The Jonas Lie Megapack: 14 Classic Novels and Stories Page 20

  They were up on the mainyard together that evening, where they had been helping to carry out an order with the mainsail. The rest had gone down again, but Salvé, who felt a longing to be alone, had remained aloft, and was standing on the foot-rope, with his elbows resting on the yard. Nils’s sympathetic eyes had perceived from his behaviour and whole appearance that day that there was something unusual the matter with him; and when he saw that Salvé remained behind, he remained too, observing that it would be pleasant to cool for a while before going to their hammocks in the close air between decks.

  The sky above them blazed like a cupola “inlaid with patines of bright gold;” obliquely from the horizon the Southern Cross was rising, and the evening star shone in the warm night, before the moon had yet risen, with a silver gleam that threw clear light and shadow upon the deck below; while the vessel seemed to plough through a sea of phosphorescence, leaving in her wake a long trail of bluish glittering light.

  From the forecastle below came wafted up a sentimental sailor’s song, the burden of which was pretty well summed up in the two concluding lines:—

  “But never more her name I’ll utter till I die,

  For rosy though her lips were, her heart it was a lie.”

  It sounded melancholy at that hour, and Nils, to judge from the occasional sighs with which he had accompanied it, was moved. When it came to an end, Salvé turned suddenly to him.

  “You are distressing yourself for another’s sweetheart now, Nils. What would you have done if it had been your own?”

  “My wife!” He had evidently not for the moment taken in the idea, and looked with all his heavy countenance at Salvé.

  “Yes. Wouldn’t you have liked to see her sunk to the bottom of the sea?”

  “My Karen to the bottom of the sea! I’d go there myself first.”

  “Yes; but if she had been unfaithful to you?” persisted Salvé, seeming to take a fiendish delight in bringing home the idea to the poor fellow.

  “But she is not,” was the rejoinder.

  Nils had no genius for the abstract, and no more satisfaction was to be got out of him. But at the same time he had been shocked, and went down shortly after without saying a word.

  Salvé still remained aloft, the dull consciousness of Elizabeth’s engagement with the captain’s son alternating with a more active desire for revenge upon the captain himself for the manner in which he had conveyed the information; and the result of his brooding up there upon the yard was a determination to desert as soon as the Juno arrived at Rio. He would never go back to Arendal; and he would no longer tread the same deck with the father of Carl Beck.

  Later on in the night, when the moon had risen, Nils, who had not been able to sleep in his hammock, came up to Salvé again, and drew him aside behind the round-house, as if for a private conversation.

  “What would I have done? you asked. I’ll tell you,” he said, after a short pause, and his honest face seemed to express a vivid realisation of the whole misery of the situation. “I would have died upon the doorstep!”

  Salvé stood and looked at him for a moment. There came a strange pallor over his face in the moonlight.

  “Look you,” he said, ironically, laying his hand upon the other’s shoulder, “I have never a wife; but all the same, I am dead upon the doorstep—” Then, in the next breath, and with a sudden change of tone, he said, “Of course I am only joking, you know,” and left him, with a hard, forced laugh.

  Nils remained where he was, and pondered, not knowing exactly how to take it. It was possible Salvé had only been making fun of him. But another feeling eventually predominated. It told him that he had had a glimpse into a despairing soul; and he was profoundly moved.

  CHAPTER XIII

  They stood slowly away to the north-east along the coast of Brazil. Every morning, towards the end of the dog-watch, when the sun rose in its gorgeous majesty from the sea, there came a refreshing breeze off the land, bringing with it the perfume of a thousand aromatic herbs; albatrosses and sea-gulls circled round the ship; flying-fish were to be seen in shoals; and all nature, animate and inanimate, seemed to be freshened for the time into activity and life. But gradually the breeze would become warmer and lighter, and then die away altogether, so that before noon the sails would hang flapping against the mast. They scarcely made five knots in the watch, and the heat during the greater part of the day was unbearable—as unbearable almost as the captain’s temper, which showed no signs of improvement, and which vented itself in a systematic grinding of the crew, who, Captain Beck declared, were getting into intolerable habits of idleness.

  Strange things occurred on board just at this time, which, taken in connection with the captain’s mood, produced an uncomfortable feeling that there was some evil influence at work by which both the ship and the captain were possessed. Groans had been distinctly heard down in the hold among the coals; and the sailmaker affirmed that on several nights in succession he had seen a man go from amidships aft along the bulwark railings, stand still and point with his hand to the compass, and then disappear in the wake of the ship. Another declared that he had seen the ship’s genius proceed in the same direction and jump overboard—cap and all he was no higher than a half sea-boot; and when the genius deserts a ship, it betokens in the sailors’ superstitious creed that she is about to founder.

  The unaccountable sounds in the hold continued, and changed one day when the hatch was battened down to a kind of wail, which ceased, however, when, for fear of an explosion of coal-gas, it was taken off again. On the following day the cook, who had gone down for water, came hurrying back with a scared face, and declared that he had seen a man sitting there in a red jacket.

