Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (303 page)

“Oh, madman,” Edward Colman called, “have you, too, not suffered from the injustice of the over-proud navigator?”

Outreweltius shook his head, and the shadow of his great hat played upon the network of shrouds and guide-ropes in the high-mast a great way above them.

“I was very justly punished,” he said. His eyes dilated. “For,” he said, “there is no passion in life so glorious as this of sailing over unknown seas, of doubling for ever over headlands to see what lies beyond. And there is nothing so base as to hinder such a voyage that carries us ever further into the unknown and the void.”

Old Jan spat upon the floor.

“It is not our shipmates that sent you to say that,” he commented dryly.

“That is true,” Outreweltius answered; “our shipmates would have the seas stilled, to save their necks. For he whom they call the mad Englishman will certainly propel us further northward, and they would go with as little peril as they may. But for me” — and he raised his hand to the skies—” I would sail ever and always, whether I lead, or follow, or pay my passage.”

“Why, here is a passionate Dutchman,” Edward Colman laughed bitterly. “This is a black swan, a rare bird upon the waters; that would sail even with a madman.”

“Englishman,” Outreweltius said, “this man is not mad. For surely — and all our shipmates are agreed upon it and weary and afraid — surely there is sorcery at work upon us. For consider the great storm that arose to drive us eastward and, that being gone, the great storm that drove us to the west. For thirty days we have had no peace and no rest from storms, and consider—”

He held up his hand for them to listen.

It was very still where the ship lay, sheltered between the black headlands, so that the rushlight in the lanthorn did not flicker, but burned in a dim tranquillity. But from afar there came the dreary sound of the winds that rushed past the entrance, and the waves that came down in hollow and booming vocality upon those coasts of iron.

“Consider,” Outreweltius said; “do you not hear the voices of ghostly hounds set crying for our pale deaths? Have we not heard dreary noises, unknown before to the ears of men, in all these tempests and gales?”

He paused, and searched Edward Colman’s face with his melancholy eyes.

“Assuredly,” he said, “there are evil powers at work, and we may not, like the Papists, pray to saints to defend us, for we are of a better faith.”

“Why, God help you,” Edward Colman said, “I do little believe in witches and sorceries, which went away from the inhabited regions with the old faith that fed them. Yet it may be that to these lonely regions, uninhabited by Christian men, the wizards and warlocks have retreated to hide themselves.”

He paused and raised his chained wrists.

“But the mad navigator—” he said.

“Sir,” Outreweltius said earnestly, “this navigator is not mad. For that sorceries may be abroad you do yourself acknowledge. And if he believes what is thinkable he is not mad. And he has been aboard the
Good Hope
, which is full of mutineers that wish him ill. And it is very likely that an evil man has told him you plotted or weaved evils against him. For an evil man might wish to disunite you from him.”

“Why,” Edward Colman said, “I was the best friend he had aboard the two ships till now.”

“Sir,” Outreweltius answered, “that may be very true. But it is the more likely then that bad men would seek to disunite you, hoping to injure him. So that this navigator, if he be mistaken, may yet not be mad.”

“Master Outreweltius,” Colman cut him short, “if he is so jealous as to believe the first tale he hears, he is so jealous as to be mad.”

He paused angrily.

“I have so little studied witchcraft that I know of no charms against it. If I knew any I would use them for your sakes. And I am no Papist, so that I can teach you no prayers to Saint Leonard, who formerly protected our fishermen of Rye, nor yet to St. Nicholas, who kept watch on the channel. Nor do I know what saint may be powerful in the seas. It may be St. Brandon — but I know not. I cannot help you. If we must all drown at the will of this madman, drown we all must.”

The drowsy night came very deeply upon their little ship in the gulf. And presently there came the captain to tell them that the navigator had commanded them all to seek their beds and bunks. For of late they had travelled much and wearily upon the seas, and it behoved them to obey as implicitly a command to rest as commands to toil. And
aqua vitae
should be served out to them, that they might sleep well, and no watch should be kept that night, so that all might slumber to get new sleep.

The captain drove both old Jan and Outreweltius below, and he went up and down the deck with the lanthorn, sending all the men to their berths and bunks. When he was quite alone he came back to Colman where he lay upon the deck before the high-mast. The lanthorn showed that he had a great cloak upon him; his cheek-bones were so high that they cast shadows upon his temple; his eyes were sombre and blue, and his beard was little and black, like an Englishman’s.

From under his cloak he drew a piece of biscuit and a flagon of wine.

“The navigator sends you these,” he said. “When you have eaten put out the light.” He took a pistol from under his cloak and examined the primings.

“Sir,” Edward Colman said, “shall I lie here all night?”

“Ask me nothing,” the captain said. He went to the side and set his foot in the shroud, as if he would climb to the high-mast.

“Before God,” Edward Colman cried out, “was ever a man so served?”

