The Gentleman

A >> Alfred Ollivant >> The Gentleman

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And he _would_ save her. Nay, he _had_ saved her.

He was so proud he could have shouted; he was so moved he could almost
have wept.

The lugger thumped through the seas, tugging at her tiller, eager as
himself. She reminded him of the scuttling haste with which old Trumps,
his pony, bustled along, head set for home; and he laughed merrily. The
fuss and fury of the little thing contrasted so ludicrously with the
majestic calm of the swan-lady sweeping towards him.

The frigate was close on him now.

As the lugger topped the ridges, Kit, peering beneath the boom, could see
the black and yellow of the Nelson chequer on her sides.

Clouds of canvas, tier on tier, towered above him.

He could see the shine of her bows as she lifted, dripping. The water
spurted from her foot in foaming cataracts as she plunged.

He steered as though to cross her bows. When he heard the swish of the
green waters cleaving before her keel, he put his helm hard down.

"Hail them, Blob!" he screamed, and scrambling forward brought the
lug-sail down with a rattle.

"Boat ahoy_" a voice from the frigate "_who are you_?"

Blob stood in the bows, one hand on the flapping jib. "Oi'm Blob Oad what
killed Nabowlin Bownabaardie," he yelled.

The frigate, standing stately on, swung up alongside. Kit, rushing to the
side, fended her off, as she slid past, huge above him.

"Heave to!" he screamed, bumping against the sliding side. "Heave to!"

A deep voice above him spoke.

Kit looked up. A man, leaning over the side, was watching him bump
stern-wards with a sardonic grin.

"Bye-bye," he murmured deeply. "My love to the little gurls."

Was he mad? was he mocking?

Kit thought he had never seen so striking a face. The man was a giant
with moon-splendid eyes. There was a power about the face, the power of
darkness. The sun never shone upon it--only the moon, the moon. But for
her wan glimmer it was without light. Kit thought of a wild night at sea,
the moon gleaming fitfully on savage waters. The moon, always the moon!

"Despatches for Nelson!" screamed the boy--"for Nelson, Nelson, Nelson!"

The moon went out. There was one flash of lightning, then horror of
darkness. The man's life had shocked to a halt. He did not stir, he did
not wink, he did not breathe.

Then the blackness lifted, and the moon shone out once more between dark
scuds.

"Nelson ain't a-board," he said.

CHAPTER LXXV

ON THE DECK OF THE _MEDUSA_

I

The man folded his arms and gazed down at the boy, mildly amused.

"Not on board?" gasped Kit faintly. "Where is he, then?"

The moon was out again and shining serenely.

"Why, where I'd like to be--with his best gurl."

He took out a tooth-pick, and began to clean his teeth with gusto.

Kit hardly heard. Desperately he clutched the sliding side. It seemed to
him as though the world was slipping away from him. If he let go all was
lost.

_"Mr. Dark!"_ twanged a nasal voice from the deck.

The giant leapt round.

_"My lord."_

_"What's that boat doing under my quarter?"_

_"A Deal hovel, my lord, asking for brandy."_

Feet came towards the side.

_"First time I ever heard of a hovel stopping a King's ship to ask for
brandy."_

_"That's what I told him, my lord,"_ came the firm reply.

"You didn't!" screamed Kit from far below. "You didn't. Heave to! Heave
to! or--"

"You'll sink me, I suppose, young gentleman!"

Kit looked up.

A one-eyed little man was twinkling down at him.

II

The boy came over the side.

He was without hat and in his shirt, a pale stripling, gaunt of cheek,
and with flaming eyes.

"Liar!" he cried, and transfixed the giant with a finger.

The one-eyed little man, one-armed too, four stars on his breast, turned
on the boy in a cold blaze.

"Remember in whose presence you stand!" he said. "I am Lord Nelson."

"He said you weren't on board, sir," cried the boy stubbornly.

"I said nothing of the sort, my lord," replied the giant calmly. "I said
I wasn't going to stop the way of your lordship's frigate to let a
smuggler's brat liquor up."

