The Unknown Shore (31 page)

Yes, said Jack, it
was
unpleasant, infernally unpleasant. ‘And,’ said he in a low voice, shifting his chair nearer to don Manuel’s and privately nodding towards Tobias, who had fallen into a brown study, ‘it is all the worse, because that fellow there, do you see, is so vain. The thought of being obliged to present himself at the palace dressed as he is makes him quite wretched.’

‘I entirely sympathise with your friend,’ said don Manuel, looking compassionately upon the unconscious Tobias, ‘I can imagine nothing worse – would prefer a dozen battles. And yet I should never have supposed that he paid any attention to dress. He has none of the air, if I may say so, of a man of the world.’

‘Yet it would amaze you to know how his mind is taken up with lace, brocade and embroidered waistcoats.’

‘Very well,’ said don Manuel, ‘we must not let the poor gentleman suffer any longer.’ And with this he offered Jack two thousand pieces of eight.

‘Come sir,’ said Jack, half rising, ‘it is scarcely handsome to make game of us – if I knew Spanish well enough,’ he added in English, ‘I would tell you it was a mighty scrubbish thing to do, after such candour; and if I could afford a sword, I should call you out.’

‘It is a sum that I happen to have by me,’ said don Manuel, ‘in a box. And I have no use for it, I assure you: you would put me very much in your debt if you would accept it,’ he said, placing his hand upon his heart in a very graceful manner. ‘It may help to keep you in little pleasures until you are exchanged,’ he added, with a sincere benignity that carried entire conviction.

Jack was not accustomed to swallowing his words, but he did so now, and he did it handsomely, acknowledging his obligation to the utmost extent of his Spanish. Then, his eyes gleaming with a variety of strong emotions – among them relief from impending humiliation, but even more pleasure at don Manuel’s magnanimity – he called Tobias out of his stupor, saying, ‘don Manuel has offered us two thousand pieces of eight: it is the noblest thing I ever heard of.’

‘Ay?’ said Tobias. ‘You are very good, sir,’ – inclining his head towards don Manuel – ‘but do you see that man with serpents, near the brass fountain?’

‘Come, Toby,’ cried Jack, ‘do not be clownish, if you please. Two thousand pieces of eight. Think. Reflect.’

‘What are these pieces of eight you are always talking about?’ asked Tobias, withdrawing his eyes reluctantly from the throng about the snake-charmer. ‘Eight what?’

‘Eight reals, booby.’

‘Oh.’

‘Do you know what Dr Gedd’s best horse cost?’ cried Jack, much provoked by this lumpish stolidity. ‘It cost four pieces of eight. Do you know what Paquita pays for a sheep? Four reals. Don Manuel offers us five hundred horses, four thousand sheep – an immense herd. An’t you amazed, Toby?',

‘Why does he think we want four thousand sheep?’ asked Tobias, peering with some curiosity at the Spanish officer.

‘Oh, bah. You must excuse my companion, don Manuel. His parts could never have recommended him at any time; but now, with his sufferings, he has grown quite beastish. For my part …’

‘Or such a great many horses? One or perhaps two apiece would be enough,’ murmured Tobias. ‘Five hundred would be ostentatious – excessive.’

‘For my part,’ continued Jack, taking no notice, ‘I shall be happier than I can express …’ and he went on to suggest various arrangements, such as a draft upon London, or a letter of credit to an agent in Lisbon.

But although a sudden, brisk comprehension was not always characteristic of Tobias when his mind was engaged elsewhere, yet nevertheless understanding did seep in, given time, and now he interrupted Jack by rising up, and with the greatest solemnity he addressed don Manuel in the following terms, ‘Sir, you will allow me to say, that you not only reconcile me with your nation, but you oblige me to think more highly of mankind in general: sir, you may turn the pages of your Plutarch from the beginning to the end, without finding a more shining example of humanity to a captured enemy. Sir, we are told by Herodotus – we read in the learned Josephus  …’

Don Manuel, being of Mediterranean origin, was accustomed to eloquence, but the spate of Tobias’ gratitude (once it started to flow) quite stunned him, particularly as most of it was in Greek and nearly all the rest in Latin (all one to don Manuel).

