The Happy Mariners (6 page)

‘Oh no,' said Martin. But he still did not go forward.

‘How did you manage before down there?'

‘It didn't seem so dark,' explained Martin. ‘Not quite so dark. There was moonlight, and from up here I could see the cutlasses, all in a heap, shining like anything.'

‘I'll go first if you like.'

Elizabeth pulled him back and set her foot on the first stair. Then she felt Martin's face close to her own; his arm was round her neck pulling her down towards him; his breath was warm on her cheek.

‘Don't!' He spoke in an anguished whisper. ‘Don't go down, Elizabeth. There's somebody watching us.'

Clutching him by the arm she stepped back from the stairs, and quickly, with as little noise as possible, closed the hatch. ‘Where?' she asked. ‘
Who's
watching us, Martin?' She could see that the little boy was really frightened, and knew at once that there must be real cause for his terror.

‘It's down there, in the darkness,' said Martin. ‘I could see its two eyes staring up at us.'

Hand in hand they ran to join their brothers. Rex, looking very much the seasoned mariner, greeted them with a cool nod. Guy, who was with Phineas at the helm, learning his job, was too deeply occupied to greet them at all. The ship was now running smoothly and swiftly before the wind; her pennons
streamed out like quivering strips of tin, her rigging sang, and she rode high in the water. The sea's expanse was all dancing waves, each wave crested with a fleck of white foam, and the sky's darkness was veiled in a haze of moonlight. The moon herself, high overhead, was brighter than she had ever been; so bright indeed, and everything visible so perfect, that Elizabeth could hardly realize that somewhere on the ship, below hatches, lurked something with a pair of wicked eyes watching for a chance to do them a mischief.

She called out to Rex and told him of what Martin had seen.

‘A man down the hatchway?' Rex stared. ‘Perhaps a pirate. He's after the treasure. We must nab him, that's all. You stay here.'

‘I didn't say a man,' said Elizabeth. ‘A pair of eyes, Martin said. It may be … anything. I'll tell Guy.'

Guy listened without a word. He seemed to have become, since Elizabeth had seen him last, an experienced and taciturn sailor. The truth is he was full to overflowing of all the nautical wisdom that Phineas had been busily imparting to him and Rex, and for a moment he could hardly grasp what his sister was telling him.

But when he did grasp it he said: ‘All right. I'll come along and kill it for you. Phineas, may I go below for a moment?'

Phineas nodded, and Guy and Elizabeth made haste to join Rex, who had Martin in his safe keeping.

‘Elizabeth and Martin,' said Rex, ‘must come up here to keep a look out. You know the difference between larboard and starboard, Elizabeth?'

‘Of course,' said Elizabeth proudly.

‘We'll take a cutlass apiece,' remarked Guy to Rex. ‘And I'll go first, so that if he gets me, you'll be left to look after the rest. See?'

Martin became suddenly mutinous. ‘I'm coming too,' he declared, following at their heels. ‘It's my thing, I saw it first. Why shouldn't
I
kill it?'

And no amount of threatening or entreaty, even from Elizabeth, could move Martin from his resolution. So in the end it was all three boys that stood round, with cutlasses in their hands, when the hatch was opened.

Yes, there were the eyes, gleaming wickedly in the darkness.

‘Now then,' said Rex, ‘are you coming out, or must I fetch you?'

Rex was really in great form. He spoke so sternly that the most bloodthirsty pirate might well have been awed into giving him a round of applause. But Guy could not help noticing that when there was no answer he went a little pale.

‘Very well,' said Rex, his voice trembling, ‘I'm coming to settle you.'

Cutlass in hand, he prepared to descend the stairs, with Guy at his heels.

And then the eyes unmistakably moved. They came nearer, they grew larger. A dark shape jumped between Rex's legs and on to the deck. It purred loudly, stuck its tail up, and rubbed itself against Martin's legs.

‘Oh,' cried Martin, ‘it's my beautiful Fandy cat!'

He held out his arms; Fandy leapt into them; and everybody laughed with pleasure.

‘Well,' said Rex, ‘it's lucky it wasn't a pirate.'

Guy grinned. ‘Lucky for the pirate, you mean.'

‘Oh, of course,' agreed Rex.

Martin was delighted to have Fandy with him again, and he said no more about wanting to go home.

‘How did the Fandy cat get here, I wonder?' he asked Elizabeth, when Rex had relieved her at the prow. And Fandy, comfortable in his arms, purred even more furiously than before.

‘He must have followed us out of the house,' said Elizabeth, ‘and jumped into the ship when we weren't looking Sly old thing!'

