 CHAPTER XIV It was written that there, in the nursery of our navigating ancestors, I should learn to walk in the ways of my craft, and grow in the love of the sea, blind as young love often is, but absorbing and disinterested as all true love must be. I demanded nothing from it, not even adventure. In this I showed perhaps more intuitive wisdom than high self-denial. No adventure ever came to one for the asking. He who starts on a deliberate quest of adventure goes forth but to gather dead sea fruit, unless indeed he be beloved of the gods and great amongst heroes, like that most excellent cavalier Don Chioti de la Mancha. By us ordinary mortals of a mediocre animus that is only too anxious to pass by wicked giants for so many honest windmills, adventures are entertained like visiting angels. They come upon our complacency unawares. As unbidden guests are apt to do, they often come at inconvenient times. And we are glad to let them go unrecognized without any acknowledgment of so high a favor. After many years, on looking back from the middle turn of life's way at the events of the past, which like a friendly crowd seem to gaze sadly after us hastening towards the Sumerian shore, we may see here and there in the gray throng some figure glowing with a faint radiance as though it had caught all the light of our already crepuscular sky. And by this glow we may recognize the faces of our true adventures of the once unbidden guests entertained unawares in our young days. In the Mediterranean, the venerable and sometimes atrociously ill-tempered nurse of all navigators was to rock my youth. The providing of the cradle necessary for that operation was entrusted by fate to the most casual assemblage of irresponsible young men, all however older than myself, that as if drunk with Provencal sunshine, fritted life away in joyous levity on the model of Balzac's Histoire de Très, qualified by a dash of romance de coppe and de paix. She who was my cradle in those years had been built on the river of Savona by a famous builder of boats, was rigged in Corsica by another good man, and was described on her papers as a tartan of sixty tons. In reality she was a true Balancel, with two short mass raking forward and two curved yards, each as long as her hull. A true child of the Latin lake, with a spread of two enormous sails resembling the pointed wings on a seabird slender body, and herself, like a bird indeed, skimming rather than sailing the seas. Her name was the tremolino. How is this to be translated? The quiverer? What a name to give the pluckiest little craft that ever dipped her sides in angry foam. I had felt her, it is true, trembling for nights and days together under my feet, but it was with the high strung tenseness of her faithful courage. In her short but brilliant career she has taught me nothing, but she has given me everything. I owe to her the awakened love for the sea, that with the quivering of her swift little body, and the humming of the wind under the foot of her Latin sails, stole into my heart with a sort of gentle violence, and brought my imagination under its despotic sway, the tremolino. To this day I cannot utter or even write that name without a strange tightening of the breast, and the gasp of mingled delight and dread of one's first passionate experience. Chapter 41 We foreformed, to use a term well understood nowadays in every social sphere, a syndicate owning the tremolino, an international and astonishing syndicate. And we were all ardent royalists of the snow-white, legitimate complexion. Heaven only knows why. In all associations of men there is generally one who, by the authority of age and of a more experienced wisdom, imparts a collective character to the whole set. If I mention that the oldest of us was very old, extremely old, nearly 30 years old, and that he used to declare with gallant carelessness, I live by my sword, I think I have given enough information on the score of our collective wisdom. He was a North Carolinian gentleman. J. M. K. B. were the initials of his name, and he really did live by the sword, as far as I know. He died by it too, later on, in a Balkanian squabble, in the cause of some Serbs or else Bulgarians who were neither Catholics nor gentlemen, at least not in the exalted but narrow sense he attached to that last word. Poor J. M. K. B., American, Catholic, et gentelon, as he was disposed to describe himself in moments of lofty expansion. Are there still to be found in Europe gentleman keen of face and elegantly slight of body, of distinguished aspect, with a fascinating drawing-room manner and with a dark fatal glance, who live by their swords, I wonder? His family had been ruined in the Civil War, I fancy, and seems for a decade or so to have led a wandering life in the old world. As to Henry C., the next in age and wisdom of our band, he had broken loose from the unyielding rigidity of his family, solidly rooted, if I remember rightly, in a well-to-do London suburb. On their respectable authority he introduced himself meekly to strangers as a black sheep. I have never seen a more agailless specimen of an outcast, never. However, his people had the grace to send him a little money now and then. A namad of the south of Provence, of its people, its life, its sunshine and its poetry, narrow-chested, tall and short-sighted, he strode along the streets and the lanes, his long feet projecting far in advance of his body, and his white nose and gingery mustache buried in an open book, for he had the habit of reading as he walked. How he avoided falling into precipices off the quays or downstairs cases is a great mystery. The sides of his overcoat bulged out with pocket editions of various poets. When not engaged in reading Virgil, Homer, or Mistral in parks, restaurants, streets, and such like public places, he indicted sonnets in French to the eyes, ears, chin, hair, and other visible perfections of a nymph called Therese, the daughter, honesty compels me to state, of a certain Madame Leonore who kept a small café for sailors in one of the narrowest streets of the old town. No more charming face, clear-cut like an antique gem, and delicate in coloring like the petal of a flower, had ever been set on, alas, a somewhat squat body. He read his verses aloud to her in the very café with the innocence of a little child and the vanity of a poet. We followed him there willingly enough if only to watch the divine Therese laugh under the vigilant black eyes of Madame Leonore, her mother. She laughed very prettily, not so much at the sonnets, which she could not but esteem, as at poor Henry's French accent, which was unique, resembling the warbling of birds, if birds ever warbled with a stuttering nasal intonation. Our third partner was Roger P. Dela S., the most Scandinavian looking of Provencal Squires, fair and six feet high, as became a descendant of Sea Roving Northman, authoritative, incisive, wittily scornful, with a comedy in three acts in his breast pocket, and in his breast a heart blighted by a hopeless passion for his beautiful cousin, married to a wealthy hide-and-tallow merchant. He used to take us to lunch at their house without ceremony. I admired the good lady's sweet patience. The husband was a conciliatory soul with a great fund of resignation, which he expended on Roger's friends. I suspect he was secretly horrified at these invasions. But it was a carless salon, and as such we were made welcome. The possibility of raising Catalonia in the interests of the Ray Neto, who had just then crossed the Pyrenees, was much discussed there. Don Carlos, no doubt, must have had many queer friends, it is the common lot of all pretenders, but amongst them none more extravagantly fantastic than the Tremolino Syndicate, which used to meet in a tavern on the quays of the old port. The antique city of Massilia had surely never, since the days of the earliest Phoenicians, known an otter set of ship owners. We met to discuss and settle the plan of operations for each voyage of the Tremolino. In these operations a banking house too was concerned, a very respectable banking house. But I am afraid I shall end by saying too much. Ladies too were concerned. I am really afraid I am saying too much. All sorts of ladies, some old enough to know better than to put their trust in princes, others young and full of illusions. One of these last was extremely amusing in the imitations she