The Blue Pavilions by Arthur Quiller-Couch (leveled readers .TXT) 📕

and found himself forced to do what Captain Barker from the first had meant him to do. The four galleys that had started after the convoy were by this time sweeping along on the full tide of success. In another five minutes the pathway to the Thames would be blocked and all the merchant vessels at their mercy.

M. de la Pailletine hoisted the flag of distress. He called them to his help.

A wild hurrah broke out from the crew of the frigate. The order meant their destruction: for how could the Merry Maid contend against six galleys? Yet they cheered, for they had guessed what their captain had in his mind. And the little man's greenish eyes sparkled as he heard.

"Good boys!" he said briefly, turning to his friend. "The convoy is saved, my lad: and O! but Jemmy, you did it prettily!"

V.—The Galley (in the hold).

Let us go back for a minute or two to Tristram.

The oar at which he tugged was one of the starboard tier; and when L'Heureuse missed her stroke, as we have told, it went like a sugar-stick, flinging him and his companions back across the bench. Farther than this they could not fly, because the stout chains which fastened them were but ten feet long. Tristram, indeed, was hurled scarcely so far as the rest, for his seat was the inmost from the gangway, and right against the galley's side; so that he got the shortest swing of the oar.

They scrambled up just as the fire of grape-shot opened. And then Tristram made an appalling discovery.

The hole through which their oar was worked had been split wider by the crash; and now, looking out, he saw that it lay just opposite the mouth of an English cannon. In this position they had been brought up by the frigate's grappling-irons.

It took him but an instant to see also that the cannon, as it stared him in the face, was loaded.

The two vessels, moreover, lay so close that by reaching up with his hand he could have laid his hand on its muzzle.

It was a horrible moment. There were four Frenchmen and a Turk ranged along the bench beside him. He looked into their faces. They were ashen grey to the lips. No one could move to get out of the way: the chains prevented that. The Huguenot was praying wildly. Only the Turk preserved his composure, and even he had turned pale under his bronze skin.

Somebody cried: "Lie flat!"

In a second every one of Tristram's companions had flung himself flat on the bench. Tristram glanced again at the gun. Even at that moment he had enough presence of mind to note that it was pointed downwards, and at such an angle that those who lay flat must infallibly receive all its contents. He noted this even while it seemed that every one of his faculties was frozen up. He felt that he could move neither hand nor foot; and somehow he knew that since, because of the chain, he could not leave the bench, he must sit upright. And so he stiffened his back, laid his hands on his lap, and waited with his eyes on the gun.

Through the port-hole he could see the English gunner. He saw the fuse in his hand. He counted the seconds; wondered, even, how the fellow could be so deliberate. He heard the explosions all around, and speculated. Would the next be his turn? Or the next? Would it be painful? What was the next world like? And would his body be badly mangled?

The gunner had the match ready, when the lad's lips moved and a cry broke from them—a cry which astonished him as he uttered it, for he had no notion that his brain was busy with such matters.

"O! my Father, have pity on my poor soul! I have loved all men and one woman. Give comfort to her, and have mercy on my poor soul!"

As the last word dropped from his lips, a great calm fell upon him and his eyes rested quietly on the gunner's hand as the man set the lighted match to the touch-hole of the gun.

It was night when Tristram opened his eyes again. A pale ray of moonlight slanted across his face. His head was pillowed on something soft and warm. He lay for awhile and stared at the moonlight; and by degrees he made out that it was pouring through a rent in the galley's side. Then he turned his head and lifted himself a little to see what it was on which his head rested. It was the dead body of one of the three overseers, who had been killed almost by the first shot fired by the frigate.

He pulled himself up and crept towards the bench; then put a hand down to his feet. The ring was there, but no chain. Next he felt along the bench with a wish—quite stupid—to get back to his seat. His comrades were still lying on their faces. He imagined for a moment that their foolish fears still held them there and he laughed feebly. He was weak, but felt no pain from any wound, nor suspected that he was hurt.

Then he began to eye the fellows roguishly, taking a malicious pleasure in the continuance of their terror. He tittered again and suddenly found himself out of patience with them.

"Come, get up—get up! The danger's all over long ago."

He received no answer and put out his hand towards the nearest. It was the Turk—a fellow who had been a janizary, and had the reputation of not knowing what fear was.

"Hullo, Ysouf! Get up, for shame—get up, man! And you—that we called so brave!"

Ysouf lay still. Tristram bent forward and took his hand.

The hand came away from the body. It was icy cold.

Still holding it, Tristram leant back and stared; and as he stared a pettish anger took him. He tossed the hand back on the body. And now for the first time he began to hear; and as this lost sense crept back to him he knew that the place was full of moaning, and that somewhere close feet were trampling to and fro. The noise caused him agony, and he put his two hands to his ears.

