Mr Midshipman Easy (24 page)

“Yes, sir, it is just the thing that will tickle old Tom.”

“We must find out if they have got off the island, Sawbridge, which may not be the case.”

But it was the case. Jack and Gascoigne had eaten a very good dinner, sent for the monkey to amuse them till it was dark, and there had waited till the padrone came to them.

“What shall we do with the pistols, Easy?”

“Take them with us, and load them before we go—we may want them. Who knows but there may be a mutiny on board of the speronare? I wish we had Mesty with us.”

They loaded the pistols, took a pair each and put them in their waists, concealed under their clothes, divided the ammunition between them, and soon afterwards the padrone came to tell them all was ready.

Whereupon Messrs Gascoigne and Easy paid their bill and rose to depart, but the padrone informed them that he should like to see the colour of their money before they went on board. Jack, very indignant at the insinuation that he had not sufficient cash, pulled out a handful of doubloons, and tossing two to the padrone, asked him if he was satisfied.

The padrone untied his sash, put in the money, and with many thanks and protestations of service, begged our young gentlemen to accompany him; they did so, and in a few minutes were clear of Nix Mangare stairs, and, passing close to his Majesty's ship
Harpy,
were soon out of the harbour of Valette.

Of all the varieties of vessels which float upon the wave, there is not, perhaps, one that bounds over the water so gracefully or so lightly as a speronare, or any one so picturesque and beautiful to the eye of those who watch its progress.

The night was clear, and the stars shone out brilliantly as the light craft skimmed over the water, and a fragment of a descending and waning moon threw its soft beams upon the snow-white sail. The vessel, which had no deck, was full of baskets, which had contained grapes and various fruits brought from the ancient granary of Rome, still as fertile and as luxuriant as ever. The crew consisted of the padrone, two men and a boy; the three latter, with their gregos, or night great-coats with hoods, sitting forward before the sail, with their eyes fixed on the land as they flew past point after point, thinking perhaps of their wives, or perhaps of their sweethearts, or perhaps not thinking at all.

The padrone remained aft at the helm, offering every politeness to our two young gentlemen, who only wished to be left alone. At last they requested the padrone to give them gregos to lie down upon, as they wished to go to sleep. He called the boy to take the helm, procured them all they required, and then went forward. And our two midshipmen laid down looking at the stars above them for some minutes, without exchanging a word. At last Jack commenced—

“I have been thinking, Gascoigne, that this is very delightful. My heart bounds with the vessel, and it almost appears to me as if the vessel herself was rejoicing in her liberty. Here she is capering over the waves instead of being tied by the nose with a cable and anchor.”

“That's a touch of the sentimental, Jack,” replied Gascoigne; “but she is no more free than she was when at anchor, for she now is forced to act in obedience to her steersman, and go just where he pleases. You may just as well say that a horse, if taken out of the stable, is free, with the curb, and his rider on his back.”

“That's a touch of the rational, Ned, which destroys the illusion. Never mind, we are free, at all events. What machines we are on board of a man-of-war! we walk, talk, eat, drink, sleep, and get up, just like clock-work; we are wound up to go the twenty-four hours, and then wound up again; just like old Smallsole does the chronometers.”

“Very true, Jack; but it does not appear to me, that hitherto you have kept very good time; you require a little more regulating,” said Gascoigne.

“How can you expect any piece of machinery to go well, so damnably knocked about as a midshipman is?” replied our hero.

“Very true, Jack; but sometimes you don't keep any time, for you don't keep any watch. Mr Asper don't wind you up. You don't go at all.”

“No; because he allows me to
go down;
but still I do go, Ned.”

“Yes, to your hammock—but it's
no go
with old Smallsole, if I want a bit of
caulk.
But, Jack, what do you say—shall we keep watch to-night?”

“Why, to tell you the truth, I have been thinking the same thing—I don't much like the looks of the padrone—he squints.”

“That's no proof of anything, Jack, except that his eyes are not straight: but if you do not like the look of him, I can tell you that he very much liked the look of your doubloons—I saw him start, and his eyes twinkled, and I thought at the time it was a pity you had not paid him in dollars.”

