Chapter IV (7)

The long bitter day passed without other sign of life around, than the occasional deep breathing of a whale close at hand, or the frolicsome splash of a passing porpoise. His vitality, great though it was, began to fail under the combined influences of cold and hunger and thirst. So that he passed uneasily to and fro between sleeping and waking, only dimly conscious all the time of decreasing ability to resist the combined influences of these foes to life. Day faded into night, and still the wind did not rise, although the sky continually threatened, being so lowering that the night shade was almost opaque. As he lay semi-conscious some mysterious premonition smote him to his very vitals, and raised him erect with such nervous energy that he felt transformed. There, almost upon him, glared the two red and green eyes of a great ship, while, high above, the far-reaching electric beams from her fore masthead made a wide white track through the darkness. He shouted with, as it seemed to him, ten voices, “Ship ahoy.” And back like an echo came the reply, “Hullo.” The alarm was taken, and close aboard of the derelict the huge mail steamer came to a standstill, saved from destruction. In ten minutes John Furness was in safety, and three days after he landed in London, bringing the first news of the loss of the Kafirstan. And in three days more his treasure trove had secured for him the position he had so long fruitlessly striven to obtain by merit and hard work.

THE WATCHMEN OF THE WORLD

There is surely high inspiration in the thought that of all the mighty civilizations that have emerged in these latter days, there is none that dare claim the comprehensive title given to this paper without fear of contradiction, save ourselves. For the function of the Watchman is to keep the peace, to restrain lawlessness, to bring evil-doers to justice, and to hold himself unspotted from even the tiniest speck of injustice. At least these should be his functions, and if they seem to be counsels of perfection, the aiming thereat with persistent courage is continually bringing them nearer a perfect realization. And if this be so with individual watchmen, it is infinitely more so with those typical Watchers of the Empire, of whom I would now speak, the splendid, ubiquitous, and ever-ready British Navy. It would be an uplifting exercise for some of us, widening our outlook upon life, and enlightening us as to the majestic part our country has been called upon to play at this wonderful period of the world’s history, if we were to get a terrestrial globe, a number of tiny white flags, and a list of positions of all our men-o’-war. Then by sticking in a flag for every ship wherever she was stationed, or on passage at the time, we should have a bird’s-eye view as it were of the “beats” which our Empire Watchmen patrol unceasingly.

From end to end of the great Middle Sea wherein we hold but those dots upon the map, Gibraltar and Malta and Cyprus, whose shores bristle with hostile populations, our stately squadrons parade, not on sufferance, but as a right, none daring to say them nay. Their business is peaceful, although they have enormous force ready to use if need be, the duty of keeping Britain’s trade routes clear, that the shuttles weaving the vast web of world-wide trade that we have built up may glide to and fro in security even though envious nations gnash upon us with their teeth, and vainly endeavour by every species of chicane and underhand meanness to rob us of the fruits of centuries of industry. In two Mediterranean countries alone are our ships of war heartily welcome. Italy and Greece remember gratefully our constant friendship. Italians of all classes are acquainted with the practical good-will of Great Britain, and so man-o’-war Jack is sure of warm reception throughout that lovely country. Not that the manner of his reception troubles the worthy tar at all. Oh no. The keynote of the chorus that is perpetually being chanted in the British Navy is _duty_. The word is seldom mentioned, but better than that, it is lived. It enables the sailor to spend unmurmuringly long periods of absolute torture under the blazing furnace of the Persian Gulf, an oven that while it burns does not dry; where the soaking dews of the night lie thickly upon the decks throughout the scorching day, and are not dispersed because the molten air is overloaded with moisture, and life is lived in a vapour-bath. Here you will find the young men of gentle birth who govern in our fighting ships, forgetting their own physical miseries, in the brave effort to make the severe conditions more tolerable to the crews they command. Do their dimmed eyes often in the steaming night turn wistfully westward to the cool green English country-side, where the old home lies embowered amid the ancestral oaks? Why, certainly, but that does not make the young officer’s zeal any weaker, does not damp his ardour to sustain the great traditions which are the pride and glory of the service to which it is his greatest delight to belong.