He was sitting in this posture when he felt something warm and moist trickle down his body, which was naked to the waist. He took a hand from his ear and put it to his breast. It was all wet, but in the darkness nothing could be distinguished. Suspecting, however, that it must be blood from some wound, and following the smear with his fingers, he found that his shoulder, near the clavicle was pierced right through. There was no pain.

Then he began to feel himself all over, and found another gash in the left leg, below the knee. He searched no more, feeling that it was useless, as he was bound to die in a little while. The men before him and behind him were dead. Of eighteen men on the three benches he—who had been blown the full length of the coursier—was the only one left; and all owing to the explosion of one cannon only. But such was the manner of grape-shot: after the cartouche of powder, a long tin box of musket-balls rammed in; and as the box breaks, destruction right and left.

As he sat, waiting listlessly for death, the sense of pain came suddenly upon Tristram; and then he swooned away.

VI.—The Frigate.

As soon as the galleys saw M. de la Pailletine's signal and turned reluctantly back from their chase, the capture of the Merry Maid became but a question of time. La Merveille was the first to come up, and, striking fairly at her stern, riddled her windows with a gust of artillery and prepared to board: a feat that was thrice prevented by Captain Runacles and a couple of dozen marines, English and Dutch. Then followed Captain Denoyre with the Sanspareil, who approached from the starboard side and lost both his masts as he did so. In fact, the execution done upon his galley was only second to that suffered by L'Heureuse. But as Le Paon followed from the same quarter, with the Nymphe and the Belle Julie heading down as fast as oars could take them, Captain Barker cast a look back and touched his old friend's arm.

The first of the merchantmen was entering the Thames.

"Better get back to the fo'c's'le, Jemmy, and entrench yourself."

Captain Runacles nodded. "And you?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm going down to the cabin—first of all." Captain Runacles nodded again. They looked straight into each other's eyes, shook hands, and parted.

It was obvious that the men of the Merry Maid could no longer keep the deck. She was hemmed in on every side and it only remained to board her.

Twenty-five grenadiers from each galley were ordered upon this service. Those of La Merveille were the first to start and they swarmed over the stern without opposition. But no sooner were they crowded upon the frigate's deck than a volley of musketry mowed them down. Captain Runacles and his heroes then ran back and entrenched themselves in the forecastle; and to advance to close the hatchway was certain death. Nor were they forced to surrender until long after the English flag was hauled down: and, indeed, were only silenced when M. de la Pailletine hit on the happy idea of setting fifty men to work with axes to lay open the frigate's deck. A score and a half of men were lost over this piece of work. However, the forecastle was carried at last by means of it; and the prisoners were brought on deck—among them Captain Runacles, with his right hand disabled.

"Are you the gallant captain of this frigate?" asked M. de la Pailletine, doffing his hat; for as yet he had received no sword in token of the Merry Maid's surrender.

"No, sir," Captain Runacles answered; "I have the honour to be his lieutenant."

"He is killed, perhaps?"

"I fancy not."

"Then where is he?"

"Excuse me, monsieur, it strikes me he has yet to be taken."

"But the ship is ours!"

"Well, monsieur, you have hauled down our colours and I can't deny it. But as for the frigate, I doubt if you can call it yours just yet."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Why, simply that you have not yet taken Captain Barker; and excuse me if, knowing Captain Barker better than you can possibly do, I warn you that that part of the ship which he sees fit to occupy at this moment will probably be dangerous for some time to come."

As if to corroborate his words, at this moment the hush which had fallen upon the frigate's deck was broken by the report of a firearm, and two French grenadiers rushed upon deck from below and came forward hurriedly, one with a hand clapped to a wound in his shoulder.

"That," said Captain Runacles, "is probably Captain Barker. There is a shutter to his cabin door."

"But this is trivial," exclaimed the French Commodore, frowning.

"If Monsieur will excuse me, it is scarcely so trivial as it looks. Captain Barker is within ten paces of the powder-magazine. Moreover, between him and the powder-magazine there is a door."

M. de la Pailletine jumped in his shoes. He rushed aft to the companion leading to the captain's cabin and called on him to surrender.

"Go away!" answered a very ill-tempered voice from below.

"But, sir, consider. Your ship is in our hands—"

"Then come and take it."

"—Your gallant officers have surrendered. You have behaved like a hero and there is not one of your enemies but honours you. Monsieur, it is magnificent—but come out!"

"I shan't."

"Monsieur, even this noble obstinacy extorts my veneration; but permit me to inquire: How can you help it?"

"Very simply, sir. Time is of no concern to me. I have plenty of victuals and ammunition down here; and if any man comes to take my sword I shall kill him."

"You cannot kill five or six hundred men."

"No; when I am bored, I shall fire the powder-magazine."

"Monsieur—"

There was no answer but the sound of a man blowing his nose violently and the ring of a ramrod as it was thrust home. It was absurd that one man should hold a ship against hundreds. Nevertheless, it was so, and the Commodore did not see his way out of