Henty George Alfred
In Greek Waters: A Story of the Grecian War of Independence

“Now, then,” he said to himself as he walked back to the house, “I shall know. Of course it will be a horrible disappointment if he says no, but I sha’n’t show it, because it is too much to expect him to do this. I should never have dreamt of such a thing if it had not been for Marco. Well, here goes”; and he walked into the parlour.

“Good morning, father!”

“Good morning, Horace. I am glad to hear that Marco has found just the boat that he thinks will suit the place. He tells me you want to go over and see her fitted out. I think that that will be a very good plan. When you do a thing, Horace, do it well if it is worth doing at all. Marco will go back with you by the coach this morning.”

“Oh, thank you, father; it is awfully kind of you!”

“I wish you to enjoy yourself,” his father said; “it is no more than the price of another horse. It is a fine sport and a healthy one, and I don’t know that it is more dangerous than galloping about the country on horseback. I have told Marco to make all arrangements, and not to worry me about things. At the beginning of each holiday he will say how much he will require for provisions on board, and the payment of the wages of a man and a boy. I shall give him a cheque, and there will be an end of it as far as I am concerned. I shall be much more at my ease knowing that you are enjoying yourself on board than wondering what you will do to amuse yourself from day to day.”

Thinking that all that was necessary had been said, Mr. Beveridge then opened a Greek book that lay as usual beside his plate, and speedily became absorbed in it. When he himself had finished, Horace slipped away. He knew that his father would be at least two hours over the meal, which he only turned to when Zaimes made a movement to attract his attention, everything being kept down by the fire, which was lit specially for that purpose, even in summer.

“It is all settled, Marco; think of that! Won’t it be glorious?”

“It will be very good, Horace. I shall like it almost as much as you will. I love the sea, even this gray ugly sea of yours, which is so different from the blue of the Ægean. I too mope a little sometimes when you are not at home, for though I have the kindest and best of masters, one longs sometimes for change. I told you your father would agree. It is just what I told him we should want. An open boat is no use except when the weather is fine, and then one must always keep close to port in case the wind should drop, and when it comes calm you have to break your back with rowing. Oh, we will have fine sails together, and as you grow older we can go farther away, for she should be safe anywhere. When you become a man I daresay he will get for you something bigger, and then perhaps we can sail together to Greece, and perhaps the master will go with you, for he loves Greece as much as we do.”

There was a fortnight of hard work. William Martyn was in command, and kept Horace at work as if he had been a young midshipman under his orders; while Marco turned his hand to everything, singing snatches of sailor songs he had sung as he fished when a boy, chattering in Greek to Horace, and in broken English to the two men.

“You are going to be skipper, I hear,” William Martyn said to him one day.

“Going to skip!” Marco repeated vaguely. “I know not what you mean.”

“Going to be captain – padrone.”

Marco shook his head. “No, sir. Can sail open boat good, but not fit to take charge of boat like this. Going to have man at Seaport, a good fisherman. He sailed a long time in big ships. Man-of-war’s man. When war over, came back to fish. I shall look after young master, cook food for him, pull at rope, steer sometimes; but other man be captain and sail boat.”

William Martyn nodded. “Quite right, Marco; these fishermen know the coast, and the weather, and the ports and creeks to run into. It is all very well in fine weather, but when you get a blow, a craft like this wants a man who can handle her well.”

Horace’s pride in the craft increased every day. As she lay weather-beaten and dismantled on the mud she had seemed to him larger but not superior in appearance to the fishing craft of Seaport, which were most of them boats of ten or twelve tons; but each day her appearance changed, and at the end of ten days – with all her rigging in place, her masts and spars scraped, her deck fairly white, and her sides glossy with black paint – she seemed to him a thing of perfect beauty. It was just the fortnight when the paint and varnish of the cabins were dry, the furniture in its place, and everything ready for sea. Horace’s delight culminated when the anchor was got up, sail set on her, and William Martyn took the helm, as with a light wind she ran down through the craft in the harbour for a trial trip.

“She is a wonderfully handy little craft,” the mate said approvingly, as she began to rise and fall on the swell outside; “the old captain knew what he was doing when he laid down her lines. She is like a duck on the water. I have been out in her when big ships were putting their noses into it, and she never shipped a pailful of water. I can tell you you are in luck, youngster. How are you going to take her round?”

