The Hot Swamp

Chapter Three

On the Voyage

Weather has always been, and, we suppose, always will be, capricious. Its uncertainty of character—in the Levant, as in the Atlantic, in days of old as now, was always the same—smiling to-day; frowning to-morrow; playful as a lamb one day; raging like a lion the next.

After the rough handling experienced by the Penelope at the beginning of her voyage, rude Boreas kindly retired, and spicy breezes from Africa rippled the sea with just sufficient force to intensify its heavenly blue, and fill out the great square-sail so that there was no occasion to ply the oars. One dark, starlight but moonless night, a time of quiet talk prevailed from stem to stern of the vessel as the grizzled mariners spun long yarns of their prowess and experiences on the deep, for the benefit of awe-stricken and youthful shipmates whose careers were only commencing.

“You’ve heard, no doubt, of the great sea-serpent?” observed little Maikar, who had speedily recovered from the flattening to which Bladud had subjected him, and was busy enlivening a knot of young fellows in the bow of the ship.

“Of course we have!” cried one; “father used to tell me about it when I was but a small boy. He never saw it himself, though he had been to the Tin Isles and Albion more than once; but he said he had met with men who had spoken with shipmates who had heard of it from men who had seen it only a few days before, and who described it exactly.”

“Ah!” remarked another, “but I have met a man who had seen it himself on his first voyage, when he was quite a youth; and he said it had a bull’s head and horns, with a dreadful long body all over scales, and something like an ass’s tail at the end.”

“Pooh!—nonsense!” exclaimed little Maikar, twirling his thumbs, for smoking had not been introduced into the world at that period—and thumb-twirling would seem to have served the ancient world for leisurely pastime quite as well, if not better—at least we are led to infer so from the fact that Herodotus makes no mention of anything like a vague, mysterious sensation of unsatisfied desire to fill the mouth with smoke in those early ages, which he would certainly have done had the taste for smoke been a natural craving, and thumb-twirling an unsatisfactory occupation. This absolute silence of the “Father of History,” we think, almost proves our point. “Nonsense!” repeated little Maikar. “The youth of the man who told you about the serpent accounts for his wild description, for youth is prone to strange imaginings and—”

“It seems to me,” interrupted a grave man, who twirled his thumbs in that slow, deliberate way in which a contemplative man smokes—“it seems to me that there’s no more truth about the great sea-serpent than there is about the golden fleece. I don’t believe in either of them.”

“Don’t you? Well, all I can say is,” returned the little man, gazing fixedly in the grave comrade’s face, “that I saw the great sea-serpent with my own eyes!”

“No! did you?” exclaimed the group, drawing their heads closer together with looks of expectancy.

“Ay, that did I, mates; but you mustn’t expect wild descriptions about monsters with bulls’ horns and asses’ tails from me. I like truth, and the truth is, that the brute was so far away at the time we saw it, that not a man of us could tell exactly what it was like, and when we tried the description, we were all so different, that we gave it up; but we were all agreed on this point, that it certainly was the serpent.”

The listeners seemed rather disappointed at this meagre account and sudden conclusion of what had bidden fair to become a stirring tale of the sea; but Maikar re-aroused their expectations by stating his firm belief that it was all nonsense about there being only one sea-serpent.

“Why, how could there be only one?” he demanded, ceasing to twirl, in order that he might clench his fist and smite his knee with emphasis. “Haven’t you got a grandfather?” he asked, turning suddenly to the grave man.

“Certainly, I’ve got two of them if you come to that,” he answered, taken rather aback by the brusque and apparently irrelevant nature of the question.

“Just so—two of them,” repeated the little man, “and don’t you think it likely that the sea serpent must have had two grandfathers also?”

“Undoubtedly—and two grandmothers as well. Perhaps he’s got them yet,” replied the grave man with a contemplative look over the side, where the rippling sea gleamed with phosphoric brilliancy.

“Exactly so,” continued Maikar in an eager tone, “and of course these also must have had two grandfathers besides a mother each, and it is more than likely that the great sea-serpent himself is the father of a large family.”

“Which implies a wife,” suggested one of the seamen.

“Not necessarily,” objected an elderly seaman, who had once been to the lands lying far to the north of Albion, and had acquired something of that tendency to object to everything at all times which is said to characterise the people of the far North. “Not necessarily,” he repeated, “for the serpent may be a bachelor with no family at all.”

There was a short laugh at this, and an illogical man of the group made some irrelevant observation which led the conversation into a totally different channel, and relegated the great sea-serpent, for the time being, to oblivion!

While the men were thus engaged philosophising in the bow, Bladud and the captain were chatting in subdued voices in the stern.