‘Oh,’ said he, faintly, escaping in a pause between Hermippus and Agathemeros, ‘it is just that it might serve to make your stay more agreeable until you are exchanged. Gentlemen,’ he said, taking his leave, ‘your servant.’

‘Don Manuel,’ they cried, sweeping their ponchos in the dust, ‘yours – most humble and obliged.’

U
NTIL
they should be exchanged.
It was an expression that was always coming up at first; as often as the words
when we are exchanged.
‘I shall not classify my molluscs until we are exchanged,’ said Tobias. And ‘When we are exchanged,’ said Jack. ‘I shall send don Manuel an English repeating watch. English repeating watches are the only tolerable repeating watches, it seems.’ ‘The lower reptiles may stay in your bedroom until we are exchanged,’ said Tobias. ‘They may be a little crowded, but it is not for long.’ And Jack said, ‘There is no point in being foolishly economical – it is not as though we had to make the money last. We shall soon be exchanged, and then we shall have a fresh supply – how delightful. So I believe I shall buy Juanita’s brother’s chestnut mare after all, and tell Sanchez to make me a long black velvet cloak with a crimson lining, for the carnival. This will be a great saving, in point of fact, as it will also serve for doña Isabel’s party.’

Yet time went on; the months followed after one another; the oranges in the streets and gardens changed from green bronze to gold and were followed by heavy-scented flowers again: the orange-flowers dropped, the oranges formed and still the prisoners were there, a part of the permanent scenery of Santiago. Nobody noticed them in the streets any more, whereas at one time the belief that Englishmen had tails provided them with a train of idle boys, and even of people old enough to know better; and for their part they no longer noticed the intense fieriness of Chilean cookery that had once rendered them speechless and scarlet through long dinner-parties.

They began to mention exchange less often – indeed, they hardly thought of it for weeks on end. Tobias helped Dr Gedd in his morning rounds, botanised and collected in the afternoon, and in
the evening applied himself to Spanish: Jack spent his time in a wholly useless and dissipated manner, rising late and going out almost every night to the parties, assemblies and balls that enlivened Santiago throughout the whole year, except in Lent, or making prolonged visits to friends who invited him to taste the delights of the Chilean countryside. He paid no attention to his Spanish, which, although it became very fluent, remained totally inaccurate; but, on the other hand, he learnt to handle the lasso, to smoke long green cigars and to dance the fandango until the morning sun put out the candle-light.

France entered the war. Captain Cheap and Mr Hamilton became uncommonly excited when this news reached Chile, told one another that they had always foreseen it, called upon all hands to support the statement and to listen to their further predictions. Captain Cheap interrupted the long and circumstantial account that he was writing for the Lords of the Admiralty (an account intended to hang any surviving mutineers, for although he had changed in many ways he remained bitterly vindictive towards the authors of his miseries) in order to send strong remonstrances to don José about the length of their captivity and their right to be exchanged, and for several weeks they lived in excited anticipation.

But gradually this faded away, and in time they heard the news of the distant battles with the calmness of the inhabitants of another sphere. Campbell, whose mind had turned very much to religion, became a Catholic, and moved away to Lima, in Peru; and on almost the same day as his departure they heard that the
Centurion,
half the world away by now, had taken the great Acapulco galleon, bound for Manilla with an enormous treasure aboard – a million pieces of eight, said some, and others, better informed, said nearer two. Tobias got into sad trouble with the Inquisition for carrying Mr Eliot’s theories rather too far, in the shape of fourteen white mice and a young female owl, all from the one patient: he came so close to the stake that he smelt of singeing for weeks after, and Dr Gedd was obliged to dispense with his assistance. ‘Go and stay with the Mendozas for a while,’ he said. ‘You can find where the condors nest not far from there, and you can take the opportunity to bring your friend into a more serious state of mind – he is but a poor flibberty-gibberty loon at present, I’m thinking. Runs about at
random with no thought of his profession nor the cultivation of his intellect.’