Or creep down the coast of East Africa, throbbing, palpitating under that fervent heat glare, and see the St. George’s Cross proudly waving over the sterns of the gun-boats set by Britain to quell the bloodthirsty Arab’s lust for slavery. Here is manifest such devotion to an ideal, albeit that ideal is never formulated in so many words, as should stir the most prosaic, matter-of-fact minds among us. I well remember--could I ever forget?--a visit I once paid to H.M.S. London, sometime depôt ship at Zanzibar. It was a privilege that I valued highly, not knowing then that with a high courtesy our country’s men-o’-war are always accessible at reasonable times to any citizen who would see with his own eyes how his home is defended and by whom. I was then mate of a trading vessel that had brought supplies from home for the use of the East Indian fleet, and consequently my business took me on board the depôt ship often. First of all I was shown the hospital, a long airy apartment on the upper deck, kept as cool as science could devise in that burning climate, and fitted with all the alleviations for sickness that wise skill and forethought could compass. Here they lay, the heroes of the long, long fight, the never-ending battle of freedom against slavery, the men who had left their pleasant land for service under the flag of England against a foreign foe; yes, and far more than that. For we know that they who fight in the deadliest combat with lethal weapons are upheld and swept onward by the fierce joy of strife; so that death when it comes is no terror, and fear vanishes under the pressure of primitive instincts. But here there is no glitter, no glamour of battle. Forgotten by the world, unknown to the immense majority of their countrymen, these Britons suffer and die that the fair fame of their country may live. There, in that miniature hospital, on board H.M.S. London, I saw rows of pale, patient figures, their faces drawn and parchment-like with fever, the deadly malaria of that poisonous coast, while amongst them passed silently doctors and sick-bay attendants, each doing his part in the universal warfare. Passing thence on to the main deck, I came across a bronzed, busy group hoisting up a steam pinnace that had just returned from a cruise among the slimy creeks and backwaters of the mainland and adjacent islands, busily seeking for hunters of human flesh. A dozen men formed her crew, men who had once been white Anglo-Saxons, but were now, after a week’s cruise under such conditions as that, so disguised by ingrained dirt, so scorched and dried by exposure to that terrible sun, that they were indistinguishable save by their clothing from the Arabs they had been set to watch. They were not happy, because having chased a dhow, which they were sure was packed with slaves, throughout a day and a night, they had been baffled upon coming up with her, by her hoisting the tricolour of France, the Flag of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, sold for a few paltry dollars, to cover a traffic which the French nation had covenanted to assist in putting down. More than that, a deep gloom pervaded the whole ship on account of their recent loss; a loss which to them seemed irreparable. Their captain, idolized by them all, had been killed while engaged in an act of gallantry, typical of the service. He had gone off like any sub-lieutenant with all his honours to win, in a chase after a dhow, with only a weak boat’s crew. The villainous Arabs in the dhow, seeing their advantage, turned and fought desperately. Outnumbered by five to one, and being moreover the attacking party, the Britons were beaten off, while a shot from one of the antiquated guns carried by an Arab slaver slew Captain Brownlow on the spot. And all his men mourned him most deeply and sincerely.

But cross over the Indian Ocean, and thread the tortuous ways of the East Indian Archipelago, and you shall find the beautiful white flag with its red cross flying in the most out-of-the-way nooks among that tremendous maze. Here with never-ceasing labours the highly trained officers of our navy work with loving care to make perfect our geographical knowledge of those intricate current-scoured channels. By reason of this long-drawn-out toil our merchant ships are enabled to pursue their peaceful way with perfectly trustworthy charts to guide them. Not only so, but, owing to the dauntless courage, energy, and perseverance of these nameless seafarers, those tortuous waters have been cleansed of the human tigers that had for so long infested them, swooping down upon hapless merchantmen of all nations, pitiless and insatiable as death itself. Within the lifetime of men of middle age those seas were like a hornet’s nest. In every creek, estuary, and channel lurked Portuguese, Malay, and Chinese pirates, the terror of the Eastern seas. Now, solely through the exertions of our countrymen, or by their good example putting heart into the Chinese sailors, those waters are as safe as the English Channel. So, too, have the coasts of China itself been purged of pirates, although there, since every Chinese, of whatever grade, is a potential pirate or brigand given the opportunity, immunity from piratical raids is only purchased at the price of incessant vigilance. In the far Eastern seas, however, our stalwart fighting sailors are more than mere keepers of the peace of Britain, they stand between the crumbling Celestial Empire and the greed of the world.[B] Ever ready in diplomacy as in war, and with a force always sufficient to command respect as well as breed envy, they make the might of our island nation felt in all the affairs of the Far East.

[B] This sentence was written before the recent outbreak of
hostilities in China.

Cross the Pacific, and on the western sea-board of our vast American possessions find a naval station fully equipped for the maintenance of a fleet so far from home. From thence the peace-keepers sally forth all over the length and breadth of Northern Oceania and all down the western littoral of the great American continent, a mobile body of peace-keepers, whose business it is to keep widely opened eyes upon all the doings of other people, no matter how great or how small they may be. Hailed with delight by dusky populations, who hate impartially the Germans and the French, and look upon the war-canoes of the great white Queen of Belitani as the adjusters of disputes and the even-handed dispensers of justice between them, dreaded by the rascaldom of the Pacific; the robbers of men’s bodies as well as the robbers of their produce, truly the lads under the White Ensign have a wide field in the “peaceful” ocean for their beneficent labours. Guarding that Greater England in the Southern seas, where men of every nation under heaven find the same security, the same opportunities to grow rich that men of our own race enjoy, clustering closely around that storm-centre (in a double sense), the Cape Colony, patrolling Western Africa, as well as Eastern, and ready at a word to send off a compact little army into the interior, mobile and manageable as no shore troops can ever be; among West Indian islands, as warm and fruitful as the most northerly American station is cold and arid, the great patrol goes on.

