(1/3) Go Saddle the Sea (24 page)

Then, since dusk was now beginning to fall, and in a very short time it would not be possible to distinguish a black thread from a white one, I walked away along the road back to the city, looking out vigilantly on all sides, and behind me, too, as I went quickly and quietly toward the harbor.

Despite my anxieties I reached the port without hazard or hindrance, and sought again the spot where I had encountered the small red-kerchiefed man. I found the place at once, and easily, for he was there ahead of me, jigging impatiently from foot to foot, and looking all around him with his quick, darting black eyes.

"Very good, very good, it is the young señor, follow me if you please, for the ship has already arrived and the captain wishes to make passage again without delay!" he exclaimed in a rush of words the moment he saw me; and, snatching at my hand in his impatience to be off, he began leading me, almost at a run, along the sides of wharves, over narrow catwalks, in between great piles of timber, among casks and bales and crates, until I was thoroughly confused and had no notion whether we were going east or west or north or south, but could only follow him in blind trust. I was slower than he liked, though, first because I was burdened with one of my two saddlebags (I had left the other, the one with the food in it, for Sam), and also because I was still hoping to get a glimpse of Sam
and longingly craned my neck this way and that as we came out from behind ships and crossed bridges. Nowhere did I see him, though, and the little man, crying, "Hasten, hasten!" urged me at a faster pace.

At last we descended a flight of weed-encrusted steps, and stepped into a small boat which lay moored at the bottom. I was hardly in the boat before the man had untied the mooring rope, pushed off, and begun rowing away across the tossing green water.

Now, through gathering dusk, I saw that we must have made our way to the western side of the harbor, for the town with all its lights lay behind us and to our right. Ahead of us a dark bulk of land began to loom up which must, I guessed, be the island off which the
Guipuzcoa
lay at anchor.

After ten minutes? rowing our boat bumped on a sandy bottom, and my guide jumped over the gunwale and pulled the boat up onto a shelving beach. Then he assisted me to disembark and bade me follow again. This I did, across the beach, along a twisting path through bushes, up, up, and then down again onto a small, slippery jetty and thus to where, I suddenly realized, a ship lay moored, so low in the water that, behind the spit of land we had just crossed, she must be almost invisible from the main harbor.

My first impression of the
Guipuzcoa
was her smallness. Could a ship of that size—she looked scarcely larger than a farm wagon—really be capable of braving the wild Gulf of Gascony and the treacherous English Channel?

As we threaded our way along by the shadowy creek where she lay hidden, all I could see of the ship was a mast, a complicated tangle of rigging, a carved figurehead with dim indications of gilding on it, and more traces of carving and gilding along the deck rail. A few dark figures were flitting to and fro along a gangplank, carrying stores or cargo—sacks, casks, bottles, boxes, a ball of tow, a coil of rope.

My guide, approaching the gangplank, said in a low voice, "I have brought him."

This message, it seemed, passed rapidly through the ship, and in a moment, from among the dusky confusion of stores and tackle on the deck, a cloaked figure somewhat taller than the rest detached itself and crossed the gangplank.

A deep voice said, "This is the young señor who wishes to cross to England? Be pleased to step on board, your worship! We shall make sail in a few moments."

I turned, and would have rewarded my guide, but to my surprise he was nowhere to be seen.

"The young lordship had best come into the caboose," remarked the deep voice. A hand grasped mine and led me over the gangplank and into a kind of deckhouse, where I saw that the deep-voiced man was tall, with hair like tar under a kerchief, arid that he was shrouded in a brown serge boat cloak.

I was glad to get into the deckhouse, for the small deck space outside seemed completely occupied by all the things that were being carried on board, and while the hasty stowage continued, I seemed in danger every
minute either of tripping over something or of being knocked flying.

The caboose was a small windowless place, smelling of hot oil and garlic, where an old man was blowing up a turf fire in a clay box. Over the fire dangled an iron pot. A talc-lined lantern swung on a hook from the ceiling and gave dim illumination to the scene.