“I was going to write to-night for Tom Burdett – that is the man Marco spoke about – to come over by coach.”

“I will tell you what I will do, youngster; I will take her over for you. I shall enjoy the trip. If you like we will start to-morrow morning.”

“I should like that immensely,” Horace said; “we shall astonish them when we sail into the port.”

“Very well, then, that is agreed; you had better get some stores on board; I mean provisions. Of course if the weather holds like this we should be there in the evening; but it is a good rule at sea never to trust the weather. Always have enough grub and water for a week on board; then, if you happen to be blown off shore, or anything of that sort, it is of no consequence.”

CHAPTER II
A YACHT

MARCO, who acted as banker and appeared to Horace to be provided with an unlimited amount of money, was busy all the evening getting crockery, cooking-utensils, knives and forks, table-cloths, towels, and other necessaries.

“Why, it is like fitting out a house, Marco.”

“Well, it is a little floating house,” the Greek said; “it is much better to have your own things, and not to have to borrow from the house every time. Now we will get some provisions, two or three bottles of rum for bad weather, or when we have visitors on board, and then we shall be complete. Mr. Martyn said he would see to the water. Now, we will go to bed soon, for we are to be down at the wharf at six o’clock; and if we are not there in time you may be sure that you will get a rating.”

“There is no fear of my being late, Marco. I don’t think I shall sleep all night.”

“Ah! we shall see. You have been on your feet since seven this morning. I shall have to pull you by your ear to wake you in the morning.”

This, however, was not necessary. The boy was fast asleep in five minutes after he had laid his head on the pillow; he woke soon after daylight, dropped off to sleep several times, but turned out at five, opened the door of the Greek’s room, and shouted:

“Now, then, Marco, time to get up: if you do not, it is I who will do the ear-pulling.”

They were down at the wharf at a quarter to six. As the clock struck the hour William Martyn came down.

“Good-morning, youngster! you are before your time, I see. You wouldn’t be so ready to turn out after you had had a year or two on board ship. Well, it looks as if we are going to have a grand day. There is a nice little breeze, and I fancy it will freshen a good bit later on. Now, then, tumble into the dinghy, I will take the sculls; the tide is running out strong, and you might run her into the yacht and damage the paint; that would be a nice beginning.”

As soon as they were on board, the mate said:

“Now, off with those shoes, youngster. You can go barefoot if you like, or you can put on those slippers you bought; we have got the deck fairly white, and we must not spoil it. You should make that a rule: everyone who comes on board takes off his boots at once.”

The Greek made the dinghy fast, and then took off his shoes and stockings. Horace put on the slippers, and the mate a pair of light shoes he had brought on board with him.

“Now, then, off with the sail-covers; fold them up and put them down under the seat of the cockpit. Knot up the tyers loosely together, and put them there also. Never begin to hoist your sails till you have got the covers and tyers snugly packed away. Now, Marco, get number two jib out of the sail-locker. I don’t think we shall want number one to-day. Now, hook on the halliards. No; don’t hoist yet, run it out first by the outhaul to the end of the bowsprit. We won’t hoist it till we have got the mainmast and mizzen up. Now, Marco, you take the peak halliards, and I will take the main. Now, then, up she goes; ease off the sheet a bit. Horace, we must top the boom a bit; that is high enough. Marco, make fast; now up with the mizzen; that is right. Now, Horace, before you do anything else always look round, see that everything is right, the halliards properly coiled up and turned over so as to run freely, in case you want to lower or reef sail, the sheets ready to slacken out, the foresail and jib sheets brought aft on their proper sides. There is nothing in our way now; but when there are craft in the way, you want to have everything in perfect order, and ready to draw the moment the anchor is off the ground. Otherwise you might run foul of something before you got fairly off, and nothing can look more lubberly than that. Now you take the helm, and Marco and I will get up the anchor. The wind is nearly dead down the river; don’t touch the tiller till I tell you.”

Horace stood by the helm till the mate said:

“The chain is nearly up and down; now put the tiller gently to starboard.”

