The Last Galley Impressions and Tales

A >> Arthur Conan Doyle >> The Last Galley Impressions and Tales

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

Jan. 20.--My work draws to a close, and it is time. I feel a tenseness
within my brain, a sense of intolerable strain, which warns me that
something must give. I have worked myself to the limit. But tonight
should be the last night. With a supreme effort I should finish the
final ledger and complete the case before I rise from my chair. I will
do it. I will.

Feb. 7.--I did. My God, what an experience! I hardly know if I am
strong enough yet to set it down.

Let me explain in the first instance that I am writing this in Dr.
Sinclair's private hospital some three weeks after the last entry in my
diary. On the night of January 20 my nervous system finally gave
way, and I remembered nothing afterwards until I found myself three days
ago in this home of rest. And I can rest with a good conscience.
My work was done before I went under. My figures are in the solicitors'
hands. The hunt is over.

And now I must describe that last night. I had sworn to finish my work,
and so intently did I stick to it, though my head was bursting, that I
would never look up until the last column had been added. And yet it
was fine self-restraint, for all the time I knew that wonderful things
were happening in the mirror. Every nerve in my body told me so. If I
looked up there was an end of my work. So I did not look up till all
was finished. Then, when at last with throbbing temples I threw down my
pen and raised my eyes, what a sight was there!

The mirror in its silver frame was like a stage, brilliantly lit, in
which a drama was in progress. There was no mist now. The oppression
of my nerves had wrought this amazing clarity. Every feature, every
movement, was as clear-cut as in life. To think that I, a tired
accountant, the most prosaic of mankind, with the account-books of a
swindling bankrupt before me, should be chosen of all the human race to
look upon such a scene!

It was the same scene and the same figures, but the drama had advanced a
stage. The tall young man was holding the woman in his arms.
She strained away from him and looked up at him with loathing in her
face. They had torn the crouching man away from his hold upon the skirt
of her dress. A dozen of them were round him--savage men, bearded men.
They hacked at him with knives. All seemed to strike him together.
Their arms rose and fell. The blood did not flow from him-it squirted.
His red dress was dabbled in it. He threw himself this way and that,
purple upon crimson, like an over-ripe plum. Still they hacked, and
still the jets shot from him. It was horrible--horrible! They dragged
him kicking to the door. The woman looked over her shoulder at him and
her mouth gaped. I heard nothing, but I knew that she was screaming.
And then, whether it was this nerve-racking vision before me, or
whether, my task finished, all the overwork of the past weeks came in
one crushing weight upon me, the room danced round me, the floor seemed
to sink away beneath my feet, and I remembered no more. In the early
morning my landlady found me stretched senseless before the silver
mirror, but I knew nothing myself until three days ago I awoke in the
deep peace of the doctor's nursing home.

Feb. 9.--Only today have I told Dr. Sinclair my full experience. He had
not allowed me to speak of such matters before. He listened with an
absorbed interest. "You don't identify this with any well-known scene
in history?" he asked, with suspicion in his eyes. I assured him that I
knew nothing of history. "Have you no idea whence that mirror came and
to whom it once belonged?" he continued. "Have you?" I asked, for he
spoke with meaning. "It's incredible," said he, "and yet how else can
one explain it? The scenes which you described before suggested it, but
now it has gone beyond all range of coincidence. I will bring you some
notes in the evening."

Later.--He has just left me. Let me set down his words as closely as I
can recall them. He began by laying several musty volumes upon my
bed.

"These you can consult at your leisure," said he. "I have some notes
here which you can confirm. There is not a doubt that what you have
seen is the murder of Rizzio by the Scottish nobles in the presence of
Mary, which occurred in March, 1566. Your description of the woman is
accurate. The high forehead and heavy eyelids combined with great
beauty could hardly apply to two women. The tall young man was her
husband, Darnley. Rizzio, says the chronicle, 'was dressed in a loose
dressing-gown of furred damask, with hose of russet velvet.' With one
hand he clutched Mary's gown, with the other he held a dagger.
Your fierce, hollow-eyed man was Ruthven, who was new-risen from a bed
of sickness. Every detail is exact."

"But why to me?" I asked, in bewilderment. "Why of all the human race
to me?"

"Because you were in the fit mental state to receive the impression.
Because you chanced to own the mirror which gave the impression."

"The mirror! You think, then, that it was Mary's mirror--that it stood
in the room where the deed was done?"

"I am convinced that it was Mary's mirror. She had been Queen of
France. Her personal property would be stamped with the Royal arms.
What you took to be three spear-heads were really the lilies of France."