  “It is the ship’s genius lamenting the ship,” was hesitatingly suggested by some. But when the cook objected that the creature was at least as large as Big Anders the boatswain, and proceeded besides to endow him with sable colouring and claws, the terror reached its height.

  The captain had hitherto replied to these, as he conceived them, fresh attempts to provoke him, by still further grinding; but when this last observation of the cook was communicated to him, he broke out scornfully, pointing at the same time with the bitten mouthpiece of his old meerschaum pipe at the speaker—

  “I think there is a sufficiently stupid devil in the hold sticking in every one of you rascals. Isn’t there one of you with courage enough to go down into the coal-hold? or must I go myself?”

  The first mate proposed to accompany him; but Salvé now came forward and declared that he, for his part, would as soon go down into the hold as up aloft. “A man won’t sweat half as much at that work,” he added, with sarcastic significance.

  He went down accordingly with a light, and after a few moments’ search came upon a miserable, half-famished wretch, who had squeezed himself in behind the water-butt. He was as black as a negro from the coal-dust, and declared tremblingly when he came up on deck, that he had deserted from his regiment in Monte Video, which was an offence punishable by death, and that he had thought he might remain concealed until the vessel arrived at Rio; that he had come on board in the dark on the last evening they lay in the harbour, and had hidden himself under the coals; and that when they had battened down the hatch he had been nearly suffocated with coal-gas, and had lain and groaned. Occasionally he had found an opportunity at night in the dark to climb up into the jolly-boat astern, and had lain there and breathed fresh air until nearly sunrise. Once or twice he had been into the caboose and got something to eat; and sometimes he had stopped by the compass, as it seemed to him their journey was never coming to an end, and he wanted to assure himself that the vessel was really steering a northerly course to Rio, as he had heard from some one in the harbour she intended to do.

  He was a young, slightly-built man, with small quick eyes, about Salvé’s height, and apparently a Spaniard or P
ortuguese, but could make himself understood in English.

  The captain had some doubts as to the truth of his story, as his rank appeared to be superior to that of a common soldier; and from his anxiety not to betray his presence in the ship, even after they had got out into the open sea, he concluded that he was a political refugee, who at that time would not be very safe even at Rio. He ordered food to be given him, and promised that he should make his way ashore as best he could, but that he was not to expect help from him, as the captain had no intention of involving himself with the authorities on his account.

  Salvé, who, like the generality of sailors, could talk a good deal of English, gradually attached himself to the Spaniard, and found him an entertaining and clever fellow.

  Before a light afternoon breeze they glided at last from the sea into the narrow channel that runs up to Rio de Janeiro—one of the loveliest in the world, with majestic granite mountains on either side, one of which was already blazing in the ruddy light of the evening sun, while the other in shade stood out a deep violet against the clear blue of the sky above. On the one side, at the foot of the Sugarloaf Mountain, they had the fortress of Praja; on the other, the Castle of Santa Cruz; and facing them on the highest point in the harbour, the slender signal-tower that announces every ship as it appears at the entrance of the channel.

  So beautiful was the scene that under its softening influence Salvé felt almost inclined to regret his determination to desert. The feeling, however, lasted no longer than the beauty which produced it. The soft lights died away upon the hills, and with them the softer feelings which had crept in upon his heart. Night settled down upon the outer world, and with it returned the gloomy thoughts that now for many days had made his mind their home.

  It had occurred to him that the Brazilian would have it in his power to assist him in effecting his purpose, when they arrived in the harbour, and he had, therefore, found opportunities of rendering him indebted to him for many small services. He lent him clothes now to appear among the other sailors when they were mustered before the authorities, who came on board immediately after the ship entered the harbour, and it thus escaped their notice that there was one over the number returned by the captain as his crew.

  The harbour pilot, however—a consequential Mulatto in a Panama hat and red feather, and decorated with a badge and staff—was more sharp-sighted, and soon perceived, from the irritable tone in which the song at the capstan was sung again as they warped the vessel round to her anchorage in the Ilha das Cobras basin, that there was discontent prevailing on board; and it was no doubt owing to a hint from him that already the same evening there were “runners” waiting about near them on the quay.

  Captain Beck was out of humour both with himself and with his crew. Down in a warm climate he was always irritable, and now that he believed his authority weakened he had become a perfect tyrant. The prospect of another voyage under his command was more than many of his crew could face, and preparations were made by many of them to leave the ship as soon as they should have received whatever portion of pay on account the captain proposed, as is customary when a vessel is in harbour, to distribute. Salvé, however, did not wait for this, and already, the second night, he and the Brazilian had disappeared.

  There was a sharp search instituted, with the assistance of the harbour police, especially in the house of one particular runner who had been seen talking with the crew. But he gave them such full liberty to search his house, and showed such a clear conscience in the matter, that the police had to admit that they were off the scent this time.