As he spoke he ran up the jib, and as the boat’s head payed off, fastened the sheet to windward.

“Now, Marco, round with the windlass; that is right, the anchor is clear now; up with it.”

As he spoke he ran up the foresail. “Slack off the main sheets, lad, handsomely; that is right, let them go free; slack off the mizzen sheets.”

The wind had caught the jib now, and, aided by the tide, brought the boat’s head sharply round. The jib and foresheets were hauled to leeward, and in less than a minute from the time the anchor had left the ground the boat was running down the river with her sheets well off before the wind.

“Helm a-port a little, Horace, so as to give us plenty of room in passing that brig at anchor. That is enough. Steady! Now keep as you are. Marco, I will help you get the anchor on board, and then we will get up the topsail and set it.”

In ten minutes the anchor was stowed, topsail set, and the ropes coiled down. Then a small triangular blue flag with the word “Surf” was run up to the masthead.

“Properly speaking, Horace, flags are not shown till eight o’clock in the morning; but we will make an exception this time. Gently with the tiller, lad; you are not steering a fishing-boat now; a touch is sufficient for this craft. Keep your eye on the flag, and see that it flies out straight ahead. That is the easiest thing to steer by when you are dead before the wind. There is more care required for that than for steering close-hauled, for a moment’s carelessness might bring the sail across with a jerk that would pretty well take the mast out of her. It is easy enough now in smooth water; but with a following sea it needs a careful helmsman to keep a craft from yawing about.”

Marco had disappeared down the forecastle hatch as soon as he had finished coiling down the topsail halliard, and a wreath of smoke now came up through the stove-pipe.

“That is good,” the mate said. “We shall have breakfast before long.”

They ran three miles straight out, so as to get well clear of the land; then the sheets were hauled in, and the Surf’s head pointed east, and lying down to her gunwale she sped along parallel with the shore.

“We are going along a good seven knots through the water,” the mate said. “She has got just as much sail as she wants, though she would stand a good deal more wind, if there were any occasion to press her; but as a rule, Horace, always err on the right side; there is never any good in carrying too much sail. You can always make more sail if the wind drops, while if it rises it is not always easy to get it in. Give me the helm. Now go down to Marco and tell him to come up a few minutes before breakfast is ready. We will get the topsail off her before we sit down, and eat our breakfast comfortably. There is no fun in having your plate in your lap.”

By half-past seven the topsail was stowed and breakfast on the table. Marco took the helm, while the mate and Horace went down to breakfast. Horace thought that it was the most delightful meal he had ever taken; and the mate said:

“That Greek of yours is a first-rate cook, Horace. An admiral could not want to sit down to a better breakfast than this. There is not much here to remind me of a midshipman’s mess. You would have had very different food from this, youngster, if you had had your wish and gone to sea. That father of yours must be a trump; I drink his health in coffee. If he ever gets a bigger craft, and wants a captain, I am his man if he will send your Greek on board as cook. Does he care for the sea himself?”

“I think he used to like it. I have heard him talk about sailing among the Greek islands; but as long as I have known him he has never been away from home except for short runs up to London. He is always in his library.”

“Fancy a man who could afford to keep a big craft and sail about as he likes wasting his life over musty old books. It is a rum taste, youngster. I think I would rather row in a galley.”

“There are no such things as galleys now, are there?”

“Oh, yes, there are in Italy; they have them still rowed by convicts, and I fancy the Spanish gun-boats are rowed by prisoners too. It is worse than a dog’s life, but for all that I would rather do it than be shut up all my life in a library. You seem to talk Greek well, youngster.”

“Yes; Marco has always been with me since I was a child, and we have another Greek servant, his brother; and father generally talks Greek to me. His mother was a Greek lady, and that is what made him so fond of it at first. They say he is the best Greek scholar in England.”

“I suppose it differs a lot from the Greek you learn at school?”

“Yes, a lot. Still, of course, my knowing it helps me tremendously with my old Greek. I get on first-rate at that, but I am very bad at everything else.”

“Well, now we will go up and give Marco a spell,” the mate said. Marco was relieved and went below. Horace took the helm; the mate lit a pipe and seated himself on the weather bulwark. “We shall be at Seaport before eleven if we go on like this,” he said.