“It is impossible,” said the latter, in reply to a remark made by the former, “it is impossible for me to visit your father’s court this year, though it would please me much to do so, but my cargo is intended for the south-western Cassiterides. To get round to the river on the banks of which your home stands would oblige me to run far towards the cold regions, into waters which I have not yet visited—though I know them pretty well by hearsay. On another voyage I may accomplish it, but not on this one.”

“I am sorry for that, Arkal, because things that are put off to another time are often put off altogether. But the men of the Tin Isles often visit my father’s town in their boats with copper and tin, and there are tracks through the forest which horses can traverse. Could you not visit us overland? It would not be a journey of many weeks, and your trusty mate might look after the ship in your absence. Besides, the diggers may not have enough of the metal ready to fill your ship, so you may be idle a long time. What say you?”

Captain Arkal frowned, as was his wont when considering a knotty question, and shook his head.

“I doubt if I should be wise to venture so much,” he said; “moreover, we are not yet at the end of our voyage. It is of little use troubling one’s-self about the end of anything while we are only at the beginning.”

“Nevertheless,” rejoined Bladud, “to consider the possible end while yet at the beginning, seems not unreasonable, though, undoubtedly, we may never reach the end. Many a fair ship sets sail and never returns.”

“Ay, that is true, as I know to my cost,” returned the captain, “for this is not my first venture. A long time ago I loaded a ship about the size of this one, and sent her under command of one of my best friends to the Euxine sea for gold. I now think that that old story about Jason and his ship Argo sailing in search of the golden fleece was running too strong in my youthful brain. Besides that, of course I had heard the report that there is much gold in that direction, and my hopes were strong, for you know all the world runs after gold. Anyhow, my ship sailed and I never saw her or my friend again. Since then I have contented myself with copper and tin.”

A slight increase in the wind at that moment caused the captain to dismiss his golden and other memories, and look inquiringly to windward.

“A squall, methinks?” said Bladud.

“No, only a puff,” replied his friend, ordering the steersman to alter the course a little.

The squall or puff was only strong enough to cause the Penelope to make a graceful bow to the controlling element and cleave the sparkling water with her prow so swiftly that she left a gleaming wake as of lambent fire astern. It was short-lived, however, and was followed by a calm which obliged little Maikar and his comrades to cease their story-telling and ply their fifty oars. Thus the pace was kept going, though not quite so swiftly as if they were running before a stiff breeze.

“The gods are propitious,” said the captain; “we are going to have a prosperous voyage.”

“How many gods are propitious?” asked Bladud.

“That is a question much too deep for me to answer.”

“But not too deep to think of—is it?”

“Of what use would be my thinking?” returned the captain, lightly. “I leave such matters to the learned.”

“Now, mate,” he added, turning to his subordinate, “I’m going to rest a while. See that you keep an open eye for squalls and pirates. Both are apt to come down on you when you least expect them.”

But neither squalls nor pirates were destined to interfere with the Penelope during the greater part of that voyage. Day after day the skies were clear, the sea comparatively smooth, and the winds favourable. Sometimes they put ashore, when the weather became stormy and circumstances were favourable. On such occasions they lighted camp-fires under the trees, the ruddy light of which glowed with a grand effect on the picturesque sailors as they sat, stood, or reclined around them.

At other times they were obliged to keep more in the open sea, and occasionally met with traders like themselves returning home, with whom, of course, they were glad to fraternise for a time and exchange views.

Once only did they meet with anything like a piratical vessel, but as that happened to be late in the evening, they managed, by plying the oars vigorously, and under the shade of night, to escape a second encounter with those robbers of the sea.

Thus, in course of time, the length of the great inland sea was traversed, the southern coast of what is now known as France was reached, and the captain’s prophecy with regard to a prosperous voyage was thus far fulfilled.

Chapter Four

The Storm and Wreck

It was near daybreak on the morning of a night of unclouded splendour when the mate of the Penelope aroused his chief with the information that appearances to windward betokened a change of some sort in the weather.

“If there is a change at all it must be for the worse,” said Arkal, raising himself on one elbow, rubbing his eyes, yawning, and then casting a glance over the side where the rippling foam told that the wind was increasing. Raising his eyes to the windward horizon, he threw aside the sheepskin blanket that covered him and rose up quickly.

“There is indeed a change coming. Rouse the men and reduce the sail, mate. Bestir you! The squalls are sudden here.”

The orders were obeyed with promptitude. In a few minutes the sail was reduced to its smallest size, and all loose articles about the vessel were made fast.

“You expect a gale, captain?” asked Bladud, who was aroused by the noise of the preparations.

“Ay—or something like one. When a cloud like that rises up on the horizon there is usually something more than a puff coming. You had better keep well under the lee of the bulwarks when it strikes us.”