gave us in confidence of various highly placed personages she was perpetually rushing off to Paris to interview in the interests of the cause. Poor El Rey, for she was a carless and of basque blood at that, with something of a lioness in the expression of her courageous face, especially when she let her hair down, and with the volatile little soul of a sparrow dressed in fine Parisian feathers which had the trick of coming off disconcertingly at unexpected moments. But her imitations of a Parisian personage very highly placed indeed as she represented him standing in the corner of a room with his face to the wall, rubbing the back of his head and moaning helplessly, Rita, you are the death of me, were enough to make one, if young and free from cares, split one's sides laughing. She had an uncle still living, a very effective carless too, the priest of a little mountain parish in Guipuscoa. As the sea-going member of the syndicate, whose plans depended greatly on Dona Rita's information, I used to be charged with humbly affectionate messages for the old man. These messages I was supposed to deliver to the Aragonese Mule Tears who were sure to await at certain times the tremolino in the neighborhood of the Gulf of Rosas. For faithful transportation inland, together with the various unlawful goods landed secretly from under the tremolino's hatches. Well, now I have really let out too much, as I feared I should in the end, as to the usual contents of my sea cradle. But let it stand, and if anybody remarks cynically that I must have been a promising infant in those days, let that stand too. I am concerned but for the good name of the tremolino, and I affirm that a ship is ever guiltless of the sins, transgressions, and follies of her men. Chapter 42 It was not tremolino's fault that the syndicate depended so much on the wit and wisdom and the information of Dona Rita. She had taken a little furnished house on the Prado for the good of the cause, poor Elrei. She was always taking little houses for somebody's good, for the sick or the sorry, for broken down artists, cleaned out gamblers, temporarily unlucky speculators, Vieux Amis, old friends as she used to explain apologetically with a shrug of her fine shoulders. Whether Don Carlos was one of the old friends too, it's hard to say. More unlikely things have been heard of in smoking rooms. All I know is that one evening, entering unconsciously the salon of the little house just after the news of a considerable Carlos's success had reached the faithful, I was seized round the neck and waist, and whirled recklessly three times round the room to the crash of upsetting furniture and the humming of a false tune in a warm contralto voice. When released from the dizzy embrace, I sat down on the carpet suddenly without affectation. In this unpretentious attitude, I became aware that JMKB had followed me into the room elegant, fatal, correct, and severe in a white tie and large shirt front. In answer to his politely sinister prolonged glance of inquiry, I overheard Donorita murmuring with some confusion and annoyance. Well content in this case, to be of no particular consequence, I had already about me the elements of some worldly sense. Rearranging my collar with truth to say, ought to have been around one above a short jacket, but was not, I observed felicitously that I had come to say goodbye, being ready to go off to sea that very night with the tremolino. Our hostess, slightly panting yet and just a shade disheveled, turned tartly upon JMKB, desiring to know when he would be ready to go off by the tremolino, or in another way in order to join the royal headquarters. Did he intend, she asked ironically, to wait for the very eve of the entry into Madrid? Thus by a judicious exercise of tact and asperity we re-established the atmospheric equilibrium of the room long before I left them a little before midnight. Now tenderly reconciled to walk down to the harbor and hail the tremolino by the usual soft whistle from the edge of the quay. It was our signal, invariably heard by the ever watchful Dominic, the padrone. He would raise a lantern silently to light my steps along the narrow, springy plank of our primitive gangway. And so we are going off, he would murmur directly my foot touched the deck. I was the harbinger of sudden departures, but there was nothing in the world sudden enough to take Dominic unawares. His thick black moustaches, curled every morning with hot tongs by the barber at the corner of the quay, seemed to hide a perpetual smile. But nobody, I believe, had ever seen the true shape of his lips. From the slow, imperturbable gravity of that broad-chested man you would think he had never smiled in his life. In his eyes lurked a look of perfectly remorseless irony, as though he had been provided with an extremely experienced soul. And the slightest distension of his nostrils would give to his bronzed face a look of extraordinary boldness. This was the only play of feature of which he seemed capable, being a southerner of a concentrated, deliberate type. His ebony hair curled slightly on the temples. He may have been forty years old, and he was a great voyager on the inland sea. Astute and ruthless, he could have rivalled in resource the unfortunate son of Laertes and Anteclia. If he did not pit his craft in audacity against the very gods, it is only because the Olympian gods are dead. Certainly no woman could frighten him. A one-eyed giant would not have had the ghost of a chance against Dominic Servoni of Corsica, not Ithaca, and no king, son of kings, but a very respectable family, authentic Caparali, he affirmed. But that is as it may be. The Caparali families date back to the twelfth century. For want of more exalted adversaries, Dominic turned his audacity fertile and impious stratagems against the powers of the earth, as represented by the institution of custom houses, and every mortal belonging there too, scribes, officers, and guardacostas afloat and ashore. He was the very man for us, this modern and unlawful wanderer with his own legend of loves, dangers, and bloodshed. He told us bits of it sometimes in measured, ironic tones. He spoke Catalonian, the Italian of Corsica, and the French of Provence, with the same easy naturalness. Dressed in shore-togs, a white-starch shirt, black jacket, and round hat, as I took him once to see Donorita, he was extremely presentable. He could make himself interesting by a tactful and rugged reserve set off by a grim, almost imperceptible playfulness of tone and manner. He had the physical assurance of strong-hearted men. After half an hour's interview in the dining-room, during which they got in touch with each other in an amazing way, Rita told us in her best grand-dam manner, May il est si parfait cet homme. He was perfect. On board the tremolino wrapped up in a black cabane, the picturesque cloak of Mediterranean seamen with those massive moustaches and his remorseless eyes set off by the shadow of the deep hood, he looked piratical and monkish and darkly initiated into the most awful mysteries of the sea. End of Chapter 42, chapters 43, 44, and 45 of The Mirror of the Sea. