The Pobratim: A Slav Novel

Thinking it to be Cape Campanella, they had steered towards the light – the only dangerous part of the island, on account of the reef, which stretches out a long way into the sea. When they found out their mistake it was too late to avoid the danger that threatened them; the ship was dashed against the rocks, which were heard grating under the keel and ripping open the sides, like the teeth of some famished monster of the deep. Fortunately, the brig had got tightly wedged between two rocks and kept fast there, so nothing was to be done but work hard at the pumps, trying to keep out as much water as they possibly could.

The night seemed everlasting. Still, by degrees, the storm subsided, and at dawn the wind had gone down and the sea had grown calm.

At daybreak help came from the shore.

"The ship is very much damaged," said the captain, "and so is the cargo, doubtless; but, at least, there are no lives lost," added he, looking round.

A few moments afterwards, the boatswain, wanting something, called Gennaro, but no answer came. He called again and again, cursed his canine breed, but with no better success.

"Where is Gennaro?" asked the captain.

The youth was sought down below, but he was nowhere to be found. All the men of the crew looked at one another enquiringly, and at last the questions that everyone was afraid to ask were uttered.

Had the youth been swept away by one of the huge breakers that washed over the deck? Had he been killed by the falling mast, or blown into the deep by a sudden and unexpected gust of wind? No one had seen him disappear; all looked around, expecting to see the handsome face of the youth they loved so well rising above the waves; but the green waters kept their secret. After that, all eyes turned towards Vranic, as if asking for an answer.

"The last time I saw the youth was when he was working at the pumps by me, just before the mast came down."

They all muttered some oath, unintelligible to him, and then a prayer for the youth. After that Vranic was only too glad to leave the ship, for every man on board seemed to look upon him as the cause of Gennaro's mysterious disappearance.

Having remained a week in Naples, seeing his money, the only thing he loved, dwindle away, Vranic did his best to find some employment. He for a few days got a living as a porter, helping to unload sacks from an English ship. Still, that was but a very precarious living, and he decided to follow a seafaring life, not because he was fond of it, but only to keep clear from his enemies and the laws of his country, and the vampire that had haunted him there every night.

He happened to find employment, as cook, on the very ship he had helped to discharge. It was an English schooner, bound for Glasgow. The captain, a crusty old bachelor, was a real hermit-crab; the men, a most ruffianly set. Vranic, being hardly able to speak with anyone, indulged in his morose way of living, and, except for being kicked about every now and then, he was left very much to himself.

From Glasgow the schooner sailed for Genoa, where she arrived just as the Giustizia di Dio was about to set sail. The two ships came so close together that Vranic, who kept a sharp look-out whenever he saw an Austrian flag, recognised Milenko standing on the deck and ordering some manoeuvres.

Although the young man could not perceive him, hidden as he was in the darkness of the galley, and bending over the stove, still Vranic felt a shock that for a few moments almost deprived him of his senses, and made him feel quite sick.

That day the dinner was quite a failure. The roast was burnt; the potatoes, instead, were raw; the cauliflower was uneatable, and salt had been put in the pudding instead of sugar.

If there is anything trying to human patience, it is a spoilt dinner, especially the first one gets in port. It is, therefore, not to be wondered at that the captain, never very forbearing at the best of times, got so angry that he kicked Vranic down the hatchway and almost crippled him.

Although the Dalmatian ship sailed away, bound probably towards the East, and he would perhaps never see her captain again, still the shock he felt had quite unnerved him. From that day matters began to go on from bad to worse. Sailing from Genoa, they first met with contrary winds, and much time was lost cruising about; after that came a spell of calm weather, and for long weeks they remained in sight of the bold promontory and of the lighthouse of Cape Bearn, not far from the port of Vendres. At last a fair wind arose, the sails were made taut, and the schooner flew on the crested waves. A new life seemed to have come over the crew, tired of their listless inactivity; the captain cursed Vranic and kicked him a little less than he had done on the previous days.

It was to be hoped that the wind would continue fair; otherwise their provisions would begin falling short. Ill-luck, however, was awaiting them in another direction.