One does not need to be a rabid Imperialist or a raving Jingo to feel in every fibre of his frame the debt that we Britons owe to our navy. These brave, stalwart men, the very pick and flower of the British race, stand continually on sentry on all the shores of all the world--stand to guard our freedom, and, so far as one nation may do, strive to secure freedom for all other peoples. We see but little of them, for their parades are not held amid shouting crowds, but on the lonely waters, under an Admiral’s eye, keen to discover defects where all seems to an untrained observer perfection of power and movement; their greatest deeds, done by steady presentation of an unmistakable object-lesson to our enemies--that is to say, to a full half of the world, bursting with envy at our comfort and prosperity--are hidden from most of us.

In God’s name, then, let us see that we do not forget, amid the security and plenty that we enjoy, the labours of those who are watching, far out of our sight, to see that these blessings are not filched from us. Let the officers and men of the Royal Navy see that they are ever in our thoughts, that out of sight out of mind is not true in their case, but that stay-at-home Britons are fully conscious that the outposts of our Empire, the piquets of our power, are in very truth to be found on board the ships of the Royal Navy, the Watchmen of the World.

THE COOK OF THE WANDERER

One of the oldest, truest, and most often quoted of all sea-sayings is that “God sends meat, but the devil sends cooks.” The first part of this saw is really a concession on the sailor’s part, for few of them truly believe that the Deity has much to do with the strange stuff usually served out as meat on board ship. The latter half of the proverb is taken for granted, and while admitting to the full the thanklessness of the task of endeavouring to dish up tasteful meals with such unpromising materials as are usually given to sea-cooks to work upon, it certainly does seem truer than the majority of such sayings are apt to be.

But in justice even to sea-cooks let it be said that they have but a hard life of it. Cooking is a hobby of my own, and I feel a positive delight in the preparation of an appetizing dinner, which culminates when those for whom it is dressed partake of it with manifest enjoyment. Between the calm, unhindered task of shore-cooking and the series of hair-breadth escapes from scalding, burning, or spoiling one’s produce that characterizes sea-cooking there is, however, a great gulf fixed, and with a full consciousness of the unromantic character of his trials, I must confess a deep sympathy with the sea-cook in his painful profession. Even in the well-ordered kitchens of a great liner, where every modern appliance known to the art is at hand, and where the chief cook is a highly paid professional, each recurring meal brings with it much anxiety, and, when the weather is bad, much painful work also. There is no allowance made. Whatever happens, passengers and crew must be fed, although the roasting joints may be playing “soccer” in the ovens, the stew-pans toboganning over the stove-tops, and the huge coppers leaping out of their glowing sockets. Let all who have ever gone down to the sea as passengers remember how faithfully the cooks have justified the confidence reposed in them, and how punctually the varied courses have appeared on the fiddle-hampered tables without even a hint as to the series of miracles that have produced them. Still, in large passenger steamers there is a fairly large staff of cooks, unto each of whom is given his allotted task, so that the labour, though severe, is not so complicated as it must necessarily be in vessels where one unfortunate man must needs be a host in himself. In sailing-ships on long voyages the cook’s berth is perhaps the worst on board, for he has to hear the continual growling of the men at the brutal monotony of the food (which he cannot help), and he must, if he would not be badgered to death, perform the difficult task of keeping on good terms with both ends and the middle of the ship. Under the blistering sun of the tropics, or amid the fearful buffeting of the Southern seas, he must perform his duties within a space about six feet square, of which his red-hot stove occupies nearly half. And, as a pleasant change, he is liable to have the weather door of his galley burst in by a tremendous sea, and himself in a devil’s dance of seething pots, and all the impedimenta of his business hurled out to leeward.

Necessarily such a service does not appeal strongly to many, and often in English vessels of small size prowling about the world begging for freight, some very queer fellows are met with filling the unenviable post of cook. In the course of a good many years of sea-service I have met with several cooks, each of whom deserves a whole chapter to deal comprehensively with his peculiarities, but chief among them all must be placed the exceedingly funny fellow designated at the beginning of this sketch. The Wanderer was a pretty brigantine of about 200 tons register, built and owned in Nova Scotia, and at the time of my joining her as an A.B. was lying in the Millwall Docks outward bound to Sydney, Cape Breton, in ballast. She had quite a happy family of a crew, while the skipper was as jolly a Canadian as it was ever my good fortune to meet with. We left the docks in tow of one of the little “jackal” tugs that scoot up and down the Thames like terriers after rats, but, owing to the vessel’s small size and wonderful handiness, we dispensed with our auxiliary just below Gravesend, and worked down the river with our own sails. As soon as the watches were set all hands went to supper, or tea, as it would be called ashore, and going to the snug little galley with my hook-pot for my modicum of hot tea, I made the acquaintance of the cook. He was a young fellow of about two and twenty, able-looking enough, but now evidently ill at ease. And when, with trembling hand, he baled my tea out of a grimy saucepan with another saucepan lid, I regarded him with some curiosity, fancying that he had the air of a man to whom his surroundings were the most unfamiliar possible. Supper consisted of some cold fresh meat and “hard tack,” so that any deficiency in the cookery was not manifest beyond a decidedly foreign flavour in the tea, making it unlike any beverage ever sampled by any of us before. But we were a good-natured crowd, willing to make every allowance for a first performance, and aware that the “Doctor,” as the cook is always called at sea, had only joined on the previous day. Nevertheless, we discussed him in some detail, arriving at the conclusion that by all appearances he would be found unable to boil salt water without burning it, which, according to the sea phrase, marks the nadir of culinary incompetence.