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Mirror of the Sea by Joseph Conrad The tremolino continued. Chapter 43 Anyway he was perfect as Donna Rita had declared. The only thing unsatisfactory and even inexplicable about our Dominique was his nephew César. It was startling to see a desolate expression of shame veil the remorseless audacity in the eyes of that man superior to all scruples and terrors. I would never have dared to bring him on board your Balancel, he once apologized to me. But what am I to do? His mother is dead and my brother has gone into the bush. In this way I learned that our Dominique had a brother. As to going into the bush, this only means that a man has done his duty successfully in the pursuit of a hereditary vendetta. The feud which had existed for ages between the families of Cervoni and Brunaschi was so old that it seemed to have smoldered out at last. One evening Pietro Brunaschi, after a laborious day amongst his olive trees, sat on a chair against the wall of his house with a bowl of broth on his knees and a piece of bread in his hand. Dominique's brother, going home with a gun on his shoulder, found a sudden offense in this picture of content and rest, so obviously calculated to awaken the feelings of hatred and revenge. He and Pietro had never had any personal quarrel, but as Dominique explained, all our dead cried out to him. He shouted from behind a wall of stones, O Pietro, behold what is coming! And as the other looked up innocently, he took aim at the forehead and squared the old vendetta account so neatly that, according to Dominique, the dead man continued to sit with the bowl of broth on his knees and the piece of bread in his hand. This is why, because in Corsica your dead will not leave you alone, Dominique's brother had to go into the maquis, into the bush on the wild mountainside, to dodge the gendarme for the insignificant remainder of his life, and Dominique had charge of his nephew with a mission to make a man of him. No more unpromising undertaking could be imagined. The very material for the task seemed wanting. The servonis, if not handsome men, were good, sturdy flesh and blood. But this extraordinarily lean and livid youth seemed to have no more blood in him than a snail. Some cursed witch must have stolen my brother's child from the cradle and put that spawn of a starved devil in its place, Dominique would say to me. Look at him! Just look at him! To look at César was not pleasant. His parchment skin, showing dead white on his cranium through the thin wisps of dirty brown hair, seemed to be glued directly and tightly upon his big bones. Without being in any way deformed, he was the nearest approach which I have ever seen or could imagine to what is commonly understood by the word monster. That the source of the effect produced was really moral, I have no doubt. An utterly hopelessly depraved nature was expressed in physical terms that taken each separately had nothing positively startling. You imagined him clamily cold to the touch like a snake. The slightest reproof, the most mild and justifiable remonstrance, would be meant by a resentful glare and an evil shrinking of his thin dry upper lip, a snarl of hate to which he generally added the agreeable sound of grinding teeth. It was for this venomous performance rather than for his lies, impudence, and laziness that his uncle used to knock him down. It must not be imagined that it was anything in the nature of a brutal assault. Dominic's brawny arm would be seen describing deliberately an ample horizontal gesture, a dignified sweep, and Seiza would go over suddenly like a nine pin, which was funny to see. But once down he would writhe on the deck, gnashing his teeth in impotent rage which was pretty horrible to behold. And it also happened more than once that he would disappear completely, which was startling to observe. This is the exact truth. Before some of these majestic cuffs, Seiza would go down and vanish. He would vanish heels overhead into open hatchways, into scuttles, behind upended casks, according to the place where he happened to come into contact with his uncle's mighty arm. Once it was in the old harbor, just before the Tremolino's last voyage, he vanished thus overboard to my infinite consternation. Dominic and I had been talking business together aft, and Seiza had sneaked up behind us to listen, for, amongst his other perfections, he was a consummate eavesdropper and spy. At the sound of the heavy plop alongside, horror held me rooted to the spot. But Dominic stepped quietly to the rail and leaned over, waiting for his nephew's miserable head to bob up for the first time. Oh hey, Seiza! he yelled contemptuously to the spluttering wretch. Catch hold of that mooring harsher, Charong! He approached me to resume the interrupted conversation. What about Seiza, I asked anxiously? Canalia, let him hang there, was his answer. And he went on talking over the business in hand calmly. While I tried vainly to dismiss from my mind the picture of Seiza steeped to the chin in the water of the old harbor a decoction of centuries of marine refuse. I tried to dismiss it because the mere notion of that liquid made me feel very sick. Presently Dominic, hailing an idle boatman, directed him to go and fish his nephew out. And by and by Seiza appeared walking on board from the quay, shivering, streaming with filthy water, with bits of rotten straws in his hair, and a piece of dirty orange peel stranded on his shoulder. His teeth chattered, his yellow eyes squinted balefully at us as he passed forward. I thought it my duty to remonstrate. Why are you always knocking him about, Dominic, I asked? Indeed, I felt convinced it was no earthly good, a sheer waste of muscular force. I must try to make a man of him, Dominic answered hopelessly. I restrained the obvious retort that in this way he ran the risk of making, in the words of the immortal Mr. Montellini, a damnation damp, unpleasant corpse of him. He wants to be a locksmith, burst out Servioni, to learn how to pick locks, I suppose, he added with sardonic bitterness. Why not let him be a locksmith, I ventured. Who would teach him, he cried. Where could I leave him? he asked, with a drop in his voice, and how he had my first glimpse of genuine despair. He steals, you know, alas, pata madone. I believe he would put poison in your food and mine, the viper. He raised his face and both his clenched fists slowly to heaven. However, César never dropped poison into our cups. One cannot be sure, but I fancied he went to work in another way. This voyage, of which the details need not be given, we had to range far afield for sufficient reasons. Coming up from the south to end it with the important and really dangerous part of the scheme in hand, we found it necessary to look into Barcelona for a certain definite information. This appears like running one's head into the very jaws of the lion, but in reality it was not so. We had one or two high influential friends there, and many others humble but valuable because bought for good hard cash. We were in no danger of being molested. Indeed, the important information reached us promptly by the hands of a custom house officer who came on board full of showy zeal to poke an iron rod into the layer of oranges which made the visible part of our cargo in the hatchway. I forgot to mention before that the tremolino was officially known as a fruit and corkwood trader. The zealous officer managed to slip a useful piece of paper into Dominic's hand as he went ashore, and a few hours afterwards, being off duty, he returned on board again a thirst for drinks and gratitude. He got both as a matter of course. While he sat sipping his liqueur in the tiny cabin, Dominic plied him with questions as to the whereabouts of the Garda Costas. The preventive service of float was really the one for us to reckon with, and it was material for our success and safety to know the exact position of the patrol craft in the neighborhood. The news could not have been more favorable. The officer mentioned a small place on the coast some 12 miles off where, unsuspicious and unready, she was lying at anchor with her sails unbent, painting yards and scraping spars. Then he left us after the usual compliments, smiling reassuringly over his shoulder. I had kept below pretty close all day from excess of prudence. The stake played on that trip was big. We are ready to go at once, but for César, who has been missing ever since breakfast, announced Dominic to me in his slow, grim way. Where the fellow had gone and why we could not imagine. The usual surmises in the case of a missing seamen did not apply to César's absence. He was too odious for love, friendship, gambling, or even casual intercourse. But once or twice he had wandered away like this before. Dominic went ashore to look for him, but returned at the end of two hours alone and very angry, as I could see by the token of the invisible smile under his moustache being intensified. We wondered what had become of the wretch, and made a hurried investigation among our portable property. He had stolen nothing. He will be back before long, I said confidently. Ten minutes afterwards one of the men on deck called out loudly. I can see him coming. César had only his shirt and trousers on. He had sold his coat, apparently for pocket money. You naive, was all Dominic said, with a terrible softness of voice. He restrained his collar for a time. Where have you been, vagabond? he asked menacingly. Nothing would induce César to answer that question. It was as if he had even disdained to lie. He faced us, drawing back his lips and gnashing his teeth, and did