"Sit there, young master," said the tall man who had led me in, and after giving some rapid instructions to the other, in the Basque language, he went out again, shutting the door behind him.

I perched myself on a wicker hamper and watched the old man cutting up bacon, pimientos, fish, and onions, which he tossed into the pot, together with herbs and chick-peas. The broth he was making smelled very savory and reminded me that I had not eaten—except for Sister Benedictas cake—since our scanty breakfast with Father Ignacio, which now seemed a very long time ago.

Outside, the bumping of stores being dropped on the deck seemed to have lessened.

"Now we shan't be long, your honor," mumbled the old man in my direction—it was the first notice he had taken of my presence. Since he was quite toothless, and spoke the Basque language—addressing me as "Khauna," "lord"—it was not too easy to understand him.

He went back to stirring his soup, mumbling out the verse of a song, tunefully enough, in spite of his
great age and lack of teeth. I knew the song, for it was one that Sammy had picked up in Bilbao, and which he had taught me:

"
Ichasca urac aundi
Estu ondoric agueri—
"

("The waters of the sea are boundless, and their bottom cannot be seen.")

I joined in with the old man, mainly to cheer myself, for, to tell truth, such a reminder of Sam, from whom I had just parted, very likely forever, made me feel so stricken with sorrow that I could have howled like a dog.

At the sound of my voice the old man gave me a great glance of wonder. Besides excelling at cookery, the Basques have a high esteem for music. Father Agustín once told me that the Roman name for the Basques, Cantabri, meant "sweet singers." At all events, after I had sung with him, the old man seemed to accord me much more respect than he had done previously.

Presently, becoming impatient of my confinement in this small place, I would have opened the door, but the old man mumbled, "Wait a little, let the young lordship wait! Later he shall see all that is to be seen!" and he waved his hands about to suggest that just now the crew were so busy on deck that I should only be in the way.

Rather reluctantly I sat down again on the uncomfortable wicker basket and stared round at the
caboose. Overhead, beside the lantern, swung a dead kingfisher, suspended by its beak. Sam, I remembered, had told me how some ignorant sailors believe that a kingfisher hung up in this way will always turn its breast to leeward.

"How many are there in the crew of this ship, old grandfather?" I asked the cook politely.

"Four, my young lordship—the captain, whom you have seen, and three others—all brave, skillful sailors, thank the saints. And two other passengers."

"For what port in England is the ship bound?"

"We go to Falmouth, and then on to Black Harbour in Ireland."

"And your cargo?"

At this question the old man smiled his toothless grin, and drew a finger across his throat, as if to convey that answering me would be more than his life was worth. From which I guessed that my first conjecture, as to their being smugglers, was a correct one.

Now it suddenly occurred to me that since I had come on board the
Guipuzcoa
nobody had asked me for any passage money, although I had it ready, wrapped in a small piece of rag (while the rest of my savings were hidden in the false lining of a belt that Juana had made for me).

This fact—that no one had asked me for any money—seemed to me both strange and disturbing. The more I thought about it, the less I liked it These were wild lawless men, the brigands of the sea; their ship was so small that there scarcely seemed room for
extra passengers, besides the cargo they carried; was it likely that they would take any person on board without making perfectly certain that he had the money to pay for his trip?

"What kind of a ship is this, old grandfather?" I asked the cook, to conceal from him, and perhaps from myself, my growing uneasiness.

"It is an
urea,
my young master—a Biscayan felucca," he replied.

This also went to confirm my guess about the men's calling; Sam had told me that the felucca, or Biscay hooker, was the craft most commonly used by smugglers, for it is equally at home in the open ocean or in creeks and hidden, enclosed waters—a lateen-rigged ship that maneuvers very easily on account of its long helm, and can be rowed as readily as it can be sailed.

"And what course shall we take to England?"

"We cross the Gulf of Gascony, lord, steer west of the Isle of Ushant, and then, bearing northward, steering for the pole, we cross the English Channel and - come to Falmouth."

"How long will that take us?"

