DEAR HOWARD,—
At last I have had this affair settled, and by the time you receive this I hope to be on my way home.
Old Humphrey's cipher2, together with several other interesting old documents, is now in my possession, but I am afraid that we are not out of the wood yet, as the cipher requires a lot of puzzling out.
Chappell, an English mining engineer out here, who has done me good service as an interpreter, tells me that all sorts of vague rumours3 are flying about regarding my presence in Pernambuco, and advises me to take great care both of myself and the papers while I am here. I wonder why?
However, there's no need to write more, as I hope to be back again in dear old Polruan ere long. I've had a draft sent on to the Devon and Cornwall Bank, representing the cash part of the business, as I think it's safer.
Love to Reggie, and remembrances to any friends you run across.
HERBERT.
With Humphrey Trevena's cipher, as well as the long-lost log, in our possession, the outlook certainly seemed more hopeful, and both my father and I looked eagerly forward to my uncle's return. "Just like him, not to say by what boat he's coming," grumbled4 my father good-naturedly. "I suppose he'll turn up like the proverbial bad ha'penny."
A few days after the receipt of my uncle's letter, I went for a ramble5 along the cliffs towards Polperro. It was about seven in the evening when I started. All day a thick white mist had hung over the sea, but just before I set out on my walk the mist disappeared with remarkable6 suddenness, and a strong southerly wind began to send the heavy rollers thundering against the cliffs. As twilight7 deepened into night, I could see the double half-minute flash of the Eddystone, till a cloudbank obscured the friendly light.
"We're in for a dirty night," I remarked to myself in nautical8 parlance9, and the dark-brown sails of the fishing-boats, showing dimly against the white-crested waves as they ran for shelter, supported my supposition. Before I reached home the storm was at its height, the wind howling over our chimney-pots in spite of the comparatively sheltered position of the house.
"Your Uncle Herbert will be having a lively time of it, if he is anywhere near the Channel," remarked my father, while we were at supper.
"Yes; but it doesn't matter so much on a liner," I replied. "It's the fishing-boats and small coasters that suffer as a rule in these gales11."
"That's true; so long as the navigation lights are visible, steamers have little to fear. But, my word! Crosbie was bringing his ten-tonner round from Falmouth to-day. I wonder how he got on. I suppose you didn't notice her in the harbour as you came across?"
"You mean the 'Dorothy'? No, she wasn't on her moorings at five o'clock."
"It's too late to make inquiries12 at the club," replied my father, consulting his watch. "But I think I'll stroll up to the coastguard station and ask if she has been seen. Put on your oilskins, Reggie, and come too—that is, if you don't mind the rain."
Together we toiled13 up the steep path that led up to the coastguard look-out hut, and every step towards the hill brought us more exposed to the howling wind and the biting rain, till we were glad to gain the shelter of a rough cairn that served as a wind-screen.
Out of the darkness loomed14 an object that resolved itself into the coastguard on duty, who, clad in oileys and sou'-wester, kept faithful watch and ward1 on this exposed and bleak15 position.
"Good evening, McCallum."
"Good evening, sir; it blows a bit fresh to-night."
"Anything startling?"
"Not so far as I knows of, sir; all the boats 'ave come in."
"That's something to be thankful for," remarked my father. "But has anything been seen or heard of Mr. Crosbie's 'Dorothy'? I believe she is making a passage from Falmouth to-day."
"Mr. Crosbie ain't no mug at the game," replied the man. "Strikes me he's either put back or run into Mevagissey."
"I hope so, too," rejoined my father; and the conversation, which had been conducted by sheer strength of lungs, owing to the howling of the wind, ceased, and we relapsed into complete silence.
From our position we could see both within and without the harbour; and what a contrast! Within the harbour, though the waves caused a nasty "lop," the twinkling lights of Fowey, and the oscillating anchor-lamps of scores of weather-bound vessels16 in the Pool, caused quite a glare in the dark, rain-laden sky; while seaward, as far as the mirk allowed one to see, was one confused tumble of white-crested waves, which, with a noise that was heard above the singing of the wind, hurled18 themselves against the rockbound cliffs, sending up columns of white spray, that burst in hissing19 showers over our shelter, 200 feet above the sea. Not the faintest glimmer20 of a ship's light was visible, and only the blinking eye of St. Catherine's gave out its warning red flash to break the awful desolation of the raging waves.
"Bitterly cold for May," shouted my father into my ear. "We are doing no good by stopping here."
"Good-night, McCallum," he added, turning towards the coastguardsman; but at that moment a pale blue light flashed upwards21 in the darkness.