“Oh, do let us take a run out to sea, Mr. Martyn; it is no use our going in until four or five o’clock.”

“Just as you like, lad; I am in no hurry, and it is really a glorious day for a sail. Put up the helm, I will see to the sheets.”

As they got farther from the protection of the land the sea got up a bit, but the Surf went over it lightly, and except that an occasional splash of spray flew over her bow, her decks were perfectly dry.

“Have you heard of a ship yet, Mr. Martyn?”

“Yes, I heard only yesterday of a berth as first-mate in a craft at Plymouth. The first-mate got hurt coming down channel, and a friend of my father’s, learning there was a vacancy, spoke to the owners. She belongs there, and I am to join the day after to-morrow. She is bound up the Mediterranean. I shall be very glad to be off; I have had a dull time of it for the last four months except for this little job.”

“I am afraid you won’t get any vehicle to take you back to-night,” Horace said.

“No, I didn’t expect that; the coach in the morning will do very well. I have nothing to do but just to pack my kit, and shall go on by coach next morning. I was thinking of sleeping on board here, if you have no objection.”

“I am sure my father will be very glad to see you up at the house,” Horace said eagerly.

“Thank you, lad, but I shall be much more comfortable on board. Marco said he would get dinner at two, and there is sure to be plenty for me to make a cold supper of, and as there is rum in the locker I shall be as happy as a king. I can smoke my pipe as I like. If I were to go up with you I should be uncomfortable, for I have nothing but my sea-going togs. I should put your father out of his way, and he would put me out of mine. So I think, on all accounts, I had much better remain in good quarters now I have got them. How far is it to the place where I catch the coach?”

“About four miles. We will send the carriage to take you there.”

“Thank you, I would much rather walk. I have nothing to carry but myself, and a four miles’ walk across the hills will be just the thing for me.”

At four o’clock the Surf entered the little harbour of Seaport; Horace was delighted with the surprise of the fishermen at the arrival of the pretty craft.

“You are sure you won’t change your mind and come up with me to the house?”

“Quite certain, thank you, lad. Marco has put out everything I can possibly require. He offered to come down to get breakfast for me, but I prefer to manage that for myself, then I can have it at any time I fancy. I will lock up the cabin before I land. He will be there to take the key.”

“I shall come down with him, of course, Mr. Martyn. I can’t tell you how much I am obliged to you for what you have done for me, and I hope that some day we may have another sail together.”

“If I am at home any time when you may happen to put in at Exmouth I shall be glad to take a cruise with you, Horace.”

As the lad and Marco went up the hill to the house, Horace, to his surprise, met his father coming down with Zaimes.

“Well, Horace, so you have brought your yacht home. Zaimes routed me out from my work to come and look at her, and she really looks a very pretty little vessel.”

“She is not little at all, father.”

“Perhaps not in comparison, Horace; but did you and Marco bring her back by yourselves?”

“No, father; William Martyn, the officer who has seen to her fitting up, and who recommended her, you know, said he would come with us. So, of course, he has been in command, and Marco and I have been the crew. He has been teaching me lots of things, just the same, he says, as if I had been a newly joined midshipman.”

“But where is he now, Horace?”

“He is on board. He is going home by the coach to-morrow. I said that I was sure you would be glad if he would come up to the house; but he said he should feel more comfortable on board. Were you coming down to look at her, father?”

“Yes, Horace, I was. It is quite a wonderful event my being outside the grounds, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed, father. I am so glad you are coming down. I am sure you will like her, and then, perhaps, you will come sailing sometimes; I do think, father, that you would enjoy such a sail as we had to-day, it was splendid.”

“Well, we will see about it, Horace. Now I have once come out I may do so again; I am not sure that a good blow might not clear my brain sometimes.”

There was quite an excitement in the village when Mr. Beveridge was seen coming down. Occasionally during his wife’s lifetime he had come down with her to look into questions of repairs or erection of new cottages in lieu of old ones, but since that time he had never entered the village. Personally his tenants did not suffer from the cessation of his visits, for his steward had the strictest injunctions to deal in all respects liberally with them, to execute all necessary repairs, to accede to any reasonable request; while in case of illness or misfortune, such as the loss of a boat or nets, the rent was always remitted. That Mr. Beveridge was to a certain extent mad to shut himself up as he did the villagers firmly believed, but they admitted that no better landlord was to be found in all that part of the country.