Opening a keg of salted meat a few days later, the stench was so loathsome, that it reminded Vranic of that awful night when he had stabbed the vampire; besides, big worms were crawling and wriggling at the top. Vranic at once called the mate and showed him the rotten meat, and the mate reported the fact to the captain. He only answered with a few oaths, then shrugged his shoulders, and said that dogs would lick their chops at such dainty morsels, and were his men any better than dogs?

"Wash it well, clean it, and put some vinegar with it," said the mate, who was the best man on board. "There is no other meat, and that is better than starving."

Vranic did as he was bid; he put more pepper than usual. Still, he himself did not taste it, but lived on biscuit, for even the potatoes had been all eaten up.

A few days afterwards, taking out another piece from the cask, he drew out a sinewy human arm, hacked in several places, and with the fingers chopped off. Shuddering, and seized with a feeling of loathsomeness, he stood for a moment bewildered. Then he almost fancied he had touched something hairy in the cask, and looking in, he saw a disfigured and bearded man's head. Sickening at the gruesome sight, he dropped the arm into the cask and hastened to the mate, trying to explain to him what the barrel contained.

The mate could hardly understand and would not believe him, but soon he had to yield to the evidence of his own senses. The mate, in his turn, reported the horrible fact to the captain, who asked both men not to divulge the secret to the crew. When night came on, the cask and its contents were thrown overboard. The captain was not to blame for what the cask contained, nor were the ship-chandlers, who had supplied him at other times upon leaving Scotland. The cask bore the trade-mark of a well-known foreign house trading in preserved meat.

The provisions, which had been scarce, now began to fall short; but in a day or two they would have reached their destination. The wind, however, was contrary, and some delay ensued. Hunger was now beginning to be felt. The crew, overworked and badly fed, first grew sullen; the foremost of them, with scowling looks, began to utter threatening words. Orders given were badly obeyed, or not obeyed at all. Long pent-up anger seemed every moment ready to break out – first against the captain, then against the mate, finally against Vranic, who, they said, was leagued against them.

The boatswain especially hated him.

"Since that cursed foreigner has come on board," said he, "everything has been going from bad to worse. Even the provisions seem to dwindle and waste away."

"I'd not be surprised," added one of the sailors, "that he is leagued with the captain to poison the whole lot of us, for, in fact, the meat tasted like carrion, and I don't know what's up with me."

"Nonsense! Why poison us? Starving is much better," quoth another.

A trifle soon brought on a quarrel, which ended in a tussle. Vranic got cuffed and kicked about; he had been born in an unlucky moment, and everyone hated him without really understanding why or wherefore.

Why do most people dislike toads or blind-worms?

The mate, seeing the poor cook unfairly used, interfered on his behalf, and tried to put an end to the fight. This only made matters worse. The captain, hearing the noise, appeared on deck, and a mutiny at once broke out.

The boatswain, who was at the head of the revolted crew, snatching up a hatchet which happened to be there within his reach, advanced and demanded a distribution of provisions.

The captain, for all answer, knocked him down with a crow-bar; at the same time he showed the crew the coast of England, which was faintly visible at a distance, as well as a man-of-war coming full sail towards them.

A day after this incident, the ship had landed her rebellious crew at Cardiff. The boatswain was sent to jail, where, if he had been a man of a philosophical turn of mind, he might have meditated on the difference between right and might.

As for Vranic, he was but too glad to quit a ship where he was hated by everybody, even by the captain, who had treated him more like a galley slave than a fellow-creature.

After having earned a pittance as a porter for a short time, he again embarked on board the Ave Maria, an Austrian ship bound for Marseilles. This ship had had a remarkably prosperous voyage from the Levant. The captain had received a handsome gratuity, and now a cargo had been taken at a very high freight; therefore, from the captain to the cabin-boy, every man on board was merry and worked with a good will.

Although the weather was bleak, rainy and foggy, still the wind blew steadily; moreover, the Ave Maria was a good ship, and a fast sailer, withal she laboured under a great disadvantage, that of being overladen, and was, consequently, always shipping heavy seas.

