Фредерик Марриет
Peter Simple
Chapter Forty Seven
I am sent away after prizes and meet with a hurricane—Am driven on shore, with the loss of more than half my men—Where is the “Rattlesnake?”
In three weeks we were again ready for sea, and the admiral ordered us to our old station off Martinique. We had cruised about a fortnight off St. Pierre’s, and, as I walked the deck at night, often did I look at the sights in the town, and wonder whether any of them were in the presence of Celeste, when, one evening, being about six miles off shore, we observed two vessels rounding Negro Point, close in-shore. It was quite calm, and the boats were towing ahead.
“It will be dark in half-an-hour, Peter,” said O’Brien, “and I think we might get them before they anchor, or if they do anchor, it will be well outside. What do you think?”
I agreed with him, for in fact I always seemed to be happier when the brig was close in-shore, as I felt as if I was nearer to Celeste; and the further we were off, the more melancholy I became. Continually thinking of her, and the sight of her after so many years’ separation, had changed my youthful attachment into strong affection. I may say that I was deeply in love. The very idea of going into the harbour, therefore, gave me pleasure, and there was no mad or foolish thing that I would not have done, only to gaze upon the walls which contained the constant objects of my thoughts. These were wild and visionary notions, and with little chance of ever arriving at any successful issue; but at one or two-and-twenty, we are fond of building castles, and very apt to fall in love, without considering our prospect of success. I replied that I thought it very possible, and wished he would permit me to make the attempt, as, if I found there were much risk, I would return.
“I know that I can trust you, Peter,” said O’Brien, “and it’s a great pleasure to know that you have an officer you can trust but hav’n’t I brought you up myself, and made a man of you, as I promised I would, when you were a little spalpeen, with a sniffling nose, and legs in the shape of two carrots? So hoist out the launch, and get the boats ready—the sooner the better. What a hot day this has been—not a cat’s-paw on the water, and the sky all of a mist. Only look at the sun, how he goes down, puffed out to three times his size, as if he were in a terrible passion. I suspect we shall have the land breeze off strong.”
In half-an-hour I shoved off with the boats. It was now quite dark, and I pulled towards the harbour of St. Pierre. The heat was excessive and unaccountable; not the slightest breath of wind moved in the heavens, or below; no clouds to be seen, and the stars were obscured by a sort of mist; there appeared a total stagnation of the elements. The men in the boats pulled off their jackets, for after a few moments’ pulling, they could bear them no longer. As we pulled in, the atmosphere became more opaque, and the darkness more intense. We supposed ourselves to be at the mouth of the harbour, but could see nothing—not three yards a-head of the boat. Swinburne, who always went with me, was steering the boat, and I observed to him the unusual appearance of the night.
“I’ve been watching it, sir,” replied Swinburne, “and I tell you, Mr Simple, that if we only know how to find the brig, that I would advise you to get on board of her immediately. She’ll want all her hands this night, or I’m much mistaken.”
“Why do you say so?” replied I.
“Because I think, nay, I may say that I’m sartin, we’ll have a hurricane afore morning. It’s not the first time I’ve cruised in these latitudes. I recollect in 1794—”
But I interrupted him: “Swinburne, I believe that you are right. At all events I’ll turn back; perhaps we may reach the brig before it comes on. She carries a light, and we can find her out.” I then turned the boat round, and steered, as near as I could guess, for where the brig was lying. But we had not pulled out more than two minutes, before a low moaning was heard in the atmosphere—now here, now there—and we appeared to be pulling though solid darkness, if I may use the expression. Swinburne looked around him, and pointed out on the starboard bow.
“It’s a coming, Mr Simple, sure enough; many’s the living being that will not rise on its legs to-morrow. See, sir.”
I looked, and dark as it was, it appeared as if a sort of black wall was sweeping along the water right towards us. The moaning gradually increased to a stunning roar, and then at once it broke upon us with a noise to which no thunder can bear a comparison. The sea was perfectly level, but boiling, and covered with a white foam, so that we appeared in the night to be floating on milk. The oars were caught by the wind with such force, that the men were dashed forward under the thwarts, many of them severely hurt. Fortunately we pulled with tholes and pins, or the gunwale and planks of the boats would have been wrenched off, and we should have foundered. The wind soon caught the boat on her broadside, and had there been the least sea, would have inevitably thrown her over; but Swinburne put the helm down, and she fell off before the hurricane, darting through the boiling water at the rate of ten miles an hour. All hands were aghast; they had recovered their seats, but were obliged to relinquish them, and sit down at the bottom, holding on by the thwarts. The terrific roaring of the hurricane prevented any communication, except by gesture. The other boats had disappeared; lighter than ours, they had flown away faster before the sweeping element; but we had not been a minute before the wind, before the sea rose in a most unaccountable manner—it appeared to be by magic.