No sober person could approve Jack’s course of life, which was both frivolous and dissipated: yet had it not been for Jack they might never have been exchanged at all. Don José had a daughter, a plain girl, unreasonably proud, who had recently (to the great relief of the nuns) left the convent in which she had been educated: her name was Luisa, and there was no one in Santiago good enough for her. That is to say, none of the younger officials or officers who attended the governor’s levees and who depended on her father would do at all; but she made an exception in favour of Jack, who naturally differed from them in every way, and she distinguished him by a great deal of notice. He had no intention of engaging the young woman’s affections, but he was naturally polite and amiable; he also considered that a high degree of gallantry was called for, in foreign parts; and presently Luisa supposed herself to be afire with a high romantic passion.

Don José got wind of this somewhat later than he could have wished: he read an intercepted note, sighed at his daughter’s spelling and the banality of her sentiments, and frowned at the nature of the message. His powers were very considerable indeed: he had but to give the word for Jack to be hanged by the neck, to be filled with leaden bullets, or to be separated from his head by means of an axe. He rather liked Jack, however, and he thought Luisa far too tiresome and silly a girl for such extremities: yet, on the other hand, he valued his domestic peace; and within half an hour of reading Luisa’s note he had taken his measures. A messenger rode, with a cloud of dust behind him, northwards to Peru, galloping through the heat of the day, galloping by moonlight – fresh horses – poste-haste over the burning desert – post-haste in the name of the King – fresh horses – letters for the viceroy himself – letters for the viceroy at Lima. ‘Dear me,’ said the viceroy, leaning back in the viceregal throne and putting the letter (which was very private) into his breeches pocket, ‘dear me, who would have thought it?’

Spaniards, if very much goaded, can act almost as quickly as reasonable beings, and that very afternoon the
Lys,
a French frigate lying in Callao, the port of Lima, received new orders just before she sailed, requiring her to put in at Valparaiso, to take aboard some
prisoners of war, who were to be exchanged. Grumbling, the
Lys
cast off her moorings, worked out her new course, and in time appeared off the Chilean coast. As soon as she was signalled, don José sent Luisa to stay with her aunt Lopes for the weekend, invited his captives to dinner, told them that although it wounded him to the heart to lose them, they must be gone by dawn, as a French ship happened to be passing by Valparaiso, and it would go against his conscience not to give them the earliest possible opportunity of reaching their native land, their homes and their dear ones.

‘How strange it is to be afloat again, Mr Hamilton,’ said Tobias.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Hamilton. ‘I had thought  …’ he began, but paused. They were on the quarter-deck of the
Lys,
watching Valparaiso vanish as the frigate stood out westwards for Juan Fernandez on a fine southerly wind that flung the brilliant spray over the foc’s’le. Around them the French crew argued passionately about the fore-topgallant sail: the second captain thought it should be reefed; the bo’sun, the helmsman and some of the sailors who happened to be standing by assured him that it would not look pretty reefed; a lieutenant said that in his opinion it ought to be taken in altogether, and one of the cooks warmly supported him; the first captain had no views on the matter at all, being a landsman, but he said somebody really ought to wash the deck – it was positively black.

‘I had thought,’ said Mr Hamilton, moving round the gesticulating form of the bo’sun, ‘that I should enjoy it more, however.’ They exchanged a haggard look of mutual comprehension, and as the
Lys
rose and sank again on the sickening roll they hurried speechless to the lee-rail.

The
Lys
was a stout, seaworthy vessel; but she also had some of the qualities of a slug and a sea-going pig. She never went faster than six knots at any time – her masts would blow out before she would do better than this very moderate pace – and whenever she found any sort of a sea, she lay down in it and wallowed. This was not entirely her fault, for she was much overloaded with hundreds of chests of bullion; but she could never have been termed a graceful sailer. She had plenty of opportunity for showing off her little ways, for there was a great deal of sea between Valparaiso and the Horn, and she traversed most of it twice, wallowing steadily all the time:
she had to do it twice because she sprang a leak very low down in the forepeak some days out from Concepción, where they had loaded cattle for the voyage, and she was obliged to put back all the way to Valparaiso to repair it, arriving in the middle of February, with all hands, including the passengers, pumping day and night.

