The Ocean Cat's Paw Part 53

The two lads were under the awning upon this particular day just amidships. It was a hot and breathless time, but both were pretty well inured to the weather, and were so interested in the subjects supplied to them by Nature in the way of floating wonders that they never troubled themselves about the heat.

Upon this occasion they were lying together upon the deck, suffering to a certain extent from la.s.situde consequent upon the heat. There was a man at the wheel, and Joe Cross was seated upon the main cross-trees with a spy-gla.s.s across his legs, ready to raise it from time to time and direct it eastward to try and pierce the faint silvery haze that lay low upon the horizon. The boys had grown very silent and thoughtful, Moray trying to recall memories of the past so that he might respond to his English friend's demand upon him that he should relate something of his old experiences in connection with the war and his being brought over to England, and so deep in thought that he paid no heed to his companion. Meantime, Rodd, without any desire to play the eavesdropper, lay listening to the sc.r.a.ps of conversation which came up through the cabin skylight, growing a little louder than usual, for, as was occasionally the case, an argument was afloat respecting the late war, the doctor according to his wont growing wroth upon an allusion being made by his guest to the ex-Emperor Napoleon; and there were evidently threatenings of a storm, which was, however, suppressed by the grave dignity of the Count and a feeling of annoyance which attacked Uncle Paul upon realising that he had ventured upon dangerous ground.

"Oh, Uncle Paul," said Rodd to himself, and he lay and laughed softly, making Morny start.

"Was I talking aloud?" said the French lad, flushing.

"You? No! Didn't you hear? It was Uncle Paul. Your father was talking about Napoleon, and directly his name is mentioned uncle begins to boil over."

"Ah, yes, so you have told me, and I gathered something of the kind. My father should not have spoken about the Emperor, though he venerates his name."

"Do you?" said Rodd.

"I?" replied Morny proudly. "Of course. He is the greatest man who ever lived."

"I say; I'm not Uncle Paul."

"Of course not. But why do you say that?"

"Because it seems as if you were trying to lead me on, like your father did with uncle."

"Ah, no, no, don't think that. Better to let such things rest."

"Yes," said Rodd. "I didn't hear much of what they were saying, only they talked loudly sometimes about the way the French and English hate one another. It seems so stupid. Why should they? I don't hate you; and I suppose you don't hate me."

"Of course not! You have given me plenty of cause."

"Whoa!" shouted Rodd. "You are getting on dangerous ground again. Now, look here; why should the French hate the English?"

"Because the English never did us anything but harm."

"Nonsense!" said Rodd coolly. "Now, look here, suppose you and I had a good fight, and I got the best of it--gave you an unlucky crack on the bridge of your nose, and made both your eyes swell up so that you couldn't see."

"Well, it would be very brutal," said Morny. "Gentlemen should fight with the small sword."

"Oh, I like that!" said Rodd merrily. "And then one of them sticks it in the other's corpus and makes him bleed, if he does nothing worse.

Why, people have been killed."

"Yes, in the cause of honour," said Morny, slowly and thoughtfully.

"But that wouldn't have happened if they had been fighting with their fists."

"It's of no use to argue a matter like this with an Englishman," said Morny. "He cannot see such things with the eyes of a Frenchman."

"And a jolly good job too," said Rodd. "But we are running away from what we have been talking about. I was saying, suppose you and I were fighting and I hit you on the bridge of the nose and made your eyes swell up so that you couldn't see; that would be no reason why you should always hate me afterwards. Wouldn't it be much better if the one who was beaten owned it and shook hands so as to be good friends again?"

"Hah!" said Morny, giving vent to a long deep sigh.

"Uncle Paul always says that there is so much good to do in the world that there is no room for animosity or hatred, especially as life is so very short. Here, I don't see that we English have done anything worse to you French than conquering you now and then."

"What!" cried Morny. "What have you to say to the way in which you treated your prisoners? You were never taken captive with your father-- I mean your uncle, and shut up in a great cheerless building right out upon a cold, bleak, dreary moor."

"No," said Rodd gravely.

"My father and I were, after a sea-fight in which one of your great bullying ships battered our little sloop of war almost to pieces and took us into Plymouth, not conquered, for our brave fellows fought till nearly all were killed or wounded."

"I say," cried Rodd earnestly, "I didn't know about this! Were you wounded?"

For answer Morny with flashing eyes literally s.n.a.t.c.hed up his shirt-sleeve, baring his thin white left arm and displaying in the fleshy part a curious puckering and discoloration, evidently the scar of a bad wound.

"Poor old chap!" said Rodd softly. "I say, how was that done?"

"Grape-shot," replied Morny, drawing himself up proudly and deliberately beginning to draw down and b.u.t.ton his sleeve.

"Did it hurt much?"

"Yes," said Morny rather contemptuously. "My father was wounded too, so that he had to be carried below, or else we should never have struck, but he would have gone down as a brave captain should with colours flying, fighting for the Emperor to the very last."

"Then I am precious glad that the Count was taken below," said Rodd.

"Why?" snapped out the French lad fiercely.

"Because of course you would have sunk with him, for you couldn't have swum for your life with a wounded arm."

"No; but shouldn't I have had my name written in history?"

"Perhaps. But you and I would never have met and become such good friends; for you know we are precious good friends when we can agree."

Morny laughed.

"Yes," he said pleasantly, "when we can agree. But do you think it was good treatment to keep us shut up there as prisoners on that dreary moor?"

"Let's see," said Rodd; "Dartmoor--all amongst the streams and tors, as they call them?"

"Yes; a great granite desert."

"Oh, but it was very jolly there," said Rodd.

"I don't know what you mean by jolly," said Morny contemptuously.

"Why, they didn't keep you shut up. They let you roam about as you liked, didn't they, as long as you didn't try to escape?"

"Well--yes; but it was a long time before I went out at all," replied Morny sadly. "For months I never left my father's side, and for a long time I never expected that he'd recover; and as I used to sit there by his bedside, watching, I began to get to hate the English more and more, and long to get away so as to begin righting for my country again. But of course I couldn't leave my wounded father's side."

"No," said Rodd slowly and in a low voice, as if repeating the words to himself. "Of course you couldn't leave your father's side."

"No," repeated Morny softly, "I couldn't leave my father's side. But after a time he made me go. He said my wound would never heal--for the surgeon had told him so--if he kept me shut up day after day, and that I must go out with the other prisoners and roam about on the moor; but I said I wouldn't leave him, and I didn't till he told me one day that I was growing white and thin and weak, and that he could see how I was suffering from the pain in my wound."

"Ah, yes," said Rodd, in a low tone full of earnestness. "It must have given you terrible pain."