Bladud’s nautical experience had already taught him what to expect and how to act in the circumstance that threatened. Standing close to the side of the ship, he laid hold of a stanchion and looked out to windward, as most of the crew were by that time doing. Captain Arkal himself took the helm.

The increasing daylight showed them that the bank of cloud was spreading quickly over the sky towards the zenith, while a soft hissing sound told of the approaching wind. Soon the blackness on the sea intensified, and white gleams as of flashing light showed where the waves were torn into foam by the rushing wind.

With a warning to “hold on fast!” the captain turned the vessel’s head so as to meet the blast. So fierce was it that it cut off the crests of the wavelets, blowing the sea almost flat for a time, and producing what is known as a white squall. The sail was kept fluttering until the fury of the onset was over, then the wind was allowed to fill it; the Penelope bent down until the sea began to bubble over the lee bulwarks, and in a few moments more she was springing over the fast rising waves like a nautical racehorse.

Every moment the gale increased, obliging the mariners to show but a corner of the sail. Even this had at last to be taken in, and, during the whole of that dismal day and of the black night which followed, the Penelope drove helplessly before the wind under a bare pole. Fortunately the gale was favourable, so that they were enabled to lay their course, but it required all the skill and seamanship of Captain Arkal to prevent their being pooped and swamped by the waves that rolled hissing after them as if hungering mightily to swallow them up.

To have the right man in the right place at such times of imminent danger is all-important, not only to the safety of the craft, but to the peace of mind of those whose lives are in jeopardy. All on board the little vessel during that hurricane felt much comforted by the knowledge that their captain was in the right place. Although a “square man,” he had by no means been fitted into a round hole! Knowing this, Prince Bladud felt no anxiety as to the management of the craft, and gave himself up to contemplate the grandeur of the storm, for the howling blast, creaking spars, and bursts of rattling thunder, rendered conversation out of the question.

During a slight lull, however, Bladud asked the question whether the captain knew on what part of the coast they were running.

“Not exactly,” he replied, “we have been running so long in darkness that I can only guess. If it holds on much longer like this I shall have to put her head to wind and wait for more light. It may be that we have been driven too far to the left, and there are islands hereabouts that we must keep well clear of. I would that we had put into some bay for shelter before this befell us. Ho! mate.”

“Ay, captain.”

“See that you put our sharpest pair of eyes in the bow, and let a second pair watch the first, lest the owner of them should go to sleep.”

“Little Maikar is there, sir,” shouted the mate, “and I am watching him myself.”

“We shall do well with Maikar in the bow, for he sees like a weasel, and is trustworthy,” muttered the captain as he glanced uneasily over the stern, where the hungry waves were still hissing tumultuously after them, as if rendered furious by the delayed meal.

At daybreak on the second day the gale moderated a little, and they were enabled once more to show a corner of their sail, and to encourage the hope that the worst was over. But a fresh outburst, of greater fury than before, soon dashed these hopes, and obliged the captain to throw overboard all the spare spars and some of the heaviest part of the cargo. Still the gale increased, and the impatient waves began to lip over the poop occasionally as if unable to refrain from tasting!

“More cargo must go,” muttered the captain, with a gloomy frown. Being resolute, he gave orders to that effect.

Presently the order was given to take soundings. When this was done it was found that they were in twenty fathoms water. On taking another cast, the depth reported was fifteen fathoms.

There were no charts covered with soundings to guide the mariner in those days, but it did not require much experience to convince a seaman that land was probably too near, with such a sudden change from twenty to fifteen fathoms. Arkal was, however, not unprepared for it, and quickly gave orders to stand by to let go the anchors. At that moment the voice of little Maikar was heard shouting, in stentorian tones, “Land ahead!”

The captain replied with a sharp “let go!” and four anchors were promptly dropped from the stern. At the same moment he placed the helm fair amidships, and made it fast with rudder-bands. As the stern of the Penelope was formed like the bow, a sharp cut-water was by this means instantly presented to the sea, thus avoiding the necessity and danger incurred by modern ships, in similar circumstances, of anchoring by the head and swinging round.

The hungry waves hissed tumultuously on, but were cleft and passed under the ship disappointed, for there was still enough of water beneath to permit of her tossing to and fro and rising to them like a duck, as she strained and tugged at the anchors.

Just as these operations had been performed, the mists of darkness seemed to lift a little and revealed a wild rocky line of coast, against which the waves were breaking madly.

“Now all hope is over; pray to your gods, men,” said the mate, whose courage was not quite equal to his position.

“There are no gods!” growled the captain bitterly, for he saw that he was now a ruined man, even though he should escape with life.