Of all the horrors that ever I witnessed, nothing could be compared to the scene of this night. We could see nothing, and heard only the wind, before which we were darting like an arrow—to where we knew not, unless it was to certain death. Swinburne steered the boat, every now and then looking back as the waves increased. In a few minutes we were in a heavy swell, that at one minute bore us all aloft, and at the next almost sheltered us from the hurricane: and now the atmosphere was charged with showers of spray, the wind cutting off the summits of the waves, as if with a knife, and carrying them along with it as it were in its arms.
The boat was filling with water, and appeared to settle down fast. The men baled with their hats in silence, when a large wave culminated over the stern, filling us up to our thwarts. The next moment we all received a shock so violent, that we were jerked from our seats. Swinburne was thrown over my head. Every timber of the boat separated at once, and she appeared to crumble from under us, leaving us floating on the raging waters. We all struck out for our lives, but with little hope of preserving them; but the next wave dashed us on the rocks, against which the boat had already been hurled. That wave gave life to some, and death to others. Me, in Heaven’s mercy, it preserved: I was thrown so high up, that I merely scraped against the top of the rock, breaking two of my ribs. Swinburne, and eight more, escaped with me, but not unhurt: two had their legs broken, three had broken arms, and the others were more or less contused. Swinburne miraculously received no injury. We had been eighteen in the boat, of which ten escaped: the others were hurled up at our feet; and the next morning we found them dreadfully mangled. One or two had their skulls literally shattered to pieces against the rocks. I felt that I was saved, and was grateful: but still the hurricane howled—still the waves were washing over us. I crawled further up upon the beach, and found Swinburne sitting down with his eyes directed seaward. He knew me, took my hand, squeezed it, and then held it in his. For some moments we remained in this position, when the waves, which every moment increased in volume, washed up to us, and obliged us to crawl further up. I then looked around me; the hurricane continued in its fury, but the atmosphere was not so dark. I could trace, for some distance, the line of the harbour, from the ridge of foam upon the shore; and for the first time I thought of O’Brien and the brig. I put my mouth close to Swinburne’s ear, and cried out, “O’Brien!” Swinburne shook his head, and looked up again at the offing. I thought whether there was any chance of the brig’s escape. She was certainly six, if not seven miles off, and the hurricane was not direct on the shore. She might have a drift of ten miles, perhaps; but what was that against such tremendous power? I prayed for those on board of the brig, and returned thanks for my own preservation. I was, or soon should be, a prisoner, no doubt; but what was that? I thought of Celeste, and felt almost happy.
In about three hours the force of the wind subsided. It still blew a heavy gale; but the sky cleared up, the stars again twinkled in the heavens, and we could see to a considerable distance.
“It’s breaking now, sir,” said Swinburne at last, “satisfied with the injury it has done—and that’s no little. This is worst than ’94.”
“Now I’d give all my pay and prize-money, if it were only daylight and I could know the fate of the poor Rattlesnake. What do you think, Swinburne?”
“All depends upon whether they were taken unprepared, sir. Captain O’Brien is as good a seaman as ever trod a plank; but he never has been in a hurricane, and may not have known the signs and warnings which God in His Mercy has vouchsafed unto us. Your flush vessels fill easily—but we must hope for the best.”
Most anxiously did we look out for the day which appeared to us as if it never would break. At last the dawn appeared, and we stretched our eyes to every part of the offing as it was lighted up; but we could not see the brig. The sun rose, and all was bright and clear; but we looked not around us, our eyes were directed to where we had left the brig. The sea was still running high but the wind abated fast.
“Thank God!” ejaculated Swinburne, when he had directed his eyes along the coast; “she is above water, at all events!”—and looking in the direction where he pointed, I perceived the brig within two miles of the shore, dismantled, and tossing in the waves.
“I see her,” replied I, catching my breath with joy; “but—still—I think she must go on shore.”
“All depends upon whether she can get a little bit of sail up to weather the point,” replied Swinburne; “and depend upon it, Captain O’Brien knows that as well as we do.”
We were now joined by the other men who were saved. We all shook hands. They pointed out to me the bodies of our shipmates who had perished. I directed them to haul them further up, and put them altogether; and continued, with Swinburne, to watch the brig. In about half-an-hour we perceived a triangle raised; and in ten minutes afterwards, a jury-mast abaft—a try-sail was hoisted and set. Then the shears were seen forward, and in as short a time another try-sail and a storm jib were expanded to the wind.
“That’s all he can do now, Mr Simple,” observed Swinburne; “he must trust to them and to Providence. They are not more than a mile from the beach—it will be touch and go.”