Next morning it was my “gravy-eye” wheel, the “trick” that is, from four to six a.m. The cook is always called at four a.m. in order to prepare some hot coffee by two bells, five a.m., and, as may be expected, the comforting, awakening drink is eagerly looked forward to, although it usually bears but a faint resemblance to the fragrant infusion known by the same name ashore. Two bells struck, and presently, to my astonishment, sounds of woe arose forward, mingled with many angry words. I listened eagerly for some explanation of this sudden breach of the peace, but could catch no connected sentence. Presently one of my watchmates came aft to relieve me, as the custom is, to get my coffee, and I eagerly questioned him as to the nature of the disturbance. With a sphinx-like air he took the spokes and muttered, “You’ll soon see.” I hastened forward, got my pannikin, and going to the galley held it out for my coffee. The cook had no light, but he silently poured me out my portion, and wondering at his strange air I returned to the fo’c’sle. I sugared my coffee, and put it to my lips, but with a feeling of nausea spat out the mouthful I had taken, saying, “What in thunder is this awful stuff?” Then the other fellows laughed mirthlessly and loud, saying, “You’d best go’n see ef you kin fine out. Be dam’ ’fenny ov us can tell.” I hastened back to the galley and said coaxingly, “Doctor, you ain’t tryin’ to poison me, are ye?” He looked at me appealingly, and I saw traces of recent tear-tracks adown his smoke-stained cheeks. “Mahn,” he said, “Ah’ve niver dune ony cookin’ afore, an’ ah must hev made some awfu’ mistake, but ah’ll sweer ony oo-ath ah dinna ken wut’s wrang wi’ the coaphy.” And he wept anew. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t cry, man,” I put in hastily; “you’ll make me sea-sick if you do. Let me have a look at it.” I stepped into his den, and striking a match explored the pot with a ladle. And I found that he had been stewing green unroasted coffee beans. The colour was brought somewhat near that of the usual product by reason of the remains of some burnt porridge at the bottom of the saucepan, but the taste was beyond description evil.

This was but a sorry beginning to our voyage, since so much of our comfort depended upon the cooking of our victuals, and it was well for the unfortunate cook that all hands, with the sole exception of the mate, were of that easy-going temper that submits to any discomfort rather than ill-use a fellow-creature. For Jemmie (the quondam cook) was not only ignorant of the most elementary acquaintance with cookery--he was also unclean and unhandy to the uttermost imaginable possibility of those bad qualities. Yet he did not suffer any grievous bodily harm until an excess of new-found zeal brought him one day into contact with the mate. As the only way in which we could hope to get anything beyond hard tack to eat, we had all taken turns to cook our own meals. Even the skipper, with many uncouth, unmeant threats, used to visit the galley and try his hand, while the trembling Jemmie stood behind him watching with eager eyes the mysterious operations going on. One morning the skipper fancied some flap-jacks, a sort of primitive pancake of plain flour and water fried in grease, and eaten with molasses. He had hardly finished a platter full and borne it aft, when Jemmie seized the bowl, and mixing some more flour, proceeded to try his hand. He managed after several failures to turn out half a dozen quite creditable-looking patches of fried batter, and intoxicated with his success rushed aft with them to where the mate and his watch were busy scrubbing the poop. Timidly approaching the energetic officer, Jemmy said, “Wou’d ye like a flap-jack, sir? they’re nice an’ hot.” For one fearful moment the mate glared at the offender, then as the full area of the enormity enveloped him he uttered a hyena-like howl and fell upon him. Snatching the flap-jacks from his nerveless grasp, the mate overthrew him, and frantically burnished his face with the smoking dough, holding him down on the deck by his hair the while. Then when the last fragments had been duly spread over Jemmie’s shining visage, the mate dragged him to the break of the poop, and with many kicks hurled him forward to make more flap-jacks should he feel moved so to do.