"And quite right too," said Nelson. "What is it the boy wants?"

"I understood him to ask for brandy, my lord--for the corpse in the
boat."

"What! is there a corpse in the boat?"

"O yes, my lord--a nice little bit of a corpse. But whether the two young
gents killed him and are bringing him off to your lordship for a present,
as I ave known done in the Caribbees, or whether they dug him up and took
him aboard for ballast, only the young gents know."

Those strange eyes dwelt upon the lad sardonically. One thing was plain.
Mr. Dark was amusing himself.

Nelson seemed not to hear him.

"Who are you?" rounding on the boy.

"I'm of the same Service as yourself, my lord," replied Kit, white as
ice. "A midshipman. My name is Caryll."

"What ship?"

"The _Tremendous_, my lord."

"The _Tremendous_! let's see. What do I know of the _Tremendous_?"

"Gone where we've all got to go some day, my lord--down, down, down,"
said the giant. "Posted missing Tuesday night." He had folded his arms
and was leaning up against the side, moody as the devil. "For some it
makes a change; for others it don't. I'm one of the last sort. It's all
stale to me. I live there--down, down, down." He yawned with creaking
jaws.

Nelson stared at him, then turned to the boy.

"And may I ask what you're doing here, Mr. Carvell?"

"He said he had despatches for you, my lord," interrupted the giant
languidly. "Don't see em myself."

Kit's swift mind leapt at the fellow's mistake.

Swift as he was, there was one present swifter--the man who in a flashing
moment had won the day at St. Vincent.

Nelson swept round on the giant.

_"He said--he had--despatches--for me?_ You just told me he wanted
brandy. How d'you account for that?"

The stillness before the storm was never so appalling as that calm. In
all the world only the giant's slow eyelids seemed to stir. The boy felt
lightning in the air: he felt it in his heart.

Dark remained unmoved. He lolled against the bulwark, legs crossed. It
was scarcely respectful to the great seaman who stood before him; but the
man seemed a law to himself. His chin dropped, his arms folded, those
glimmering eyes of his never lifted from his feet.

"I don't account for it, my lord," came the deep voice. "I can't account
for myself--much less for my lies."

Far down in those strange eyes Kit caught a gleam. Was it humour?--was it
anguish?--what was it? He did not know. The man baffled him. He was
groping in the dark and finding--darkness. He was at war with this man,
war to the death; and yet, yet, yet, he felt they had something in
common. What was it?--a kindred soul?--who should say?

For a long minute Nelson gazed gravely at the other.

"You're mighty strange, Mr. Dark," he said at last.

The man nodded and nodded.

"I'm mighty dark, Mr. Strange," he said--"mighty dark."

III

Nelson turned to the boy.

"Come below," he said.

"_My lord_," came a voice as out of a fog.

Nelson turned.

The giant was following them at a panther-prowl.

As Kit saw him a phrase from the Old Book flashed to his mind--_the Body
of this Death_.

Only the eyes lived; abysms through which the boy gazed down to behold
the last nicker of a drowning soul.

It was not quite out, that gallant little light. Down there in the tumult
of dark waters it fought for life despairingly.

Without, the man was black and white and strangely still. Within, God and
Devil were at battle. And the Devil was winning.

The giant prowled across the deck, kneading his hands.

"_Can I have a word with your lordship?_"

The voice was clogged and husky as the voice of one dead for centuries.

"By all means," briskly.

"_Alone, my lord?_"

"Certainly. Here?"

The man rolled his eyes up at Kit. The boy's knees gave. He almost
fainted. The soul flickered its last before his eyes. The man was dark
forever.

"_Over here, my lord. By the side, if you please_."

His words came stifled as out of the grave.

Kit heard them remotely.

His voice tried to burst through iron blackness and failed.

His soul yelled,

"_Murder_!" but no sound came. Feet and tongue stuck fast. The Powers of
Darkness had prevailed over him also.

The two were walking away across the deck, side by side, the big man and
the little.