By March, when they set out again, the best time for passing the Horn had already gone by, and although rounding that terrible cape from west to east was a very different thing from beating into the perpetual western gales, yet it could not really be described as a picnic. The Horn treated them to twelve distinct howling storms, of a kind that they knew only too well, and they had every reason to congratulate themselves upon being aboard a very solid, well-found vessel: they should have been very thankful, but man is an ungrateful beast, and they were shrilly indignant about the cold and the snow – the snow indeed was unreasonable, pouring in from the south-west in such vast quantities day and night and night and day that it filled the bunt of the sails and loaded the
Lys
so that she grew even more ponderous, in spite of continual shovelling. Their indignation was rendered none the less shrill by the fact that all their clothes were designed for the climate of Santiago: a very light velvet cloak with a crimson lining is a charming garment for sauntering about in an orange-scented garden in the moonlight, while you gently thrum a guitar, but it is a wretched thing to wrap about you in 6o° S when the air is full of flying crystals of ice – particularly when the said cloak is so threadbare as to be almost transparent in places. Don Manuel’s noble loan had run out long ago, for the very good reason that Jack had spent it much too fast; and for these months past they had been limited to their official prisoner’s allowance of four reals a day.

The snow not only made them precious cold, but it also deprived the
Lys
of a vitally important supply of fresh water. The day after they had made their final departure from Chile it was noticed that although they were admirably well provided with maritime stores and with solid food, they had forgotten to take in their water. This may have been due to the national prejudice against the use of anything but wine, but it was more probably caused by the strange ideas of discipline current aboard: the average Frenchman is very strongly persuaded that he knows best, and the
Lys,
with a crew of
sixty, had fifty-nine commanders – the sixtieth man being dumb from birth. The singular outcry that accompanied the
Lys
on every stage of her journey amazed and dumbfounded the Royal Navy: but they were obliged to admit that the frigate had come round the Horn, had somehow reached her destination and was now in the act of repeating the process backwards – a remarkable example of the care of Providence. Yet the French way of leaving everything to the higher powers did not always answer. ‘Blue belly!’ cried the second captain, in his native idiom. ‘Sacred blue! Name of a pipe! You have forgotten the water, my faith!’

‘It was not me,’ said the lieutenant sulkily. ‘Besides, there is some that was overlooked from the voyage out. And anyhow, you know how it rains off the Horn: we shall spread a sail and catch as much as we need.’

So on the second day of their voyage they were put to short allowance – a quart a head – and they waited confidently for the rain. But snow, though beautiful and very highly picturesque indeed, is not rain. Philosophically it is all one, perhaps, but you cannot fill a triple tier of water-casks with a blizzard – it is not feasible. They therefore rounded the Horn on a quart a day and began to work up northwards on the same allowance. They kept far, far out to sea, for both captains and the entire crew had a mortal (and very understandable) dread of falling in with the land, and they did not have so much as a shower all through April, nor a drop of rain in May. The winds were kind, the
Lys
waddled northward at her usual mad speed day after day, a steady creep that might carry her a hundred sea-miles in the twenty-four hours, and the weather grew continually warmer. The daily quart seemed to shrink as they came up to Capricorn, and between the tropic and the line thirst checked the garrulity of the crew to a shocking extent. They reached the equator at the end of May, and after a very hoarse, though protracted discussion it was decided that it would be impossible to reach Europe without a fresh supply, and that they must therefore bear away for Martinique.

This decision was reached with the help of everyone aboard, including the prisoners and the passengers, who, in the prevailing atmosphere of free and democratic discussion (liberty and moral equality and a weakness for making speeches flourished in France
long before the Revolution), could not refrain from putting forward their views and sentiments. One of the passengers was don Jorge Juan, who, with some French academicians, had been carrying out philosophical experiments in Peru, measuring degrees of the meridian: he and Tobias pressed very strongly for a detour to Martinique; and there can be no doubt that their advice was influenced by their vehement desire to view the flora and fauna of the West Indies. Captain Cheap was of the same opinion. His advice was even more disingenuous, for he knew very well that there would be British cruisers abroad throughout the Caribbean. He knew that there was no area, outside the chops of the Channel, that was so rich in prizes, nowhere where the Navy cruised with livelier attention – nowhere more likely for the
Lys
to be taken. He had never come to a tolerable command of Spanish, let alone of French, so he bade Tobias translate for him; and he dwelt very forcibly and lugubriously upon the horrors of a death from thirst in the breathless heal of the doldrums.