“It was very foolish in me, but at all events he has not seen all. He saw quite enough, Ned.”

“Very true, but you should have let him see the pistols, and not have let him see the doubloons.”

“Well, if he wishes to take what he has seen, he shall receive what he has not seen—why, there are only four of them.”

“Oh, I have no fear of them, only it may be as well to sleep with one eye open.”

“When shall we make the land?”

“To-morrow evening with this wind, and it appears to be steady. Suppose we keep watch and watch, and have our pistols out ready, with the great-coats just turned them, to keep them out of sight?”

“Agreed—it's about twelve o'clock now—who shall keep the middle watch?”

“I will, Jack, if you like it.”

“Well, then, mind you kick me hard, for I sleep devilish sound. Good-night, and keep a sharp look-out.”

Jack was fast asleep in less than ten minutes; and Gascoigne, with his pistols lying by him all ready for each hand, sat up at the bottom of the boat.

There certainly is a peculiar providence in favour of midshipmen compared with the rest of mankind; they have more lives than a cat—always in the greatest danger, but always escaping from it.

The padrone of the vessel had been captivated with the doubloons which Jack had so foolishly exposed to his view, and he had, moreover, resolved to obtain them. At the very time that our two lads were conversing aft, the padrone was talking the matter over with his two men forward, and it was agreed that they should murder, rifle, and then throw them overboard.

About two o'clock in the morning, the padrone came aft to see if they were asleep, but found Gascoigne watching. He returned aft again and again, but found the young man still sitting up. Tired of waiting, anxious to possess the money, and not supposing that the lads were armed, he went once more forward and spoke to the men. Gascoigne had watched his motions; he thought it singular that, with three men in the vessel, the helm should be confided to the boy—and at last he saw them draw their knives. He pushed our hero, who woke immediately. Gascoigne put his hand over Jack's mouth, that he might not speak, and then whispered his suspicions. Jack seized his pistols—they both cocked them without noise, and then waited in silence, Jack still lying down, while Gascoigne continued to sit up at the bottom of the boat. At last Gascoigne saw the three men coming aft—he dropped one of his pistols for a second to give Jack a squeeze of the hand, which was returned, and as Gascoigne watched them making their way through the piles of empty baskets he leaned back as if he was slumbering. The padrone, followed by the two men, was at last aft,—they paused a moment before they stepped over the strengthening plank, which ran from side to side of the boat between them and the midshipmen, and as neither of them stirred, they imagined that both were asleep—advanced and raised their knives, when Gascoigne and Jack, almost at the same moment, each discharged their pistols into the breast of the padrone and one of the men, who was with him in advance, who both fell with the send aft of the boat, so as to encumber the midshipmen with the weight of their bodies. The third man started back. Jack, who could not rise, from the padrone lying across his legs, took a steady aim with his second pistol, and the third man fell. The boy at the helm, who, it appeared, either was aware of what was to be done, or seeing the men advance with their knives, had acted upon what he saw, also drew his knife and struck at Gascoigne from behind; the knife fortunately, after slightly wounding Gascoigne on the shoulder, had shut on the boy's hand—Gascoigne sprang up with his other pistol—the boy started back at the sight of it, lost his balance, and fell overboard.

Our two midshipmen took a few seconds to breathe.

“I say, Jack,” said Gascoigne at last, “did you ever—”

“No, I never—” replied Jack.

“What's to be done now?”

“Why, as we've got possession, Ned, we had better put a man at the helm—for the speronare is having it all her own way.”

“Very true,” replied Gascoigne, “and as I can steer better than you, I suppose it must be me.”

Gascoigne went to the helm, brought the boat up to the wind, and then they resumed their conversation.

“That rascal of a boy gave me a devil of a lick on the shoulder; I don't know whether he has hurt me—at all events it's my left shoulder, so I can steer just as well. I wonder whether the fellows are dead.”

“The padrone is, at all events,” replied Jack. “It was as much as I could do to get my legs from under him—but we'll wait till daylight before we see to that—in the meantime, I'll load the pistols again.”

