the storm that swept the channel in the summer of 17—, was long remembered by the folk along the sussex coast. hail fell in many places, and fierce squalls of wind, like huge beasts galloping with the lesser herd, uprooted trees, sent chimneys crashing through the roofs, and scattered tiles in many a street. at one village the church-spire fell, and all along the coast ran the rumor of ships lost and fishing-vessels caught in the storm.
off the french coast, and still tangled in the lifting fringes of the night, the sussex queen lay rolling heavily with the waves washing her lower decks. a squall had struck her soon after sundown, beaten down her masts, and left her drifting like a wounded gull with wings trailing in the water. two men had been killed by the falling of the masts, and another washed overboard by a heavy sea. all through the night the pumps had been clanging, and water gushing from the brig’s black sides.
about two o’clock in the morning captain george lurched down the short stairway leading to the poop-cabin. he was bleeding from a wound over the left temple and had the look of a man who was utterly unnerved. moreover, he smelled of liquor, and his great raw hands trembled as he fumbled at the latch of the cabin door.
a ship’s lantern creaked and rocked from the beacon, throwing an uncertain light about the cabin. ever and again the poop-windows were drenched and darkened by the waves that broke over the stern of the ship. bess was half lying on her bunk, with her red cloak wrapped round her, jeffray leaning against the bulkhead, with the st. thomas à kempis, that had been his father’s, open in his hand. captain george looked at them as though half dazed, blood running down his face to soak into his ragged beard.
“well, captain, what news for us?”
“news!” and the man laughed with a spasmodic croaking in the throat. “we’re going to the bottom as fast as the ship can take in water.”
“the ship sinking!”
captain george’s hands had been working at the buckle of his belt.
“here, take it back, i say,” and he threw the belt and purse upon the floor; “take back your damned money. but for the gold i should be safe in the king harry, and not here to drown like a rat.”
jeffray looked at bess and then at the unnerved sot, who was leaning against the panelling by the door. a wave struck the ship full on the poop, breaking the glass in the windows, the black water pouring in upon the floor. the lamp flared and spluttered with the wind and spray, and the narrow cabin seemed full of the gurgling and plashing of the sea.
jeffray sprang forward and laid his hand on the captain’s shoulder.
“come, man, are you going to drown without a fight?”
the fellow shuddered, and shook the blood out of his eyes.
“it ben’t any use,” he said, sullenly; “it ben’t any use.”
“by god, man, where’s the english grit in you? why aren’t the pumps working? we can’t be far from the french coast now.”
captain george shook off jeffray’s hand.
“let be,” he said, savagely, “the men have got the liquor out. they’re sick of pumping, i tell ye, and they’re going down drunk, bad blood to ’em!”
jeffray stood back against the table and looked at the long-limbed sloven with a flash of scorn. the man had no courage left in him; he was sulky and sodden with his death grapple with the sea. jeffray turned to the bunk where bess was lying, took out his pistols from a valise, and levelled one of them calmly at the captain’s head.
“take down the lantern,” he said, quietly.
the man stared at the muzzle of jeffray’s pistol, and hesitated.
“take down the lantern, or by the love of god i’ll fire on you!”
captain george climbed the table, and, swaying from side to side, took down the lantern from its hook. jeffray turned and spoke to bess, steadying himself against the bunk as the ship rolled with the waves.
“god keep you, dear; it may be our last chance! i must do my best.”
she looked up at him and smiled.
“i am not afraid of the dark,” she answered.
jeffray had thrown his cloak over his shoulders, and he kept his pistols covered so that the priming should not be damped in the pans.
“where are your men, captain?”
“in the fo’c’sle.”
“lead on, and let me see what i can do with them.”
they went out together, jeffray closing the cabin door and calling back to bess to shoot the bolts. captain george, sulky and silent, leaned against the hand-rail, shading the lamp behind his coat. to jeffray it seemed that the force of the wind had lessened, and that the ship groaned and tumbled less in the troughs of the sea. a wet moon shone out now and again through the ragged clouds, lighting up the dishevelled waters that raced under the hurrying sky.
captain george and jeffray took the lower deck where the darkness was utter save for the lamp the seaman carried. the port-holes oozed with every thundering up of the sea, the perpetual thudding of the waves reverberating through the body of the ship. piled about the shaft of the main-mast were the trunks and boxes that the rodenham coach had brought from lewes, and jeffray looked at them with a tightening of the mouth. there was a depth of pathos in the thought that all these rich stuffs that he had bought for bess might be torn to shreds by the remorseless sea. the pity of it strengthened all the manhood in him, and made him realize for what he fought.
captain george had halted suddenly, and stood listening, the lantern swinging in his hand.