So his education proceeded, until one day he felt competent to essay the making of some soup for us forward. By the time his preparations were complete he was a gruesome object, and withal so weary that he sat down on the coal-locker and went fast asleep. He awoke just before the time the soup was due to be eaten to find it as he left it, the fire having gone out. In a terrible fright he rushed aft and smuggled a tin of preserved meat forward--a high crime and misdemeanour--since that was only kept in case of bad weather rendering cooking impossible. However, he succeeded in stealing it, but when he had got it he was little better off. For he didn’t know how to shell it, as it were, how to get the meat out of the tin. I happened to be passing by the galley-door at the time, and saw him with the tin lying on its side before him, while he was insanely chopping at it with a broad axe, all unheeding the spray of fat and gravy which flew around at each swashing blow. I gave him such assistance as I could, and took the opportunity thus afforded of asking him however he came to offer himself as a ship’s cook. I learned then that his previous sea experience had been limited to one trip to Iceland as a bedroom steward on board a passenger steamer from Leith--that having come to London to seek his fortune, he had foregathered with an old friend of his father’s, who had obtained for him this berth, and who, in answer to his timid demur as to his being able to do what should be required of him, stormed at him so vigorously for what he called his “dam’ cowardice” that he took the berth, and resigned himself to his fate, and ours. His fates were kind to him in that he fell among easy-going fellows, for I shudder to think what would have befallen him in the average “Blue-nose” or Yankee. A description of it would certainly have been unprintable.

Yet, like so many other people ashore and afloat, he was ungrateful for the many ways in which we, the sailors, helped and shielded him, and one day when I found him laboriously drawing water from our only wooden tank by the quarter pint for the purpose of _washing_ potatoes, in answer to my remonstrance he was exceeding jocose and saucy, even going so far as to suggest that while my advice was doubtless well meant, it irked him to hear, and I had better attend to my own business. Now, to use fresh water where salt water will serve the same purpose is at sea the unpardonable sin; and where (as in our case) a few days’ difference in the length of the passage might see us all gasping for a drink, it merits a severe punishment. So I was indignant, but swallowed my resentment as I saw the mate coming down from aloft with his eyes fixed upon the criminal.

I must draw a veil over what followed, only adding that by the time the cook had recovered from his injuries we were in port, and, with the luck of the incompetent, no sooner had he been bundled ashore than he obtained a good berth in an hotel at about treble the salary he would ever earn. But we held a praise-meeting over our happy release.

THE GREAT CHRISTMAS OF GOZO

On the eve of the nativity of our Blessed Lord A.D. 1551 there was profound peace in Gozo.

The assaults of the infidel had for so long a time been intermitted, that the simple hardy islanders had almost come to believe that they would always be left in peace to cultivate their tiny fields, to worship God after their own sweet manner, and to rest quietly in their little square stone dwellings, secure from the attacks of the swarthy, merciless monsters that, not content with the possession of their own sunny lands, had so often swarmed across the bright blue stretches of sea separating the Maltese Islands from Africa.

Over the main thoroughfare of Rabato, the principal town of the tiny island that hung like a jewel in the ear of Malta the Beautiful, the great square citadel of the knights kept grim watch and ward. It rose sheer from the street for one hundred feet of height, a mass of quarried stone cemented into a solidity scarcely less than that of the original rock from whence its ashlar had been hewn with such heavy toil, a mountainous fortress, to all outward seeming impregnable. Upon its highest plateau towered the mighty cathedral, fair to view without in its stately apparel of pure white stone, and all glorious within by reason of the numberless gifts showered upon it by the loving hands of those who desired thus to show their gratitude to God.

In truth it was a goodly fane. Not merely because of the blazing enrichments of gold and silver and precious stones with which it glowed and sparkled, but because of the many signs of loyalty and truth evidenced in the sculptured tombs of the illustrious dead. The knights who kept vigilant watch around its sacred walls and came daily to worship within its cool aisles were never left without a solemn witness to the fealty of those who had gone before them. The most careless among them could not help being impressed by the fact that here in the midst of the Great Sea had been planted an outpost of Christendom of which they were the custodians--a fortress of the utmost value for the keeping back of the Paynim hordes who bade fair to overwhelm all Christian countries, and bring them under the abhorrent rule of Mahomed the Accursed One.

In this there is no exaggeration. If there be one fact more clearly established than any other, amid the welter of misleading rubbish that floods the world to-day, it is this, that the fearless self-sacrifice of the knights of Malta, buttressed by the devotion of those over whom they held no gentle sway, saved Europe from being overrun by the pitiless Mussulman, saved Europe from being to-day a depraved, debased, and miserable land, wherein all the horrors of Eastern Africa would have their full and awful outcome.

Raimondo de Homedes, only son of the Grand Master of that name, Juan de Homedes, was on this most momentous Christmas Eve in command of the Gozo garrison. The general feeling was one of security. The last attack of the infidel in 1546 had been repulsed with such terrible loss to the invader that the high-spirited garrison could not help coming to the conclusion that it would be at least a generation before any such attempt would again be made.

Raimondo de Homedes, then, went the rounds of his great command in the citadel of Gozo with a carefree heart. His thoughts were mainly occupied with the question of how soon he should be free to meet his lady-love, the stately daughter of Alfonso de Azzopardi, chief of all the notables in Gozo. She was, to him at least, brightest, best of all the damosels whose charms fired the palpitating hearts of those warriors of the Cross who were holding these islands for the commonweal of Christian Europe.