On leaving Cardiff, the captain found that two of the sailors, who had been indulging in excesses of every kind whilst on shore, were in a bad state of health. A third sickened a few days afterwards, and for a long time all three were quite unfit for work. Still, the ship managed to reach Marseilles without any mishap.

The cargo was unloaded, a fresh one was taken on board; the men received medical assistance, and seemed to be recovering. On leaving Marseilles, matters went from bad to worse; the captain, his mate, and two other sailors fell ill.

"It seems," said the captain, "as if someone has the gift of the evil eye, for, since we left England, ill-luck follows in our wake."

The crew was, therefore, greatly diminished, for the three men, who had been recovering, were now, on account of improper food and overwork, quite ill again.

On leaving Marseilles they met with heavy gales and baffling squalls of wind; the ship began to pitch heavily, then to labour and strain in such a way that, overladen as she was, the pestilence-stricken crew could hardly manage her. For three days the wind blew with such violence that two men had to be constantly kept at the helm. Moreover, she shipped so many seas that hands had to be always at the pumps. The very first day the waves had washed away the coops; then, at last, the jib-boom and the bowsprit shrouds had been broken loose and torn away by the grasp of the storm.

At last the storm subsided, and then the captain ascertained that the ship had sustained such damage as to render her unsafe. In such a predicament, with the crew all ailing, the captain deemed it necessary to go back to Marseilles for repairs.

After a short stay there, the Ave Maria set sail again for Palermo, where she arrived without further mishap; only the sick sailors, having had to work hard during the storm, were rather worse than better. On leaving Palermo two other men of the crew had to be put on the sick-list, so that by the time they reached the Adriatic the ship was not much better than a pestiferous floating hospital. In fact, the only ones who had escaped the loathsome contagion were Vranic and the two boys, and they had to do the work of the whole crew.

It was fortunate that, notwithstanding the stormy season of the year, the weather kept steadily fair, for, in case of a hurricane, the crew would have been almost helpless. At last land was within sight; the hills of Istria were seen, towards evening, as a faint greyish line on the dark grey sky. The captain and the men heaved a sigh of relief; that very night they would cast anchor in the port of Trieste. There some had their homes; all, at least, had relations or friends. Vranic alone hoped to meet no one he knew.

That evening they made a hearty meal, for, as their provisions had slightly begun to fall short, they had scarcely satisfied their hunger for several days; but now – almost within sight of the welcoming, flashing rays of the Trieste lighthouse – they could, indeed, be somewhat prodigal.

The sirocco, which had accompanied them all the way from Palermo, now fell all at once, just as they had reached the neighbourhood of Cape Salvore. That sudden quietness boded nothing good. Soon, the captain perceived that the wind was shifting in the Gulf of Trieste. By certain well-known signs, he argued that the north-easterly wind was rising; and soon afterwards, a fierce bora, the scourge of all the neighbourhood, began to blow.

Orders were at once given to reef the topsails; then they began to tack about, so as to come to an anchorage in the roads of Trieste as soon as possible.

With the want of hands, the work proceeded very slowly and clumsily. Night came on – dark, dismal night – amidst a howling wind and raging billows dashing furiously against the little ship. It was a comfort on the next morning to see the white houses and the naked hills of Trieste; for they were not far from the port. Every means was tried to get near the land without being dashed against it and stranded, or split against the rocks; but the fierce wind baffled all their efforts. And the whole of the day was passed in uselessly tacking about and ever being driven farther off in the offing. Still, late in the afternoon, they managed to get nearer the port, and at sunset both anchors were dropped, not far from the jetty; still, the violence of the wind was such that all communication with the land was rendered impossible. That evening the last provisions were eaten, for they had spent the whole day fasting. The strength of the gale increased with the night. More chain was then added; but still the anchors began to come home. By degrees, all the chains were paid out; and, nevertheless, the ship was drifting. In so doing, she struck her helm against a buoy. The shock caused one of the chains, which was old and rusty, to snap. After that, the Ave Maria was driven back bodily towards the coasts of Istria, till finding, at last, a better bottom, the anchor held and the ship was stopped at about a mile from Punta Grossa, not far from Capo d'Istria. There was no moon; the sky was overcast; the darkness all around was oppressive. The huge surges, dashing against the bows and the forecastle, washed away everything on deck. The boats themselves were rendered unserviceable. The thermometer had fallen eighteen degrees in two days, and the keen, sharp wind blowing rendered the cold most intense. A fringe of icicles was hanging down from the sides of the ship, the spray froze on the tackle, and rendered the ropes as hard as iron cables.

