JANE

  Translated by Alfred Allinson

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  PREFACE

  WHEN you travel in any country, and wish to impart information concerning that country to others, whatever you write about should be written from the national point of view.

  Therefore, during my stay in Russia, I made it my business to collect stories contemporaneous, as far as was possible, with our own days, since it was my intention to describe the Russia of the nineteenth century.

  Here is a tale borrowed from the year 1812. It is taken from the reminiscences of Bestuchef-Marlinski, a man of considerable talent, who was condemned to death in 1826, but whose sentence was commuted, by special grace of the Emperor Nicholas, to one of banishment to the mines.

  Those who have read my Travels in the Caucasus will there find some curious and graphic details connected with that eminent author.

  CHAPTER I

  THE STORM

  AT the moment when the army of Napoleon was approaching Moscow, the Russian Fleet, in conjunction with that of Great Britain, was blockading, under command of the English admiral, the French fleet shut up in the harbour of Flushing.

  During the worst season of the year, upon a sea exposed to all winds, and casting their anchors in widely varying depths, the combined fleets had to sustain a double combat, against foe and weather. Behind them lay the ocean with its roaring waves, before them were the batteries belching forth lead and flame.

  In the month of October the storms are terrible and continuous. No one who has not experienced their fury can picture what such weather means to a fleet compelled to ride at anchor. Under such circumstances the ship remains stationary, but quivering in every limb like a giant enchained, and, no matter what the fury of the waves, is unable to fly before them.

  The gale which sprang up during the night of October 16th, 1812, destroyed several vessels both on the Dutch and English coasts. All that night, amid darkness and storm, was heard from time to time that terrible boom of cannon proclaiming “We are lost!” — that last death-rattle of life which finds its echo in the grave.

  As the day dawned — a day almost as dark and threatening as the night which had just passed away so slowly — the terrible situation of the fleet could be

  discerned. The vessels had fallen out of line; masts were gone by the board and cables parted; some of the ships, torn from their moorings, were drifting to leeward. The waves ran mountains high, and seemed ready to SAvallow them up at any moment. The situation was appalling, even to the eyes of sailors.

  The Russian vessel, the Vladimir, had sprung a leak in several places. She occupied the extreme left of the line, and was almost touching the rocks which extend for more than a mile into the sea in a direction parallel with the coast. The sailors, working with the energy of men who feel that their lives depend on the vigour of their arms, some at the pumps, the rest at the rigging, only gave proof to experienced eyes that all their labour would be ineffectual; the destruction of the crew appeared inevitable, when, by an unhoped-for chance, with the advent of day the wind dropped and the sea moderated. A gleam of hope pervaded the sailors’ breasts, a hope which in a short time was exchanged for a certainty of escape. A lot of liquor was served out to the men, and order once more began to reign on board. Half of the crew were allowed to turn in; it was four o’clock in the afternoon.

  The lieutenant, whose duty it was to arrange the watches, then came on deck, and, addressing the captain, who was pacing up and down, saluted, and said, —

  “I have got everything in trim again, sir; the wind is nor’-nor’-west; we are anchored at sixty-eight fathoms with seventy-one fathoms of cable running.”

  “And how do the anchors hold, Nicolas Alexiovitch?’ asked the captain.

  “We are all right as far as that is concerned, and can ride secure; have you any orders to give me?”

  “None, since you have seen to everything, Nicolas; accept my thanks, and congratulate the crew from me on their work of last night: had it not been for their superhuman exertions, we should be at this moment clinging, like a piece of rag, to some rock, angling for star-fish.”

  The lieutenant was an old salt tanned by the suns of every climate, who wore his cap tilted sideways, and had allowed his right shoulder, through absent-mindedness no doubt, to assume a marked pre-eminence over the left. A cloak still soaked with rain hung from his shoulders without his having once thought of removing it; he held his speaking-trumpet in his hand.

  He smiled on hearing the captain’s words.

  “Oh I” said he, “we have done nothing worth mentioning: when we were serving in the Vladimir in the Adriatic, we saw far worse weather than this. Luckily,” Alexiovitch went on, “there are no typhoons in the Channel, though it would be an interesting sight to see them form and then disappear.”

  “Yes, my word, that must indeed be interesting, Nicolas Alexiovitch,” answered Elim Melosor, a handsome young fellow of four or fivç and twenty, who wore gold epaulettes. In point of fact, he was aide-de-camp to the Russian admiral, but was serving, during the war, on board ship. “I imagine our Baltic typhoons are more dangerous to the grog glasses than to the ships.”

  “Quite true, my lad,” said the old salt: “water was made for fishes and crabs; milk for children and consumptives; wine for young people and pretty women; Madeira for men and soldiers; but rum and brandy are the natural beverage of heroes.”

  “In that case,” answered the young aide-de-camp with a smile, “I am not destined to immortality. I cannot look a bottle of rum in the face; I detest the abominable stuff.”