Nightmare-bound, the boy watched their backs, the one huge-shouldered,
slouching, the other sprightly and slight as a lad's.

In the one there was no light. He was a vast black body, unlit now even
by the moon. The other was radiant beside him. The Angel of Darkness was
about to swallow the Child of Light. The boy saw what was going to happen
and could not stay it.

Then he heard a sound.

The man was moaning as he walked.

Nelson stopped.

"Aren't you well, Dark?" he asked, so quietly, so kindly.

The giant swayed. Head and eyes were down, arms swinging. He was as a man
asleep preparing for a plunge. And his light was out.

Nelson laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Can I help you?" he asked, with the shy tenderness of a woman.

The groan sighed itself away. Just so must Lazarus have sighed when the
life first began to trickle back along disused veins. Slowly the giant
pulled himself together, squaring vast shoulders. Then he drew a
tremendous breath. In the darkness a tiny star began to glow.

"You have helped me, my lord," he said, and his voice was clear again.

Then they turned and came back across the deck.

CHAPTER LXXVI

IN THE CABIN OF THE _MEDUSA_

I

Admiral and midshipman were alone in the cabin.

Kit was taking in his hero's face.

It was the face--the boy saw it with amazement--of a _disappointed_ man!

The hero of St. Vincent, the victor of the Nile, the conqueror of
Copenhagen, a disappointed man!

"Tell your story."

Standing by the door Kit told his tale.

By the port the great seaman listened in chill silence.

His face was turned away. Kit dwelt anxiously on the keen, pale profile,
the ruined eye, the lopped arm. Was his listener incredulous? He could
not say, and Nelson did not speak.

The boy stumbled on his way.

Alone in that quiet cabin, his own voice shrill and small the only sound,
face to face with the man who had saved Europe once, and must again, a
confused and silly story he made of it.

Out on the uncritical sea he had almost thought himself a hero: in here,
eye to eye with Nelson, he knew himself just a pinch-beck boy.

The silence grew upon him. He found himself listening to his own voice,
and half wondering whether he was not dreaming. This almighty little man,
so careless, so terrible, chilled him to the core.

He stumbled, sought his mind like a schoolboy posed for a word, sought in
vain, and stopped dead.

Nelson drummed upon the table.

"Is that all?"

"All, sir?"

The other strummed impatiently.

"I'm _Lord_ Nelson."

The boy was dumb, his heart flaring.

And this was the man the nation worshipped!

Nelson turned his eye upon the boy. There was a sardonic droop about his
lips.

"Mr. Carvell," he said slowly, "I have been a midshipman myself. Is this
a joke?"

Kit flamed. He had given himself freely for this man, had died a hundred
deaths for him--for this!

"If it's a joke, my lord," white-hot and thrilling, "it's a joke for
which a good many men have died."

He saw once more the lower deck of the _Tremendous_. He recalled the man
in the powder-magazine, and old Ding-dong dying beneath the cliff. He
thought of Piper outside that door.

Nelson turned on the boy in a white blast.

"I am Admiral Lord Nelson. You're Mr. Midshipman Carvell. And I'll
trouble you not to forget it."

He held out his hand.

"Your papers."

"There are none, sir--my lord. All burnt."

"Pah!" cried Nelson, and turned with a stamp.

On the table was a chart, a pistol at the corner of it acting as
paper-weight.

He bent over it.

Kit, with bleeding heart, gazed at his back, blue-coated and
white-breeched.

A darn in the seat of the breeches held his gaze. It seemed so odd
somehow that Nelson's breeches should be darned. It was the last thing he
should have suspected of the hero of Aboukir Bay. He longed to put out
his finger and feel it, that darn in Nelson's breeches. Was it real?--or
was it a dream-darn? It was real; he could swear it. And it helped him.
There was something comfortably human about it. After all, then, a hero
was only flesh and blood: he wore darned breeches.

Sometimes the boy wore darned breeches himself, his mother compelling
him. There was something in common, then, between him and his hero.

