Mr Midshipman Easy (25 page)

“I grant all that.”

“In this instance the attempt has been clearly proved; we are the witnesses, and are the judges and jury, and society in general, for the best of all possible reasons, because there is nobody else. These men's lives, being therefore forfeited to society, belong to us; and it does not follow because they were not all killed in the attempt, that therefore they are not now to be brought out for punishment. And as there is no common hangman here, we, of course, must do this duty as well as every other. I have now clearly proved that I am justified in what I am about to do. But the argument does not stop there—self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if we do not get rid of this man, what is the consequence?—that we shall have to account for his being wounded, and then, instead of judges, we shall immediately be placed in the position of culprits, and have to defend ourselves without witnesses. We therefore risk our lives from a misplaced lenity towards a wretch unworthy to live.”

“Your last argument is strong, Easy, but I cannot consent to your doing what may occasion you uneasiness hereafter when you think of it.”

“Pooh! nonsense—I am a philosopher.”

“Of what school, Jack? Oh, I presume you are a disciple of Mesty's. I do not mean to say that you are wrong, but still hear my proposition. Let us lower down the sail, and then I can leave the helm to assist you. We will clear the vessel of everything except the man who is still alive. At all events we may wait a little, and if at last there is no help for it, I will then agree with you to launch him overboard, even if he is not quite dead.”

“Agreed; even by your own making out, it will be no great sin. He is half dead already—I only do
half
the work of tossing him over, so it will be only
quarter
murder on my part, and he would have shown no quarter on his.” Here Jack left off arguing and punning, and went forward and lowered down the sail. “I've half a mind to take my doubloons back,” said Jack, as they launched over the body of the padrone, “but he may have them—I wonder whether they'll ever turn up again.”

“Not in our time, Jack,” replied Gascoigne.

The other body, and all the basket lumber, &c., were then tossed over, and the boat was cleared of all but the man who was not yet dead.

“Now let's examine the fellow, and see if he has any chance of recovery,” said Gascoigne.

The man lay on his side; Gascoigne turned him over and found that he was dead.

“Over with him, quick,” said Jack, “before he comes to life again.”

The body disappeared under the wave—they again hoisted the sail. Gascoigne took the helm, and our hero proceeded to draw water and wash away the stains of blood; he then cleared the boat of vine-leaves and rubbish, with which it was strewed, swept it clean fore and aft, and resumed his seat by his comrade.

“There,” said Jack, “now we've swept the decks, we may pipe to dinner. I wonder whether there is anything to eat in the locker.”

Jack opened it, and found some bread, garlic, sausages, a bottle of aquadente, and a jar of wine.

“So the padrone did keep his promise, after all.”

“Yes, and had you not tempted him with the sight of so much gold, might now have been alive.”

“To which I reply, that if you had not advised our going off in a speronare, he would now have been alive.”

“And if you had not fought a duel, I should not have given the advice.”

“And if the boatswain had not been obliged to come on board without his trousers at Gibraltar, I should not have fought a duel.”

“And if you had not joined the ship, the boatswain would have had his trousers on.”

“And if my father had not been a philosopher, I should not have gone to sea; so that it is all my father's fault, and he has killed four men off the coast of Sicily without knowing it—cause and effect. After all, there's nothing like argument; so, having settled that point, let us go to dinner.”

Having finished their meal, Jack went forward and observed the land ahead; they steered the same course for three or four hours.

“We must haul our wind more,” said Gascoigne; “it will not do to put into any small town; we have now to choose whether we shall land on the coast and sink the speronare, or land at some large town.”

“We must argue that point,” replied Jack.

“In the meantime, do you take the helm, for my arm is quite tired,” replied Gascoigne: “you can steer well enough: by-the-bye, I may as well look at my shoulder, for it is quite stiff.” Gascoigne pulled off his coat, and found his shirt bloody and sticking to the wound, which, as we before observed, was slight. He again took the helm, while Jack washed it clean, and then bathed it with aquadente.