  “Ah, my dear Elim, with me it is just the contrary; my spirit is roused to action at the very sight of it. When you have trod the boards of old Neptune for thirty years, and have weathered as many squalls as I have seen hundreds of tempests, you will allow that a good glass of grog is better than all the cloaks in the world, blue-fox or sable, or what you please; at the second glass, you will feel yourself becoming inspirited; at the third, a bird will sing in your breast, and then you will lean over the side and see the waves pass by as quietly as if they were flocks of sheep. The masts will shout and creak overhead, and you will take as much heed of their cries as that.”

  And the old tar snapped his fingers.

  For all that, Nicolas Alexiovitch, had it not been so dark last night, maybe we should have seen your cheeks turn pale at one or two critical moments.”

  “Hang me if there is a word of truth in what you say, Elim Melosor! Storms are life and breath to me. Would that Heaven would send us many such nights, for then the service would not be so neglected as it is in fine weather. When the wind blows, then feet and hands are busy, and I feel proud, for I seem to assume the command of all nature.”

  “Many thanks, Lieutenant, for your storm,” said the young officer. “I was soaked to the skin and turned in supperless, as hungry as a dog, while, to complete my good fortune, I was rolled twice out of my bunk on to the floor.”

  “Come, come, you are a positive baby, my dear Elim,” said the old sailor. “You would like your ship to sail in rose-water, you would wish that the wind had been created only to tickle your sails, and that lieutenants should serve as partners for fair ladies at a dance.”

  “Joke as much as you like, Alexiovitch, I declare that I should not refuse, at this moment especially, to warm myself up in the company of some pretty girl at Plymouth, or to have a pleasant nap, after a good dinner, at the Opera in Paris. I should think that a deal pleasanter than hearing the wind whistle, and being every moment on the point of taking my last drink from the same cup as the sharks and whales.”

  “For my part, I think there is always more danger on land than on sea. On land you are always running the risk of losing your purse or your heart. For instance, don’t you remember when you took me to Stephen’s house? I did not know how to pilot myself between the sofas and armchairs which blocked up the drawing-room; I would rather have steered on a starless night through the channel of the Devil’s Grip. Ah! that confounded Miss Fanny; she looked at me so haughtily that I was ready to weigh anchor and sheer oft at ten knots an hour to escape from her. But you are not listening to me, sir.”

  In point of fact, since the time that his old comrade had touched on the subject of women, Elim, half leaning on a gun, had turned away and fixed his eyes on the coast of Holland. That distant shore seemed to him a paradise — there you could And nice people, witty men, and pretty girls; there you could find hearts ready to love and worthy of being loved.

  A perilous reflection this for a man of five and twenty, especially when he is confined within that floating monastery termed a ship. Accordingly, Elim, who was suffering from that sublime malady called youth, had become doubly pensive at the sight of the land and at the words of his companion. He gazed at Holland with such affection you would have said that he had some treasure hidden there. The impossibility of leaving the ship gave him, besides, a more eager desire to go on shore, and he sighed so profoundly that, as truthful narrators, we feel ourselves bound to record that sigh’ here and direct the reader’s attention to it.

  The day began to decline, and as it declined the force of the wind increased and gradually changed into a storm; but, as all precautions had b een taken beforehand, the advent of night was awaited with some degree of calmness.

  At this moment a ship appeared on the horizon making for the fleet with all sails set. Impelled by the rising gale, she seemed to be endeavouring to outstrip it; presently she could be recognized as an English man-o’-war: her red standard gleamed amid the clouds. All eyes were turned in her direction.

  “Ah, ha! let us watch how our friend will come to anchor in this wind,” said Elim.

  “Why, she must be mad,” said a young lieutenant; “she is crowding sail as she enters the line! Just look, her masts are bending like reeds; you can almost hear them creaking from here. Either her captain must have got an extra set of masts up his sleeve, or else his crew are devils incarnate and not sailors.”

  A signal now appeared from the flag-ship, but the vessel, as though urged forward by some irresistible force, seemed not to pay the slightest attention to it.

  “Why, she doesn’t answer,” cried several voices in astonishment.

  “She is making straight for the rocks,” said Elim.

  Three flags were displayed together from the admiral’s ship.

  “Number one hundred and forty-three!” cried a sailor.

  The lieutenant opened the code-book.

  “The vessel coming from the open sea,” said he, “is to form in line and cast anchor to port.”

  Has she replied?” asked the lieutenant.

  She seems not even to have any idea that she is being spoken to,” said the sailor.

  Uncertainty, fear and astonishment were depicted on the countenances of all. The same signal was repeated, accompanied by a blank shot by way of reprimand.

  The vessel still took no notice, and continued to make straight for the reefs.

  In vain did the admiral redouble his signals; the ship seemed not to see them, and neither stopped nor even slackened speed.

  All gazed in terror at the infatuated vessel. It was clear that she was going headlong to destruction.

  “She does not understand our signals!” cried the lieutenant. “She does not hail from England, but from the ocean; at any rate, she ought to know the rocks, which are marked on all the charts.”

  “If she does not go about in one minute from now,” said Elim, “she is lost.”

  The crisis was imminent.