Nelson turned suddenly to find the boy's eyes brimming with laughter.

Across his face swept a great white anger.

"This is scarcely a matter for giggling, Mr. Carvell," he cried terribly.
"It seems to me that you by no means realise the _astounding_ nature of
the charge you bring. If it prove true, it means the hanging of a
brother-officer before the Fleet. If not--His Majesty will have no
further need of your services."

"The powder-magazine will tell its own story," replied Kit, curt as an
insulted girl. "Ask it."

Nelson's eye flashed.

"I'm not in the habit of receiving suggestions from my midshipmen, Mr.
Carvell."

"You doubt my word!" with a sob.

"I doubt your story, sir. And I've good reason to. My officers are not in
the habit of selling me. But we can soon have the truth."

He opened the door.

"Desire Mr. Dark to be good enough to step this way," he called to the
sentry outside, and shut the door again.

"Mr. Dark is my Gunner and the officer against whom you bring your
charge--a charge of such a nature as _never_, never in all the years of
my service, have I known one officer to bring against another."

He was pacing rapidly up and down the cabin, his stump flapping.

"I have tried to serve you, sir," said Kit in twilight voice, and said no
more.

His face was a thought paler than before; his eyes a shade darker. He was
bracing himself for a last fight.

Something about the boy, his twilight voice, his pallor, those dark and
hunted eyes, struck Nelson.

He stopped his pacing.

"You've nothing to fear, Mr. Carvell," he said less sternly--"if your
story prove true."

"It is true, my lord," replied the boy steadfastly.

"God forbid," shuddered the great seaman, and resumed his walk.

II

There was a knock.

Dark entered, sombrely magnificent.

He stood by the door, splendid with that strange splendour of moonlight.

His head, massive as a mountain, was splashed with silver; and from under
great and gloomy brows those vast eyes gleamed, unfathomable.

Over by the port stood Nelson, high and white.

"Mr. Dark," he began in chill and formal voice, "I've sent for you upon
the most unpleasant business it's ever been my lot to be mixed up in. Had
I only to consider myself, what I have to say would be left unsaid. But I
have to think of other and larger issues. If a mischance England might be
lost."

The other listened immovable. He was like a smouldering volcano. Every
moment Kit expected to see flames leap from his eyes.

Nelson cleared his throat, and continued.

"This young gentleman, Mr. Carvell, has been telling me a strange and
terrible tale that affects you."

He turned his eye full-blaze upon the other.

"It is this, Mr. Dark--that you have been paid to sell me to the French."

The giant was stone. Not a muscle twitched. Then the tip of his tongue
journeyed round his lips. The lips moved. Kit read the words on them,
though no sound came.

They were,

"_Not paid_."

Nelson waited, breathing deep. Receiving no answer, he went on,

"The story so far as I can make it out is this."

Calm and twanging, he stood by the port-hole, and outlined to his alleged
murderer-to-be the story of his plot. That mighty man could have crumpled
him in one hand, and tossed him through the port-hole. And the giant knew
it--so much his eyes betrayed. And the boy, watching from his corner,
knew it too. Only the little lopped man talking through his nose across
the cabin seemed unaware of it.

The shrill voice ceased. There was silence in the cabin.

"That's the story, Mr. Dark. And I may say I don't believe _one_ word of
it."

"Thank you, my lord," came the other's voice, deep and rumbling.

"And if you'll give me your word that it's all moonshine," continued
Nelson, "why, I'll ask you to shake my hand and forgive me. And that's an
end of the dirtiest bit of business I ever had to handle."

The other's voice stuck in his throat. Out it came at last like muffled
drums.

"My lord, you're a gentleman."

Nelson came to him with outstretched hand and a wonderful smile.

"Forgive me," he said.

The darkness drifted from the saint's face, leaving behind it evening
calm, the stars beginning to shine.

Folding his arms, he bowed deliberately.

Nelson's hand dropped. He stopped short, and his smile died. In a flash
the man of action, brisk and curt, had taken the place of the comrade
chivalrously admitting a mistake.

