Marseilles – the Arrival
ON the 24th of February, 1815, the watch-tower of Notre-Dame de la Garde signaled the three-master, the Pharaon, from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.
As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and, rounding the Chateau d’If, got on board the vessel between Cape Morgion and the Isle of Rion. Immediately, and as usual, the platform of Fort Saint Jean was covered with lookers-on; it is always a great event at Marseilles for a ship to come into port, especially when this ship, like the Pharaon, had been built, rigged, and laden on the stocks of the old Phocoea, and belonged to an owner of the city.
The ship drew on; she had safely passed the strait which some volcanic shock has made between the Isle of Calasareigne and the Isle of Jaros; had doubled Pomegue, and approached the harbor under topsails, jib, and foresail, but so slowly, and in so cheerless a manner, that the idlers, with that instinct which foresees misfortune, asked one another what accident could have happened on board. However, those experienced in navigation saw plainly that if any accident had occurred, it was not to the vessel herself, for she bore down with all the evidence of being skillfully handled, the anchor ready to be dropped, the bowsprit-shrouds loose, and beside the pilot who was steering the Pharaon through the narrow entrance of the port of Marseilles, was a young man, with rapid gestures and vigilant eye, who superintended every motion of the ship, and repeated each order of the pilot.
The vague disquietude which prevailed amongst the spectators had so much affected one of the crowd on the terrace of Saint Jean, that he did not await the arrival of the vessel in harbor, but, jumping into a small skiff, desired to be pulled alongside the Pharaon, which he reached as she rounded the creek of La Reserve.
When the young sailor saw this man approach, he left his station by the pilot, and came, hat in hand, to the side of the ship’s bulwarks.
He was a fine, tall, slim young fellow, of from eighteen to twenty years, with beautiful black eyes, and hair like ebony; and his whole appearance bespoke that calmness and resolution peculiar to men accustomed from their cradle to contend with danger.
“Ah! is it you, Dantes?” cried the man in the skiff. “What’s the matter? and why have you such an air of sadness aboard?”
“A great misfortune, M. Morrel!” replied the young man, – “a great misfortune, for me especially! Off Civita Vecehia we lost our brave Captain Leclere.”
“And the cargo?” inquired the owner, eagerly.
“Is all safe, M. Morrel; and I think you will be satisfied on that head. But poor Captain Leclere –”
“What happened to him?” asked the owner, with an air of consider able relief. “What happened to the worthy captain?”
“He died.”
“Fell into the sea?”
“No, sir; he died of the brain-fever, in dreadful agony.”
Then, turning to the crew, he said:
“Look out there! all ready to drop anchor!”
All hands obeyed. At the same moment eight or ten seamen sprang some to the main-sheets, others to the braces, others to the halliards, others to the jib-ropes, and others to the topsail-brails.
The young sailor gave a look to see that his orders were promptly and accurately obeyed, and then turned again to the owner.
“And how did this misfortune occur?” inquired he, resuming the conversation suspended for a moment.
“Alas! sir, in the most unexpected manner. After a long conversation with the harbor-master, Captain Leclere left Naples greatly disturbed in his mind. At the end of twenty-four hours he was attacked by a fever, and died three days afterward. We performed the usual burial service, and he is at his rest, sewn up in his hammock with two balls of thirty-six pounds each at his head and feet, off the island of El Giglio. We bring to his widow his sword and cross of honor. It was worth while, truly,” added the young man with a melancholy smile, “to make war against the English for ten years, and to die at last, like everybody else, in his bed.”
“Why, you see, Edmond,” replied the owner, who appeared more comforted at every moment, “we are all mortal, and the old must make way for the young. If not, why, there would be no promotion; and as you have assured me that the cargo –”
“Is all safe and sound, M. Morrel, take my word for it; and I advise you not to take 100,000 francs for the profits of the voyage.”
Then, as they were just passing the Round Tower, the young man shouted out:
“Ready, there, to lower topsails, foresail, and jib!”
The order was executed as promptly as if on board a man-of-war.
“Let go! and brail all!” At this last word all the sails were lowered, and the bark moved almost imperceptibly onward, advancing only under the impulse already given.
“Now, if you will come on board, M. Morrel,” said Dantes, observing the owner’s impatience, “here is your supercargo, M. Danglars, coming out of his cabin, who will furnish you with every particular. As for me, I must look after the anchoring, and dress the ship in mourning.”
The owner did not wait to be twice invited. He seized a rope which Dantes flung to him, and, with an activity that would have done credit to a sailor, climbed up the side of the ship, whilst the young man, going to his task, left the conversation to the individual whom he had announced under the name of Danglars, who now coming out of the cabin advanced toward the owner. He was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, of unprepossessing countenance, obsequious to his superiors, insolent to his inferiors; and then, besides his position as responsible agent on board, which is always obnoxious to the sailors, he was as much disliked by the crew as Edmond Dantes was beloved by them.
“Well, M. Morrel,” said Danglars, “you have heard of the misfortune that has befallen us?”
“Yes – yes! poor Captain Leclere! He was a brave and an honest man!”
“And a first-rate seaman, above all, grown old between sky and ocean, as should a man charged with the interests of a house so important as that of Morrel and Son,” replied Danglars.