"That is as God wills and the winds blow. Perhaps four days, perhaps eight—we shall see."

At least, I thought, the old man seemed friendly enough, and did not display any threatening attitude. Perhaps—having me secure on board—my smuggler hosts were biding their time to ask me for more money, confident that I must give them all I had. Perhaps, I began to think, it would have been wiser to wait for two days, lying concealed in the monastery, and then embark on Sam's
Beauty of Bristol.
Had I been a fool? Was it plain obstinacy that led me to entrust myself to this questionable little ship?

To distract my mind from these uncomfortable thoughts, and the possibility that I might arrive in my father's land without a penny to my name and be obliged to beg my way—I opened my bundle and pulled out the second volume of
Susan.
During my rereading of this work I had now reached the highly dramatic moment when poor young Miss Susan, paying a visit to her grand friends, is suddenly turned out of doors by their angry father, who has hitherto shown her nothing but favor and civility. She is utterly at a loss to know how she can have earned his displeasure and, penniless and wretched, has to make the best of her way home across England. I read all this with deep interest. Still, I could not help contrasting her lot with mine. She, at least, had a friend to lend her the coach fare home; she also had a loving family waiting to welcome her at the end of her journey; whereas, what did I have? Privately I considered that Miss Susan was none too badly off; though I did think it unkind of the old General to turn her out so abruptly.

Musing in this way I glanced up from the page to find the old cook's eyes fixed on me with as wild a look in them as if I had flames coming out of my ears.

"
Ay,
Ave Maria!" he muttered, crossing himself three times. "Is the young lord a sorcerer? Do not cast a spell on poor old Luc or his broth, your lordship, I beg!"

It seemed that he had never seen any person reading a book before, and therefore took it to be some manual of witchcraft. As he stirred his broth he kept taking terrified peeps at me, then fortifying himself with gulps from a flask he wore attached to his belt. And all the time he muttered to himself about the spirits of drowned sailors, who may be seen flying through the mist, carrying lighted candles in their hands, and who bewitch living sailors with their evil arts, so that they too jump into the waves and perish. He seemed to think that I might be in league with these spirits, or even be one of them in disguise.

It struck me that his superstitious fear might be turned to good account, so I said calmly, "Do not distress yourself, old Luc. I have a little power over the
Estadea
" (this was a Gallegan name for these spirits which I had learned from Pedro) "and I will do my best to see that they do not hurt you while I am aboard the
Guipuzcoa.
"

Later I was to remember these idle words.

The old mans terrors were somewhat pacified by this, though he still eyed my little book as if it had been a viper that might shoot a long neck across the room and bite him.

Now the tall captain reappeared in the doorway and said, "Luc! Give the young lord a bit of bread and. a mouthful of spirit." He indicated with a jerk of his head a wicker-covered flask that hung from a nail of
the wall, and said to me, "It will be rough when we are out at sea. An east wind is blowing up. The young señor is not used to a sea passage? I have sailed the Cantabrian Gulf for thirty years, but even I still became queasy if I do not settle my stomach with a drop of
aguardiente
beforehand.".

Then somebody called to him from the forward end of the ship, and he left again, shutting the door.

"Thirty years?" the old man muttered. "
Chacurra!
I have been at sea
seventy
years, and the Mar Cantábrico still makes my heart lodge between my shoulder blades! But that liquor in the flask is not good for the young lordship. Here—have a dram of my
ardoa
—it is better—it is better—" and he detached the flask from his belt and passed it to me. I took a small gulp of the fiery liquor it contained, and ate the piece of maize bread he handed me.

Now a voice outside cried, "
Andamos!
" The ship gave one violent heave, and then began a regular dipping motion—I guessed that our mooring ropes had been cast off, and that we were being towed out to the creek mouth by a smaller boat.

Soon the
Guipuzcoa
started to pitch and roll with an increasingly lively motion. Old Luc bustled about securing his utensils and stuffing loose odds and ends inside baskets. From the wind blowing against the caboose I concluded that we must be nearly beyond the mouth of the bay.