Mrs. Beveridge had been greatly liked, and the people were pleased at Horace being down so much among them; but it was rather a sore subject that their landlord himself held so entirely aloof from them. Men touched their hats, the women curtsied as he came down the street, looking almost with pity at the man who, in their opinion, so terribly wasted his life and cut himself off from the enjoyments of his position.

Mr. Beveridge returned their salutes kindly. He was scarce conscious of the time that had passed since he was last in the village; the years had gone by altogether unmarked save by the growth of Horace, and by the completion of so many works.

“I suppose you know most of their names, Horace?”

“All of them, I think, father.”

“That is right, boy. A landlord ought to know all his tenants. I wish I could find time to go about among them a little more, but I think they have everything they want as far as I can do for them; still, I ought to come. In your mother’s time I did come sometimes. I must try to do it in future. Zaimes, you must see that I do this once a fortnight. I authorize you to bring me my hat and coat after lunch and say to me firmly, ‘This is your afternoon for going out.’”

“Very well, sir,” the Greek said. “I will tell you; and I hope you will not say, as you always do to me when I beg you to go out: ‘I must put it off for another day, Zaimes, I have some work that must be done.’”

“I will try not to, Zaimes, I will indeed. I think this is a duty. You remind me of that, will you?”

By this time they had reached the little port, where a number of the fishermen were still lounging discussing the Surf, which was lying the picture of neatness and good order among the fishing-boats, with every rope in its place, the sails in their snow-white covers, and presenting the strongest contrast to the craft around her.

“She is really a very pretty little yacht,” Mr. Beveridge said with more animation than Horace ever remembered to have heard him speak with. “She does great credit to your choice, Marco, and I should think she is a good sea-boat. Why, Zaimes, this almost seems to take one back to the old time. She is about the size of the felucca we used to cruise about in; it is a long time back, nearly eighteen years, and yet it seems but yesterday.”

“There is no reason why you should not sail again, master; even I long to have my foot on the planks. One never loses one’s love of the sea.”

“I am getting to be an old man now, Zaimes.”

“No one would say so but yourself, master; you are but forty-three. Sometimes, after being shut up for days, you look old – who would not when the sun never shines on them – but now you look young, much younger than you are.”

A stranger indeed would have had difficulty in guessing Mr. Beveridge’s age. His forehead was broad, his skin delicate and almost colourless, his light-brown hair was already of a silvery shade, his face clean shaven, his hands white and thin. His eyes were generally soft and dreamy, but at the present moment they were bright and alert. His figure was scarcely that of a student, for the frame was large, and there was at present none of the stoop habitual to those who spend their lives over books; and now that he was roused, he carried himself exceptionally upright, and a close observer might have taken him for a vigorous man who had but lately recovered from an attack of severe illness.

“We shall see, Zaimes, we shall see,” he said; “let us go on board. You had better hail her, Horace.”

“Surf ahoy!” Horace shouted, imitating as well as he could William Martyn’s usual hail. A minute later the mate’s head appeared above the companion. “My father is coming on board, Mr. Martyn. Will you please bring the dinghy ashore.” The mate hauled up the dinghy, got into it, and in a few strokes was alongside the quay.

Mr. Beveridge descended the steps first. “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Martyn, and to thank you for the kindness you have shown my son in finding this craft for him and seeing to its being fitted out.”

“It has been an amusement, sir,” the mate said. “I was knocking about Exmouth with nothing to do, and it was pleasant to be at work on something.”

“Get in, Horace,” Mr. Beveridge said, “the dinghy won’t carry us all. You can bring it back again for the others.”

The party stayed for half an hour on board. Mr. Beveridge was warm in his approval of the arrangements.

“This is a snug cabin indeed,” he said. “I had no idea that such a small craft could have had such good accommodation. One could wish for nothing better except for a little more head-room, but after all that is of no great consequence, one does not want to walk about below. It is a place to eat and to sleep in, or, if it is wet, to read in. I really wonder I never thought of having a sailing-boat before. I shall certainly take a sail with you sometimes, Horace.”