‘Well, shall we go down now'—he pointed with his left foot towards the hatch—‘and have a look round?'

The two elder boys had at once run back to their posts; so Martin and Elizabeth, left to take care of each other (as Rex had teasingly said), once more went to the hatch and opened it. This time nothing occurred to alarm them; they arrived safely at the bottom.

‘This is a fine place, isn't it?' said Martin.

Instinctively he spoke in a low tone, and Elizabeth returned only a murmur for answer. That was the effect the place had on them. It was a low dark room, so dark that for several minutes they could see nothing but four round windows or portholes (two on each side) that gave out a faint glow, a very faint and
flickering greenish glow. The rest was just blackness until presently, when their eyes had become accustomed to it, vague shadowy shapes began to grow visible: a couple of huge barrels, a dozen or more muskets standing against a wall, a large black chest with heavy brass fittings, and a heap of blades-swords, daggers, cutlasses — lying disorderly in a corner. Hanging from a peg were a man's cloak and feathered hat; and on the floor, flung carelessly down, was what looked like a suit of armour. The smell of the centuries was in that place: old timber, old sacking, old tarred ropes—a strange and powerful smell that tickled the nostrils. Yes, and the flavour of rough humanity was in it too. Men had lived here, fantastic Spaniards with fine pointed beards and long mustachios, laughing and cursing, quarrelling and carousing—so Elizabeth, in her mind's eye, saw them. There had once been laughter and drinking and wild song where there was now silence. She could almost, it seemed, feel that silence, as an emptiness that seemed to persist, undisturbed, behind the sound of rushing water; and then, for one instant, it was as if she heard, rising from the past, faint echoes of those long-vanished voices. Long-vanished, centuries dead; yet Phineas had declared, and no doubt still believed, that it was only the night before that the decisive last fight against the great Armada had taken place.

‘Listen!' said Elizabeth, half to herself.

The Fandy cat, tired of being carried about by
Martin, had jumped to the ground, and Martin's hand again sought his sister's; for he too was conscious of something strange, something strange and beautiful, about this dim place, this odd-shaped low-ceiled room in which they were racing through the sea.

‘What's wrong?' asked Martin.

‘Nothing. But listen!'

The sound of the churned sea was here translated into a loud humming punctuated by the wash of falling water. Elizabeth could detect a kind of pulse in it, as though it had been the beating of the ship's own gallant heart. At times the noise grew louder, menacing, thunderous; at times for an instant the crashing waters seemed to hold themselves in suspense, like an indrawn breath; but hum and wash, hum and wash, hummmm-sshshsh, went on unendingly, and Elizabeth became quite drowsy listening to it.

‘Elizabeth,' said Martin in a tone of great urgency, ‘I wish the ship wouldn't wobble like that.'

‘It's not wobbling; it's plunging,' said Elizabeth.

‘Well, I wish it wouldn't. I don't feel at all nice inside me.'

‘Let's lie down,' said Elizabeth soothingly, ‘and try to get a little sleep.'

Still holding Martin tightly by the hand, she lurched forward. At that moment the ship apparently began sliding at a terrific pace down a steep hill. Elizabeth found herself clinging with one hand to the man's cloak that hung on the wall. Down, down, down,
faster and faster—would they never come up again? Were they bound for the very bottom of the sea? Suddenly there was a tremendous crash and boom, as if a thousand giants had banged a thousand drums; and then, for a while, all was comparatively quiet. Clinging together, they waited, trembling, for what should happen next; but the ship sailed bravely on, they could see the wild water rushing past the portholes, and presently, having unhooked the cloak from its peg, they lay down and wrapped themselves up in it.

‘Are you warm, Martin? The cook's galley would have been cosier than this.' Elizabeth's voice was very sleepy. ‘I ought to go and look at Guy's things. They may be scorching.' After a silence she added dreamily: ‘Do
you
think they will be scorched, Martin?'

There was no reply. Martin, lucky boy, was already asleep. And so, the next moment, was Elizabeth.

How long she slept she could not tell. Nor, when she woke, had she time to think of such things. She woke with nothing in her mind but the thought of danger. Everything, to outward appearance, was very much as before: to hearing, the same rhythmic hum; to sight, the same darkness and the same dimly glowing port-holes. Yet Elizabeth was somehow aware that the ship was in dire peril. Was it a dream that she had had, or was it …? Before the question was formed in her mind there came a mighty and deafening crash. The ship seemed to stop dead, seemed to shudder and shake herself and await the
end. ‘I wonder if the boys are safe,' thought Elizabeth in terror. ‘I must go to them, I must go to them.' She gently disengaged herself from Martin's arms, and rose unsteadily to her feet. Luckily she had chosen for their bed a small safe space between the wall and the great sea-chest, so that if she wrapped Martin up carefully, she thought, it was impossible that he should roll far, however wildly the ship tossed. She did her best with him, heaved a sigh of relief to find that he still slept soundly, and crawled on her hands and knees to the hatchway.

