Micah Clarke Chapter 4 - Of the Strange Fish That We Caught at Spithead

John Brandon (0:00)

Chapter 4 of Micah Clarke. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit librivox.org. Recording by John Brandon. Micah Clarke by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Chapter 4 of The Strange Fish That We Caught at Spithead.

One evening in the month of May 1685, about the end of the first week of the month, my friend Reuben Lockarby and I borrowed Ned Marley's pleasure boat and went fishing out of Langston Bay.

At that time I was close on one in twenty years of age, while my companion was one year younger. A great intimacy had sprung up between us, founded on mutual esteem, for he being a little undergrown man was proud of my strength and stature, while my melancholy and somewhat heavy spirit took a pleasure in the energy and joviality which never deserted him, and in the wit which gleamed as bright and as innocent as summer lightning through all that he said.

In person he was short and broad, round-faced, ruddy-cheeked, and in truth a little inclined to be fat, though he would never confess to more than a pleasing plumpness, which was held, he said, to be the acme of manly beauty amongst the ancients. The stern test of common danger and mutual hardship entitled me to say that no man could have desired a stauncher or more trusty comrade. As he was destined to be with me in the sequel, it was but fitting that he should have been at my side on that May evening, which was the starting point of our adventures.

We pulled out beyond the Warner Sands to a place halfway between them and the Nab, where we usually found bass and plenty. There we cast the heavy stone which served us as an anchor overboard, and proceeded to set our lines. The sun, sinking slowly behind a fog bank, had slashed the whole western sky with scarlet streaks, against which the wooden slopes of the Isle of White stood out vaporous and purple. A fresh breeze was blowing from the southeast, flecking the long green waves with crests of foam, and filling our eyes and lips with the smack of the salt spray. Over near St. Helens Point, a king's ship was making her way down the channel, while a single large brig was tacking about a quarter of a mile or less from where we lay. So near were we that we could catch a glimpse of the figures upon her deck as she heeled over to the breeze, and could bear the creaking of her yards and the flapping of her weather-stained canvas as she prepared to go about. Look ye, Mikey, said my companion, looking up from his fishing line. That is the most weak-minded ship, a ship that will make no way in the world. See how she hangs in the wind, neither keeping on her course, nor tacking. She's a trimmer of the seas, the Lord Halifax of the ocean.

Why, there is something amiss with her, I replied. Staring across with hand-shaded eyes, she yaws about as though there were no one at the helm. Her mainyard goes aback. Now it's forward again. The folk on her deck seem to me to be either fighting or dancing. Up with the anchor, Reuben, and let us pull to her. Up with the anchor and let us get out of her way, he answered, still gazing at the stranger. Why will you ever run that meddlesome head of yours into Danger's Way? She flies Dutch colors. But who can say? When she really comes, a pretty thing if we were snapped up by a buccaneer and sold in the plantations. A buccaneer and the Solent? cried I derisively. We shall be seeing the black flag in Emsworth Creek next. But, Hark! What is that?

The crack of a musket sounded from aboard the brig. Then came a moment's silence, and another musket shot rang out, followed by a chorus of shouts and cries. Simultaneously, the yards swung round into position, the sails caught the breeze once more, and the vessel darted away on a course which would take her past Bembridge Point out to the English Channel. As she flew along, her helm was put hard, a puff of smoke shot out from her quarter, and a cannon ball came hopping and splashing over the waves, passing within a hundred yards of where we lay. With this farewell greeting, she came up into the wind again and continued her course to the southward. Hard a grace, ejaculated Reuben, in loose-lipped astonishment. The murdering villains! I would to the Lord that the King's ship would snap them up, cried I savagely, for the attack was so unprovoked that it stirred my bile. What could the rogues have meant? They're surely drunk or mad. Pull at the anchor, man. Pull at the anchor, my companion shouted, springing up from the seat. I understand it. Pull at the anchor. What then, I asked, helping him to haul the great stone up, hand over hand, until it came dripping over the side? They're not firing at us, lad. They're aiming at someone in the water between us and them. Pull, Micah. Put your back into it. Some poor fellow may be drowning. Why, I declare, said I, looking over my shoulder as I rode, there's his head, upon the crest of a wave. Easy or we shall be over him. Two more strokes and be ready to seize him. Keep up, friend. There's help at hand. Take help to those who need help, said a voice out of the sea. Sounds, man. Keep a pat on your oar. I fear a pat from it very much more than I do the water. These words were delivered in so calm and self-possessed a tone that all concern for the swimmer was, said at rest. Drawing in our oars, we faced round to have a look at him. The drift of a boat had brought us so close that he could have grasped the gunwale had he been so minded. Sappermint, he cried in a peevish voice, to think of my brother Nonus serving me such a trick. What would our blessed mother have said? Could she have seen it? My whole kit gone to say nothing of my venture in the voyage. And now I've kicked off a pair of new jackboots that cost sixteen Rick's dollars at van der Setters at Amsterdam. I can't swim in jackboots, nor can I walk without them.