Then the ship sprung a leak, and the pumps had to be worked to prevent her from sinking. To keep the men alive, the captain opened a pipe of Marsala which had been destined for the shippers. That night, which seemed everlasting, finally wore away, dawn came, and the signal of distress was hoisted; a ship passed at no great distance, but took no notice of them. Anyhow, help could be expected from Trieste; the coastguards must have seen them struggling against the storm. That day the wind increased; not a ship, not a sailing-boat was to be seen in the offing; what a long, dreary day of baffled hope that was. When evening came on, the fasting crew, now completely fagged out, began to lose courage, and yet they were but a few miles from the coast. That night Vranic had a dreadful vision. When he took his place at the pump, opposite him, at the other handle, stood the vampire grinning at him, with the horrible gash in his cheek. That gruesome sight was too dreadful to be borne; he felt his arms getting stiff, and he fell fainting on the deck. He only recovered his senses when a huge wave came breaking against the deck and almost washed him overboard.

In the morning the wind began to abate; but now all the sailors were not only thoroughly exhausted, but all more or less in a state of intoxication. The pumps could hardly be worked any more; even Vranic, the boys and the captain, who had worked to the last, hoping to save their lives, were obliged to leave the vessel to sink.

The Ave Maria was going down rapidly, and now, even if the men could have worked, it was impossible to think of saving her; she was to be the prey of the waves. As for help from Trieste, it was useless looking out for it. Still, the titled gentlemen, in their warm and cosy offices of the See-Behörde, which fronted the harbour, had seen the ship fighting against the wind and the waves. They knew, or, at least, ought to have known, of her distress; but it was carnival time, and their thoughts were surely not with the ships at sea.

At last, at eight o'clock, a ship was seen, and signals of distress were made. The ship answered, and began tacking about and trying to come near the sinking craft. When within reach of hearing, the whole crew of the Ave Maria summoned up all their strength and shouted that they were starving.

CHAPTER XXII

THE "GIUSTIZIA DI DIO"

Since his departure, Milenko had never received any letters from his parents, for, in those times of sailing-ships, captains got news from home casually, by means of such fellow-countrymen as they chanced to meet, rather than through the post. Lately they had happened to come across a Ragusian ship at Brindisi, but, as this ship had left Budua only a short time after Milenko himself had sailed, all the information the captain could give was rather stale. As for Vranic, nothing had been heard of him these many months.

Peric (the youth sailing with Milenko) heard, however, that the forebodings he had had concerning his brother were but too well founded; the poor boy had been killed while taking care of his father's horse. Still, the man who told him the news did not know, or had partly forgotten, all the details of the dreadful accident, for all he remembered was that the poor child had been brought home to his mother a mangled, bleeding corpse.

Milenko then seemed again to see the vision he had witnessed within the waters, and he could thus relate to the poor boy all the particulars of the tragic event.

Poor Peric cried bitterly, thinking of the poor boy he had been so fond of, and whom he would never see again; then, having somewhat recovered from his grief:

"It is very strange," said he, "that, on the very night on which you saw my brother dragged by the horse, I heard a voice whispering in my ear: 'Jurye is dead!' and then I fancied that the wind whistling in the rigging repeated: 'Jurye is dead!' and that same phrase was afterwards lisped by the rushing waters. Just then, to crown it all, I looked within the palm of my hand – why, I really do not know; but that, as you are aware, brings about the death of the person we love most. At that same moment a cold shivering came over me, and I felt sure that my poor brother was dead. All this is very strange, is it not?"

"Not so very strange, either," replied Milenko; "the saints allow us to have an inkling of what is to happen, so that when misfortune does come, we are not crushed by it."