“Now take the helm again,” said Gascoigne; “I'm on the sick list.”

“And as surgeon—I'm an idler,” replied Jack; “but what shall we do?” continued he; “abandon the speronare at night and sink her, or run in for a town?”

“We shall fall in with plenty of boats and vessels if we coast it up to Palermo, and they may overhaul us.”

“We shall fall in with plenty of people if we go on shore, and they will overhaul us.”

“Do you know, Jack, that I wish we were back and alongside of the
Harpy;
I've had cruising enough.”

“My cruises are so unfortunate,” replied Jack; “they are too full of adventure; but then I have never yet had a cruise on shore. Now, if we could only get to Palermo, we should be out of all our difficulties.”

“The breeze freshens, Jack,” replied Gascoigne; “and it begins to look very dirty to windward. I think we shall have a gale.”

“Pleasant—I know what it is to be short-handed in a gale; however, there's one comfort, we shall not be blown
off shore
this time.”

“No, but we may be wrecked on a lee shore. She cannot carry her whole sail, Easy; we must lower it down, and take in a reef; the sooner the better, for it will be dark in an hour. Go forward and lower it down, and then I'll help you.”

Jack did so, but the sail went into the water, and he could not drag it in.

“Avast heaving,” said Gascoigne, “till I throw her up and take the wind out of it.”

This was done; they reefed the sail, but could not hoist it up: if Gascoigne left the helm to help Jack, the sail filled; if he went to the helm and took the wind out of the sail, Jack was not strong enough to hoist it. The wind increased rapidly, and the sea got up; the sun went down, and with the sail half hoisted, they could not keep to the wind, but were obliged to run right for the land. The speronare flew, rising on the crest of the waves with half her keel clear of the water: the moon was already up, and gave them light enough to perceive that they were not five miles from the coast, which was lined with foam.

“At all events they can't accuse us of running away with the boat,” observed Jack; “for she's running away with us.”

“Yes,” replied Gascoigne, dragging at the tiller with all his strength; “she has taken the bit between her teeth.”

“I wouldn't care if I had a bit between mine,” replied Jack; “for I feel devilish hungry again. What do you say, Ned?”

“With all my heart,” replied Gascoigne; “but, do you know, Easy, it may be the last meal we ever make.”

“Then I vote it's a good one—but why so, Ned?”

“In half an hour, or thereabouts, we shall be on shore.”

“Well, that's where we want to go.”

“Yes, but the sea runs high, and the boat may be dashed to pieces on the rocks.”

“Then we shall be asked no questions about her or the men.”

“Very true, but a lee shore is no joke; we may be knocked to pieces as well as the boat—even swimming may not help us. If we could find a cove or sandy beach, we might perhaps manage to get on shore.”

“Well,” replied Jack, “I have not been long at sea, and, of course, cannot know much about these things. I have been blown off shore, but I never have been blown on. It may be as you say, but I do not see the great danger—let's run her right up on the beach at once.”

“That's what I shall try to do,” replied Gascoigne, who had been four years at sea, and knew very well what he was about.

Jack handed him a huge piece of bread and sausage.

“Thank ye, I cannot eat.”

“I can,” replied Jack, with his mouth full.

Jack ate while Gascoigne steered; and the rapidity with which the speronare rushed to the beach was almost frightful. She darted like an arrow from wave to wave, and appeared as if mocking their attempts as they curled their summits almost over her narrow stern. They were within a mile of the beach, when Jack, who had finished his supper, and was looking at the foam boiling on the coast, exclaimed—

“That's very fine—very beautiful, upon my soul!”

“He cares for nothing,” thought Gascoigne; “he appears to have no idea of danger.”

“Now, my dear fellow,” said Gascoigne, “in a few minutes we shall be on the rocks. I must continue at the helm, for the higher she is forced up the better chance for us; but we may not meet again, so if we do not, good-bye and God bless you.”