  The captain after this intrusted the nightwatches only to those among the crew upon whom he could place reliance, hauled off from the quay every evening, and absolutely refused all leave on shore. He had only received the thanks he deserved, he remarked bitterly, for having helped that red-jacketed thief, who, by way of return, had taken from him his best man. Salvé’s desertion, indeed, irritated him more than he cared to admit to himself. He had, according to promise, had him taught navigation by the first mate on the voyage out; and had settled in his own mind that when he himself retired from the sea Salvé should command the Juno for him. He certainly never would find another of equal capacity, and at the same time so thoroughly to be depended upon; and now all his comfortable plans were upset.

  Before leaving the vessel Salvé placed his silver watch, on which he had scratched with the point of his knife, “In remembrance of Salvé Kristiansen,” in the waistcoat pocket of Nils, who was snoring loud and long in his hammock alongside; and then, unobserved by the watch on deck, the two friends clambered over to the quay in the silent night by means of the shore rope, and disappeared at once into the darkness of the neighbouring alleys. The Brazilian appeared to be well acquainted with the localities, and anxious at the same time; for he avoided the lighted streets, and often stopped at dark corners to reconnoitre, and see that the way was clear of the night police.

  After picking their way for an hour among narrow lanes, they came out into a suburb where the houses began to alternate with garden walls, over which hung orange-trees diffusing their heavy perfume through the quiet night. They had to cross an open place to the other suburb, Mata Poreas, and upon the rising ground to one side of them they saw a building that looked like a fortress enclosed by a stone wall, which caused Salvé’s comrade considerable perturbation. It was the house of correction, before which there was always a sentry on duty.

  They passed it, however, unchallenged, and after half-an-hour’s further walking, the Brazilian halted at last before a garden wall, in which there was a small wicket gate. He looked cautiously round him and said excitedly—

  “We must climb over here, and then—we are safe.”

  He climbed up on Salvé’s back, and so on to the top of the wall; drew Salvé up beside him, and then sprang down into the little garden and began to roll about on the grass as if he had taken leave of his senses, crying, “Salvado! Salvado!”

  He rushed up then to the little villa that lay half overshadowed by trees, and knocking in a particular manner at the door, called out “Paolina! Paolina!”

  A female in night-dress, with a young, but rather deep voice, opened the shutter from within, and put out her head.

  “Federigo!”—she said, tremblingly; and there followed then a rapid interchange of questions and answers in Spanish which Salvé did not understand. He gathered merely that she was surprised to see a stranger with him, and that he calmed her apprehensions with the word “amigo,” followed by a short explanation.

  She opened the door, and fell impulsively on Federigo’s neck, kissing him on both cheeks, and sobbing. After the custom of the place, then, she offered her cheek to Salvé, and was a little surprised when he seemed not to understand her meaning, and nodded merely, as he said, half in English, half in Spanish, “good evening, señorita.” It seemed to remind her, however, that in her eagerness she had forgotten her mantilla, and she left them hastily.

  She came back to them again in the sitting-room almost immediately with bread, wine, fruit, and lights upon a tray; and stationed herself then in a sympathetic attitude with her arm on her brother’s shoulder, while he, with lively gestures, recounted his adventures. Federigo’s story seemed to be reflected from her face as from a living mirror. At one point her face became pale with passion; her black eyes flashed, and she made a sudden movement with her clenched hand in the air, as if she were giving some one a stab with a dagger. She threw her head back then with a triumphant, scornful laugh that showed her dazzling white teeth; and Salvé inferred that her brother must have killed some person or other in Monte Video, probably in self-preservation, and that he was afraid the police here, in Rio, should have had information of it.

  He sat and gazed at her. She was a lithe, supple-looking woman, at once graceful and fully developed; a dark beauty of the style peculiar to the South, with wonderful animation
in her face, and dark flashing eyes. At the same time the play of her features was not pleasing, Salvé thought. It reminded him too much of her brother—it was not feminine; and he was further repelled by the way in which she repeatedly allowed her eyes to rest upon him. He didn’t know why, but Elizabeth’s deep, true northern face came so vividly before him then, that he felt he could have drawn it to the life.

  The not very flattering expression which this comparison had caused his face unconsciously to assume as he looked at her, was caught, unfortunately, by Paolina, as she was on the point of tendering him her thanks in her impetuous way for what she heard he had done for her brother. She stopped short in surprise, and evidently repressed a vehemently resentful impulse, while a look unpleasant for him came into her eyes. She went over then and took him by the hand in the same way she had seen him take her own on his arrival, and spoke coldly enough a few words which were meant to convey her thanks. She didn’t look at him again, not even when she presently said good-night to him, after having woke up the old mulatto woman who, with herself and her mother, were the only other inhabitants of the house, and told her to make up a couple of mat beds in the adjoining room. Federigo had before that gone in to his mother, and they could be heard in eager conversation.

  In Salvé’s mind a new impulse had been unexpectedly given to thoughts from which the novelty of his situation should have afforded him at least a temporary relief; and he lay long awake, thinking drearily about Elizabeth. When he did fall asleep at last, he dreamed that he had come into a serpent’s nest, and that he was engaged in a life and death conflict with a huge snake, that was thrusting its forked tongue at him from walls, from roof, from every side; and in the gleam of its vindictive eyes, he seemed all at once to recognise Paolina.