While he thus meditated, receiving the replies to his perfunctory challenges of the sentries on guard with an ear that hardly conveyed to his brain the meaning of the words, there came running to him a page, a lad of parts who was an especial favourite. Breathless, panting with excitement, the child (he was scarcely more) gasped out, “Messer Raimondo, the sentinel on the eastern tower says that since you passed his guard-house he has been mightily exercised by the appearance of some black masses on the sea. He knows not what they can be, but he fears they are galleys and that they can be coming for no good purpose. He prays you to return and look for yourself, in case there should be any mischief intended of which we have had no warning by our spies.”

Raimondo listened, with a concentration of all his mental faculties, but as he did so he could not help a contemptuous smile crinkling his features. “Just another bad dream of old Gianelli’s. But never mind; I will go and set his troubled soul at rest.”

It wanted but two hours of midnight. The moon was full and almost in the meridian, pouring down through the cloudless serene a flood of light like molten silver. So dazzling was the radiance that when the commandant and his companion stepped forth upon the highest plateau of all into its full glare, their shadows glided by their sides as if carved in solid ebony, and every object around them was as clearly visible as if it had been noonday. With a quick springing step, Raimondo mounted the half-dozen steps of stone leading into the eastern tower, meeting Gianelli’s challenge with the countersign of the night, “Mary.” Then Raimondo burst impetuously into speech, saying--

“What ails thee, Gianelli? Surely dreams trouble thee; and in thy nervous anxiety to be counted most faithful of all our faithful guards, thou hast conjured up a band of spectres to torment thyself withal. What hast thou seen and where?”

For all answer Gianelli bowed low, and, straightening himself immediately, stretched out his long left arm towards the west in the direction of Tunis. And there, in that blazing tract of silvern light shed upon the darkling sea by the moon, was distinctly to be seen a row of objects that could be nothing else but galleys, although it was evident that they were of the smallest size.

An instantaneous change took place in the attitude of the young commandant. “By the Holy Sepulchre,” he muttered, “thou art right, Gianelli, and I did thee grievous wrong to ridicule thy well-known fidelity and watchfulness.”

“Say no more about it, my lord; I love thee far too well to be over-pained by what I know is but the natural free speech of a high-spirited youth. But what thinkest thou, my lord? Is it possible that some of our own galleys may be returning from a secret raid upon the infidel strongholds?”

“No, Gianelli, it is not; for my latest information, coming yesterday morning, was to the effect that all the smaller galleys had been recalled, and were safely housed in the Grand Harbour. Their crews have been given leave for the great festival, only the slaves remaining by them under guard. No; this must be a matter of far more serious import. Sound the summons to arms and light the beacon while I haste to the Council Chamber. Luigi, my lad, run thou to the church and pass the word for all my officers to leave their vigil around the altars at once.”

Thus saying, Raimondo hastened away, noting as he did so, with grim satisfaction, the leaping flames from the summit of the tower being answered by twinkling points of light all over the black masses of rock that lay to the eastward, showing that already the alarm had been sounded in every fortress from Rabato to St. Elmo.

Within the great church were gathered most of the garrison not on guard. All the gorgeous details with which the church loves to welcome in the Day of days had been lovingly attended to. There was the stable, the manger, the waiting cattle, the worshipping Eastern kings. Mary, in her mighty meekness, cradled her Divine infant upon her virgin bosom; Joseph, careworn and travel-stained, looked upon her with a solemn wonder in his honest eyes; while around and above jewels and gold and silver flashed in all their splendour by the light of a thousand tall candles. A thin blue haze of incense gave all things an air of mystery, and the perfume laid upon the senses a strange exaltation.

Suddenly there was a hush, a bated breathing by all, as the archbishop, in his marvellous vesture, arose from his knees and spoke.

“My brethren, from the preparation for the advent of the day whereon we celebrate the human birth of our Divine Redeemer, ye are called to do battle with His most terrible foes. My lord the Commandant of Gozo informs me that the galleys of the infidel are approaching us, in the hope, he supposes, of finding us all so enwrapped in our devotions that he will have of us an easy prey. My children, let him learn that we watch as well as pray. Show him once again that we count it our most precious privilege to pour out our blood in defence of our most Holy Faith, that we look upon our dying in this high endeavour to protect Christendom from the infidel as the most glorious fate that could befall us. Receive at my hands the blessing of the Most High. Go forth, each of you, fully equipped, not merely with material armour, but with the knowledge that upon you rests the special benevolence of God the Son, under whose banner you fight.”

All heads bowed for an instant as the solemn benediction was spoken, then with a clanging of armour and a clashing of swords the great assembly sprang to their feet and departed each to his post of honour and utmost danger.

It was high time. Already those snaky galleys laden with men of the most bloodthirsty type, fired with fanaticism and lured by the promises of an endless paradise of sensual delight, had crept into the many little sheltered bays of the island, and were vomiting forth their terrible crews.