  The young man sprang into the nettings, holding on with one hand only, while with the other he waved his cap and shouted, —

  “Port your helm! port your helm!” just as though, in spite of the distance, the vessel could hear him.

  The ship was now close enough for them to see her crew, who were rushing about on deck, endeavouring to strike the fore-sail; but, just as they were engaged in this manœuvre, a terrible crash was heard. The mast had snapped in two.

  “His rudder is gone,” cried the lieutenant; “he is lost!”

  And, old salt as he was, he turned his eyes from the sight.

  He was right; the doomed ship seemed lo hurry to her destruction. Carried along by wind and current, although she had furled all her sails one after the other, she still flew towards her doom with headlong rapidity.

  The crew were evidently in despair; no orders were given, no discipline observed. The sailors ran up and down, extending their hands towards the other vessels, instinctively imploring the aid which it was impossible to convey to them.

  Their last hour struck.

  With the rapidity of lightning, with the force and noise of a thunderbolt, the vessel dashed on the rocks.

  Instantly she was seen to go to pieces amid the foam. The sails were carried away in all directions; one of them flew like an eagle up into the clouds. An enormous wave once more lifted the floating wreckage and dashed it against the rock.

  “All is over!” cried Elim, swinging himself back upon deck.

  And indeed, at the spot where the ship had loomed aloft but a moment previously, nothing was now to be seen but the leaping waves, dashing against each other and breaking into foam.

  “A signal, number one hundred and seven,” cried the sailor.

  “Help for the shipwrecked crew!”

  “A noble order!” said Lieutenant Nicolas Alexiovitch, “but, unhappily, more easy to give than to execute.”

  At this moment three men — all that remained of the crew — appeared amid the foaming waves.

  All three were clinging to the same plank.

  Elim seized the old tar by the arm.

  “Do you see them? do you see them?” he shouted.

  “Great God! of course I see them; but what do you want me to do?”

  “Then you think it is impossible to rescue them?” asked Elim.

  “I do,” answered Nicolas Alexiovitch.

  “And I think it would be a disgrace for a Russian to regard as impossible an order given by an Englishman. Captain,” he continued, stepping towards the officer commanding the Vladimir, “give me leave to lower a boat.”

  “I cannot prevent you from fulfilling a duty, Elim,” answered the captain sadly, “but you will only lose your own life, and you will not save those unfortunate men.”

  “Captain, I have neither mother nor wife to grieve for my loss, and my father is a soldier, who will rejoice to hear that his son has died doing his duty.”

  “You will have no time to lower the cutter, and the small boats cannot live in this sea.”

  “I will go, were it in a basin; I think it is easier to die oneself than to see others die.”

  “Ho there!” he shouted; “lower the Gull; five volunteers to the front!”

  Thirty stepped forward. Elim selected five and sprang into the long boat, whose speed and smartness had earned her a bird’s name. One of the five sailors stationed himself at the helm, the others seized the oars, while Elim stood in the bows.

  “Good luck!” shouted his comrades.

  The ropes which held the boat were cast off, and the frail craft, disappearing amid the foam, seemed to be instantly swallowed up by the waves.

  CHAPTER II

  THE WRECK

  THE boat reappeared at twenty yards from the ship from which it had been launched, just as a leaf blown by the wind is carried from a tree.

  There were three inches of water in the boat; two of the men continued to row, while Elim and the two others baled out the water with their caps.

  Then the four rowers eagerly resumed work.

  Meanwhile, Elim was fixing the mast and hoisting the little sail.

  When this was accomplished he looked round him and found that the fleet was already a long way off.

  He turned round again in the direction of the shipwrecked men.

  The plank to which the three unhappy wretches were clinging sank beneath the water every moment. They had scarcely time to take breath as they came up to the surface; then they disappeared again almost immediately.

  “Lieutenant,” said the sailor who was steering, “I think there are but two of them now.”

  Elim crossed himself, according to the custom of the Russians when they witness the departure of a soul from life.

  “Never mind,” said he; “all the more reason for pushing on. Courage, my friends, courage!”

  The boat pitched wildly, and heeled over to such an extent that the edge of the sail dipped in the water again and again.

  The men continued to row, but, more often than not, the oars only struck the air.

  “Lieutenant,” said the man at the stern in a hollow voice and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, “there is only one left now.”

  “Let us try to save him at any rate,” said the lieutenant, crossing himself a second time.

  Then, standing up in the bows and waving his handkerchief, he shouted in English to the one remaining sailor, —

  “Courage, courage! hold on! we are coming.” But he had not uttered this last word when the plank, which had again plunged downwards as he was shouting this message of encouragement, reappeared bare and deserted.

  “Ah!” cried the lieutenant in despair, as he buried his hands in his hair, “the unhappy man had not strength enough to wait for us! Two strokes more, and we should have been there.”

  At the same moment the body appeared on the crest of a wave and seemed to stand half up out of the water. The lieutenant stretched out his hand to grasp him, but he was out of reach; he went down with the wave and disappeared for ever.

 

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