"Then I must trouble you to fetch the key of the powder-magazine, and to
follow me." He clapped on his cocked hat.

The great man turned swiftly.

"One moment, my lord," and he was gone.

III

There was a rush up the companion-ladder, and the noise of running feet
on the deck overhead.

"Great God!" groaned Nelson, ghastly, and flung open the port.

A dark mass with straggling legs shot past.

There was the plump of a body striking the sea, and crash of showering
waters.

"_Man overboard!_" roared a voice from the deck. "_Back tops'ls. Here,
sir!_"

A rope coiled out and splashed the water.

Nelson's head was through the port.

The man came up beneath him, and turned to face the ship and his Admiral.

"O, Dark! Dark! Dark!" cried Nelson, and there was agony in his voice.

Dark looked up, the hair plastered about his forehead.

"Nelson," he shouted. "I ask your pardon."

"It's yours, Dark," choked the other. "But O! I thought--I thought you
loved me!--every man of you."

"Often and often I could have killed you," gasped the other, bobbing to
the seas.

"Rather that than this!" sobbed the great seaman. "Murder's the braver
deed."

"I was mad!" groaned the other. "She was in my blood. She was my soul.
She _is_ my soul--the Christ be kind to her! O, if any man in the world
can understand, that man should be Lord Nelson."

"No! no! no!" raved Nelson, tossing with his head, stamping with his
feet, thumping the port with his fists. "Myself! my wife! my friend!--but
_not_ my country! _Not_ that, Dark! _never_ that!"

"_Lively there!_" roared the voice from the deck. "_Lower away_."

There was the splash of a boat.

Dark flung aside the rope to which he had been holding.

There was silence in the cabin.

Through it came a despairing voice from the water.

"I can't sink!--My God, my God!--I can't sink!"

Nelson swept the pistol off the table and thrust through the port.

"Catch!" he gasped, and threw.

The man rose to it like a leaping fish, flung a high hand, and caught it.
Then he sank back.

"Thank you, my lord," he cried, terrible joy in his voice. "May God
forgive me as you have done."

Kit had a vision of a black mouth open, a thrusting barrel ringed with
teeth, two screwed eyes, and then--

"Don't look, boy!" screamed Nelson, and plucked him away.

The slamming port drowned another sound.

CHAPTER LXXVII

THE _MEDUSA_ GOES ABOUT

I

Nelson rocked on the table. His hands were to his eyes, pressing,
pressing, as though he would blind himself.

"And this is what comes of it!" he moaned.

Then he rose, and crossed the cabin, walking uncertainly as a little
child.

Kit thought he would have fallen, and stepped forward. The great captain
waved him back with his stump. Then he passed out alone.

A minute later the boy heard a door open and shut, and peeped out.

Nelson was coming out of the powder-magazine.

Down the gangway he came pale and uplifted. He was quite calm, and about
his face there was the rain-washed look the boy had seen on his mother's
as she came out of the room where Uncle Jacko lay dead.

"You were right, Mr. Carvell," he said quietly. "Forgive me."

"Caryll, my lord," ventured the lad--"Kit Caryll."

Nelson's eye leapt.

"Kit Caryll!" he cried. "Kit Caryll! Kit Caryll!" He held the boy's hand,
and a beautiful smile broke all about his face. "Have I been blind?
You're your father over again."

He dwelt on the boy's face, flooding it with tenderness.

"D'you know," he continued quietly, "d'you know you come to me as a
friend risen from the dead?--a friend of my best days, come back to
remind me of the years--the happy years--before ... I won the Nile."

Kit heard him, amazed.

He was not happy, then, this man who had won all the world has to give!

He looked _back_ for his best days.

They were not now: they were the days before fame had come; fame, the
Betrayer, that like a roaring breaker lifts a man heavenwards, and before
he can clutch his star, has smashed him on the beach.

The boy recalled his first indelible impression--that the hero was a
_disappointed_ man.