She reached the deck in time to hear Phineas bellow out: ‘Come ye to the helm, lads, one of ye, while I reef all sails!' Rex, who was nearest, rushed to do his bidding, while Guy remained on duty at the prow. Elizabeth saw the sailor bend down and speak close into Rex's ear; and Rex, nodding his head in answer, seized the tiller and bent over it grimly, evidently putting all the strength of his young body into the task. Phineas bellowed instructions to Guy, and then flung himself like a tiger into the rigging, so quickly, so recklessly, so bravely, that Elizabeth found herself crying out to him in fear and admiration. Higher and higher he climbed, and the wind blew, and the ship plunged and swayed and tossed, until it seemed that he could not possibly escape being blown into the raging sea. And when for one instant Elizabeth's glance wavered away from him, she was astonished to find herself alive in so wonderful and terrible a world
as now she saw heaving and thundering about her. From the distance great green mountains came leaping towards them, mountains green and black and silvered with phosphorescent foam; near at hand, ready to engulf the little ship, rose high walls of water, green in moonlight, black in shadow, furiously crested with white. Into these huge waves the ship magnificently moved. Up them she climbed, and down them, on the other side, she plunged. The sea had become a mad moving switchback upon which they giddily tossed. Elizabeth ran eagerly to talk to Guy at the prow. It needed all her courage to leave the mast to which she had been clinging, and that journey of a few yards was a terrifying ordeal, for she expected at any moment to be swept away by the fierce wind, or struck down and drowned by a tremendous wave. But she could not bear her loneliness any longer. In spite of her terror she was calm enough to realize that everything depended on their facing the waves. If one of those waves should catch the ship broadside on, she would be smashed and sunk in a trice.

Guy, when she reached him, was too deeply absorbed even to look at her. But at sound of her voice he said: ‘Elizabeth, what are you doing here? You ought to be down below.'

Elizabeth made no answer.

‘Are you all right?' asked Guy. ‘Where's Martin?'

In her relief at being with her favourite brother again Elizabeth found nothing to say but: ‘Oh Guy, I‘m so glad you've put on your clothes again. Are you sure they're dry?'

Guy glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Where's Phineas?'

‘Reefing all sails,' said Elizabeth.

‘Good!' shouted Guy. ‘Soon we shall be scudding under bare poles.'

Elizabeth liked the sound of that.

‘Is that …' asked Elizabeth; but her question was blown away, and she had to repeat it with her mouth close to Guy's ear—‘is that one of Father's expressions, the one about scudding under bare poles?'

Guy did not answer. He only said: ‘I hope Phineas is coming back. Can you see him anywhere, Elizabeth?'

‘Yes. He's coming down now.'

‘Sails reefed?' asked Guy.

‘Not a stitch to be seen,' said Elizabeth proudly.

Guy and Elizabeth stood huddled together. Most of the time it was impossible to exchange a word, so furiously the sea thundered, crashed, drummed. They had to wait for a lull in the noise, watch their chance, and then shout in each other's faces. Every minute, too, it was growing darker. The leaping green mountains, the high dark walls, shut them away from what little light was left in the sky, where, already, a black cloud hid the moon—it was as though some malicious giant of the sky had covered it up with his cloak. ‘We're like the three sisters,' said Elizabeth aloud.
But Guy didn't hear her; she hadn't particularly wanted him to hear. Perhaps she was still half dreaming, in spite of the fact that her teeth were chattering with cold; or perhaps she was becoming a little hysterical. For she herself didn't at first know what the remark meant. It was the darkness that had made her say, ‘We're like the three sisters.' But why? It was the darkness, and the queerness of being within hand's touch of her brother and yet unable to see his features. Presently it all came back to her: she remembered that in one of Father's stories, the story of Perseus and the Gorgon's Head, there were three sisters who had but one eye between them, which they passed from hand to hand; and she remembered—with a shudder of delight even now, storm-tossed and frightened though she was — that wonderful moment when Perseus snatches the eye, and the three dreadful old creatures grope for each other and paw each other, muttering in an agony of fear, whispering, screeching: ‘Have you got it, sister? Where is it? Give it to me!' And, evil though they were, she couldn't help pitying them, left out in the darkness for ever. And she wished with all her heart that the moon would shine again, and the stars come out, and the storm cease.