“I do not know,” the captain answered. “When you have eaten and drunk put out the light.” His dark figure mounted by one foot and then by the other, and silently, like a black shadow against black shadows, he went up and out of sight.

Edward Colman ate the biscuit and drank the wine. He put out the lanthorn, and, with a great clanking of irons, drew himself up from where he lay, with one elbow on the sheepskin, till he sat upon his hams.

It was so dark that he saw nothing at all; it was so still that he could hear the voice of Hudson talking to his mice in the cabin; the stars shone with a great brilliance between the black lines of the cliffs, and far away the tempest of the seas moaned unceasingly. Up above the rim of the tub on the high-mast he thought he could see the black mass of the captain’s great hat. He called out —

“Captain, what is all this?” But there was no motion of the black, weird disk.

He thought that perhaps the captain watched him to see him call devils and familiars to him, and to shoot him if he conversed with them.

A long time went by; he heard the seals spring from the rocks into the still waters; he saw a great planet rise above the lines of the cliffs. His heart was filled half with black anger and half with the hope that some good sense must return to his master. There was the click of the forecastle door behind him; he heard whispers, and, almost at the same moment, the voice of Hudson rose up from the cabin, singing —

“
When green comes springing o’er the heath.”

A form crept past him and whispered —

“Hist!”

It crouched in the shadow of the bulwarks and went along the deck. It had about it something unholy and apelike. The voice of Hudson continued to troll out —

“
Then each small bird with bated breath

Cries
, ‘
Brothers
,
consider the joy there is in living,’”

The figure came near him, moving very stealthily, so that its footsteps made no sound, and, by its voice in the thick darkness, Edward Colman knew that it was Hieronymus the dwarf. And a great dread possessed Edward Colman for fear the captain should take this man for his familiar spirit and shoot him as he lay. Therefore he said, in a high voice —

“Speak more loudly; you know I am very deaf, Hieronymus.”

The dwarf whispered —

“Dare you burden your soul with the death of a man?” and when Edward Colman said again, “Speak more loudly!” he repeated in a harsher whisper these same words.

“Why, whom should I kill?” Edward Colman asked.

“Ah!” the dwarf whispered, shivering with malice and rage; “is there any man but one that oppresses us all?”

“You would have me kill the navigator, Hieronymus?” Edward Colman asked. “Then how should we bring this ship to haven again?”

“Even you we would follow,” the dwarf said.

“Why, speak louder,” Edward Colman uttered. “You would follow me, Hieronymus? But you know I have not the secret of navigation.”

The dwarf gave an incredulous laugh.

“Who would believe that?” he said. “I know that you have said so and the navigator has said so. But did any Englishman ever speak truth?” And he repeated a Dutch proverb, to the effect that you may believe a Spaniard when he swears by the Virgin, and a Frenchman when he speaks of anything but love, but an Englishman only when he is drunk or talks in his sleep.

“So that,” Edward Colman said, “I must slay this navigator and give you the command of this ship, to follow my advice. But how many of you be there?”

“Why, there are three more and I,” the dwarf said; “all very fierce fighters. And all the crew of the
Good Hope
are on our side.”

“This is a very dangerous adventure,” Edward Colman said. “I must hear more of this ere I grant it.”

“Englishman,” Hieronymus answered, “this is a very safe plot. For all of us five hate this navigator. Now I have drugged the crew into a deep sleep; for it is I that have been degraded into serving out their liquor. And we four that are in the plot have secreted weapons, and all the other weapons of the crew we will hide away. And whilst they sleep we will slay the navigator and cast him into the sea. So, when the crew awaken—”

Lying upon his elbow, Edward Colman thought—”Oh, here is a pretty pass; a drugged crew and four mutineers, and this dark night and great dangers.”

“Why,” he interrupted the dwarf, “have I not reason to hate this navigator?”

“Aye, have you?” the dwarf answered.

“Is he not even as a rabid dog, whom it is the duty of all true men to slay?”

“Aye, is it?” the dwarf said.

“And the crew are all asleep?” Edward Colman asked.

“I have tweaked all their ears,” the dwarf answered, “and no man did more than moan of them that be faithful to the navigator and the captain.”

“The captain is faithful to the navigator?” Colman asked.

“Aye,” the dwarf answered; “all this crew is faithful to him, for he has cowed them.”

Edward Colman thought —

“If only the captain has heard!” and the sweat tingled out on his forehead.

“Why,” he asked at last, “and when we have slain the navigator, what will you do?”

“Then,” the dwarf answered, “we will warp the ship near to the
Good Hope,
so that when the crew awakens we may overpower them with the crew of the
Good Hope.
Then you shall guide us to the Indies, and we will plunder and grow rich, and return each man to his house to live at ease.”

The voice of Henry Hudson rose from the cabin, singing, very plainly —

“
Now men, come walking o’er the heath

To mark this pretty world beneath
,