"And the inscription?"

"'Sanc. X. Pal.' You can expand it into Sanctae Crucis Palatium.
Some one has made a note upon the mirror as to whence it came. It was
the Palace of the Holy Cross."

"Holyrood!" I cried.

"Exactly. Your mirror came from Holyrood. You have had one very
singular experience, and have escaped. I trust that you will never put
yourself into the way of having such another."

THE BLIGHTING OF SHARKEY

Sharkey, the abominable Sharkey, was out again. After two years of the
Coromandel coast, his black barque of death, _The Happy Delivery_, was
prowling off the Spanish Main, while trader and fisher flew for dear
life at the menace of that patched fore-topsail, rising slowly over the
violet rim of the tropical sea.

As the birds cower when the shadow of the hawk falls athwart the field,
or as the jungle folk crouch and shiver when the coughing cry of the
tiger is heard in the night-time, so through all the busy world of
ships, from the whalers of Nantucket to the tobacco ships of Charleston,
and from the Spanish supply ships of Cadiz to the sugar merchants of the
Main, there spread the rumour of the black curse of the ocean.

Some hugged the shore, ready to make for the nearest port, while others
struck far out beyond the known lines of commerce, but none were so
stout-hearted that they did not breathe more freely when their
passengers and cargoes were safe under the guns of some mothering fort.

Through all the islands there ran tales of charred derelicts at sea, of
sudden glares seen afar in the night-time, and of withered bodies
stretched upon the sand of waterless Bahama Keys. All the old signs
were there to show that Sharkey was at his bloody game once more.

These fair waters and yellow-rimmed, palm-nodding islands are the
traditional home of the sea rover. First it was the gentleman
adventurer, the man of family and honour, who fought as a patriot,
though he was ready to take his payment in Spanish plunder.

Then, within a century, his debonnaire figure had passed to make room
for the buccaneers, robbers pure and simple, yet with some organized
code of their own, commanded by notable chieftains, and taking in hand
great concerted enterprises.

They, too, passed with their fleets and their sacking of cities, to make
room for the worst of all, the lonely outcast pirate, the bloody Ishmael
of the seas, at war with the whole human race. This was the vile brood
which the early eighteenth century had spawned forth, and of them all
there was none who could compare in audacity, wickedness, and evil
repute with the unutterable Sharkey.

It was early in May, in the year 1720, that _The Happy Delivery_ lay
with her fore-yard aback some five leagues west of the Windward Passage,
waiting to see what rich, helpless craft the trade-wind might bring down
to her.

Three days she had lain there, a sinister black speck, in the centre of
the great sapphire circle of the ocean. Far to the south-east the low
blue hills of Hispaniola showed up on the skyline.

Hour by hour as he waited without avail, Sharkey's savage temper had
risen, for his arrogant spirit chafed against any contradiction, even
from Fate itself. To his quartermaster, Ned Galloway, he had said that
night, with his odious neighing laugh, that the crew of the next
captured vessel should answer to him for having kept him waiting so
long.

The cabin of the pirate barque was a good-sized room, hung with much
tarnished finery, and presenting a strange medley of luxury and
disorder. The panelling of carved and polished sandal-wood was blotched
with foul smudges and chipped with bullet-marks fired in some drunken
revelry.

Rich velvets and laces were heaped upon the brocaded settees, while
metal-work and pictures of great price filled every niche and corner,
for anything which caught the pirate's fancy in the sack of a hundred
vessels was thrown haphazard into his chamber. A rich, soft carpet
covered the floor, but it was mottled with wine-stains and charred with
burned tobacco.

Above, a great brass hanging-lamp threw a brilliant yellow light upon
this singular apartment, and upon the two men who sat in their
shirt-sleeves with the wine between them, and the cards in their
hands, deep in a game of piquet. Both were smoking long pipes, and the
thin blue reek filled the cabin and floated through the skylight above
them, which, half opened, disclosed a slip of deep violet sky spangled
with great silver stars.

Ned Galloway, the quartermaster, was a huge New England wastrel, the one
rotten branch upon a goodly Puritan family tree. His robust limbs and
giant frame were the heritage of a long line of God-fearing ancestors,
while his black savage heart was all his own. Bearded to the temples,
with fierce blue eyes, a tangled lion's mane of coarse, dark hair, and
huge gold rings in his ears, he was the idol of the women in every
waterside hell from the Tortugas to Maracaibo on the Main. A red cap, a
blue silken shirt, brown velvet breeches with gaudy knee-ribbons, and
high sea-boots made up the costume of the rover Hercules.