Already a quick ear might catch the varied cries in strange tongues floating upward through the silken smoothness of the night air, predominant over them all the oft-reiterated shout of “Allah!” Already the keen-sighted watchers could discern dark-moving masses of men, from the midst of which came an occasional silvery gleam as the molten flood of moonlight touched a spear-tip or sword-blade.

Onward they came, marvelling doubtless at the ease with which they had been permitted thus to assemble upon the enemy’s territory, and for the most part utterly unconscious of the reception that awaited them at the goal of their hot desire. Suddenly there arose from the town beneath the citadel walls a long-drawn cry of anguish. The careless ones who had not fled for shelter to the common refuge had been found by the invader, and were being ruthlessly slaughtered. Their cries made bearded lips tighten, nervous hands grasp more firmly their weapons, and all hearts above to beat higher and more resolute to repay these murderers in full tale when the opportunity so to do should arrive.

Out from the highest belfry of the cathedral pealed the twelve strokes of the midnight hour, and before their sound had died away there uprose from the citadel a mighty chorus of welcome to Christmas Day--Gloria in excelsis Deo.

Before it had ended the first of the invaders had reached the walls, and, mad with fanatic fury and lust of blood, were swarming like ants up its steep sides, clinging with desperate tenacity to every plant and projection that afforded the slightest foot or hand hold. Regardless of the avalanche of stones hurtling down upon them, unheeding the dreadful rain of boiling lead and scalding water, they came indomitably on. Their numbers seemed incalculable, their courage, buttressed by unreasoning faith, invincible. But they were met at every point by men whose hearts were as well fortified as their own, and who possessed, besides the inestimable advantage of discipline and long training in warlike matters, the invaluable position of being defenders.

Downwards by hundreds the invaders were hurled, their spurting blood staining the pure whiteness of the walls with long black-red smears, which the shuddering moonlight revealed in all their ghastliness. Already the reinforcements were compelled to mount upon mounds of dead to get their first hold; the street of the little town, but lately so peaceful, was defiled by heaps upon heaps of frightfully mangled corpses, representatives of all the savage tribes of Northern Africa. “For Mary and her Son”--the war-cry of the night--rang out clearly and defiantly, soaring high above the shrill yells of the savages and the monotonous howl of “Allahhu!”

So far all seemed to have gone well, until suddenly a shudder ran through the whole garrison as the news spread that by the treachery of a vile renegade the secret subterranean passage into the citadel from a point near the shore had been laid open, and that already a torrent of the infidels were pouring through it.

The commandant, who had approved himself on this occasion a man of the very highest ability and courage, no sooner heard this awful news than, summoning around him his most trusted knights, he placed himself at their head and hurried to the spot. And the first sight that met his eyes was the beautiful form of her he loved borne high upon the shoulders of a gigantic heathen in black armour who, apparently feeling her weight not at all, was brandishing a huge scimitar in his right hand, and yelling words of encouragement in some guttural Eastern tongue to his followers.

Forgetful of all else, his brain on fire at the sight, Raimondo sprang ahead of his men, his keen blade whirling round his head. By the sheer fury of his onslaught he burst through the grim ranks of the heathen, and smiting with all his vigour at the head of the captor of his beloved one, slew, not his foe, alas! but her for whom he would gladly have given his life. The terrible blow cleft her fair body almost in twain, as the heathen giant held her before himself shieldwise to meet it. The distracted commandant’s first impulse was to fling himself upon that beloved corpse and accompany her spirit to heaven, but that thought was conquered by the knowledge of his high responsibilities. And with a shout of “Mary” he recovered his blade, sprang at the foul Paynim’s throat, and cleft him in sunder through gorget and vant brace.

All the followers of the young knight were fired in like manner, and like avenging angels before whom no mere flesh and blood could possibly stand for a moment, they hewed their gory way through the masses of the heathen, halting not until the last of their foes had gasped out into the darkness of eternal night his guilty soul.

And as it was in the heart of the citadel, so it had been on the battlements, not one heathen had survived his footing upon those sacred walls. And as it appeared that the whole force had devoted themselves to death in default of victory there was not one left alive.

So that the great fight ceased with the death of the last invader, and the blessed sun rose upon a scene of carnage such as even these blood-stained islands had never before witnessed. But in the hour of victory there arose a great cry. Raimondo the gallant commandant was missing. His devoted friends rushed hither and thither in the pearly light of the new day, seeking him where the heaps of dead lay thickest, but for a long time their search was in vain. At last he was found before the manger in the church, lying with face hidden on the bosom of his beloved, whose cold mangled body was clutched in an unreleasable embrace. He was to all human sight unwounded, but even the most ignorant and callous of his command knew that he had died of a broken heart.

Yet it must be believed that he went gladly to join his beloved one, knowing full well that as a gallant soldier of the Cross he had nobly sustained his high part, and only when his duty was done had he permitted himself to sink into eternal rest in the arms of her whom he had so fondly loved.