not shrink an inch before the sweep of Dominic's arm. He went down as if shot, of course. But this time I noticed that, when picking himself up, he remained longer than usual on all fours, bearing his big teeth over his shoulder and glaring upwards at his uncle with a new sort of hate in his round yellow eyes. That permanent sentiment seemed pointed at that moment by a special malice and curiosity. I became quite interested. If he ever manages to put poison in the dishes, I thought to myself, this is how he will look at us as we sit at our meal. But I did not, of course, believe for a moment that he would ever put poison in our food. He ate the same things himself. Moreover, he had no poison. And I could not imagine a human being so blinded by cupidity as to sell poison to such an atrocious creature. We slipped out to sea quietly at dusk, and all through the night everything went well. The breeze was gusty, a southerly blow was making up. It was fair wind for our course. Now and then Dominic slowly and rhythmically struck his hands together a few times, as if applauding the performance of the tremolino. The ballast sal hummed and quivered as she flew along, dancing lightly under our feet. At daybreak I pointed out to Dominic amongst the several sail in view running before the gathering storm, one particular vessel. The press of canvas she carried made her loom up high on end like a gray column standing motionless direct in our wake. Look at this fellow, Dominic, I said. He seems to be in a hurry. The padrone made no remark, but wrapping his black cloak close about him stood up to look. His weather-tanned face, framed in the hood, had an aspect of authority and challenging force, with the deep-set eyes gazing far away fixedly without a wink, like the intent merciless, steady eyes of a seabird. Siva piano vasano, he remarked at last, with a derisive glance over the side, in ironic allusion to our own tremendous speed. The tremolino was doing her best and seemed to hardly touch the great burst of foam over which she darted. I crouched down again to get some shelter from the low ball work. After more than half an hour of swaying immobility, expressing a concentrated breathless watchfulness, Dominic sank on the deck by my side. Within the monkish cowl his eyes gleamed with a fierce expression which surprised me. All he said was, he has come out here to watch the new paint off his yards, I suppose. What! I shouted, getting up on my knees. Is she the guarda costa? The perpetual suggestion of a smile under Dominic's piratical moustaches seemed to become more accentuated. Quite real, grim, actually almost visible through the wet and uncurled hair. Judging by that symptom, he must have been in a towering rage, but I could also see that he was puzzled, and that discovery affected me disagreeably. Dominic puzzled? For a long time, leaning against the ball work, I gazed over the stern at the gray column that seemed to stand swaying slightly in our wake always at the same distance. Meanwhile Dominic, black and cowled, sat cross-legged on the deck, with his back to the wind, recalling vaguely an Arab chief in his bounouse sitting on the sand. Above his motionless figure the little cord and tassel on the stiff point of the hood swung about innately in the gale. At last I gave up facing the wind and rain and crouched down by his side. I was satisfied that the sail was a patrol craft. Her presence was not a thing to talk about, but soon, between two clouds charged with hail showers, a burst of sunshine fell upon her sails, and our men discovered her character for themselves. From that moment I noticed that they seemed to take no heed of each other or of anything else. They could spare no eyes and no thought but for the slight column shape astern of us. Its swaying had become perceptible. For a moment she remained dazzlingly white, then faded away slowly to nothing in a squall, only to reappear again, nearly black, resembling a post stuck upright against the slady background of solid cloud. Since first noticed she had not gained on us a foot. She will never catch the tremolino, I said exultingly. Dominic did not look at me. He remarked absently, but justly, that the heavy weather was in our pursuers favor. She was three times our size. What we had to do was to keep our distance till dark, which we could manage easily, and then haul off to seaward and consider the situation. But his thoughts seemed to stumble in the darkness as some not solved enigma, and soon he fell silent. We ran steadily, wing and wing. Cape San Sebastian, nearly ahead, seemed to recede from us in the squalls of rain, and come out again to meet our rush, every time more distinct between the showers. For my part I was my no means certain that this gabaloo, as our men alluded to her appropriately, was after us at all. There were nautical difficulties in such a view, which made me express the sanguine opinion that she was in all innocence simply changing her station. At this Dominic condescended to turn his head. I tell you she is in chase, he affirmed moodily after one short glance astern. I never doubted his opinion, but with all the ardor of a neophyte and the pride of an amp learner I was at that time a great nautical casuous. What I can't understand, I insisted subtly, is how on earth with this wind she has managed to be just where she was when we first made her out. It is clear that she could not and did not gain twelve miles on us during the night, and there are other impossibilities. Dominic had been sitting motionless, like an inanimate black cone posed on the stern deck near the rudder head with a small tassel fluttering on its sharp point, and for a time he preserved the immobility of his meditation. Then, bending over with a short laugh, he gave my ear the bitter fruit of it. He understood everything now perfectly. She was where we had seen her first, not because she had caught us up, but because we had passed her during the night while she was already waiting for us, hove to, most likely, on a very track. Do you understand already? Dominic muttered in a fierce undertone. Already? You know we left a good eight hours before we were expected to leave, otherwise she would have been in time to lie and wait for us on the other side of the cape, and he snapped his teeth like a wolf close to my face, and she would have had us like that. I saw it all plainly enough now. They had eyes in their heads, and all their wits about them in that craft. We had passed them in the dark, as they jogged on easily towards their ambush with the idea that we were yet far behind. At daylight, however, sighting a balancelle ahead under a press of canvas, they had made sail in chase. But if that was so, then Dominic seized my arm. Yes, yes, she came out on an information. Do you see it? On information we have been sold, betrayed. Why? How? What for? We always paid them all so well on shore. No, but it is my head that is going to burst. He seemed to choke, tugged at the throat button of the cloak, jumped up open mouth as if to hurl curses and denunciation, but instantly mastered himself, and wrapping up the cloak closer about him, sat down on the deck again as quiet as ever. Yes, it must be the work of some scoundrel ashore I observed. He pulled the edge of the hood well forward over his brow before he muttered, a scoundrel? Yes, it's evident. Well, I said, they can't get us, that's clear. No, he assented quietly. They cannot. We shaved the cape very close to avoid an adverse current. On the other side, by the effect of the land, the wind failed us so completely for a moment that the Tremolino's two great lofty sails hung idle to the mass in the thundering uproar of the seas, breaking upon the shore we had left behind. And when the returning gusts filled them again, we saw with amazement half of the new mainsail, which we thought fit to drive the boat under before giving way, absolutely fly out of the boat ropes. We lowered the yard at once and saved it all, but it was no longer a sail. It was only a heap of soaked strips of canvas cumbering the deck and wading the craft. Dominic gave the order to throw the whole lot overboard. I would have had the yard thrown overboard too, he said, but it was the yard thrown overboard too, he said, leading me aft again. If it had not been for the trouble, let no sign escape you, he continued, lowering his voice, but I am going to tell you