countenance of Captain Vincent. ``This is a smart piece of work on your part, Vincent. I can do no better than send you back to your station. Yes . . . Egypt . . . the Easts. . . . Everything points that way,’’ he soliloquized under Vincent’s eyes while the secretary, picking up the papers with care, rose quietly and went out to have them translated and to make an abstract for the Admiral.
``And, yet who knows!’’ exclaimed Lord Nelson, standing still for a moment. ``But the blame or the glory must be mine alone. I will seek counsel from no man.’’ Captain Vincent felt himself forgotten, invisible, less than a shadow in the presence of a nature capable of such vehement feelings. ``How long can he last?’’ he asked himself with sincere concern.
The Admiral, however, soon remembered his presence, and at the end of another ten minutes Captain Vincent left the Victory, feeling, like all officers who approached Lord Nelson, that he had been speaking with a personal friend; and with a renewed devo
tion for the great sea-officer’s soul dwelling in the frail body of the Commander-in-Chief of his Majesty’s ships in the Mediterranean. While he was being pulled back to his ship a general signal went up in the Victory for the fleet to form line, as convenient, ahead and astern of the Admiral; followed by another to the Amelia to part company. Vincent accordingly gave his orders to make sail, and, directing the master to shape a course for Cape Cici, went down into his cabin. He had been up nearly the whole of the last three nights and he wanted to get a little sleep. His slurnbers, however, were short and disturbed. Early in the afternoon he found himself broad awake and reviewing in his mind the events of the day before. The order to shoot three brave men in cold blood, terribly distasteful at the time, was lying heavily on him. Perhaps he had been impressed by Peyrol’s white head, his obstinacy to escape him, the determination shown to the very last minute, by something in the whole episode that suggested a more than common devotion to duty and a spirit of daring defiance. With his robust health, simple good nature, and sanguine temperament touched with a little irony, Captain Vincent was a man of generous feelings and of easily moved sympathies.
``Yet,’’ he reflected, ``they have been asking for it. There could be only one end to that affair. But the fact remains that they were defenceless and unarmed and particularly harmless-looking, and at the same time as brave as any. That old chap now. . . .’ He wondered how much of exact truth there was in Symons tale of adventure. He concluded that the facts must have been true but that Symons’ interpretation of them made it extraordinarily difficult to discover what really there was under all that. That craft certainly was fit for blockade running. Lord Nelson had been pleased. Captain Vincent went on deck with the kindliest feelings towards all men, alive and dead.
Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) Page 489