“d’yer hear ’em? it ben’t no use, sir, i tell you, it ben’t no use.”
jeffray heard laughter and rough voices rising above the racket of the storm. there was a note of fierce defiance in the sound, as though the tired and disheartened men were going to death with blasphemy upon their lips.
captain george shivered as though cold.
“they’re getting the drink in ’em,” he said, peering forward into the darkness.
jeffray pushed the coward forward.
“our duty’s clear,” he said, “we must pitch the devil’s juice into the sea.”
a dirty lamp was burning in the fo’c’sle, the ill-trimmed wick smoking and flaring in the wind. on the floor sat three men, half naked, with a keg of rum between them, and a tin cup passing from hand to hand. in one of the bunks, a man, whose back had been broken by a falling spar, lay groaning and biting the coat that covered him, in a paroxysm of pain. near him on an upturned bucket another fellow sat with his head between his hands, as though the dread of death were heavy on his soul.
jeffray stood on the threshold, holding his pistols behind his back. the rough faces, the faces of men who drank to drown despair, were turned to him half threateningly under the light of the flaring lamp. the man in the bunk was groaning, and trying to pray. from without came the roar and ferment of the sea.
“well, lads, tired of pumping, eh?”
they looked at him sullenly, as though resenting any authority at such an hour.
“what d’ yer want?”
“pass the mug, jim; let the dandy go to the devil.”
jeffray steadied himself against the door-post, and brought his pistols from behind his back. he was cool and resolute, a man whose grimness was not to be denied.
“drop that drink—drop it, or by heaven, i’ll send a bullet through your body.”
the men gaped at him, huddling back a little across the floor, their eyes fixed on jeffray’s unflinching face and the pistol that covered them.
“drop the drink. one—two—”
the man who held the tin mug, with neat rum swelling over the lip thereof, let the thing fall as though it burned his fingers.
“good. stand up, all of you. now, listen to me.”
they obeyed him sullenly, like men in whom utter weariness of soul and body had numbed all strength and self-respect. jeffray understood the crude pessimism that possessed them. they had lacked leadership, for the shivering sot who held the lamp had been the first to confess defeat at the hands of the sea.
“come, lads, we’ll have no more drinking. captain george, will you have the stuff thrown over into the sea? steady, steady, stand back for the captain.”
the man who had been crouching on the bucket, started up, and, pushing his comrades aside, seized on the keg of rum and carried it to the door.
“i’m with you, sir,” he said; “you’ve got the right stuff in you, by damn, you have!”
from that moment jeffray’s personality dominated the ship. he spoke to the men bluntly, bravely, and the frank manliness of his words went home into each rough heart.
“come, lads,” he said, “we are all british to the bone. who says die?”
he tossed his pistols aside on to a bunk, stripped off his coat and waistcoat, and rolled up his sleeves.
“i’m one of you, and i’ll work till my back breaks. i have my lass on board, and i’ll fight to the last before i see her drown.”
that touch of humanism perfected it. the men gave him a cheer, shook the hands he held out to them, and went to work like heroes at the pumps.
for an hour bess knelt in the cabin under the poop with jeffray’s st. thomas à kempis in her hands. she was listening, listening through the rush of wind and waters, for any sound that might betray the purpose of the night. all the past happenings of the year seemed to flash before her eyes, even as memories flash through the brain of a drowning man. she held jeffray’s book against her bosom, careless of how the water from the broken windows soaked her dress.
bess was growing cold and hopeless as she knelt, when she heard a voice calling to her through the weakening wailing of the wind.
“bess! bess!”
she sprang up and unlocked the door, to find herself in jeffray’s arms.
“we have won! we have won!”
he was drenched to the skin, but warm and aglow with working at the pumps.
“the old ship will float.”
“thank god!”
“come out with me and see the dawn.”
she unclasped her cloak and wrapped it round him, though he tried to protest against the deed. together they went out on the deck, and stood hand in hand, sheltered by the bulwarks from the wind. in the east, above the grayness of the sea, the first golden breaking of the day fired the clouds with burning light. the storm was dying, and the sussex queen lay like a sick woman who rests in peace after the delirium of the night.
jeffray stood with one arm about bess’s body, his head thrown back as though in triumph. he pointed southward over the sea to where, not a mile away, the shores of france were lit by the rising sun.
“the sea gave you to me, dear,” he said, “and i have fought to save you from the sea.”
bess held close to him and smiled.
“i shall wear my wedding-clothes for you,” she answered.