something terrible. Listen, I have observed that the roping stitches on that sail have been cut. You hear? Cut with a knife in many places, and yet it stood all that time, not enough cut. That flap did it at last. What matters it? But look, there's treachery seated on this very deck by the horns of the devil, seated here at our very backs. Do not turn, signorini. We were facing aft then. What's to be done, I asked, appalled. Nothing. Silence. Be a man, signorini. What else, I said? To show I could be a man, I resolved to utter no sound, as long as Dominic himself had the force to keep his lips closed. Nothing but silence becomes certain situations. Moreover, the experience of treachery seemed to spread a hopeless drowsiness over my thoughts and senses. For an hour or more we watched our pursuers surging out nearer and nearer from amongst the squalls that sometimes hid her altogether. But even when not seen, we felt her there like a knife at our throats. She gained on us frightfully, and the tremolino in a fierce breeze and in much smoother water swung on easily under her one sail, with something appallingly careless in the joyous freedom of her motion. Another half hour went by. I could not stand it any longer. They will get the poor barky, I stammered out suddenly, almost on the verge of tears. Dominic stirred no more than a carving. A sense of catastrophic loneliness overcame my inexperienced soul. The vision of my companions passed before me. The whole royalist gang was in Monte Carlo now, I reckoned. And they appeared to me clear-cut and very small, with affected voices and stiff gestures, like a procession of rigid marionettes upon a toy stage. I gave a start. What was this? A mysterious remorseless whisper came from within the motionless black hood at my side. Il foe la tué. I heard it very well. What did you say, Dominic? I asked, moving nothing but my lips. And the whisper within the hood repeated mysteriously, she must be killed. My heart began to beat violently. That's it, I faltered out. But how? You love her well. I do. Then you must find the heart for that work, too. You must steer her yourself, and I shall see to it that she dies quickly, without leaving as much as a chip behind. Can you, I murmured? Fascinated by the black hood, turned immovably over the stern, as if in unlawful communion with that old sea of magicians, slave-dealers, exiles, and warriors, the sea of legends and terrors, where the mariners of remote antiquity used to hear the restless shade of an old wanderer weep aloud in the dark. I know a rock, whispered the initiated voice within the hood secretly. But caution, it must be done before our men perceive what we are about. Whom can we trust now? A knife drawn across the four halyards would bring the foresail down and put an end to our liberty in twenty minutes. And the best of our men may be afraid of drowning. There is our little boat, but in an affair like this no one can be sure of being saved. The voice ceased. We had started from Barcelona with our dinghy in tow. Afterwards it was too risky to try to get her in again, so we let her take her chance of the seas at the end of a comfortable scope of rope. Many times she had seemed to us completely overwhelmed, but soon we would see her bob up again on a wave, apparently as buoyant and whole as ever. I understand, I said softly, very well, Dominique. When? Not yet. We must get a little more in first, answered the voice from the hood in a ghostly murmur. Chapter 45 It was settled. I now had the courage to turn about. Our men crouched about the decks here and there, with anxious crestfallen faces all turned one way to watch the chaser. For the first time that morning I perceived César stretched out full length on the deck, near the formast, and wondered where he had been skulking till then. But he might in truth have been at my elbow all the time for all I knew. We had been too absorbed in watching our fate to pay attention to each other. Nobody had eaten anything that morning, but the men had been coming constantly to drink at the water-butt. I ran down to the cabin. I had there put away in a locker ten thousand francs in gold, of whose presence on board, so far as I was aware, not a soul, except Dominique, had the slightest inkling. When I emerged on deck again, Dominique had turned about and was peering from under his cowl at the coast. Cape Creux closed the view ahead. To the left, a wide bay, its waters torn and swept by fierce squalls, seemed full of smoke. A stir in the sky had a menacing look. Directly he saw me, Dominique, in a placid tone, wanted to know what was the matter. I came close to him, and, looking as unconcerned as I could, told him in an undertone that I had found the locker broken open and the money-belt gone. Last evening it was still there. What did you want to do with it? he asked me, trembling violently. Put it round my waist, of course, I answered, amazed to hear his teeth chattering. Cursed gold, he muttered. The weight of the money might have cost you your life, perhaps. He shuddered. There is no time to talk about that now. I am ready. Not yet. I am waiting for that squall to come over, he muttered, and a few leaden minutes passed. The squall came over at last. Our pursuer, overtaken by a sort of murky whirlwind, disappeared from our sight. The tremolino quivered and bounded forward. The land ahead vanished, too, and we seemed to be left alone in a world of water and wind. Prene la bas, monsieur, Dominique broke the silence suddenly in an austere voice. Take hold of the tiller. He bent his hood to my ear. The balancel is yours. Your own hands must deal the blow. I have yet another piece of work to do. He spoke up loudly to the man who steered. Let the senorino take the tiller, and you with the others stand by to haul the boat alongside quickly at the word. The man obeyed, surprised but silent. The others stirred, and pricked up their ears at this. I heard the murmurs. What now? Are we going to run in somewhere and take to our heels? The padron knows what he is doing. Dominique went forward. He paused to look down at César, who, as I have said before, was lying full-length face down by the foremast, then stepped over him and dived out of my sight under the foresail. I saw nothing ahead. It was impossible for me to see anything except the foresail open and still, like a great shadowy wing. But Dominique had his bearings. His voice came to me from forward in a just audible cry. Now, senorino, I bore on the tiller, as instructed before. Again I heard him faintly, and then I had only to hold her straight. No ship ran so joyously to her death before. She rose and fell, as if floating in space, and darted forward, whizzing like an arrow. Dominique, stooping under the foot of the foresail, reappeared and stood steadying himself against the mast, with a raised forefinger in an attitude of expectant attention. A second before the shock, his arm fell down by his side. At that I set my teeth, and then talk of splintered planks and smashed timbers. This shipwreck lies upon my soul, with the dread and horror of a homicide, with the unforgettable remorse of having crushed a living faithful heart at a single blow. At one moment the rush and the soaring swing of speed, the next a crash and death, stillness, a moment of horrible immobility, with the song of the wind changed to a strident wail, and the heavy waters boiling up menacing and sluggish around the corpse. I saw in a distracting minute the four-yard fly fore and aft with a brutal swing, the men all in a heap, cursing with fear and hauling frantically at the line of the boat. With a strange welcoming of the familiar, I saw also César amongst them, and recognized Dominique's old, well-known, effective gesture, the horizontal sweep of his powerful arm. I recollect distinctly, saying to myself, César must go down, of course, and then, as I was scrambling on all fours, the swinging tiller I had let go caught me a crack under the ear and knocked me over senseless. I don't think I was actually unconscious for more than a few minutes, but when I came to myself the dingy was driving before the wind into a sheltered cove, two men just keeping her straight with their oars. Dominique, with his arm round my shoulders, supported me in the stern sheets. We landed in a familiar part of the country. Dominique took one of the boat's oars with him. I suppose he was thinking of the