“The day is breaking now—it will be light in half an hour or less. What a devil of a spree, Jack!”

“Yes, but how can one help it? We ran away because two men are wounded—and now we are obliged to kill four in self-defence.”

“Yes, but that is not the end of it; when we get to Sicily what are we to do? we shall be imprisoned by the authorities—perhaps hung.”

“We'll argue that point with them,” replied Jack.

“We had better argue the point between ourselves, Jack, and see what will be the best plan to get out of our scrape.”

“I think that we just
have
got out of it—never fear but we'll get out of the next. Do you know, Gascoigne, it appears to me very odd, but I can do nothing but there's a
bobbery
at the bottom of it.”

“You certainly have a great talent that way, Jack. Don't I hear one of those poor fellows groan?”

“I should think that not impossible.”

“What shall we do with them?”

“We will argue that point, Ned—we must either keep their bodies, or we must throw them overboard. Either tell the whole story, or say nothing about it.”

“That's very evident; in short, we must do something, for your argument goes no further. But now let us take up one of your propositions.”

“Well, then, suppose we keep the bodies on board, run into a seaport, go to the authorities, and state all the facts, what then?”

“We shall prove, beyond all doubt, that we have killed three men, if not four; but we shall not prove that we were obliged so to do, Jack. And then we are heretics—we shall be put in prison till they are satisfied of our innocence, which we never can prove, and there we shall remain until we have written to Malta, and a man-of-war comes to redeem us, if we are not stabbed or something else in the meantime.”

“That will not be a very pleasant cruise,” replied Jack. “Now let's argue the point on the other side.”

“There is some difficulty there—suppose we throw their bodies overboard, toss the baskets after them, wash the boat clean, and make for the first port. We may chance to hit upon the very spot from which they sailed, and then there will be a pack of wives and children, and a populace with knives, asking us what has become of the men of the boat!”

“I don't much like the idea of that,” said Jack.

“And if we don't have such bad luck, still we shall be interrogated as to who we are, and how we were adrift by ourselves.”

“There will be a difficulty about that again—we must swear that it is a party of pleasure, and that we are gentlemen yachting.”

“Without a crew or provisions—yachts don't sail with a clean-swept hold, or gentlemen without a spare shirt—we have nothing but two gallons of water and two pairs of pistols.”

“I have it,” said Jack—“we are two young gentlemen in our own boat who went out to Gozo with pistols to shoot sea-mews, were caught in a gale, and blown down to Sicily—that will excite interest.”

“That's the best idea yet, as it will account for our having nothing in the boat. Well, then, at all events, we will get rid of the bodies; but suppose they are not dead—we cannot throw them overboard alive,—that will be murder.”

“Very true,” replied Jack, “then we must shoot them first, and toss them overboard afterwards.”

“Upon my soul, Easy, you are an odd fellow: however, go and examine the men, and we'll decide that point by-and-bye: you had better keep your pistol ready cocked, for they may be shamming.”

“Devil a bit of sham here, anyhow,” replied Jack, pulling at the body of the padrone, “and as for this fellow you shot, you might put your fist into his chest. Now for the third,” continued Jack, stepping over the strengthening piece—“he's all among the baskets. I say, my cock, are you dead?” and Jack enforced his question with a kick in the ribs. The man groaned. “That's unlucky, Gascoigne, but however, I'll soon settle him,” said Jack, pointing his pistol.

“Stop, Jack,” cried Gascoigne, “it really will be murder.”

“No such thing, Ned; I'll just blow his brains out, and then I'll come aft and argue the point with you.”

“Now do oblige me by coming aft and arguing the point first. Do, Jack, I beg of you—I entreat you.”

“With all my heart,” replied Jack, resuming his seat by Gascoigne; “I assert, that in this instance killing's no murder. You will observe, Ned, that by the laws of society, any one who attempts the life of another has forfeited his own; at the same time, as it is necessary that the fact should be clearly proved, and justice be duly administered, the parties are tried, convicted, and then are sentenced to the punishment.”