Anxiously did we watch for more than half-an-hour; the other men returned to us, and joined in our speculations. At one time we thought it impossible—at another we were certain that she would weather the point. At last, as she neared it, she forged a-head: my anxiety became almost insupportable. I stood first on one leg, and then on the other, breathless with suspense. She appeared to be on the point—actually touching the rocks—“God! she’s struck!” said I.
“No!” replied Swinburne;—and then we saw her pass on the other side of the outermost rock, and disappear.
“Safe, Mr Simple!—weathered, by God!” cried Swinburne, waving his hat with joy.
“God be thanked!” replied I, overcome with delight.
Chapter Forty Eight
The devastations of the hurricane—Peter makes friends—At destroying or saving, nothing like British seamen—Peter meets with General O’Brien much to his satisfaction—Has another meeting still more so—A great deal of pressing of hands, “and all that,” as Pope says
Now that the brig was safe, we thought of ourselves. My first attention was directed to the dead bodies; and as I looked at their mangled limbs, I felt grateful to Heaven that I had been so miraculously spared. We then cast our eyes along the beach to see if we could trace any remnants of the other boats; but in vain. We were about three miles from the town, which we could perceive had received considerable damage and the beach below it was strewed with wrecks and fragments. I told the men that we might as well walk into the town, and deliver ourselves up as prisoners; to which they agreed, and we set forward, promising to send for the poor fellows who were too much hurt to accompany us.
As soon as we climbed up the rocks, and gained the inland, what a sight presented itself to us! Trees torn up by the roots in every direction—cattle lying dead—here and there the remains of a house, of which the other parts had been swept away for miles. Everything not built of solid masonry had disappeared. We passed what had been a range of negro huts, but they were levelled to the ground. The negroes were busily searching for their property among the ruins, while the women held their infants in their arms, and the other children by their sides. Here and there was the mother wailing over the dead body of some poor little thing which had been crushed to death. They took no notice of us.
About half a mile further on, to our great delight, we fell in with the crews of the other boats, who were sitting by the side of the road. They had all escaped unhurt: their boats being so much more buoyant than ours, had been thrown up high and dry. They joined us, and we proceeded on our way.
On our road we fell in with a cart blown over, under the wheel of which was the leg of the negro who conducted it. We released the poor fellow: his leg was fractured. We laid him by the side of the road in the shade, and continued our march. Our whole route was one scene of desolation and distress; but when we arrived at the town, we found that there it was indeed accumulated. There was not one house in three standing entire—the beach was covered with the remnants of bodies and fragments of vessels, whose masts lay forced several feet into the sand, and broken into four or five pieces. Parties of soldiers were busy taking away the bodies, and removing what few valuables had been saved. We turned up into the town, for no one accosted or even noticed us; and here the scene was even more dreadful. In some streets they were digging out those who were still alive, and whose cries were heard among the ruins; in others, they were carrying away the dead bodies. The lamentations of the relatives—the howling of the negroes—the cries of the wounded—the cursing and swearing of the French soldiers, and the orders delivered continually by officers on horseback, with all the confusion arising from crowds of spectators, mingling their voices together, formed a scene as dreadful as it was novel.
After surveying it for a few minutes, I went up to an officer on horseback, and told him in French that I wished to surrender myself as a prisoner.
“We have no time to take prisoners now,” replied he: “hundreds are buried in the ruins, and we must try to save them. We must now attend to the claims of humanity.”
“Will you allow my men to assist you, sir?” replied I. “They are active and strong fellows.”
“Sir,” said he, taking off his hat, “I thank you in the name of my unfortunate countrymen.”
“Show us, then, where we may be most useful.”
He turned and pointed to a house higher up, the offices of which were blown down. “There are living beings under those ruins.”
“Come, my lads,” said I: and sore as they were, my men hastened with alacrity to perform their task. I could not help them myself, my side was so painful; but I stood by giving them directions.
In half-an-hour we had cleared away so as to arrive at a poor negro girl, whose cries we had distinctly heard. We released her, and laid her down in the street, but she fainted. Her left hand was dreadfully shattered. I was giving what assistance I could, and the men were busy clearing away, throwing on one side the beams and rafters, when an officer on horseback rode up. He stood and asked me who we were. I told him that we belonged to the brig, and had been wrecked; and that we were giving what assistance we could until they were at leisure to send us to prison.
“You English are fine brave fellows,” replied he, as he rode on.
Another unfortunate object had been recovered by our men, an old white-headed negro, but he was too much mangled to live. We brought him out, and were laying him beside the negro girl, when several officers on horseback rode down the street. The one who was foremost, in a general’s uniform, I immediately recognised as my former friend, then Colonel O’Brien. They all stopped and looked at us. I told who we were. General O’Brien took off his hat to the sailors, and thanked them.
He did not recognise me, and he was passing on, when I said to him in English, “General O’Brien, you have forgotten me; but I shall never forget your kindness.”