Disappointed of what?--he, young still, crowned with glory, queens at his
feet, nations worshipping him.

Could it be of happiness?

"I have a message for you from another friend of those days, my lord."

"Who's that?"

"Commander Harding."

A darkness chilled the other's face.

"Well."

The boy gave old Ding-dong's dying message.

"I thank you," said Nelson coldly. "Commander Harding always did what he
believed to be his duty."

Then the tenderness returned, and he put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Come on deck," he said.

II

The boy's throat was surging as he followed Nelson on deck. Now he would
have died for the man whom twenty minutes before he could have knifed
with joy.

Up there in the sunlight and wind all was noise and bustle.

A little lap-dog officer trotted up in a fuss.

"Mr. Dark gone mad, my lord, mad, and jumped overboard. We lowered a
boat, but he shot himself, shot himself, before we could get to him."

"Call the boat away," said Nelson briefly. "And be so good as to make
your course back for Dover."

"For Dover, my lord, Dover?" blankly.

"And don't let me have to repeat my orders."

"Very good indeed, my lord. Very good indeed." He trotted forward,
barking fussily.

Nelson climbed on to the poop, Kit at his heels, and leaned over the side
listlessly.

"What's that boat under my starn?"

"The boat I came off in, my lord."

"Ah, I forgot.... Is that a dead man in the starn-sheets?"

"No, my lord. That's Mr. Joy, who commanded us in the cottage. He used to
know you, my lord. Joy, Captain in the Black Borderers."

A wave of colour swept across the other's white cheek. He flashed his eye
on Kit.

"Joy!" he cried. "Old Peg-top Timbers! Hi! below there!" He leaned far
over. "Joy! Joy of Battle!"

III

The Parson came up the side.

The crispness was out of his curls; his cheek was mottled; and the brave
blue eyes seemed old, hollow, and faded. Even Polly hung somewhat limply
from his wrist.

The two men, standing hand in hand, looked into each other's eyes.

"Old friend," said Nelson.

"Colonel," said the Parson, and with the word his life began to flow
again.

Nelson's eye twinkled. He laid his hand on the other's shoulder.

"The same old Joy, I see," he said, and added gravely, "Harry, you've
saved my life."

"Then I've saved England," replied the Parson, and dwelt upon his friend
with the simple love of one brave man for another.

"Yes, yes," said Nelson, with that naive vanity of his so beautiful in
its innocence. "England can trust her Nelson. And but for you, Harry,
Nelson would be lost."

"You owe a little to me," answered the Parson, "more to Kit here, and
most, if I may say so, to my sweet lady."

"Polly!" cried Nelson--"Pretty Miss Kiss-me-quick!"

"Ah," said the Parson, touched. "You don't forget old friends, Nelson.
Nor does she. My love," he murmured, bending, "you remember Captain
Nelson of the _Agamemnon_, who was good enough to second us in some of
our little affairs in Corsica? Lord Nelson--Miss Kiss-me-quick. She
says," he continued, drawing himself up, "that she'll permit the Victor
of the Nile to salute her on the cheek."

He held the blade before him with a bow.

Nelson swept off his cocked hat.

"I am honoured indeed," he said, and, standing on the poop before them
all, kissed the point.

Kit looked on with tender eyes. He was touched, and not at all surprised,
to find that great men too loved solemn make-believe. The vision of the
Eternal Child rose before his eyes once more: that Child who is never far
in any of us, and least of all in the world's mighty ones.

Nelson turned to the Parson anxiously.

"But, Harry, are you wounded?"

"Mortally," the other answered--"by your beastly sea. But this is
better," stamping the deck. "This is more like land."

"Come below," said the great captain. "Here, take my arm.... Only one
now, you know."

"One's good enough for the French," laughed the Parson. "But, Nelson!
what in the name of goodness are you doing here?"

"Why," said Nelson, stumping away, the other's arm tucked beneath his, "I
heard from a--a private source--"

He brought up suddenly. A moment he stood with snoring nostrils, staring
before him.

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