“I am very glad of that, father, it would be very jolly having you out. I don’t see much of you, you know, and I do think it would do you good.”

William Martyn was not allowed to carry out his intention of staying on board, nor did he resist very earnestly Mr. Beveridge’s pressing invitation. His host differed widely from his preconceived notions of him, and he saw that he need not be afraid of ceremony.

“You can smoke your pipe, you know, in the library after dinner, Mr. Martyn. I have no objection whatever to smoke; indeed, I used to smoke myself when I was in Greece as a young man – everyone did so there, and I got to like it, though I gave it up afterwards. Why did I give it up, Zaimes?”

“I think you gave it up, master, because you always let your cigar out after smoking two or three whiffs, and never thought of it again for the rest of the day.”

“Perhaps that was it; at any rate your smoking will in no way incommode me, so I will take no denial.”

Accordingly the cabins were locked up, and William Martyn went up with the others to the house and there spent a very pleasant evening. He had in the course of his service sailed for some time in Greek waters, and there was consequently much to talk about which interested both himself and his host.

“I love Greece,” Mr. Beveridge said. “Had it not been that she lies dead under the tyranny of the Turks I doubt if I should not have settled there altogether.”

“I think you would have got tired of it, sir,” the mate said. “There is nothing to be said against the country or the islands, except that there are precious few good harbours among them; but I can’t say I took to the people.”

“They have their faults,” Mr. Beveridge admitted, “but I think they are the faults of their position more than of their natural character. Slaves are seldom trustworthy, and I own that they are not as a rule to be relied upon. Having no honourable career open to them, the upper classes think of nothing but money; they are selfish, greedy, and corrupt; but I believe in the bulk of the people.”

As William Martyn had no belief whatever in any section of the Greeks he held his tongue.

“Greece will rise one of these days,” Mr. Beveridge went on, “and when she does she will astonish Europe. The old spirit still lives among the descendants of Leonidas and Miltiades.”

“I should be sorry to be one of the Turks who fell into their hands,” William Martyn said gravely as he thought of the many instances in his own experiences of the murders of sailors on leave ashore.

“It is probable that there will be sad scenes of bloodshed,” Mr. Beveridge agreed; “that is only to be expected when you have a race of men of a naturally impetuous and passionate character enslaved by a people alien in race and in religion. Yes, I fear it will be so at the commencement, but that will be all altered when they become disciplined soldiers. Do you not think so?” he asked, as the sailor remained silent.

“I have great doubts whether they will ever submit to discipline,” he said bluntly. “Their idea of fighting for centuries has been simply to shoot down an enemy from behind the shelter of rocks. I would as lief undertake to discipline an army of Malays, who, in a good many respects, especially in the handiness with which they use their knives, are a good deal like the Greeks.”

“There is one broad distinction,” Mr. Beveridge said: “the Malays have no past, the Greeks have never lost the remembrance of their ancient glory. They have a high standard to act up to; they reverence the names of the great men of old as if they had died but yesterday. With them it would be a resurrection, accomplished, no doubt, after vast pains and many troubles, the more so since the Greeks are a composite people among whom the descendants of the veritable Greek of old are in a great minority. The majority are of Albanian and Suliot blood, races which even the Romans found untamable. When the struggle begins I fear that this section of the race will display the savagery of their nature; but the fighting over, the intellectual portion will, I doubt not, regain their proper ascendency, and Greece will become the Greece of old.”

William Martyn was wise enough not to pursue the subject. He had a deep scar from the shoulder to the elbow of his right arm, and another on the left shoulder, both reminiscences of an attack that had been made upon him by half a dozen ruffians one night in the streets of Athens, and in his private opinion the entire extirpation of the Greek race would be no loss to the world in general.

“I am very sorry you have to leave to-morrow morning,” Mr. Beveridge said presently. “I should have been very glad if you could have stayed with us for a few days. It is some years since I had a visitor here, and I can assure you that I am surprised at the pleasure it gives me. However, I hope that whenever you happen to be at Exmouth you will run over and see us, and if at any time I can be of the slightest service to you I shall be really pleased.”