Instantly the look-out man became the personification of alertness. With his night-glass bearing in the direction of the light he waited till the signal was repeated; then, doubling across the open ground between us and the signal-hut, he proceeded to "ring up" the rest of the detachment.
"A vessel17 in distress22!" exclaimed my father; and, following the coastguardsman, we entered the hut to gain further information.
"There's a ship ashore23 on the Cannis. Message just through from the Gribben. Mevagissey and Polkerris lifeboats called out, and our men to patrol the cliffs between Point Neptune24 and Pridmouth," reported the man with the abruptness25 of years of discipline. "If you wants to see anything of the business, sir, our chaps 'll put you across, for 'tain't likely there'll be any watermen about this sort of night."
"We may as well make a night of it, Reggie," remarked my father, "though I am afraid we cannot be of much practical use. Run home as hard as you can, and bring as many biscuits as you can stow in your pockets, and rejoin me at the ferry. We may be hungry before morning."
I did as I was bid, and five minutes later we were crossing the harbour in the stern-sheets of a Service gig, the boat plunging26 violently in the short, steep seas.
On landing at White House steps (for, owing to the flood tide, it was impossible to make Ready Money Cove27), we found that the news of the catastrophe28 had already spread, and crowds of people were hurrying along the road leading to the Gribben. Staggering against the furious gusts29, we crossed the head of the Cove, finding temporary shelter in the wooded slopes of Point Neptune; but, on gaining the high ground at the back of St. Catherine's lighthouse, we were in full view of the sea, only a low fence of wire netting separating the rough path from the edge of the cliffs, against which the waves tumbled a hundred feet below.
It must have been close on two o'clock when we reached the base of the Gribben day-mark, around which were gathered about two hundred persons—fishermen, coastguards, and civilians—all of whom were looking intently seaward towards the Cannis, a half-submerged rock lying a quarter of a mile from shore.
There was nothing to be seen, for the darkness was too intense, while the signals of distress had long since been discontinued—the absence of which gave rise to the most despondent30 conjectures31.
"'Tain't no good waitin' 'ere," grumbled one of the onlookers33, a pensioned coastguardsman. "She's broke up hours ago."
"Supposin' some of they chaps comes ashore?"
"What can us do for the likes o' they?" replied the first speaker contemptuously. "Why, with this tide a-makin' to the west'ard, they'll all be corpses34 long afore they reaches shore. Even if they don't, there's the rocks——" and with a shrug35 of the shoulders that conveyed a significant meaning, the sentence remained unfinished.
Slowly the day dawned, but the fury of the gale10 did not abate36, although the wind shifted more to the south-west. The old coastguardsman was right: the ship had "broke up," and not a vestige37 remained.
"What time be 'igh water?" asked one of the men.
"A quarter to five, George," replied another. "See, the lifeboats are off 'ome."
"Do you happen to know the name of the vessel?" asked my father.
"No, sir, we don't; and what's more, we can't make out 'ow she got in there, unless it was she couldn't make out the leadin' lights."
"I think we may as well make for home, Reggie," said my father. "There's nothing to be seen, and no good to be done."
We descended38 the headland, and reached the sea-level at Pridmouth beach, where the waves were tumbling in heavily, though, owing to the shift of wind, with not so much violence. Under the shelter of a friendly rock, we rested for nearly half an hour, making a sorry meal from the biscuits my father had been thoughtful enough to remind me to bring.
On resuming our way we had just passed the cottages near the grotto39, and were about to take the steep path leading to the top of the cliffs on the other side of the little bay, when, a well-known voice shouted—
"Wait a bit, Howard!"
We both turned round, and, to our intense astonishment40, within five yards of us stood my Uncle Herbert.
Coatless, hatless, and clad only in a pair of trousers that were much too small for him, a grey shirt, and a pair of canvas shoes, he looked like a regular tramp, while a strip of linen41 bound round his forehead half concealed42 his features. Yet it was Uncle Herbert, sure enough, and we stood still in speechless surprise.
"Is that all you have to say to a fellow?" he exclaimed, wringing44 my father's hand.
"However, in the name of all that's wonderful, did you get here?" asked my father.
"Come ashore from the wreck45, of course," he replied, speaking as if it were an everyday occurrence.
"I am afraid you are the only one who did so. Where did you get that rig-out?"
"At yonder cottage. They were awfully46 kind to me. But let's make for home, for I'm terribly tired, hungry, and knocked about. I'll tell you everything later on."
We began to ascend47 a steep, tree-fringed path that led up from Pridmouth Bay to the top of the cliffs, and I noticed that my uncle limped painfully. Without speaking a word, my father helped him over the stile, then, one on each side of him, we assisted his halting footsteps.