“There is one God,” said Bladud quietly, “and He does all things well.”

As he spoke, the captain, whose eyes had not ceased to look searchingly along the coast, observed something like a bay a short way to the left of the place where they lay.

“It looks like a sandy bay,” he said.

“It is a sandy bay,” exclaimed the anxious mate; “let us up anchors and run into it.”

“Have an easy mind and keep your advice till asked for,” returned the captain with a look of scorn. “If we are destined to escape, we shall escape without making haste. If we are doomed to die, nothing can save us, and it is more manly to die in a leisurely way than in a hurry. When we can see clearly we shall know better how to act.”

Although this manner of submitting to the inevitable did not quite suit the mate, he felt constrained to repress his impatience, while the coolness of the captain had a quieting effect on some of the men who were inclined to give way to panic. The sight of Bladud—as he sat there leaning on the hilt of his sword with an expression of what appeared to be serene contentment—had also a quieting effect on the men.

When the increasing light showed that the sandy bay was a spot that might possibly be reached in safety, orders were given to cut the cables, loose the rudder-bands and hoist the sail. For a few minutes the vessel ran swiftly towards the bay, but before reaching the shore she struck with violence. The fore part of the Penelope stuck fast immovably, and then, at last, the ravenous waves attained their longed-for meal. They burst over the stern, swept the decks, tore up the fastenings, revelled among the tackling and began tumultuously to break up the ship.

“Launch the skiff,” shouted the captain, hastening to lend a hand in the operation.

The men were not slow to obey, and when it touched the water they swarmed into it, so that, being overloaded, it upset and left its occupants struggling in the water. A number of the men who could swim, immediately jumped overboard and tried to right the skiff, but they failed, and, in the effort to do so, broke the rope that held it. Some clung to it. Others turned and swam for the shore.

A good many of the men, however, still remained in the wreck, which was fast breaking up. To these the captain turned.

“Now, men,” he said, “those of you who can swim would do well to take to the water at once, for it is clear that we shall not have a plank left to stand on soon. Come, mate, show them an example.”

The man, though not very courageous, as his pale face betrayed, happened to be a good swimmer, and at once leaped into the sea. He was followed by all who could swim. Those who could not, were encouraged to make the attempt with planks and oars to aid them. As for Bladud, he busied himself like the captain in giving heart to the non-swimmers and showing them how best to use their floats.

The last of the men to leave was little Maikar.

He stood at the bow with his arms crossed on his chest and a look of melancholy interest on his countenance.

“What! not gone yet?” exclaimed the captain, turning to him.

“I cannot swim,” said the man.

“But neither can these,” returned the captain, pointing to the men who had left last.

“My father used to say,” rejoined Maikar, as if murmuring to himself, “that I was born to be drowned, and I’m inclined to think he was right.”

“Surely you are not afraid,” said Arkal.

“Afraid!” exclaimed Maikar, with a sarcastic laugh. “No, captain, but I’m sorry to part with you, because you’ve been a good captain to me.”

“An’ I bear no ill-will to you, Bladud, though you did squeeze most of the life out of me once. Farewell, both.”

As he spoke the little man seized an oar, leaped overboard, and, after some trouble in steadying himself and pointing the oar in the right direction, struck out for the shore.

It was a long way off, and often, while this scene was being enacted, was heard the bubbling cry of men whose powers were failing them. Some were carried by currents against a point to the westward and, apparently, dashed against the rocks. Others sank before half the distance had been traversed.

Bladud and the captain looked at each other when Maikar had left them.

“Can you swim?” asked the captain. “Like a duck,” returned the prince, “and I can help you if required.”

“I swim like a fish,” returned the captain, “but it is hard to part from my Penelope! She has never failed me till now, and as this venture contains all my goods, I am a ruined man.”

“But your life still remains,” said the prince. “Be of good cheer, captain. A stout man can make his fortune more than once. Come, let us go.”

A loud cry from Maikar at that moment hastened their deliberations.

“Are you going to cumber yourself with your weapons?” asked Arkal, as they were about to spring from the side, observing that his friend took up his sword and shield.

“Ay—that am I. It is not a small matter that will part my good sword and me.”

Both men sprang overboard at the same moment, and made for the spot where little Maikar was still giving vent to bubbling yells and struggling with his oar.

Bladud was soon alongside of him, and, seizing his hair, raised him out of the water.

“Got the cramp,” he shouted.

“Keep still, then, and do what I tell ye,” said the prince, in a tone of stern command.

He caught the poor man under the armpits with both hands, turned on his back and drew him on to his chest. Swimming thus on his back, with Captain Arkal leading so as to keep them in the right direction, the three were ultimately cast, in a rather exhausted condition, on the shore of the little bay.