From aft came sounds of laughter, with the music of flute, harp and viol on an air made sweet with burning spices; around Adam was the sobbing moan of driven men, crack of whips answered by squeal of pain or snarl of hate, with the foul reek and stench of these crowded rowing-benches, and in his desolate heart the voiceless cry:
"How long, O Lord, how long?"
They rowed four to the oar, with twenty oars a side, for a great and powerful vessel was this Santa Barbara galleasse. Immediately before Adam was the brawny back of Bo'sun Ned, beyond him laboured a groaning fellow with back as wide, as sunburned and muscular but more whip-scarred,—and this moaning, sweating much-beaten wretch none other than Sir Benjamin, transformed by hardship from plump pomposity to a lean, great-muscled ferocity. Scattered among the other beaten slaves were Sir George D'Arcy, John Fenn, Martin Frant, Silas Guppy, Simon Hopkins, Timothy Sprake, Nicholas Cobb, Matthew Appleby, Giles Tregenza, and Jimbo, the great negro, all that survived of the twenty-seven, Adam's first crew.
Sway and creak of the oars, pant and groan of labouring humanity, these men that, used and beaten like savage animals, now snarled and hissed or cowered to the whip like the savage animals they were indeed, or would be. So the great oars swung and swayed to the beat of heavy timing mallets as they urged the Santa Barbara upon her course.
The sun was declining westward when the stroke of these mallets ceased and the oars were stilled at last, for they were in the harbour entrance guarded by its two grim castles wherefrom drooped the golden standards of mighty Spain. Trumpets shrilled from the galleasse answered by thunderous salute from ashore, and the Santa Barbara paddled her stately way towards this goodly town, her home port, that rose in terraces from seashore to the green foothills that sheltered it, with lofty mountains beyond.
And now at word of command, the ponderous oars were swung inboard and the galleasse glided gently to her berth alongside the quay while the slaves, drooping in weariness, clashed their fetters and muttered harshly or cursed fiercely under their breaths and in half-a-dozen different tongues, and none more fiercely bitter than Sir Benjamin as he rubbed sweat from his scowling eyes with great, gnarled fists.
And now as they waited thus, growling like chained and hungry beasts, while the lordly Governor, his gentlemen, officers and soldiers went ashore. Sir Benjamin turned to glare across brawny shoulder at one who sat dumb in his misery, gazing away across the harbour with haggard, patient eyes.
"What, Adam, ho, Adam, are ye praying again? Are ye supplicating your so just and merciful God, are ye praying? But to what avail? What o' mercy hath your Lord o' mercy ever shown us, ay—or justice? What ha' we ever done to merit this hell o' shame and misery? Where's the justice o' this and where the mercy? And where is He, this God o' yours, if there be a God? Back in England, mayhap, along o' law and order,—not in this abomination!" And with his woeful gaze in the one direction, Adam answered, gently:
"All I know is that He liveth ... to be our salvation soon or late.... Without this belief, this sure hope, I ... should run mad and perish like the brutes."
"Brutes, d'ye say? Well, what are we but beastly brutes, foul o' body, sick o' soul, to labour thus in our sweat and filth until, like as beasts, we sink to brutish death? Call now on your God and see an He will deliver us! Beseech Him to a miracle on our behalf."
"Ay, I will, Ben, as I have done ... very oft."
"Yet bide we in hell, Adam! Two years of anguish since that accursed Spanish ship plucked us from clean death in our boat to die thus foully! Two long years o' shame and agony."
"One year, eleven months and four days, Ben."
"And each day, Adam, each hour a link in our chain o' misery. Look,—ha, look around us on these human brutes, these foul two-legged beasts that once were men,—look and know, as I do, that there is no mercy, no justice and no God!"
"And yet," sighed Adam, "and yet He liveth! He was the God of my—father."
"Ay," snarled Sir Benjamin, "and left the poor gentleman to hang! I say there is no God, no——"
"Lord, sir," exclaimed Bo'sun Ned, hoarsely, "avast now and likewise belay! God or no, we'm Englishmen to take rough along o' smooth and make the best o' both, so what I says is,—let's do 't. And now, Cap'n Adam, what might you be a-staring at so on-common hard, sir?"
"Yonder, Ned, the galleon," and he nodded wearily where, with cables hove short, rode a great and splendid ship brave in gilding and new paint, from lofty forecastle to towering poop with its railed galleries, glittering windows and tall crucifix between great poop lanterns and the name Santissima Trinidad in richly carved and gilded characters.
"Ah, they tell she'm a treasure ship, sir, and doo to bear away for Spain on to-morrow's flood. They builds 'em big and vast, do these Spanishers. Ay, she's a eyeful, lots o' paint and gold carvins, but she'll be heavy on her helm, I'll warrant me, and lubberly on a bowline."
"And her people," sighed Adam, "nigh all her company will be ashore to-night for the fiesta."
"Ay, sir, you can hear the townsfolk a-twangin' and a-tooning up their music a'ready. A banket wi' the Governor and all they dons and senoras and——"
A trumpet nearby drowned his voice; hoarse commands were shouted; the slaves were loosed from oar and bench to be marshalled in double rank. Then, jangling in the chains they must always wear, they stumbled ashore between their armed guards, through a narrow street and so to a long barracoon that was their prison when ashore, into which they were herded like so many cattle and where, like cattle, they were fed with coarse though bounteous fare to keep them in full strength, and so were locked and bolted in for the night.
Here in this foetid gloom, Adam made his way to that corner beside the massive door which he had made his own by past strife, and where he was used to sleep surrounded by these twelve survivors of the twenty-seven he was wont to call his Dreadnoughts. Here now he sank down, weary back against rough, stone wall and all about him the usual sights and sounds,—fierce, hairy faces, naked bodies, snarls and oaths, English and French, Spanish and Dutch, with other tongues besides; a harsh, discordant babel accompanied by the never-ending clash and jangle of fetters.
Adam closed his eyes, made himself deaf and let his mind soar free—and thus, by the blessed magic of Imagination, he was out and away from this sordid misery; he was a man of great achievements seated in the cabin of his own ship, plotting a course should bring him to the Golden Haven of Desire where, instead of wealth or fame, Love was to meet him with yearning arms outstretched in glad welcome, arms that were to clasp and lift him high as Heaven.
A sudden hand clutched his arm, shattering the dream very painfully, and Sir George D'Arcy spoke in his ear; now this hand was quivering and this voice uncertain, breathless with some deep emotion:
"Adam...! Oh, Adam....!"
"Yes, George."
"A voice ... by God, I heard a voice, Adam ... a voice from without ... beyond the door ... and a scratching ... a scratching, d'ye hear? Either I'm mad at last or dreaming ... which I'm neither ... someone called your name beyond the door ... out yonder in the free air ... the cool, clean night. Listen!"