DEEP-SEA FISH

Among shore-dwellers generally there obtains an idea that the ocean, except in the immediate vicinity of land, is an awful solitude, its vast emptiness closely akin to the spaces above. But while admitting fully that there is little room for wonder at such a speculative opinion, it must be said that nothing could well be farther from the truth. Indeed, we may even go beyond that statement, and declare that the fruitful earth, with its unimaginable variety and innumerable hosts of living things, is, when compared to the densely populated world of waters, but a sparsely peopled desert. A little knowledge of the conditions existing at great depths, may well make us doubt whether any forms of life exist able to endure the incalculable pressure of the superincumbent sea; but leaving all the tremendous area of the ocean bed below 200 fathoms out of the question, there still remains ample room and verge enough for the justification of the statement just made.

Nothing has ever excited the wonder and admiration of naturalists more than this prodigious population of the sea--these unthinkable myriads of hungry things which are shut up to the necessity of preying upon each other since other forms of food do not exist. The mind recoils dismayed from a contemplation of their countlessness, as it does from the thought of timelessness or the extent of the stellar spaces, shrinkingly admitting its limitations and seeking relief in some subject that is within its grasp. But without touching upon the lower forms of life peopling the sea, and so escaping the burden of thought which the slightest consideration of their myriads entail, it is possible to note, without weariness, how, all over the waste spaces of a remote and unhearing ocean, fish of noble proportions and varying degrees of edibility disport themselves, breeding none know where, and revealing their beauties to the passing seafarer as they gather companionably around his solitary keel. Excluding all the varied species of mammals that form such an immense portion of the sea-folk, it may roughly be said that the majority of deep-sea fish belong to the mackerel family, or _Scombridæ_. They possess, in an exaggerated form, all the characteristics of that well-known edible fish that occasionally gluts our markets and gladdens the hearts of our fishermen.

One of the least numerous, but from his size and prowess probably the monarch of all sea _fish_, is the sword-fish, _Xiphias_. This elegant fish attains an enormous size, specimens having been caught weighing over a quarter of a ton; but owing to the incomparable grace of its form, its speed and agility are beyond belief. It is often--in fact, generally--confounded with the “saw-fish,” a species of shark; the principal reason of this confusion being the great number of “saws” or beaks of the latter, which are to be found in homes about the country. Yet between the sword of the Xiphias and the “saw” of the _Pristiophoridæ_ there is about as much similarity as there is between the assegai of a Zulu and the waddy of a black-fellow. The one weapon is a slender, finely pointed shaft of the hardest bone, an extended process of the skull, about two feet long in a large specimen. Impelled by the astounding vigour of the lithe monster behind it, this tremendous weapon has been proved capable of penetrating the massive oaken timbers of a ship, and a specimen may be seen in the Museum of Natural History at South Kensington, at this present time, transfixing a section of ship’s timber several inches in thickness. The “saw,” on the other hand, is, like all the rest of a shark’s skeleton, composed of cartilage, besides being terminated at the tip by a broad, almost snout-like end. Unlike the round lance of the sword-fish, the “saw” has a flat blade set on both sides with sharp teeth with considerable gaps between them. As its name and shape would imply, it is used saw-wise, principally for disembowelling fish, for upon such soft food the saw-fish is compelled to feed owing to the shape of his mouth and the insignificance of his teeth. Thus it will be seen that apart from the radical differences between the two creatures, nothing being really in common between them, except that they are both fish, there is really no comparison possible between “saw” and “sword.” Fortunately for the less warlike inhabitants of the deep sea, sword-fish are not numerous, there are none to cope with them or keep their numbers down if they were prolific. Sometimes--strange companionship--they join forces with the killer whale and the thresher shark in an attack upon one of the larger whales, only avoiding instinctively that monarch of the boundless main, the cachalot.

Next in size and importance among deep-sea fish, excluding sharks, about which I have said so much elsewhere that I do not propose dealing with them here, is the albacore, tunny or tuña, all of which are sub-varieties of, or local names for the same huge mackerel. They abound in every tropical sea, and are also found in certain favourable waters, such as the Mediterranean and Pacific coast of America. Like the sword-fish their habits of breeding are unknown, since they have their home in the solitudes of the ocean. But they are one of the fish most frequently met with by seafarers, as, like several others of the same great family, they are fond of following a ship. A sailing ship that is, for the throb of the propeller, apart from the speed of the vessel, is effectual in preventing their attendance upon steamers, so that passengers by steamships have few opportunities of observing them. But in sailing vessels, gliding placidly along under the easy pressure of gentle breezes, or lying quietly waiting for the friendly wind, ample scope is given for study of their every-day life. Very occasionally too, some seaman, more skilful or enterprising than his fellows, will succeed in catching one by trolling a piece of white rag or a polished spoon with a powerful hook attached. Yet such is the vigour and so great is the size of these huge mackerel, some attaining a length of six feet and a weight of five hundred pounds, that their capture from a ship is infrequent.