stream we would have presently to cross, on which there was a miserable specimen of a punt often robbed of its pole. But, first of all, we had to ascend the ridge of land at the back of the cape. He helped me up. I was dizzy. My head felt very large and heavy. At the top of the ascent, I clung to him, and we stopped to rest. To the right, below us, the wide, smoky bay was empty. Dominique had kept his word. There was not a chip to be seen around the Black Rock, from which the tremolino, with her plucky heart crushed at one blow, had slipped off into deep water to her eternal rest. The vastness of the open sea was smothered in driving mists, and in the center of the thinning squall, phantom-like, under a frightful press of canvas, the unconscious Garda Costa dashed on, still chasing to the Northwood. Our men were already descending the reverse slope, to look for that punt which we knew from experience was not always to be found easily. I looked after them with dazed, misty eyes. One, two, three, four. Dominique, where's César? I cried. As if repulsing the very sound of the name, the padron made that ample sweeping, knocking-down gesture. I stepped back a pace and stared at him fearfully. His open shirt uncovered his muscular neck and the thick hair on his chest. He planted the oar upright in the soft soil, and rolling up slowly his right sleeve extended the bare arm before my face. This, he began, with an extreme deliberation, whose superhuman restraint vibrated with the suppressed violence of his feelings, is the arm which delivered the blow. I am afraid it is your own goal that did the rest. I forgot all about your money. He clasped his hands together in sudden distress. I forgot. I forgot. He repeated disconsonantly. César stole the belt. I stammered out bewildered. And who else? Canalia. He must have been spying on you for days, and he did the whole thing. Absent all day in Barcelona, Trad de Torre sold his jacket to hire a horse. Ha, ha, a good affair. I tell you it was he who set him at us. Dominic pointed at the sea where the Garda Costa was a mere dark speck. His chin dropped on his breast. On information he murmured in a glowy voice, Ah Savoni, oh my poor brother. And you drowned him, I said, bebly. I struck once, and the wretch went down like a stone with the gold. Yes, but he had time to read in my eyes that nothing could save him while I was alive. And had I not the right eye, Dominic Savoni, Padron, who brought him aboard your faluca, my nephew, a traitor. He pulled the oar out of the ground and helped me carefully down the slope. All the time he never once looked me in the face. He punted us over, then shouldered the oar again, and waited till our men were at some distance before he offered me his arm. After we had gone a little way, the fishing hamlet we were making for came into view. Dominic stopped. Do you think you can make your way as far as the houses by yourself? He asked me quietly. Yes, I think so. But why? Where are you going, Dominic? Anywhere. What a question. Signorino, you are but little more than a boy to ask such a question of a man having this tail in his family. Ah, Trattatore, what made me ever own that spawn of a hungry devil for our own blood? Thief, cheat, coward, liar. Other men can deal with that. But I was his uncle, and so I wish he had poisoned me. But this, that I, a confidential man, and a Corsican, should have to ask your pardon for bringing on board your vessel, of which I was padron, a servonic, who has betrayed you, a traitor. That is too much. It is too much. Well, I beg your pardon, and you may spit in Dominic's face, because a traitor of our blood taints us all. A theft may be good between men, a lie may be set right, a death avenged. But what can one do to atone for a treachery like this? Nothing. He turned and walked away from me along the bank of the stream, flourishing a vengeful arm and repeating to himself slowly with savage emphasis. Ah, can I, can I, can I? He left me there trembling with weakness and mute with awe. Unable to make a sound, I gazed after the strangely desolate figure of that seaman carrying an oar on his shoulder up a barren rock-strewn ravine under the dreary leaden sky of tremolinos last day. Thus, walking deliberately with his back to the sea, Dominic vanished from my sight. With the quality of our desires, thoughts, and wonder proportioned to our infinite littleness, we measure even time itself by our own stature. Imprisoned in the house of personal illusions, 30th century in mankind's history seem less to look back upon than 30 years of our own life. And Dominic Savoni takes his place in my memory by the side of the legendary wanderer on the sea of marvels and terrors, by the side of the fatal and impious adventurer to whom the evoked shade of the soothsayer predicted a journey inland with an oar on his shoulder, till he met men who had never set eyes on ships and oars. It seems to me I can see them side by side in the twilight of an arid land, the unfortunate possessors of the secret lore of the sea, bearing the emblem of their hard calling on their shoulders, surrounded by silent and curious men. Even as I too, having turned my back upon the sea, and bearing those few pages in the twilight, with the hope of finding in an inland valley the silent welcome of some patient listener. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Mirror of the Sea by Joseph Conrad. The Heroic Age Chapter 46 A fellow now has no chance of promotion, unless he jumps into the muzzle of a gun and crawls out of the touch-hole. He who, a hundred years ago, more or less, pronounced the above words in the uneasiness of his heart, thirsting for professional distinction, was a young naval officer. Of his life career, achievements, and in, nothing is preserved for the edification of his young successors in the fleet of today. Nothing but this phrase, which sailorlike in the simplicity of personal sentiment and strength of graphic expression embodies the spirit of the epic. This obscure but vigorous testimony has its price, its significance, and its lesson. It comes to us from a worthy ancestor. We do not know whether he lived long enough for a chance of that promotion, whose way was so arduous. He belongs to the great array of the unknown, who are great indeed by the sum total of the devoted effort put out, and the colossal scale of success attained by their insatiable and steadfast ambition. We do not know his name. We only know of him what is material for us to know, that he was never backward on occasions of desperate service. We have this on the authority of a distinguished seaman of Nelson's time. Departing this life as admiral of the fleet on the eve of the Crimean War, Sir Thomas Byham Martin has recorded for us amongst his all too short autobiographical notes these few characteristic words uttered by one young man of the many who must have felt that particular inconvenience of a heroic age. The distinguished admiral had lived through it himself, and was a good judge of what was expected in those days from men and ships. A brilliant frigate captain, a man of sound judgment, of dashing bravery, and of serene mind, scrupulously concerned for the welfare and honor of the navy, he missed a larger fame only by the chances of the service. We may well quote on this day the words written of Nelson in the decline of a well-spent life by Sir T. B. Martin, who died just fifty years ago on the very anniversary of Trafalgar. Nelson's nobleness of mind was a prominent and beautiful part of his character. His foibles, faults, if you like, will never be dwelt upon in any memorandum of mind, he declares, and goes on. He who's splendid and matchless achievements will be remembered with admiration while there is gratitude in the hearts of Britons, or while a ship floats upon the ocean. He, whose example on the breaking out of the war gave so chivalrous an impulse to the younger men of the service that all rushed into rivalry of declaring which disdained every warning of prudence and led to acts of heroic enterprise which tended greatly to exalt the glory of our nation. These are his words and they are true. The dashing young frigate captain, the man who in middle age was nothing low to give chase single-handed in his seventy-four to a whole fleet, the man of enterprise and consummate judgment, the old admiral of the fleet, the good and trusted servant of his country