Jane by Alexandre Dumas (Illustrated)

Alexandre Dumas, Delphi Classics

• Editorial: Delphi Classics (Parts Edition)
• Año: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781786569127
• Categoría: Literature
• Categoría: Classics

This eBook features the unabridged text of 'Jane' from the bestselling edition of 'The Collected Works of Alexandre Dumas'.

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eBook features:
* The complete unabridged text of 'Jane'
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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 been 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...