Travel Scholarships. Jules VerneЧитать онлайн книгу.

       The port of Queenstown (photo by W. Lawrence of Dublin).

      Unfortunately, the Alert was no longer under the command of Captain Paxton. His crew had just been massacred at the anchorage in Farmar Cove. The ship was now in the hands of the pirate gang of the Halifax.

      At the first light of day,¹ Harry Markel and John Carpenter examined in detail the ship of which they had made themselves masters. From the first glance they recognized its nautical qualities: the finesse of its forms, the excellent contour of its waterlines, the sharpness of the bow, the clearance in the stern, the height of its masts, the ample crisscrossing of its yards, the depth of its draft which allowed it to unfurl a great spread of sail. Surely, even with a light wind, if it had left the night before at nine o’clock, it would have crossed Saint George’s Channel during the night, and at the break of day, would have been at some thirty miles off the coast of Ireland.

      At dawn, the sky was showing a cover of low clouds, or rather of light mist, the kind that a light wind would have dissipated in a few minutes. The haze and the waters merged together at less than three cable lengths from the Alert. In the absence of wind, whether this humid fog would disappear when the sun became stronger was doubtful. And, as a result, casting off seemed impossible. Harry Markel probably would have preferred the fog to make the ship invisible on its anchorage.

      This was not at all what happened. At around seven o’clock in the morning, and without anyone feeling a gust from land or sea, the sun’s rays began to burn off the haze, which forecast a hot day that the wind would not cool down.

      Soon the bay had completely cleared.

      Two miles from Farmar Cove, the whole panorama of the port of Queenstown appeared, then, further back, the first houses in the city. In the entrance to the port a number of sailing ships could be seen anchored here and there; for lack of wind, they too had to face the impossibility of setting out to sea.

      As long as the Alert was lost in the middle of the mist, Harry Markel and his companions did not run any danger by remaining on board. But, whenever it began to dissipate, would it not be prudent to disembark, to seek refuge inland? In an hour or two, were they not supposed to receive the passengers of the Alert, since, according to the information gathered the evening before, the travelers had just arrived in Queenstown? Would this give them enough time, when they had reached the shore deep inside Farmar Cove, to flee across the countryside?

      John Carpenter, Corty, and the others were, at that moment, gathered around Harry Markel, waiting for an order to load the provisions into the rowboat. With a few strokes of the oars, they would have reached a sandy bank deep inside the cove.

      But, to the question asked by the boatswain:

      “We’re on board, let’s stay!” Harry Markel merely answered.

      His men, having great trust in him, did not ask any further questions. No doubt, Harry Markel had his reasons to speak in this way.

      In the meantime, the bay was becoming rather busy. Despite the lack of sailboats, several steamers were getting ready to weigh anchor. Five or six fishing boats were going from one to the other, entering the port or departing from it, leaving behind them a long wake of foam. None, moreover, was heading toward Farmar Cove. So, nothing to fear for the Alert.

      At around eight o’clock, however, there was reason to be on their guard.

      A steamer had just entered the bay, and it was maneuvering around Farmar Cove when it veered to its starboard side, as if it were looking for an anchorage not far from the Alert. Did the steamer have the intention to drop anchor in that place, instead of going to the landings in Queenstown, perhaps only stopping over for a few hours or a few days? Surely, the boats from the port would soon draw alongside it, and this coming and going would have some unpleasant consequences for Harry Markel and his companions.

      The ship in question, sailing under a British flag flying at its topmast, was one of those large cargo boats that, after having carried coal to the English colonies, came back loaded with wheat or nickel.

      However, after passing the cove’s headland, it was moving at slow speed. Harry Markel was wondering if it was going to stop, or if it was maneuvering to move across Farmar Cove.

      The Concordia—they were soon able to make out its name—was not looking, obviously, to reach Queenstown’s port in a straight line. On the contrary, it was drawing near the Alert, and stopped when it was only half a cable away. But there was nothing that indicated that it was making any preparations to drop anchor there.

      What did the captain of the Concordia want? Why this maneuver? Had it recognized the Alert, read its name on the stern? Was it going to lower one of its boats and attempt to come on board the three-masted schooner?

      One can imagine without difficulty the fears felt by Harry Markel, John Carpenter, Corty and their accomplices.

      Clearly, it would have been better to have abandoned the ship during the night, since it had not been able to go out into the open sea; to have dispersed across the countryside, to have reached a part of the region that was safer than the outskirts of Queenstown, where the constables were still searching for the fugitives.

      At present, it was too late.

      Nonetheless, Harry Markel, making sure not to be seen on the deck, stood by the wardroom, and remained hidden behind the ship’s rails.

      At that moment, the Alert was hailed in these terms by one of the sailors of the Concordia:

      “Ahoy! … the Alert … Is the captain aboard?”

      To that request, Harry Markel did not hurry to respond. No doubt it was with Captain Paxton that the Concordia had business.

      But, just as quickly, the spokesman sent this second question:

      “Who commands the Alert?”

      Evidently, they only knew the name of the three-mast schooner and did not know who commanded it.

      Thus, to a certain measure, Harry Markel had reason to feel reassured.

      Since a longer silence could have appeared suspicious, it was his turn to ask, after having come up on the deck:

      “Who commands the Concordia?”

      “Captain James Brown!” He was answered by the officer himself, standing on the poop deck, and recognizable by his uniform.

      “What does Captain Brown want?” asked Harry Markel.

      “Do you know if nickel is on the rise or on the decline at Cork?”

      “Tell him it’s on the decline, and he’ll leave,” suggested Corty.

      “On the decline,” answered Harry Markel.

      “By how much?”

      “Three shillings sixpence,” whispered Corty.

      “Three shillings sixpence,” repeated Harry Markel.

      “So, nothing to do here,” replied James Brown. “Thank you, Captain.”

      “At your service!”

      “Any commissions for Liverpool?”

      “No.”

      “Bon voyage to the Alert!”

      “Bon voyage to the