under two kings and queen, had felt correctly Nelson's influence and expressed himself with precision out of the fullness of his seamen's heart. Exalted, he wrote, not augmented, and therein his feeling and his pen captured the very truth. Other men that were ready and able to add to the treasure of victories the British Navy has given to the nation. It was the lot of Lord Nelson to exalt all this glory. Exalt, the word seems to be created for the man. The British Navy may well have ceased to count its victories. It is rich beyond the wildest dreams of success and fame. It may well rather, on a culminating day of its history, cast about for the memory of some reverses to appease the jealous fates which attend the prosperity and triumphs of a nation. It holds indeed the heaviest inheritance that has ever been entrusted to the courage and fidelity of armed men. It is too great for mere pride. It should make the seamen of today humble in the secret of their hearts and indomitable in their unspoken resolution. In all the records of history there has never been a time when a victorious fortune has been so faithful to men making war upon the sea. And it must be confessed that on their part they knew how to be faithful to their victorious fortune. They were exalted. They were always watching for her smile. Night or day, fair weather or foul, they waited for her slightest sign with the offering of their stout hearts in their hands. And for the inspiration of this high constancy they were indebted to Lord Nelson alone. Whatever earthly affection he abandoned or grasped, the great admiral was always, before all, beyond all, a lover of fame. He loved her jealously with an inexinguishable ardor and an insatiable desire. He loved her with a masterful devotion and an infinite trustfulness. In the plenitude of his passion he was an exacting lover, and she never betrayed the greatness of his trust. She attended him to the end of his life, and he died pressing her last gift, nineteen prizes, to his heart. Anchor, hardy, anchor, was as much the cry of an ardent lover as of a consummate seamen. Thus he would hug to his breast the last gift of fame. It was this ardor which made him great. He was a flaming example to the wooers of glorious fortune. There have been great officers before Lord Hood, for instance, whom he himself regarded as the greatest sea officer England ever had. A long succession of great commanders opened the sea to the vast range of Nelson's genius. His time had come, and after the great sea officers the great naval tradition passed into the keeping of a great man. Not the least glory of the navy is that it understood Nelson. Lord Hood trusted him. Admiral Keith told him, we can't spare you either as captain or admiral. Earl St. Vincent put into his hands untrammeled by orders a division of his fleet, and Sir Hyde Parker gave him two more ships at Copenhagen than he had asked for. So much for the chiefs. The rest of the navy surrendered to him their devoted affection, trust, and admiration. In return he gave them no less than his own exalted soul. He breathed into them his own ardor and his own ambition. In a few short years he revolutionized not the strategy or tactics of sea warfare, but the very conception of victory itself. And this is genius. In that alone, though the fidelity of his fortune and the power of his inspiration, he stands unique amongst the leaders of fleets and sailors. He brought heroism into the line of duty. Verily he is a terrible ancestor. And the man of his day loved him. They loved him not only as victorious armies have loved great commanders, they loved him with a more intimate feeling as one of themselves. In the words of a contemporary, he had a most happy way of gaining the affectionate respect of all who had the felicity to serve under his command. To be so great and to remain so accessible to the affection of one's fellow men is the mark of exceptional humanity. Lord Nelson's greatness was very human. It had a moral basis. It needed to feel itself surrounded by the warm devotion of a band of brothers. He was vain and tender. The love and admiration which the navy gave him so unreservedly sued the restlessness of his professional pride. He trusted them as much as they trusted him. He was a sea man of sea men. Sir T. B. Martin states that he never conversed with an officer who had served under Nelson without hearing the hardiest expressions of attachment to his person and admiration of his frank and conciliatory manner to his subordinates. And Sir Robert Stopford, who commanded one of the ships with which Nelson chased to the West Indies, a fleet nearly double in number, says in a letter, We are half-starved and otherwise inconvenienced by being so long out of port, but our reward is that we are with Nelson. This heroic spirit of daring and endurance in which all public and private differences were sunk throughout the whole fleet is Lord Nelson's great legacy, triply sealed by the victorious impress of the Nile, Copenhagen, and Trafalgar. This is a legacy whose value the changes of time cannot affect. The men and the ships he knew how to lead lovingly to the work of courage and the reward of glory have passed away, but Nelson's uplifting touch remains in the standard of achievement he has set for all time. The principles of strategy may be immutable. It is certain they have been and shall be again disregarded from timidity, from blindness, through infirmity of purpose. The tactics of great captains on land and sea can be infinitely discussed. The first object of tactics is to close with the adversary on terms of the greatest possible advantage. Yet no hard and fast rules can be drawn from experience, for this capital reason, amongst others, that the quality of the adversary is a variable element in the problem. The tactics of Lord Nelson have been amply discussed with much pride and some profit, and yet truly they are already of but archaic interest. A very few years more, and the hazardous difficulties of handling a fleet under canvas shall have passed beyond the conception of seamen who hold in trust for their country Lord Nelson's legacy of heroic spirit. The change in the character of the ships is too great and too radical. It is good and proper to study the acts of great men with thoughtful reverence, but already the precise intention of Lord Nelson's famous memorandum seems to lie under that veil which time throws over the clearest conceptions of every great art. It must not be forgotten that this was the first time when Nelson, commanding in chief, had his opponents under way, the first time and the last. Had he lived, had there been other fleets left to oppose him, we would perhaps have learned something more of his greatness as a sea officer. Nothing could have been added to his greatness as a leader. All that can be affirmed is that on no other day of his short and glorious career was Nelson more splendidly true to his genius and to his country's fortune. Yet the fact remains that had the wind failed and the fleet lost steerage way, or worse still, had it been taken aback from the eastward, with its leaders within short range of the enemy's guns, nothing, it seems, could have saved the headmost ships from capture or destruction. No skill of a great sea officer would have availed in such a contingency. Lord Nelson was more than that, and his genius would have remained undiminished by defeat. But obviously tactics which are so much at the mercy of irremediable accident must seem to a modern seaman a poor matter of study. The commander-in-chief in the Great Fleet action that will take its place next to the Battle of Trafalgar in the history of the British Navy will have no such anxiety, and will feel the weight of no such dependence. For a hundred years now no British fleet has engaged the enemy in line of battle. A hundred years is a long time, but the difference of modern conditions is enormous. The gulf is great. Had the last great fight of the English Navy been that of the first of June, for instance, had there been no Nelson's victories, it would have been well nigh impassable. The great admiral's slight and passion-worn figure stands at the parting of the ways. He had the audacity of genius and a prophetic inspiration. The modern naval man must feel that the time has come for the tactical practice of the great sea officers of the past to be laid by in the temple of august