A very different figure was Captain John Sharkey. His thin, drawn,
clean-shaven face was corpse-like in its pallor, and all the suns of the
Indies could but turn it to a more deathly parchment tint. He was part
bald, with a few lank locks of tow-like hair, and a steep, narrow
forehead. His thin nose jutted sharply forth, and near-set on either
side of it were those filmy blue eyes, red-rimmed like those of a white
bull-terrier, from which strong men winced away in fear and loathing.
His bony hands, with long, thin fingers which quivered ceaselessly like
the antennae of an insect, were toying constantly with the cards and the
heap of gold moidores which lay before him. His dress was of some
sombre drab material, but, indeed, the men who looked upon that fearsome
face had little thought for the costume of its owner.

The game was brought to a sudden interruption, for the cabin door was
swung rudely open, and two rough fellows--Israel Martin, the boatswain,
and Red Foley, the gunner--rushed into the cabin. In an instant Sharkey
was on his feet with a pistol in either hand and murder in his eyes.

"Sink you for villains!" he cried. "I see well that if I do not shoot
one of you from time to time you will forget the man I am. What mean
you by entering my cabin as though it were a Wapping alehouse?"

"Nay, Captain Sharkey," said Martin, with a sullen frown upon his
brick-red face, "it is even such talk as this which has set us by the
ears. We have had enough of it."

"And more than enough," said Red Foley, the gunner. "There be no mates
aboard a pirate craft, and so the boatswain, the gunner, and the
quarter-master are the officers."

"Did I gainsay it ?" asked Sharkey with an oath.

"You have miscalled us and mishandled us before the men, and we scarce
know at this moment why we should risk our lives in fighting for the
cabin and against the foc'sle."

Sharkey saw that something serious was in the wind. He laid down his
pistols and leaned back in his chair with a flash of his yellow fangs.

"Nay, this is sad talk," said he, "that two stout fellows who have
emptied many a bottle and cut many a throat with me, should now fall out
over nothing. I know you to be roaring boys who would go with me
against the devil himself if I bid you. Let the steward bring cups and
drown all unkindness between us."

"It is no time for drinking, Captain Sharkey," said Martin. "The men
are holding council round the mainmast, and may be aft at any minute.
They mean mischief, Captain Sharkey, and we have come to warn you."

Sharkey sprang for the brass-handled sword which hung from the wall.

"Sink them for rascals!" he cried. "When I have gutted one or two of
them they may hear reason."

But the others barred his frantic way to the door.

"There are forty of them under the lead of Sweetlocks, the master," said
Martin, "and on the open deck they would surely cut you to pieces.
Here within the cabin it may be that we can hold them off at the points
of our pistols."

He had hardly spoken when there came the tread of many heavy feet upon
the deck. Then there was a pause with no sound but the gentle lipping
of the water against the sides of the pirate vessel. Finally, a
crashing blow as from a pistol-butt fell upon the door, and an instant
afterwards Sweetlocks himself, a tall, dark man, with a deep red
birthmark blazing upon his cheek, strode into the cabin. His swaggering
air sank somewhat as he looked into those pale and filmy eyes.

"Captain Sharkey," said he, "I come as spokesman of the crew."

"So I have heard, Sweetlocks," said the captain, softly. "I may live to
rip you the length of your vest for this night's work."

"That is as it may be, Captain Sharkey," the master answered, "but if
you will look up you will see that I have those at my back who will not
see me mishandled."

"Cursed if we do!" growled a deep voice from above, and glancing upwards
the officers in the cabin were aware of a line of fierce, bearded,
sun-blackened faces looking down at them through the open skylight.

"Well, what would you have?" asked Sharkey. "Put it in words, man, and
let us have an end of it."

"The men think," said Sweetlocks, "that you are the devil himself, and
that there will be no luck for them whilst they sail the sea in such
company. Time was when we did our two or three craft a day, and every
man had women and dollars to his liking, but now for a long week we have
not raised a sail, and save for three beggarly sloops, have taken never
a vessel since we passed the Bahama Bank. Also, they know that you
killed Jack Bartholomew, the carpenter, by beating his head in with a
bucket, so that each of us goes in fear of his life. Also, the rum
has given out, and we are hard put to it for liquor. Also, you sit in
your cabin whilst it is in the articles that you should drink and roar
with the crew. For all these reasons it has been this day in general
meeting decreed--"

Sharkey had stealthily cocked a pistol under the table, so it may have
been as well for the mutinous master that he never reached the end of
his discourse, for even as he came to it there was a swift patter of
feet upon the deck, and a ship lad, wild with his tidings, rushed into
the room.