“My God!” said he, “is it you, my dear fellow?” and he sprang from his horse, and shook me warmly by the hand. “No wonder that I did not know you; you are a very different person from little Peter Simple, who dressed up as a girl and danced on stilts. But I have to thank you, and so has Celeste, for your kindness to her. I will not ask you to leave your work of charity and kindness; but when you have done what you can, come up to my house. Any one will show it to you; and if you do not find me you will find Celeste, as you must be aware I cannot leave this melancholy employment. God bless you!” He then rode off followed by his staff.
“Come, my lads,” said I, “depend upon it we shall not be very cruelly treated. Let us work hard, and do all the good we can, and the Frenchmen won’t forget it.”
We had cleared that house, and went back to where the other people were working under the orders of the officer on horseback. I went up to him, and told him we had saved two, and if he had no objection, would assist his party. He thankfully accepted our services.
“And now, my lads,” said Swinburne, “let us forget all our bruises, and show these French follows how to work.”
And they did so—they tossed away the beams and rafters right and left, with a quickness and dexterity which quite astonished the officer and other inhabitants who were looking on; and in half-an-hour had done more work than could have possibly been expected. Several lives were saved, and the French expressed their admiration at our sailors’ conduct, and brought them something to drink, which they stood much in need of, poor fellows. After they had worked double tides, as we say, and certainly were the means of saving many lives, which otherwise would have been sacrificed.
The disasters occasioned by this hurricane were very great, owing to its having taken place at night, when the chief of the inhabitants were in bed and asleep. I was told, that most of the wood houses were down five minutes after the hurricane burst upon them. About noon there was no more work for us to do, and I was not sorry that it was over. My side was very painful, and the burning heat of the sun made me feel giddy and sick at the stomach.
I inquired of a respectable looking old Frenchman, which was the general’s house. He directed me to it, and I proceeded there, followed by my men. When I arrived, I found the orderly leading away the horse of General O’Brien, who had just returned. I desired a serjeant, who was in attendance at the door, to acquaint the general that I was below. He returned, and desired me to follow him. I was conducted into a large room, where I found him in company with several officers. He again greeted me warmly, and introduced me to the company as the officer who had permitted the ladies, who had been taken prisoners, to come on shore.
“I have to thank you, then, for my wife,” said an officer, coming up and offering his hand.
Another came up, and told me that I had also released his. We then entered into a conversation, in which I stated the occasion of my having been wrecked, and all the particulars; also, that I had seen the brig in the morning dismasted, but that she had weathered the point, and was safe.
“That brig of yours, I must pay you the compliment to say, has been very troublesome; and my namesake keeps the batteries more upon the alert than ever I could have done,” said General O’Brien. “I don’t believe there is a negro five years old upon the island who does not know your brig.”
We then talked over the attack of the privateer, in which we were beaten off. “Ah!” replied the aide-de-camp, “you made a mess of that. He has been gone these four months. Captain Carnot swears that he’ll fight you if he falls in with you.”
“He has kept his word,” replied I: and then I narrated our action with the three French privateers, and the capture of the vessel; which surprised, and, I think, annoyed them very much.
“Well, my friend,” said General O’Brien, “you must stay with me while you are on the island; if you want anything, let me know.”
“I am afraid that I want a surgeon,” replied I; “for my side is so painful, that I can scarcely breathe.”
“Are you hurt, then?” said General O’Brien, with an anxious look.
“Not dangerously, I believe,” said I, “but rather painfully.”
“Let me see,” said an officer, who stepped forward; “I am surgeon to the forces here, and perhaps you will trust yourself in my hands. Take off your coat.”
I did so with difficulty. “You have two ribs broken,” said he, feeling my side, “and a very severe contusion. You must go to bed, or lie on a sofa for a few days. In a quarter of an hour I will come and dress you, and promise you to make you all well in ten days, in return for your having given me my daughter, who was on board of the Victorine with the other ladies.” The officers now made their bows, and left me alone with General O’Brien.
“Recollect,” said he, “that I tell you once for all, that my purse, and everything, is at your command. If you do not accept them freely, I shall think you do not love us. It is not the first time, Peter, and you repaid me honourably. However, of course, I was no party to that affair; it was Celeste’s doing,” continued he, laughing. “Of course I could not imagine that it was you who was dressed up as a woman, and so impudently danced through France on stilts. But I must hear all your adventures, by-and-bye. Celeste is most anxious to see you. Will you go now, or wait till after the surgeon comes?”
“Oh now, if you please, general. May I first beg that some care may be taken of my poor men; they have had nothing to eat since yesterday, are very much bruised, and have worked hard; and that a cart may be sent for those who lie on the beach?”
“I should have thought of them before,” replied he: and I will also order the same party to bury the other poor fellows who are lying on the beach. Come now—I will take you to Celeste.
