The Coast On
Which Nicolou Was Running His Vessel Was Somewhere, I Fancy, At The
Foot Of The Anzairie Mountains, And The Fellows Who Were Preparing
To Give Him A Reception Were Probably Very Rough Specimens Of
Humanity.
It is likely enough that they might have given
themselves the trouble of putting "the Admiral" to death, for the
purpose of simplifying their claim to the vessel and preventing
litigation, but the notion of their cannibalism was of course
utterly unfounded.
Nicolou's terror had, however, so graven the
idea on his mind, that he could never afterwards dismiss it.
Having once determined the character of his expectant hosts, the
Admiral naturally thought that it would he better to keep their
dinner waiting any length of time than to attend their feast in the
character of a roasted Greek, so he put about his vessel, and
tempted the deep once more. After a further cruise the lonely
commander ran his vessel upon some rocks at another part of the
coast, where she was lost with all her treasures, and Nicolou was
but too glad to scramble ashore, though without one dollar in his
girdle. These adventures seem flat enough as I repeat them, but
the hero expressed his terrors by such odd terms of speech, and
such strangely humorous gestures, that the story came from his lips
with an unfailing zest, so that the crew, who had heard the tale so
often, could still enjoy to their hearts' content the rich fright
of the Admiral, and still shuddered with unabated horror when he
came to the loss of the dollars.
The power of listening to long stories (for which, by-the-bye, I am
giving you large credit) is common, I fancy, to most sailors, and
the Greeks have it to a high degree, for they can be perfectly
patient under a narrative of two or three hours' duration. These
long stories are mostly founded upon Oriental topics, and in one of
them I recognised with some alteration an old friend of the
"Arabian Nights." I inquired as to the source from which the story
had been derived, and the crew all agreed that it had been handed
down unwritten from Greek to Greek. Their account of the matter
does not, perhaps, go very far towards showing the real origin of
the tale; but when I afterwards took up the "Arabian Nights," I
became strongly impressed with a notion that they must have sprung
from the brain of a Greek. It seems to me that these stories,
whilst they disclose a complete and habitual KNOWLEDGE of things
Asiatic, have about them so much of freshness and life, so much of
the stirring and volatile European character, that they cannot have
owed their conception to a mere Oriental, who for creative purposes
is a thing dead and dry - a mental mummy, that may have been a live
king just after the Flood, but has since lain balmed in spice. At
the time of the Caliphat the Greek race was familiar enough to
Baghdad: they were the merchants, the pedlars, the barbers, and
intriguers-general of south-western Asia, and therefore the
Oriental materials with which the Arabian tales were wrought must
have been completely at the command of the inventive people to whom
I would attribute their origin.
We were nearing the isle of Cyprus when there arose half a gale of
wind, with a heavy chopping sea. My Greek seamen considered that
the weather amounted not to a half, but to an integral gale of wind
at the very least, so they put up the helm, and scudded for twenty
hours. When we neared the mainland of Anadoli the gale ceased, and
a favourable breeze sprung up, which brought us off Cyprus once
more. Afterwards the wind changed again, but we were still able to
lay our course by sailing close-hauled.
We were at length in such a position, that by holding on our course
for about half-an-hour we should get under the lee of the island
and find ourselves in smooth water, but the wind had been gradually
freshening; it now blew hard, and there was a heavy sea running.
As the grounds for alarm arose, the crew gathered together in one
close group; they stood pale and grim under their hooded capotes
like monks awaiting a massacre, anxiously looking by turns along
the pathway of the storm and then upon each other, and then upon
the eye of the captain who stood by the helmsman. Presently the
Hydriot came aft, more moody than ever, the bearer of fierce
remonstrance against the continuing of the struggle; he received a
resolute answer, and still we held our course. Soon there came a
heavy sea, that caught the bow of the brigantine as she lay jammed
in betwixt the waves; she bowed her head low under the waters, and
shuddered through all her timbers, then gallantly stood up again
over the striving sea, with bowsprit entire. But where were the
crew? It was a crew no longer, but rather a gathering of Greek
citizens; the shout of the seamen was changed for the murmuring of
the people - the spirit of the old Demos was alive. The men came
aft in a body, and loudly asked that the vessel should be put
about, and that the storm be no longer tempted. Now, then, for
speeches. The captain, his eyes flashing fire, his frame all
quivering with emotion - wielding his every limb, like another and a
louder voice, pours forth the eloquent torrent of his threats and
his reasons, his commands and his prayers; he promises, he vows, he
swears that there is safety in holding on - safety, IF GREEKS WILL
BE BRAVE! The men hear and are moved; but the gale rouses itself
once more, and again the raging sea comes trampling over the
timbers that are the life of all. The fierce Hydriot advances one
step nearer to the captain, and the angry growl of the people goes
floating down the wind, but they listen; they waver once more, and
once more resolve, then waver again, thus doubtfully hanging
between the terrors of the storm and the persuasion of glorious
speech, as though it were the Athenian that talked, and Philip of
Macedon that thundered on the weather-bow.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 19 of 87
Words from 18749 to 19807
of 89094