"A craft!" he yelled. "A great craft, and close aboard us!"

In a flash the quarrel was forgotten, and the pirates were rushing to
quarters. Sure enough, surging slowly down before the gentle
trade-wind, a great full-rigged ship, with all sail set, was close
beside them.

It was clear that she had come from afar and knew nothing of the ways of
the Caribbean Sea, for she made no effort to avoid the low, dark craft
which lay so close upon her bow, but blundered on as if her mere size
would avail her.

So daring was she, that for an instant the Rovers, as they flew to loose
the tackles of their guns, and hoisted their battle-lanterns, believed
that a man-of-war had caught them napping.

But at the sight of her bulging, portless sides and merchant rig a shout
of exultation broke from amongst them, and in an instant they had swung
round their fore-yard, and darting alongside they had grappled with her
and flung a spray of shrieking, cursing ruffians upon her deck.

Half a dozen seamen of the night-watch were cut down where they stood,
the mate was felled by Sharkey and tossed overboard by Ned Galloway,
and before the sleepers had time to sit up in their berths, the vessel
was in the hands of the pirates.

The prize proved to be the full-rigged ship _Portobello_--Captain Hardy,
master--bound from London to Kingston in Jamaica, with a cargo of cotton
goods and hoop-iron.

Having secured their prisoners, all huddled together in a dazed,
distracted group, the pirates spread over the vessel in search of
plunder, handing all that was found to the giant quartermaster, who in
turn passed it over the side of _The Happy Delivery_ and laid it under
guard at the foot of her mainmast.

The cargo was useless, but there were a thousand guineas in the ship's
strong-box, and there were some eight or ten passengers, three of them
wealthy Jamaica merchants, all bringing home well-filled boxes from
their London visit.

When all the plunder was gathered, the passengers and crew were dragged
to the waist, and under the cold smile of Sharkey each in turn was
thrown over the side--Sweetlocks standing by the rail and
ham-stringing them with his cutlass as they passed over, lest some
strong swimmer should rise in judgment against them. A portly,
grey-haired woman, the wife of one of the planters, was among the
captives, but she also was thrust screaming and clutching over
the side.

"Mercy, you hussy!" neighed Sharkey, "you are surely a good twenty years
too old for that."

The captain of the _Portobello_, a hale, blue-eyed grey-beard, was the
last upon the deck. He stood, a thick-set resolute figure, in the glare
of the lanterns, while Sharkey bowed and smirked before him.

"One skipper should show courtesy to another," said he, "and sink me if
Captain Sharkey would be behind in good manners! I have held you to the
last, as you see, where a brave man should be; so now, my bully, you
have seen the end of them, and may step over with an easy mind."

"So I shall, Captain Sharkey," said the old seaman, "for I have done my
duty so far as my power lay. But before I go over I would say a word in
your ear."

"If it be to soften me, you may save your breath. You have kept us
waiting here for three days, and curse me if one of you shall live!"

"Nay, it is to tell you what you should know. You have not yet found
what is the true treasure aboard of this ship."

"Not found it? Sink me, but I will slice your liver, Captain Hardy, if
you do not make good your words! Where is this treasure you speak of?"
"It is not a treasure of gold, but it is a fair maid, which may be no
less welcome."

"Where is she, then? And why is she not with the others?"

"I will tell you why she is not with the others. She is the only
daughter of the Count and Countess Ramirez, who are amongst those whom
you have murdered. Her name is Inez Ramirez, and she is of the best
blood of Spain, her father being Governor of Chagre, to which he was now
bound. It chanced that she was found to have formed an attachment,
as maids will, to one far beneath her in rank aboard this ship; so her
parents, being people of great power, whose word is not to be gainsaid,
constrained me to confine her close in a special cabin aft of my own.
Here she was held straitly, all food being carried to her, and she
allowed to see no one. This I tell you as a last gift, though why I
should make it to you I do not know, for indeed you are a most bloody
rascal, and it comforts me in dying to think that you will surely be
gallow's-meat in this world, and hell's-meat in the next."

At the words he ran to the rail, and vaulted over into the darkness,
praying as he sank into the depths of the sea, that the betrayal of this
maid might not be counted too heavily against his soul.