In this manner we slowly negotiated two fields; and at length came to a hollow, where a rifle-range is situated48. Here the cliffs were not more than twenty feet in height, and the sea was sweeping49 over the exposed pathway. It was now broad daylight, though the sun was hidden by fleeting50 masses of cloud, and the wind still blew furiously, whistling through the barley51 and young shoots of corn.
"We shall never be able to get him up this next rise without assistance, Reggie," said my father, glancing at his wellnigh helpless brother. "Just run to the top of the cliff and see if any one is in sight."
Running, while clad in oilskins, is hot and tiring work, and I was almost breathless when I reached the highest part of the cliff path. Not a creature was in sight, so I began to return. Just at that moment, in some bushes to the side of the path, there was a movement, and I caught a momentary52 glimpse of a face I shall never forget.
A man was lying full length in the gorse. He had evidently been watching us as we descended the hollow. He was without doubt a foreign sailor, judging by his olive complexion53, black eyes, long hair, and the large earrings54 he wore. He was clad in a red shirt, blue trousers, and red stocking cap, while round his waist was a soiled leather belt, from which hung a sheath-knife in a long pig-skin case, and by the saturated55 state of his clothes and his matted hair I knew he had been in the water. But for an instant he eyed me with a look of diabolical56 rage on his face, then, springing to his feet, he rushed past and sped towards the town, leaving me standing57 in bewilderment at the strange apparition58.
However, I did not mention the matter when I returned, for it was evident that there were more important things to consider.
"There's no help for it," said my father when I told him of the uselessness of my errand. "We must manage it somehow. Come along, Herbert, old boy," he added encouragingly. "Buck59 up, and you'll soon be safely home."
My uncle struggled gamely to his feet, and the tedious progress was resumed, but ere we had gone a few steps he suddenly staggered and fell unconscious to the ground.
Thereupon I saw my father perform a feat43 of strength and endurance which, strong as he was, utterly60 astonished me. Throwing off his oilskins, he bent61 down, and, hauling his brother's inanimate form upon his broad back, raised himself and set off at a rapid pace towards Fowey, I struggling in the rear, though I carried nothing but his discarded coat.
Up the steep path he pressed, without pausing a moment; as sure-footed as a goat he trod the narrow way, made additionally dangerous by reason of the slime, and, in less than half an hour, gained the town, never resting till he placed his burden on the steps of the ferry.
Willing hands helped us lift my uncle out of the boat, and, accompanied by a doctor, and followed by a pair of reporters and a knot of curious onlookers, the little procession reached my father's house, my uncle's strange escape from the sea being a subject of much conjecture32 and not a little romance.
"Absolute quietness is essential," was the doctor's mandate62, and in obedient silence our neighbours went away, the reporters following, on hearing that no details were forthcoming, to prepare a column of sensational63 copy based on the flimsiest material imaginable.
Worn out with my night's vigil, I turned in before noon and slept like a top till the following morning. My father watched by the patient's bedside till nearly midnight, when, satisfied that there was no cause for serious anxiety, and that the expected symptoms of brain fever had not shown themselves, he allowed himself to be persuaded to snatch a few hours' sleep; but before I was awake he was up and about, showing no signs of the physical and mental strain he had undergone.
Uncle Herbert, too, was awake, and beyond complaining of a slight stiffness, refused to admit that he was ill. No mention of the shipwreck64 had passed between the brothers, but my father, taking me aside, told me that it was surmised65 that the unfortunate ship was the "Andrea Doria," that being the name painted on a couple of lifebuoys and a shattered whaler that had been washed ashore at Pridmouth Bay, and that my uncle was the only survivor66.
"The only survivor?" I repeated. "Then where did that foreign-looking sailor come from?"
"What foreign sailor was that?" inquired my father, and, having told him of my encounter with the mysterious stranger on the cliff, he remarked—
"I wonder what his little game is."
The doctor called again in the afternoon and pronounced his patient out of danger; and, free from the ban of silence, Uncle Herbert began his narrative67.
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1
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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3
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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4
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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6
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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7
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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8
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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9
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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11
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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13
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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14
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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15
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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18
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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19
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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20
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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21
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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22
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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26
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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27
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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33
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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34
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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35
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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36
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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38
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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39
grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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40
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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41
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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42
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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43
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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44
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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45
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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46
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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47
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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48
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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49
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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50
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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51
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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52
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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53
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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54
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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55
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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56
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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57
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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58
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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59
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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60
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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61
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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62
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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63
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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64
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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65
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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66
survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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67
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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