"Oh! we all knew that one of our family would die during the year; only, as I was going to sea, I thought that I might be the one who – "

"How did you know?" asked Milenko.

"Because, when our grandmother died, her left eye remained open; and, although they tried to shut it, still, after a while, the lids parted again, and that, you well know, is a sure sign that someone of the house would follow her during the year."

The youth remained thoughtful for a little while, and then he added:

"I wonder how my poor mother is, now that she has lost both her sons."

"We shall soon have news from home, for, if the weather does not change, to-morrow we shall be in Trieste, where letters are surely awaiting us."

"Do you ever have voices whispering in your ears?" asked Peric.

"No, never; do you?"

"Very often, especially when I keep very still and try to think of nothing at all, just as if I were not my own self, but someone else."

"Try and see if you can hear a voice now."

The youth remained for some time perfectly still, looking as if he were going off into a trance; when he came to himself again:

"I did hear a voice," said he.

"What did it say?"

"That to-morrow you will meet the man you have been looking for."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing."

"Is it not imagination?"

"Oh, no! besides, poets often hear the voice of the moon, who tells them all the stories they write in their books."

"Do they?" quoth Milenko, smiling.

"Yes; do you not know the story of 'The Snowdrop,' that Igo Kas heard whilst he was seated by a newly-dug grave?"

"No, I never heard it."

"Then I'll read it to you, if you like."

Milenko having nothing better to do, listened attentively to the youth's tale.

THE SNOWDROP

A Slav Story.

The last feathery flakes of snow, fallen in the night, had not yet melted away, when the first snowdrop, which had sprung up in the dark, glinted at the dawning sun. A drop of dew, glistening on the edge of its half-opened leaves, looked like a sparkling tear. That dainty little flower, as white as the surrounding snow, had sprouted up beside a newly-dug grave. As I stooped down to pick the little snowdrop, I saw the words inscribed on the white marble slab, and then sorrow's heavy hand was laid upon my heart. The name was that of the Countess Anya Yarnova, a frail flower of early spring, as spotless as the little snowdrop.

What had been the cause of her sudden death? Was it some secret sorrow? Was it her love for that handsome stranger whose flashing eyes revealed the hunger of his heart?

At gloaming I was again beside the newly-opened grave. The sun had set, the birds in the bushes were hushed; the breeze, that before seemed to be the mild breath of spring, began to blow in fitful, cold blasts.

The round disc of the moon now rose beyond the verge of the horizon, and its mild, amber light fell upon the marble monument of the Yarnova family, almost hidden under a mass of white roses, camellias and daffodils, made up in huge wreaths.

Mute and motionless, I sat for some time musing by the tomb; then at last, looking up at

"That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,Whom mortals call the Moon,"

I said:

"Tell me, Moon, thou pale and greyPilgrim of Heaven's homeless way,"

didst thou know young Countess Yarnova, so full of life a few days ago, and now lying there in the cold bosom of the earth? Tell me what bitter and unbearable grief broke that young heart; speak to me, and I shall listen to thy words as to the voice of my mother, when, in the evening, she whispered weird tales to me while putting me to sleep.

A loud moan seemed to arise from the tomb, and then I heard a voice as silvery sweet as the music of the spheres, lisp softly in my ear: – Passing by the Yarnova Castle three days ago, I peeped within its casements, and, in a dimly-lighted hall, I saw Countess Yadviga, who had just returned from Paris. She wore a black velvet dress, and her head was muffled in a lace mantilla; although her features twitched and she was sad and careworn, still she looked almost as young and even handsomer than her fair daughter.

Presently, as she sat in the dark room, the door was opened; a page stepped in, drew aside the gilt morocco portière emblazoned with the Yarnova arms, and ushered in the handsome stranger, Aleksij Orsinski.

The Baron looked round the dimly-lighted room for a while. At last he perceived the figure of the Countess as she sat in the shadow of the huge fire-place; then he went up to her and bowed.

"Thank you, Countess Yarnova, for snatching yourself away from beautiful Paris and coming in this dismal place."