The body of Captain Hardy had not yet settled upon the sand forty
fathoms deep before the pirates had rushed along the cabin gangway.
There, sure enough, at the further end, was a barred door, overlooked in
their previous search. There was no key, but they beat it in with their
gunstocks, whilst shriek after shriek came from within. In the light
of their outstretched lanterns they saw a young woman, in the very prime
and fullness of her youth, crouching in a corner, her unkempt hair
hanging to the ground, her dark eyes glaring with fear, her lovely form
straining away in horror from this inrush of savage blood-stained men.
Rough hands seized her, she was jerked to her feet, and dragged with
scream on scream to where John Sharkey awaited her. He held the light
long and fondly to her face, then, laughing loudly, he bent forward and
left his red hand-print upon her cheek.

"'Tis the Rover's brand, lass, that he marks his ewes. Take her to the
cabin and use her well. Now, hearties, get her under water, and out to
our luck once more."

Within an hour the good ship _Portobello_ had settled down to her doom,
till she lay beside her murdered passengers upon the Caribbean sand,
while the pirate barque, her deck littered with plunder, was heading
northward in search of another victim.

There was a carouse that night in the cabin of _The Happy Delivery_, at
which three men drank deep. They were the captain, the quartermaster,
and Baldy Stable, the surgeon, a man who had held the first practice in
Charleston, until, misusing a patient, he fled from justice, and took
his skill over to the pirates. A bloated fat man he was, with a creased
neck and a great shining scalp, which gave him his name. Sharkey had
put for the moment all thought of the mutiny out of his head, knowing
that no animal is fierce when it is over-fed, and that whilst the
plunder of the great ship was new to them he need fear no trouble from
his crew. He gave himself up, therefore, to the wine and the riot,
shouting and roaring with his boon companions. All three were flushed
and mad, ripe for any devilment, when the thought of the woman crossed
the pirate's evil mind. He yelled to the negro steward that he should
bring her on the instant.

Inez Ramirez had now realized it all--the death of her father and
mother, and her own position in the hands of their murderers.
Yet calmness had come with the knowledge, and there was no sign of
terror in her proud, dark face as she was led into the cabin, but rather
a strange, firm set of the mouth and an exultant gleam of the eyes, like
one who sees great hopes in the future. She smiled at the pirate
captain as he rose and seized her by the waist.

"'Fore God! this is a lass of spirit," cried Sharkey, passing his arm
round her. "She was born to be a Rover's bride. Come, my bird, and
drink to our better friendship."

"Article Six!" hiccoughed the doctor. "All _bona robas_ in common."

"Aye! we hold you to that, Captain Sharkey," said Galloway. "It is so
writ in Article Six."

"I will cut the man into ounces who comes betwixt us!" cried Sharkey, as
he turned his fish-like eyes from one to the other. "Nay, lass, the man
is not born that will take you from John Sharkey. Sit here upon my
knee, and place your arm round me so. Sink me, if she has not learned
to love me at sight! Tell me, my pretty, why you were so mishandled and
laid in the bilboes aboard yonder craft?"

The woman shook her head and smiled. "No Inglese--no Inglese," she
lisped. She had drunk off the bumper of wine which Sharkey held to her,
and her dark eyes gleamed more brightly than before. Sitting on
Sharkey's knee, her arm encircled his neck, and her hand toyed with his
hair, his ear, his cheek. Even the strange quartermaster and the
hardened surgeon felt a horror as they watched her, but Sharkey laughed
in his joy. "Curse me, if she is not a lass of metal!" he cried,
as he pressed her to him and kissed her unresisting lips.

But a strange intent look of interest had come into the surgeon's eyes
as he watched her, and his face set rigidly, as if a fearsome thought
had entered his mind. There stole a grey pallor over his bull face,
mottling all the red of the tropics and the flush of the wine.

"Look at her hand, Captain Sharkey!" he cried. "For the Lord's sake,
look at her hand!"

Sharkey stared down at the hand which had fondled him. It was of a
strange dead pallor, with a yellow shiny web betwixt the fingers.
All over it was a white fluffy dust, like the flour of a new-baked loaf.
It lay thick on Sharkey's neck and cheek. With a cry of disgust he
flung the woman from his lap; but in an instant, with a wild-cat bound,
and a scream of triumphant malice, she had sprung at the surgeon, who
vanished yelling under the table. One of her clawing hands grasped
Galloway by the beard, but he tore himself away, and snatching a pike,
held her off from him as she gibbered and mowed with the blazing eyes of
a maniac.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17