“Gascoigne,” said Jack, “you are hurt, and I am not; your shoulder is stiff, and you can hardly move your left arm. Now I can steer for the rocks as well as you. Do you go to the bow, and there you will have a better chance.—By-the-bye,” continued he, picking up his pistols, and sticking them into his waist, “I won't leave them, they've served us too good a turn already. Gascoigne, give me the helm.”

“No, no, Easy.”

“I say yes,” replied Jack, in a loud, authoritative tone, “and what's more, I will be obeyed, Gascoigne. I have nerve, if I haven't knowledge, and at all events I can steer for the beach. I tell you, give me the helm. Well, then, if you won't, I must take it.”

Easy wrested the tiller from Gascoigne's hand, and gave him a shove forward.

“Now do you look out ahead, and tell me how to steer.”

Whatever may have been Gascoigne's feelings at this behaviour of our hero's, it immediately occurred to him that he could not do better than to run the speronare to the safest point, and that therefore he was probably more advantageously employed than if he were at the helm. He went forward and looked at the rocks, covered at one moment with the tumultuous waters, and then pouring down cascades from their sides as the waves recoiled. He perceived a chasm right ahead, and he thought if the boat was steered for that, she must be thrown up so as to enable them to get clear of her, for, at every other part, escape appeared impossible.

“Starboard a little—that'll do. Steady—port it is—port.—Steer small, for your life, Easy. Steady now—mind the yard don't hit your head—hold on.”

The speronare was at this moment thrown into a large cleft in a rock, the sides of which were nearly perpendicular; nothing else could have saved them, as, had they struck the rock outside, the boat would have been dashed to pieces, and its fragments have disappeared in the undertow. As it was, the cleft was not four feet more than the width of the boat, and as the waves hurled her up into it, the yard of the speronare was thrown fore and aft with great violence, and had not Jack been warned, he would have been struck overboard without a chance of being saved; but he crouched down and it passed over him. As the water receded, the boat struck, and was nearly dry between the rocks, but another wave followed, dashing the boat further up, but, at the same time, filling it with water. The bow of the boat was now several feet higher than the stern, where Jack held on; and the weight of the water in her, with the force of the returning waves, separated her right across abaft the mast. Jack perceived that the after part of the boat was going out again with the wave; he caught hold of the yard which had swung fore and aft, and as he clung to it, the part of the boat on which he had stood disappeared from under him, and was swept away by the returning current.

Jack required the utmost of his strength to maintain his position until another wave floated him, and dashed him higher up: but he knew his life depended on holding on to the yard, which he did, although under water, and advanced several feet. When the wave receded, he found footing on the rock, and still clinging, he walked till he had gained the fore part of the boat, which was wedged firmly into a narrow part of the cleft. The next wave was not very large, and he had gained so much that it did not throw him off his legs. He reached the rock, and as he climbed up the side of the chasm to gain the ledge above, he perceived Gascoigne standing above him, and holding out his hand to his assistance.

“Well,” says Jack, shaking himself to get rid of the water, “here we are ashore, at last—I had no idea of anything like this. The rush back of the water was so strong that it has almost torn my arms out of their sockets. How very lucky I sent you forward with your disabled shoulder! By-thebye, now that it's all over, and you must see that I was right, I beg to apologise for my rudeness.”

“There needs no apology for saving my life, Easy,” replied Gascoigne, trembling with the cold; “and no one but you would ever have thought of making one at such a moment.”

“I wonder whether the ammunition's dry,” said Jack; “I put it all in my hat.”

Jack took off his hat, and found the cartridges had not suffered.

“Now, then, Gascoigne, what shall we do?”

“I hardly know,” replied Gascoigne.

“Suppose, then, we sit down and argue the point.”

“No, I thank you, there will be too much cold water thrown upon our arguments—I'm half dead; let us walk on.”

“With all my heart,” said Jack, “it's devilish steep, but I can argue up hill or down hill, wet or dry—I'm used to it—for, as I told you before, Ned, my father is a philosopher, and so am I.”

“By the Lord!
you are,
” replied Gascoigne, as he walked on.