memories. The fleet tactics of the sailing days have been governed by two points, the deadly nature of a raking fire, and the dread natural to a commander dependent upon the winds to find at some crucial moment part of his fleet thrown helplessly to leeward. These two points were of the very essence of sailing tactics, and these two points have been eliminated from the modern tactical problems by the changes of propulsion and armament. Lord Nelson was the first to disregard them with conviction and audacity sustained by an unbounded trust in the men he led. This conviction, this audacity, and this trust stand out from amongst the lines of the celebrated memorandum, which is but a declaration of his faith in a crushing superiority of fire as the only means of victory and the only aim of sound tactics. Under the difficulties of the then existing conditions he strove for that and for that alone putting his faith into practice against every risk, and in that exclusive faith Lord Nelson appears to us as the first of the moderns. Against every risk I have said, and the men of today born in bread to the use of steam can hardly realize how much of that risk was in the weather. Except at the Nile where the conditions were ideal for engaging a fleet moored in shallow water, Lord Nelson was not lucky in his weather. Practically it was nothing but a quite unusual failure of the wind which cost him his arm during the Tenerife expedition. On Trafalgar Day the weather was not so much unfavorable as extremely dangerous. It was one of these covered days of fitful sunshine, of light unsteady winds with a swell from the westward and hazy in general but with the land about the cape at times distinctly visible. It has been my lot to look with reverence upon the very spot more than once and for many hours together. All but thirty years ago certain exceptional circumstances made me very familiar for a time with that bite in the Spanish coast which would be enclosed within a straight line drawn from Faro to Spartel. My well remembered experience has convinced me that in that corner of the ocean once the wind has got to the northward of west as it did on the 20th taking the British fleet aback appearances of westerly weather go for nothing and that it is infinitely more likely to veer right round to the east than to shift back again. It was in those conditions that at seven on the morning of the 21st the signal for the fleet to bear up in steer east was made. Holding a clear recollection of these languid easterly sighs ripping unexpectedly against the run of the smooth swell with no other warning than a ten minutes calm and a queer darkening of the coastline I cannot think without a gasp of professional awe of that fateful moment. Perhaps personal experience at the time of life when responsibility had a special freshness and importance has induced me to exaggerate to myself the danger of the weather. The great Admiral and Good Seaman could read or write the signs of sea and sky as his order to prepare to anchor at the end of the day sufficiently proves. But all the same the mere idea of these baffling easterly airs coming on at any time within half an hour or so after the firing of the first shot is enough to take one's breath away with the image of the rearmost ships of both divisions falling off unmanageable broadside onto the westerly swell and of two British admirals in desperate jeopardy. To this day I cannot free myself from the impression that for some 40 minutes the fate of the great battle hung upon a breath of wind such as I have felt stealing from behind as it were upon my cheek while engaged in looking to the westward for the signs of the true weather. Nevermore shall British seaman going into action have to trust the success of their valor to a breath of wind. The god of gales and battles favoring her arms to the last has let the son of England's sailing fleet and of its greatest master set in unclouded glory. And now the old ships and their men are gone the new ships and the new men many of them bearing the old auspicious names have taken up their watch on the stern and impartial sea which offers no opportunities but to those who know how to grasp them with a ready hand and an undaunted heart. This the navy of the 20 years war knew well how to do and never better than when Lord Nelson had breathed into its soul his own passion of honor and fame. It was a fortunate navy. Its victories were no more smashing of helpless ships and massacres of cowed men. It was spared that cruel favor for which no brave heart had ever prayed. It was fortunate in its adversaries. I say adversaries for on recalling such proud memories we should avoid the word enemies whose hostile sound perpetuates the antagonisms and strife of nations so irremediable perhaps so fateful and also so vain. War is one of the gifts of life but alas no war appears so very necessary when time has laid its soothing hand upon the passionate misunderstandings and the passionate desires of great peoples. Le temps as a distinguished Frenchman has said, et un galant homme, he fosters the spirit of concord and justice in whose work there is as much glory to be reaped as in the deeds of arms. One of them disorganized by revolutionary changes the other rusted in the neglect of a decayed monarchy the two fleets opposed to us entered the contest with odds against them from the first. By the merit of our daring and our faithfulness and the genius of a great leader we have in the course of the war augmented our advantage it kept it to the last. But in the exulting illusion of irresistible might a long series of military successes brings to a nation the less obvious aspect of such a fortune may per chance be lost to view. The old navy in its last days earned a fame that no belittling malevolence dare cavalat and this supreme favor they owe to their adversaries alone. Deprived by an ill-starred fortune of that self-confidence which strengthens the hands of an armed host impaired in skill but not in courage it may safely be said that our adversaries managed yet to make a better fight of it in 1797 than they did in 1793. Later still the resistance offered at the Nile was all and more than all that could be demanded from seamen who unless blind or without understanding must have seen their doom sealed from the moment that the Goliath bearing up under the boughs of the guerrier took on an inshore berth. The combined fleets of 1805 just come out of port and attended by nothing but the disturbing memories of reverses presented to our approach a determined front on which captain Blackwood in a nightly spirit congratulated his admiral. By the exertions of their valor our adversaries have but added a greater luster to our arms. No friend could have done more for even in war which severs for a time all the sentiments of human fellowship this subtle bond of association remains between brave men that the final testimony to the value of victory must be received at the hands of the vanquished. Those who from the heat of that battle sank together to their repose in the cool depths of the ocean would not understand the watch words of our day would gaze with amazed eyes at the engines of our strife all passes all changes the animosity of peoples the handling of fleets the forms of ships and even the sea itself seems to wear a different and diminished aspect from the sea of lord nelson's day in this ceaseless rush of shadows and shades that like the fantastic forms of clouds cast darkly upon the waters on a windy day fly past us to fall headlong below the hard edge of an implacable horizon we must turn to the national spirit which superior in its force and continuity to good and evil fortune can alone give us the feeling of an enduring existence and of an invincible power against the fates like a subtle and mysterious elixir poured into the perishable clay of successive generations it grows in truth splendor and potency with the march of ages in its incorruptible flow all around the globe of the earth it preserves from the decay and forgetfulness of death the greatness of our great men and amongst them the passionate and gentle greatness of nelson the nature of whose genius was on the faith of a brave seaman and distinguished admiral such as to exalt the glory of our nation end of chapter 49 recording by peter keller her east port medway novus kosher end of the mirror of the sea by joseph conrad